"In My Own Little Corner"

This post by Jurgen Wolff came into my email at the end of May. I have saved and savored it.  At this time in my life I am contemplating the third act of my life.  How shall I live? To what shall I devote my time? Where will I live?

There is a small part of me that loves the idea of going adventuring. I love to visit beautiful places. A little corner of my heart would love to travel and experience new and different people, food, music and (most of all) beautiful scenery. Truth be told, I like the "idea" of traveling far better than the reality. I think some culturally brainwashed part of me believes that I should want to travel and go on adventures, as opposed to any real wanderlust burning in my heart. 

I have been blessed to have traveled a lot when I was young. I've been to a some incredible places and had some wonderful (and a few far from wonderful) travel adventures. I have to be honest and admit that I'd rather sleep in my own bed at night. I like my own cooking. Even when I was young my stomach never adapted well to changes in water, and it hasn't got any more adaptable with age. I have always been an adventurous diner, but I like to try new things when I'm close to home -- just in case.  I'm afraid of heights, so traveling in the mountainous places is such a challenge that I am more or less committed to avoid that. I don't like cold weather. I am fastidious about bathroom privacy, which has always created problems for me when travelling.

I'm too much of a chicken to go trekking off the beaten path alone. I don't have the money (or the personality) for organized tours.  I might trek off the beaten path with a pal (male or female), but I don't know anyone who would be interested in doing that right now. If I meet a potential travel pal, I'll reconsider.

For now, I am quite content with my small life by the sea. I fill my need for beauty with daily sunrise walks by the ocean. The clouds and birds and the very ocean itself nurture my spirit. My walks on the beach fill both my body's need for exercise and my soul's need for beauty.  Why should I visit faraway places when I can experience the magnificence of the ocean outside my door? (Besides, through the magic of the Internet, I can visit anywhere in the world in pictures, movies, or on Google Maps, without leaving my chair.)

The Rogers and Hammerstein musical, Cinderella, features a song that resonated with me the first time I heard it as a teenager. I remember part of the lyrics even though I haven't seen the play in years. (I NEVER remember the words to songs.) In part it says:

In my own little corner in my own little chair, I can be whatever I want to be.  On the wings of my fancy I can fly anywhere and the world will open its arms to me.

 The truth is that I've always been more of a spiritual adventurer than a physical adventurer. I love to read books and watch movies about people and places from faraway times and lands -- and even totally imaginary times and places. While sitting on my living room couch, my mind and my soul can travel to distant places, experience wild things, and be back in time for supper.

When I'm not reading, I make up my own stories. Characters emerge from the mists of my imagination. I build imaginary homes, businesses, schools and entire worlds. It sometimes gets very busy inside my head. I am a person who lives a very circumscribed life, physically, but I live a life of big ideas. The truth is, I'd be totally happy if I never again had to travel more than a few miles from my house, as long as I can live at the beach and have a some disposable money to pay for WiFi and e-books.

On the 50th Anniversary of "The Feminine Mystique"

This article on the 50th Anniversary of the publication of The Feminine Mystique got my attention because it's a worthy anniversary to celebrate. The article annoyed me. I got part way down the comments before I lost my temper altogether.

Like so much of contemporary journalism, the article is oversimplified to the point of being downright inaccurate. Friedan's book ignited flames, on both sides of the issue. Many women identified with the "Mystique" and joined together to resurrect the Women's Movement that gave women suffrage in the 1920's, and then lay fallow during the awful years of Depression and War. By the early 1960's the Civil Rights Movement was gaining momentum. Women participated at nearly every level, except in decision-making. Middle class white women were supposed to wait until racial equality was achieved before advancing their issues. After that, they were supposed to wait until the Peace Movement ended the War. 

Betty Friedan's book hit the bookshelves at the perfect moment to attract the attention of many educated women of all ages who believed their contributions to their families and communities were both undervalued and underutilized. They were smart, articulate and capable of doing so much more with their lives than the Cold War culture would allow. So, at first a few at a time and later in droves, they put down their aprons and got busy working for Women's Liberation -- which they were often quick to point out is really about Human Transformation. The Sisters wanted the Brothers to be liberated from their rigid gender roles, too. 

After I read the first sentence of this article, I thought it was going to be a satire. But by the time I got half way through, I realized that the author was actually (incredibly) serious when she wrote: In the 50 years since Betty Friedan published The Feminine Mystique, women’s lives have been transformed, almost entirely for the better. Seriously?  On what planet would that be?  Yes, in the past 50 years our lives have transformed in ways that were unimaginable even in the world of the Jetsons.  Much of it has been good, but not all of it has been even close to "for the better."  

A lot of young women today write about the Feminist Movement as though it were over. Like President Bush standing on that aircraft carrier, they declare victory and prepare to move on.  It doesn't work that way. The war in Iraq wasn't over because our president declared victory, as we know nearly ten years later.

The movement toward gender equality isn't over, either.  Maybe equality, like freedom, is something so precious we will always have to guard it carefully, and be prepared to defend it when necessary. I would argue that, in recent years -- and I think largely due to the complacency of the women and men who think that the "strife is o're and the battle won" -- the movements for civil rights for women and men of all races have lost ground. A lot of ground.  

Women's rights are under attack on all fronts. We have popular religious figures and a few Republican office holders who advocate for the return of patriarchal marriage.  "Wives, be obedient to your husbands."  Our reproductive rights are under attack in many legislative bodies, including Congress. Sex education is virtually absent from our schools. Some forms of popular music and alleged "humor" are all about denigrating women.  

While some research seems to indicate young men are stepping up somewhat (good on them!), working women are still responsible for most of the care and feeding of their families. They are responsible for lining up babysitters, doctor appointments, doing the shopping and the cooking, helping with the homework, doing the laundry and doing the lion's share of the housework. In many households the wife/mother is doing everything that a full-time homemaker would do, plus holding down a full-time job.  This is better for her and her family? How?

