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Ah, Hemingway…
I cuddled with a statue of Hemingway when I was in Cuba, and I have a fondness for polydactylic cats, but other than that, I’ve got to say, I get a bit tired of him being held up as all that and a bag of chips every time someone talks writing.
What of the wonderful other writers, those that used long sentences, those that write of non-manly, non-war-related things. Women. You know, them.
Does it ever seem to you that, of the entire panoply of female writers, only Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath get any press time? With maybe the occasional Maya Angelou and Margaret Atwood tossed in “from afar” as my mother in law used to say about currants in unsatisfactory Christmas cakes?
It’s gotta stop. So now and again, I’m going to hunt out famous female writers (some of whom not so famous, cos, as we know, there’s that publication bias out there) and put their writing quotes in this blog. Just for fun.
Here’s the first, from Goodreads! Yay! From one of my favourite writers, too, and so true.
“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.”
― Madeleine L’Engle
Last lines…
Everyone talks about the importance of the first line in your story, long or short, but there is often such grace in the last line that they need to be mentioned.
The last line can give you a punch, a feeling of “whoa!”, and last lingering taste of the story, that makes it live in your head long after you are done.
The short story “How Far She Went” by Mary Hood, as featured in Janet Burroway’s “Writing Fiction” (2nd edition, pp. 207-213) is an excellent example. The story itself is filled with imagery, familial history, danger, and sadness. It concerns a rebellious teenager who has been left at her grandmother’s by her father. The entire story is worth a read, but my breath caught in my throat when I read this last line:
“The girl walked close behind her, exactly where she walked, matching her pace, matching her stride, close enough to put her hand forth (if the need arose) and touch her granny’s back where the faded voile was clinging damp, the merest gauze between their wounds.”
The whole story, the girl’s turnaround, the meat of what happened, is captured in that line.
The more I read it, the more it hits me. Not a word too many, or a word too few. And yet, everything.
Drifting gaily along
I signed up for Sarah Selecky’s excellent Story is a state of Mind online course and I’m in the intensive mode, where we actually have to do the work and get in assignments and such.
This latest one is freaking me out a bit, especially in line with Nanowrimo. For both things, I’m doing what Sarah calls “drift” – holding my pen like it’s going to write independently, and then relaxing and letting my mind go, letting my subconscious find it’s own way, let things float by and pour out on the page.
I find this approach helpful for first drafts. I start with a sketch of a character and then let them explore their world, showing parts of themselves in every interaction.
The challenge is trying to do it with two very different stories simultaneously.
It’s like multitasking, and me poor wee MS brain doesn’t do that so well these days.
So, if you see me and my eyes are spinning in two different directions, bear with me. I’m following a hero and a demon. They aren’t drifting together….
Though maybe they could…hmmmmm.
Oh, Mae West, how I wish I’d known you…
“Whenever I have to choose between two evils, I always like to try the one I haven’t tried before”, she said.
She sounds like me, totally resistant to treading the same path, always looking for new experiences, unable to commit to a true path, even in evils.
I’m doing the 3rd chapter of The Artist’s Way and it is about recovering power and healing the childhood hurts that exist within us. I find this, on page 68, talking about the fear of punishment:
“Many artists begin a piece of work, get well along in it, and then find, as they near completion, that the work seems mysteriously drained of merit. It’s no longer worth the trouble. To therapists, this sudden surge of disinterest (“It doesn’t matter”) is a routine coping device employed to deny pain and ward off vulnerability.”
Aha.
A wise friend of mine told me yesterday that both she and I are adjusting to being “visible” again, putting ourselves out there where we can be seen and judged. My son recently asked me why I never send writing to magazines and such, only enter contests and classes. I know why I do. If I have to rush to a deadline, or submit to a crazy set of protocols or be a student, I can make the result not matter, still be part of my learning. I’m not ready to take the training wheels off, for some reason. So instead I leap from activity to activity, trying out the new activities…instead of focusing on one or two and seeing it to the end point. It’s like when I did pottery classes and pulled up cylinders, only to cut every single one in half to see how even I’d made it, never seeing the piece to its final stages.
