Category Archives: Blog

 

 

Dear Readers,

My friend Alicia Anabel Santos is on a mission.

She was accepted into a writer’s retreat in Costa Rica! That’s amazing.

I know what some of you may be thinking. Costa Rica! Vacay! What does this have to do with me or with writing?

First off, it’s not a vacation. Writer’s retreats have nothing to do with being on vacay. They are usually in beautiful places because you’ve spent most of your time being spent — heavy lifting on your writing, some crying, some tearing pages apart, some real time with your piece. So, yeah, no vacay. It’s work, all work. And at the end of the day staring out into pretty things is the only thing you have strength enough to do.

Also, this has everything to do with writing. Alicia is a great friend of mine and is one of the writers from the Afro-Latina writer’s retreat in Galveston. She was also one of the readers during the recent live stream.

This is one of those experiences where she stepped out on faith and submitted to a writer’s retreat. And she got in! She needs our help to get there.

Please, click on the link and read her story about her reasons for going and donate what you can. Five bucks, ten bucks, whatever. Anything is helpful.

Thanks,

Icess

 

Source: I AM THIRSTY!

 

 

Dear Reader,

I recently Tweeted something odd. At least it is for me.

It’s amazing how normal I feel whenever I get to work from a Starbucks. Literally feel like I can get things done. Good sigh.

— IcessFernandezRojas (@Icess) November 20, 2015

There’s something to say about space, especially for writers, that makes the world go right-side-up again. It’s been four months since I’ve moved home to Houston and while it’s great to be home writing space and time have been hard to come by.

It’s hard to go from a set up with a dedicated desk to a kitchen table in a noisy living room. With headphones, the problem lessens but sometimes a writer just needs quiet.

Starbucks or a coffee shop is NOT quiet, but it’s quiet enough.  A good set of headphones and the latest Adele album (have you heard it yet?) and it’s enough to do some work.

So, yes, Starbucks makes me feel normal. And normal is good. I still miss my set up, though.

 

 

But space also has another meaning for me. Head space. Creative space. The space where things are all possible.  Some people call that space Hope. I call it my creative, white-hot center.

Robert Olen Butler coined that phrase in his book, “From Where You Dream”. I read that phrase during grad school when I was all artsy and, frankly, douchy but in the cutest possible way, if that’s possible.

“You have to go down into that deepest, darkest, most roiling, white-hot place– it can’t be white-hot and dark at the same time, but I don’t care–that paradox, live with it — whatever scared the hell out of you down there — and there’s plenty in there; down into the deepest part of it and you can’t flinch, can’t walk away.”

That white-hot center. That place from where creativity comes from. That place where hope lives and the place I keep pristine.

That space? For me, that space is magic. As I reflect back on this year, I know that 2015 has been amazing to me. No, I didn’t win the lottery nor did I purchase a big, flashy new Texas McMansion. This has been an amazing year because for the first time, I feel free. The white-hot center part of me, from where creativity comes, is free and for the first time I feel I can do anything. Absolutely anything.

And I have! I have worked on projects that really appeal to me and used my voice in new and different ways.

That makes me feel…well, like this

 

 

 

And who doesn’t want to feel like this all the time?

Space. It more than just a desk and a computer. It’s where creativity comes from. And, if  I’m lucky, my space will be all I need for a long time.

 

Writing from the white-hot center,

 

 

 

 

Dear Reader,

For the past week, I have been questioning the world and its intentions.

Paris. Beirut. And now Mali. What is going on with the world? What is going on with humanity?

 

My students talked about how they felt about things after the Paris attacks. I wanted to give these college freshmen space to talk about this — what they were feeling, thinking, etc. It amazed me that they were ready  and willing to talk.  They started with one question.

“Why would anyone do this?”

I couldn’t answer this question for them. I could answer how to punctuate a sentence or write a thesis. Yes, that was easy stuff but why do people hate and why do they act upon that hate as easily as ordering a latte at Starbucks…that one was more difficult.

So, I told them why English class was important.

“It’s not just a required class,” I started, their eyes looking at me in the middle of the room. “And this class helps you with thinking critically on paper but it’s not really about that either. This, these papers you’re writing are slices of humanity. This is how you combat hate. You learn to write what it is like to be a human in 2015 and use your words, not bullets, to communicate ideas. Civilizations have crumbled through the power of words, leaders have been created with the right thought at the right time. The written word is more powerful than bombs, swifter than swords, stronger than steel. Writing, words, thoughts, thinking, this is how wars are won. Not armies but words. You are in English class because your generation has the potential to change the world to something amazing. This is how you start. Words are your building blocks.”

After that, the class sat. They thought about it and their argumentative papers. I could tell they looked at their papers different because during class I was flooded with questions about their papers, specific questions. More than just please check if this is right. These questions were like, I want to make sure I’m saying what I think I’m saying.

I’d like to think that I said and taught my students more than just essay structure and thesis statements. I hope that I taught them to question and express themselves in a different way. I hope I taught them that they already have a weapon at their disposal and that it’s stronger than their fear.

I hope for them all things strong and good and fair. I hope for them a humanity of peace. I hope for them the answers to all their questions.

Even when the world is going mad, Dear Reader.

 

As always,

Dear Reader,

There was always a part of me that wanted Paris.

I wanted to go some place that was different than where I was and, by extension, who I was. When I was younger, I wanted Paris for what East Harris County couldn’t give me, a world with an accent I had never heard before.

In fact, I knew about Paris before I knew about Paris. When watching Little Women (the movie) and hearing Jo utter the words “Europe? My Europe?” I knew what she meant. It was MY Europe too. I was supposed to be there and Paris, France was supposed to be a stop. I knew that like I knew my name, like I knew the blood pumping through my veins. Paris and I would be together one day, like London and I, like Spain and I. We would be together and I would have my Europe.

So certain was I about Paris that I took French in high school. While all my other friends took Spanish because it would probably be an easy A, I wanted French. I wanted to speak a third language because I would be a citizen of the world and when I traveled to France I wanted to communicate. I studied that language more than my mother tongue and more than my mother’s adoptive tongue, even going into the French honors program.

Je voulais Paris et l’Europe comme je voulais l’air.

I wanted Paris and Europe like I wanted air. But something happened, I set aside Paris. I set aside Europe and I took my place among the working and living. I set that dream, and others, aside for practicality. Somehow, I chose dreams that low hanging fruit. But the problem with low hanging fruit is that it spoils quickly and you are left wanting more, wanting what you wanted in the first place.

Paris came back to me, as well as London, last year. With a friend, we were supposed to spend a week at both cities — arts, culture, food, adventure. It wasn’t to be. Practicality won and the dream of Paris was set aside again.

Now, Paris, MY Paris, is bleeding much like the U.S. bled in 2001 and I can’t help but cry.

I don’t understand hate beyond a temporary feeling. Sure, I have an intense dislike for some people. I am human and that is a human feeling. However, I don’t plot out their death or their destruction. And I don’t understand why. Why this? Why now? Why Paris? Or Beirut? Or Kenya? Or Baghdad? Or any other country? Why?

Whatever the answer I will never understand it. How is my Paris not YOUR Paris? How is one person’s dream another’s bull’s eye? How is hate fuel instead of temporary anger?

I want to think of the world as beautiful and peaceful, that whatever separates us isn’t as strong as what binds us. I want to believe that the human existence is what will prevail against all the dark. I believe in the light, especially in people. But yesterday (and for the past couple of months), it was just a bit tougher to believe.

Practicality won. There is evil in the world. There is evil in human beings. Sometimes light doesn’t win.

And Paris, my Paris, was the casualty last night.

Does anyone know how to repair a dream?