Friedan lived in a world where smart, educated women were kept in a pink ghetto, baking cookies and waiting for their husbands to come home, so they could serve him a martini and dinner. I love Frank Sinatra's music, but to this day, I hear the first few notes of Hey, Little Girl and I want to break something. That was truly the attitude at the time. My dad once (jokingly - ?) asked my mother why she didn't run the sweeper in pearls and heels like June Cleever. He lived to tell about it, but he never asked that question again. 

Friedan and her contemporaries, the founders of NOW and other prominent feminists of the era, including the incomparable Gloria Steinem and Marlo Thomas (whose tone was less strident but whose commitment was and remains as deep), offered both women and men a new way of looking at gender relationships.  They invited both men and women to step out and be more, do more, and offer more to one another than traditional gender roles allowed.

Their courage in the face of ridicule and threats of physical violence gave women of my generation opportunities to learn, grow and participate in our communities in ways that were not possible for our mothers. Our daughters take those opportunities totally for granted. 

Unfortunately, the progress that men and women have made in the last fifty years is under attack on many fronts. 

Betty Friedan didn't "start" the Women's Movement. She gave women a vocabulary with which to discuss the "problem that had no name" that plagued women in the Cold War culture of the early 1960's. In so doing she helped to reawaken the yearnings that created the Women's Suffrage Movement a hundred years before. Friedan then lived the rest of her life devoted to furthering the cause of women. She has gone to her rest, but the struggle is not over. 

If you want proof, scroll down to the Comments at the bottom of the article.  I couldn't stomach all of them, but the ones I saw were enough to affirm my opinion that we have a lot of work to do. 

Putting Humpty Together Again ... and Again ... and Again

Big Think - David Arenson - Butterfly, Fly Again! This article is kind of preachy, but it struck a couple of deep chords for me.

First, it describes my writing process. I work through the bumps in my life by writing stories about how my characters navigate life's transitions. As I mentioned in a previous post, I write about what worries me. I give my burdens to my characters and I watch how the characters handle them.  I am inspired  by them when they do well, and I try to learn from their mistakes when they stumble.

Second, it articulates better than I ever have been able to do my own personal belief about the meaning and purpose of life.

When your life seems to end, it is a great opportunity to start all over again at the beginning, to redefine exactly who you are, and what you will stand for, and who you are not.  

Your life is yours to create, to enjoy or not enjoy, to fight or be at peace with.

When all else is lost, you face yourself directly in the mirror and from this vantage point of complete nakedness, clarity emerges and a new image starts to form of your future. From this point, you can create something real and meaningful, which will evolve into something beautiful in time.

Whatever has appeared in your life is there for a reason. You can either ignore it or learn from it. No circumstance is accidental, though it may be unwanted. Choose what you will be. 

We can't control what happens to us in life, but we can control what we allow our circumstances to do to us. When we face a setback of any kind, we may choose anger, bitterness and helpless resignation. We may also choose to move forward in a new direction with hope that this "new" future will bring new blessings. Doing the latter does not mean that one does not sometimes feel angry, bitter or helpless. It means that we don't let those emotions have power over us. We may occasionally feel angry  or mournful about bad things that have happened to us, but moping about past misfortune prevents us from being happy now.

I don't have a particularly sunny disposition. [Folks who know me would be rolling on the floor at that gross understatement!] I'm too serious and too much of a worrier to be vivacious. However, somewhere deep in me, there is a bottomless well of optimism.  I truly believe that things happen for a reason and they work out for the best in the long run. I also believe that my true Self is stronger than my emotions, and that I can control my behavior despite how I may feel. Some days, I may be sad and depressed, but I get up, plaster a fake smile on my face and go to work anyway.

I may be angry about something someone said to me, but I don't show it. I don't deny that I'm angry or try to stuff the emotion. I learned a long time ago that when I do that, my anger turns inward, with dreadful results.  I tend to express anger privately, usually in vicious screeds written in my private journal or imaginary conversations in my head while taking very long, fast walks.

Bitterness and envy are the two emotions I will not tolerate.  When I am tempted to feel either of those emotions, I literally sit down and count my blessings.  Sometimes I even write them down. That always makes me feel better.

Life is about rising from the ashes of past failures and disappointments, starting over and moving forward to build a new life that you never imagined was possible.

Maybe the king's men and horses can't put Humpty together again, but Humpty can do it.

Creative Anxiety?

Check out this post from Writer Unboxed on Anxiety and the Creative Process

Some people are more and some are less prone to anxiety, but at one time or another everyone feels anxious. Anxiety at some level seems to be built into our DNA. The author of of the post cited above, points out that it's actually a protection mechanism, getting the body ready to run or to fight.

There are a lot of things these days that seem to raise anxiety levels that have nothing to do with physical danger.

Email is a big one for me. I can become almost unglued when I get too many emails in a short time and I  can't focus on any one of them long enough to respond appropriately and with due consideration.

Social media is another one. I know that online communities are powerful and can be potentially wonderful things, bringing people together from many places and many walks of life. Facebook freaks me out, however.  I don't "get" Twitter. It is interesting to follow storms and other events on Twitter. But, I can only stand it for a few minutes at a time. I find my anxiety level rising just logging on to either of those sites. There's too much going on for me. It's like walking into a loud, crowded bar.  Some people actually enjoy that kind of thing. It triggers my "flight" reflex every time.

These days there seems to be a general sense of free-floating anxiety affecting our entire culture. The economy may be improving in certain sectors, but it's still bad and people are worried. People who don't have jobs are anxious about finding one. People who do have jobs are anxious about keeping theirs. Everybody I know worries about money: the ones who have money worry about how to keep it; the ones who don't have money worry about how to get more of it;  the ones who have some money worry about whether or not it will be enough.

There is no doubt that too much anxiety can impede creativity. I personally waste a lot of time worrying when I could be doing something useful. But, sometimes anxiety can actually help us zero in on areas in our lives where creativity needs to be focused. I tend to write about the things that worry me, whether it be in my journal, or in long, impassioned emails that I send to my wonderfully patient and kind friends, or in fictional format where I make up characters and hand them my burdens so I can watch how they deal with the problems.  Naming the thing that I fear doesn't make the fear go away, but it does give it a focus.  I'm not afraid of everything, but I am afraid of this thing.  That enables me to concentrate on figuring out how not to be so worried about that thing.

