Filed under writing …

Feb 08 2012
musings, Travel, writing

Wailing at the Wall

Life has been a whirlwind.

Let me tell you about the past few weeks as succinctly as I can. Nothing major has happened, not by certain standards anyway. But my brain and my heart have been on a strange journey that can’t quite be captured in words. Perhaps that’s the reason behind my blog-silence–it’s certainly never because I have nothing to say.

I was in the desert recently, physically and metaphorically. Creatively, I was all dried up, too terrified of a misstep to even crawl my way towards water. But then, I went to Israel. Really. For ten days, I traveled the country with a tour bus full of other 20-somethings, thinking about the history of the land, about our ancestors, about what it meant to be who we are. It was from a Jewish perspective, in many ways, but for me no deep thinking is possible without my creative self cropping up.

 

Wailing Wall, Jerusalem

 

I looked out over the complicated border between Israel and Lebanon. I partied in Tel Aviv, and stuck my feet into the Mediterranean Sea. I felt an array of complicated emotions, complicated further by socio-political awareness, and my unwillingness to identify with a cultural pain-body. I wandered in the desert, stumbling over sun-bleached bones. I heard the call to prayer ring out over Jerusalem from the Muslim quarter, as the sun set over the holy city. I came to the Western Wall, as unreligious as I am, and cried. And I saw thousands of names at Yad Vashem, not knowing who among them I might have called family if history had not been what it was.

I am still unpacking that journey. I don’t know all of what I felt, all of what it means. But I do know that when I returned, despite having come down with the flu during the last days of the trip, I felt stronger and more resolved than ever.

I’d broken through something, managed to inch forward in my creative desert, and the moment I did that I found my oasis. I found the strength to recommit, and begin again.

The book I have been working on these past few months, the one that stalled after some intense interest from agents, for which I’d begun to put so much pressure on myself because of that interest, suddenly opened up to me like the arms of a loved one. “You have changed,” it told me. “And it’s okay for me to change, too. I’m ready to be what you want me to be. And you’re ready to write me as I am.”

Hopped up on decongestants, I began a total re-write of this manuscript last week, switching from first person present to third person present, and then last night I switched it again from present to past tense. I am okay with these sort-of-mistakes, and the work it takes to correct them. I am okay with the new scenes my mind is drawing up, the new ways the characters are showing themselves on the page, the new focus of the story as a whole. I’m okay with leaving behind the beloved scenes I crafted for the original draft. I’m okay, because at least I’m writing, and that will always feel better than standing still in the desert.

I am slowly peeling back the layers of this new manuscript, and at the same time peeling back layers of myself–as a writer, and an artist–as a traveler changed by my journeys. I’m no longer beating myself up for failing my “original” story, or beating my head against the wall trying to make it something safe, something appealing, something that fits into the mold of what an author’s first agented book should be.

Not only that, but my office is finally taking shape, after months of disarray. We moved into our house this past August, and just last weekend we finished painting the chalkboard wall, and I was finally able to set up my desk, move my bookshelves, unpack my reference books, run an extension cord so that all my electrical things had outlets. I finally have my own space, where I can slam on the piano keys and compose ballads on my ukulele, play movie scores on my cello, or do yoga without a cat scratching at my legs. Oh yeah, and I have a place to write.

Something about my trip to Israel has made me come undone, in an excellent way. I stopped fearing. I embraced the grace in my gracelessness, the thrill of each uncertain step. I found faith in things I cannot name. I came to terms with the fact that the desert will always be just beyond the border of the oasis, a fact both comforting and sobering.

And I understood, and understand, that I will learn these lessons again and again, until the day I die.

Here’s to finding an oasis–and the exotic fruits of a strange journey.

Jan 11 2012
musings, writing

Let Go.

In the past month, I’ve reinvented the universe, abandoned my baby, and discovered the power to be found in completely giving up. That’s right–as I write this, I am on the waning side of a full-fledged creative block. I realized my novel needed to be hacked to pieces in order to be fixed. So I decided to take a break. And I let it go.

And life has shown me so much since then: the story has unfolded to greater depths than I thought possible; I’ve learned more about myself as a human being, and as an artist, and as a writer than ever before; and I’ve renewed and strengthened my faith in that unnameable force that compels us to do what we do. I am grateful, and humbled, and in love, once again, with the sometimes painful, sometime beautiful, always transformative art of storytelling.

