Well, Monday, here you are again—a start to the five days
that lead to Sunday. I’ve gotten used to you. I don’t dread you any longer. I
try to find the joy in you and your other six brothers and sisters. Today,
though, dear Monday, I’d like to have an extra day—just one more. I know this
isn’t possible and that I must begin motivating myself to get out the door.
These past few days, weeks, months, I’ve jotted down little
something’s in my private notebooks and journals, both of the paper variety and
the electronic. I’ve had ideas come to me, things that I want to write about. I
have starts—that’s a step in the right direction. All the little bits and
scraps, though, have added up to so many directions and pieces that it becomes
a challenge to decide where I want to go or if what’s there is enough.
And sometimes, like a record that skips and stays in the
same spot for a time, that’s where I find myself. I don’t think it’s a bad
thing, really. I know that when it’s time the lever will be jiggled and the
skipping and repeating will subside. It’s just that I’m aware of it and being
aware of it brings a sense of self-consciousness. At the same time, writing it
out here, will release me for the time being; it may even cause more self-consciousness.
It’s all part of the process—that is one of my mantras—and I can’t help coming
back to it over and over again.
It rained last night, Monday, while I was sleeping. It
rained and rained until this morning; and right now, I can see the sun bursting
through the back window. It’s tempting me to come outside, to smell the
freshness that rain brings. I suppose this morning, Monday, I would like to
stay cuddled up with a book, write some more, drink some tea because I’ve had
my fill of coffee for the morning. I would like to know what I’m preparing for
dinner and I have something in mind, but nothing concrete, nothing that jazzes
me, that beckons me into the mindset of wanting to be in kitchen. I want the
kitchen to grab me, twirl me around and make me dizzy with joy.
Well, Monday, thanks for listening. It’s time for me to go
to work now. It will be a fine day.
Miraculous
Outside
New
Dazzling
Alfresco
Yummy
Monday, Let’s go have a Yummy Day!
Showing posts with label process. Show all posts
Showing posts with label process. Show all posts
Monday, October 22, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
Random Thoughts
It’s been a while since I’ve let my thoughts spill out onto
the page. I’ve continued to write in my private journals and there have been
days when I had much to say and then others where I feel as if I’m a small well
that has damned itself up somehow. I know that I cannot live in the past. I can
visit, but I can only push forward and live in the present.
Where was I…my thoughts…this morning my thoughts are
knocking around inside some sort of cage, pulling at the bars shouting, “let me
out.” If I don’t write this and post it to my blog(s) I won’t be able to get
these little hindrances out of my system.
I forgot my secret pin number to my ATM card this past
weekend. I had only just used it that morning or was it the night before? I
walked up to the machine on a Saturday in the middle of an art festival. I put
my card in and as I did so, I realized the numbers weren’t coming to me. It
wasn’t a good feeling. I tried again. The card spit back out. I tried again and
again. I put my hand to my head. How could I forget? The bank was open. I went
in, explained and waited to reset my pin number. It felt awful to forget a
number that I use almost daily. But this number meant nothing to me. The bank
had assigned the number when I was issued a new card for a new account a year
ago and I had never gone in to change it to something more memorable. I used
that as the rational for how I could forget such an important number. On the
other hand, I’m surprised I didn’t forget it sooner. It was a fuzzy day. A
migraine was coming on and I was out of sorts.
A few weeks back I decided to discontinue my membership in
the writer’s group that I had been attending. The group was supportive and I
appreciated the feedback that I received, but for several reasons including
time, I felt that I needed to move on. I’m glad I at least experienced what it
was like. I come back to a quote that has stuck with me ever since I saw
Jonathan Franzen speak. At the end of his talk, an audience member asked what he
thought about writing critique groups. He said they can be good, but what stuck
is when he said, “After enough practice, you can see your own work.” I do
believe this.
I was scared stiff when I first started sharing myself by
blogging a few years back. All of my writing up until that point was kept tight
in my journals or written in essays for teachers. I noticed that as I got more
comfortable sharing aspects of myself, it became a little less frightening to
push the button to post my blog. I only recently started cross-posting to
Wordpress. I’ve found some great children’s books blogs and have discovered a
variety of other interesting blogs. I don’t have a whole lot of extra time to
search around on Wordpress, so I’ve been appreciative to find other blogs
through the process of blogging.
The short story writing class I am taking is fine. There are
some interesting assignments. Part of me is trying to remember exactly why I
signed up for the class. I know why, but really, why? I do try to
practice coming back to “beginners mind” from time to time. In this class it’s
difficult for me not to compare my experiences to another creative writing
course I took so many years ago where we wrote several short stories using the
whole story process.
What’s working for me in this class is that it’s digestible
and the instructor is great. What’s not working for me is the focus on scene
building, our assignments focus on a scene per week, except when we do a
workshop with a full story. I am writing my scenes and the instructor helps us
find ways that we can blow the scene up into story; however, I am noticing that
I don’t necessarily want to blow all the scenes up and if I do, I want the
story to happen organically without outside forces.
Since I know we are coming up on a workshop week where we
will choose one of our scenes that we’ve written in the class and create the
full story, I have one last chance to write a scene assignment before workshop.
I am going to try to think of the full story ahead of time—in fact, I already
have, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to go with it. We’ll see.
In general, my mind is not working well with a
scene-by-scene approach. It feels very piecemeal to me. And I’m not sure if
it’s because I learned one way and am now learning another way or if I prefer
starting with the whole—the meaning—and working from there.
I am starting to feel Ray Bradbury’s words more than ever
and keep them close so that I can avoid the pitfall: “Don’t think. Thinking is
the enemy of creativity.”
It’s all a wonderful process. My middle name should have
been process. I don’t actually have a middle name, but if I did have one—and
this goes way back to high school—it would be Raye.
Rebbecca Raye Hill. That isn’t visually appealing, is it?
Oh, well.
Rebb
Friday, July 6, 2012
The Personal Essay ~ A Multitude of Containers
It’s interesting for me to step back and examine my writing progression. I read an essay this morning that I wrote in the spring of 2006 for a Stress and Human Health class. The title of the paper is “Behavior Modification: Toward Self-Empowerment.” It’s about four pages, double-spaced. I can tell right where I was in spirit and mind by the metaphor I used throughout the paper. It was a different chapter of my life, with different characters, different setting—a chapter now in time and space. I feel that at some point I will post the essay as a blog, after some edits.
