#keltonwrites

[keltonwrites]

knowing what you need to do and not doing it

Below is a piece from my newsletter. There is very little theme to the newsletter and there is absolutely no cadence, so it's like a surprise newsletter. Fun! Sign up for it at tinyletter.com/keltonwrites. 

A few nights ago, in a hotel room in Sesto, Italy, I woke up screaming. Not the screeching, arm-flailing kind, but the buried and from-the-belly kind of howl that wakes the herd. This has happened a few times, and it’s always because in a dream I’ve been faced with a threat I know I can’t handle alone, so I call for help, only to find my voice is broken. Cries come out as raspy whispers, and my threat comes closer and closer, as I try desperately to get some volume. Somewhere, the wiring in my brain knows it’s a dream and actual screaming isn’t needed, but my body learned to fight back and can now, with enough fear, bring hellfire from deep within, waking up me and anyone around me. To the best of my knowledge, my therapist doesn’t read my writing, but if she did, she’d be leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, face smug. The last time I went to see her, I started to talk about my latest health anxiety and she sighed, putting her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands and said, “I don’t care about your anxiety.” Then, throwing her arms into the air, “we know you’re anxious!” Next, pointing at me, “and you’re going to be anxious until you write something.” And, with a collapse back into her chair, “can we please talk about what you’re going to write?” This therapist was carved from the mounds of the earth with me specifically in mind. And she would quickly tell you that I’m screaming in my sleep because I haven’t been writing. Or, more subtly, that I feel trapped and unable to speak. I can’t write without risk. I can’t write about work without risking its health insurance. I can’t write about family without risking its loyalty. I can’t write about marriage without risking its integrity. I can’t write. And in my cabin in the mountains with the low ceilings and high dust, at my silent office with the words “selfless drive” painted on the wall, and on any page it feels like someone might read the wrong way, I feel quiet in a compressed way. “You have a lot of crazy, and if you don’t get it out, what do you expect it to do?” I twisted the ring on my right pointer finger, adjusting it back into the light lines of grime and green earned by cheap jewelry. She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. “But I meditate! Like, every day! I eat healthy, I exercise — I even started cross-training to make sure my exercise regimen wasn’t making me plateau. I go to bed early, I gave up almost all alcohol and caffeine. I eat so much salad. I go to therapy once a week, I spend time with friends, I make sure to take time for things like massages and beach days. What else am I supposed to be doing?” “Oh my god, Kelton: writing. You’re supposed to be writing.” And so, here we are. Some nine months to 17 years after the last newsletter I sent, and I am here to tell you my plan to start writing... again. After all, it’s an abuse of the system to know your passion and just actively choose to play DinerDash on your iPad instead of doing it. What a hateable, relatable protagonist. Two nights per week (typically Monday and Wednesday), starting today and lasting until December 22, 2018, I will be taking a self-inflicted and -instructed class on story structure. On Mondays, from 6-7:30, I will do my reading. Then, from 7:30-9, I will work the exercises from that reading. If there is no obvious exercise, I’ll pull an exercise from the internet that offers advice on novel structure and plot. On Wednesdays, I’ll use that same time block of 6-9pm to just write, with the intention of that work going toward the novel or this newsletter, though preferably the former. That’s 26 classes, and I am giving myself three skips to use as I please. The syllabus includes the following: “Wired For Story” by Lisa Cron (Sept + October), “Creating Character Arcs Workbook” by KM. Weiland (Oct + Nov), and “The Anatomy of Story: 22 Steps to Becoming a Master Storyteller” by John Truby (Nov + Dec). I’m telling you because I see the fallibility in forcing a rigid schedule on myself, and not merely expecting but demanding a result from it. I have done this many times before, but there is a character that has been clawing at my insides to get out, and it's just not fair to keep her trapped in my imagination anymore. Truthfully, I’ve wanted to write to you very badly for months. Not because I have some burning truth to share, some take I think will inform your views and change your mind, but because I miss the feeling of reaching out into something that felt unknown and full of potential. I miss how big the world once felt. I miss so badly that feeling that the best was definitely, without a doubt, yet to come. But with writing, it is. With writing, I can take the serpent that’s strangling me, trapping the blood and expanding weak veins, and I can expand him. I can color him and stretch him and skin him. I can build entire worlds inside him. And if a 40s-something woman named Donna leaning back in her armchair is to be believed, doing so is the only thing that can save me from the ever-tightening whir.