But during these transformative weeks of late, I went to some pretty dark places, asked some pretty cruel questions, and thought some pretty mean thoughts. It took some time to get here, to this let-go-and-let-god(dess)(es) place that is working out for me remarkably well.

One of the dark things in my mind was: yeah, maybe you’re good with words. Maybe you’re good with building expansive worlds and subplots, and metaphors, and making a scene heart-wrenching. But are you a good storyteller? Do you have any real talent for the structure? For compelling your readers to keep going and to care?

The truth is, I don’t know if I have that talent. And I could go on and describe the pit of despair that I sat in while I contemplated that, but instead I will tell you this: all that pain I felt, thinking I had no talent for stories, knowing how much I want to tell them, was just the pure and simple evidence of my soul screaming out it doesn’t matter if you have talent. You have love. Stop belittling your passion and desire, and just dare.

Stories… are sacred. They are vast, multitudinous, and, like human beings and snow flakes, no two are the same. There is no wrong way to tell a story, just as there is no story that is completely worthless. If it was told with the sincere desire to tell a story–a desire as real, as important, and as ineffable as to drink or eat or be loved–it is good.

I know, it takes more than that for a book to sell to a publisher. But some part of me knows that my desire, my passion, is so strong and unwavering, such a driving force behind my existence, that I can and will learn to tell stories in the way that they need to be told. No matter what.

In hindsight, clear of the fog of despair, I don’t actually think I’m a bad storyteller. I think that I’m impatient, and enjoy the wild adventure of seat-of-the-pants writing too much to outline and make sure my pacing and structure work before I dive in. As much as I love spontaneity, my stories tend to be massive, fat, hearty things, huge adventures that require planning. I can’t escape that. Even The Poppet and the Lune, written and posted sometimes the same day, had at least a vague outline in my head before I sat down to begin the whole thing.

And I can’t escape the fact that sometimes my stories take longer to percolate than I would like. I have to learn patience–I am not a fast writer by nature, though I can pump out thousands of words a day. But, especially if I am unable to come up with an outline, I have to recognize that maybe my story isn’t ready to be put on the page just yet.

It’s not, and nor will it ever be, a step by step process. To conceive and create a story, and then a manuscript, has more to do with intuition, feeling, and emotions than experience, knowledge, and understanding. I suppose that’s why I keep journaling about the process here and elsewhere, despite my repetition, with the hopes that I might keep gaining insight, enough to avoid the same pitfalls–and maybe help navigate the new.

All that said… I feel so incredibly blessed to be where I am: so much closer, every day, to knowing how to tell this story, and future stories; I am humbled by my recognition of my shortcomings in the past, and I am proud to have survived that, grown, and matured–I am, right now, the best storyteller and writer I have ever been; and I am so, so grateful for the incredible support I have received and known through all of you reading these entries, and writing your own stories in your own entries, and offering the world and me even the slightest assurance that it will be okay.

Life is so strange, so beautiful, so full of surprises. I suppose we have no choice but to be okay with that… because to resist it, even when it seems like it makes sense to cut yourself off? It hurts. But when you go with it, just let go and let god(dess)(es), it is such a beautiful ride.

So I’m working in that. I think I will be until the day I die. And I guess I have to be okay with that, too. :)

Nov 30 2011
musings, writing

The Artist as Batman

Like most of you, I have a day job. I happen to work at a pharmaceutical telemarketing group from 8:30 to 5, not using my degree in media study whatsoever. Maybe I’m using a little bit of my anthropology minor when dealing with a bazillion unpleasant receptionists (however, the cross-cultural appearance of generic job dissatisfaction in a particular segment of the working population is not very interesting compared to, say, studying the enduring universal phenomenon of “witchcraft hysteria.” :p).

But at the end of the day, I do not call myself a marketing rep. By now, I hope you’ve figured out that I consider myself to be a writer. Oh, I am much more than that–a daughter, wife, friend, sister, traveler, mediocre ukulele player, etc.–but this isn’t that kind of blog post.

