London- the city of dangerous writers

I don't care if you don't like literature, or even if you can't appreciate the magestic genius of Shakpesare's sonnets, because the city of London is, in itself, complete poetry.

I have never seen such a gorgeous city in my entire life. I am instantly in love with its architecture, its vibe, its combintation of both the tr4aditional and trendy.

I do NOT believe in past lives, but there is something very strange about how wonderfully at home I feel in London, as if, as a writer, I have somehow lived here for thousands of years.

After taking a gazillion photos, I finally, and thankfully had my batteries die down---it made me realized thatI needed to beless concerned with capturing the moment, and letting the moment capture me. More coming up later...I'm just too jet lagged and incredibly thrilled to care.

Wishes for London Trip

We all know I love the Brits [see earlier entry] and I'm stoked about going cross the pond.

A Writer's Way exercise once told me to expect great and crazy wonderful things. So whenever I embarked on a trip, I liked to make predictions of what I'd like to happen...not an itinerary or stuff I wanted to do, but just strange, neat, crazy, off the wall things. While sometimes the things do not come through, they do teach me, as a writer and a person, to open myself up for the predictable unpredictability of the world and just roll with it [like the time I shared a trolley with the Secret Service while in Savannah.]

In no particular order:

-- I feel I will meet someone absolutely amazing over there. I'm not talking romance, though I'm open for that come what may, but just someone interesting, quirky, or intriguing. Someone I'll share my e-mail addy with.

-- I will have a religious experience of some kind.

--I will see some celebrity, have no idea who they are [because they are sans makeup or what not] and ask them for directions, the time, something mundane, and not realize until later who he / she was.

-- I will eat something in Stratford on Avon. Not food, but a leaf or piece of grass...I'm hoping there's something in the water there that will help me become a better writer.

--At a pub, my travel buddy C and I will meet a cool group of folks that we spend a bit of time with. We run into them later on a double decker bus.

- I come home with a TARDIS of some kind. Or David Tennant. Even better.

-- And of course, someone is going to inspire a novel. You know they will....

Blogging from Across the Pond

Yep, I'm writing dangerously as only you can when you are in the land of the great writers of Shakespeare, Keats, Dickens, and oh, so many too numerous to mention...

Check out my photos, travel journal etc. and the stuff from famous writer's houses at:

http://dawninlondon.shutterfly.com

And yes, before someone freaks about security, someone is housesitting for me.

A Short Story from the Collection

To celebrate nearing an end to my first short story collection / Kindle venture, I wanted to post a flash fiction piece I did. It may be a bit abstruse, but I'm kind of pleased how it turned out. It started as something I wrote for a contest---we had to write something about a high school reunion.

I didn't win the contest.

So I'm putting it up here anyway.

I'd be anxious to know if I made it too subtle or too obvious. Is it something people will "get"? Should I even care?
Everyone enjoy!

--All rights are reserved, copyright notice, 2010, and all that wonderful legal jargon goes here. Copyright 2010, Dawn DeAnna Wilson.

ELSINORE SENIOR HIGH CLASS OF ‘99

“Oh, my gosh…you look fantastic! …oh, I know, I know, isn’t it beautiful? They did such a great job with the decorations ---though I wonder who catered it. Danishes? This isn’t a continental breakfast at some cheap hotel. Can you believe it’s been 15 years? ……Oh, Marcellus and the kids are fine. He started his own security firm about five years ago. Yep. Said he wanted to be his own boss---got tired of the drama. Speaking of drama, look who’s been at the cash bar all evening. Pathetic isn’t it? Oh, he still looks good---he always had a body that wouldn’t quit--- but the light has gone out of his eyes after the incident. His wife says he still has nightmares. At first she thought it was due to the war----all the guys who came back from Norway had some kind of PTSD. Seems like there’s always a war, doesn’t it? And seems like our men always want to run headfirst into it. ……Well, he started drinking heavily about two years ago. Nearly ruined his marriage. ……Oh, that was not my idea. I have no clue who thought he should give a memorial toast. He was there, you know. Saw the whole thing. Probably the only one who really knows what happened, and you just don’t ask someone to relive that over and over … …well, don’t tell him that. Oh, it’s not the mental illness stigma ---you’d think people would be over that by now. It’s like we’re living in the Dark Ages. You see, he still hold onto him, like a brother, and he thinks that by telling the stories he’ll keep him alive. You think that’s why we have these reunions? If we stop telling stories we’ll start to die?...... No, they’re not…no one told you? I’m sorry, I thought you knew that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.”

Back and an Even MORE Dangerous Revelation

I had made an informal pledge that I was not going to come back to blog writing until I had finished some of my OTHER writing---namely, the writing this whole blog has been about.

I was still stumped at a certain part of this short story [and got a little OCD about my new website design---still in progress] . In the meantime, around June 10, I learned I would have to find another apartment, so I've been in the process of lease signing, boxes, yada, yada, yada.