#keltonwrites #amwriting

[viciousbritish]

I can’t say no to one of my favorites @elinesophie

Favourite colour:  Faded black , Close second is Worn Indigo 

Currently reading: World War Z, Duel In The sun, and Beserk 

Last song: The Spoils- Massive Attack 


Last movie: The French Dispatch 

Last series: Mieruko-Chan 

Currently craving: An evening stroll with good company 

Tea or coffee: Espresso always 

Currently working on: Myself 

I’ll tag @kvtes, @keltonwrites, @h-o-r-n-g-r-y, and @guy60660 

[fixiegirls]

Repost: @keltonwrites All I did today was clean my truck and ride my bike — and I feel pretty good about it. #goneriding #womenscycling https://www.instagram.com/p/B0Bx8CuJtRG/?igshid=n2vv2g0ru2x1

#goneriding #womenscycling

[macaroni-ho]

10speedcoffee

📸: @keltonwrites -  More this, less that. Come join us Sunday for a great ride with great friends. You, too, could be gorging on @pedalersfork. Meet us there at 8am for an 830am roll with @rapha_n_america, @machinesforfreedom, and @encouragehercycling, because friends ride better when they ride together. Pack the arm warmers, this is #braverthantheelements weather! (And mark your calendars for Dec 17, the big #BTTE ride!)

[memorypile]

Well fuck. Thanks, @keltonwrites . 

I’m getting good at not needing external feedback - but sometimes it’s nice to have awesome folks to remind you to get over yourself. :) 

[disabilityrightsarkansas]

RT @Headspace: We explore mental illness in a new series w/@BC2M. Our own, @KeltonWrites kicks it off. http://ift.tt/2r6useH https://t.co/oqIDdAsm4k

We explore mental illness in a new series w/@BC2M. Our own, @KeltonWrites kicks it off. https://t.co/IZSLsr85fM #MentalHealthAwarenessMonth http://pic.twitter.com/G5HzCa6Qa9

— Headspace (@Headspace) May 10, 2017

from Twitter https://twitter.com/DRArkansas May 11, 2017 at 12:22PM via IFTTT

[meltakesthecake]

If you ask someone out and they say no you didn't receive an insult, you gave a compliment. Act accordingly.

Kelton Wright, KeltonWrites

#keltonwrites #Kelton Wright #datebynumbers #love #dating #romance #quotes #quotes I love

[keltonwrites]

I'm not sure if that's a good thing

“Well you’re definitely the first.” This past week, we screened-in the eastern facing porch on the side of the cabin. The porch slopes to the South, with the brick-on-dirt floor crumbling in that direction as well until it reaches uneven slabs of stone acting as steps down to the “yard” below. A mixed material retaining wall wraps beneath the steps to the south facing garage, holding up one corner of the narrow deck on the front of the house. The deck, in the heat of a high altitude summer, droops off the house like it’s daydreaming about the winter snow’s embrace. It’s safe to sit on, though I would not recommend leaning on the railing.

The side porch takes the brunt of the wind. Our wooden rocking chairs have been rocked some 20 feet into the yard more than once in the two months we lived here. In the myriad of threats we heard about the weather, most people included the wind. We all know how I feel about this ongoing weather intimidation tactic. I asked, “what speed are the gusts?” “Oh, they get up to 70 miles per hour on some days.” This was the first quantifiable piece of weather information someone had offered — an actual number we could react to with data and our historical personal experiences of various weather events. And our reaction was: uhhhh…. OK???? Look, I get it. No one’s preaching the skin benefits of -20 degree wind gusts at 70 mph, building snow drifts against your house in the span of minutes that Cooper could die in. I am not going to pretend that’s pleasant. But 70 mph? Any wind I’ve driven faster than does not intimidate me. I used to rally the horses at 12 years old in winds over 70mph to get them in the barn before the latest tornado whipped through. I helped shutter the resort in the BVI as the Category 5 hurricane rolled in. Even in Topanga, 70 mile per hour gusts were not uncommon in Santa Ana events. We had our single pane windows shatter more than once from debris in the wind. We taped cardboard up and went to sleep. That “70 mph” was all I needed to hear to confirm our next project: we were going to build a catio for these cats, and we were going to do it on the pre-existing porch structure to save time and money. We spent a week framing out the structure. We had to carve into the logs of the house to embed the wood supports for the framing.

And from there, every piece of wood was custom carved and cut to fit around the existing timber supports. The existing porch was so wildly uneven that there are gaps between each piece of old wood and the new framing. Our plan is to mix all the wood chips from the project with mortar/chinking and stuff the gaps — a good solution for the log cabin look. We built a plywood pony wall up to 28 inches from the interior of the porch, which gives a height of ~4-5ft from the exterior ground below. It’s capped with a 2x6” railing for even the fluffiest of cats to find a perch. The exterior will be wrapped with corrugated metal that we’ll quick-age to match the metal that wraps the bottom of the cabin. On the interior of the porch, we’ll use shiplap to hide the framing.

