Here Goes Nothin'

I have been getting prompts from, well, all over really, encouraging me to write more of The Duirwaigh Story. Every time an author, artist, publisher or fan tells me they want to know More about the story or affirms in some way that there might be an audience for it, Mernie always shakes her head and says "I have been telling you this for years." Ah, so it is with mothers and best friends.

So in January, when the business world is typically hung over from the post-Christmas folderol, I snuck off to a writing retreat with Natalie Goldberg. I thought perhaps she might help clear the bats from the belfry of my writing tower. The retreat was delicious and I learned a great deal. But when I returned home, it was to further ponder the events of my life for approximately 72 hours and then slip back into the daily grind of running a business. (Don't pity me too much. The daily Duirwaigh grind is akin to a carousel...just replace the horses with chihuahuas and UPS delivery men and the organ music with Kid Rock. Whatever.)

In early June, however, I received another wonderful prompt. In order to pursue the writing thing more assiduously, I had decided to attend a writing retreat with Christina Baldwin on Whidbey Island. The woman is a glorious slice of divinity and she almost single-handedly led me out of the Canaan of Creative Self Doubt with her book "Journal Writing as a Spiritual Quest" in 1995. Needless to say I was a bit warmed at the thought of meeting and studying Story with her.

The day before my flight was scheduled to leave Atlanta, I received an email from a beautiful Duirwaigh client, who'd just pre-ordered "A Knock at the Door." I loved getting her email because we had just posted the book for sale and were sitting around the computer like Christmas Eve children around the fireplace waiting for our first orders. We even had the grown-up version of milk and cookies: Champagne and skittles. Who knew Santa would be called Liz and that she'd bring the gift of Synchronicity in her sack. Here is an excerpt from that email:

"Hi Angi,
I am sitting with tears in my eyes for two reasons...the first being the courage you display and the triumph in beating the odds.  How your spirit must soar!  I will confess, I watched "A Knock on the Duir" countless times.  I won't go into detail as my problems were minor compared to yours, but know that the film helped me through the most terrible period of my 59 years on this earth; I started each morning by viewing it! I never read your story until this morning, however, and am awed by you.  You have a beautiful writing style and should share your story in book form with the world...we need to hear stories like yours rather than the stories we do manage to hear. I would probably buy at least 10 copies of it to share with those I know who are without hope, for far less reasons than yours."

I have never met Liz and to my knowledge, this was the first time she'd written in. She had no idea I had been told for at least the past six years that I 'ought to write down more of that story' and further that I was seriously toying with the idea. (toying: as in draining my meager savings account --which is typically not ever above 300.00 because I have a knack for buying as many pieces of art as I can humanly afford while still managing to eat and feed my dogs--  on writing retreats with inspired women pen-wielding creatures.

I printed out her email and slipped it in the journal I carried with me to the writing retreat.  I departed not knowing what to expect, but trusting the process. I arrived and spent the first few days at the workshop wondering if I was up to the challenge of delving into such complicated and messy material. I reasoned perhaps there was another story to tell, and was willing to just open the boxtop of my creativity, regardless of the prize inside. But when I left for home, seven days later, there was no doubt as to the life of the Duirwaigh Story. It is kicking and screaming to get out and I am capable of the birth and up to the task. Just do NOT expect me to get in the stirrups. Not happening.

There are some pretty gorey elements in my story and ghosts too. Rape, bankruptcy, death and betrayal are rarely picturesque. But there are miracles also, as well as triumphs, joys and angels. And at least one muse. The assignment I have given myself is to work on it a bit every week. (Notice how roomy the phrase 'a bit' is? Not whipping out the Franklin Planner on this one, but hoping to stay acquainted with the Muse of Progress.) When I get a snippet I am comfortable with I'll post it here. It will all be out of order and seemingly random, as I'll only write what I feel drawn to at any given moment, but eventually most of it will work its way onto this site. I look forward to sharing it with you and reading your feedback. Perhaps the one thing that's kept the story inside me so long is the solitude. This will not be an easy birth and now that technology has created this lovely blog community, I am fortunate enough to have folks like Liz--and like you--to support me.