At this same juncture in my life, which wasn’t all that long ago, I remember one of my instructors—may she RIP—I remember her kindness and openness of mind. I remember being inspired that she was still teaching. She must have been in her late seventies, possibly her eighties. I didn’t often raise my hand in class. I would want to say something, but my heart would thump, my palms would get moist, and a lump would form in my throat rising to a dry mouth. The anxiety would set in—all this because I was imagining myself speaking up—I would become unable to follow through. This happened each time I wanted to contribute, but I couldn’t push past it.
Her name was Mary and one thing she did differently in this one class was to have us write her a final letter stating what grade we thought we should receive and why. Besides my participation, I thought that the work that I did in the class merited an “A.” When I received my letter back, she had given me a “B” because I had not participated in class discussions. I accepted it. She was right. I respected that she gave me the “B” and not the “A.” I’m appreciative that she planted a seed. She told me that I had things to share and others may benefit and/or be able to add on to the discussion from there, that I shouldn’t hold back.
Later when I took another class she taught, she met with each student one on one. I told her how much I loved writing and that’s what I saw in my future. I imagined it differently then, but I’m doing it now, not solely in my personal journals, but by putting myself out there. I told her writing was my way of sharing. It’s the element I felt comfortable in and at home in. She smiled deeply and wished me luck.
I think of Mary from time to time because she was kind and generous. She was excited and passionate about what she taught and she took the time to know her students, if even a little bit.
What’s interesting about writing essays in class for an instructor is you have a set audience of one and a proposed topic, but I can tell by what I wrote in several essays across different classes is that I also wrote for people—for anyone that may find something to relate to—a way to see themselves reflected back.
Presently, there are certain pieces that may be strictly personal. I still post them because that’s part of me, part of my world. And there are others, where like today, I have a thought, I open an old essay to read, it brings me back to Mary, to a small slice of my road and then I follow where the words lead me. This morning I was going to work on a recent piece that I wrote. It needs a little work and if I still have time this morning, I’m going to look at it.
Writing blogs has changed the way I approach writing. I don’t always have a set focus or plan. There is less structure. Speaking of structure. That makes me think of an English class I took a long time ago at the community college. I was explaining to the instructor why I had written the essay as I had, that I didn’t want to be confined by the structure; I wanted to find my own container.
Containers are fascinating. A little over a year ago I picked up a book called The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present selected and with an introduction by Phillip Lopate. When I bought it I read the introduction and the first few essays. I put it back on the shelf. A week ago or so I picked it back out of the shelf and thumbed through it. I happened on G. K. Chesterton. The book has two of his essays and the one that I loved is called “A Piece of Chalk.” It’s not a long essay, three pages in this book. What he does in three pages with his imagination, imagery, and wanderings is so very satisfying.
I also recently downloaded a book to my Kindle called Crafting The Personal Essay: A Guide for Writing and Publishing Creative Non-Fiction by Dinty W. Moore. What I appreciate most about this book is that Moore breaks the book down into various types of essays.
Moore sees the essay as “The gentle art,” and expands in answer to his question of what is an essay? “The personal essay is, of course personal, meaning of you, from your unique point-of-view. And it is an “assay,” derived from a French word meaning “to try” or “to attempt” (Kindle pg. 5)
Books about writing have always been a source of reading enjoyment for me. I have a small bookshelf that I go to now and again. The essays I remember from school were different, not as personal, though a few were because of the nature of the classes. Out of all the writing courses that I’ve taken, one that I gained much from, but that I did not have an interest in pursuing was the journalism feature-writing course. I know my voice; I can hear it and depending on who or what I’m writing about, and my moods, the musical notes may change, but I’m still there. When I wrote my feature pieces for class, my voice seemed to go away. It felt for me that the container was much too rigid. I wouldn’t want to write for a paper or magazine because of the loss of freedom. I’m happy writing and sharing on my blog.
Moore goes on to say, “Here the essence of the form is found: The personal essayist (that would be you) takes a topic—virtually any topic under the yellow sun—and holds it up to the bright light, turning it this way and that, upside and down, studying every perspective, fault, and reflection, in an artful attempt to perceive something fresh and significant. But it is always an effort, a trial, not a lecture or diatribe. The essayist does not sit down at her desk already knowing all the right answers, because if she did, there would be no reason to write” (Kindle pg. 5).
This also makes me reconsider how I view the essay or any other writing. Rather than think of the essay as a label, I can think of it as a container with many possibilities, roads, turnoffs, signals. This to me is more liberating. I also realize that the more containers that I expose myself to, the more that I keep following myself on the page, the more that I see and appreciate the organic-ness of the process. Often times I have no destination. I explore the whites space on the page, pave small roads, plant flower beds, try to figure out what I’m doing or thinking for those moments the light is on. It always feels different. I don’t always know where I’ll end up, and I like that.
This morning for example, I headed out and took a turn. My mind began recalling experiences and though I didn’t know they would fit snug, I followed and then on and on. This has been the way I write when I come to the page. I do my personal morning pages to get the fuzz out. Then I sit for a moment. I power up the laptop and I start typing with whatever idea or thought is there. This morning though I had other pieces on my mind, one that began as a free write a few weeks back to get the thoughts out and the other I mentioned. One is typed up and one still has to come out from the notebook to the typed page. And then that brought me to look for an essay that related to my free write. I looked through the folders on the computer and when I saw a different essay and read it, it was the seed that got my thoughts in motion.
Yes, I’m coming to appreciate the essay container from a whole different perspective. As Moore shares in his book, this is what Annie Dillard has said about the essay form:
“There’s nothing you cannot do with it; no subject matter is forbidden, no structure is proscribed. You get to make up your own structure every time, a structure that arises from the materials and best contains them. The material is the world itself, which, so far, keeps on keeping on” (Kindle pg. 6).
I think back on the English class—the one I mentioned where I wanted to find my own container, to break out of the confines of the basic structure of a college composition course. I wanted to wander. The essay does allow that. My instincts were right and I’m glad to be following wherever the moment leads.