All of this is a part of the recovery I am working on – the recovery of self-esteem after the loss of my job in horrible disarray after my diagnosis of MS and later breakdown, the recovery of my soul after a long time ignoring it and covering it over with iron and glass, the recovery of the ability to accept love, maybe even return it, after marital and familial wounds. Been hurt, yes, still smarting, yes. It’s gone far enough I do not allow myself a moment’s pride in what I have accomplished. I need to get past this.
I’d like to sit with Mae, have a cigar, talk about where she really was about this evils thing,
and whether her tough exterior covered a world of hurt and self-doubt, and how she pulled her spirit out of that and moved on.
#3Daynovel: day one
So yesterday I had come up with all the reasons why I wanted to spend yet another glorious Labour Day weekend hunched over a computer trying to wrench words out of my head.
Perhaps it will rain, I reasoned. Maybe it will be cold and grey and I won’t feel like I’m missing the last few hours of summer.
Nope. It’s spectacular out there today – sun shining, pooffy little white clouds making the sky look EVEN BLUER, cool breeze but still summery.
And here I sit, bum going numb, brain freezing, 5000+ words of drivel written so far.
It’s still at the give up point. I could stop anytime. And yet, it’s that freedom to stop that pushes me forward, makes me want to complete it once again. By this time tomorrow, I no doubt will have decided that it makes more sense to work on existing projects than waste time grinding out what may be utter junk. I always do around then. I ignore myself and plunge on.
Or I may hit that sweet spot, that bit where your characters take over and you are dying to see what happens to them as you throw obstacles in their way.
And that is why I do this, again and again. That feeling is the best one out there in writing, for me (well, except getting paid, or winning a prize or whatever). No, it’s even bigger than those, because at that mystical time, you know, you know for sure and certain, that you are blessed.
Like the musician playing or singing the perfect note, like the artist with that perfect paint stroke, you are in the creative zone. And there just ain’t any better place to be.
Connecting to the writing muse
I am SUCH a bad working writer.
I can find more ways to procrastinate about writing than there are words in a thesaurus. I clean my house, I putter with kitchen objects, I decide to repot plants, I do laundry, fer the love of Shakespeare.
I’m getting tired of myself. It’s time to get to work, get things done, move forward. Instead I find reasons to read books, watch tv, walk about, exercise…spend time with friends…
Yah, I know. Exercise is a good thing. Reading is a good thing. Friends are important.
But life passes on with very little to show for it, and it is getting to ridiculous times.
Today I am revising my novella or perishing in the attempt. It’s going to be hotter than stink today so I have no excuse or capability to do anything but sit and write.
Well, unless I hang out with my birdies and let them out for a play…
Dang.
I am so good at thinking of escapes. Now I need to be great at applying myself!
Filling the bucket
I’ve been feeling creatively dry of late, unwilling to try new tasks or complete others, stymied by the MS and Intimacy book, wanting to see progress in some area of my life.
I hate this. I bore myself. Can’t stand being boring. Sit about thinking boring thoughts. Hate myself more.
Wander aimlessly through life, slogging here and there, grey. Look at my projects. Look away. Let dishes pile up.
It feels a lot like depression, but that’s fooled me before. In reality it means I need spiritual filling.
It’s a bit like having a peanut butter sandwich without enough peanut butter. You can eat if, but it isn’t pleasant, and you kind of wish you hadn’t.
So, to extract myself, I need:
– small goals – the course I am soon facilitating talks about “action plans”, things you can implement that are doable with a certain degree of certainty. I’ve decided my goal is to revise the outline for my book to make it shorter, punchier. Less preachy, more fun. Less work, too. More pictures. I’m wondering what sort of animal we should use to replace people for positioning. Maybe stick people with additional parts. Hee hee.
