Sunday, August 17, 2014
Today I stumbled upon another writing process gem. I'm reading Lessons from the Life of Alice Herz-Sommer, the World's Oldest Living Holocaust Survivor: A century of wisdom by Caroline Stoessinger. As a child, Alice was friends with Franz Kafka. "Alice would beg him to tell her the stories over and over again. But she always wanted to know the ending - and that he could not answer. He simply could not complete his work. Later on, he would write, 'I am familiar with indecision, there's nothing I know so well, but whenever something summons me, I fall flat, worn out by half-hearted inclinations and hesitations over a thousand earlier trivialities.'"
Aha! Another glimpse of my truth.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
“All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you." - Ira Glass
Friday, February 28, 2014
That's true and also incomplete. I can write anecdotes and passionate arguments on Facebook all day. But I'm not writing creatively. The difference between a Facebook post and a blog post highlights the other reason I'm not writing. The Big reason. The Real Reason. A Facebook update can be quick, funny, incomplete, utterly lacking in context. It can simply be a picture. It can be a short conversation. It's a snapshot of a moment. The way I blog, on the other hand, tends to be to collect anecdotes for a few hours or days or weeks or years, then assemble them into something that makes a sort of narrative or point, even if it's a very short or simple one. Blogging - let alone writing memoir or fiction - requires perspective for me.
Perspective and some sort of connection to emotion. But emotion is painful, y'all. I feel like I barely get through my days doing the things that I need to do. Children dressed and off to their appropriate places with their appropriate things (snacks, water bottles, lunches, signed permission forms, money for this that and everything else, dance gear, gymnastics apparal, instruments, music, themed hats). Weekly schedules created and maintained. Meals planned, shopped for, and prepared. I've given up on cleaning up altogether. Committees worked. Summers planned down to the minute. These classes, these camps, these vacations, these meals, these structured free times. We don't do so well with unstructured time.
And as for me, I find a sense of accomplishment in managing and balancing all of this. I call it My Life. I also have something to pour into the space where I used to keep writing and dealing with emotions and exercising and tidying my house and whatnot. That something is food. I look forward to what I get to eat next. Predictable results, etc. But doing My Life and then eating and reading or watching TV or playing Nintendo or whatever else I do after the children are in bed and before I turn into a pumpkin (more committees) - in the space I used to use for writing or running or both (in addition to reading - there's always reading, for better and for worse) all of that allows me to mute my feelings.
And muting my feelings is a relief. As a teenager I felt so much, so acutely, it was unbearable. I filled notebooks with scrawls of rage and pain, pages warped by tears. Becoming an adult - and this happened gradually in my early-to-mid-twenties - was a relief. I could feel it happening. I sought it out. I called it perspective, I called it a mature ability to organize my thoughts logically, to present arguments rationally, to exist in a world with lots of pointy edges.
When I'm feeling a lot of pain, I can distract myself with TV or books or games or busyness and try to think about the pain as little as possible until a skin forms over the gaping wound, until I can examine it from afar without pressing too hard on the tender spot. This is a coping mechanism, and it works - to an extent - but it's not conducive to good writing because to write, I have to feel. I'm not sure I even remember how to turn that back on, anymore.
It's not that anything so bad has ever happened to me. I've lived a pretty charmed life. But it's cumulative, you know? I was a kid, and I was hurt by things I'd shrug off, now. I've had friend drama (and loss), relationship drama (and loss), family drama (and loss). I have a child with disabilities. She's great, but it's a lot to manage, sometimes. I have children, and that really is sort of like letting your heart walk around out in the world unprotected. I lost my dad too soon. It's easier to just . . . mute that a little. Let the skin grow closed, just a thin layer, so that light gets through but not too much. A manageable amount. That's how I'm living my life these days: in manageable amounts. Later, I'm sure, there will be more writing.