A lot of times, the way out of anxiety/worry/fear is not to fight it. It's to go with it. A friend of mine once recommended to me a book the title of which was Feel the Fear, and Do It Anyway.  I never read the book. The title alone changed my life. Allowing myself to actually stop and feel fearful or worried, allowing myself to express it in writing or in conversations with my friends helps me to realize that, once named and explored rationally, the hurdles are never as big as they seem while they're lurking in the dark corners of my unconscious.  That allows me to have the courage to "do it anyway."  The "doing it anyway" is often a very creative process.

In that sense, for me anxiety is often an engine for creativity.  It's not as pleasant as the fire of inspiration, but it's more reliable. Inspiration comes and goes. For a worry wart like me, anxiety is always there to draw on. I like the irony of that. It's nice to think that all that worrying may serve a useful purpose.

"The Science of Happiness" -- Stuff we all should have learned in Kindergarten

Watch this extraordinary talk  on the subject of happiness by Stanford professor, Fred Luskin.

A Renaissance Soul in a neo-medieval world.

This guest post on Later Bloomer caught my eye and caused me to stop and think about what I really want to do with the next phase of my life. And then this post by Debra Eve herself provided a counterpoint, and sort of an answer.

My primal desire since the fourth grade was to be a writer. While doing a whole lot of other things along the way, I fooled around with writing on and off from that time until after I was 50. At that point I decided that I was either going to have to actually write something or give up the Dream. Giving up a life-long Dream seemed harder than sitting down at the computer and typing a bunch of words. Since then I have self-published sixteen novels as e-books on Smashwords. I have several others completed but they still need work, and I have two new first-draft manuscripts that are presently hanging out in my writing folder while I decide whether or not they are salvageable. (I use Mark Twain’s “tank method” -- I work on them until I think they’re done or I get stuck, then I put them away for months, or sometimes years. That gives me enough distance to edit them again and determine if they’re ready to launch.)

My stories are not masterpieces, and I don't think they would ever be great works of art, no matter how much professional editing might be applied to them. They are, however, my stories, written with love and passion. I share them at a very modest price in the hope that they will find their way into the hands of a few people who will enjoy them and/or need something that the story offers. Writing a novel is lot of work, and I’m very proud that I finally followed my Dream and wrote these stories. 

I struggled with the last couple of novels. I felt as though I was repeating myself. Writing became a chore. I didn’t want to do it any more, at least not at the pace I had been working. 

After spending a few months sort of at loose ends, I realized that the biggest question before me is “what next?” I am sure that writing of one sort or another will always be a part of my life, but I feel myself drawn to do something other than writing novels, at least for a while. I find myself wanting to do something new. Something I haven't tried before. That made me feel like something of a quitter, just when I'm getting the hang of novel-writing, I'm bored with it and I want to do something else.

In preparing to write this, I went back to reread the post on finding and following your “primal longing” when I happened upon [serendipity!] Debra Eve’s post “All Those Who Wander Are Not Lost” about the difference between the medieval mind and Renaissance mind: specialization versus diversification. That was an "ah ha" moment for me. 

I have always loved the idea of the Renaissance person, someone with a wide variety of interests and  breadth of knowledge. Intellectually I need to learn something new every day. I don’t like to spend enough time with any one particular subject or task to become an expert. I’m satisfied with knowing a little about a lot of things. I guess the truth is: I’m kind of a “dabbler.” In our neo-medieval world that’s a very bad thing. In our culture my intellectual dabbling is interpreted as meaning that I am either not serious about my career or that I can't stay focused on any one thing.  The fact is: both of those things are totally true, but it doesn't seem like such a bad thing inside my head. Spending too much time on one thing takes up too much time that could be devoted to learning something else. 

Now, that I feel finished (at least temporarily) with writing long fiction, my Renaissance soul is looking for something new to learn. 

I don’t know what it will be, yet. But I’m pretty sure I will throw myself into it (at least for a while) with the same fervor I approached writing novels. I'll no doubt share the adventure here. I hope you'll wander along with me! 

Intentional Pointlessness

This post from Time to Write made me laugh ... and think. He says, "I think everybody should have at least five minutes of intentional pointlessness a day."

I have sort of unintentionally built in a lot of pointless time to many of my days, because I often find nuggets of inspiration, learning or story ideas when I simply mess around.

Right now, I’m taking a break from fiction writing. I’m contemplating going in a different direction with my writing, but I don’t want to make a hasty decision. These days, I’m filling the hours that I ordinarily would spend writing fiction sleeping and screwing around randomly on the internet. I’m getting more sleep than I’ve done in years, which is good for me.

I find that when I randomly open myself to cyberspace, I often come away with amazing nuggets of information or incredible images (I adore photo sites). Until recently, I avoided video. I can read faster than watch a video. Then I discovered TED. (Talk about a wonderful time suck!) Yes, you can read an article faster than watch a video, but you don’t see the sparkle in an eye or a silly grin that tells you that the speaker is being facetious. I indulge in random TED surfing when I have plenty of time usually on weekend evenings.

I also love to daydream. Especially while walking on the beach or in the hour or so before I get up for work. (Even when I’m not writing, I set my alarm for 4:30 AM, I just don’t get up. I either go back to sleep or I lie there and daydream.) Some people might call that meditating. Trust me, it isn’t. It’s not intentional enough to be the “watching of thoughts” that is one form of meditation. It’s way too messy and incoherent to be any sort of focused meditation. Meditation is hard work. I used to do it. Daydreaming is easier and much more fun.

For me all that wasting time and fooling around has two beneficial effects. First, it relieves stress -- and I have a very stressful job. Second, every single story I’ve written came to me out of the blue while I was daydreaming. Most of the blog posts I’ve written on any of my blogs going back to 2004 had their genesis in an article I had read on some random blog or something interesting or provocative that happened to me while I was otherwise fooling around.When I’m working at my job or writing, I am virtually oblivious to my surroundings. I focus totally and intently on what I’m doing. 

