Writer By Night

Friday night I was driving from South Buffalo to a friend’s house in Amherst. The radio was playing all kinds of awful music, so I turned it off and just drove. I kept being struck by how familiar the roads were–the roads I grew up with, that I know like the back of my hand without having ever really learned them. And yet, living farther away, having less reason to travel them, they become something from the past. At what point, though? At what point does the familiar become nostalgia?

I was feeling odd, thinky feelings as I drove through, imagining characters I may or may not ever use in my writing, wondering what the point would be in creating them, in sharing my own moments with the world under the cover of fiction… and then I was marveling at how naturally it all came to me, the feeling, the understanding of it, the ineffability of it all but the knowledge that through character and actions and dialogue and scenes I could still convey the feeling, and all that went with it. I cannot name it, I cannot describe it in any number of details that would really do it justice. But I can set up a frame and an image that draws the eye to what I mean to convey.

And isn’t that an odd thing to realize? A writer does not show you what s/he means to say with his/her actual words. S/he writes around the idea, using words to sculpt and direct and evoke thought and feeling, not to directly express anything at all.

On Saturday, I was on my way to the grocery store to pick up some things for dinner, and I decided to try the radio again. I tuned it to WNED, the local classical station, and they were broadcasting live from the Metropolitan Opera. It was a contralto, and a mezzo soprano, and I don’t really know if they were singing one song together or two songs right after another, but there was something in the almost-immaculate pitch and timbre and tone of their voices that actually brought tears to my eyes (the echo of perfection is, to me, made all the more perfect by the rasp of a flaw). It wasn’t a sad song. It wasn’t particularly joyful. It was something much harder to express, those in between emotions of real life: realization, understanding, existing, enduring. I sat in my car in the parking lot for five minutes while the song concluded, and felt utterly moved, and alive, and content. (I found out later that it was Handel’s Rodelinda)

At night, after we brought our Christmas tree home and filled the whole house with the scent of pine, my husband and I watched The Cave of Forgotten Dreams on Netflix streaming. It’s a documentary about the Chauvet Cave in France, where they’ve discovered the oldest artwork in the history of mankind. And it is beautiful.

These stills, of course, do not do it justice.

Watching the film, seeing how haunted the scientists were (being surrounded by the ghosts of prehistoric man) I couldn’t help but wonder what drove humans to make those drawings–single-handed, by torch light, scraping away the first layer of the uneven walls to get to the white beneath, then using the charred remains of their fire to depict with mind-blowing accuracy the essence of an animal. Many of the animals looked like the artist only tried to capture the shadows on and around them, never defining their shape with solid lines and curves. Some of the drawings even suggested movement, a kind of “proto-cinema” as one scientist said. And they suggested that, with the play of shadows on the uneven walls cast from firelight, the animals draw could appear to be very much alive at times.

What was it that drove our ancestors to draw on cave walls? Is it the same thing that drives us to create today? Maybe it was a desire to be remembered, to leave a fingerprint on the world for future generations. Did the cave man in question simply want to tell a story? And at what point does this ancient, human compulsion to tell stories and reproduce the world around us become what we call art? (*sigh* I miss my anthropology classes sometimes.)

Anyway, I think you should all go out and watch that movie. Ask yourself where your motivation comes from. Think about your stories, your creations, your life–do you live your life and make your art in the hopes of being remembered? Or do you live your life and create your art because you are moved to, because the world around you begs to be captured and shared in charcoal and words and paint and sound? And if it does, then why do you think it does?

There are no wrong answers. I just think these are interesting questions to ask ourselves, as individual human beings, inextricably connected to our own species, and also, of course, as artists.

Thinky thoughts, my friends.

The past few weeks since the conference have been insane, so I apologize for the lack of recap posts. But it’s been a good insanity–I’ve been preparing THE HIEROPHANT for submission to the agents who requested it at Backspace. I’m halfway through my final read-through, and then I will send it out tonight before dinner.

Before I do that though (and before I vanish from the internet for the holiday here in the US), I thought it would be nice to pause and take stock. So here’s a little gratitude post to pave the way for the Thanksgiving weekend.

What am I grateful for? I can’t list it all–there is way too much. For the purpose of this blog I feel it’s probably okay to limit it to things creativity-related. So without further ado, and in no particular order, here is a list:

-Stories. Books, movies, plays, musicals, ballads, songs, poems, pictures, moments, snatches of phrases, misheard lyrics, out of context observations… stories are everywhere, in everything, if you know how to look for them. And stories are the things that fuel me as a human being, as a spiritual being, and of course, as a writer. I once told my best friend “in our veins there’s one part ink, one part blood, and one part magic.” And that is the honest truth.

-Technology. Seriously. Laptops, word processing software, Scrivener, email and Google docs, Kindle… all of these things make the life of a writer SO MUCH EASIER than it could be. Not to mention the all-mighty power of THE INTERNET, connecting us to so many other brilliant and creative minds–such a wealth of information and content and wisdom making our lives that much richer.

-My husband. Endless, endless, endless faith and support, from doing my chores for me when “I MUST WRITE NOW,” to making me laugh when I’m in a pit of despair, to periodically texting me when I’m out on a writing date just to tell me he believes in me. What can I say? He’s my inspiration. I love him (for more than just that, but we’re keeping it creativity-related! ;D).