Sometimes we need containers to break out of containers.
At this same juncture in my life, which wasn’t all that long ago, I remember one of my instructors—may she RIP—I remember her kindness and openness of mind. I remember being inspired that she was still teaching. She must have been in her late seventies, possibly her eighties. I didn’t often raise my hand in class. I would want to say something, but my heart would thump, my palms would get moist, and a lump would form in my throat rising to a dry mouth. The anxiety would set in—all this because I was imagining myself speaking up—I would become unable to follow through. This happened each time I wanted to contribute, but I couldn’t push past it.
Her name was Mary and one thing she did differently in this one class was to have us write her a final letter stating what grade we thought we should receive and why. Besides my participation, I thought that the work that I did in the class merited an “A.” When I received my letter back, she had given me a “B” because I had not participated in class discussions. I accepted it. She was right. I respected that she gave me the “B” and not the “A.” I’m appreciative that she planted a seed. She told me that I had things to share and others may benefit and/or be able to add on to the discussion from there, that I shouldn’t hold back.
Later when I took another class she taught, she met with each student one on one. I told her how much I loved writing and that’s what I saw in my future. I imagined it differently then, but I’m doing it now, not solely in my personal journals, but by putting myself out there. I told her writing was my way of sharing. It’s the element I felt comfortable in and at home in. She smiled deeply and wished me luck.
I think of Mary from time to time because she was kind and generous. She was excited and passionate about what she taught and she took the time to know her students, if even a little bit.
What’s interesting about writing essays in class for an instructor is you have a set audience of one and a proposed topic, but I can tell by what I wrote in several essays across different classes is that I also wrote for people—for anyone that may find something to relate to—a way to see themselves reflected back.
Presently, there are certain pieces that may be strictly personal. I still post them because that’s part of me, part of my world. And there are others, where like today, I have a thought, I open an old essay to read, it brings me back to Mary, to a small slice of my road and then I follow where the words lead me. This morning I was going to work on a recent piece that I wrote. It needs a little work and if I still have time this morning, I’m going to look at it.
Writing blogs has changed the way I approach writing. I don’t always have a set focus or plan. There is less structure. Speaking of structure. That makes me think of an English class I took a long time ago at the community college. I was explaining to the instructor why I had written the essay as I had, that I didn’t want to be confined by the structure; I wanted to find my own container.
Containers are fascinating. A little over a year ago I picked up a book called The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present selected and with an introduction by Phillip Lopate. When I bought it I read the introduction and the first few essays. I put it back on the shelf. A week ago or so I picked it back out of the shelf and thumbed through it. I happened on G. K. Chesterton. The book has two of his essays and the one that I loved is called “A Piece of Chalk.” It’s not a long essay, three pages in this book. What he does in three pages with his imagination, imagery, and wanderings is so very satisfying.
I also recently downloaded a book to my Kindle called Crafting The Personal Essay: A Guide for Writing and Publishing Creative Non-Fiction by Dinty W. Moore. What I appreciate most about this book is that Moore breaks the book down into various types of essays.
Moore sees the essay as “The gentle art,” and expands in answer to his question of what is an essay? “The personal essay is, of course personal, meaning of you, from your unique point-of-view. And it is an “assay,” derived from a French word meaning “to try” or “to attempt” (Kindle pg. 5)
Books about writing have always been a source of reading enjoyment for me. I have a small bookshelf that I go to now and again. The essays I remember from school were different, not as personal, though a few were because of the nature of the classes. Out of all the writing courses that I’ve taken, one that I gained much from, but that I did not have an interest in pursuing was the journalism feature-writing course. I know my voice; I can hear it and depending on who or what I’m writing about, and my moods, the musical notes may change, but I’m still there. When I wrote my feature pieces for class, my voice seemed to go away. It felt for me that the container was much too rigid. I wouldn’t want to write for a paper or magazine because of the loss of freedom. I’m happy writing and sharing on my blog.
Moore goes on to say, “Here the essence of the form is found: The personal essayist (that would be you) takes a topic—virtually any topic under the yellow sun—and holds it up to the bright light, turning it this way and that, upside and down, studying every perspective, fault, and reflection, in an artful attempt to perceive something fresh and significant. But it is always an effort, a trial, not a lecture or diatribe. The essayist does not sit down at her desk already knowing all the right answers, because if she did, there would be no reason to write” (Kindle pg. 5).
This also makes me reconsider how I view the essay or any other writing. Rather than think of the essay as a label, I can think of it as a container with many possibilities, roads, turnoffs, signals. This to me is more liberating. I also realize that the more containers that I expose myself to, the more that I keep following myself on the page, the more that I see and appreciate the organic-ness of the process. Often times I have no destination. I explore the whites space on the page, pave small roads, plant flower beds, try to figure out what I’m doing or thinking for those moments the light is on. It always feels different. I don’t always know where I’ll end up, and I like that.
This morning for example, I headed out and took a turn. My mind began recalling experiences and though I didn’t know they would fit snug, I followed and then on and on. This has been the way I write when I come to the page. I do my personal morning pages to get the fuzz out. Then I sit for a moment. I power up the laptop and I start typing with whatever idea or thought is there. This morning though I had other pieces on my mind, one that began as a free write a few weeks back to get the thoughts out and the other I mentioned. One is typed up and one still has to come out from the notebook to the typed page. And then that brought me to look for an essay that related to my free write. I looked through the folders on the computer and when I saw a different essay and read it, it was the seed that got my thoughts in motion.
Yes, I’m coming to appreciate the essay container from a whole different perspective. As Moore shares in his book, this is what Annie Dillard has said about the essay form:
“There’s nothing you cannot do with it; no subject matter is forbidden, no structure is proscribed. You get to make up your own structure every time, a structure that arises from the materials and best contains them. The material is the world itself, which, so far, keeps on keeping on” (Kindle pg. 6).
I think back on the English class—the one I mentioned where I wanted to find my own container, to break out of the confines of the basic structure of a college composition course. I wanted to wander. The essay does allow that. My instincts were right and I’m glad to be following wherever the moment leads.
