Hope for Hope

I began to delve into the stack of short stories I'd gathered from the library, only to find exactly what I feared--endings with unwarranted despair. For some reason, hopelessness began to take shape in much recent literature (I would love to do more research on this, which I suppose I will with all of the short stories I will be reading!). I am not sure if the literature affected the culture or vice versa; it is probably both, so many stories end with not even a sliver of room for hope to enter the imagination. Throughout the whole story, you think surely there is some sort of redemption, surely a character will show virtue, or a relationship will stand victorious, or a situation will arise that gives indication something good possibly can happen, but instead the story ends with brutal abruptness, usually a character coming to the "mature" conclusion that they must finally accept life is terrible. This theme is all too common.
When I met with my teacher about writing fiction, he told me that a big difference, other than length, between a novel and a short story is that the former supplies multiple effects while the latter seeks to achieve only one. These stories that have claimed despair the verdict (seemingly as their one chosen effect) teach me a valuable insight into the status of so many human hearts. They've accepted this. I am grateful to these stories which clearly communicate the despondency today faces, but it only further encourages me never to write with the same departure. My stories will end with hope. If every loved one of a character dies, horrifically, I will still leave room for hope. Hope is necessary, and I think that it is necessary in literature, because no matter how unreal fiction becomes, and whether or not it is intended to be moral, suspenseful, insightful, or humorous; whether or not it intends to communicate a message, it always communicates a message. I have committed myself and now do it further, that any story I write will carry the purposeful or accidental message of hope.

On another note, or maybe the same, yesterday morning my two writing friends and I had a promising meeting. We each listed our personal and group goals for writing and announced rules to keep each other accountable. It was wonderful, and I am elated that the pieces are falling into place for each of us to succeed in what we are after--essentially to glorify God in our gifts.

You are here

I ran four blocks today, 3 times, walking in between. I used to be a varsity cross country runner, able to run at least 10 miles, but I guess that was just a long time ago. Lately, I have been deciding in the evenings that I would run in the morning, and in the mornings deciding that it would really be better if I ran that evening. This has gone on for weeks. I finally concluded it would be a great accomplishment if I simply when outside and moved--that is literally what I told my siblings I was doing. And I did. I took that first step towards returning to fitness, because I acknowledged my place as a runner, that as of now I am not much of one (tomorrow I will go to my high school reunion and tell my former teammates that I ran four blocks, and then walked).

Every time we look at the map at a mall we search for the place we are going, find it, and then direct our eyes to the bold red dot: You are here. Skipping that step would make the map pointless, and we would get nowhere when we walked away. How important it is for us to be honest with ourselves when deciding what to do. I wasn't going outside to run, because I am always so frustrated that I am no longer the runner I was in high school. Well, I need exercise, so I need to run anyways.

I am writing this because I am fighting the urge to jump from the wrong position. Today I found that I was published in the Catholic Times--exciting right? I saw a copy of the paper at the library and found my name in print. It felt like nothing. I wanted to tell the librarian that I was published in their building, that I was a contributor to the words that circulated in and out of their hands--I refrained. I am grateful for this, that I have taken this step, that I have an article published that I like. People who do not know me are going to read it, but the interesting thing is how similar it is to that honest red dot, a landmark and a beginning, but also so far from the 8 or 10 short stories I am going to try to publish in a year, the ones I have not written yet. I can look at Joyce Carol Oates and wonder at the 95 books of hers the library holds and compare it to my 1 article in the paper, or I can see that an editor has deemed my work worth putting in his paper, for the first time. I am excited because I am in the library. I did not get paid for my writing, but someone did, which is an exciting start. In the meantime, please check out the article. I consider it an encouragement and a sign of successful efforts.

For the Stories

Yesterday I met with one of the most incredible teachers, you know, the ones who remember your name and care about you a year after you graduate?--that is the kind that he is. He has gotten poetry published and learned a lot about what it means to be involved in creative writing, which is primarily what I want to do. I walked into his office convinced that this was my last hope of concrete direction, and walked out with concrete direction. While I was there, he said, "You look good. You look happy." Of course! I should have told him, that's because I am doing what I always wanted to do. He told me to read short stories for a while, then to write them, and not to worry about sending them in until I have 8 or 10 I am happy with. "If you are diligent, you could be at that point in a year." Maybe that would seem like a long time to people, a long time for an aspiring writer to hear as the length of time between now and attempting publication. I loved it. It made it real to me. I am not blogging and dreaming and having fun thinking about what if I sent in this story or wrote that kind of novel or made money with this sort of quick fix. I am working towards something concrete, and I have a timeline.

Thankfully I've realized that working full time between two jobs (not yet started)--what I envisioned bringing an end to this game I entered--actually gives me the freedom to follow the direction that my teacher has encouraged me to take. I will make enough money so that I can write not for work but for pure passion, for genuine interest of taking what I can and love to do, and becoming great at it. I want to be a good writer, and now my goal does not have to be to write in any area that pays; I can invest my whole heart and energies into those stories I long to write, and I can define myself as a writer before being pressured to sell it to another. This is a relief, but only time will tell the strength of my desires. Maybe I will have 8 or 10 powerful short stories ready to send to publishers, or maybe I will be spending my free time raising an ant farm. I don't know--that's what makes it so exciting.

