I baptized myself today. In the cold tumbling water of the Molalla River, I doused myself to the shoulders and said a prayer of grounding. I haven't been out in the woods for longer than I care to admit but, today, I made it back to the woods and to an elemental place in my being.
At my wife's prompting, I took the day off today and just took care of myself. I slept in until 10 am, woke up and played with Shea, had lunch out with Tracy and Shea and then took a four hour drive out into the Molalla Hills south of where I live. It was a great idea (thanks, Tracy).
I used to take drives out into this area all the time, once or twice a week, just to get out into the open air and to throw rocks into the river and I can't even remember when the last drive was. I went by myself, a condition I prefer these days, and found a quiet spot between two bends in the river. The day was warm but not hot and the sun shone through a spattering of grey clouds that served more as shade than omen of rain.
I sat down on the banks of the river and read Ron Carlson's "Keith" and then just listened to the sound of water falling over rocks. The water flowed over the rocks and where it slid over the top and fell through the air before joining the main flow, I imagined that I was small and could live in the air bubble between the rock and the falling water, that my view would be the rainbow spectrum of light through water.
The day ended with a stop in to see some old friends and now it looks like pizza and a movie with Tracy and I will end the day. I'm glad I took a moment to listen to the water and bathe in its frigid purity.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Twisty-Turny
There never seems to be down time. By down time I mean a time where you don't have to concern yourself with the future. A time where you can relax, sit back, take a deep breath and just enjoy being alive. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy my life but it seems like I am always casting forward into time, concerned with a deadline, concerned about work, family, money, etc.
Do you remember youth? I remember it in a sepia light, shaded by my own romantic nostalgia for days where I didn't cast myself forward but was rooted with both feet in the immediacy of the now. When a night with a young woman could seem like an eternity of suspended lust and want. That perpetual freezing of time where you knew only desire and felt like it would burn through you like a grass fire in high wind, consuming you in heat and light.
Or moments sitting in the company of a friend or two on a high dock above the Willamette River watching the moon move across the sky and listening to the sprinklers water the golf course behind you. The river would carry the glimmer of the moonlight back to you, refocusing it, illuminating you from below so the shadows fled from your face because the moon above competed with the water below. Conversation would be quick and passionate. They would encompass the whole of your world which was made of your friends and it would be early in summer and we could believe it was going to last forever. Your friend would laugh and lay back on the dock, arms thrown out to the side and try to embrace the night and did.
I miss that time where I could disregard words like commitment, obligation and job.
Do you remember youth? I remember it in a sepia light, shaded by my own romantic nostalgia for days where I didn't cast myself forward but was rooted with both feet in the immediacy of the now. When a night with a young woman could seem like an eternity of suspended lust and want. That perpetual freezing of time where you knew only desire and felt like it would burn through you like a grass fire in high wind, consuming you in heat and light.
Or moments sitting in the company of a friend or two on a high dock above the Willamette River watching the moon move across the sky and listening to the sprinklers water the golf course behind you. The river would carry the glimmer of the moonlight back to you, refocusing it, illuminating you from below so the shadows fled from your face because the moon above competed with the water below. Conversation would be quick and passionate. They would encompass the whole of your world which was made of your friends and it would be early in summer and we could believe it was going to last forever. Your friend would laugh and lay back on the dock, arms thrown out to the side and try to embrace the night and did.
I miss that time where I could disregard words like commitment, obligation and job.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Taking it easy for once
Today is Monday, the day I normally go to the library and slave over manuscripts and commentaries. Today, not so much. I sat in the library and played Boggle on the web, checked my email and read some stories. It was wonderful. It's nice to decompress for once.
Friday, April 20, 2007
The Grocery Store
On my way home from work I stopped off at my local grocery store to pick up a couple of things for my wife who was feeling under the weather. I was in a good mood, the sun was shining, work had been a breeze and I felt light and buoyant walking across the parking lot. The commute from work had been relatively painless and I had made good time in crossing Portland from the west side to the east, listening to Francine Prose's book Reading like a Writer on audio book.
