Tag: writing

Uncovering the Universal

 

From the moment one of my grandmother sent me and my sister a boxed set of the Little House books (remember when you could get them in hard cover?), I’ve been a book addict.

Aside from the Big Guy and my kids, reading has been one of my few healthy addictions, and, even though now my schedule and energy level rarely align enough for much more than a quick novel here and there, I actually relish getting sucked into another world or era even more.

When I was younger, other worlds were my drug.  I loved fantasy and science fiction.  As I became a real aficionado, I found that it was not just the escape I loved, but – especially with the science fiction – it was the way other writers explored what it might mean to be human in a technological landscape.  The covers of my Tolkien collection turned to ash as I followed Baggins and Frodo on their journeys and finally realized that Tolkien wasn’t writing about elves and hobbits – he was writing about what it meant to be human and to make moral choices.

We didn’t get the classics at our high school much, but my grandmother and one of my aunts were also voracious readers, and most Christmases my sister and I found books we never would have chose under the tree.  I got a three inch thick encyclopedia of classical mythology one year.  I had plowed through everything else on my shelf, so I opened it, and found another realm to explore.  Another aunt sent a collection of mysteries along with the text of a speech on women in writing given by author Sarah Paretsky at her alma mater.

Paretsky’s speech discussed the challenges faced by female authors –  the Bronte’s and Jane Austen never married and wrote in a climate that told women it was unladylike – as well as the often deprecatory ways in which women are depicted in literature.  She exhorted her listeners to read for themselves and then go out and create – whether or not they could find rooms of their own.  It was my first ‘I could do that’ moment (I went to my graveyard shift with a pad and pen that night), and I got hooked on detective novels for a while – especially when they included three dimensional female characters – something that is sadly lacking in some of the otherwise wonderful classics of science fiction.  To be sure, there are many amazing female Sci-fi writers, and they have been fleshing out the female residents of that realm for some time now.

As my aunts and mother and grandmother continued their suggestions my way, I wanted to find characters that reminded me of them.  I wanted to find strong women.  I wanted to find people who were passionate about family but also ideas.  I wanted to find flawed women.  And I wanted to find their histories and the people in them.  And then I met Austen.

I don’t remember if it was watching one of the zillion remakes of Pride and Prejudice before heading to the used bookstore or if it was the now deceased copy of Sense and Sensibility that altered my addiction so profoundly.  For some reason I had finished Brit Lit in high school without reading her or the Brontes, but from the words “It is a truth universally acknowledged…,”  I was hooked.  I think it took two weeks to get through all of her bo

oks and then onto the Brontes.  Then I came back and read them again.  And again. And again.

 

At first I thought I loved the manners  (Doesn’t everyone say they love that first?).  Then I decided I loved the window into the way things were done once upon a time – I had always loved the how-to segments in the Little House books.  Then I thought the tortured romances were the attraction.  But as I’ve replaced copies of my Austen novels since I’ve become a wife and mother myself, I realized that I was attracted to a deeper universal truth.

 

Ultimately, Austen was writing about family and the ties that bind.  Their ties were stretched by the demands of making one’s fortune through marriage, but in the little circles of Bennets and Darcys and Dashwoods the knots were tight – despite the internal squabbles that all families have.  I’ve thought about those ties and those knots as I’ve gone back and re-read my favorite novels and discovered new favorites.  And I’ve discovered that even though the configuration of the circle may change from author to author or book to book, classics (regardless of age) are classics because they managed to uncover that universal, even if the pimply kid that was reading them didn’t know it.

 

Now I’ve got less pimples, and I’m hoping to be the author.  For the last eight months, I’ve been chasing the stories close to my life, and it’s helped me focus on what has brought the most meaning to my life.  I’ve just begun sifting through those stories, and while, at the beginning, I worried that the stories about my family and what often seems very drab life would be boring, I’m just now realizing that I haven’t enjoyed writing them in spite of the topic.  I’ve loved it because, like so many of my favorite writers, it’s the the pursuit of something universal.

 

The Next Course

I’m having a thirty-minute mini vacation at Bob’s Diner in Manchester today.  It’s our usual spot on Saturday mornings, but on a weekday without family in tow, it’s just unusual enough.  It’s five below and sunny right now, and I’m noting how much colder a diner is when it isn’t packed with skiers and a grill working overtime to feed that crowd.  The sun’s streaming in, though, and people don’t seem to mind the cold that much.

