Rising Tide
A year later, the earth continues to revolve on its axis. The stars did not fall from the heavens, and my life did not end — not by a long shot. You couldn’t have told me that then. I wouldn’t have listened. I wanted to be miserable, and I was. The moon is not larger tonight; it only appears that way because it is closer to the earth. So, too, life itself is a matter of perspective.
Baby Steps
I dream. I dream a lot. I dream of the day a key is placed in my hand and I write my new address for the first time. I dream of making my first meal in my new home. I dream of the first morning, when the sun slants in the windows and I feel the calm certainty that finally, after a year of wandering, I am home. I dream of a day when the doctors tell me I no longer need to visit them, that my lungs are healthy and my future is bright. I’m not so sure that last fantasy will ever happen.
Desperately wanting
This is me wanting a cigarette, because smoking has become so entwined with writing that I’m not certain I can spin words without the unholy baptism of nicotine in my bloodstream. This is me trying to ignore the fact I want a cigarette, because if I let myself think about it, I would have to acknowledge why I can’t have one, and I’m not ready to write about that and make it real. But it is real. So this is me, trying to accept reality.
Fade to White
It’s slow suffocation. Standing outside your body, watching yourself drowning in poetic, Ken Burns style. Pan to the glut of inhalers on the nightstand, as colorful and effective as Pez dispensers. Zoom to the shaking hands trying to juggle an iPhone and a blue-gray inhaler. Scroll some words across the screen in an official-type font. Helvetica is nice.
20 things I know about writing, life, and how to survive
Students often ask me for advice about writing, photography, freelancing, and life. In no particular order, here are 20 things I know beyond a shadow of a doubt. As a bonus, some of my favorite sources of inspiration (and a few of my past posts) are linked throughout.
The Harrowing
I wish I could explain what it’s like when the words vanish. The way I pace the floor and smoke, wondering if I will ever write again. The way I stare into the refrigerator’s maw, seeking something, anything to fill the gnawing hunger. The way I summon demons and call on angels, losing myself in a co-mingled litany of recrimination and reassurance.
Learn and live
Years ago, friends started calling my road missives The Disaster Girl Chronicles. It’s apt. But nine times out of 10, I bring the Disaster of the Day on my own head through lack of planning, lack of preparedness, lack of courage, or just plain lack. Why share my screw-ups with the world? Because it holds me accountable. It forces me to face my mistakes in black and white, suck it up, stare them down, and try to improve.
Bring on the rain
Three months ago, I closed the door on my old life. Tonight, I’m in a hotel room in Memphis, Tenn., broke, without so much as a clean pair of socks, but still alive. Still alive. When I stop to think about all I’ve experienced in the past 90 days, I am overwhelmed, humbled by the unmerited grace which sustains.
Letters to a young photojournalist
I’ve been doing this since I was 14. I’ve seen highs, lows, and everything in between. I’ve never considered leaving, though there were times I probably should have. I love this profession with a crazy intensity, and though I am often disillusioned, I am also steadfast.
Have boots, will travel
Three years ago, I bought a pair of black boots. I was going to Boston, sitting the desk for my editors at Christian Science Monitor, and I needed to look the part. Mostly, I needed to FEEL the part. Talk the talk. Walk the walk. So for $12, I procured a shoebox of confidence from my friendly corner Walmart.
f/8 and be there
Pink clouds skittered across a tobacco-stained sky as gravel sped beneath my wheels, every mile bringing me closer to Nashville and the comfort of an old NPPA friend. I was over-wild, over-tired, over-wrought, my spirit as splintered as century-old kindling. I was more than a little lost. But somewhere along the Cumberland River, I was found, rebaptized in the cold clear waters where memory crashes into longing and drowns in the rebirth of desire.
Chasing Lightning
Hard times don’t scare me, because much of my life has been hard. What scares me more is passively accepting a life of mediocrity. I want to chase lightning, catch fire, and never burn out. I want to be a journalist forever. I see the malaise among friends. I hear the negativity. I want no part of it. The last thing the industry needs is another bored, frustrated writer trapped behind a desk, playing mental hopscotch with dying dreams.
Fool’s game
A few days ago, while rummaging through some boxes, I found a pocket watch I’d given to him. My picture was still inside, where he’d taped it 16 years ago when we were just dating. Funny how a chunk of gold can bring you to your knees, turn you into little more than a fool kneeling in a fetid stream, grasping at pyrite.
The brotherhood
I hit the road feeling alone, utterly abandoned. But tonight, as I shiver through another session of writing at the local truck stop, I realize I was wrong. When I walked away from my life in Tuscaloosa, I lost stability, but discovered a foundation stronger than I ever imagined possible. I thought my fellow journalists would say I was crazy to try this. I thought they would laugh. Instead, they told me I would be ok. Over and over and over again, they told me I would be ok.
Being alone is best
I am no longer a Port City virgin. After two weeks huddled in Mobile’s bedroom communities of Tillman’s Corner and Theodore, I finally granted myself temporary exploratory egress this afternoon. Because I grew up here, it felt silly to grab a map and play tourist for a day, and yet, that’s exactly what I needed.
City slicker
It’s the dead of night, that secret hour when regrets drape themselves in black and tiptoe through my head, holding silent vigil for the losses I cannot and will not indulge. If I were in Tuscaloosa, I would slip on my field jacket and take a pre-dawn walk, the favored recourse of dog-owning insomniacs since man first collared canine. That’s a city habit though. In rural Mobile County, traipsing past people’s houses at 4 a.m. will land you on the wrong side of a shotgun.
Frozen in time
I’m drifting. Already, it’s hard to remember my old life. Perhaps it’s a coping mechanism – you can’t miss what you can barely recall. Three weeks ago, my days were bookended by 5:30 a.m. coffee and cleaning off my desk at 1 a.m. before bed. Now I’m sleeping in a shed with no electricity. My desk is somewhere in the abyss of my parents’ garage.
Homesick Blues
Last night, I suddenly woke up and thought I was in my old house. I could see it so clearly — the blue hurricane lamp on my dresser, the hydrangea blue tongue and groove walls, the sheer curtains swaying in the breeze, the glow of my neighbor’s porch light shining through my bedroom window. I haven’t cried since I left Tuscaloosa, but suddenly the grief flooded through me, and I clenched myself into a tight ball in my motel bed and wailed until I choked on my own spit.
Lovestruck in LA
I’m busy, I’m working, and I’m so incredibly happy — as I always am when I’m doing this job I love beyond all sanity. Who knew losing everything would set me free? I lost four walls. I lost a guy. But I kept something so precious — the career I loved perhaps more than anything. Maybe this is why so many journalists are single. When it’s going well, when the stories are hot and the rubber is flying, there’s nothing better.
Goodbye, Tuscaloosa
I slip the keys from my key ring and lay them on the counter. Time is speeding up now. Soon this will be over. I will do my best to accept it with grace. My car is packed with the few things I can carry; my dog and two cats are outside waiting. Everything else has either been given away, sent to family, or sold. This was my first house. I will not love another as I have loved this one. How long will it be before someone loves it again? What happens to homes — and people — when no one wants them anymore?