As I entered the grocery store, I had problems locating sun dried tomatoes and had to ask one of the checkers if they knew where I could find them. They took their time, guiding me around the store until we finally found them on a small table in the produce section. Everyone in the store was in a good mood, smiling at each other, inclining their heads in greeting as we passed in the aisles.
After collecting the tomatoes in my basket, I wandered through the personal hygiene section of the store on my way back to the deli case. Standing in front of the shelves chock full of deodorants was a young man, not too much younger than me, five or six years at the most, trying to find the brand he preferred. He was the picture of bachelor life. His pants, loose at the waist, hung down to reveal a section of plaid boxers. His face, unshaven, revealed a touch of anxiety at the shopping experience as if he was unused to tending to his most basic needs.
In that moment I realized that I will, most likely, never achieve that state of singleness again. Shopping only for the things that I wish to have in my cupboards and refrigerator. I am tied to my wife and child through the bonds of our commitment to each other and a love that I feel for them. It was a bittersweet realization. I did not envy the young man, per se, but I had a flash of nostalgia for that life. The go-go-go of making plans, meeting people out, happy hours, late nights out and the overall sense of a singular force controlling my destiny. Life is more complex these days. There are other people who take precedence over my personal desires. I must think about the needs of others before my own.
I have a wife, a child, a dog, a house, etc and I remember a time when all of these things seemed like wavering mirages on the horizon, real and hoped for things that were intangible at the time. Now, having realized the dream of that young man, having connected myself into a greater structure of love, commitment and family I am free in ways that I wasn't as a young man. I am free to love wholeheartedly, free to take risks knowing that I have the support of my wife and family.
I often hear about family commitments as encumbrances to the desires of the individual and I myself might spout the popular sentiment sometimes but I don't believe that to be the case. I wanted to pursue my writing more aggressively and it wasn't until I had the support of my own wife that I was able to take that risk and put myself on the line. I am stronger when I am with them. I am more free to be who I want to be. And it is only through their support, their strength that I am able to evolve and be a better man because now I have someone who will benefit from my growth. I have someone for whom I want to realize my potential and for that I will be forever grateful.
As I entered the grocery store, I had problems locating sun dried tomatoes and had to ask one of the checkers if they knew where I could find them. They took their time, guiding me around the store until we finally found them on a small table in the produce section. Everyone in the store was in a good mood, smiling at each other, inclining their heads in greeting as we passed in the aisles.
After collecting the tomatoes in my basket, I wandered through the personal hygiene section of the store on my way back to the deli case. Standing in front of the shelves chock full of deodorants was a young man, not too much younger than me, five or six years at the most, trying to find the brand he preferred. He was the picture of bachelor life. His pants, loose at the waist, hung down to reveal a section of plaid boxers. His face, unshaven, revealed a touch of anxiety at the shopping experience as if he was unused to tending to his most basic needs.
In that moment I realized that I will, most likely, never achieve that state of singleness again. Shopping only for the things that I wish to have in my cupboards and refrigerator. I am tied to my wife and child through the bonds of our commitment to each other and a love that I feel for them. It was a bittersweet realization. I did not envy the young man, per se, but I had a flash of nostalgia for that life. The go-go-go of making plans, meeting people out, happy hours, late nights out and the overall sense of a singular force controlling my destiny. Life is more complex these days. There are other people who take precedence over my personal desires. I must think about the needs of others before my own.
I have a wife, a child, a dog, a house, etc and I remember a time when all of these things seemed like wavering mirages on the horizon, real and hoped for things that were intangible at the time. Now, having realized the dream of that young man, having connected myself into a greater structure of love, commitment and family I am free in ways that I wasn't as a young man. I am free to love wholeheartedly, free to take risks knowing that I have the support of my wife and family.
