Post Conference Blues; Pre Conference Jitters

April 17, 2012 at 7:51 pm (Personal, Writing)
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Last month was the KWA Scene Conference. The Friday night started off with Pitchapalooza. all day Saturday was filled with a vibe and an energy. I came out of it like most people who attended — energized and ready to write, edit, publish, self-publish, network, promote.

And then Real Life set it.

I’m not saying I feel like the rope is slipping through my hands, but I’ve barely made a dent in transcribing my notes from my digital voice recorder and I haven’t gotten started on an edit for an existing piece and a complete outline for two new pieces.

And now, I’ve just determined that my work schedule is NOT changing and I WILL have the opportunity to go to OWFI Conference. Which is barely three weeks away. Which I sill haven’t registered for or gotten a discount rate on a hotel room.

I can hear all the comments now. “What are you waiting for?” “Go online and register.” “Don’t miss out on a good deal.” “You NEED to go.”

It’s the last one that’s the kicker. I think most writers go through a phase which starts with showing your work to mommy and daddy. They, of course, think you’re brilliant and wouldn’t say a word against you. You may have some friends who are not writers who you trust — until they read your work (because, after all, they’re your friends) and you realize you can’t trust their opinion. Spouses will support you. They’ll tell you they’re behind you. That makes for a great relationship but you know you need more.

That’s where writer’s groups and conferences come into play. Agents, editors, publishers, and other book industry people don’t necessarily think you’re brilliant, can be trusted, and give you what you truly want — an In. A foot in the door. A chance. An opportunity.

But they don’t come to you. You’re supposed to go to them.

So after this entry, I am going on to the OWFI site to read about registering. I am going to reserve that hotel room before it goes up (and what struggling writer can afford that?) And I will be as prepared as I can in the short time I have.

Because, the bottom line is I believe in myself.

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This is how you know it’s real

April 16, 2012 at 8:47 pm (Dudeism, Personal)

When you sign a marriage certificate, a legal document, that’s when you know you’re a legit ordained minister.

The Rabbi Dude abides!

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My first Dudeist Wedding

April 15, 2012 at 8:44 pm (Dudeism, Personal)

Yesterday, I officiated my first wedding as a Dudeist minister. The ceremony began at 2 PM. By 2:10 PM, Jennifer Dale and Philip Stinger were declared husband and wife.

What made it a Dudeist wedding? Nothing more than my presence as an ordained Dudeist minister. The bottom line is that two people, standing before family, friends, and a few neighbors who happened to be standing in their driveway, witnessed two people declare their love for each other and their intention of making a go of it.

Catholics, Protestants, Jews–any religion does the same thing. They each have their rites and rituals, their words, their prayers. But in the end, it is all the same thing.

I was honored to be a part of it, especially in light of the fact that their first minister, Jeremi Kirkhart, ordained in the universal Life Church, passed away unexpectedly at the age of 34 back in November.

Prior to the wedding, Jennifer related the story of asking Jeremi to officiate. His fee? $1.25. Equally touching was Jeremi’s standard response to the generic question “How are you doing?”

Loving life; living the dream.

I was presented with two coins totaling $1.25 and a pocket watch inscribed “LOVE LIFE; LIVE THE DREAM.” In my sermon, my simple words to them was to be each other’s best friend and sole companion, and grow the bond of love between them.

Their words to me were a reminder. No religion that professes love and life is a joke. Nothing in life is more important than your dreams. Nothing is more sacred than your life.

So, to Jennifer and Philip, a long and happy life. To their family and friends, know that you are blessed.

And to all else who read this: Love life and live the dream.

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Open Mic at the Riverside Perk, April 12, 2012

April 12, 2012 at 9:40 pm (Personal)
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Somehow, this reminds me of Boston, mid 90′s, the Poetry Scene, THE Scene. It’s a coffee shop with art on the walls, flyers for various events that you won’t see advertised in the newspaper, decidedly younger crowd dressed, well, younger than me. I wasn’t me back then; I was a younger version of me. I’m still basically the same; the hair is just grayer and the joints are more arthritic.

Travis is the guy from the liquor store, the kind of guy that has JUST a job but a spirited notion of the world. I commend him. I’m a little jaded to be on his plane but I admire his effort.

And in walks Resesper, co-worker, enlightened spirit, a calm in a sea of bitchy customer service demons. How he does it I’ll never know. I’ve always been too emotional, even back then.

The gathered crowd doesn’t know if they should play, sing, recite, or just simply jam. But there is a rare energy, a special vibe, when the creative gather. A political convention should be so lucky.

So we go from a guitar and violin combo playing what sounds like soft rock from the 70′s to a guy about my age on banjo, bringing a little bluegrass to Riverside. But his voice is that of a chicken sqwaking. And the melody of the second song sounds like the first. But, hey, what the hell do I know? I don’t play banjo.

But it’s not about any of that. It’s about the kind of freedom of expression we don’t have in our jobs or relationships or anything else that general society deems proper.

It’s the kind of place where you can recharge your batteries, which, I’m finding, need that jolt more frequently. Perhaps it is the expenditure of energy writing + editing + networking, that portion going out, which requires feeding by reading a challenging novel, listening deeply to music that I’ve heard countless times before, or getting a fresh perspective from those that I seemingly have nothing in common with save for the love of creation + art.

So far this is not a poetic or spoken word affair, the kind of urban angst and rant against social injustices that I’ve heard for twenty years. This has been a musical excursion through personal expression.

I’ve mellowed into a world of lounge music and martinis. So, drinking a latte at 8PM is totally foreign yet somehow familiar. The thought pops into my head that I hope i won’t have trouble sleeping and be miserable for work tomorrow. The “old guy” has crept out of his shell and into my head.

Oh, for a clove cigarette. That’s right; I don’t smoke.

This seems to be the time when everybody gets to do their thing. And in the end, what’s wrong with that?

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