Another chapter

To everyone who answered my previous post, thank you. The encouragement helped me stick with the task. Earlier this evening I wrote most of the final chapter of my book project. It didn't resolve the way I would like, but I can deal with that later. Now I go back to write chapters 2 through 11.

I'm still awfully dissatisfied with the product, but it was easier to write than the last chapter. As usual when I write quickly I'm happier with the style.

I keep identifying subjects I need to research for the book. It would be enjoyable if I could just relax about it.

Pride

uberdaddybear's Uberfun Writing Task of the Day:

As we go into pride this year, what are you proud of? Why? and does it have anything to do with the fact that your gay?


Pride for me means standing up to those who tell us we should be ashamed of ourselves. It doesn't mean looking down on anyone or presuming my way is the best or only way; that is a different kind of pride called arrogance. Queer Pride should set an example of tolerance and goodwill toward people who think or act differently. The GLBT community has far to go in overcoming its own prejudices, but we're human after all.

I'm proud of my chosen family: my children and friends. I'm proud of being a gay father, single and polyamorous. I dislike labels, but these ones identify the way I relate to people. Without my relationships nobody can get a clear picture of who I am. If I went back to hiding or trying to change that part of myself it would be like cutting off my feet.

I'm proud of having survived rejection by most of the people I loved when I came out of the closet seven years ago. I didn't give up. I weathered years of serious depression. Sometimes the only thing that kept me going was my determination to prove that religious ostracism couldn't destroy me. Maybe that was the wrong reason to stay alive, but it worked when I needed it. My faith worked when I needed it, too. Now I follow a different spiritual path more meaningful to me, and life is worth living for its own sake. I have overcome my hostility toward people who treated me badly or ignored me when I needed friends. I'm happier than ever before.

My sexuality is connected to the way I express myself creatively. I'm proud of being a writer, poet and artist.

Life is all about learning. I'm proud that I'm willing to let the evidence change my mind about people and ideas.

Caught in the undertow with Annie Dillard

I grew up on the shore of Lake Erie, shallowest and warmest of the Great Lakes. Saturated with Southern Ontario heat and humidity, we would play on the beach and in the water all summer. I was a cautious child, picking up unspoken cues to my mother's anxieties, so I didn't take easily to swimming. But I loved the nearness of water: the play of light on its surface, its embracing sensuality.

I am a Pisces, with Pisces rising. Erie seized on my water sign vulnerability and dragged deeply with its allure. I am never fully at peace except around water. I have even become a sufficient swimmer

Sometimes the water becomes treacherous. Certain winds create a deadly undertow that can drag a full-grown man down and away from the beach.

All my life I have looked to water for inspiration. First Lake Erie, then the serenity of Lake Fletcher, and in these last few years the gentle, leading currents of the Eramosa River. I walk there every day and let it tell me tales.

Now I am caught in an undertow. The stories are rolling over my head, sucking me down.

I know the feeling of writing a book. I've drowned myself in it before. It is a dreadful place to go. Somehow the currents always cast me back gasping on the shore. I never managed to reach the mystery at the heart of the lake that would finally make me a creature of the water. For years I have dabbled like a child playing in the sand. I longed to swim but was afraid to give up my security.

The past few days I have taken the plunge with a new level of determination. The deeper I go, the more I have to swallow big gulps of fear. The book has started making unexpected demands of me: more reading and research. I have to pore over old journal entries. Submerged memories rise like mermaids with ethereal songs, sea monsters with rapier teeth. The adventure begins to consume me. I am lost.

( Lessons from Annie Dillard )

I was afraid to wade in because I knew the process would be full of invisible snags and obstacles. But the process is where I belong. Holding back I would remain a dabbling child, unable to swim.