I often hear about family commitments as encumbrances to the desires of the individual and I myself might spout the popular sentiment sometimes but I don't believe that to be the case. I wanted to pursue my writing more aggressively and it wasn't until I had the support of my own wife that I was able to take that risk and put myself on the line. I am stronger when I am with them. I am more free to be who I want to be. And it is only through their support, their strength that I am able to evolve and be a better man because now I have someone who will benefit from my growth. I have someone for whom I want to realize my potential and for that I will be forever grateful.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The Day After
It's the morning after a day where I had a little trouble with my mother and I'm feeling a disconnect to the world around me. In recovering from harsh words, I pull into my center, try and find the truth of what was said, whether means I take it to heart, take partial ownership over the shortcoming or disregard it all together, there is a period of introspection that I enter into in order to discern what is the truth of the comment.
In doing so, and being somewhat prompted by a book review, I've come to realize that I don't know people at all. Maybe that is why I write. I write to make sense of things, to put things into perspective, to immerse myself in the consciousness of "other". It doesn't really matter for what reason I do it, the question here is "do I know the people close to me?" I'm beginning to think that I don't.
My family, who I should know better than most people, is often distant. We talk, sure, we talk about the daily grind of the things we do with our days but we never delve into the meaty substance of the questions that arise out of our routine. Or, it may be, that I'm the only one doing the questioning. When I move through my day, I ask questions about what people's motivations are, what they are trying to accomplish, why they are the way they are. When I see news stories in the paper or on television, I ask myself questions about how these things can happen. What does it mean for our world? Our children? Are we responsible for the general state of the world? The general state of our city? Our neighborhood? Or merely, and I hope not, ourselves? I believe in the common thread that links all things. I believe that if you pull on a string in Istanbul it will have some resonance in Milwaukie, OR. I believe that our actions return our energies to us and that, oftentimes, we dig our own graves.
So, what do I do about my current situation? What am I supposed to do with the feelings I have about what happened yesterday and the lackluster explanations that were given to me when I sparked a confrontation? Do I move on? Do I distance myself even further from someone who I love very much? I'm processing all that's happened and asking the questions that will probably lead me nowhere but, in the end, I think it's important to continue asking.
I think it's important to live an inner life that is speculative and introspective. Someday, maybe I'll write the story.
In doing so, and being somewhat prompted by a book review, I've come to realize that I don't know people at all. Maybe that is why I write. I write to make sense of things, to put things into perspective, to immerse myself in the consciousness of "other". It doesn't really matter for what reason I do it, the question here is "do I know the people close to me?" I'm beginning to think that I don't.
My family, who I should know better than most people, is often distant. We talk, sure, we talk about the daily grind of the things we do with our days but we never delve into the meaty substance of the questions that arise out of our routine. Or, it may be, that I'm the only one doing the questioning. When I move through my day, I ask questions about what people's motivations are, what they are trying to accomplish, why they are the way they are. When I see news stories in the paper or on television, I ask myself questions about how these things can happen. What does it mean for our world? Our children? Are we responsible for the general state of the world? The general state of our city? Our neighborhood? Or merely, and I hope not, ourselves? I believe in the common thread that links all things. I believe that if you pull on a string in Istanbul it will have some resonance in Milwaukie, OR. I believe that our actions return our energies to us and that, oftentimes, we dig our own graves.
So, what do I do about my current situation? What am I supposed to do with the feelings I have about what happened yesterday and the lackluster explanations that were given to me when I sparked a confrontation? Do I move on? Do I distance myself even further from someone who I love very much? I'm processing all that's happened and asking the questions that will probably lead me nowhere but, in the end, I think it's important to continue asking.
I think it's important to live an inner life that is speculative and introspective. Someday, maybe I'll write the story.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Bitter Pill
"You've turned into the cruelest kid," my mother said to me today on the phone. In advising her to call around to therapists to interview potential doctors, she commented that "it seemed wrong to be calling around for her 34 year old son."
"At least the doctor will know why he needs therapy," I said. I was trying to lighten the mood, not being interested in rehashing my brother's "condition" as my mother so liked to do.
"You've turned into the cruelest kid," she said. The immediacy of the retort is what took me back in the beginning. I'm not even sure I registered what had happened when I began speaking to her. Telling her that I didn't think it true and asking her to back up her claim.
The following conversation is full of old hurts of family business, resurrecting things that are done and gone and I'll recover from this conversation pretty quickly, discarding the venom of the comment and moving on with my life as I normally do.
