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Her Eyes

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She always did have a way of lingering in a room long after she had left.  Now it’s her eyes that hover menacingly in the darkest, furthest corners of the empty bedroom she abandoned.  They stare out, emotionless.  She’s searching for the baby she couldn’t be bothered with, or maybe the boyfriend she struggled to love.  No, she’s not searching for him.  She never cared enough to search for him.  She’s probably just keeping watch, keeping guard.  She always did have the hardest time letting go.

Her eyes stare out from the innocent face of her son, who kicks and thrashes at night when she isn’t there to rock him to sleep.  He inherited her eyes and her hair, that soft mahogany, beautiful hair that she had before she bleached it blonde and quit her job and disappeared into the desert for two weeks.   He didn’t even recognize her when she wandered back, bruised, bloody and dirty.  Nobody who loves her recognized her then.

Her eyes are everywhere.  In the blinking clock on the nightstand and the red light on the smoke detector that beeps incessantly when the battery dies.  She used to hate that smoke detector.  It woke her up in the middle of the night once, battery nearly drained and screaming to be changed.  It never stood a chance against her fiery temper and massive hangover.  She slammed a shoe against it until it unhinged from the wall then sobbed into her hands for ten minutes when it wouldn’t stop beeping, even as it lay broken on the floor.  There’s still a wound on the wall where the paint chipped away from the force of her sneaker.

Her eyes are the lights and her hands are the sheets that wrap her growing son and keep him warm at night.

He will never see it.  He will never know the sound of her voice, never know the way she bites her lip when she’s nervous.  He will never see her pick at her fingernails and will never hear her sing a song of nothingness when she’s bored. She’s everywhere and nowhere all at once.

The Writer’s Retreat

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Those of you who know me (and know my writing style) probably know that I am slightly obsessed with the ocean.  It’s almost borderline unhealthy, considering how often it shows up in my writing.  The funny thing is, I can’t exactly put my finger on what about it provides me with so much inspiration.  Maybe it was my San Diego upbringing, my love of all things blue, or my surfboard toting father.  Who knows where it came from, all I can say is I truly love everything about it (except Sea World…I hate Sea World with an unbridled passion).  In fact, I probably have about four pending, half written stories about the ocean in my draft folder right now waiting to make their way onto the blog.

Sunset from the balcony.

I may live mere blocks from the Los Angeles shoreline, but I was jumping up and down (literally) when the opportunity to spend a weekend in Laguna Beach crossed my desk.  Three days and two nights in an oceanfront resort with nothing but my thoughts, my half finished novel and the sound of crashing waves to lull me to sleep.  A finer opportunity there is not, my friends.  There is nothing more relaxing than the sound of crashing waves, the sight of the setting sun and the smell of salt in the air.  My fingers are itching to type just thinking about it.

Morning coffee served with a side of inspiration, please! Lucky for me, that’s exactly what I received this past weekend at my self-proclaimed writer’s retreat at the Pacific Edge Hotel, in Laguna Beach.

It was the perfect place to relax, alone with my thoughts and my laptop – ready to tackle the half finished novel that has been haunting me for the past year and a half.  Every few weeks, I find myself pulling out the trusty hard copy of my novel that I keep next to my bed (lest I find myself in the throws of total inspiration in the middle of the night).  I never get very far, to be honest.  My inspiration has been lackluster (at best) as of late, but rather than dwelling on how I am lacking in inspiration these days, I thought I would make a list of things that have inspired me most.

The Ocean…duh.

View from my room in Laguna Beach.

Music: Every note, every word. A heartbreaking chord or a breathtaking lyric, music so aptly defines the human condition.  It expresses emotion, but it also keeps time for us (literally and metaphorically, I guess).  It documents our history and tells a story that is simply inexpressible in any other format.  My friends make fun of me because I love to listen to sad music.  Trust me, it’s not because I’m depressed.  It’s because I am so deeply humbled and awed by the raw power and creativity behind a piece that can move me emotionally in just three minutes and forty seconds. I can only hope that one day, people will relate to my work the way I have related to the many musicians who have inspired me along the way.