Sometimes we need containers to break out of containers.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Computer Glitches & An Evening with Jonathan Franzen
Breathe… In and out. Computer problems are a good way to practice breathing to keep from becoming too frustrated and that is what I am finding myself doing this morning. As I began reading and commenting on blogs, the internet connection was lost. First a yellow shading across the bars and now a big red X. I turned off the wireless router, turned it back on, and was patient, did my morning pages, stopped when I saw a sign of life and then it died again. It’s been at least 20 minutes now. I’m almost done with my decaf coffee and don’t feel quite satisfied because usually my coffee goes hand in hand with my blog reading. I could shout at the computer, yell profanities into the air, but that wouldn’t do any good. So I calmly breathe, take a big deep breathe and move on to other things, this being one of them. I’ve been running into this internet problem intermittently now for it seems days, even weeks. I’m not sure if it’s the hardware or the service provider.
Breathe. Computers and technology have a way of presenting opportunities to slow down, to step back, be patient, cool off. I don’t feel too annoyed, but I’m aware of wanting to do one thing and then I can’t and I feel like a child whose candy has been taken away. And in my morning page, nothing much was happening and I was thinking about that in general about how writing and to want something to always happen and to be able to convey it without allowing the editor or critic any space. It’s a constant up and down battle in a way, a battle with the self or wanting, to let loose and to know and be familiar with that feeling, of the wild feeling, but of not fully allowing the self to express. And it’s something that Jonathan Franzen said last night in his talk—about loyalty to the writer—that each writer comes to a point where they question who will be affected by what they write and of course when it concerns published work in the form of fiction and non-fiction by a best-selling author your talking about a much wider audience and of course your family or friends will see it and they may be hurt or angry or upset by it, but the writer has to be loyal to self. I needed to hear this advice as a way of breaking open the tight bud that sometimes wont allow its own self to flourish because it hasn’t learned yet to trust itself entirely and it knows there are thorns but the thorns are part of the process—the necessary element; and the bud—tightly wrapped—knows this intuitively and she watches herself and she opens and closes; opens and closes. It’s a long beautiful, ever growing process—a constant death and rebirth of self.
And when he consulted with an old friend on how to handle what he was writing about one day, his friend told him to write around it. Jonathan Franzen tells us we can write through it or write around it.
Franzen is a funny man. He came onto the stage, carrying a black backpack slung over his shoulder and he looked out to us, as with a nod to say hello. It seemed to me that he had this backpack as a way of holding on to something and I like that it was so causal. A backpack. He put the backpack on the table and commented on how he liked the table and everyone laughed. He took a folder from his backpack and opened on the podium, gather his pages. He unscrewed the cap from his water, took a swig. His movements were tentative and deliberate at the same time.
I’ve never read anything by Franzen and I only knew he would be here because I saw the mini-flyers in the library. Of course I wanted to see what this famous author had to say to us about memoir and fiction. In the interim I had checked out a few of his essay collections to get a sense of the man I would see speak. I read the introduction of one and was not immediately pulled into the essays of the first book, but I recognized most of the introduction in the notes that he was reading to us. I was certain of it, though I don’t think he directly mentioned that he would be reading from his book, but I recognized those words and no wonder he would choose to open his talk with the four questions that are usually asked of any published author and so he read through them as though he had prepared the speech for this talk. But then when I did a Wikipedia search, you can find the questions there, I thought, did I imagine reading the words he was speaking? Did I google him and forget? Why did I feel like I’ve heard these words? I don’t know the real answer, but the audience laughed at his delivery. It was informatively funny.
I laughed a lot because he’s funny and his voice reminded me of Steve Martin and also the narrator that also sounds like Steve Martin, narrating Steve Martin’s book An Object of Beauty. He has a punctuated way of speaking, and the way he read his work was how I believe I read it. The way I would read his work, matched his own voice reading his work. I was drawn into his thick black rimmed glasses, that reminded me of Buddy Holly. Physically, his face reminded me of the actor, Tim Robbins. Odd that Franzen made me think of these three people.
By the way, I loved An Object of Beauty. I like Martin’s writing style. His writing is confident and flows. He is in command. I read his novella, Shopgirl, a long time ago and he seems to have a fascination with exploring the relationships of younger woman falling for older men. I can relate to that in my past relationships. He has an acute sense of observation and the way he delves beneath the surface is interesting and seemingly accurate. As An Object of Beauty progressed I found that it was predictable, but for me, that didn’t take away from Martin’s commentary on the art world. I fell for the characters and I learned about what goes on behind the scenes of the art world. If you love art, I think you’ll enjoy this one.
But back to Franzen. I thought it also funny that he said he doesn’t ever google himself, nor does he read reviews of his work. I can imagine that would be a very difficult part of being in the public eye. You put yourself out there and then as will always happen, there is someone that your work doesn’t quite sit with and they let you know and maybe sometimes they aren’t nice about it. That must be a horrible feeling, but as an old friend once said to me about her acceptance of the writer’s life, “You have to learn to eat rejection for breakfast.” Or something along those lines.
Overall, I’m glad to have heard Franzen speak about his work, especially the personal details beneath the writing of Corrections and also of how his first two book ideas were taken from movie plots. Go figure.
I think the event would have been more special for me if I were seeing a fellow Red Room member or author for whose work I’ve followed all these years and new member’s whose work I follow or any Red Room member that I’ve had contact with. And of course any author whose books I’ve read and admired. To me, even though this was a wonderful presentation by a famous author, it didn’t mean as much to me simply because I had no connection to the author. It could have meant more. He was a perfect stranger. He had wise words, yes. He shared, yes. But, and maybe this had something to do with it. I’m not sure. In the very beginning—we started a bit late—he seemed to suggest that he could take as long as he wanted to get those first words out and that he would do his job because, “I’m getting paid to be here.” And someone from the audience quietly said, “Yeah, we paid too.” But, I thought to myself, why would he even mention money at all. Why begin that way. Even though, much later he talked about where part of the proceeds go, it didn’t matter. The way he first presented it left a funny feeling in my being. This was one small moment, possibly overblown by my mind. It’s how I felt, but it didn’t take away from the whole.