The thing that sucks about it, in the long run, is that I'll remember those words for the rest of my life. I'll remember the hurt and shock inside my mother that sparked them, I'll remember my revulsion to the thought of them and, in the end, I'll just remember that they were said of me, by my mother.
"At least the doctor will know why he needs therapy," I said. I was trying to lighten the mood, not being interested in rehashing my brother's "condition" as my mother so liked to do.
"You've turned into the cruelest kid," she said. The immediacy of the retort is what took me back in the beginning. I'm not even sure I registered what had happened when I began speaking to her. Telling her that I didn't think it true and asking her to back up her claim.
The following conversation is full of old hurts of family business, resurrecting things that are done and gone and I'll recover from this conversation pretty quickly, discarding the venom of the comment and moving on with my life as I normally do.
The thing that sucks about it, in the long run, is that I'll remember those words for the rest of my life. I'll remember the hurt and shock inside my mother that sparked them, I'll remember my revulsion to the thought of them and, in the end, I'll just remember that they were said of me, by my mother.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
What a great day!
So the day turned out to fulfill my every expectation. Tracy and I jumped in the car sometime after one and headed downtown. We had no agenda except to get out of the house. We walked through downtown. It was interesting to watch people crane their necks to get a peek at Shea inside her stroller. We haven't had that reaction from strangers before and it was so nice to see people just interested in Shea. We held hands, got a coffee drink, shared a Rice Krispie Treat and walked through the city full of sunshine. It may sound like a cliche or something out of a terrible romantic comedy but it was true as life and I really enjoyed myself.
We came home, ordered out from our favorite Italian restaurant, brought the food home and now we are waiting for Shea to eat and fall asleep and then we will watch a movie together and go to bed early. I can't tell you how wonderful a weekend this has been. We have stayed home, watched movies, got some basic tasks off the to-do list and hung out the three of us. I am so lucky.
We came home, ordered out from our favorite Italian restaurant, brought the food home and now we are waiting for Shea to eat and fall asleep and then we will watch a movie together and go to bed early. I can't tell you how wonderful a weekend this has been. We have stayed home, watched movies, got some basic tasks off the to-do list and hung out the three of us. I am so lucky.
Beautiful Business
My Saturday opened with a relaxing morning of playing with Shea and talking with Tracy. We whittled away the morning working on Thank You cards and mail-in rebates for our new laptop computer. It may sound like a tedious task, working on these things, but Tracy and I fell into a pattern of talking over the top of these tasks, drinking coffee and taking turns entertaining Shea.
It's amazing how quickly her perceptions and aptitudes change in such a short amount of time. Shea is becoming more and more interactive every day and it is so much fun to coo back and forth with her and watch her mouth gape open in that toothless smile that is joy personified.
The day is sunny and warm, the trees are in full bloom. In the back yard there is a tree I'm not familiar with that is bursting with pink leaves and showing the partial vestige of spring. The walnut in the front yard is ornamented with large white blossoms with honey yellow centers that I have never seen before and discovered last night. The hazelnuts are filling out with leaves on the side of the house and we are grateful for they provide much needed shade from the afternoon summer sun. With thank yous and rebates completed, Tracy and I have absolutely nothing on the agenda until this evening where we will go celebrate my cousin's 30th birthday. We'll settle in with my family, enjoy their company and be on our way.
What a day to be alive!
It's amazing how quickly her perceptions and aptitudes change in such a short amount of time. Shea is becoming more and more interactive every day and it is so much fun to coo back and forth with her and watch her mouth gape open in that toothless smile that is joy personified.
The day is sunny and warm, the trees are in full bloom. In the back yard there is a tree I'm not familiar with that is bursting with pink leaves and showing the partial vestige of spring. The walnut in the front yard is ornamented with large white blossoms with honey yellow centers that I have never seen before and discovered last night. The hazelnuts are filling out with leaves on the side of the house and we are grateful for they provide much needed shade from the afternoon summer sun. With thank yous and rebates completed, Tracy and I have absolutely nothing on the agenda until this evening where we will go celebrate my cousin's 30th birthday. We'll settle in with my family, enjoy their company and be on our way.