Me?  I’m plotting.  Over home-fried potatoes I’m mulling past steps and next courses.

As I’ve written in the past, this blog is the result of an ongoing writer’s workshop at Hubbard Hall, a vibrant community theatre and arts center.  The workshop’s leader and mentor extraordinaire, Author Jon Katz, assigned the blogs on the first session.  They were to be a way to share out work (with each other and, hopefully, readers at large)  They would also become our progeny – labors of love that only grew and matured with regular care.  And, as our fearless leader has told us many times, they were an excellent first course at a literary buffet that has gone digital in a big way.

Over the last few months, our blogs have been everything he promised.  They have been conduits between group members and then between writers and readers.  They have called each of us to practice our craft with persistence – trying new flavors as we do.  They have helped me find my stories and sometimes my sanity, and I’ve enjoyed every bite of this feast so far.

But now, still gorging ourselves on the appetizers, we are each trying to decide on the next course, with our mentor encouraging us forward.  For one of our members, it’s becoming a research project.  Others are considering books.  I’m working on a play and along with my game plan to make the jump from writer to working author.

Now I’ll sift through the stories I’ve uncovered and search for the themes that dominate. We’ll all keep sampling the appetizers, though, knowing they’ve just been whetting our appetites for more.  The next course at the banquet looks delicious.  I just hope my eyes aren’t bigger than my stomach.

Ablaze at Both Ends

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I one of the lucky few.  Most days I like my job.  Every day I like my coworkers.  But there are some days, when I’m on a writing roll (in quantity, not necessarily quality) that I begin wondering how much I could get for a slightly dented, c-listed kidney so I could finance a writing life.

I joined a writing workshop with author Jon Katz at Hubbard Hall in Cambridge, NY, a community theatre and arts center back in May of 2012 with the idea of improving my skills and, hopefully, finding to make a writing life.   I was nervous about both aspects.  The workshop had an application process, and, while I think any artist has heard him or herself say, “I could do that” when embarking on a new work, I was secretly terrified that, surrounded by real writers, I would find out that maybe I could, but I shouldn’t.  I was equally terrified that Mr. Katz would (as a few workshop leaders in the past had) have to explain the unpleasant facts of the writer’s life to us and make us understand that only a select few can ever enter that special circle.

Mr. Katz has had an long and successful writing career, by any measure, but, like many people, has seen his career go through rapid changes with the onslaught of the digital age.  I went into the workshop aware that the internet had driven down the incomes of many creative professionals – stock photos can be had for $1.00 a piece regardless of their production cost, ebooks at $.99 abound – and I was doubtful that anyone could still make a living writing unless they were already an established author or a movie star with a scandal to sell.  But Mr. Katz had invited us to Hubbard Hall to peddle optimism and encouragement – not negativity.

He spent the first hour of the first workshop talking about all the opportunities for writers – established and emerging – and by the time we took a break, I was ready to race home to my computer and wear down the keys a bit.  I still hadn’t figured out what I would write – his first assignment to us was to create our blogs – but I knew something would come.  And then he gave us a piece of advice which has – for the most part – wiped out writer’s block for the last 7 months.  “Look for the stories that are close to your life,” he said.

I thought about that for the next few weeks as we set up our group page on Facebook and each of us began testing the waters with our blog ideas.  The blogs began evolving, and we could see each other developing as artists.  I stopped calling myself a wannabe-writer, coming to the conclusion that writing is where I belong.

So now it’s Monday morning, and work is about to begin.  I’m sitting at my kitchen table watching the snowfall and getting ready to sign on to my employer’s group chat, but before I do, I burn a little of my writing candle.  I’ll work till I can’t see the snow anymore, and after dinner is done and homework for the kids is checked, I’ll burn a little more.  At one point I wondered if burning the candle at both ends was a good idea.  At some points I tell myself it’s just until I can have a full-time writing life.  The reality is, though, that this fire at both ends does not consume me, it sustains me, and it’s just enough to keep the dream alive.

Three AM

It’s 3 AM, and outside the wind is howling. Inside my alarm set for 5 AM. I am exhausted but sleep is nowhere in sight.  Through my consciousness march words and images of Newtown, CT and worries about a grand bargain happening miles away that will undoubtedly leave those of us on the ground out in the cold.