Jonathan Franzen seems a funny, intelligent, quirky man. I enjoyed listening to him speak, when he spoke away from his own written words, when he stepped away from the podium, even if mere inches, and I liked when he would take a long pause before answering audience questions.
One person from the audience asked if he saw value in writing groups and he said they could be good, but that it depended on the relationship of the people in the group because that would determine reinforced responsibility or lack of. This made sense. Naturally if there is some connection, some caring, the group tries to adhere to creating a useful and encouraging environment. He also said, “after enough practice, you can see your own work.” I appreciated this advice.
I still have my library copy of Jonathan Franzen’s essays, How to be Alone and I’m looking forward to reading some of his essays. I would like to think I will finish the book, but I don’t think it will be possible with my reading already being pulled in several other directions, as I peck away at the books I’m currently reading.
I appreciate most of all how Franzen holds the physical book up high—that he holds the physical book with such high respect. He mentioned that he does not write his books with the idea that they could be made into a movie. He wants to write a book that does not translate into cinema. He wants the book to be such that it stands on its own and is enjoyed for the contents within its covers and that this experience can only be found in his book, not outside in a movie, but right there, just you and his story.
There is much to admire in Franzen. I’m glad to have been pulled in his direction by way of good marketing on the part of the library that had planned this event for two years I think they said. I am eager to read his essays and eventually his fiction and his new collection of essays, Farther Away.
I’ve tried to ignore the status internet connectivity symbol in the bottom corner of the screen and I seem to have written through it. I’ve been breathing and typing, letting it come out. Finally, after what seems an hour or more and I felt done, I went and turned off the power for the router and waited. I turned on the main computer, as I call it—the one directly connected—and the internet turned on. I went and looked at the wireless router, on hands and knees and noticed the little antenna was pointing toward down. I lifted it up and went to the laptop and iPad, the X at the bottom of my screen disappeared and was replaced by four strong bars of connectivity. Who knew the solution was so simple. It must have gradually been limping downward.
I wasn’t going to write about this experience, but apparently it wanted to come out and mingle with the page, to see what I thought about it and to take the time to appreciate meeting Jonathan Franzen, if only from in my seat, because I didn’t stay longer than when the audience applauded as he sort of skipped off the stage waving to us like a school boy that was going to miss his bus. There he goes…Thank you, Mr. Franzen.
Breathe. Computers and technology have a way of presenting opportunities to slow down, to step back, be patient, cool off. I don’t feel too annoyed, but I’m aware of wanting to do one thing and then I can’t and I feel like a child whose candy has been taken away. And in my morning page, nothing much was happening and I was thinking about that in general about how writing and to want something to always happen and to be able to convey it without allowing the editor or critic any space. It’s a constant up and down battle in a way, a battle with the self or wanting, to let loose and to know and be familiar with that feeling, of the wild feeling, but of not fully allowing the self to express. And it’s something that Jonathan Franzen said last night in his talk—about loyalty to the writer—that each writer comes to a point where they question who will be affected by what they write and of course when it concerns published work in the form of fiction and non-fiction by a best-selling author your talking about a much wider audience and of course your family or friends will see it and they may be hurt or angry or upset by it, but the writer has to be loyal to self. I needed to hear this advice as a way of breaking open the tight bud that sometimes wont allow its own self to flourish because it hasn’t learned yet to trust itself entirely and it knows there are thorns but the thorns are part of the process—the necessary element; and the bud—tightly wrapped—knows this intuitively and she watches herself and she opens and closes; opens and closes. It’s a long beautiful, ever growing process—a constant death and rebirth of self.
And when he consulted with an old friend on how to handle what he was writing about one day, his friend told him to write around it. Jonathan Franzen tells us we can write through it or write around it.
Franzen is a funny man. He came onto the stage, carrying a black backpack slung over his shoulder and he looked out to us, as with a nod to say hello. It seemed to me that he had this backpack as a way of holding on to something and I like that it was so causal. A backpack. He put the backpack on the table and commented on how he liked the table and everyone laughed. He took a folder from his backpack and opened on the podium, gather his pages. He unscrewed the cap from his water, took a swig. His movements were tentative and deliberate at the same time.
I’ve never read anything by Franzen and I only knew he would be here because I saw the mini-flyers in the library. Of course I wanted to see what this famous author had to say to us about memoir and fiction. In the interim I had checked out a few of his essay collections to get a sense of the man I would see speak. I read the introduction of one and was not immediately pulled into the essays of the first book, but I recognized most of the introduction in the notes that he was reading to us. I was certain of it, though I don’t think he directly mentioned that he would be reading from his book, but I recognized those words and no wonder he would choose to open his talk with the four questions that are usually asked of any published author and so he read through them as though he had prepared the speech for this talk. But then when I did a Wikipedia search, you can find the questions there, I thought, did I imagine reading the words he was speaking? Did I google him and forget? Why did I feel like I’ve heard these words? I don’t know the real answer, but the audience laughed at his delivery. It was informatively funny.
I laughed a lot because he’s funny and his voice reminded me of Steve Martin and also the narrator that also sounds like Steve Martin, narrating Steve Martin’s book An Object of Beauty. He has a punctuated way of speaking, and the way he read his work was how I believe I read it. The way I would read his work, matched his own voice reading his work. I was drawn into his thick black rimmed glasses, that reminded me of Buddy Holly. Physically, his face reminded me of the actor, Tim Robbins. Odd that Franzen made me think of these three people.
By the way, I loved An Object of Beauty. I like Martin’s writing style. His writing is confident and flows. He is in command. I read his novella, Shopgirl, a long time ago and he seems to have a fascination with exploring the relationships of younger woman falling for older men. I can relate to that in my past relationships. He has an acute sense of observation and the way he delves beneath the surface is interesting and seemingly accurate. As An Object of Beauty progressed I found that it was predictable, but for me, that didn’t take away from Martin’s commentary on the art world. I fell for the characters and I learned about what goes on behind the scenes of the art world. If you love art, I think you’ll enjoy this one.