The only time the Universe can get my attention to give me little Gifts is when I’m fooling around. For me, messing around is intensely creative -- even if I'm not aware of it at the time.

I think from now on, I am going to be way more intentional about my pointless activities. 

But, then, would they not be as pointless? **Hmm....**

A Christmas Message

Christmas is far from my favorite holiday, and I try to avoid as much of the craziness as possible. I don't enjoy the Secular Santa motif, but I also no longer practice the Christian traditions of the holiday. Nevertheless, acknowledgement of the winter solstice seems to be somehow hardwired into the human psyche, and I can't ignore it altogether. This post from Olin Morales from several weeks ago seems like a totally appropriate meditation for the season.

Why do we celebrate the Festivals of Light during the darkest time of the year? Because our most primitive ancestors didn't understand how it worked but they knew in their bones that the seasons would turn and the Light would shine again. They marked the turning point with mid-winter feasts that contrasted sharply with the hunger, cold and darkness that came with the rest of wintertime. Numerous traditions developed around the winter solstice in many cultures, Christmas being one of them.

The paradox of Christmas is all about loving without understanding. How can the Son of God be born in a stable, live an ordinary life and then be murdered by people who fear his message? How can a mere girl love her Lord enough to be the surrogate mother of His Son, a role that will bring her hardship and pain for the rest of her life? How can a Jewish man of the first century love a woman enough to marry her when she is pregnant with a child of unknown paternity? The entire New Testament story is about people loving without understanding. Christmas is about stepping out in faith.

It is wonderful (and easy) to love someone you understand.  It is challenging and sometimes frightening to love someone you do not understand. The payoff, however, is that when you love without understanding, you allow room for both yourself and your beloved to grow and change and be transformed.

That is the ultimate message of Christmas:  the miracle of Immanuel cannot be understood or explained. It can only be experienced, in awe and with thanksgiving. What is more, it can transform anyone who allows themselves to love the mystery.  

Blessed Christmas, Dear Readers!

Harper Lee on Reading and Remembering

Lord, I wish this woman had written more books!!!

Letters of Note - Some things should happen on soft pages, not cold metal

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Some things should happen on soft pages, not cold metal Posted: 15 Oct 2012 07:11 AM PDT In May of 2006, 46 years after the publication of her only novel, To Kill a Mockingbird, reclusive author Harper Lee wrote the following letter to Oprah Winfrey, on the subject of reading and her love of books. It was subsequently published in Oprah's magazine, "O." (Source: O; Image: Harper Lee, via.) May 7, 2006 Dear Oprah, Do you remember when you learned to read, or like me, can you not even remember a time when you didn't know how? I must have learned from having been read to by my family. My sisters and brother, much older, read aloud to keep me from pestering them; my mother read me a story every day, usually a children's classic, and my father read from the four newspapers he got through every evening. Then, of course, it was Uncle Wiggily at bedtime. So I arrived in the first grade, literate, with a curious cultural assimilation of American history, romance, the Rover Boys, Rapunzel, and The Mobile Press. Early signs of genius? Far from it. Reading was an accomplishment I shared with several local contemporaries. Why this endemic precocity? Because in my hometown, a remote village in the early 1930s, youngsters had little to do but read. A movie? Not often — movies weren't for small children. A park for games? Not a hope. We're talking unpaved streets here, and the Depression. Books were scarce. There was nothing you could call a public library, we were a hundred miles away from a department store's books section, so we children began to circulate reading material among ourselves until each child had read another's entire stock. There were long dry spells broken by the new Christmas books, which started the rounds again. As we grew older, we began to realize what our books were worth: Anne of Green Gables was worth two Bobbsey Twins; two Rover Boys were an even swap for two Tom Swifts. Aesthetic frissons ran a poor second to the thrills of acquisition. The goal, a full set of a series, was attained only once by an individual of exceptional greed — he swapped his sister's doll buggy. We were privileged. There were children, mostly from rural areas, who had never looked into a book until they went to school. They had to be taught to read in the first grade, and we were impatient with them for having to catch up. We ignored them. And it wasn't until we were grown, some of us, that we discovered what had befallen the children of our African-American servants. In some of their schools, pupils learned to read three-to-one — three children to one book, which was more than likely a cast-off primer from a white grammar school. We seldom saw them until, older, they came to work for us. Now, 75 years later in an abundant society where people have laptops, cell phones, iPods, and minds like empty rooms, I still plod along with books. Instant information is not for me. I prefer to search library stacks because when I work to learn something, I remember it. And, Oprah, can you imagine curling up in bed to read a computer? Weeping for Anna Karenina and being terrified by Hannibal Lecter, entering the heart of darkness with Mistah Kurtz, having Holden Caulfield ring you up — some things should happen on soft pages, not cold metal. The village of my childhood is gone, with it most of the book collectors, including the dodgy one who swapped his complete set of Seckatary Hawkinses for a shotgun and kept it until it was retrieved by an irate parent. Now we are three in number and live hundreds of miles away from each other. We still keep in touch by telephone conversations of recurrent theme: "What is your name again?" followed by "What are you reading?" We don't always remember. Much love, Harper RSS Feed proudly sponsored by TinyLetter, a simple newsletter service for people with something to say.

TinyLetter Posted: 15 Oct 2012 12:58 AM PDT As always, huge thanks to TinyLetter for sponsoring Letters of Note, Lists of Note, and Letterheady. About TinyLetter: TinyLetter is a ridiculously easy, spam-free service that enables you — at no cost — to send out a personal email newsletter to an unlimited number of subscribers. Signing up takes seconds, and within minutes of doing so you will have learnt everything needed to send out your first newsletter. The dashboard is refreshingly simple and enables you to quickly read any replies, manage subscribers, glance at stats, and even spruce up your sign-up page. All in all, a fantastic, hassle-free service that I'm genuinely pleased to recommend. Try it out. RSS Feed proudly sponsored by TinyLetter, a simple newsletter service for people with something to say.