People Watching: An amazing professor once told me that every writer is kind of crazy.  I fully relate.  What other profession requires that you put yourself into the mind of multiple characters at the same time?  When else do you have occasion to fully immerse yourself in someone else’s life?  The stories we tell may stem from our creativity, or our own personal experience, but the characters we portray come from the world we see.  I love sitting at a cafe and just watching people.  Yes, I will admit I even listen in on conversations from time to time.  It’s too easy and way too much fun.  Plus, over the years I’ve learned a lot of very valuable lessons on how different people react in different situations.  I like to believe I’ve even learned how some minds think, process and feel.  We’re all different.  Put ten people into one situation and you will probably have ten different outcomes (or at the very least ten different versions of what happened).  It’s why eye witness accounts are so unreliable.  It’s why stories pack such a punch.  We are all different, but we’re all striving for a shared human existence and experience.  We just want to relate to one another.

In the car:  It’s another one I can’t explain.  I get all of my best ideas when I’m on the freeway, most likely because I have so much time to think.

That’s the thing about inspiration… it can be a total ass.  It’ll show up when you least expect it and will almost never answer your strained and desperate calls.

*For more pictures from my fabulous weekend getaway, follow me on Instagram at @ashalafaly.

Dreams Change But Never Die

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Okay, so I’m not going to lie to you – this blog is not my day job.  I know, I know…it’s crazy, right?  Trust me, if I had my way I would write novels for a living, get paid an obnoxious amount of money for said novels, have a beautiful house overlooking a sparkling ocean and be able to share it all with my family (those I already know and those I have yet to meet). Instead I have a day job in event planning, a weekend job in freelance copywriting, a writing partner and two open (read unfinished) scripts, and a blog I barely have time to update.  The blog is what drives me, but everything else pays the bills.

If you  had asked me three years ago if I thought I would end up as a freelance copywriter for a major international company I would have laughed at you.  I’m creative.  Corporations don’t foster creativity, they stifle it, right?  Fast forward to today.  Now I AM a freelance copywriter for a major international corporation and our Facebook page just hit one million fans! Two years ago I started as the social media freelance writer for this brand’s Facebook page and now we have hit one million fans, expanded to Twitter, Tumblr and YouTube and sold out product on every major store shelf we’re carried in. Not only that, but this brand is ethically balanced, deeply story driven and wonderfully creative.

Just to recap – this all means that one million people read my work on a daily basis.  I’ll allow you to stay skeptical for one moment (but don’t even think about lingering in skepticism longer than that). True, it’s just Facebook.  People read my work while they stalk people they “know” but don’t really know. But who cares?  My creative flair is being broadcast to one million people on a daily basis.  True, nobody knows it’s me…but I do, and that’s all that really matters.  What’s funny is how much I have actually found myself loving the whole thing.  Nine years ago, I didn’t even have a personal Facebook page.  In fact, I only have a personal Facebook page because my college roommate made mine for me.  I didn’t even use it for the first few months.  Now here I am, writing copy that’s viewed by over one million people daily.  It’s almost mind-blowing.

I guess what intrigues me the most is how different my career path has turned out from what I originally intended.  I never would have thought I would find myself enjoying what is basically a marketing position, but here I am absolutely relishing every moment, every post, and dare I say every tweet!

Next goal: one million writeattitude blog followers? Okay, maybe that’s a pretty big dream, but let’s face it…I’m also pretty damn determined.

Workshop in Dialogue

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I know I may instantly regret saying this, but I miss grad school.  Crazy, right?  I don’t miss the late nights, the endless homework assignments, the studying until I drove myself into an insane, slightly neurotic state (from which I have still not totally recovered more than a year later).  I don’t miss the constant presentations and the anxiety they brought on and I don’t miss weekends filled with homework (or the dread of having to do ALL of my homework Sunday night because I avoided it all weekend).  I do, however, miss spending so much time with the amazing friends I made (p.s. – to those of you out there reading this, let’s hang out soon) and I miss the writing it forced me to do.