But back to Franzen. I thought it also funny that he said he doesn’t ever google himself, nor does he read reviews of his work. I can imagine that would be a very difficult part of being in the public eye. You put yourself out there and then as will always happen, there is someone that your work doesn’t quite sit with and they let you know and maybe sometimes they aren’t nice about it. That must be a horrible feeling, but as an old friend once said to me about her acceptance of the writer’s life, “You have to learn to eat rejection for breakfast.” Or something along those lines.
Overall, I’m glad to have heard Franzen speak about his work, especially the personal details beneath the writing of Corrections and also of how his first two book ideas were taken from movie plots. Go figure.
I think the event would have been more special for me if I were seeing a fellow Red Room member or author for whose work I’ve followed all these years and new member’s whose work I follow or any Red Room member that I’ve had contact with. And of course any author whose books I’ve read and admired. To me, even though this was a wonderful presentation by a famous author, it didn’t mean as much to me simply because I had no connection to the author. It could have meant more. He was a perfect stranger. He had wise words, yes. He shared, yes. But, and maybe this had something to do with it. I’m not sure. In the very beginning—we started a bit late—he seemed to suggest that he could take as long as he wanted to get those first words out and that he would do his job because, “I’m getting paid to be here.” And someone from the audience quietly said, “Yeah, we paid too.” But, I thought to myself, why would he even mention money at all. Why begin that way. Even though, much later he talked about where part of the proceeds go, it didn’t matter. The way he first presented it left a funny feeling in my being. This was one small moment, possibly overblown by my mind. It’s how I felt, but it didn’t take away from the whole.
Jonathan Franzen seems a funny, intelligent, quirky man. I enjoyed listening to him speak, when he spoke away from his own written words, when he stepped away from the podium, even if mere inches, and I liked when he would take a long pause before answering audience questions.
One person from the audience asked if he saw value in writing groups and he said they could be good, but that it depended on the relationship of the people in the group because that would determine reinforced responsibility or lack of. This made sense. Naturally if there is some connection, some caring, the group tries to adhere to creating a useful and encouraging environment. He also said, “after enough practice, you can see your own work.” I appreciated this advice.
I still have my library copy of Jonathan Franzen’s essays, How to be Alone and I’m looking forward to reading some of his essays. I would like to think I will finish the book, but I don’t think it will be possible with my reading already being pulled in several other directions, as I peck away at the books I’m currently reading.
I appreciate most of all how Franzen holds the physical book up high—that he holds the physical book with such high respect. He mentioned that he does not write his books with the idea that they could be made into a movie. He wants to write a book that does not translate into cinema. He wants the book to be such that it stands on its own and is enjoyed for the contents within its covers and that this experience can only be found in his book, not outside in a movie, but right there, just you and his story.
There is much to admire in Franzen. I’m glad to have been pulled in his direction by way of good marketing on the part of the library that had planned this event for two years I think they said. I am eager to read his essays and eventually his fiction and his new collection of essays, Farther Away.
I’ve tried to ignore the status internet connectivity symbol in the bottom corner of the screen and I seem to have written through it. I’ve been breathing and typing, letting it come out. Finally, after what seems an hour or more and I felt done, I went and turned off the power for the router and waited. I turned on the main computer, as I call it—the one directly connected—and the internet turned on. I went and looked at the wireless router, on hands and knees and noticed the little antenna was pointing toward down. I lifted it up and went to the laptop and iPad, the X at the bottom of my screen disappeared and was replaced by four strong bars of connectivity. Who knew the solution was so simple. It must have gradually been limping downward.
I wasn’t going to write about this experience, but apparently it wanted to come out and mingle with the page, to see what I thought about it and to take the time to appreciate meeting Jonathan Franzen, if only from in my seat, because I didn’t stay longer than when the audience applauded as he sort of skipped off the stage waving to us like a school boy that was going to miss his bus. There he goes…Thank you, Mr. Franzen.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Leaning trees
Leaning trees
berries hanging
Pulling
Bear thy fruits
Unload yourselves
young tender shoots
Amongst mature wise bark,
lean on each other, bear
thy weight together.
**
Endnote:
I enjoy being the passenger in a car. The freeway especially allows me to enter into the moment. This small poem came to me on October 15, 2011. I was watching the road and noticing and absorbing what I saw. I wasn’t thinking. Words started forming, so I unzipped my bag and pulled out the little blue notebook the size of a credit card. It’s a Moleskin—my favorite. I also have a larger sized one in there, but the moment decides which one I will select.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Blank Page for Today
Feeling blank, yet full. I told myself that I wasn’t going to write about feeling blank, but I cant fight it. I can only follow its lead into the dance, let him lead the way. I give my hand—ready to surrender. I no know other way. I must give up the need to control and I have gotten better with that. Yoda’s words leap into my awareness: “Don’t try, just do.” I accept that there will be many “blank page” moments, I embrace it, and I tell myself that I shouldn’t be embarrassed to write and share them when they occur.
Two days ago I was taken by that solitary bird that I saw sitting up high in the bare tree. Simple. We may see this image everyday, but it meant so much to me. It spoke deeply to me. I saw it from the freeway. I was not driving, so I looked for as long as I could and took my notebook out, sketched the simple image as a reminder and wrote a few words to try and capture the moment. Later when I reflected on Red Room Member, Nancy Smith’s (Nan’s) “Connections???” blog comment back to me about why she writes Haiku. We were talking about connections and coincidences and She said, “I think that may be part of the reason I write Haiku (making connections between nature and myself). Or I may be just deluding myself.” Well from the little bit I understand about Haiku, Nan’s definitely not deluding herself. And though I have read haiku a little bit, I never tried to write one in the 5-7-5 syllable three line count. I found it very challenging. I liked the utter simplicity, almost childlikeness of my original words, nothing particularly unique, but it’s what I saw and it was a way for me to remember. If anything, the “trying” may have taken some of the spontaneous steam out of me.
That’s why usually when I write, I write. But there are times, of course, when I do some planning; well, maybe not so much planning—OK, it must be planning. I suppose it really depends on what it is I’m writing. I like using different containers to write in and sometimes it’s pure free write, other times, I edit as best I can, cutting, adding, cutting. I don’t know that I will spend too much time writing haiku in the future. Nature and I have always been close and she and he have spoken to me and I think that for now, I may stick to letting the words of expression come as they will because I reminded myself that when I try, I get locked up. On the other hand, it’s a good exercise for me to incorporate both trying and not trying.