– input – I met my co facilitator for the Your Way to Wellness program and he’s an interesting fellow. We met in my fave cafe, Cafe Brea, where I replenished myself with delicious coffee and a tasty maple oatcake. I am replete and a tiny bit over caffeinated. Melita has classical music playing in the background, there’s gentle conversation all about, and everyone is smiling. My heart is cheered.
– something to look forward to – I’m off on a friend and family tour of Ontario next week. While I hate to leave NS in summer, I am so looking forward to reconnecting with old chums (and meeting a new one) I can’t wait. Plus I am child enough to relish the thought of plane rides. I haven’t flown enough for them to be boring yet. AND I’m hoping to get as a rental car one of those little FIATs – poop poop! I envision myself a la Mr. Toad of Wind in the Willows, endangering man and beast as I swoop about.
– the ocean – I had a good friend come with me to a beach the other day. He was too chicken to put his toes in the water, but I did – it is 2 seconds to ache still, but it is, after all, the great and magnificent Atlantic Ocean and can hardly be expected to meet we small mortal’s demands for warmth.
My bucket is filling, slowly but surely. Tiny steps, smiles, and laughter. It’s a wonderful world out there….
Overwhelmed with reading others’ writing
In Desiderata, the author tells us to avoid comparing ourselves with others as it will leave us either vain or bitter – there will always be those greater and lesser than ourselves.
How right, how true. Especially when it comes to writing.
Sometimes I wander through a bookstore or see what books are being launched every week and am humbled, defeated by all those wonderful stories out there that others are telling much better than I ever could. My writing seems unnecessary except to me, unimportant, wasteful of time and resources. My friends, when they see me in despair, say “why are you doing this, anyway?”, and then there’s always Dorothy Parker and her advice to tell budding writers to give it up while they are still happy.
I become bitter by turns, think hateful thoughts about successful authors, grumble to myself.
And then I read some stories and can feel glee and schadenfreude creeping over me.
“Oh, this is perfectly horrid,” I think. ” I KNOW I write better than THIS!”
Suddenly I feel inspired, right to write, even feel I must write if only to help repair the damage done to literature by these sloppy attempts.
I sway between these points, always awash in despair or joy. Madness.
But can I share a pet peeve?
I am so so tired of people thinking that merely putting things down on paper is writing. That it requires no practice or training or editing or research or even (gasp) reading.
Sheesh.
Sure, there’s such thing as inspiration. I have that a lot. It’s easy to come up with little ditties.
Putting together a coherent story?
Well, that takes practice and damn hard work.
I am agog with admiration at those who succeed at this. And frustrated beyond belief by people who throw a few words down on a plate like a pile of spaghetti and think they are on the same level.
Not that I haven’t done some of that myself, mind you. I apologize to all of you out there who have had to read my messes. You have my sympathy.
But hey, for a moment, didn’t you think, even to yourself, how happy you were about your writing, in contrast to mine?
Every writer needs a perfect cafe
Hemingway had his bars. I need my cafe. There’s something perfect about the combo of really good coffee and the occasional goodies, background music you have no control over(so therefore cannot fuss over), and the snippets of conversation that slide through your consciousness that makes for the perfect writing space.
Add the inability to do household chores and the difficulty people have in reaching you, and the situation is almost perfect.
My favorite cafe of late is my local Cafe Brea, hidden across from the Penhorn mall in Dartmouth. I love it here. The staff and owner are friendly, supportive, and unobtrusive. The coffee- to die for. We won’t mention the treats.
Really, though, any friendly cafe will do. They have to tolerate you hanging about, so be good with tips, get to know the people, make sure to match buying with seat occupancy, and be ready to clear out if more paying bodies are trying to find seats. Then settle in, and write. I prefer to write in cafe with pen and notebook, and save a page for overheard conversations.
Of course, I haven’t tried writing in a bar….hmmm.
DA's Ephemera and Etceteras 