Sometimes it’s insanely hard for me to stay motivated when there’s not a solid deadline looming in the background.  The fear of a bad grade could always snap me into focus as well.  I won’t lie, I’m a super over-achiever when it comes to graded work.  My writing partner and I have been working on multiple scripts for multiple years and haven’t had much success in finishing or polishing them, most likely due to our lack of a solid deadline (we were both great in churning out beautiful scripts on tight deadlines during undergrad).  To be honest, I produced fun pieces during my master’s program that I forgot I even wrote.  Below is an example.  I can tell you one thing – I know I wrote it during a summer session Dialogue Workshop.  It was probably the second, maybe third assignment that term.  I can even remember the prompt: “Write a dialogue between two characters in which they are both describing an object in front of them.  You (as the author) should know what the object actually is.  Your characters should not know what the object is.  Do not reveal the object identity to the reader.”

And…write.

I can’t for the life of me remember actually writing this.  It’s so funny how that works. There are pieces from grad school that I wrote that I practically have memorized.  Pieces from high school that I can almost remember word for word.  But this, something I wrote less than two years ago, doesn’t even warrant a small register in my memory.  In the end, it’s actually kind of fun not remembering.  I can discover new things to read on my laptop without having to buy something.  The best part of this piece is – I can’t remember what the “object” is.  Feel free to take a look and if you can figure out what I was describing…well you’d be my hero.

“It’s pretty heavy,” Martin said.
“Heavy and awkward,” said Julie.
“Awkward?”
“You can’t use it for anything.”
“You could use it as a doorstop.”
“A doorstop?”
“It’s heavy enough.”
“It’s too colorful to be a doorstop.”
“Doorstops can’t be colorful?”
“It’s not a doorstop.  Look at all the eyes.”
“There are a lot of eyes.”
“Exactly.”
“Sad eyes,” he said.
“Sad eyes?” She asked.
“Very sad.”
“I think they look kind of happy.”
“Sad and empty.”
“Sad and empty?”
“Shallow even.”
“Explain.”
“Look at this one; it’s all grey and depressing,” he said
“Again, I would like to show you the colorful ones over here,” she said.
“And color equals happy?”
“Naturally.”
“What’s with you and colors today?”
“What is with you and doorstops?”
“Doorstop was a legitimate option.”
“Can you be serious for two seconds?”
“I am being serious.”
“You are not,” Julie said.
“I’m deadly,” said Martin.
“Excuse me?”
“Deadly serious.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Of what?”
“My genius.”
“Because doorstop was such a brilliant idea?”
“Obviously.”
“Can we stop talking about the doorstop, please?”
“You’re the one that keeps bringing it up.”

Those Kind Eyes

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He had the kind of eyes that could see right through her, pierced her with a pain that she rarely felt outside of him.  His eyes broke her more than his hands ever did.  She was always uncomfortable in his presence, but she rarely found enough strength to think that it was possible to pick up and leave.  His words took her to the highest places, or tore her down in an instant.  He lingered on her like the stale smoke of a Vegas casino and she was never able to wash herself clean.

She couldn’t stand it when he looked at her as if she were the only person in the room.  The way his eyes followed her, the way the corners of his lips would turn up in a loving grin, the way the wrinkles on his forehead creased that much further.  It broke her heart when he made her feel like the only person in the world and it almost killed her when he convinced her that he actually needed her.  I love you.  Let’s go get a drink.  Come home with me tonight.

But he didn’t need her.  He never needed her.  He was her everything and he made her into nothing and she hated him for it.

The Road

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I used to keep journals.  It was a long time ago, and I was a very angsty teen, but I did in fact journal.  And because I have a slight hoarding addiction, I kept them all (five in total) for the past ten years.  I thought maybe one day I might read them again and be inspired by my former teenage self.  I moved these journals with me to college and then again to four different apartments.  I never looked through them.  To be honest, I was kind of always afraid to go back to that place emotionally.  It was a bad place, a very dark place and I am extremely happy to say that I am no longer a resident there.

