Boca Cerrada: In Observation of Joy

Boca cerrada means mouth closed.  I like to talk.  I talk a lot.  This month I want to take a step back from being reactive or dismissive because my mouth gets in the way of the opportunities I have to reflect on life's joys.  I want to share with you the joys I find.

I am thrilled to see what this exercise can open up for my perspective on life and my constant desire to notice the joy when I feel that there may not be any left.  I want to shine a light on that this month (October 18th - November 17th).  Will you join me?

My porch swing.  The writing dock.
Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015

October 18th. Sunday. Early.

I awoke before my husband and son this morning.  Instead of rolling under the covers for a few more minutes of rest, I get out of bed, wrap a sweater around myself, slip on my chanclas and head outside. It is my first taste of a Texas autumn. With the wind zigzagging through my toes I slowly pull the mangera from its snake like coil and water the matas that adorn my front porch.  I have become all the matriarchs in my family that value rising early to tend to the life in the yard before tending to the life in the house.

I notice a new budding of tiny red and orange florecitas atop a plant I have newly planted.  It must be thriving from the soil where it is enterrada.  It was in a pot before and would not give this kind of show until it was buried deep into the soil.  Like the plant, I too must be grounded in rich soil in order to thrive.

I recoil the mangera and sit on my porch swing, which I like to call the Writing Dock.

I hear the train chuh chuh chuh and then its horn con fuerza on an iron track not visible from my yard.  I've never seen the train near my home, but just up South Flores Street there is the train that runs near the Gravelmouth Gallery.  I assume it is this train that is causing me to want to warm my cafecito and imagine the era of industrialized transportation.

The bing bing bing of the bell from Mission San José announces the beginning of a Sunday morning Spanish sermon.  Visions of my childhood chime in reminding me of the veils my grandmother and I wore to mass on Sundays at El Carmen on Martinez-Losoya Road.  My mind lingers on how we fear the veil, forgetting that we once wore it- some of our elderly still do. (That's for a later post, que no?)

It is nearly time to wrap up my journaling to go inside and make breakfast.  I am thankful for my writing time this morning and for morning sounds with memories that attach themselves to those sounds.

In what ways do you crave solitude and what do you notice in those moments of soledad?  What joy can you gain from being still and taking on today with la boca cerrada?
  

Mano de Leon, Cockscomb Flower.
Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015

In Celebration of New Life

Although new life is not growing in me, I choose to celebrate the life that surrounds.  Month one of Clomid to no avail.

Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015
Jacob's Creek, Canyon Lake, Texas

Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015
Mimosa Tree seedling, my backyard
San Antonio, TX

Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015
PeachTree growing without apology, my backyard
San Antonio, TX

A [Space] of One's Own

The desk that we found at a yard sale was supposed to be chic counter space and hallway decor; however, last night it became my writing space.  Writing at home just became possible as I face the wall so I don't become distracted by the household chores.

I armed myself with headphones to drown out the activity surrounding me.  It's cozy and is exactly what I needed.  A map of our journeys is plastered above me to remind me of stories I've collected along the way.

Journals to which I've submitted hang on my wall.  They will either come down or stay up depending on rejection on acceptance.  Quotes from my children offer inspiration taped with washi tape to the wall in front of me.

A candle sets the mood and the reason for it all sits right beside it, a frame with my children's names on it. Loose leaf paper is the only way I write these days.  Journals have become too cramped.  Drafts hang behind the candle.  Call it superstitious.

I'm sure the space will evolve.  Right now I'm just elated to have it and use it.  Happy writing, friends.  Do you have a space?  What does it look like?

#WritingeverydayinSeptember

Roundtable

Each month our writing group gathers for a roundtable to discuss ideas, vent about life, foster new habits, and keep each other accountable to the craft.  Ideally, roundtable should last about 2 hours, giving each writer enough time to let us know what they are working on. It never lasts 2 hours and I'm pretty honored to share the table with such amazing people.

This weekend's roundtable lasted a bit over 7 hours.  It seems to be the place where we are most free, most open and most vulnerable  to each other.  We discussed politics without unraveling anyone's feathers and many, many other things that won't get to live on this blog because of the privacy pact we have.

I will share that each of us is working through an incredible energy and an important platform.  I can't wait to read each of the our stories out loud.  Though some stories may be fiction, they are rooted in a grand reality.   The non-fiction stories will grip you in place.  I'm very proud of us.

Currently, I am working on:

1. Edited and submitted to several publications a short fiction story about an alcoholic man who loses his wife to cancer and reflects on what he lost (can't give it away).  It is meant to be a spiritual piece without being overtly religious.

2. Edited and submitted to a couple of publications a short fiction story about a young immigrant trying to get home to his sister in America.  It all happens in the span of 2 minutes.

3. Working on a short non fiction story about a German woman I met, who explained to me her prayer for her daughter to come home and in her childhood being lost in a concentration camp.  I'm not sure where it's going yet, but it takes place at Sunday service (because it really did).

4. Working on a short fiction story about a woman who is going to a nursing home and begins to uproot her garden and with each plant she uproots, it reminds her of someone close to her.  She never makes it to the nursing home.  Not sure where it's going because she's stubborn.

What are you working on?  Share your roundtable with me.

#writingeverydayinSeptember

Writing Life Continuation - Get to the Point

Everything is so raw.  There is nothing left to mystery anymore.  Critical thinking skills have been placed aside because we don't wish to dig deeper into our reading or into our lives; we want it all there for us to see and digest quickly and easily.

I'm starting to submit short stories to journals and am finding that most of the journals I research want you to get to the point right now.  Right away.  Don't open up a story with setting.  Don't open up a story with background noise.  Get to the death in the opening paragraph so we can decide to read further as if it matters that the rest of the story is just setting you up for the eventual death of the character - If the character, in fact, dies.  If your character dies in the first sentence doesn't that mean that the rest of the story is just background noise?

I find it boring and lazy to open a story with the ending.  It works in novels, but doesn't always work for a short story. This speaks to the fast, first world that we live in.   Our need to get to the end fairly quickly has now blossomed into our writing because the publishers (and even famous writers) think you just need to get to the point already.

Building up to the moment is climactic and engages us to hold on just a little while longer.  It offers hope, it offers mystery and allows you to trust the narrator.  If you get to the point right at the beginning of a story, you come across as a used car salesman.  The deal sounds great, but is it great?

I'd rather write so that you can think about your life, about the mystery, about the hope that a story can offer.  Eliminate the "fluff" they interject, not realizing that sometimes fluff is necessary when writing for people that have reality blasted onto their faces each and every day.  Sometimes, the mystery of it all is what helps us to endure and to strive to overcome.

Writing Everyday in August

I took a much needed FB hiatus recently.  I guess you can tell I miss it being that I mention it often.  I have my days of withdrawal and then I have my immensely productive days.  Since the hiatus, I have made room for many things up to and including my writing.

I have written everyday since July 1st and have produced a short story I'm thrilled about.  Last night, while curled up on the couch after having built a Lego farm with my son and watching my husband study for a test, I began to slaughter the first draft.

I stand at 3,134 words (7 pages).  I've completed my editing and will now submit it to my writing group for their constructive criticism.  Then, I'm sending it off into the world.  It will be the first short story that I put up for publication.

Rough Draft 1
Confession by Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros