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When In Doubt - Keep Digging

Just when you feel like you're at your wits end for thinking through a concept or an idea related to a new project you've undertaken, try turning off your computer. 

What?

Really.  Turn it off.  Sometimes, you'll do your best thinking with a pen in hand and a notebook of blank pages that you can scribble on and mark up. 

I know this because I've just spent almost two hours doing exactly that.  I did take a few breaks.  I went downstairs and washed last night's dishes, grabbed some yogurt and fruit and came back upstairs.  I did not turn the computer back on. 

I'd already grabbed one of the 3-ring notebooks I keep handy - this one has lots of blank paper in it.  My goal was to come up with 6 titles for articles with a definite focus on using keyword strategies to weave into the content.

My initial efforts were crap.  But.  You have to write crap to get to the good stuff. What you're really doing is freeing up your own flow of ideas and words -- think of this stage as the first part of your exercise routine when your body is still stiff and you need to "wake it up." 

When you push through that enertia of OMG, I can't DO this, and you keep writing those words down,  exciting things begin to happen.  You just can't stop. 

What I've got now are 5-6 pages of possible titles, an underlying theme going for all of them and I'm just about ready to get back online to do keyword searches for three of those titles.  

All of this activity is for what I'm doing over at healingrescue dogs.com . 

What I know is that sometimes you have to be like a dog with a bone.  When in doubt, keep digging.

 

On Writing Poetry

 I met Judith Kitchen years ago.   She was the instructor for the first course I took towards my Master's degree:  a poetry writer's workshop.  What I remember is her quiet mastery of that elusive concept:  a compelling sentence.   Each sentence builds from the one that comes before it such that the finished piece is whole and of itself.  Instructive - if she was analyzing a poem - and a form of art.

One day,  she gave us a small packet.  Seven pages stapled together.   Her analysis of Hart Crane's poem,  "My Grandmother's Love Letters".  

She begins:     "In this country, at least, it is difficult to become an artist.  The culture is one that admires self-sufficiency - and what artist can be self-sufficient, especially in the early stages of his art?  The compromise is the norm:  artists work during the day at something that will support their art at night.  Art is furtive, often artists are apologetic.  They strain to permit themselves the luxury of their art."   - Judith Kitchen

I've been away from the practise, the discipline of writing poetry for years.   Re-reading Kitchen's essay now I gather her introductory words leading into her close analysis of Crane's poem  into something separate:  an invitation to myself to return to poetry as both craft and a means of self-expression. 

 

"How to begin?  Reading a poem is one thing: talking about it is another.  Sentences are sequential, meant to build until they add up to a whole.  But the experience of a poem is often not a logical one;  it is a layering of sound and sense that cannot be easily dissected.  The effect is one of wholeness, but the equation is arrived at in a different fashion.  Many elements are elusive, they depend on the reader's imaginative entrance into the territory of the poem itself,  orchestrated by the associative images of the poet.  How does one honor the poem,  its subtleties,  its long subterranean journey, while, at the same time, delving into those very subtleties,  turning them inside out to expose their intricate workings?  How does one honor the poet, the complex system of emotions that drives the poem?  ..."   - Judith Kitchen.

 

How to begin and, more importantly,  to what purpose?   To catch your attention.  To tell a story.  To leave my mark.   To play: with words and creativity.  To recapture something lost and to see if, after all this time,  I have something that's noteworthy to say.

 

Courting the Muse

So.  I had a day yesterday that was "flat".   No burning inspiration to write anything new.   No cute dog stories to retell.  And, I had no place special to be - at least - that's what I told myself.

I started digging into files to see what I could come up with that might take me in a new direction with some old words.   Words that I'd written over a span of time that started in 1985. Let's see.  In mom vocabulary, that was one year before my son was born. 

Back in the day. 

I was taking writing courses taught by local poets.  Still journaling.  Stringing words together for my own creative satisfaction.  And, I was teaching.   Did I come up with anything interesting to say or was I simply courting the muse?

Waiting For Poetry

My back knotted from work today.

Early to bed; 

Not rested.

Awakened to cold snow,

Gentle dog snores,

Empty

pages.

You have done

it all

before me.

Can I?

 

That one's mine.  Drafted and then polished off.  Dated March 5, 1985.  

 

Your First Hello

Cradled warmth nests against gentle strength.

Rocking-chair comfort a safe harbor.

Spellbound,  you watch:  infant slumber

tucks up to wash-worn flannel,

head bent to catch her first waking smile.

 

Mine too.  Also dated 1985.  This one written on April 2nd.   I was playing around with word combinations:  cradled strength,   wash-worn flannel.  Infant slumber (not so new).  What I wanted to do (without coming out and saying it) was to set and describe the scene when a "new" dad sits with his brand new daughter, waiting for her to wake up and smile at him for the first time.

I re-wrote it a bunch of times, playing with line breaks and re-arranging words; adding details like: "whisper eyelashes"  and then  taking them out. 

Working

Cold wraps around the worn cab.

I reach out and feel your place,

leather warmed smooth from your heat.

Hunched low, I watch rain

chase down the back of your shoulders,

smear the windshields of parked cars

and late model trucks.

Frosted air sweeps off the northen lake,

shivers up my spine.

Red neon paints restaurant across dirt-crusted panes.

Inside, knarled fingers grip china and glass,

clink coffee cups against beer bottles,

twist caps off.  Conversation dies.

Eyes shift first up and then down.

Fists shoved deep into the pockets

of your jacket,  you sit and give Millie your order.

Shaking off the chill,  I slide in next to you.

 

There is always a point where the story takes over.  I can take a few slices of my own reality to get started, but, what I'm doing is teasing out a story that can stand on its own merits.

And then there was my attempt to write about sex:  not raw sex;  the titilating sex that is rooted in lust and the deep attraction of a husband and wife still doin' it.

 

Blue Notes

When my momma sang,

she planted her feet wide

and breathed me into this world,

each lingering note a diamond shimmer

that she crooned to my Daddy from blue-

black shadows.  Her notes

wrapped  around the porch --

sultry flickers loosed by fingers of breeze.

Together, they sang me home.

 

I still re-write this one trying to get it right.

Books On My Mind

Frank DeFord. 

Matt Gallagher (briefly).

Tim O'Brien.

Vietnam.   Iraq.   World War Two. 

 

Lest you think, from my latest series of posts, that I'm not reading (so not true), here's where I am. And, not necessarily in the order that they appeared at the top of this post.

The Things They Carried, by Tim O' Brian.   This one caught my eye as I browsed the library shelves a few weeks ago.   I've been reading it in snatches --  not hurrying through it the way I can read a crime fiction book in 24 hours. 

Note the sad irony in that phrase "crime fiction" as it relates to O'Brian's novel described as "... a groundbreaking meditation on war, memory, imagination and the redemptive power of storytelling."  (back cover) 

Remove everthing from the equation except the weight of words and what do you have?

The Things They Carried:  "..Mr O'Brian gives the reader a shockingly visceral sense of what it felt like to tramp through a booby-trapped jungle, carrying 20 pounds of supplies, 14 pounds of ammunition, along with radios, machine guns, assualt rifles and granades..."  - New York Times

...and other things.  Letters.  Tranquilizers.  Canned peaches.  Comic books.  Condoms.  Photographs. 

I'm reading this one on two levels:  as a reader wanting to emerse myself in the characters and scenes;  wanting the reminder that other people have risked far more than I ever will, and (always) with an eye to the writing itself. 

How does O'Brian shape a chapter?  Where is the word repetition?  What stands out from a writer's point of view?  If I were still teaching, how would I teach this book?

Interestingly enough,  A is reading KABOOM - Embracing The Suck In A Savage Little War, by Matt Gallagher.   Another generation of soldiers.  (Today.)  Another place.  (Iraq.)  Real time.  (2007.)

Seventeen years in real time separates  The Things They Carried from  Kaboom.  The same but different.  

Frank DeFord's  Bliss Remembered  tells the story of a young woman caught in the larger tangle of another war:  Sydney Stringfellow is an Olympic swimmer at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. 

I'm early into this one.   And, I'm  at the delightful part.  It's 2004, and the 61 year old son, Teddy, is staying with his 86 year old mother.  She knows she's dying and wants to tell Teddy "... the absolute very last story about World War Two.  I gotta believe all the others have already been told by now."  (pg. 14)

"But Teddy:  prepare yourself now.  There's some sex."

That took me aback a little.  "There is?"

"I hope you can abide that, Teddy.  I promise not to offend your delicate sensibilities."

I"ll try not to blush, Mom."

"And I'll try not to spell it out."

"Okay, it's a deal."                          (pg. 12)

Last night,  I set aside all pretence of doing anything related to my direct sale business and buried myself in this book.   I'm about three quarters through it and am completely mesmirized by the characters and the storyline.    

If you have ever wondered about your parents - their lost loves before they met - you'll like this story. 

And, if you think that something lost can be found again,  and live on in the next generation,  you'll like this story.

 

 

 

Random Thoughts

It's early.  I can hear the heavy sounds of a freight train rolling through the village as I sit gathering my thoughts and planning out my day.   A slight turn of my head and the view from the window is dark:  midnight blues, dark, purple-ing into black shadows meld together.  

The computer hums.  Black fades to blue.  The tree line is more distinct.  I'm guessing we're in for another glorious autumn day where the vivid splash of reds and oranges will create its own  panarama of color.  

Last weekend, as A and I rambled through the village,  down along the canal where the shops are,  I watched parents with toddlers,  adolescents with friends,  grandparents,  walkers, joggers, and people on bicycles  meander themselves up and down Main Street. 

Standing, facing west, away from the crowd,  feet planted on the iron grid floor of the canal bridge,  I saw this:

 That shadow on the water near the bottom of the photograph?  That's the canal bridge shadow.  If I close my eyes and imagine an earlier  time when packet boats were a frequent sight,  I might see this:

Who could possibly imagine the crowded scene behind me?  What I wanted, sitting here watching the almost inky blackness of the morning before sunrise, was the assurance that bright days are still coming; that one might be here in just a few hours.  

What I wanted too, was to get my brain fired up, to go through "mental warm ups" for lack of a better phrase, knowing that the bulk of my day was going to be devoted to writing a press lease.

A different kind of writing.  And one I was going to have to force myself to start.  Knowing that once I started,  the words would take off and make their own reality.

1:30PM

The view out my study window is lighter, but lighter without clear blue skies.  Lots of yellow splashes from leaves still clinging to branches;  green grass and wet pavement - it's been raining. Slightly. 

I've got the beginnings of a rough draft going for that press release, have made a few business calls and have eased into what feels will be a productive writing day.  The story behind the press release is teasing itself out -- and that's good.  I've moved beyond the "forced part" of just getting started.

The mind over matter that says, "Just do it,"  kicked in and things started happening on paper.   Words marshalled themselves together.  Ideas, out of logical sequence, clamored for space and words re-arranged themselves.  I can take a break now, knowing that there's enough written for me to come back to later.

 

The Power of Click

I'm sitting here in mild disbelief, knowing (because I'm older and have learned) that things do truly happen for reasons, and that, I may not immediately know why this particular snafu has occurred, but that, perhaps, I'm not meant to do the thing that I wanted to do today between the early morning hours of 6AM - 8AM, which is to write on my desk top, using Word Doc because it has most inconveniently disappeared from my computer screen.

Actually, I do know the short term "why".

I was determined to weed out the out-dated, not so much used anymore files stored in my computer and, over the past several days,  I've been pointing and clicking and making some of them go away - into the never-never-land of wherever used up computer files go when the not-so-savvy computer user (that would be me) gets a small bit of knowledge in her brain and takes off with it.

