The funny thing about writing fiction, is that it’s fiction. Fiction is not real. Penned stories, blog postings, poems and commentary written by a fiction writer might be based upon someone else’s reality, or a thought, or the writer’s vivid and active imagination - embellished to meet the writer’s artistic prerogative when creating and choosing words. Words of fiction. Fiction writers write words of fiction. Yes, it’s true. And this might be the only truch about fiction. For those that stop here to catch-up on all things Neve Black, please keep in mind Neve Black is a fiction writer.
A couple years ago, I lost the fight for my cushy, high-paying, only-had-to-work 20 hours a week job to the war of economic down-turn circumstances. It sucked. I was out of work for almost year, trying to pick my life up and figure out what the fuck I was going to do. As my career went down the tubes, so did the money I had. So I moved out my house, and put a renter into it to save me from the perils of foreclosure. All my wordly posessions went into storage. And I moved into my friend’s furnished house until I could figure out what I was doing, and where the hell I was going. If all that wasn’t enough, I also went through a horrible break-up with a man I’d been with for years; a man I trusted, only to stupidly and quickly step into another relationship (rebound city) with another man, and he ended up being a lousy too. I was a mess. My love life, my career life and my financial life was all in crisis.
I did not Sylvia Plath-it though. I kept my head out of the oven.
For as long as I can remember, I have only ever wanted to write. I’m a writer. I’ve only ever wanted to be a writer. Being out of work gave me plenty of time to write, but I had other financial responsibilites as well, which laid heavy on my mind. I had to work and pay bills, so I took a job that I knew I was going to hate wasn’t going to like. The other objective to taking this job was putting myself in a different financial position that wouldn’t have me jumping back into bed with an expensive mortgage. I paid cash for a really cheap fixer-upper, and my intent was to pay hard-earned cash for the improvements and keep my housing expenses really low.
Seems like a reasonable trade-off, doesn’t? I thought so too.
How does one explain a job one doesn’t like? It’s like being in prison for a crime you didn’t commit. The keys to un-lock the prison doors are somewhere, but you can’t find them. My job is is like a daily dose of having my creative soul sucked dry by a vampire. I haven’t written much, or anything that’s soulful for awhile. How could I? The Vampire at the prison has had me locked up, sucked dry as a bone. And yes, it’s been very painful. At one point there was promise to break-out, and move to Europe with this job, where there would be less creative soul-sucking vampires living about, so there was a skip in my step. The creative juices were percolating, but those plans fell through based on the economy’s fickle future.
Still, I kept my druthers, and didn’t stick my head into the oven, even though the vampire was having its way with my soul.
Two years’ later and I’m STILL at the job I don’t really like, but my suffering hasn’t been all without reward - after a lot of work, my fixer-upper is nearly complete. And it’s quite lovely. I can see the move-in date in my near future. And, after taking a hiatus from dating, I am involved with a really great man. He’s a keeper. With my house project nearly done now, this gives me options. Yes, one could argue that I’ve always worn the ruby slippers and had those options standing right in front of me all along, but for me, having a house provides me with stability, the grounding that I need to feel secure.
I wish I wasn’t like that so much, and had more of that gypsy spirit when I was younger, but as I’ve gotten older, and after feeling like I lost almost everything, to include my creative writing soul, stability is one my Maslow’s Hierarchy Needs.
I will say, living with all my things in storage over the past couple of years has provided me with a different perspective on what one truly needs in life. I do miss all my books and my art work though.
Where was I? Oh yes, options. One of my favorite words and positions. Positions in life. The options of life are bountiful. I feel that I now have a plethora of options because my housing situation is reaching its final stages of fruition. Options, option, options.
Knowing the prison cell will be un-locked soon, I hope the vampire will finally go away. With that in mind, I’ve been networking quite a bit lately, because I will earn a living as a writer. Damnit! In one of my recent networking connections, I met a veteran writer and she told me after I’d asked her, “if you were me, where would you start, what would you do?” She said with simplest honesty, “just write. Get your name out there. Write what you know.”
