Cyn B

I won a cake walk once in the third grade, but if my life exemplifies anything, it’s that I’m not a winner. I rarely win at anything. Growing up, I was odd and the black sheep. Hell, I thought I was stupid for most my youth. Seriously. It’s such a harsh word but there is no other word to use. It wasn’t until my junior year in high school when I realized that maybe I wasn’t as dumb as I seemed, an issue I’ve struggled with even as I taught myself trigonometry, even as I solved differential equations and eigenvalues. I know that sounds like a humble brag but it isn’t. Rather a painful reminder in this journey of mine regardless of its strength. Maybe someday I’ll tell you why but not today. So, I celebrate the little wins. Once I caught a softball that came straight to me from the batter; it was fast and the ball stung the palms of my hands despite the glove I was wearing. I was playing second field, and catching the ball was freaking awesome, just like the chocolate cake from the cake walk.

Working on my novel has been slow, but I’m hoping to pick up the pace in the last few weeks before I start working again. Besides my novel, I have a short story I’ve been working on and a poetry collection. Above is the cover reveal for the collection: f^-1(n) = inverse function. The release date is April 1, 2024, the anniversary of my nephew’s death. This collection is a journey through depression, heartache, silence, and isolation. I have an event scheduled for March 1, 2024, where I will read several poems from this new collection as the featured poet for Kern Poetry’s open mic night.

Sunday morning just before waking, I had a dream where I stood before a door that filled me with fear. I started to walk away but soon realized that the door would still be there, what lied beyond growing more ferocious with each passing moment. So, I charged in ready to confront whatever awaited me. Inside the light was soft. On the wall in front of me were a myriad of butterflies of all colors and sizes. The sight of it was wondrous and beautiful.

I’ve been reflecting on the dream. There is a saying: “Everything you ever wanted is sitting on the other side of fear.”

Would you accept me if you knew everything about me? Would you still be my friend if I show you the cantankerous parts me, my grumpy face, when I stew in anger, or when I need your reassurance? Romantic relationships are hard for me because of the level of intimacy required. I have plenty of acquaintances but very few friends. And my friends are incredible souls who love and accept me with all of the good and bad that come with knowing me, with knowing anyone. I don’t think I could have survived any part of this life without my best friends.

I have a hard time connecting with men on an emotional level. I was in an abusive relationship with my daughter’s father, and it scarred me. And it is far from my only scar. I leave my childhood for another time because it deserves an entire book. No, I don’t have a pattern of entering abusive relationships. Just the one. But I have history of exiting too quickly or not trusting enough, of not giving second changes, and of not sharing who I am with anyone let alone with a significant other. If you only knew how hard it is for me to share the stories behind my scars…

AT THE END OF ALL THINGS
The final issue of Planisphere Q is up! At such a poignant moment in my life. I’ve been through a lot of painful changes in the last few years, painful for me. A transformation leaving me feeling raw, my skin painful to touch, but also hope instead of the lack of hope, which dominated the last few years. I am hopeful, grateful, my head held high. I am more than okay. Here is the link to the flipbook as well. Print copies will be available soon.

Today I attended a writer workshop on Imposter Syndrome. I’ve struggled a lot over the years with a form of this, always filled with self-doubt. As part of the workshop, we had to write down times when writing as a career felt plausible.

Writing entered my life as a teenager, during a senior year English class I ditched more often than I attended. Mr. Christiansen read two of my pieces in front of the class. He didn’t say who wrote it, but my cheeks flushed with heat. I sat uncomfortably in my chair wondering if anyone in the class knew it was my words being read. The first was a poem I wrote inspired by a painting of a mother and daughter, though I can’t remember what I wrote. The second was a non-fiction essay on a life-changing event. I wrote about the death of my nephew. Later, Mr. Christiansen showed me my attendance record, letting me know I was absent about thirty days in a single quarter. He gave me an A despite my attendance, encouraging me to write more. He said I was a good writer.

Back then I had too many problems to hear what he was saying to me, what he was trying to do for me. I remember telling Mr. Reyes about it; he was the outreach consultant at East High School. He asked me to write a short story. It was my very first attempt at writing fiction. It wasn’t good. When he read it, he had that uncomfortable look of, ‘I don’t know what to say,’ so he smiled politely. I wrote one other short story while I was a student at UCSB, but I didn’t start writing seriously until 2008, when I took a creative writing workshop at Santa Barbara City College with Meryl Peters. The best advice I got from Meryl was this: She told me of my potential. That I had cupboards filled with raw material. She said my ideas were good. She also told me to practice more, fix my problem areas, and hone my craft.

Imposter Syndrome is a hairy beast. I didn’t feel like a writer. My friend, Anthony Lanni, had encouraged me with some of my pieces. His comments he made in passing impacted me as a new writer. He liked my Villanueva story (Methuselah Descent), asking for more. He liked The Man Who Stole Time. He said during a meeting once when he had to get up and do something, “I had to get back to the story to find out what happened.” He told me Mary Loved to Dance should be an English Lit textbook. These little drops of encouragement helped. Being vetted by lit journals–even the non-paying ones–helped. However, the reverse can happen with unkind comments, too.

Despite having publications self-doubt was ever present. My first kismet moment finally arrived when I held the print copy of Methuselah Descent. I don’t feel like an imposter anymore, but self-doubt changes shape; it hovers over my shoulder. My advice to new writers: Write anyway. I write when I’m confident, and I write when I’m not.

A Brief Tangent

I thought about my parents today, about what I wrote in my previous blog. Feels kind of random but I started thinking about the post while at the WOK meeting today, wondering who all read the post and if anyone sees me in a negative light because of it. I don’t want to be treated differently or be seen as someone to pity. I know some people will judge me because of my family. I know because it has happened before. A long time ago, I almost lost a friend because one day her father saw my father and made a judgment, because my dad looked like a cholo with his clothes and hair and prison tattoos. He forbad her from talking with me. When she told me this, I remember saying, “But I’m not my dad.” It didn’t matter what I had accomplished. Her father couldn’t see past my father. How much more if I say, I loved my dad? I loved him even though he did the things he did, even though he sold drugs and was addict himself. Loving him doesn’t mean I condoned anything he did.

My daughter called as I was writing this blog post. She asked me what I was doing, and I told her blogging. She asked, “Does anyone read your blog?” No. Lol. Well, a few people.