Last night,  I thought I'd undone the link to my printer. 

Not so.  But.  I didn't figure out how to get it back.  That was A who wandered up to my study and sat down in front of my computer screen and punched some buttons and pulled up some files and then, somewhat casually informed me that it was there -- had been there all the time.

Who knows these things?

As I watched him patiently click here and click there,  opening files, poking around,  I wondered  if he really knows what he's doing or if, unlike me,  he's just a bit more patient when it comes to this kind of "stuff".  Computer stuff.   When he tells me that it works - that I can print - I'm not quite sure I believe him until I see one sheet of paper snake out of the printer with words clearly visiable on its surface.  Voila!  I can print.

Can't write.  But.  I can print.

There is going back to the old fashioned way of writing.  Paper and pen.  Remember that? 

I can still do that.  There are times when I actually enjoy that process of creativity even though I've come to really appreciate the mechanics of writing from a keyboard -  my thoughts and the actions of my fingers on the keyboard keep up with each other.  It's like flying. 

Paper and pen is  a bit more tedious after experiencing the creative thrill of flying with words and thoughts tearing around the room waiting for me to pluck the very ones that give shape and form to whatever it is that I'm creating.

But.  I could do that.  Put pen to paper and see what happens.

What I do know, as I sit here, in front of my computer screen,  quietly delirious with happiness because I did NOT delete my blogging software,  listening to my neighbors tiny dogs split the morning quiet with their high-pitched yaps as they forage in their back yard chasing squirrels and getting high on the cornucopea of smells that overwhelm their tiny noses;  what I know beyond any shadow of a doubt,  what is real to me,  in this perfect moment of awareness is:

that too much knowledge is a dangerous thing and not enough knowledge can comically sidetrack you.   Me.  It can sidetrack me.  And, in that quiet way that the universe lets you know that you are not the center of it,  perhaps there is something else that I'm meant to be doing this morning. 

 

Before You "Copy And Paste," Ask

Copy and paste is the quick and easy way to move text around from one site to another on the internet.  Once you've figured out the mechanics of how to do this,  it's an easy one-two-three finger-step action to move a lot or a little from here to there.

If you're a serious writer in any genre:  essays,  short stories,  poetry, chapters from your book, articles, press releases, lyrics,  blog posts - I'm sure I've left some things out, but, you get the idea - writing anything online is scarey ... because of copy and paste.

It's way to easy for other people to steal your stuff.

And, sadly, other people do.  Steal stuff.

Two things that are intolerable to me are lying and stealing.  I'd like to think that everyone in the world felt this way. 

But they don't.

Words on a page are like a siren song to me.   They speak to my soul when they're arranged in a pleasing fashion.  They take me outside of myself.  Make me think.  Laugh out loud.  Cry.  And, if they're powerfully written,  they can and do, change my life.

Other peoples' words.

So.  When I read something on the internet that speaks to my soul,  I contact the writer and ask permission to post what they've written on my blog.   I make sure that I have the correct spelling of their first and last name.  I ask what they'd like to have included in their signature file. 

I never just copy and paste.  It's rude. 

It's stealing.

In my world,  it's completely intolerable. 

All of this is to say that I'll be posting other peoples' words here on my blog from time to time.  Mostly for my own enjoyment.   And because it's a way that I can acknowledge and celebrate another writer's creativity. 

And because I can.  

But before I copy and paste,  I always ask.  

If you read something here that speaks to your soul,  there will always be  a word trail taking you back to the writer,  so that you too, can ask permission.  

How wonderful it would be to live in a world where we were all so well-behaved and well-mannered.   Do your part and perhaps we'll get there in our respective lifetimes.

Ask.

 

 

 

 

 

Labor Day Interruptions

Whether it's the last gasp of Hurricane Earl,  gone curiously awry since the gale winds and high seas were targeted for the east coast, or we're on the front end of an arctic breeze out of Canada, today is clear, sunny skies and Adirondeck clouds buffetted by gale-like winds - trees are dancing and bushes, closer to the ground are riffling leaves still green: like unseen fingers running nonstop through thick hair.  And, you can hear it!  Wind.

How to write that sound?

I flipped the switch to turn off the air conditioner and started flinging windows open.  We're over the cusp of summer/fall this Labor Day weekend and change is in the air.

In no particular order, here's a re-cap of this past week  as revealed in just a few of my favorite things.

How I Write - Secrets of a Bestselling Author, by Janet Evanovich with Ina Yalof.

It is (finally) time to take this book back to the library.  Check it out yourself if you are looking for practical tips about how to get started writing romantic comedy.  And, if you're a fan of Stephanie Plum, and you want the scoop about the men in her life - will she succumb to the devil-may-care Joe Morelli or the bad-boy, taciturn Ranger - Evanovich offers her creative insights about these characters. 

If you're not familiar with the Stephanie Plum series, you are so in for a treat! 

If you're a young mom with your hands full of babies, toddlers and the time-absorbing details of motherhood - ie) if you have NO time - these books read fast.  They offer quick escape into the fictional world of a zany collection of hillariously funny characters.  And, there are a LOT of them. So, you have much to look forward to.

Poety and essays of Mary Oliver.

I've been reading Long Life - Essays And Other Writings and Thirst; the first a collection of prose and the latter, Oliver's poignant coming to grips with the death of Molly Malone Cook.

Sunday morning - 7-ish AM

We're still waking up on A's summer schedule, except that it's the weekend and he doesn't have to get out of bed at 4:30PM to be at work by 6AM.  Tell that to the cats who have decided that breakfast at 5AM is a lovely and (after two months) a to be expected event. 

Three cats, Tessa, Josephine and I navigate stairs to the first floor, dogs and I head out into the side yard while the cats settle in to wait for us to come back inside. The resident toad - who lives in a wild thatch of weeds in one corner of the house - is safely tucked back into his residence.  When it's dark, he comes out and hops the length of the sidewalk, much to the amusement of my dogs who like to play with him.

For the moment, the neighborhood is blissfully quiet.  Josephine and Tessa roam the yard, checking out new smells before obliging me by peeing and then heading back into the house.  

Cats and dogs fed, while the coffee makes itself, Tessa gets crated upstairs in my son's bedroom, Josephine goes outside one more time, and the cats settle down.  I head back upstairs and settle in myself. 

I've been reading Objects of Our Affection - Uncovering My Family's Past, One Chair, Pistol, And Pickle Fork At A Time, by LIsa Tracy.  I read a few more pages while I wait for the computer to wake up.

It's a book my mom would have liked.  In fact, she would have called me up to tell me about it and to suggest I read it too.  Starting with that infamous phrase:  "I'm an Army brat,"  some of what is true for Tracy is also true for me.

Where Tracy can trace her family's military heritage all the way back to the 1800's (if not before), what I know for sure about my family goes back to World War One - my grandfather and then to my dad who was a professional soldier. 

We did have a Civil War deserter on my father's side of the family. This was one of the more colorful snippets of family lore that my mom discovered when she was absorbed in researching our past.  

Tracy begins her story in the present. It's 1992 and she's "...wrestling with the contents of a chest of drawers where my mother had deposited a pile of family papers."  (P. 3.)

"There were genealogy charts, military commendations, fragments of biographies, letters from the War of 1812, a photocopy of a journal dating from the 1840s, and what seemed like dozens of little framed daguerreotypes of people whose identity was a complete mystery to me."  (P. 3)

Sorting.  This is what grown children do when they are making arrangements for their elderly parents. 

We open drawers, closets, boxes and bins. Climb into attics, explore bedrooms. Haul furniture around, sort through books.  Bag up and label things.

Tracy's eight-three year old mother is no longer able to live on her own.  After coming up with what they believe will be a temporary solution - moving their mom into a retirement home -  Tracy and her sister are starting to dismantle their mother's house - where she has lived for the past forty years.