Inspired to write now, and to write what I know - I think part of my lesson of losing my job; losing my house; a lousy boyfriend or two, and working at a prison camp is adding to my options of writing experiences. And every coin has two sides. For every heart-ache, there has been a much greater gain. I like to think these past two years have been added options for me to add to my ”write what you know” Resume.
I’ll keep you posted on exercising options, my official move-in date, and keeping the soul-sucking vampires away -
Neve Black
Twelve hours from now, and the prestigious red carpet walk will be well underway for those west coast A-listers. In my salute to the film makers galla event here in Cleveland, EST, I’m usually wearing a ball gown and holding a microphone in one hand, and a glass of champagne in the other, as I ask each guest that attends our Ohio/ Hollywood Oscar Party who they’re wearing, and who they want to see win a gold Oscar statue.
I’ve been busy lately and haven’t had the chance to see all of the films nominated this year, let alone shop for a ball gown. I have seen a few of the films though. I know I’m not the first person to rave about The Artist, nor am I the first to predict this year’s winner. I wonder if other filmies have the same innate ability to spot the winner right away, even if they haven’t seen all the films yet?
I read about The Artist back in late November in the Los Angeles Times while I was sitting in an airport somewhere waiting for my connecting flight. I remember the reviewers comments about the film too: original, lovable, historical and lovely.
When I finally got the chance to see the film, I felt the same way the LA reviewer did - and I turned to my friend as the film credits rolled, wiping tears of joy from my eye’s and said, ”well, that’s this year’s Oscar winner, hands-down.”
Congratulations to all those nominated this year!
Neve Black
After a long arduous, and often tedious, as well as thankless day of work, I usually try to get my sweat on by strapping on my always eager-beaver, running shoes, or I try and plan to attend a hybrid Spin class of some sort. If excercise isn’t possible, because some nights I just get home too late, or the weather is bad, and as as awful as that fact is, there are some nights when a good, healthy-sweaty just isn’t possible. If excercise isn’t possible, I don’t surrender to my couch, channel changer at my finger tips; television blaring - noooo, that actually winds me up, not down. Instead, I spend some time with all the felines in my life, while somthing delicious simmers to perfection in the kitchen.
Dishes done, and the evening seems to get quieter. You’ll find me slipping into the pages of a book, or writing something; anything just so I’m stoking the creative mind juices. On nights when my eyes are simply too tired, and my brain is fried, then I hear the seductive song of film speaking a hair louder than the radio in the kitchen that is constantly in an NPR mood. Film’s song beckons me to watch something that hasn’t already been viewed, critiqued and analyzed.
This week, the film siren lured me to watch, The Door in the Floor, which stars Jeff Bridges, Kim Bassinger, and Jon Foster. Jeff Bridges performance is nothing less than outstanding. This film is based on the novel, A Widow for a Year, which was written by John Irving.
The Irving book, which I’ve ordered, and plan to sink into once it gets here, was quite a terrific movie. So, not only had I never read the book (tsk-tsk), but somehow I’d missed the film too. There aren’t too many films, or books for that matter, that get by me. I did a little google searching of this film when I awoke the next morning, still dusting off the remants of its powerful emotional residue. And that for me is a good indicator of a very good film. I have to give Netflix credit here too, because it was their recommendation, based on my film watching habits that provided me with this must see film. The Door in the Floor was a gem.
Compelled as to why this film snuck under my film watching radar, I did a little google search, and learned that the highest probably reason I never saw this flick before now, is because it was up-staged by one of my all-time favorite films, Sideways. Both Paul Giamatti and Jeff Bridges were nominated for an Independent Spirit Award for best male lead, and Paul won. So, this is why this film fell through my radar. I was simpl in love with the film Sideways - this may not make any sense to anyone else, but it makes perfect sense to me. I somehow feel justified.
I digress.
The Door in the Floor portrays how one couple deals with, or probably more accurately, doesn’t deal with a tragedy, and the continued pain that ensues their lives, and the lives of those that get close to them. I don’t want to give too much away here about the film, but I do want to mention that it reminded me of a book I read some 15+ years ago called, Ladder of Years, by Anne Tyler.