I know this is one of those moments those accepting the things I cannot change moments, but the anesthetic of serenity escapes me right now.

I am the queen of worry. Writing is reflection. It is retreat and rally at the same time. But sometimes I wonder if my rally is just the circus and if the retreat is just a distraction from the real things in my own life that need real solutions.

The Story of a Half an Hour

A few days ago we reached a new low in our parenting lives.  Or not.

Thing2, my first grader, is my social butterfly and my superhero.  He is a flitter and a flyer, particularly during homework time.  So on Thursday, after ordering him back to his chair for the thirtieth time, the Big Guy got a seat belt, plopped our wriggling six-year-old into his booster seat (which he doesn’t really need anymore), and looped the belt through the strap holes on the plastic seat.

The homework got finished in fifteen minutes.

I never thought I’d be belting my kid into a chair over a non-safety related issue.  But as I finally sat down to write at 5:26 AM (26 minutes late) this morning, I had to admit at least a little of Thing2’s fear of sitting was inherited.

I did get up at the appointed hour this morning, and, in my mental rule book, I had placed writing above everything except getting dressed (we’ll see what happens in the summer if the next diet resolution holds into spring).  Today I was even more efficient and decided my nightgown was fashionable enough for the back room.  But as I walked out toward the study and into the kitchen for a shot of caffeine, I had no idea what I was going to write.

So I stirred the coals in the wood stove.   They were nearly gone, and I decided a quick trip to the wood pile for a handful of kindling wouldn’t really cut into to my time too much, and I got my shawl and shoes and went out for a minute.  The cats greeted me, demanding a minute of head-scratching, and I obliged until the draft in my nightgown reminded me that my desk area was much warmer.  I got back to the kitchen at 5:08 and loaded up the stove, still wondering what I was going to write.

Thankfully, at 5:11 Nature called, and by 5:15 I was headed back to the kitchen for my caffeine.  The fire wasn’t catching, but as I bent down in front of the stove to play with it, I suddenly heard the Big Guy moving around down the hall in the bedroom.  I knew I had to appear productive so, instead of trying to start a fire that would heat the study by 7AM (when chef and chauffeuring duties call), I decided to pull on some warmer clothes.

At 5:24, I headed to the fridge again for my first infusion of caffeine.  I went back down the hall to my desk, shut the door to the study, still wondering what to write – let alone draw.  The light of my swing arm lamp illuminated the thermostat (70 degrees) just enough to let me know my fruitless quest for fire had been completely unnecessary.  But at 5:26 AM, as I was sitting down, I started to wonder if Thing2’s seatbelt would fit me.  And, suddenly, before the laptop screen had even lit up, I knew what to write.

Resolutions and Rituals

It’s 5:08 AM Thursday morning, which means it’s four days after I adopted yet another weekly resolution to lose weight and exactly twelve hours since I dropped it.  And it it is exactly 8 minutes into the beginning of a resolution that I hope will actually make a difference in my life. Today, I have decided to become a morning person.

I have always been a creature of the night.  When I was in my twenties it was when life began.  In my thirties, it was when everyone else went to sleep, and I could work on projects or have the remote to myself.  But as I have begun to seek out a creative life, I have found the need to create a new ritual.

Earlier in my endeavor, I was able to fit writing and sketching into my normal routine at the end of the day, but as holiday rituals begin to crowd my ever-expanding to-do list with cooking and cleaning and concerts, the ritual of writing has become harder to observe.  Now, I know that if you can fit fifteen minutes of TV into your life, you can do something useful with that fifteen minutes.  Lately, however, my  midnight moxie has been been AWOL, and I’ve been nodding off – and not writing – in front of the tube more often than I’d care to admit.

It is true that the more you write, the more you write.  It is even more true that when you start letting life get between you and your writing, the divide gets wider very quickly.  And, as tired as life makes me, for some reason, not writing made me more tired.  So last night after the kids were down, instead of falling asleep on the couch next to the Big Guy, I announced I was going to bed.

And now, at five AM, I’m starting a new resolution to make morning writing a ritual, and with each word and visit to the altar of creativity, it becomes not only more enjoyable, but more sacred in my life.

Lines

Thing2 is chattering happily about his latest superhero discovery.  I’m trying to keep the sorted piles of laundry on the couch from ending up right back in the hamper again as he demonstrates his version of the Spiderman perch.  Everything begins and ends with these piles.