I have to assume that most of you who bother to read this blog are also writers or creators of some kind (artists, if you’re comfortable with that word). Many of you also work a full time job, be it at an office or in the home raising children. I’m willing to bet, whatever you do from “9-5″ (your hours may vary) that it is not necessarily your art/creative pursuit. But I bet you wish it was. I bet you hope that, someday, the after-hours effort you put into your creative pursuits can become your day job.

Or maybe you don’t. But if you do, you probably know all about the emotional roller coaster of being an artist by night: the pain of “wasting” your days for a paycheck, especially if your day job is in a field you have no love for; the stress of finding the time and energy to do your real work after all your other responsibilities have been met; the guilt of choosing sleep or laundry or making a healthy dinner, over putting in time with your art.

Pictured: a mild-mannered artist by night.

Being an artist by night is not unlike being Batman: most of the people you interact with on a daily basis have a poor understanding of the person you become after work, with a pen/paint brush/instrument in hand; you have your passion, your conviction, your determination– maybe even a utility belt full of handy tools that help you on your quests; you have a whole second life that you live, fighting crime/writer’s block, surveilling Gotham City from your Bat Cave/studio/laptop. There are plenty of criminals/plot bunnies/inspiration droughts out to get you, and the good people of the city/your family and friends don’t necessarily agree with what you’re doing, or believe you have the right to do what you do.

So how do you do it?

This is something I am always trying to figure out. I am constantly re-balancing my schedule, my life, always trying to find a better way of organizing myself and using my time so that nothing gets left behind. Something always does, of course. Something probably always will, even after my writing becomes my day job (fingers crossed!). But I’ve learned to love this state of constant upheaval. To me, it feels like passion–like life force being summoned through me. I am not an advocate of difficulty for the sake of difficulty, but there is some degree of personal validation (or perhaps confirmation) when you see how hard you are willing to work for something. And I believe the key to surviving the upheapal is found in that passion, and the life-affirming  joy of the art itself. After all, if we didn’t love our art, why would we be willing to put up with it’s bullshit? (just sayin’.)

What about you? How do you make the time for your art/crime-fighting after a long day of work? Do you find that you often end up alone, like Batman, with no one but your trusty butler/take out menus to keep you company? How do you take care of your relationships, your friends, family, pets–yourself even–and still make time for your art?

Inquiring minds want to know!

Nov 28 2011
musings, writing

On writing and dreams and life and things

Things have been crazy. So much editing, revising, synopsizing, brainstorming…only to ultimately have to just let it go. My book, my baby-out into the world. My ideas for the future, half-formed, half-fleshed–naked on the page before the people who I can only hope will love them as much as I do.

I just had a solid 2 days without working on it. And, yes, I felt guilty the whole time, not outlining or writing or researching for the next books in the series. I do love what I’m doing. I am following a dream that I’ve dared to dream since I was old enough to tell a story, and every precious moment that could be spent as an investment in myself and my stories counts. So the moments when I do nothing, when I am aimless, when I am still (but so unable to be still), feel like a waste of life, and time.

But humans need balance. We need to replenish the wells we draw so much from. We need to take care of our bodies and minds, our homes and our relationships. We need to pursue our dreams-yes–but we must also have moments, hours, days maybe, where we pursue nothing at all outside of the ability to be present. To be still. We need time to dream a little more, a little broader, just for the fun of dreaming.

When I am older than I am now, hopefully living my dream of writing novels and stories for a comfortable living, I want to be able to appreciate it. I want to be healthy, and still madly in love, and attentive to my friends and family. I want a dog. I want to travel some more. I want to have a kid some day (ok, cat’s out of the bag).

I refuse to sabotage myself by killing myself with my dreams. I will not berate myself for failing to write as much as I wanted to write in a day. I will not hate myself for getting a bad review. I will not eat fast food because there is no time to cook when I am trying so hard to be an author. I will not forgo exercise because it is time away from writing. I will not ignore the ones I love because I cannot stop thinking about how character 1 gets from point A to point B. I will not lose the ability to have conversations about anything except for my craft. I will not drive myself mad with procrastination or unrealistic deadlines, comparing myself to others, going against my gut, or forgetting the part of the desire that made it a dream.

Self, I am making a promise to you. We will be happy, and human, and well. We will tell stories that change the world (for at least one or two people). And I will remember that the point of all of all of all of this is to be happy.