What a day to be alive!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Derailed Intentions
In an attempt at loving tenderness, I am rebuked. It is often the case these days. In the moments where I feel I am being good and thoughtful, I am lambasted for my carelessness. Today, it is the boot to the car seat. It is no where to be found. "Is it at your parents' house? We had dinner there last night." Grumblings as to my inability to focus, to process the menial tasks that are necessary to collecting all the little things that accompany a small child.
I have never been good at this. Tracking objects through the their migrations. I lose books, movies, jackets, sunglasses, car keys, cell phones. You name it I have lost it. Well, that "endearing" trait is getting me nowhere. The sad truth of the matter is that since I have been a married man, I am trying. HARD! I just don't have the overall sense of where things belong, of how many cds we had when we arrived at the party.
My wife is a beautiful, intelligent woman but the "things" drive her insane. She is a collector. She has knives that are older than her. She has camping gear from her pre-teens and all of it is precious to her. An item that I would think expendable has a history, a story that she can recite from the items birthday where she bought the trinket shiny and new. She will recount the store from which she bought it, how old she was, how many times she has used it. All of this attachment to things don't mean a thing to me.
I have a decent sofa, a computer on which to write, some clothes, some food, etc and I'm content. I do not care if the glasses are a complete set, let alone that one is used for white and one for red. I don't care if it is crystal or silver. I don't care if it leather or lace. These are just things and they are infiltrating my life like Tribbles from Star Trek (mostly harmless, infinitely multiplying and, eventually, entirely inconvenient).
So, I have been trying for years now and we have the same fucking argument over and over again to no avail. I cannot win and neither can she, so where do we go from here? Does she just turn the other way as I forget to bring in her antique garden hoe bought from Ace Hardware during the summer of 1987 for $15.00 and it rusts in the rain? Or, do I make lists, tie string around my finger, keep a pocket organizer (which I'll lose) to keep up with the ever-increasing inventory of shit?
I don't see either one of us coming out ahead on this one. We hung up with a click, me hanging up on her mostly because I was so pissed that my call, which was pure in intention, got so completely turned around on me that I didn't even have a chance to say "I love you" and "I hope you are having a good day". Which was my original intent.
Well, good thing I have a lifetime to try and get it right.
I have never been good at this. Tracking objects through the their migrations. I lose books, movies, jackets, sunglasses, car keys, cell phones. You name it I have lost it. Well, that "endearing" trait is getting me nowhere. The sad truth of the matter is that since I have been a married man, I am trying. HARD! I just don't have the overall sense of where things belong, of how many cds we had when we arrived at the party.
My wife is a beautiful, intelligent woman but the "things" drive her insane. She is a collector. She has knives that are older than her. She has camping gear from her pre-teens and all of it is precious to her. An item that I would think expendable has a history, a story that she can recite from the items birthday where she bought the trinket shiny and new. She will recount the store from which she bought it, how old she was, how many times she has used it. All of this attachment to things don't mean a thing to me.
I have a decent sofa, a computer on which to write, some clothes, some food, etc and I'm content. I do not care if the glasses are a complete set, let alone that one is used for white and one for red. I don't care if it is crystal or silver. I don't care if it leather or lace. These are just things and they are infiltrating my life like Tribbles from Star Trek (mostly harmless, infinitely multiplying and, eventually, entirely inconvenient).
So, I have been trying for years now and we have the same fucking argument over and over again to no avail. I cannot win and neither can she, so where do we go from here? Does she just turn the other way as I forget to bring in her antique garden hoe bought from Ace Hardware during the summer of 1987 for $15.00 and it rusts in the rain? Or, do I make lists, tie string around my finger, keep a pocket organizer (which I'll lose) to keep up with the ever-increasing inventory of shit?
I don't see either one of us coming out ahead on this one. We hung up with a click, me hanging up on her mostly because I was so pissed that my call, which was pure in intention, got so completely turned around on me that I didn't even have a chance to say "I love you" and "I hope you are having a good day". Which was my original intent.
