Wanderlust writes, “While my invisible colleague is furiously spinning out tales out of sheer joy, I’m going to take the liberty of linking her to my log, and watch her shame the rest of us into writing with the dedication that she does.”
It’s called ruminating, and it’s one of the privileges afforded a card-carrying member of AARP. I’m sure I’ll taper off a bit when the novelty wears off. Or not. But if we all stand in a large circle and prod each other into writing, what’s the harm?
To this day I cannot bring myself to write in a book; cannot highlight, notate, even enter so much as my name on the inside cover. I believe this trait was learned and born of Catholic respect for sanctity and transferred to a different god. My initial reaction to IF then is both a reflection of this background and the resulting trepidation to overcome it, and the possessive stand I take in my own writing and reluctance to add in foreign thoughts. Hopefully, “this too shall pass.”
Hopefully for everyone, reality is touched by fantasy and fantasy is touched by reality. The conscious mind fills in the dull moments with daydreams that are reality based, but go beyond that which may be physically or practically possible; i.e., Willie Nelson really does invite you to ride the highways with him on the bus. In dreams, the subconscious mind creates impossible situations in unknown surroundings but conscious experience adds the details of known people or objects, colors and language; i.e., You’re actually in bed with ol’Willie, but your husband is in there too. Writers can take license and tap into the world of dreams to turn the unusual into the usual. Readers can open their minds to discount the ban of practicality and accept what they are reading. Doesn’t this just add to the experience and delight of our lives? But conscious dreams rarely include the outrageous details of our night dreams. The surrealist writers and artists understood how to pull these details out of the mind and put them on paper and canvas. Those in their audience who are unwilling to admit the nonsense of dreams into their reality, can then enjoy someone else’s.
Whether it’s just Sunday mornings in general or whether it’s his influence, it appears that I’m definitely in an EAP mood today.
“Shall I dance for you?” I asked her, “My ballerina dance?” (The one that always cracked her up.) I heard no answer from the bed. I couldn’t even hear her breathing. My mother; the reason I was here. Wanting to make her smile. With her, waiting—she always kept me waiting—until the very last moment. For the very last moment.
I remember as a child, looking out my bedroom window across the river valley to the horizon and seeing the crucifix–a sure sign from Jesus meant just for me because my sister couldn’t see it. Every now and then I’d take comfort in talking to it. This went on for a year (a year is a very long time to a child) when I was about eight and in the midst of my devout Catholic phase, which thrilled the nuns at St. Michael’s no end. I never told my mother about it, having dismissed my sister’s obvious lack of worthiness to partake in this miracle, and maybe I should have. She would have pointed out the occasional dots of “crucifixes” along the horizon and saved me the trauma of noticing them myself. If Jesus was speaking to me, He cleverly used a string of telephone poles. This was my first break in faith.
Some parts of writing are hard; some are easy. Some get lost in the effort. On rereading “Jacob and Matilde”, it’s easy to see where I failed. Plot and timeline must be clarified–I, who am anal about precision have left Jacob hanging in his bed possibly for days, weeks even. Must double check. Also, is the twist as obvious or have I not been effective laying the groundwork because after all, I knew what I meant. What a twist in my own style of writing!
Creativity demands attention to details as much as it demands the need to be released. Sloppy ain’t gonna make it!
Creativity takes over one’s life. Is it worth flunking Spanish (meaning less than an “A”)? I say yes.
A word of thanks is due to Mr. E., who has encouraged writers to write, and introduced me to blogging. This most likely will dramatically reduce his daily e-mail.
Who among us has not been told, “I’d like to see it at about 80,000 words; about half of what you have.” What does this mean? Shall I rip out every other page and resubmit? This is the author’s frustration. Why not be told the real problem; i.e., your imagery drowns the plot, you explain too much to the reader, you’re just writing words to fill in–think minimilist. Every writer suffers the same ego blow when rejection comes, but if there’s a shred of talent there, why not encourage and direct it? I suppose that it’s better than, say an artist who’s attempting to show at a gallery. He’s never told, “Well, I’d like to see more blue in the background, and maybe pluck out one of the men in the crowd in the lower left corner. And can you fog it up a bit? My clientele is into Impressionism right now. Then maybe I’ll take it in.” An artist’s work is not really subject to editing after he signs his name. He has to figure out for himself why his work isn’t selling and start all over on a new canvas. Revision then, is a blessing. Like a cat with nine lives, it can survive.
Focus, focus I tell myself. My husband comes into the computer room and stands behind me for a few seconds. “What’s that?” he says. I quickly scan the screen to see what he might be referring to. “What?” I ask. “That!” I look up to see him staring at Edgar who is now sitting quietly. “That’s Edgar Allen Poe,” I explain, and continue my writing. He walks past and settles at his own computer desk. But then, “Why is he naked?” he asks.
Yet another easy-to-do Opening Line At fifty-five my best friend cuts and dyes her hair, buys a red sports car, and starts calling herself “Marty” (from “Martha”, for which I really can’t blame her). I’ve streaked my hair with blonde for twenty years now and I could have told her it’s made no difference in my life.
(As I’ve learned from Margaret Atwood’s “Happy Endings”, the beginning and end of a story are easy–the story begins and leads to a conclusion. It’s what is placed in the middle, by the writer OR the reader that is what makes it worthwhile reading.)
An Exercise in Characterization through Action and Memes: It would seem odd to many people that I’d murdered Jack simply because in computer Solitaire he clicks up through the kings to win. I’ve told him a million times that if he simply clears through the eights and adds two hundred he’ll know the score. But most wives would understand it for what it was; the final straw in the hayfield I’ve been living in for thirty years.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology