Loving So Much It Hurts

I had Mexican today. By myself, though I rarely eat Mexican alone. It is one food that’s better when shared. Like sushi. Or hibachi.

As the hostess walked away, I laid my hand on the menu and was overwhelmed by the memory of being in Lupe’s with a man I love, a man who slipped away to another plane of existence, two-years back.

2006ish-Port Hueneme Air Show

As I wait for the server, I see on Facebook that his daughter, also dear, has posted how much she’s missing him. And I swear, Harold Richland is sitting beside me, flipping through the menu, knowing he will order Chili Colorado when the waitress shows.

I am in La Bamba, on a different coast, to write while I eat, as I often do. But the love wells up, in to my throat, and the food is hard to swallow.

Harold I miss you.

That’s all.

I miss you.

And I love you, still, so much that it hurts.

~ O.J. Barré

Saying NO

I’m doing it.

MY thing.

Not yours.

Not hers.

Not theirs.

Mine.

My thing.

My thing is to write.

I’m a writing fool.

Not a saleswoman,

A writer.

My spare time,

Be it physical,

Mental or emotional,

Is for writing.

A head filled with

Tasks, phone calls, texts,

Meetings, Facebook pages,

Order-taking, customer service,

And work, work, work,

Is not conducive to

The writing process.

So the answer is No.

Once and for all:
No.

I am not a saleswoman.

I am a writer.

Writing is my passion.

My precious.

My own.

~ OJ Barre'

A WRITER’S CRISIS OF FAITH

Who am I?
What am I?
And why?

I’m wondering. Have I shot myself in the foot, screwed my pooch, flubbed my dub?

There is an author, Delilah S. Dawson, who is widely-read and telling it like it is. I had time this morning to read the beginning of her “Catcall”. Whether creative nonfiction or short-story, I want to go back, to finish. Because the lead-in is that good.

As I march through the days, weeks, months and years, diligently giving time to the massive project that is “Blessed Are the Peace Makers-The Trilogy”, I ignore that which I’ve been told is my forte: the ability to tell the truth in a relatable, and sometimes stark, clarity.

And I mourn.

Because that, my friend, fed me. Filled me.

By emptying my guts, I redeem my soul, one story at a time.

Telling my journal is not the same. Yes, it gets my thoughts and hopes and dreams on paper and out of my head. But it doesn’t bring the depth of awareness that polishing each word for public consumption gives, nor the satisfaction of others relating.

Have I lost my bearings by ignoring my friends’ (Elliot Grace, Eric W. Trant, Roland Yeomans, Andrew T. Post and other gutsy writers*) advice to embrace creative nonfiction? Have I missed the mark by throwing everything in to one fiction/fantasy project and turning my back on that which I know feeds my soul?

Holy cannoli. I have.

So now what?

Periodically, I contemplate revamping "That Rebel" and giving to it that which it deserves: an owner who loves it, and hugs it, and pets it, and squeezes it, and calls it George. Well. Maybe not George. I kinda like "That Rebel". But you get my drift.


The Abominable Snow Bunny

What holds me back?

Don’t laugh.

There are/were people reading my words that I prefer not to know me. Or my business. The fellow who proclaimed he was madly in love when we broke-up, then two weeks later moved a match (dot) com-woman in to the house I helped him pick out. My brother’s girlfriend. And…

Huh. Is that all? Two people? I let two freaking people keep me away from my love? What the hay-diddle-diddle?

That’s it. Screw it. This stops today.

But there will be changes.

I’ve taken a pen name, a pseudonym, a nom de plume, my official author-name. Call me O.J. O.J. Barré. Nice to meet you.

There will be other changes. More articles, more regularly. On a myriad of topics, not just writing. A new look. Who knows? Sky's the limit.

That Rebel ~ O. J. Barré

*As I visit my old-friends' blogs, I find that they too, have been blogging less often. How about we start a blog-challenge to kickstart our blogs. Again.