Musings on story and death

At Sanctuary on Saturday, we began, as usual, with proprioceptive writing… a free flow of thoughts, ideas and images, with the anchor of asking, when a word shimmers with energy, “what do I mean by — ?” and then answering that question. I have been thinking a lot about my story’s recent win, so I began with some thoughts about that.

What Men Do and Don’t Do

In my novel, The Cost of Weather, there is a scene where the protagonist and his closest friend are having coffee in a cafe. Simon, the protagonist, has asked his friend to meet him, having reached a crisis point and in need of advice.

When this scene was read at retreat last summer, the two men in the group were quick to point out that “real men” didn’t hang out in cafes with other men. They didn’t meet for coffee. Really? I thought. How strange.

Whispered Words Contest – my day on the moon

When I began writing this blog, I made the promise that coming along for this literary ride would be fun. This past Saturday, it was that and so much more. WCDR’s Whispered Words short prose competition announced the winners at this month’s breakfast meeting. My story, “What’s Left”, took first place. Really.

All About Radical Restoration in Costa Rica

I’m back, somewhat tanned, immensely relaxed, restored, refreshed and rejuvenated. I know, that’s a lot of R’s, but I can’t help it… Our retreat, Radical Restoration, was divine in so many senses – from the food to the company to the surroundings, it was all perfection.

On the first day of writing, after yoga in the outdoor palapa, followed by glistening fruits and homemade (from the hacienda’s cacao trees) chocolate spread on our toast and local coffee, I wrote this:

Medicine Dance

Reblogged from deepamwadds:

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First there was the cough… since September (coincidentally beginning shortly after my son decided he would rather live with his father) and the diagnosis of a chronic nasty lung that would follow me all of my days ( a result of my youthful, less conscious choices). Then there was me trying to “get in shape” via Kinect’s rather demanding “games” which resulted in a set of muscles and bones that spat and clawed at each other.

Read more… 734 more words

Medicine Dance

First there was the cough… since September (coincidentally beginning shortly after my son decided he would rather live with his father) and the diagnosis of a chronic nasty lung that would follow me all of my days ( a result of my youthful, less conscious choices). Then there was me trying to “get in shape” via Kinect’s rather demanding “games” which resulted in a set of muscles and bones that spat and clawed at each other. Then there was the call to dance. Dance? I thought. I can’t even walk. And I can’t even laugh without coughing my guts out. But the call was waking something coiled inside, something that uncoiled and swayed and tickled at the inside, and said, please, Deepam, we can do it.

My Reasons to Celebrate

Today I’m a little stiff and cranky, because I dared to begin to exercise on Sunday. I’ve been paying for it ever since. And to add insult to injury, the voice on the Kinect (this was supposed to be FUN) tells me, each time, when I’m bent over panting after punching blocks into a thousand pieces, swivelling my hips inside an imaginary Hula Hoop ( I rocked at H H when I was five!) or fast-footing it following the coloured bars, she tells me, “That wasn’t quite it.” or “That’s not what we’re looking for.” Seriously! The witch was telling me I sucked. I had fun swearing at her though, and kept going. Not too much, I thought, I wasn’t going to let her goad me into doing harm to myself.