I was in a book club, and Ladder of Years was the read of the month. To quickly summarize, this book is about a woman that one day packs a suitcase and walks away from her husband and their two teen-age children. This wasn’t a story about abuse; more like neglect. The woman in the story does say that she’s grown tired of feeling unappreciated. And I remember having difficulty empathizing with the main character when reading this story - “she’s leaving because of that?”
I also remember the response from most of the women in the book club when it came to discussing the book. And at that time, they were older than me, and settled into marriages that provided them with a great deal of financial security, even if their marriages weren’t hearts and flowers. They all empathized with the character and said, “sometimes you just want to walk away for awhile, but come back.” I scratched my head, and still couldn’t quite comprehend why someone that had a family, and a beautiful home would just walk out of it. And can you really just walk away, and expect to saunter back…later? I worred about what this woman’s life would be like if she did return to the life she walked out on. Maybe my lack of empathy came from the fact that I was recently divorce; coming out of a really bad marriage, and working so hard everyday - maybe I was a bit envious of this woman’s life, and thought..hell, what’s a little neglect…she doesn’t have to struggle financially. I suppose at that time, I felt that I had the weight of the world on my 3o-something, year-old shoulders.
It wasn’t until some years later that I had an epiphany, of sorts, and finally understood why the woman in this story packed up and left her life. You see, I kept inserting my circumstances into her life, instead of really empathizing with who she was; her plight; her troubles. Part of the reason this story sticks with me after all these years is because I marinated in my reaction to it, and the response of the others readers in our book club. I think this is when I learned the fine art of telling your mind to shut-up, and stop questioning, or finding fault with something, or someone else because it rubs your fur a different way. It’s okay to just be, so you can be more open to other experiences.
The reason I mention Ladder of Years to you, is because the film, The Door in the Floor is that kinda movie: you simply must have an open mind, so your heart can fully appreciate the film’s value. Be open; go rent it, and let me know your reaction.
An Open Letter To The City Of Cleveland Police Department
Dear Moral Claims Department,
I find it impossible to launch into my earnest complaint before explaining the situation surrounding the debacle in detail:
First and foremost, I am an honest, hard-working, tax payer who has made living in the city of Cleveland her home for the past 11 years now. I’m a owner of two properties. Work in the city of Cleveland, and I pay more than my fair share of taxes. My moral compass points True North, and I try and do what’s right; offer a lending hand, an extra dollar or two to those less fortunate than myself. I’ve had one moving violation and maybe two parking tickets in those 11 years. Suffice to say, I’m not a law breaker by any stretch of the imagination, and I feel that I’m an honest, good person. I’m far too busy in both my work and personal life to veer off into the path of crime. I’m also not inclined to pay the fees, or do the time associated with law breaking. And more importantly, as already pointed out, it’s not in my moral nature.
This letter is about my annual car registration, and the debacle that so ensues surrounding it. My grief-stricken sadness regarding this incident has forced me to write this letter. With that being said, I’d like to mention now that the punishment should fit the crime - and the current policy, which appears to be a one blanket punishment is extreme and rarely, if ever the right way to enforce a law. I’ve learned no lesson from the extreme punishment that I received, other than the fact that the police department uses force instead of using good, rational judgment and common sense discretion when issuing fines. I’ve only been hugely inconvienced, and lost faith in the police department, who is supposed to protect me. And have my best interest in mind. After all, I’m not a criminal. I am a law-abiding, tax-paying, property owner, city-worker, Cleveland citizen.
Life is, well, life is busy. Sometimes things fall through the cracks, even for the most law abiding citizens. And it appears this is what happened to me in 2011 in regards to my annual car registration. I receive a notice in the mail about a month or so before my birthday, which happens to be in November. No offense to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, but the only time I ever step foot into one of their locations is when I’m have to have my picture taken for my driver’s license. This year, I changed my address, because I’d moved, and I realized I didn’t receive some of my important mail. A few bills were lost, and it appears the annual car registration was lost as well. I didn’t know that, or I would have acted on it immediately. Let me explain in more detail - as previously mentioned, my life keeps me very busy. If you were to ask me if I had received my car registration renewal notice in the mail; sent the check and put the new tags on the car, I would have said, ”Yes, of course - I do that every year.” So when I learned that my registration wasn’t paid, after also being notified that my car was towed because of it, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I thought there was a mix up in the mail. I really thought I’d mailed the check and somehow the shiny, bright sticker that read 2012 simply never got to me.