The screens themselves can withstand winds up to 120 mph, but to-be-determined if they can hold the weight of a growing maniac cat who has already tried to climb them. In the event the screens succumb to cat (or wind or snow or neighbor judgment) we’ll reinforce with metal mesh. We’re going to maintain this screen porch regardless of what the screen is. We had the pleasure of running into one of our more industrious neighbors the other day, and Ben asked him, “hey we’re building a screen porch. Is this a terrible idea?” He laughed. “Well you’re definitely the first.” But he liked it. Great way to diminish wind into the house. Simple way to regulate the temperature with massive south-facing windows. And indeed a practical outdoor safe haven for cats in predator territory. Just because you’re the first doesn’t mean you’re foolish — just foolhardy. There’s plenty of that here. This town has the typical mountain town’s truncated version of a colonizers’ history: “established 1881.” But it was plenty established prior to that by the Uncompahgre Band of the Ute Nation, removed by the U.S. Army on September 7, 1881, nearly 140 years ago. The government relocated the Uncompahgre Ute People to Utah, and one year after the Ute were forcibly removed from their ancestral land, San Miguel County split off from Ouray County and was made its own political subdivision in the newly-formed State of Colorado. In 1879, the ore-laden valley already had 50 people living in it, with a new narrow gauge railway only 2 miles away. By 1885, it was a town of 200 people. There was a hotel, a couple saloons, a pool hall. Winters were treacherous; the valley was and is prone to avalanches. But where there’s gold, there’s gumption. The power needed to run the stamp mill to process ore drove innovation. Timber was scarce at such high elevations, so a wood powered steam mill wouldn’t cut it. But the San Miguel River just a few miles down from the mine looked promising. Thus began the development and construction of the Ames Hydroelectric Generating Plant. It was a hit. In fact, it was so successful that the Ames Plant led to the adoption of alternating currents at Niagara Falls and eventually to being adopted worldwide as a viable power solution. The plant remains, but the gold rush obviously didn’t. By 1940, the U.S. Census declared this little town I call home as tied for the lowest population in the country: 2 people. By 1960, it was one of four incorporated towns in the U.S. with no residents. But the joke was on the Census — the town’s single resident was just out of town the day the census came through. 1960 population: 1. By 1980 the population grew to 38, 69 in 1990, and about 180 now. (Plus 51 dogs according to the town’s website.) With modern amenities, it’s easier to be here. Studded snow tires, satellite internet, solar panels, instant coffee. No matter the hardships, there’s the reality of the present. In the 1880s, as the town boomed, the Ouray Times declared, “it will be at no distant day a far more pretentious town than it is now.” That day hasn’t exactly arrived, but I guess it depends on what you consider pretentious. I don’t think the town claims any airs of excellence beyond what’s true. In fact, the town hardly claims anything at all. There’s no sign indicating it’s even here. There’s just the old side and the new side. The new side, the Eastern half, was drawn out in the early 1990s, some 100 years later, and is separated from the Old Town by an avalanche zone—preserved open space for hiking in the summer, preserved open space for surviving in the winter. The town forbids short-term rentals, no one has a fence, dogs roam free, and all the houses have that cabin look to them. A boulder nests in a grove near a trailhead in the center of town with a plaque paying respect to the Utes who called this valley home. There’s no industry here. No businesses allowed. If you want a $7 latte, you can drive the 14 miles required to get it, assuming there’s not an avalanche blocking your path. You can, however, buy a pink lemonade in a

solo cup at the permanent lemonade stand run by the local feral child mafia. Crystals (rocks) can be purchased for an additional cost. We bought one, hoping to buy favor at the same time. The town plan has a few guiding principles, and it’s all in the name of preservation. We must preserve: 1 - the quiet atmosphere 2 - the rustic character 3 - the natural setting

And finally: 4 - protect the health and wellbeing of the people here No snowmobiles, no ATVs, no drones. In fact, the only sign of the outside world here are the passers-through. When you take the dirt road through town to the end, you enter National Forest, and you can hike over the pass saddle at nearly 12,000 feet before descending down the other side into Silverton. The pass road climbs rutted through an aspen forest before scaling across a scree field and then lurching over to the other side. Every day, it seems like 30 or so Texans and Arizonans in lifted and loud Jeeps with unused mods climb over this mountain in the comfort of their air conditioning, simply to drive down the other side. You could hike it, ride it, run it, and ski it, but they don’t. They rev their engines, kicking up dust in a town of feral children and roaming dogs, staring at us instead of waving. I’ve lived here for two months and look how salty I am. I’ll fit in yet. But today, there is a temperature that whispers of perfect trails and the dwindling of ogglers driving 35 in a 15. It’s already snowed in the mountains we see from our kitchen. Today, like a dedication to the Septembers of our youth, you can feel a chill in the air. A temperature akin to pencils and sweaters and reinventing yourself. A temperature that doesn’t exactly sing “screen porch” but could if you had the right slippers on. That’s what I did this morning: put my slippers on and sat there in the cool mountain morning air, thinking about the cemetery behind our house, about the Ute tribe, about the miners, about the mailman who died on Christmas in 1875 on the pass, about the 5 people who died in avalanches here just last year, about the people in their cars on their phones driving through, and all the people who’s very first question to us was, “so are you gonna live here part-time or full-time?” Maybe it will be a hard place to live. But at least we’ll have a screen porch.