The other connection that occurred is when I went to the bookshelf and pulled, One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers by Gail Sher. It’s a book I always come back to because I feel like I’m visiting an old friend. In her introduction she shares how in order to get herself back to writing she wrote one haiku a day for several years. Another nugget that spoke to me from her introduction is when she says, “Writing comes like an urge or a pulse, not to say something; but to be with words as they arise and then to shape them or craft them. The words could be wood. It makes no difference.” I’ve read this book at least two times in my life and this will be my third. This time, I underlined those words. It makes me feel alive when I read words that speak directly to me, that resonate so deeply with me and in their own way encourage me and explain an experience for me in a way that gets right to the core. I jump up in excitement!
This also led me to download a “Kindle Single” as the shorter works are referred to, an essay, rather than a full e-book titled, “The Heart of Haiku” by Jane Hirshfield.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Process ~ Introverted Saturday, Coffee, Books
Yesterday was a wonderfully introverted day. I woke and wrote my “morning pages,” made a cup of coffee and settled into reading blogs, and then I knew it would be a pure reading day. A day off from school work, which I too am enjoying, but it was nice to take a break.
I visited with a friend the previous day and we’re both reading Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. He had mentioned a week prior that he started to read it and was really enjoying it. I told him that I had read a few of Murakami’s short story’s and had wanted to read one of his novels, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Talking about it with him, I got exited, and I wasn’t already committed to any one book, so I checked it out from the library. When we met yesterday for coffee, I was only 67 pages into it and he was already at page 200, so I was able to give my impressions so far and we talked only up to the point I had read. It’s an interesting story, with many strange coincidences. I wish that I knew how it read in the original Japanese because I’m imagining that there are some additional nuances that probably don’t translate over. It’s just a hunch. Nevertheless, I am enjoying the ride—and it does feel very much like an adventure with many messages embedded within the connecting story’s.
I made more progress yesterday on The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, but I found that I needed a break from the story. I decided to revisit a book called, Books that Changed the World. Because of a conversation I had, I decided to read the chapter on Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams. And then I pulled out the slender, A Primer of Freudian Psychology. I was specifically interested in re-reading about the Ego and how it works together with the Id and the Superego. I feel that the term Ego is often taken out of its original context and is often used to point out the negative aspect of our personalities. It’s true that if the Id, Ego, and Superego are not working in harmony, things can grow out of control, but on the whole I feel the concept of Ego is misused. That’s just my opinion and I’ve thought of exploring this separately with examples.
I suppose my mind was taking advantage of having a day of choices. I peeked into a couple other books: Ten Theories of Human Nature. I immediately went to the section on Plato and randomly read a few paragraphs on his theory of forms, which I have always found fascinating. I enjoy the process of taking small bits and digesting them, inviting them into my consciousness to see how they will meet with other writings I enjoy, or even with how I go about my days. Some things I can only take in small doses. Next I took a look at The Inner West: An Introduction to the Hidden Wisdom of the West. I jumped to certain parts and began reading. I jumped around, got lured into a few, but never stayed too long in any one part.
Was it the combination of this conversation over coffee and reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, that had me begin pulling these different books out? The last one I pulled and decided to read where I left off months ago, was a novel by Jostein Gaarder called The Solitaire Mystery. It seemed in my mind to go along with the good strangeness of Murakami’s novel. I learned that there is a Japanese word for this called “Myo.” I first learned about this word in Lydia Minatoya’s novel, The Strangeness of Beauty. There is a passage in her novel where she describes this word, “myo”, as “The art of creating ‘strange beauty.’” I began this one in July, but I have the bookmark in it, ready to come back to it. It is a novel to be absorbed and one that I want to savor.
When my friend and I were talking about literature, I was ashamed to say that I have not read any Steinbeck. He was required reading in high school, but I didn’t enjoy high school, and literature and reading hadn’t yet entered my life in a significant way. It was not something I had any interest in. When I did start reading, it seized me, but I chose to read what I wanted and for some reason I had it in my mind that I would read European writers because I felt they would have a depth to them that matched what I was capable of feeling inside. Even if I could not relate to the specific experiences, I would be able to connect to the feelings of loneliness, isolation, and whatever deep dark feelings these characters experienced. I bypassed many American writers until I began taking more English courses. As the years have gone on, I have picked up books with the intention of hopefully one day actually reading them. I liked having them, so if a flash came, I could go to the shelves and get what I wanted. And so yesterday, I knew I had picked up a Steinbeck book, but I couldn’t remember which one. I went to the shelf and found The Pearl. Because I was on a reading buzz yesterday, I took it to my reading spot, and began reading. It’s a slim book of only 118 pages. I was immediately hooked with the writing, the characters, the story. And a bonus for me was that it took place in the fishing village of Nayarit, Mexico, where my grandmother was born. It softened my heart immediately and made me want to read the story that much more. I didn’t want to finish it in one setting, so I set it aside, knowing that some time today or tomorrow I would finish it. It’s a sad story really. The subject manner is indeed timeless, relevant. If I were an English teacher, this would be a novel I’d like to teach. It may not seem to have a whole lot going on, but I feel that what it does offer is something that we should never lose sight of, and I will leave it at that.
This morning, I continued on with Murakami’s novel and it’s getting more interesting with each chapter. I then went to my shelf again and scanned it. Another shame: I’ve never read any Jack London! So, I pulled The Call of the Wild and Selected Stories and decided I would try to read a little from it today. Since he was born in San Francisco, near enough to the area where I live, I feel that I should become acquainted with him. I don’t like the word should, but in this case it feels appropriate. Not only that, as a person that loves nature and animals, I think I will appreciate his writing very much.
And so, tomorrow, I won’t have as much leisure time when I go back to work and the school week begins again. It sure does make one appreciate spending a day immersed in all sorts of books. I didn’t leave the house all day yesterday. I almost did because I wanted fresh tamales from the market. I resisted though—didn’t want to break my flow. I was able to find things to eat, even though I need to go grocery shopping. That could have posed a real problem.