That isn’t the case though.
I travel quite a bit for work and for pleasure. I’m usually out-of-town about once a month. For 10 days during the month of December, 2011, I was visiting family in San Diego for the holidays. On Wednesday, December 28, 2011, I received a call from my friend in Cleveland telling me my car was towed. Flabbergasted and shocked, and having no way to immediately rectify the situation, I was left knowing I was incurring daily impound fees until my return to Cleveland on January 3, 2012.
When I did get home on the third, I had to take a sick day off from work, and beg a friend to help me run around town to take care of a. getting a copy of my title and registration (which was in the car). b. make a trip downtown to the Justice Center to pay for the fees, and then c. drive across town again to the impound lot and retrieve my car.
The total time it took for me to finally retrieve my car was four hours.
Four hours of my time is gone because I never received the registration in the mail, thus I never wrote out a check; made the every-other-year visit to an emissions center, and waved good-bye to the previous year’s sticker by sticking the new one over the old. Four hours of my time is gone because a police officer received a random call from someone in my neighborhood about my car with its expired tags. Fours hours of my time is gone because the police department is so busy, they couldn’t have taken an extra minute to run a check on my vehicle and learn that I had no infractions in the past regarding expired registrations, and INSTEAD of making a blanket and extreme decision to have the car towed, could have excercised another option. Four hours of my time is gone because the police officer didn’t follow up on who the caller was, and learn the caller is a random, off-kilter, mentally challenged man that has nothing better to do with his time than walk around the neighborhood and call the police department about expired registration tags. Four hours of my time is gone because my car wasn’t blocking this caller’s drive, or parked anywhere near this man lives. Four hours of my time is gone because the police officer decided to exercise his good will during the holiday season, and issue an expensive ticket, instead of issuing a warning, and then had my car towed, which as you can imagine only offered further inconvenience to me - me, the law-abiding citizen, not the criminal.
Yes, the registration was expired, and yes, this is my error, however if you check my records, I’ve never done anything like this before, so obviously, this was a case of something that had fallen through the cracks of a person with a busy life. It happens. And it happens to everyone.
The cost to register my car each is year is less than $70.00. The cost I paid to retrieve my car was $386.00. I mentioned lessons in an earlier paragraph above. The only lesson I’ve learned from this debacle is how horrifying the system is. I’m less inclined to trust the city police department now. Why would I? No one gave me the benefit of the doubt. No one took the time to follow-up with the caller. No one took the time to check into my records. I was labeled a criminal, and received the worst punishment - remember, I’m the law-abiding citizen. Furthermore, I feel nothin less than victimized and battered over this ordeal. And obviously I’m distraught, because I’m taking the time to write the letter.
What to me is a fair retribution, besides an apology from the officer that exercised such extreme punishment? Based on my past record, the inconvenience this has caused me, and my lack of faith in the those that are supposed to protect me. I’d like the city of Cleveland Police Department to learn from my experience - to please keep in mind that not everyone is automatically a criminal, nor should they be treated like one. I’d like a full refund of the fees I had to pay to the city, plus the towing charges as well. I can’t get the time I had to take off from work back, and yet I feel that you owe that to me as well.
Another year goes by, while another year stands in front of me - beckoning me with all its grandiose temptation of being the best year ever. And I find that I’m not so unlike Eve, biting into the new year like forbiden fruit, but also swinging from the branches, shaking the whole tree and hollering at the top of my lungs into the promising skies above, “yes, yes, yes..this will be the best year ever!”
But…my tree swinging ways are stymied for minute. Who am I to think that this year, like all the other new years that I’ve faced in the past, will be the it year, aka, the best year evah? This year’s predecessor, 2011 was pretty damn good to me - filled with lots of good and delicious, travel, prosperity and love. Is it greedy to want to top last year’s greatness?
I drum my fingers against the keyboard waiting for this year’s Chinese Dragon to answer the question above.
Not a roar; not a puff; not snort.