Every week I'm writing about moving to log cabin in a small town at 10,000 feet. Subscribe here for free: tinyletter.com/keltonwrites

#colorado #small town life #home renovation #amwriting #creative writing #newsletter #a little bit better

[keltonwrites]

I am trying to pick up the pieces after a bad breakup(together 6 years). The only thing I wanted was him for so long, that now without him, I don’t know what I want from this life...how can I find my purpose or passion in this life while still healing?

It’s easy to read this question and immediately leap to judgment. It’s very easy for the powerful and self-confident to read this and think, “how did you let this man come to define you so much? How did you lose sight of yourself to this degree? Just how?” But partners are not the only thing we define ourselves by. I have never been in a relationship like the one you’re describing, in which the only thing you want is that partner. But what I can empathize with is letting your life become so defined by something that could, at any point, change. To some extent, we all do this. A surgeon loses their steady hand. Best friends for life become different people. A dream job gets bought out and laid off. An accident changes everything.When our identities are rattled, what feels like a plush seat in first class reveals itself to be an illusion. The wind hits our skin with new intensity, and we see we were never so safe. Our reality is a mining cart on rusted rails: exposed and precarious, embarrassing even. What am I doing in a mining cart? My god, this can’t be how we do things. You are without a place, a category, a “purpose.” You swiftly exchange, “yes I’m in seat 2A, thank you” for “I have no fucking idea what’s happening.”That you don’t know what you want from this life is not only normal for when you are suffering from agonizing heartbreak and identity cracking, it is also normal to feel that way suddenly, without warning, when you are surrounded and supported by the people you love doing what you love. All I need to do is look at the stars for a moment too long to wonder what I want from this life. That’s our burden and the very thing that gives us the exquisite moments of fullness you and I both seek.So many of us are raised on mis-guided sentiments of pinnacles and planned paths. What one thing do you want to be when you grow up? Who will be the absolute love of your life? What one thing will you choose as your major? What is your dedicated five year plan to achieve that singular goal? What is your one true passion?These are unimaginative questions, if only because they exclude the realities of life. Interests change, people die, money runs out, money pours in, new careers are invented, old ways expire, incredible moments of dangerous and unpredictable serendipity purposefully wait until they can be their most dangerous and unpredictable selves. Ask anyone you’ve ever heard sigh very deeply.You used the words “purpose or passion” and I want you to do the work of untangling them. You allowed this man to become your passion. That may not have been the best plan, but it’s not shameful. So many humans draw themselves in the confines of what their relationship is. But he was not your purpose. I think you know that. You acknowledge that he was the center, and then move swiftly on to longing for something bigger than him. I think that’s partly because defining ourselves by one other human is not just coloring in the lines, it’s coloring within the corner of the page with one color. You were so narrowed in on this tiny vision of your life, so focused on keeping what you wanted, that you didn’t allow yourself to want anything else.That you don’t know what you want is beautiful. I know you’re worried about getting on a path while also healing, but finding that purpose or passion or driving force, whatever it is, that hunt is healing. That search will be the thing that pulls you from this grief. It will be the growth and the distraction that get you from Point Heartbreak to Point Full. That’s where you want to be: in a place of fullness. Your emptiness, of heart and of purpose, gives you the opportunity to build exactly what you want.While you recover, schedule one new thing a week. Could be attending a poetry reading, a cooking class, visiting a museum, renting a bike, taking a sketchbook to the park and drawing cartoon versions of the people you see. To find your joy, you need to try things. Those things can become your passions. They can color you in. They can color you so brightly and beautifully that instead wanting someone else, you begin to want yourself.It can feel like everyone already has their purpose and you’re behind, but that’s a distortion. People who have found their purpose often glow with it. And the ones who found it early have had a longtime to televise it to the world, to build platforms, to share it wide and far. You’re not behind, and you haven’t wasted any time. You just spent time learning. And now it’s time to learn something new.

This time, be the one you want. Healing is just a side effect of discovering who that *you* is. 

---I wrote this while listening to:Don’t Give Up - New Blood Version by Ane Brun, Peter GabrielNaeem by Bon IverYour Peace Will Make Us One by Audrey Assad, Urban Doxology---Subscribe to the newsletter at tinyletter.com/keltonwrites. 

#advice #heartbreak #hope #passion #purpose #finding your passion #a little bit better

[meltakesthecake]

You can sit back and rely on luck, or you can know that luck's a bunch of bullshit and warriors go get what they want.

Kelton Wright

#kelton wright #keltonwrites #warrior #quotes #quotes I love