Funny thing is, emotion is a writer’s best friend.  Without it, we’re inspired to nothing. Emotion is what pushes us to connect with people through words.  Emotion is everything.  The past few months, I’ve felt a little devoid, almost numb to my own emotions.  I used to be so in tune, so perceptive and recently I’ve just been so afraid to engage in anything even remotely scary.  It really got me thinking – why is it that when we get older and wiser, we also get that much more afraid?  In the end, it’s probably because we know what’s coming.

A few days ago, I decided it was finally time to rifle through the old journals.  There were a few poems and entries I remembered, and some I had no recollection of ever writing.  Most of it was pretty bad.  Some of it may be salvageable if I work on editing it (a task I’m not really up for these days).  And then there was “The Road.” I found it in one of the final journals.  If I had to date it, I would put it near the end of high school, possibly the first semester of college.  It’s not amazing by any means, but something in it resonated with me. Enough, anyway, to share it with you…

Long ago I walked a road
The very road your feet touch now.
A road that’s lined,
With the things you find –
Where you long to grow, but you don’t know how.
And on that road, so long ago,
A hand stretched out to help me through.
So here I am
Wandering that road again
And reaching out my hand to you.
 
By Ashley Wilson

A Letter from the Desk of Ashley Wilson

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Dear Friday,

I have become increasingly aware of an ongoing strain developing in our relationship as of late. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that you were a carefree day, one that encouraged the display of casual office attire, mid-afternoon parties with snacks from Bristol Farms and more often than not, early departure from the office. Perhaps you have been misleading me for these past two years, but I am concerned that lately, you are not holding up your end of the bargain. In recent weeks you have been moody, irritable and quite frankly, unpleasant to deal with in the morning. I am concerned that this strain is a sign of larger problems. Is everything okay at home? Is Thursday harassing you again, claiming that she is the “New Friday”? Perhaps we should all sit down and have a group discussion regarding the importance of being a team player? I am concerned that if this behavior continues, it will cause strife not only here in the office, but also in our personal lives. Perhaps it is the other days of the week that are not doing their share of the work, dumping it all on you and thus, creating a stressful and unmanageable work environment (we all know that Saturday has a bit of a drinking problem). I write this not to cause further anxiety, but to find a solution that will hopefully make everyone happier. I ask that we have a sit down meeting to discuss the workload and the lack of “woo hoo it’s almost the weekend” spirit that you once possessed. Please find the time in your schedule to come and talk to me about these serious and debilitating issues.

Best,

Ashley

Nothing is So Beautiful As Spring – A Cento

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So apparently, I’m working through a poetry phase.  I haven’t really explored my poetic side since high school, which was honestly a time in my life when I believed all good poetry had to rhyme.  It’s crazy how time (and great mentors) can change what you thought was a steadfast belief.  Poetry does not have to rhyme.  In fact, it doesn’t even have to make any sense.  It just has to find a way to let you connect.  It has to make you think.  And it always finds a way to make you feel.

What I love most about poetry is the way a few words, strung together in a well chosen pattern, can sit with you, sometimes even change you.  One of my favorite styles of poetry celebrates this idea – then pushes it further. A cento is a verse composition made up of lines selected from the great works of the past. It takes the funny, heartbreaking, breathtaking and often long-lasting emotions from each of your favorite works and pieces them together to form a new story and a new feeling.  I found “Nothing is So Beautiful as Spring” a few days ago while sifting through old pieces from grad school.  I wrote this in an inspiring Spiritual Poetry class that focused on the works of some of my favorite poets – Gerard Manley Hopkins, Anne Sexton, T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas and W.B. Yeats.