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On The Beauty of Words from Letters of Note

Another gem from Letters of Note. This one speaks for itself. And how.

Letters of Note - The Beauty of Words

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The Beauty of Words Posted: 02 Oct 2012 07:47 AM PDT In 1890, after living and working in the U.S. for 20 years, Greek-born Lafcadio Hearn moved to Japan and immediately fell in love with a culture and language about which he would then write until his death fourteen years later. In 1893, he sent the following wonderful letter to his friend and occasional editor, Basil Hall Chamberlain, and eloquently defended the use of unintelligible but physiognomically beautiful Japanese words in his English-language work. (Source: The Life and Letters of Lafcadio Hearn, Vol. III; Image: Lafcadio Hearn, via.) June 5, 1893 Dear Chamberlain,— Thanks for strictures and suggestions. I changed the text as you desired, except in the case of the word Kuruma. That has been fully explained in preceding articles. (By the way, I never heard a Japanese use the word jinrikisha.) My observations about the sailors were based upon police reports in the Japan "Mail." I killed the word gwaikokujin; as you said, it is an ugly word. I revised, indeed, the whole paper. Recognizing the ugliness of words, however, you must also recognize their physiognomical beauty. I see you and the Editor of the "Atlantic" are at one, however, in condemning my use of Japanese words. Now, I can't entirely agree with either of you. As to the practical side of the question, I do. But as to the artistic, the romantic side, I don't. For me words have colour, form, character; they have faces, ports, manners, gesticulations; they have moods, humours, eccentricities;—they have tints, tones, personalities. That they are unintelligible makes no difference at all. Whether you are able to speak to a stranger or not, you can't help being impressed by his appearance sometimes—by his dress—by his air—by his exotic look. He is also unintelligible, but not a whit less interesting. Nay! he is interesting BECAUSE he is unintelligible. I won't cite other writers who have felt the same way about African, Chinese, Arabian, Hebrew, Tartar, Indian, and Basque words—I mean novelists and sketch writers. To such it has been justly observed: "The readers do not feel as you do about words. They can't be supposed to know that you think the letter A is blush-crimson, and the letter E pale sky-blue. They can't be supposed to know that you think KH wears a beard and a turban; that initial X is a mature Greek with wrinkles;—or that '—no—' has an innocent, lovable, and childlike aspect." All this is true from the critic's standpoint. But from ours, the standpoint of— The dreamer of dreams To whom what is and what seems Is often one and the same— To us the idea is thus: "Because people cannot see the colour of words, the tints of words, the secret ghostly motions of words: "Because they cannot hear the whispering of words, the rustling of the procession of letters, the dream-flutes and dream-drums which are thinly and weirdly played by words: "Because they cannot perceive the pouting of words, the frowning and fuming of words, the weeping, the raging and racketing and rioting of words: "Because they are insensible to the phosphorescing of words, the fragrance of words, the noisomeness of words, the tenderness or hardness, the dryness or juiciness of words—the interchange of values in the gold, the silver, the brass and the copper of words: "Is that any reason why we should not try to make them hear, to make them see, to make them feel? Surely one who has never heard Wagner, cannot appreciate Wagner without study! Why should the people not be forcibly introduced to foreign words, as they were introduced to tea and coffee and tobacco?" Unto which, the friendly reply is—"Because they won't buy your book, and you won't make any money." And I say: "Surely I have never yet made, and never expect to make any money. Neither do I expect to write ever for the multitude. I write for beloved friends who can see colour in words, can smell the perfume of syllables in blossom, can be shocked with the fine elfish electricity of words. And in the eternal order of things, words will eventually have their rights recognized by the people." All this is heresy. But a bad reason, you will grant, is better than—etc. Faithfully, Lafcadio Hearn RSS Feed proudly sponsored by TinyLetter, a simple newsletter service for people with something to say.

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Muddling Through A Bad Patch

We've all had to do it. Sometimes we navigate times of trouble better than others. I tend to write more when I'm unhappy. I think that being creative is something that brings me such satisfaction, it serves as a counter-weight to whatever may be making me unhappy.

But, I have periods when I'm too easily distracted. I've never personified those distractions and periods of chasing-my-tail instead of putting my butt in the chair and the computer in my lap. This post from Writer Unboxed is delightful and useful, both for the humorous imagery of the anti-Muse sitting on her ass in the dirt as well as the obvious but important point that there is no "magic bullet."  There is no one way for an author to get back on track.

That is because there are so many paths we can follow to get us off track. It stands to reason, there are equally as many ways to re-focus and let the Muse do her thing.

How Not to Grow Bitter as You Grow Older

There comes a point in life where a person has to choose to either let Life grind them down -- or not.

In some cases, it happens early in life. When a young person suffers some horrible tragedy or when a person's spirit is just not up to grappling with the obstacles that Life throws a them, they may give into bitterness and cynicism at a very young age. In my experience, these people tend to become toxic personalities, both to themselves and to those around them.

More commonly, the wounds from the knocks that Life delivers, if not either deflected or dealt with immediately, accumulate gradually until the person sinks into the kind of backward-facing, bitterness  exhibited by many old people.

It doesn't have to be that way. I have been inspired many times by elderly folks who radiate happiness, and bring joy to others. I was privileged a few years ago to have known a woman who was 92 at the time. She still drove. She was very alert and remarkably healthy. She did volunteer work every week at her church and once a month at a children's shelter home. She was anything but the stereotypical church lady. She had lived long and faced much tragedy. She was a tough old bird in many ways. In fact, she could be a regular hell-cat when provoked (and, sometimes, it didn't take much to provoke her). But, she always came into the office wearing a smile (until somebody pissed her off). Usually the first words out of her mouth when she entered my office were, "How are you today, my dear? Can I help you with something?"  She was a joy to be around, and she inspired me to want to be strong, too.

When she was 92, a tornado destroyed her home, while she was inside. After the storm passed she crawled through the rubble that had been her house, seeking shelter with a neighbor.