Does this begin to sound familiar?

My sisters and I had to sort, bag, label and then divvy up the contents of our parents home to be shared among five siblings.  I'd had some previous experience because A and I had closed up his mom's apartment after she died. 

Stuff. 

"We have, " writes Tracy, "more stuff in storage bins and basements and attics and back rooms than we can ever use in a lifetime.  Or three."  (P. xi of the prologue.)

"Quit whining and sell it."  (P. 67.)

Ah.  But, it's not so easy.

So. You Want to Write?

Here's what Janet Evanovich has to say about that:

Rules For Successful Writing

Don't fall into the trap of rewriting chapter one until it's perfect. And don't discard everything you write halfway through because you're sure it sucks.  Writing stuff that sucks is part of the learning process!

When people ask what you do, tell them you're a writer.  Put yourself on the line.  Make a commitment.

Make writing a responsibility.  Think of it like a job and show up on time.

Never hold anything back for the next book.  Always go for it.  Be brave.

Respect and love your audience.  Write for the reader.               -  page xi

How I Write - Secrets of a Best Selling Author, by Janet Evanovich with Ina Yalof

Reflections on Teaching Writing to Adolescents

Twenty years ago, I kept a journal about teaching kids to write.  The journal itself, with some overlap, fits the palm of my hand. It's not a very big journal and it's not a very glamorous journal.  I didn't want something expensive or glamorous - I wanted something that I could easily carry; that would be small enough to slide into a pocket or book bag, depending on what I was lugging around on any given day.

Today, as I flip through the pages, I think about all of the "Social Media" messages that rick-a-shay out on the internet.  And, I wonder if how people are writing today is different than how my kids were writing back in the day.

My first journal comment was written on July 16, 1990 (which tells me that this was summer school.) Here's what I wrote:

July 16, 1990:  I took a large ream of lined paper into class today and I was glad I did.  If you're going to ask kids to write, you don't penalize them for coming into class without pencils, paper, pens ---All of that should be in the room for them to grab.

We started the actual "sit-down-and-write short stories" today;  I panicked a bit, but as I watched things unfold in class, I relaxed.

Period One is always a slow start.  Today being Monday, they were all half-asleep.  We talked for a while before I turned them loose.  I handed out Atwell's In the Middle:  "Leads" and seven things to keep in mind when writing fiction.  We discussed them (briefly) - I talked and they woke up.

I wondered if I was overwhelming them with too much information?  The trick was to capture the momentum that ended last Friday's class.  With two days behind us, this was hard to do.  Whatever creative energy came, came slowly and didn't really kick in until the second part of the class period.

This class elected to work in pairs.  Fortunately, the class size made for an even one-to-one pair off.

Lorraine and Tom:  They kept going back to the characters they created as a class, last Friday.  After tossing some ideas around, Lorraine told me that she kept "seeing" the male character doing all of these really clumsy things, but she couldn't write them down.

"Like what?" I asked.

And, she told me.  After she described an entire scene - a guy trying to park a car and failing miserably - I suggested that she give the pen to Tom and say everything again, exactly as she had to me, and to have Tom write everything down.

Writing tip #1:  People usually write the way that they speak.  If you are stuck -- staring at a blank sheet of paper with no idea how to capture your words and get them on that paper -- take a deep breath, relax, and begin to talk out loud.  Have someone else write down what you say.  

Interestingly enough,  I used this tip with a lot of kids.  I remember one student who came to me for extra help because she had to write a ten page paper.  She "talked out" the entire paper to me because she was convinced she couldn't write any of it. 

Present day:  I still use this tip when I'm working with clients.  "Tell me what you want to say," I'll prompt a small business owner after hearing that she wants to write a press release.  

Writing Tip #2:  Know what it is you want to say.  Seems pretty obvious, doesn't it?  Sometimes the hardest part is teasing out the main idea and then giving it permission to wander around on a blank page.

Writing Tip #3:  Don't be afraid to start.