-My best (girl)friend. Yes, my husband is an endless pillar of strength for me as I face the terrifying lows and dizzying heights of the creative life. But my best friend and fellow Inkmaiden, Sarah Diemer, is my soul sister. She dares me to be more than all that I can be. She inspires me with her courage, her audacity, and by gods her WRITING. Together, we have traversed the wastelands of writers block. We have challenged each other to finish that novel, and then start another. We know each other’s patterns in our writerly love affairs. We know that at the heart of what we do is our pure, unfettered love for the magic that comes with storytelling, with creating. We will never, ever, ever let each other give up on that love.

-My Family. When I was six years old and I told my mother that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, she told me I had better learn how to spell first. And when I was ten and I told her again, she said I had better write a novel first. When I was eleven and told her I had written a novel, she said I had better type it up, and lent me the use of her word processor. When I was thirteen and I told my parents I needed my own computer so that I could write my novels in my room, they helped me save my pennies and buy one, used, from a neighbor. When I announced my decision to self publish The Poppet and the Lune, my family did not tell me I was throwing away my career or giving up or that maybe it wasn’t getting picked up for a reason. They said “Good. I don’t think you should wait around for other people to give you permission. The world needs that book.” (And then my lawyer bother and entrepreneurial parents helped me organize the business end, and my other brother helped me make this website.) They have never tried to fool me into thinking I was a better writer than I am–they have not coddled me, or told me that this career would be easy. But more importantly, they never told me to reconsider. They have all, always, believed. And that is beyond priceless.

-People. My continuous source of inspiration. All of our oddities, our beauty, our ugliness, our fear, our hope. The way we interact with each other and our environment. The ways we change, and the ways we stay the same. Humanity, and a desire to capture it in a meaningful way, is at the heart of every story we tell. I am grateful for all of you out there continuing to live your own stories, inspiring me, and other writers, just by being who you are.

…So that is my list at the moment. I could go on an on, but, you know, I’m also grateful to have this day job, so I should probably get back to work.

What are some things you’re grateful for this Thanksgiving?

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, “thank you,” that would suffice.  ~Meister Eckhart

I was inspired by a post on twitter that my friend Sarah Diemer made about writing to her old college professor, the one who helped her to believe in her writing. It reminded me of the people in my life that I have wanted to thank for a long time, who always believed in my writing even when I couldn’t find a way to believe in it myself.

Two of those people are dead, unfortunately: my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Gauger, and my paternal grandmother, Florence (to whom The Poppet and the Lune is dedicated). My grandmother always knew I’d be a great, best selling, prolific author someday (I’m being patient), and I didn’t get to thank her for her confidence in me before she died. But I loved her and would miss her for so much more than just being my cheerleader. And besides, I like to think that she hears my gratitude now even better than before.

For a long time after I got over my massive creative block (after high school), I wanted to write Mrs. Gauger a letter, but I hesitated. She had retired the year after I’d been in her class, so we weren’t able to stay in touch. And, to be perfectly honest, I have a lot of awful memories associated with my middle school and high school (a lot of it contributed to that massive creative block mentioned earlier) so I never wanted to contact them. I would occasionally Google her name, or look in the phone book, but that never yielded anything useful. I sat on it for a while, every now and then feeling really bad about not being able to contact her. Then, finally, I just wrote the letter.

It was short and sweet and honest, and everything I wanted to say just poured out onto the page. I hand wrote it. Who hand writes letters anymore? I thought she’d appreciate it, since she taught me how to write in cursive (I know, fifth grade is late for that apparently, or so I’ve been told). I talked about how she had taught me to appreciate good stories, to explore genres, and to believe in my love of telling stories, and my talent for it. (She was so impressed with a short story I wrote back then that she read it to all of her other classes, and actually called my parents to tell them what an excellent writer I was ;-;)

Fueled by my overwhelming gratitude, I finally mustered the courage to call my old middle school and ask them what I could do to contact her. They said they had her last known address, but they couldn’t give it to me. They could, however, mail the letter for me if I dropped it off in a stamped envelope.

So I did that. I went back to the school, went into the main office, was startled by the faces that seemed completely unchanged from when I was fourteen years old, and handed my letter to the receptionist who was expecting me.

A week later I got a phone call from the school. They were unable to deliver the letter for me, because unfortunately, Mrs. Gauger had passed away six years prior. “Would you like to come by for your letter, or should we recycle it?” she asked me. “No,” I replied after a moment. ”Yes. Please recycle it.” I felt that, if the words were just out there in the world, they had a better chance of reaching her.

I have to admit I was a little heartbroken. The part of me that lives in stories imagined a lovely correspondence unfolding between us, getting to know each other better, me now as an adult, she now as a friend instead of a teacher. Now, not only would that never happen, but I would always carry this feeling of unfinished business between us. I don’t think she knew she was my favorite teacher of all time, that without her I may have always wanted to write, but I might have never really believed I was any good (teachers don’t have to tell you nice things about your writing, unlike friends and family, and it is an early writer’s natural inclination to mistrust all compliments).

I’ve come to terms with it, now. I do believe she knows how much I loved and appreciated her in life, but still. It makes me realize how important it is to tell the people in your lives what they mean to you, even though a lot of times that can be an awkward, blush-inducing experience.

Who are the people in your life that you want to thank? Who has encouraged or inspired you to become the person you are? Let them know. And if you can’t because you’re too shy or you don’t know where they are now, just write them a letter anyway. You might be inspired to find a way to send it. You might be inspired to tell the people who support you every day how much they mean to you. Don’t be afraid to tell the world you are grateful.