That week she missed her day of volunteering in the church office, but she was back the following week, as chipper as ever. Everyone who heard the story was amazed. She didn't understand why other people thought it was such a big deal. She did what she needed to do to survive, and then went back to living her life. Just as she had been doing for 92 years.

One of my goals as I navigate this new phase of my life is to somehow manage to avoid becoming a crotchety old bitch, which would be so easy to do. Instead, I want to be a Crone (think Grandmother Willow) passing along the wisdom of experience with a smile, even if it's enveloped in wrinkles. I've never had a particularly sunny disposition, so I know I'm going to have to work at it. But, I think it will be worth it.

This post by Olin Morales at Courage 2 Create gives step-by-step instructions for how to steer clear of the Slough of Despond. This is one of those blog posts that I have book marked both on my laptop and on my phone for ready reference whenever I may feel myself being sucked into the bog.  

The Single Most Important Reason to Write What You Know

My newest favorite writing site is Courage 2 Create. I can't get enough of this site. Ollin Morales wrote a post a while back about Authenticity.  Read the whole thing here.

This article is generally under the heading of "write what you know."  But, it explains why it is important for the writer to draw on personal experience in fiction. The quote that made me stop scanning and start reading:

...[T]he reason writers must bare their souls on the page is because someone out there in the world desperately needs to hear our story. There is a woman or a man out there that has suffered as we, the writer, have suffered. That man or woman may not have the words or the strength to say what needs to be said, and to share what needs to be shared, and so we are providing them a great service by doing it for them.

Other peoples' stories have always nurtured, educated and inspired me. I love a good story, whether told verbally by a good story-teller or written in a book where I can savor it and revisit it whenever I want. Stories have the power to heal. Often tragedies spread the most healing balm. I couldn't begin to guess how many times in my life I've been lost, lonely, afraid or just pissed off at Life and I crawled into a book, or occasionally a movie. Typically the story doesn't make my problems go away.  But, they can sometimes make me laugh in spite of it all. Or, they may point out that my problems may not be as big as I think they are, which allows me to gain some perspective. Occasionally, they may either make me cry enough to have a personal catharsis or inspire me enough to get up off the couch and do something about my situation.

As a writer of stories, I feel that my highest purpose is to share stories in which other people (strangers whom I'll never know) may take refuge for a little while. Sort of paying it forward, if you will. It only works if I'm willing to be totally honest. That's the hard part for me as a writer, but, as a reader, I know how I appreciate honesty from other writers. Being honest may be the single most important thing a writer can do.

Writers Toolkit - Strategies for Writing

Write to Done provides a wealth of resources, inspiration and practical tips for writers. This post reached up and grabbed  me by the throat. Especially these two paragraphs:

7. Become A Warrior

You are a warrior. The Bottomless Pit is your enemy. So, battle, my friend. Throw your punches, unsheathe your sword, brandish your shield. Warriors never fear bottomless pits. They welcome them and beat them to the dust.

A warrior is fighting for something. What are you fighting for? Clarify that, then move forward and fight for that something with every fiber of your being.

8. Fall In Love

Along with his cause, every warrior fights for his beloved, too. So what beloved are you fighting for? Your girlfriend, or boyfriend? Your husband, or wife? Your children? Your readers? Humanity? An idea: like justice, peace, or freedom? A belief in something bigger than you?

What future do you want to secure for the beloved you’re fighting for? Let your work be an extension of that love–and The Bottomless Pit will be that much easier to tackle.

These questions are the primary issues I'm focusing on in my writing life (and real life, not that there's a difference, beyond the name). This article clarifies the questions that will guide this next leg of my journey as a writer.

I used to know what (and who) I loved and what ideals I cherished enough to fight for. Both my love and my cause have changed, or, more accurately, they are in the process of being transformed. My writer's voice is changing. It's becoming stronger and more urgent, on the one hand, but also more patient, willing to let Story emerge rather than trying to force it.

I intend to become a Warrior-Crone, brandishing the sword of stories about strong women and men who are people with purpose and integrity.

In a world that too often allows important things to be side-tracked by petty squabbles, where women are too often ignored (at best), disrespected, if not outright abused, we artists along with teachers, parents and anyone else who cares to join, need to do battle daily to teach our children that there is a better way to live.

Ruminating on "Roots"

Recently Debra Eve at Later Bloomer posted a very interesting article about Alex Haley in which she mentions her experience watching the mini-series Roots.  That blast from the past took me on a little trip down memory lane.

January 1977 was cold and miserable in Ohio. I had a tiny black & white TV on a plastic table and hardly any other furniture. I lived in a townhouse apartment. The floor downstairs was linoleum and I didn't have any rugs. During evenings in winter, I tended to curl up in bed (well there was no actual bed frame,  it was really just a mattress on the floor) with a book instead of sitting in front of the TV because my feet got cold downstairs.

I had heard of the book, but hadn't read it. I wasn't sure I really wanted  to commit to watching an entire week of television (due in part to the cold feet issue and in part to the fact that I wasn't a regular TV viewer other than the news and movies occasionally). Nevertheless, I decided to give the first episode a chance. I was bedazzled. Like much of America, I watched every second of the series. I don't recall if my feet got cold, but I do know I got goose-bumps a few times. The performances were amazing. The story was riveting.

As I sit here today, I have to confess I never read the book. Usually when I see a movie I like that is based on a book, I buy the book and I almost always like the book better than the movie. In the case of Roots, I didn't think anything could top the movie. It was for me a magical moment in time that could not be repeated, only cherished in the recesses of my memory. 

Roots has become an American icon. The book's publication was a significant event in the history of American literature. The mini-series was a landmark in television history.  Kunta Kinte was a real person, turned into a quasi-fictional character by a talented writer. The power of his story catapulted him into the top rank of the pantheon of Americas icons. Right where he belongs.

I think Alex Haley should be right up there, too. 

Perspective

If you've stopped by here before, you know that I'm a huge fan of Ingrid Schaffenburg at The Threadbare Gypsy Soul.  Recently, she wrote a post on Perspective that lit me up.

