Welcome to my blog Upstate Girl, (a.k.a Follow Your Bliss Part II), I am an independently published author. This blog is all about writing and the stuff that inspires me to write, the joys and obstacles that come along with the writer's life, and my fascination with the psychology of people and what makes them tick...the human condition, as is...and my love for words, playing with them and making sense of them...and I throw in a few photos from my acre of the world just to make things pretty...sometimes there are things I have no words for, only pictures will do.

*Copyright notice* All photos, writing, and artwork are mine (
© Laura J. Wellner), unless otherwise noted, please be a peach, if you'd like to use my work for a project or you just love it and must have it, message me and we'll work out the details...it's simple...JUST ASK, please.

Friday, September 25, 2009

I want more out of life...

That's the title of this drawing—I made it last year at this time—its contortions and swirls, soft curves and jagged edges says it all (well to me it does, I still love this drawing)—here I am in this time of my life still exploring the possibilities, reaching higher in spite of feeling tired—putting my foot down and saying "Damn it, I want this" whatever this is—this "more".

What is it? If you're a writer, an artist, a musician—anyone creative, you know what I'm talking about—shit, if you have a pulse, you know what I'm talking about. Who doesn't want more out of life?

Before I knew what I wanted to do with it—I wanted more out of life, even when I was a kid—I was one of "those kids", the odd one who didn't fit in, preferred to be alone, running around outside looking at things, noticing stuff—reading books too grown up for my age—questioning "how come". For no reason at all, I would run into the wind, through fields and woods, looking for that something out there to satisfy the urge for that elusive “more”. It wasn’t about having something tangible, possessions, because very often I’d find something to do to occupy my mind, my hands, drawing, painting, writing—I went through phases collecting things—picking flowers or stones at the beach (which includes searching for those worn bits of glass—washed glass, beach glass, sea glass, everyone has their name for it). I blew a lot of baby-sitting money on vinyl records and books. The “I gotta have it or I’ll just die” urge comes about when one feels most hopeless I think (shopaholics know this feeling quite well)—as I recall, we’re more dramatically disposed to be like that when we’re much younger. I discovered quite some time ago that having a bunch of “stuff” wasn’t what I wanted out of life—it was the wrong “more”.

I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to be a painter. So I went to college—academically, I hated nearly every minute of it because I was always being told what to write, what to paint—I wasn't being taught the nuts and bolts, the meaty stuff, not just the "how to" but the "how"—how to make the words in my head sing on the paper, how to make the shapes and colors that I envision become tangible on the canvas. I didn't want to be molded by someone with a big ego into something I wasn't meant to be. College frustrated me—it was the wrong "more". Maybe I didn't connect with the right people—maybe I just expect too much, my bar is too high.

And of course—my mother's voice in my head "Why can't you do something nice?" (Translation get married and have babies.)

I wanted more out of life beyond going home at night exhausted from working all day, feeling unappreciated, cooking and eating dinner, dreading the mail, and sitting in front of the television hoping to be entertained or enlightened by someone else’s creativity—much of which is flashy eye-candy with typical plots—I guess some folks are comforted by something familiar. Then going to bed and getting up to do it all again—living weekend to weekend to do—what? More.

I want more out of life, damn it. I wanted to write books and I wanted to make art. Sometimes I think I’m a glutton for punishment, but I wouldn’t want to have it any other way because I want more out of life than punching a clock five days a week—living hand to mouth—pay check to pay check—just getting by to pay the bills, and maybe have a little bit left over to buy something nice to make life a little more bearable like the latest Ani DiFranco CD or the next Donna Tartt book—new reading glasses—a case of Guinness is always good. I went through a transformation a little over ten years ago—I finally listened to my heart and started to write the stories, muddling along through a very cumbersome first novel that evolved and became more, and soon enough—the drawings evolved into paintings—and my vision became clearer, I hit a sweet spot in my creativity and I was overwhelmed by it, but I knew this is it.

I want to do something that matters—something that matters to me, something that matters to the world—something that might matter to someone else who needs that bit of “more” too. If I paint a painting that someone buys to hang on their wall—it is my hope that they will look at it every day and love it just as much as the day they plunked their money down to buy it. I want them to tingle with joy when they allow their eyes to wander through it, following the rhythm of marks that I made or getting lost in texture. If I write a book that someone plucks off the library shelf one day (or buys at a yard sale for a dime) because there was something about it that stirred their curiosity about what I have to say between the covers. If they read it once and it haunts them later—if they read it again and find something more there—if it changes them in some small way, even if it encourages them to read more books (not just mine) I’ve done something more.

I want more out of life. I paint and write to satisfy that need—I do it for myself more or less—if I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t have the happiness that I feel—that high that I feel when I start something new, work on a work in progress, or finish something, finally. There is so much joy in the act of creating that manuscript—that drawing—it’s something so deeply personal for me—it’s selfish at the same time it is generous. It’s what I must do. I always wanted more out of life—it isn’t about fame and fortune—I’m not into the glamor, that's ridiculous. I have very simple needs, simple wants—but I still want more out of life.

That's my story—I'm stickin' to it.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

When I go shopping for a present to myself it's a treat...but this is weird...

Yes, weird.
I ordered a book through the Amazon Marketplace last week (Anil's Ghost by Michael Ondaatje) and I received it yesterday like this (it was in a padded envelope just like this)...and being the good Registrar that I am (my day job at the art gallery/art collection where I work), I photographed how I received it...