I sought him, but could not find him,
I called him, but he gave me no answer.
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit.
My first vision of light-
A broken altar, a heart alone
Both saved and lost.
I heard a call:  How deep, how ordinary.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
If only I let it bear me, carry me
If only it carry me!
But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.
“It’s okay,” I say to myself,
To search myself,
Because I know I shall not know
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
And nightly under the simple stars,
Footfalls echo in the memory.
Ordinary lives continue.
I ask for grace,
Things fall apart.
There is something at work in my soul,
Which I do not understand. 
Line References:
1-2.  Song of Solomon
3.  George Herbert, “Prayer (I)”
4.  T.S Eliot, “The Waste Land”
5.  William Blake, “To Thomas Butts”
6.  George Herbert, “The Altar”
7.  Anne Sexton, “The Fallen Angels”
8.  Soan, Zen Poet
9.  Henry Vaughan, “World of Light”
10.  Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Hurrahing in Harvest”
11-12.  D.H. Lawrence, “Song of a Man Who Has Gone Through”
13.  Denise Levertov, “Annunciation”
14.   Anne Sexton, “The Rowing Endeth”
15.  George Herbert, “Vanity of Spirit”
16.  T.S. Eliot, “Ash Wednesday”
17.  William Wordsworth, “Ode:  Intimations on Mortality”
18.  Dylan Thomas, “Fern Hill”
19.  T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton”
20.  Denise Levertov, “Annunciation”
21.  Edward Dowden, “The Initiation”
22.  W.B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”
23-24.  Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (Letter II)

Heart to Heart

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Don’t spend your lunch money on ice cream or candy; always be pleasant with company; stop smacking your gum, it makes you sound like a cow; always brush your hair before bed; don’t mix plaids and stripes; never talk to strangers; here’s how you wish on a shooting star – oh no not that one, that’s just a satellite; look both ways before crossing the street; don’t cross your legs when sitting in a chair, just bend your knees and cross your ankles; always wear a skirt to church on Sunday; always go to church on Sunday, if you can’t make Sunday, there’s a Saturday evening mass; don’t you dare talk back to me, young lady; never put celery down the garbage disposal; or forks, never put forks down the garbage disposal; wash your face every night, even if you feel like you’re too tired to move; always take out the trash before it starts to smell; don’t rile up the dog like that – if she pees on the carpet, you’re cleaning it up; stay away from pot and booze; but if you drink, don’t drive; have you thought about wearing a little makeup to hide the imperfections?; remember to just be yourself; always watch what you eat; don’t use Sun-In in your mahogany hair, it will only turn it orange; don’t give your heart away too quickly, but try not to keep it locked up too long; if the tag says “dry clean only” you should take it to the dry cleaner; wipe off some of that eyeliner – you wear too much makeup and it makes you look cheap; did you even brush your hair this morning?; don’t wear jeans that are too low, too tight, too faded or too shredded; No, I won’t pay for modeling classes, it’s a scam; you can make yourself miserable or make yourself strong, the effort is still the same; never mix aspirin and alcohol; the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; here’s how you setup a savings account, here’s how you setup a checking account; here’s how you apply for a loan; always take time for yourself; stop slouching, you look frumpy; your shirt’s a little low, perhaps a sweater would make you look descent; if you get a tattoo, I’m not paying your $40,000 a year tuition; courage is the power to let go of the familiar; remember to bake the pie for twenty minutes at 350, then another 30 minutes at 325; don’t worry, your day will come; never live with more than one cat; you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression; never travel abroad alone; smile a little more, you always look so sad; you don’t need a boyfriend now anyway, you should concentrate on your school work; it’s not that I don’t like your hair, I just liked it better when it was blonde; did you forget to iron that blouse?; here’s how you get a red wine stain out of your khaki slacks; here’s how you get a red wine stain out of the carpet; here’s how to get a red wine stain out of the couch; I saw that boy the other day, the one you said used to make your heart flutter – why didn’t you marry him?; always carry five dollars in your purse, just in case; the will of God will not take you where the grace of God cannot protect you; stop being so damn pessimistic, you’ll never get a man that way; nothing can come into your experience unless you summon it through persistent thoughts; be careful when talking to strange men; always cook a meatloaf with ketchup, not salsa; never cry in the workplace, if you need to cry go outside; when are you planning on giving me grandchildren?; have you eaten today?  You’re a little cranky; you should have taken that job in Chicago; that dress really isn’t flattering on you; always take chances and never look back; your father and I have papers in the top dresser drawer, a written copy of our wills, account numbers, just in case; never be afraid to talk about your fears; don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.