Those of us who live in places with clean water, available medicine, paying jobs, even just a little money in the bank and our health should spend most of our days prostrate in gratitude.

Instead too often we bitch and moan when the coffee at the 7 Eleven has been sitting for more than 20 minutes, a store clerk doesn't jump up and snap to attention the minute we walk into the department or a traffic light gets stuck. Ingrid's example about the petty and mean women on an airplane is so common, I'd be willing to bet that anyone who has flown in the last decade could add a similar example. Too many people in America today appear to have lost the capacity for kindness or forbearance.  In short, we have lost our perspective.

Perhaps that's where writers (both non-fiction and fiction) can help.  Writers can hold up a mirror to demonstrate how good we have it in comparison with how bad life could be.  If we pay attention, that could help us maintain proper perspective and avoid getting upset over things that are really not that important.

I recently read a novel that is a prescription for improving perspective:  The Wildflowers of Terezin. This novel is set in Denmark during WWII. Most Holocaust stories feature the Evil Germans and the struggle of the Jews to retain some remnant of humanity in the face of the Final Solution. This story is more like Schindler's List in that there is the third leg of the stool: the righteous non-Jews who try to help. Oscar Schindler was one guy. This story features the good people of Denmark who, inspired by their own convictions and encouraged by the Lutheran bishops, try to help their Jewish neighbors.

I read the book all in one sitting. Couldn't put it down. I ended up feeling inspired by the power of the human spirit in the face of adversity. I also felt grateful for living in America today and not Europe a generation past.

Narrative Detail vs. Keeping the Plot Moving

For years I've noticed that when something is really working on my subconscious I'll stumble across clusters of articles and/or conversations and/or televisions shows about the issue. It would appear that the subject of crafting a Story to conform to how the human brain works is an important subject for me these days.  I have blogged about this before, most recently here. Yet another good article on the subject recently ran here at  Write to Done.

The thing that intrigues me about these articles is that they so perfectly describe the way I read. I don't just read a book: I inhabit it. I move into the story world and follow the characters around, barely containing my eagerness to learn what will happen next. Most of the time I'm right there with the characters experiencing the story as though I were a part of it.  I read like Bastian in The Never-Ending Story. It's uncanny how much these articles describe that very experience.

Occasionally some little detail in a story will get my attention and cause me to take a detour from the main story. Sometimes I wander off on my own little imaginary trips down paths that the author decided not to explore. That's always  a lot of fun.

For that reason, I paused when I got to #4 in the list: only tell us what we need to know.  I understand the concept of keeping the story moving and keeping the suspense high, but I like detail and narrative when I read. I love descriptions of the sky (think Zane Grey in Riders of the Purple Sage),  the ocean (I've never read descriptions of the sea that were more spot on than the ones in Ahab's Wife by Sena Jeter Naslund),  the colors of the fields in the countryside,  the arrangement of furniture in a grandmother's room, the colors and textures of the clothes the main character prefers.  Rich detail helps me get lost in the author's story. If an author doesn't give me enough detail, I make up my own, but that distracts me from the story the author is telling and pulls me off into the process of making up my own story about the subject.

There's a fine line, of course. I'm not a fan of the kind of nineteenth century novels that describe in excruciating detail every element of the scene -- both exterior and interior.  But, on the other hand, the novels I've loved the best are filled with narrative detail.

I hope we're not headed toward writing novels that are only about the plot, providing just the pertinent facts to keep the story moving along.  If I want just the facts, I'll read blogs that enumerate information in 500 words or less.

When I read a novel, I want a completely fleshed out story world in all its magnificent detail.

What is more, it is sometimes fun when an author takes me on a side-trip that doesn't really go anywhere, but may help me get to know the character and/or the story world a little better. The scene may not move the plot forward, but if it helps me sink deeper into the world of the story or understand the characters better, I think it's not necessarily a bad thing. Done correctly, those little detours can also enhance the suspense.

I love the theory of writing in accordance with the way the human brain works.  However, I think a little meandering around is not an entirely bad thing in a novel. If nothing else, it prolongs the pleasure of the reading experience, which is one of the delicious luxuries of the novel as an art form.

More Synchronicity

Do you remember my post s couple of weeks ago about my obsession with planning?  Well, as I mentioned in the post, planning for me is a kind rehearsal of options for responses to the kinds of crazy things life throws at me. I said I thought that was helpful to me as a writer.

Shortly thereafter, I read this post on Writer Unboxed about how the human brain is hardwired to respond to Story. Lisa Cron's cred to write on the subject is way better than mine. She provides scientific backup for my empirical impressions that planning and imagining potential outcomes for various scenarios are part of the human survival mechanism. This article is consistent with my experience that imagining "what if" helps me cope with obstacles life throws at me.

It's also how stories are born.  I love it!

How to become a writer

I've mentioned several times what a fan I am of Letters of Note. I subscribe via email and have enjoyed most of the letters. Not surprisingly some of the most beautifully written letters are by writers on the subject of writing. (See my earlier post about a letter written by John Steinbeck.)

This letter by F. Scott Fitzgerald (who I don't love as much as I love Steinbeck) is beautifully written and nakedly truthful without being cruel.  I like the fact that he offers to read more and adds an encouraging post script.

I found this encouraging because my current WIP seems to be narrated by my broken heart, which may be why I'm procrastinating so with it. It hurts to write.  I have to keep stopping to catch my breath and recover from both the painful memories that keep bubbling up and the often more painful insights into how those events came about. I think that means I'm on the right track with my story, at least according to Fitzgerald -- who sort of knows whereof he writes.