At first...yes, I was alarmed (WTF?) and then I laughed (WTF!) How odd! How very very odd! Did someone get it as a present, opened it enough to see what it was, decided, they didn't want it and then sold it? A different twist on "as is"...it's a bit creepy (Asking myself WHY? Why did they send it like that?) I wrote a review for the seller...informed them of my amusement with the slightly creepy tattered wrapping paper...a lesser person would've totally freaked out. It's just weird...really weird...but then, I don't mind weird as long as it's harmless weird. I'm harmless weird every day, so...wtf, right?

Hmmmmm....

I bought new reading glasses to replace the good tortoise-shell ones that I lost two weeks ago...
A bit daring...orange and turquoise...love them! They're sturdy, so I think they'll survive "me".

And I treated myself to some new lace-up granny boots to replace the ones that I killed (tho' I continued to wear in spite of their leaky tendencies)...I wore them to work yesterday for the very first time...they are like a dream on my feet...I love them!

Treating oneself is healthy...I don't do it all the time...we went to the art store too and stocked up on paints and canvases so...we did our bit for the economy (and not on credit, even better.) Probably the last time I'll splurge for awhile.

I'm still not done with The Fractured Hues of White Light, I dipped into chapter 17 and made some small changes...thankfully, I'm on vacation this week, so I can linger through the manuscript all week if I want to and not try thinking about it after a long day at work when my brain is buzzing from fatigue and my body humming with aches...

My Fibromyalgia has been fluctuating with the changing weather, a lot of times it doesn't make sense...I've had good days and bad days rain or shine. I try to go with the flow, but lately I've been saying quietly to myself that I've got to be kidding if I think that I can continue with the "normal routine life" charade for much longer. I've got some thinkin' to do about my future, I call it "Life Management". For as long as I remember I've had chronic pain and fatigue, and for years was told it was all in my head, so I use my head to work on feeling better. I will not fill my body with a pharmaceutical band-aid...I'm not buying into that magic pill racket, anything that has side affects that are similar to how I'm already feeling can't be good. This week, I'm resting, recharging, writing and painting...staying positive, staying active...moving forward...and treating myself to presents...even someone else's unwanted stuff...

It's "time to go house" season, so Willy Big caught a mouse by the refrigerator last night (he puffed out that fluffy white bib with pride, he was so pleased with himself!) Tiggy-Pooh was jealous of his mouse breath. (Willy didn't eat it, he just played with it on the porch until he got tired of it being dead. I wouldn't let him back in until he dropped it.) That "present" I didn't take a picture of...yes, Willy Big, I'm talking about you...
The sunshine outside is begging me to pick my butt up from this comfy chair to go outside to "play"...the blue jay family is at the bird feeder enjoying peanuts, the chipmunks are hoovering sunflower seeds into their pouches and scurrying off to fill their winter larders...

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Almost done?

No...but getting there...and then I found one more, hiding in the weeds underneath the hollyhocks...Just like my manuscript..."White Light" is once again haunting me, I made one small change, and it caused a chain reaction...one sentence in chapter 3 received extra polish during the spell/grammar check phase, which caused a second sentence to speak up that it too needed a change...then a paragraph...so after all that, I back tracked to read the whole section to check the flow, found one or two more things, that lead to three and four, and then, yes...it leaked into chapter 4...but now it's done (ya think?)

Maybe...

It was worth it...I feel energized...not at a loss, I have more confidence in the manuscript because of what I've done today...

It's my special way of seeing. I could look at him all day...and then draw all night the things that I have seen...precious flesh, fascinating bones...he's just a man, but so much more...structure and spirit...the things about him that I love.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

The webs we weave...

It really startles me sometimes...reading what I've written...I'm in the final throes of editing my manuscript The Fractured Hues of White Light...the immersion into this story throughout this spring and summer has been rewarding...a trial at times...trying my patience...just when doubts start to creep in, I settle in to read it and the doubts flit away...yes, yes, this is right, change this word to that, cut this sentence, move it here, don't forget to say this because it is important to what happens later...

...chapter 3...oh that blasted chapter 3! Chapter 3...I think I spent a full month of time working within a love hate relationship in that troublesome chapter 3...more love than hate really, not really hate...no, no, it's all love in this ordeal of writing...I certainly wouldn't do it if I hated anything about it...it's impatience with myself because I'm so dang fussy putting words into the characters mouths and deep into their being...my words, but really their words...I sometimes cringe when my characters do something that isn't right, but there wouldn't be a story if they were right all the time...
...a character going through a painfully personal wringer...he's perfectly imperfect, ya gotta love him...and then shake your head...the poor soul...
...the craft of words...did I do that? When? HOW? Yeah, I really wrote that...it just kinda fell into place without much of a plan...they sneak up and surprise you, suddenly there...

...verbal flailing around, making shit up as I go along...I zigged when I should've zagged, but somehow it works...it's just what happens...shit happens...the characters become tangled, the story sticks to itself in places, all precarious threads held together by a whim...a web...all so fragile, yet so powerful...I'm terrified at times, but oh so happy to be a writer...spilling my thoughts...my guts...out for years onto the keyboard, eventually to paper, and finally to a perfect bound book...