Today, though, I will venture out and breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the after effects of visiting so many worlds yesterday.
I visited with a friend the previous day and we’re both reading Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. He had mentioned a week prior that he started to read it and was really enjoying it. I told him that I had read a few of Murakami’s short story’s and had wanted to read one of his novels, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Talking about it with him, I got exited, and I wasn’t already committed to any one book, so I checked it out from the library. When we met yesterday for coffee, I was only 67 pages into it and he was already at page 200, so I was able to give my impressions so far and we talked only up to the point I had read. It’s an interesting story, with many strange coincidences. I wish that I knew how it read in the original Japanese because I’m imagining that there are some additional nuances that probably don’t translate over. It’s just a hunch. Nevertheless, I am enjoying the ride—and it does feel very much like an adventure with many messages embedded within the connecting story’s.
I made more progress yesterday on The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, but I found that I needed a break from the story. I decided to revisit a book called, Books that Changed the World. Because of a conversation I had, I decided to read the chapter on Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams. And then I pulled out the slender, A Primer of Freudian Psychology. I was specifically interested in re-reading about the Ego and how it works together with the Id and the Superego. I feel that the term Ego is often taken out of its original context and is often used to point out the negative aspect of our personalities. It’s true that if the Id, Ego, and Superego are not working in harmony, things can grow out of control, but on the whole I feel the concept of Ego is misused. That’s just my opinion and I’ve thought of exploring this separately with examples.
I suppose my mind was taking advantage of having a day of choices. I peeked into a couple other books: Ten Theories of Human Nature. I immediately went to the section on Plato and randomly read a few paragraphs on his theory of forms, which I have always found fascinating. I enjoy the process of taking small bits and digesting them, inviting them into my consciousness to see how they will meet with other writings I enjoy, or even with how I go about my days. Some things I can only take in small doses. Next I took a look at The Inner West: An Introduction to the Hidden Wisdom of the West. I jumped to certain parts and began reading. I jumped around, got lured into a few, but never stayed too long in any one part.
Was it the combination of this conversation over coffee and reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, that had me begin pulling these different books out? The last one I pulled and decided to read where I left off months ago, was a novel by Jostein Gaarder called The Solitaire Mystery. It seemed in my mind to go along with the good strangeness of Murakami’s novel. I learned that there is a Japanese word for this called “Myo.” I first learned about this word in Lydia Minatoya’s novel, The Strangeness of Beauty. There is a passage in her novel where she describes this word, “myo”, as “The art of creating ‘strange beauty.’” I began this one in July, but I have the bookmark in it, ready to come back to it. It is a novel to be absorbed and one that I want to savor.
When my friend and I were talking about literature, I was ashamed to say that I have not read any Steinbeck. He was required reading in high school, but I didn’t enjoy high school, and literature and reading hadn’t yet entered my life in a significant way. It was not something I had any interest in. When I did start reading, it seized me, but I chose to read what I wanted and for some reason I had it in my mind that I would read European writers because I felt they would have a depth to them that matched what I was capable of feeling inside. Even if I could not relate to the specific experiences, I would be able to connect to the feelings of loneliness, isolation, and whatever deep dark feelings these characters experienced. I bypassed many American writers until I began taking more English courses. As the years have gone on, I have picked up books with the intention of hopefully one day actually reading them. I liked having them, so if a flash came, I could go to the shelves and get what I wanted. And so yesterday, I knew I had picked up a Steinbeck book, but I couldn’t remember which one. I went to the shelf and found The Pearl. Because I was on a reading buzz yesterday, I took it to my reading spot, and began reading. It’s a slim book of only 118 pages. I was immediately hooked with the writing, the characters, the story. And a bonus for me was that it took place in the fishing village of Nayarit, Mexico, where my grandmother was born. It softened my heart immediately and made me want to read the story that much more. I didn’t want to finish it in one setting, so I set it aside, knowing that some time today or tomorrow I would finish it. It’s a sad story really. The subject manner is indeed timeless, relevant. If I were an English teacher, this would be a novel I’d like to teach. It may not seem to have a whole lot going on, but I feel that what it does offer is something that we should never lose sight of, and I will leave it at that.
This morning, I continued on with Murakami’s novel and it’s getting more interesting with each chapter. I then went to my shelf again and scanned it. Another shame: I’ve never read any Jack London! So, I pulled The Call of the Wild and Selected Stories and decided I would try to read a little from it today. Since he was born in San Francisco, near enough to the area where I live, I feel that I should become acquainted with him. I don’t like the word should, but in this case it feels appropriate. Not only that, as a person that loves nature and animals, I think I will appreciate his writing very much.
And so, tomorrow, I won’t have as much leisure time when I go back to work and the school week begins again. It sure does make one appreciate spending a day immersed in all sorts of books. I didn’t leave the house all day yesterday. I almost did because I wanted fresh tamales from the market. I resisted though—didn’t want to break my flow. I was able to find things to eat, even though I need to go grocery shopping. That could have posed a real problem.
Today, though, I will venture out and breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the after effects of visiting so many worlds yesterday.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Sound of Wings
A weary beginning to the day. Not a too sound night. Asleep with a low lamp on. Woken by the sound of a clickity-buzz and then a soft landing right next to my ear. I quickly sit up, look to find a cricket that managed to miss my head by millimeters. He flew into the pillow beside me and was nestled inside, right at the edge. In swift fashion, I get up to grab my glass and small book. Scoot—in he goes. I set the glass covered with the book on top on the kitchen counter until morning to release him.
I’ve grown accustomed to the sound the spider makes when he sometimes jumps down upon the chest of drawers or some other hard surface. And I’ve grown accustomed to look for him in the crevices he likes to wedge himself into and sometimes when I wake in the night, I look to make sure he’s not above me. I prefer when he’s not above me, prefer when he’s in his corner. This one in particular, is too hard to capture because he stays up high, and when he comes down the wall, he’s quick. Always, if I can, I take spiders outside. One day recently though, he or she was much too large for me to handle and I had to do what I didn’t want to do. I wrote about the experience in my notebook. I still feel traumatized by the whole thing and I suppose it is still filtering out of my system.
I much prefer the sound of a million wings flying through the sky…
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