Well, good thing I have a lifetime to try and get it right.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Holy Self-Loathing, Batman!
So, after I spit out all the venom that was holding me back from the page last night, I settled in nicely to an evening of revision. I decided to go farther back to stories I had written in the previous semester and take a look at revising those stories, making them more complete and putting to test the things I have learned since writing them. It's amazing what a couple of months can do to your perspective. These stories were laden with mistakes that I've grown to recognize in this semester and revision was eventful.
When I dig into one of my older stories, mining the page for what is at stake, the story can open up to you and possibilities then become apparent. I had this experience last night with a story I really like but have totally fucked up the ending. In going back and starting at the first sentence, I discovered all new choices that were available to my characters. In fact, some characters changed gender, some went from lovers to family members and all dialogue got pared down to just the most essential pieces that moved the story forward.
It was an experience that I hadn't had in quite a while. I have been so focused on creating new work that I have let myself stray away from the revision process. It can be just as creative as the birthing a new story from scratch. I found myself rewriting whole sections of my story last night, excited about the new direction it was taking. A little distance from my own writing is a good thing for me. I hadn't taken a hard look at this story in a long time and my dialogue jumped out at me as trite and unnecessary in sections so I cut that, cut unnecessary interactions, characters, etc.
The whole thing is shaping up nicely in the beginning and the middle but now I am at the end of the story and I've had to completely chop off the ending and start fresh, so I'm trying to sit inside Erik's head and feel around in there to see what he would do next. To be honest, I can feel him moving in a direction that makes me uncomfortable and I need to keep my focus and not blink in the face of what happens next. I need to stare down the beast of my own discomfort and be true to where Erik is at and what needs to happen next.
So, all in all, a good night of productive revision and a satisfying experience all around. Some times those free writes where you put all your angst and self-loathing down on paper allows you to move on and be free of it. The moment I put that post out on the blog, I felt better. I hit send, sat down, read one short story and started in on the revision like I'd never missed a beat to begin with. Ahhhhhhhhh.
When I dig into one of my older stories, mining the page for what is at stake, the story can open up to you and possibilities then become apparent. I had this experience last night with a story I really like but have totally fucked up the ending. In going back and starting at the first sentence, I discovered all new choices that were available to my characters. In fact, some characters changed gender, some went from lovers to family members and all dialogue got pared down to just the most essential pieces that moved the story forward.
It was an experience that I hadn't had in quite a while. I have been so focused on creating new work that I have let myself stray away from the revision process. It can be just as creative as the birthing a new story from scratch. I found myself rewriting whole sections of my story last night, excited about the new direction it was taking. A little distance from my own writing is a good thing for me. I hadn't taken a hard look at this story in a long time and my dialogue jumped out at me as trite and unnecessary in sections so I cut that, cut unnecessary interactions, characters, etc.
The whole thing is shaping up nicely in the beginning and the middle but now I am at the end of the story and I've had to completely chop off the ending and start fresh, so I'm trying to sit inside Erik's head and feel around in there to see what he would do next. To be honest, I can feel him moving in a direction that makes me uncomfortable and I need to keep my focus and not blink in the face of what happens next. I need to stare down the beast of my own discomfort and be true to where Erik is at and what needs to happen next.
So, all in all, a good night of productive revision and a satisfying experience all around. Some times those free writes where you put all your angst and self-loathing down on paper allows you to move on and be free of it. The moment I put that post out on the blog, I felt better. I hit send, sat down, read one short story and started in on the revision like I'd never missed a beat to begin with. Ahhhhhhhhh.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Doubting my Abilities
I'm sitting here in the library where I do most of my writing and I can't seem to pull a single thing together on the page. I've been trying to rewrite a story I've been working on for a week now and I just can't seem to make any decisions.
On Saturday, I got a letter from my advisor and it was short and didn't have much positive to say about my story. It's frustrating and now I'm sitting here doubting my ability to create stories at all. I look at the words on the page and I feel like an absolute failure. I'm allowing myself to second guess every single word. I know I want to have a discerning eye when it comes to my own writing but I just want to throw everything out!