Yup, that was optimism! Without Xanax or Chocolate or Duct Tape.

So, in the spirit of New Things, and to honor Liz who inadvertently nudged me with a thumbtack, here goes nothing:

*************************************************************************************
It was my sixth day in the hospital and I was fading with the weather. The days were grey and hour-less and settled like a stone at the bottom of my psyche. I would not talk. I ate little.  Pain and Panic (two friends from Disney’s Hercules movie) sat to my right and left, doing their best to absorb my own. A parade of nurses came into the room to turn me from one side of my body to the other six, seven, twelve times a day. I had allowed my sister Robin to fly into town to be with me. Aside from Pain and Panic, she was my only companion. I would not let my mother to come from Florida. I could not let her see me like this. Since childhood I had felt responsible for her happiness. My sense of humor developed specifically to coax her out of the hard-coated shell she carried on her back. How could I allow her to witness such a dismal reality? I would not.  Not even on the phone.

However, at four o’clock that afternoon the phone rang. Robin answered.
“How is she?”
“Not well. But at least she’s eating.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“She doesn’t have to talk to me, just put the phone to her ear. Tell her it’s important.”

I had been lying on my right side where I could see out of the slim window and into the parking lot. Down there somewhere was my little red Acura Integra. As I lay there I wondered if I would ever drive it again. I had driven myself to the hospital six days prior and it seemed another person in another life. I could no longer imagine operating the pedals, the steering wheel, the radio. As I pondered just how out of reach a stick shift had become, Robin told me mom was on the phone.

“She knows you don’t want to talk. She says it’s important and all you have to do is listen.”

I couldn’t manage a telephone any better than I could a stick shift. Robin held the phone to my ear.

“Angi. I just had a vision and something very powerful is happening right now. I feel it all over my body. I want you to trust me on this. Close your eyes and open your heart. Feel what I am saying to you. It’s important. Ok?”

“Uh huh” I said, lacking conviction.

“ Now open your eyes and look outside the window. Can you see it? There, in the distance, a tiny speck on the horizon. I have called the Land of Fairytale and they’re sending a ship. See it? That’s the glittering gold of Captain Hook’s Jolly Roger. That’s Peter Pan behind the wheel, guiding the gilded boat across the sky. He’s coming to get you. Wendy is with him and Tinker Bell too. Belle and Beast are inside as well, so is Cinderella and Prince Charming. Snow White and Dopey are waving. Grumpy is there, looking cantankerous, but he’s also looking for you. Pooh is inside with Piglet and Eeyore. Tigger is bouncing from stem to stern in anticipation. It’s getting closer now, can you see Alice and the Cheshire cat leaning over the railing? The ship is hovering just outside your room. The White Rabbit has jumped onto the ledge and is opening your window. Now they’re all pouring into your room. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum are pulling back the covers on your bed. Jiminy Cricket is hopping onto your pillow, ready to be your guide. Mary Poppins is standing right next to you with a spoonful of sugar. Take her hand. It’s time for you to sail away. I want you to get out of that bed and go with them. Take Mary’s hand, follow your friends to the window and get on the boat. Neverland is calling. Go. Now.”

And I did.

Comments

[Laurel Earthe]

Thank you Angi ~Wipes tears of me keyboard~ Thank you SO much.

[Blown Away]

wow. just....wow. im not sure why but...wow. i dont even think i quite understand it.

[JJones4343]

Check out this web journey
http://www.cincinnatiartmuseum.org/wakingdreams/index.html

Its for Waking Dreams - Experience the Enchantment at the Cincinnati Art Museum. Romantic, myterious and sensual show of Pre-Raphaelite art!

[Joyce Marston]

Thank you so much for sending that fairytale world thru to us in the times we are most desperate.

[jackie barnard]

That was soooo amazing, you just have to write a book and soon. We will all buy it. Reading it gave me goosebumps. Thank you
From Jackie
South Africa

[Gloria Martin]

I have just been completely blown away by your "here goes nothing" Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Gloria