As I wait for the answer, I realize 2012’s, shiny, new year certainly does a fine job of marketing itself to me with cheerful, Happy New Year wishes from nearly everyone I meet. And there was generous kisses as the clock struck 12:01…and oh, all the resolution lists I keep hearing about, filled with promises to be better, stronger, faster, skinnier, smarter and healthier this year far outweigh last year’s hopes to resolve too.
Maybe the Dragon has spoken.
Maybe this is the best year ever afterall - so with that being settled, let me bid you a Best Year Ever Wish.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I fully intend to get back to tree swinging from the branches of love, prosperity, generosity, encouragement, and peace.
Neve Black
Happy New Year
p.s. image above is my version of a Chinese Dragon. Roar! Chomp, chomp, chomp.
10 years’ ago today I was working on East Ninth Street, in the Ohio Savings Bank building, downtown Cleveland. As I worked away on my computer, my boss poked her head around the corner with a shrill and fright in her voice, “I think something just happened to the World Trade Center!” …Oh, the sinking feeling in my stomach…and the madenning sickness continued as we learned about Tower II, and then flight 93 that flew bravely above us. Rumors swelled, and there was real fear in people’s faces. Most people I know went home to their families to huddle around television sets. My family lived in California; they were too far to get to. And we were all safe, but didn’t know it at that time.
I wanted to push out the horrific; the sadness - the tragic loss of innocence. I wanted to surround myself with quiet, and non-chaotic, so I played golf with two close friends that afternoon. It was ominously quiet on the golf course, and I think we were the only people on the greens. It felt like time just stopped. If only for a moment. And in retrospect, I think time stopped for everyone that lived through that day.
As I listen to NPR this morning in rememberance, today I will pay my respects to the country I live in, for all of those that lost their lives, and to the their families - and instead of playing golf, I will run hard, and quietly. Write my thoughts - and never forget that day -
Neve Black
So, I’ve been home now for a couple of weeks’ after letting the tip of my nose gently graze over the equator. I had journaled my thoughts randomly while I was on this trip, and originally I thought I would blog several postings about this adventure…similar to what posted last year when I was in Kuala Lumpur, but a day-in-and-day-out explanation just isn’t singing to my writing voice this time, my friends. I didn’t blog my thoughts when I traveled to Spain either, but instead, I’ve drawn on those thoughts from time to time while writing a story, or remembering something specific from that trip, and referring back to it for one reason or another. So, where does that leave you if wanted to learn more about my travels? Well, what can I say other than this:
I had an amazing time and travel adventure in Colombia! I ate new and interesting foods, and met some, incredibly delicious people from all over the world. And each person that crossed my path was full of life’s promise and fortune. I was ravished by a pirate in Cartagena, studied Spanish in the heart of Bogota, swam the Carib del Mar, and enjoyed muchas puestas del sol (sunsets) while sitting on a canon and sipping Club Colombias. I learned mucho Spanish, which was one of my objectives for the trip, but upon retrospect and the topography of Colombia, I think I should be speaking better Pirate. Ole’ - Arghhh!
Lastly, I’m happy to report, el autobus (actually los autobuses) going to Cartagena really do exist…and for just a brief moment, I pretended that I was Kathleen Turner from the movie Romancing the Stone, as I huskily inquired with the bus driver, “Es el autobus para Cartagena?” Naturally he replied, “Si’, si’, es el autobus para Cartagena, Senora Kathleen!”
In less than two weeks’ I’ll be taking flight to explore a region of the world I’ve never seen before. I’m really starting to get excited about my trip. So much so that I have the obnoxiously, LARGE green suitcase out; already filled with what I’mtaking I think I’m taking on this trip. For the most part, when I travel out of the country, I’m usually pretty good about keeping things simple; packing light; using the small, black and inconspicuous, carry-on suitcase, because I’ve learned how to stretch the use of one, lonely black skirt multiple times. Heh.
This trip is a little different though. I’m headed to three completely different cities, and each are all climatically different, thus the need to think smart about the use of that black skirt…and then perhaps some…more.