So, I tried.
I tried to start over on something new and it's not working either. I don't know if I am cut out for this. There are so many people out there who are better at this than I am but I am compelled time and time again to return to the page. WHY? Why do I do this to myself? I come back to the page each time racked with insecurity and doubt, wondering if I'm just doing this out of some kind of childish fantasy to be something. Something other than what I am and I'm not sure if it is the truth or not. Is that why I come back? Am I trying to figure out what I am or what I am not?
Writing, in the past, has given me the opportunity to be outside myself. To ask myself questions that I dare not open up to personally. I make my characters experience the pain. When I'm creating there is a safety to it. And maybe that is where I go wrong. I'm not feeling the things that I'm asking my characters to fell. This whole process scares the shit out of me. What if I find something that I don't like? What if I find out that everything that I'm working for is smoke and ash and I'm left with a handful of dust.
I sacrifice for this, the writing. I keep myself sequestered away from people, finding time to meditate over the issues I face in writing. Is this just mental masturbation? Am I just getting of on the fact that I'm a deep thinker?
What am I DOING?
On Saturday, I got a letter from my advisor and it was short and didn't have much positive to say about my story. It's frustrating and now I'm sitting here doubting my ability to create stories at all. I look at the words on the page and I feel like an absolute failure. I'm allowing myself to second guess every single word. I know I want to have a discerning eye when it comes to my own writing but I just want to throw everything out!
So, I tried.
I tried to start over on something new and it's not working either. I don't know if I am cut out for this. There are so many people out there who are better at this than I am but I am compelled time and time again to return to the page. WHY? Why do I do this to myself? I come back to the page each time racked with insecurity and doubt, wondering if I'm just doing this out of some kind of childish fantasy to be something. Something other than what I am and I'm not sure if it is the truth or not. Is that why I come back? Am I trying to figure out what I am or what I am not?
Writing, in the past, has given me the opportunity to be outside myself. To ask myself questions that I dare not open up to personally. I make my characters experience the pain. When I'm creating there is a safety to it. And maybe that is where I go wrong. I'm not feeling the things that I'm asking my characters to fell. This whole process scares the shit out of me. What if I find something that I don't like? What if I find out that everything that I'm working for is smoke and ash and I'm left with a handful of dust.
I sacrifice for this, the writing. I keep myself sequestered away from people, finding time to meditate over the issues I face in writing. Is this just mental masturbation? Am I just getting of on the fact that I'm a deep thinker?
What am I DOING?
Friday, April 6, 2007
Inexperienced Revision
On Wednesday I really got to thinking about how the schedule was working for me when it came to the generation of new material and I have to say that I'm still feeling good about it. Now there is another element to this process we call writing and that is revision. I have to say that I haven't spent a lot of time on revision in the last year and it is going to become a HUGE part of the next year. As I move closer to my thesis, I have to begin considering which stories I am going to be able to work with and make better. There are a couple of stories that I know I will NOT be revisiting because I feel that they are so off the mark that what they really need is a whole new creative imagining and I'm better served just starting over with some of the inspirations that led to the story in the first place.
That is one thing that I am able to do: maintain an inspiration. Once I have an idea in my head to write a story, I write it. I may have to go through two or three re-imaginings before I get there but I will get there. The first story will look NOTHING like the third or fourth but the core, the heart, of the story will still be the same. I believe that when I sit down to write a story, even when I do it poorly, I have a truth to be told. A lot of time where my stories go wrong is I'm not listening to what is actually taking place with my characters. I get wrapped up in what I want to accomplish with the story and I wind up taking it in totally misguided directions.
It is the next step in my evolution as a writer and I look forward to being able to make my stories better and the characters who live there become three dimensional.
That is one thing that I am able to do: maintain an inspiration. Once I have an idea in my head to write a story, I write it. I may have to go through two or three re-imaginings before I get there but I will get there. The first story will look NOTHING like the third or fourth but the core, the heart, of the story will still be the same. I believe that when I sit down to write a story, even when I do it poorly, I have a truth to be told. A lot of time where my stories go wrong is I'm not listening to what is actually taking place with my characters. I get wrapped up in what I want to accomplish with the story and I wind up taking it in totally misguided directions.