Inspired By Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” and conversations with my mother.  Thanks, Mom!

Writer’s Block

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Great.  Five days into 2012 and I’m sick.  And not just suffer through it sick, but go home from work and take the longest nap of my life sick.  Okay so maybe it wasn’t the longest nap of my life, but you get where I’m going with this, right?  Basically my head feels like it’s about to explode, my throat is swelling shut and exercising my creative side seems almost as hard as running a marathon.  On the flip side, I promised myself I would write creatively once a day in 2012 so instead of working on my novel or screenplay (that makes way too much sense and procrastination is my secret key to success) I’m trying my hand at discussing writer’s block.

No matter what way you look at it, writer’s block absolutely blows.  For me, it manifests in a strangely physical way.  My fingers start to hurt.  I sit in front of my blank computer screen, wanting nothing more than to start typing, but when no words start to flow, my fingers physically begin to ache.  Not cool.  Eventually my head begins to hurt and I start thinking that if I don’t clean my closet out in this exact moment, I might actually explode (see – procrastination rears its ugly head again).  I will say this – my apartment is never cleaner than on the days I have intense writer’s block.

Even this randomly rambling post is an attempt to feel just a tad bit better about the fact that I’ve been completely stuck on the same paragraph in a chapter of my novel for the past three days.  Chores are helpful, but I find that writing is the best way to overcome writer’s block.  Even if the writing is just a little sub-par (editing, re-editing and editing again later is a girl’s best friend).

We all know the adage – getting started is often the most difficult part.  So for those of you who may be interested in pushing yourself just a little harder or want to hurl yourself over the mountain of nerves staring you down and making you feel like you can’t put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard?) to start the writing process, I have put together a short list of guides who have helped me over the years:

Imitation is the Most Sincere Form of Flattery:

Sometimes finding that jumping off point can be awful.  If your mind is as blank as your computer screen, where do you pull the inspiration for a new piece?  I’ve found that trying to imitate another author’s style can be helpful.  It will also help you decide what you do and don’t like about your own writing.  Is this author’s style similar to your own or completely opposite?  If it’s similar – great!  Be inspired and write away!  If it’s dissimilar, push yourself to try to write something in that style anyway.  What can it hurt?  By the end of the exercise you’ll either have something totally unique and completely outside of your comfort zone or a new view on your own style of writing.  I suggest starting small.  Work with short fiction or poetry that can be confined to a page – two pages at the absolute max!  Read another author’s work and then play with the style, the themes, the characters.  How would you have written the piece?  Can you imagine continuing the story using the same characters?  Can you write on a completely different subject using the same style or rhyme scheme. Try some of the following for help –

The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics. Princeton UP, 1993.

Flash Fiction: 72 Very Short Stories.  W.W. Norton & Co., 1992.

You Have Time for This: Contemporary American Short-Short Stories.  Oologan, 2007.

Exercise Prompts:

Self-explanatory, right?  If you’re looking for a good book of exercises to start with – check out:

The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Writing Exercises That Transform Your Fiction.  Writer’s Digest Books, 2005.

Read:

The most obvious, but I think it can never be said enough.  Looking for inspiration?  Read as much as you possibly can!  When I come across a phrase or sentence that moves me it absolutely motivates me to write on my own.  I can’t stress enough the importance of reading as much as you possibly can to help influence and drive you in your own writing endeavors.

So here I am – one post further into my goal for 2012 and no closer to moving past that paragraph of my novel that’s been haunting me for days.  Alas, I do not fret, my friends.  Another 2012 goal is to finish the novel by the end of the year and as great as I am with procrastinating, I’m even better under a solid deadline.