Dear writers and those who dream of writing: Here’s number 3 in my series on writing. In this episode, I am referencing creative writing, but I will here add that the principle I discuss about speaking more truthfully applies to academic and professional writing, too.
(Enjoy with a cup of Earl Grey. And a dollop of cream.)
Hey there, dear writers. Here’s another 2-minute episode hosted over at Vimeo. (I am still exploring why my own website can’t seem to host these.) This one is on one of my favorite subjects. If you hang around me too much you know I talk about it all the time.
I am starting a new video series for my blog! People, it’s really nothing short of a miracle that I am learning to do all these techy things.
My series is called “Two-Minute Tea Time for Writers,” and I hope to start posting a few a week, gradually mastering the bells and whistles of iMovie as I go. At the moment, my first video is stored over at Vimeo, but pretty soon I will be able to host them on my own website. Check it out! You might need to push the “embed” button on Vimeo to make the video run without stalling.
And write me at kimberlybgeorge AT gmail.com if you want me to take up your specific writer-esque questions in my two-minute talks.
In my continuing tale of fantastic gifts from the universe, I got to go to Oregon last weekend for a writing retreat. I finished my last graduate school application on Thursday and then left Friday morning for Portland. I was happy to be done with the applications, and though rather tired, I was eager to delve back into my book project. This place in Portland was fantastic: sunshine galore, a cozy guest bedroom, a space to dance and stretch my limbs, a puppy that munched on my toes. (OK, that last feature was not entirely pleasant! But she was adorable, despite my allergies and inability to touch her!)
But, at least I know this process now—I know that before I find that free place with words, I have to get through all my fears that arise whenever I enter creative space. My friend Nick says to “bow” to the fear. I think he is right. There is something about not resisting, but acknowledging its presence that actually helps me. Some days I even banter with it. “Well, how are you this morning, Wretched One!?! Not a surprise to see you. Perhaps if I befriend you, you will be kinder to me today….”
So, I have decided to copy an excerpt of a journal entry, written last weekend while battling my Internal Critic on my writing retreat. I think that when I say I go away for writing retreats that most people aren’t quite sure what I do! Well, in addition to drinking lots of tea, obsessing over passages in my book, and reading excerpts of inspiring authors, I am simply trying to come to terms with the writing process itself. I am trying to befriend my Internal Critic.
Here’s what the process is like in my own head:
I am trying to be kind to myself today, because I know that in this life of writing I am struggling to find something precious: a kind of salvation; a release of control; intimacy with my unconscious; a freely moving song. But if that is the case—if so much of what writing essentially is is so different from how I live my controlled, disciplined life—no wonder I feel like I am wrestling with a juggernaut as I sit down to write. This task is hard not because I am not good with language, but because I am not yet free to access my own un-muted self. And perhaps that is why I cannot stay away from it, because within it I sense something very true of me wanting to be born again and again, released like sparks in my fingertips.
Writing is not simply the task of putting one sentence down after another. It is the task of laying down words faster than my editor can keep up with me, until that imperceptible transition comes and I’ve found a rhythm, no Internal Critic in my consciousness. Then, I write well and only stop writing well when I realize I am doing it—kind of like when I first was learning how to ride a bike. To become conscious of the freedom is to risk slipping into the controlling anxieties that fear the wildness of fingers that speak more intuitively than the pace of the mind.
Writing for me is a maddening collection of opposites that must learn to co-exist in the work. I know that it is my obsession that make me a good writer and my obsession that makes me a poor, worried writer, spinning in circles with fears and words. It is my hard work that gives me the perseverance to keep at this, but also my hard work that stifles the play and the laziness that are so essential to the spontaneity of creation. It is my reflective, analytical mind that gives me the words to frame a way of seeing—it is also my overactive mind that keeps me from being in a moment, present to my body’s knowledge and senses, which is essential for good writing.
Mrs. Soderberg was simply not a very nice person. I wish I could say this all more kindly, but the truth must be told.
This ever-memorable and very mean woman was my 7th grade Language Arts teacher, and she would roam the aisles of her class, moving amongst our desks and looking over our shoulders as we labored to diagram sentence after sentence under her cruel gaze.
Rumor has it that Mrs. Soderberg was a beauty queen in her youth. I don’t like beauty competitions of any sort, and I certainly don’t think her crown was beneficial to her life as a whole. Once its luster faded, she turned to torturing 13-year-old boys and girls and making sure they felt very stupid if they forgot what a predicate nominative was (and oh dear…I believe I just typed a misplaced modifier at the beginning of this sentence). Her technique—hovering over frightened pubescents— was how she retained her power. I have never felt even a scintilla of appreciation for Mrs. Soderberg.
Until now.
I came across this sentence tonight:
“I had great faith that, you know, perhaps when that voter entered that voting booth and closed that curtain that what would kick in for them was, perhaps, a bold step that would have to be taken in casting a vote for us, but having to put a lot of faith in that commitment we tried to articulate that we were the true change agent that would progress this nation.”
Now, it is not so much the sentence that bothers me (though it is certainly a conundrum to diagram), but what really bothers me is that the owner of the wretched sentence is reported to be on the verge of a 7-million dollar book deal.
If you have been following the happenings at publishing houses this week, you would know that there have been terrible cuts and layoffs. Times are tough. Many very good writers have very little shot at getting book deals for a very long time. Books are not recession proof and the production of art suffers in difficult economic times.
However, the owner of that aforementioned sentence will have her book deal.
The other thing I did not tell you about Mrs. Soderberg is that rumor has it she passed away 5-years ago, which honestly makes me sad. However, I am not above praying that her ghost will forever haunt Ms. Sarah Palin and force her to diagram her own damn sentences. That is the only justice I can think of—the only fitting retribution.
(I told you this post wouldn’t be terribly kind. And I didn’t even get into Joe the Plumber’s book deal. Sigh. If you want to read more lament on this matter, go to the New York Times.)