It is the next step in my evolution as a writer and I look forward to being able to make my stories better and the characters who live there become three dimensional.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Scheduled Inspiration
The week is already halfway done and I am amazed at how quickly time is going this week. I have been sticking to the regime of writing in the evenings twice a week for 4-5 hours and it has been working really well. I've chosen the Portland Community College-Sylvania Library as my chosen location and the small study rooms afford me a sequestered peace that is otherwise unattainable at home. Closing the door to the small study room, the blackboard marked up with theorems and equations from an earlier study group, I settle in with my computer in front of me. The room I typically choose is near the collections of short stories and as a meditative moment before I begin the writing, I browse anthologies like "Bread Loaf" and "The Best American Short Stories". It is inspiring to read stories from the greats like Raymond Carver, Tim Gautreaux, and other lesser known writers. There are stories I like and ones that I don't and I realize that there may be a place for me out there in the world where my stories will have effect, will be heard.
I think that is the greatest idea I can think of: to have one of my stories really be heard by someone. The written word is another form of communication after all and why else do I torture myself with these imaginary people if it is not to be heard or felt.
So, my evenings in the library begin by me taking a look at other people's stories, reading one or two short pieces before I open up my computer and take my position, leg tucked under my butt, hands braced against the keyboard and I search myself for a first line, a character, an interesting snatch of dialogue. I'm not very formulaic as to how I begin a story. I start from any number of places. Oftentimes I just begin typing without any idea of where I am going or who may emerge on the page. Some times it can take me 6-10 pages before I discover my beginning. Some people may find this frustrating - to write that many pages before the beginning appears - but what I find is that those first pages will have an image or a piece of dialogue that informs the story and will be cannibalized for a piece later on.
As of late I have been writing whole stories in a single sitting, maybe two, they are rough and weak little things but there is a spark there. I'm trying to let go of the idea that the stories need to come out whole form on the first go round. What I'm looking for is a framework to tear apart, a place to begin what I'm beginning to see as the real work of writing: revision. Revision is a beast of another nature and will need to be focused on in a different post but it is the natural conclusion to that onrush of creative inspiration that I find in the PCC library where the industrial beams are exposed and the shadows cast from the setting sun elongate into diamond shapes, criss-crossed as they are. The smell of old books, the weight of other students' academic endeavors and a chalkboard scribbled with mathematical certainties awaits me each time I sit down to write.
I think that is the greatest idea I can think of: to have one of my stories really be heard by someone. The written word is another form of communication after all and why else do I torture myself with these imaginary people if it is not to be heard or felt.
So, my evenings in the library begin by me taking a look at other people's stories, reading one or two short pieces before I open up my computer and take my position, leg tucked under my butt, hands braced against the keyboard and I search myself for a first line, a character, an interesting snatch of dialogue. I'm not very formulaic as to how I begin a story. I start from any number of places. Oftentimes I just begin typing without any idea of where I am going or who may emerge on the page. Some times it can take me 6-10 pages before I discover my beginning. Some people may find this frustrating - to write that many pages before the beginning appears - but what I find is that those first pages will have an image or a piece of dialogue that informs the story and will be cannibalized for a piece later on.
As of late I have been writing whole stories in a single sitting, maybe two, they are rough and weak little things but there is a spark there. I'm trying to let go of the idea that the stories need to come out whole form on the first go round. What I'm looking for is a framework to tear apart, a place to begin what I'm beginning to see as the real work of writing: revision. Revision is a beast of another nature and will need to be focused on in a different post but it is the natural conclusion to that onrush of creative inspiration that I find in the PCC library where the industrial beams are exposed and the shadows cast from the setting sun elongate into diamond shapes, criss-crossed as they are. The smell of old books, the weight of other students' academic endeavors and a chalkboard scribbled with mathematical certainties awaits me each time I sit down to write.
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