But then I realized the reason I didn't want to conclude this story: one of the characters has several of the qualities I like least about myself. I didn't want to continue writing this story because it was essentially like sitting on the therapist's couch with the shrink saying "yeah, and this is why you suck" in front of the entire world because I'm putting it in a book.....maybe that's what really scares me about writing dangerously: the fact that many aspects of these characters represent things we do not like about ourselves, but the very act of writing them down forces us to deal with them.

Nuff said.

At any rate, I'm back...maybe a bit too exhausted to be dangerous, but still kicking :)

Writer's Digest Book Rescue

I've decided that I will not make any lengthy posts until I finish my short story collection---and in celebration, I'm going to post a FREE short story on this blog---yep, one from the collection. Not sure which one I will put up here...

I hit a snag. I turned to a book I got from Writer's Digest Books---it is called "Fiction First Aid." I looked at it and it made me look at my character's motivation closer---and then I wrote LONGHAND and started writing the rest of the story that way [with some way cool Liberty of London journals I got at Target on sale for $2, I might add---and yes B, one may be coming your way at our next writer's group meeting] and had a big breakthrough....

First, the story about the psychic is really probably more about the priest. I was centering the plot on the wrong character---the psychic is merely the catalyst for the story. Because her story was more --well, crazy, I was paying attention to her. Kind of like the kid who yells and screams when he only has a skinned knee....

Okay, this post is too long when a story collection is unfinished...then I'm going to launch the publicity blitz [whatever that means] .

Hopefully by next post I will have a short story up here....

God on the Quad-- UNC Safe Place

A week or so ago [dang, where has time gone?] I went back to my beloved Alma mater with L, one of my cool daddy friends from UNC. L was there with her daughter C, visiting the campus, and since I had not seen C since she was a baby, it was great to catch up.





After getting some noms from Whole Foods to have as a picnic, L met another friend and I took off my shoes and spread out on the cool grass of the quad--well, Polk Place technically. For those of you who have never been to UNC-Chapel Hill campus, there is a reason they call it the Southern Part of Heaven...and it's not because I'm biased. Some American Association of Architects labeled it as one of 50 US campuses designated as "works of art." Google it... love the pictures...


This is a picture of where I chilled out---courtesy of the blog 'justinsomnia'---or maybe not courtesy [if I'm stepping on any toes, I'll take it down, dudes]

At any rate, I forced myself to look up at the sky and the trees and just took time to STOP and be quiet.

Sometimes, I've heard shrinks say that if you have a panic attack, you should close your eyes and picture your "safe, happy place," which I always thought was a load of crap until I actually tried it. For some reason, this campus has always served as that visual oasis. I also sometimes pray as I think about it, and I visualize walking with Jesus across campus [for some reason, Jesus is always wearing a gray plaid shirt and jeans, but that's another entry].

If you haven't rubbed your bare feet across soft grass in a while, I highly recommend it. It was as if I could hear every bird, every twig, every squirrel shuffling through the blades of grass...and I found myself wishing that I could find a job in the Chapel Hill area and move there so I could experience that every day...and then, call it Divine revelation, I pictured my Jesus image, and could almost feel God say, "Is my sky any less blue where you are? Are the grass and the trees completely different? "

It was then I realized that it was not so much the location, but that I needed a change in my attitude. That I needed to learn more about how to be QUIET and how to rest and LISTEN.

So, it wasn't the burning bush by any stretch of the imagination, but I'd like to think I had an encounter with God on the quad. And I'm very blessed for it.

I wrote this poem on the quad that day...

As I was chilling out at the quad, I saw this older--but still young (at least compared to me)-- student [well, he looked about 23-25--he had long hair so it was kind of hard to tell] and he walked across campus with such defiance--not rebellious defiance, but just defiance against the mundane pratter of here and now, and beating against the vague voices of restlessness that would demand he start a dot com empire, wear a tie everyday, and make a million dollars at all costs.

For some bizarre reason, being I guess more rested, I wrote a poem right then and there about this unknown student, and how I wish I had carried more of that 'good' defiance with me. It reminded me of when I was at UNC and I felt that everything was possible---and to a certain extent, I still do, but rarely with the loving abandon I had once before.

Here's the poem--and yes, it's a draft so no one get all critical of it. I'm NOT a good poet.

And yes, copyright, all rights reserved, yada, yada, yada...

I think I would have loved you....

I think I would have loved you
sometime, somewhere,
maybe when I was younger
and without unraveled cares
of emptied patience long forgotten
behind yellowed teeth and empty breasts...

...as you walk boldly across campus
I think I would have loved you
sometime, somewhere
and traced my fingers across the corners of your tribal tattoo
calligraphy in Celtic knots and ivy dreams
on your sun-drenched abdomen

And I would not be intimidated
by your Sampson-length golden honey locks
I think I would have loved you
sometime, somewhere
your silky sheen mane fondling your shoulders
in the same way mine did a thousand years ago

And I would not be annoyed
by your crusade to challenge everything
and drink your desires off the cuff of your sleeve
I think I could have loved you
sometime somewhere
and dreamed outrageously with you

But now I must bathe in dusted cobwebbed-settles
and men with rusted crucifixes dangling on
secondhand gold-plated chains
and set the alarm for six a.m.
I think I could have loved you
sometime, somewhere...