I don’t know why I let the folding pile get so big, but it usually takes an event to get it all folded and put away in one sitting.  This week it’s the impending arrival of our Thanksgiving crowd.  One of my guest rooms doubles as our indoor laundry hanging area, and I need it cleared and ready (along with the other cleaning) before the mad rush of cutting and cooking begins.

Somewhere in this, I’ve committed myself to two posts a day, figuring if I can maintain my quota during the one time of the year when I clean on a daily basis, I will have broken through some literary ceiling I can’t see.  Unlike the laundry, the writing will hopefully be a ray, each met goal a point on a rising line.

But to follow that ray; to clean and cook, first the piles must be sorted and folded and put away.  And when the crowds disperse after the celebration, I’ll travel the next segment on the infinite laundry line, hoping the ray that runs beside it stays close enough to let me travel both.

The Art of the Art Community

Saturday our  writing group met at my house.  We had all been looking forward to this for weeks and even months, and there was no way I was going to miss seeing these people.  But when an invitation to a friend’s Origami Days celebration appeared on my Facebook page, I felt more than a tiny bit of conflict.

Leyla Torres, a gifted illustrator had recently revealed on her long-time interest in Origami on her Facebook page, and she joined the community of Origami users in their global, on- and off-line celebration of the art last weekend.  But writing group is now sacred to me, and I contented myself with the hope that I would see the results on Facebook on Sunday.  Fate and my family had other plans, however.

The Big Guy took command of the kids for the afternoon so that grownup talk could happen at our house.  I expected them to return about the time the group ended, but it was getting dark by the time they bounded in the door.  The Big Guy usually finds something fun for them to do – hardware stores, Lego exhibitions, and welding shops – and today was no exception.

This man who has avoided Facebook like crazy had discovered Origami Days as he was driving by our friend’s studio in Arlington, VT.  He took a chance and dragged the kids into the tiny gallery, and they emerged an hour later brimming with a different kind of energy.  Their excitement still showed by the time they glided in the door, pockets full of Origami swans and toys.  In two minutes, Thing 2 apprised me of their day, of the entire history of origami, and of the generosity of their hostess.  The Big Guy then told me that she was holding the gallery open just a little longer, so I grabbed my keys and out the door I went.

The gallery was in an old carriage house behind the big stone Church in Arlington. Petite with a sometimes soft-spoken demeanor but a feisty spirit, Leyla shares gallery and studio space with her husband, John Sutton, a multi-talented artist and gifted photographer. Heated by an old wood stove, the simple rustic gallery was decorated with John’s black-and-white photos (in frames he built himself).  But it was the riot of color on the table at the center of the small space that grabbed my attention and held it.

Strewn across the table were dragons and roses and butterflies and intricate boxes made of folded, interwoven pieces of paper. Some of them seemed (deceptively, I’m sure) simple; others clearly had taken hours and years of practice to learn how to construct.  Leyla cheerfully shared the history of her interest in this craft and in a community of paper artists dedicated to sharing peace through art.  But it was the colors that caught my heart as they reminded me of a gift/prize I had received from another artist earlier in the day.

Maria Wulf, a fiber artist and the wife of our group leader has been joining our sessions, and she serves as a gentle sounding board and resident joyful spirit.  That spirit is evident everywhere in her art.  She designs quilts that are colorful and somehow contemporary and traditional.  She had created a giveaway contest on her website, and I was the lucky winner of two colorful potholders.

My prizes were, like Leyla’s origami, a marvelous combination of connecting shapes and colors.  But they were each reflections of their creators, spreading happiness and peace.  I knew the two of them should meet at some point, and I told Leyla about our group and about my potholders.  I asked if I could link to her site (I’ve linked to Maria’s site since I’ve had this blog), and I could see her excitement rising. We talked about art and writing and encouragement, and, suddenly, she stood up and went to the basket full of origami art at the end of the table.  She started rummaging and pulled out seven or eight flat pieces that could be easily carried home and said, “Here take this to your writing group as a gift from me.”

I thought about the other gifts she’d already given my kids this afternoon. They were bits of paper, and they were art, but they were also trophies of a world made just a little wider in the space of an afternoon.  And when our group next meets to widen it’s world, I’ll bring these trophies, and, with them, (I hope) the encouragement that feeds not just the artists but the communities they nurture.