Letters of Note - You've got to sell your heart

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You've got to sell your heart Posted: 19 Jul 2012 03:09 AM PDT Late-1938, eager to gain some feedback on her work, aspiring young author and Radcliffe sophomore Frances Turnbull sent a copy of her latest story to celebrated novelist and friend of the family, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Before long the feedback arrived, in the form of the somewhat harsh but admirably honest reply seen below. (Source: F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Life in Letters; Image: F. Scott Fitzgerald, via.) November 9, 1938 Dear Frances: I've read the story carefully and, Frances, I'm afraid the price for doing professional work is a good deal higher than you are prepared to pay at present. You've got to sell your heart, your strongest reactions, not the little minor things that only touch you lightly, the little experiences that you might tell at dinner. This is especially true when you begin to write, when you have not yet developed the tricks of interesting people on paper, when you have none of the technique which it takes time to learn. When, in short, you have only your emotions to sell. This is the experience of all writers. It was necessary for Dickens to put into Oliver Twist the child's passionate resentment at being abused and starved that had haunted his whole childhood. Ernest Hemingway's first stories "In Our Time" went right down to the bottom of all that he had ever felt and known. In "This Side of Paradise" I wrote about a love affair that was still bleeding as fresh as the skin wound on a haemophile. The amateur, seeing how the professional having learned all that he'll ever learn about writing can take a trivial thing such as the most superficial reactions of three uncharacterized girls and make it witty and charming—the amateur thinks he or she can do the same. But the amateur can only realize his ability to transfer his emotions to another person by some such desperate and radical expedient as tearing your first tragic love story out of your heart and putting it on pages for people to see. That, anyhow, is the price of admission. Whether you are prepared to pay it or, whether it coincides or conflicts with your attitude on what is "nice" is something for you to decide. But literature, even light literature, will accept nothing less from the neophyte. It is one of those professions that wants the "works." You wouldn't be interested in a soldier who was only a little brave. In the light of this, it doesn't seem worth while to analyze why this story isn't saleable but I am too fond of you to kid you along about it, as one tends to do at my age. If you ever decide to tell your stories, no one would be more interested than, Your old friend, F. Scott Fitzgerald P.S. I might say that the writing is smooth and agreeable and some of the pages very apt and charming. You have talent—which is the equivalent of a soldier having the right physical qualifications for entering West Point.

The Contemplative Call

A couple of weeks ago, I declared a "pajama weekend" and vowed to drink as much coffee and read as much as my eyes could tolerate.  My initial plan was to finish the third volume of the Hunger Games trilogy and then start over. I read all three books the first time in the manner I read every novel that engages my interest: at breakneck pace simply desiring to know what happens next. I almost always read novels I really like at least twice so I can actually savor the details I miss the first time.

On Sunday morning, I decided to read some actual news articles before going back to bed with Katniss and the gang.  I was in the mood for something meaty, so I pulled up an article from The Atlantic. I read news articles that were interesting, alarming, and (to an extent) informative. That foray into news pages mostly served to remind me why I avoid reading too much about current events. It does bad things to my blood pressure.

Then I ran across this article:  2012 Atlantic Article "It's Not Just Porn: Why Orthodox Jews Fear the Internet".  I  hardly ever read anything with the word "porn" in the title, but the second half of the title caught my interest (especially following immediately upon the clause containing the word "porn").  I know little about the actual lives of orthodox Jews, but I have read enough about them to understand that they are among the most serious scholars on the planet. I was interested to know what they think of the Internet. The interview ranges widely across topics of interest to me, and I want to go back and read more of the articles mentioned in the interview.

Immediately after I finished reading the article, I pulled up and read this article:  2008 Atlantic Article "Is Google Making us Stupid?" .  I read the story all the way through, and intend to go back and read more of the items it links to as well. I think everybody who uses the Internet on a daily basis should read it.

I was immediately struck by two things. First, I totally identify with the issues raised in both of these articles. In my day job, I work in an environment where I am a slave to email. There are times I find myself working faster and faster, in an effort to get through all the emails in my queue. The faster I go, the poorer the quality of my written responses; sometimes I end up using one-word responses, almost like text messages. The faster I read the messages addressed to me, the more likely I am to miss a significant bit of information, which often leads me to draw incorrect conclusions about what to do with the message. I have to draw those conclusions on the fly, and I can't afford to be wrong.  Several times a day, I find myself walking to the bathroom when I don't have to go or pouring coffee I don't intend to drink, just to get away from the relentless onslaught of email. It's a way to make a forced full-stop to let my brain rest for a minute, but it doesn't really help. By the end of a typical day, my brain hurts, and my attention span is about 30 seconds long.

My non-working Internet browsing is not as frenetic, but my habits are almost as bad. I read a number of blogs. I have a bad habit of following hyperlinks to other articles before finishing the one I'm reading. I scan. I get distracted by the side-bar ads. I bounce out to check my email or the weather.  If I spend more than a few minutes on Twitter, I feel my anxiety levels rising. I don't know what to do with Facebook.I can waste hours without ever truly reading and reflecting on an entire article.

And then a Little Voice says: Stop the madness! Sit. Think. Ponder. Breathe. Immerse yourself in a story-world. Let go of 21st Century America and go someplace imaginary. Then take the time to really think about the magic of that story world and why reading and writing are so important to you. Take time to enjoy what you're reading and writing. 

Contemplation has always been important to me. When I was a kid, I could sit for hours just thinking and wondering and putting questions out into the universe.  Often I was blessed by amazing insights in response. I read books for hours every day.  I have kept a journal off and on my whole life. Sometimes, when I was young if I had really significant processing to do, I wrote (just god-awful, pathetic) poetry.

Lately, I've gotten out of the contemplative habit. I think a lot, but it's mostly about what to write next, how to draw attention to my blog, how I can work faster and smarter at my day job, how I can make more money, how I can re-do my budget to save money, etc. It goes on and on, and round and round. Until I'm not really thinking, I'm just skating the surface of a bunch of random ideas without really exploring any of them. Not unlike the way I surf the Internet.

I think the reason I changed the tone and focus of this blog was because I was chasing my tail and doing things that not only felt unnatural but were making me crazy. I love reviewing books, because I'm the kind of person who just has to share good books I've read with my friends.  However,  reviewing a book a week was getting to be a burden, so I'm going to stop for a while. I may endorse a book  I really like from time to time, but I'm not going to put pressure on myself to do it every week.

Instead I'm going to write the kind of blog I like to read: pondering ideas; recommending cool stuff I've run across; and, sharing my journey.

Come along. Chime in!