I’ll be in school everyday, studying Spanish for one full week while in the city of Bogota, where the elevation is as high as the cocaine being exported from there. And even though it’s S.America, the temperatures can be a bit chilly at night. I then leave Bogota and say adios to school and hola to the beach, sun and surf. The temperature in Cartagena is hot, Hot and HOT. I’m also meeting a very handsome and sexy man on the second leg of this trip, so that means I need to make room for fun and sexy items inside Mr. Green Obnoxious!
Oh, and between home and Colombia, I’m stopping for short visit in San Diego Doug to visit family, friends and go to a U2 concert. So, you can see my suitcase packing ways requires a bit of creativity on my part. Creative is my midle name when it comes to things like story telling, decorating and putting the perfect outfit together…but packing all that into one suitcase? Eeesh. ?Como cest dice, SOS en Espanol todos?
Here’s what *I think* I’m taking:
black skirt (the old stand-by)
denim skirt (the alternative when I can’t possibly put the black one (above) on…again!)
2 long flowing dresses/skirt (good dinner solutions)
2 short dresses (girls’ must show off their legs in sun dresses)
pink, turquois and black camis (I don’t wear bras)
pink, black, turquois tank-tops (like how they coordinate with the cami’s above?)
2 pairs of shorts (yes, two pair)
2 bathing suit tops; 3 bathing suit bottoms (trying to be frugal here)
1 black long-sleeved shirt (layering)
1 white long-sleeved shirt (layering and sun protection)
1 pair of flip-flops (seriously. one. pair. I. swear!)
1 pair of sandals (sparkly ones)
1 pair of low black heels (cute, sexy, but practical for strolling cobbled streets)
1 pair of comfortable walking shoes (plan to walk to and from school each morning)
3 pairs of underwear (I might scale back to only 2 pairs…I’m a commando girl most of the time)
1 light-weight, windbreaker jacket (what if it rains?)
1 multi-colored pink scarf (add color to outfits without packing jewerly)
1 floppy, sun hat (my pale, Irish skin)
toiletry bag (necessito)
So, how’d I do with my packing? Too much? Just right? Not enough? Whaddaya’ think?
So, I’m staring at the blinding whiteness of this new post webpage, while the fan upstairs blows the cooling night air into the sun-drenched house. At the top, right navigation of this page are the words, ”Howdy, neve black.” I nod my head and silently whisper, “howdy to you Word Press; it’s been awhile, eh, cowboy?” The cursor blinks; waiting patiently for my thoughts to reach my fingers; tapping out the letters, making them into words; sentences and conversations: a translation of firing synapses stored somewhere in the past, present and future of my brain. Somehow the thoughts are stymied, as if they’ve been drugged, slipped a Mickey, and each time they want to reach up and out and say something, the fatal blank, nada, zilch rears its ugly head again.
*fingers tap lightly on the keyboard…waiting for the next thought-wave to come*
I suppose it’s fair to say that my writing voice has been a bit silent lately. Oh sure, I still jot story notes down here and there, and do find the extraordinary in the ordinary that life offers me each day - and I know that’s where the heart of each new story begins for me. I read a lot during times of not writing, which is hugely rewarding in of itself. I also watch a ridiculous amount of films (more than usual). I know I have creative juice inside of me: it’s there; percolating and waiting for the right moment to break free from those that want to stifle it. In fact, I was coming out of savasana a couple of weeks’ ago when my eyes fluttered open, and just above me was a very large, but common looking vent sprawled just above my limp and enlightened body. And that’s when the epiphany of a new story idea trapezes itself down from inside the vent’s screen and landed inside my head. I was excited to feel that inspirational calling. I’m not sure if that story idea is worth exploring, but I welcomed it anyway. Oh, and Namaste cold air- return ventilation ducts.
Another reason why I haven’t felt the burning desire to write anything is every since I took my current day job, it feels that my creativity gets sucked dry everyday. So dry that I sometimes feel brittle-bone and nothing short of an epic tidal wave could quench my creative thirst. No, I can’t quit my job. And yes, I am job searching for something… better. The irony of this is that I’m working hard at a job that I hate, so I can get to a place that allows me more freedom to do the things I love to do in life, like write. Go figure is applicable here.
I. Will. Get. There.
*more blank space below…fingers lay heavily on the keyboard…the cursor waits*
