by Laurie Wagner | May 27, 2013 | Blog
My adorable Chinese medical doctor, Scott Blossom, tells me that the lungs are connected to grief – which explains my love affair with cigarettes this past week. I wasn’t going to tell him I was smoking, and planned on not having a smoke until after our 5pm appointment was over so he wouldn’t smell it on me. That was some serious nail biting for someone who had lately been having her first cigarette before the milkman arrived. I know. It’s been a rough little spell. Between the overnight departure of the sexy cowboy, which left me in a crumbled little huddle, and an avalanche of deadlines which appeared out of nowhere – I found myself overwhelmed, distracted, incapable and exhausted. Cigarettes and their delicious nicotine rush were more rewarding than a hot bath, a glass of wine, even a good cry. I think it was the way Scott lifted up my limp little wrist to feel my pulse, the way his forgiving green eyes bore down on me – I couldn’t help myself and I blurted, “I’ve been smoking!” Then I burst into tears. At least Scott would know the truth about me and wouldn’t confuse me with those darling yoga girls who traipse through his office with their starry I’M CHANNELING BLISS eyes. I can be me; messy, goodhearted, clunky and sorely imperfect. Besides, I’m a terrible liar. “I can feel it in your pulses,” he smiled. “Your lungs are like…” and then he made this horrible sound like he was a small rat drowning in sewer sludge. Three cheers for me for telling him the truth. “It’s...
by Laurie Wagner | May 22, 2013 | Blog
A long time ago, in another life, I was an eager, young journalist – delighted to take any assignment I was offered from my editor at the East Bay Express. I’d scoot around the streets of Berkeley writing stories about local artists, pieces on the new trend in juice bars, cute stories about what the local jewelers were doing for Valentines Day. No big shakes, but a terrific beginning for someone who wanted to write. As much fun as it was to see my byline, what I noticed was that the stories I really wanted to write had nothing to do with what my editor found interesting, but instead the things that captured my own attention. For instance, I lived across the street from a transvestite and had a clear view from my apartment into his room. On weekends, like clockwork I’d watch him enter his home as a skinny, bean pole of a man in jeans and tennis shoes, and leave hours later as a sensibly dressed woman in her white patent leather shoes, matching white handbag and prim white skirt. His interpretation of what being a woman looked like intrigued me. He looked just like a secretary on her way to work. From the vantage point of my third story apartment, not only could I watch him paint his toes, which he dried on the windowsill of his apartment, but I could see into the entire Lucky Supermarket parking lot below. One woman was a daily regular – shopping first, then leaning against her family wagon smoking cigarette after cigarette. The parking lot was her refuge –...
by Laurie Wagner | May 8, 2013 | Blog
There’s poetry in not getting what you want. Tugging hard at the flower that doesn’t break easily from the bush. It’s not yours. So when my last two texts to the cowboy went unanswered, I realized, shoot, a door was being closed on me hard and I wasn’t ready. I’m hurt, but for him too, and all times I shut down shop on someone because I was afraid. The astrologer told me to keep the beautiful wall-sized mirror he made and gave me for my birthday. “But it makes me sad to look in it,” I said. “That’s his pain honey, not yours,” she said. Like a lot of women, I am particularly skilled when it comes to men; how they feel, what they need and what they struggle with. But I had my own pain here; a man turned away from me, and it was very hard to hold. I took it personally. Not just ego, but a firm nod to my own unworthiness. Old pain. Cowboy triggered it. And there’s poetry in that too. Poetry for the teenage daughters who witnessed the month-long love fest, who examined the new dress for the date, who giggled when they caught us kissing, who gave a thumbs up for sleepovers, who opened their arms wide, saying “Oh Mama,” when I wept. Someone told me that it’s fine for your kids to see you fall, but they need to see you get back up. I’ve always been a buck up kind of gal, but with a lot of cowgirl, get-outta-my-way swagger. This time is different. I am sad for me, but...
by Laurie Wagner | Apr 30, 2013 | Blog
In honor of Plant a Kiss Day ** (Sunday, April 29) I decided that instead of doing what was suggested – which was to spread a little love in the world – doing generous deeds like some of my incredible friends came up with – giving away bundles of lavender, setting up free lemonade stands and creating flash mob bubble parties in the park… Yes, instead of creating an act of kindness for others, I decided to take some advice from my very smart friend, Sherry Richert Belul (creator of Plant a Kiss Day), and plant a big fat kiss on myself, because if anyone needed some love it was me. Actually what I needed was a nap – which is pretty unheard of in my world. I’m terrified of them, certain if I give into my fatigue I’ll never get up. For 100 years I’ve been a steam engine, stopping only once a day – to collapse – in bed. But since I hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep the night before, I thought, well, I’ll just sit on the couch with this newspaper and catch up on some important reading. Important being the operative word here. I read a page or two about a doctor who was so consumed with being the top dog in his field that he made up research to support his thesis. Now he’s nothing. Minutes later I face planted on my couch where I dreamed of making love to a cowboy. No wonder I’ve been resisting those naps – they’re sneaky, insidious, only increasing your desire for even more rest. The next...
by Laurie Wagner | Apr 8, 2013 | Blog
“Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” Sylvia Plath Wow. You go Sylvia Plath. And here I was all set to write a piece on how I was struggling to find an authentic voice in my blog. That might surprise people who know me. I teach folks how to find their authentic voice on paper – so if anyone should have one packed and ready to roll out for a weekly blog it would be me. Not so. When I’m with my Wild Writing students four days a week I write really honest, messy stories about my relationships, sexuality, addiction, aging, all the things I long for and struggle with. I show up naked and full of those unseemly thigh dimples. I think that’s why I have so many writers who come back and work with me year after year; I put myself on the line and model the kind of authentic writing that Wild Writing is all about. And when I forget how to do it, my students take the lead. Together we create a world where imagination and guts is golden, the thing we reach for. But the blog isn’t a room full of women who I’ve been writing with for months. I have no idea who is reading this, but moreover, I’ve been confused about what to share. My website and my more public persona is that of a writing teacher, but that’s just a slice of who I am. How do I find that middle...