In Dependence

A few days ago, I spent a lot of time dragging beds and waddling dressers across my room in my determination to rearrange it all on my own. I cannot say that I am not happy with the result, since all of my furniture fits into the room and I can move, but I will say that I laughed at myself for the pain I endured, the nicely painted wall I risked scraping, and the words that should not have come out of my mouth--all so that I could have that strange sort of satisfaction I find when I don't need anybody else.

When I began to write again, I almost fell into the trap of insistent independence. Thankfully, friendship intervened, and after getting over the sting that I am not unique enough to be the only one in this endeavor, I quickly rejoiced to find not one, but two friends, happy to write with me, to read my writing, and, most importantly, to tell me when something I write is "pathetic." Friendship also intervened when not only did two friends persuade me to write a blog, but more friends and family have given countless bits of encouragement on my writing. Knowing that even a few people are reading, and maybe more, has held me accountable to all writing outside of this blog, along with the daily blog writing itself.

Because of my persistent effort to please those who have given so much to me, I have even considered taking up my sister's challenge: she quoted a successful somebody who said that to spend 10,000 hours doing something makes one an expert. I thought maybe that would be a good goal for the year until my calculator told me I could only do that if I spent 32 hours a day writing; 2 daily hours (6 days a week) being a little more conceivable, I decided that 2 daily hours in a task until I am 39 years old is still much too large a promise. However, I am eager to attempt to someday accomplish so many hours. If I were to write 10,000 hours, then I would either write somethings outstanding or prove that sometimes not even 10,000 hours spent in one field could make me, or anyone, an expert. (Sorry, Rudy.)

No matter, I am confident that I am not wasting my time. Eventually, assuming that my diligence will survive, and even thrive with the promptings of friends, I will look back at those funny days when I started a blog and only dreamed of writing a book.

From a Frozen Brain (reposted)

MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 2010

From a Frozen Brain

I have forty-five minutes to write this blog by midnight, and I don't know what to write. Writer's block. Finally, I feel like a true writer, because I have come to the dreaded confusion, that blank state, that sterile tank of thoughts, when no matter how hard I try to think of something to write, all I can think about is my chipped nail polish, the marker mark on my finger, and the person IMing me on Gchat. We can add to that the phone conversation I just had, the phone conversations I will have tomorrow, and what time I am waking up in the morning--how many hours of sleep will I get if I actually wake up in time to exercise?

I now have thirty-six minutes to write this blog, and all I can think about is my brother tapping his finger across the table, and I am wondering what he is thinking about. And I am wondering what my other brother is so zealously typing on face-book. There are dead flowers hanging from above the middle of the table. I put them there because I wanted to dry them, but they look terrible because under them my mom has a bouquet of fresh flowers, and because they are upside-down from a ribbon. I wrote about what I have to become accustomed to in my new home, or rather my old home--meanwhile, my mom is probably writing in her journal about how ugly my dead upside-down flowers look above her fresh colorful flowers in a vase.

I have twenty-eight minutes to write this blog, and I will write how thankful I am for this blog, because now I feel guilty, honestly guilty because today I only wrote a scrappy, children's story while I baby-sat when I was supposed to be drawing a picture. I did not set aside any other time to write. This horrible feeling is wonderful, because now I am going to write tomorrow.

I have twenty-three minutes to write this blog, which is plenty of time to write about what my friend is trying to get me to include in this blog, that "he believes that if you can feel it in your heart that you should be doing it, you should be doing it," or to write about the crickets chirping outside and how incredible the air feels, or to tell you about the annoying noise my brother's chair is making. I could also describe to you the painted birdhouse (this same brother and I made) that is swaying diligently outside the window and how no birds ever come to it anymore, the orange candles living in orange fake flowers as the center piece of our kitchen table and how they remind me that Fall is near, or I could tell you that the dead flowers are almost dry and how then I can finally put the nice ones right side up in a vase to hang onto a memory forever, just like with the rest of my dried flowers, but those would all be incredibly boring things to bring into my blog, so I will leave them out.

People and Progress and Messes

I have come to an amazing challenge--new territory. Two days ago, I wrote a blog from the table in my kitchen. No one else was around. Nobody interrupted me. My clothes and my belongings and my books were safely and conveniently stored in their places, not buried in deep boxes; not over, under, and around beds; not scattered across every available surface area I covered with shirts and socks and music stand type random objects as I ravaged through everything I had not yet unpacked (which had been so carefully packed) so that I could find the shoes at the very bottom of a box that I needed to wear this morning for an appointment with a writer. What I thought was out of order in my life two days ago now seems like a distant memory of perfection. A wise woman once told me that your bedroom is a reflection of your soul, to which I responded with a dramatic wave of my arm across my room, "Well this is what my soul looks like!"

On remembering this as I walked into my new room this morning--nearly crying because I cannot get from one end of the room to the other in less than a minute--when I remembered that my bedroom is a reflection of what my soul looks like, I was terrified. Needless to say, this has affected my writing. As I write this, I am perfectly aware that covering my bed is a mountain of objects I will have to stuff into every inch of remaining floor space, that my mom and sisters are already starting a movie I am supposed to be watching with them, that there is a conversation in the kitchen on which I am managing not to eavesdrop, and that half of the family is not even home. It is wonderful, this challenge, this new place to write, because I will learn to make writing a part of my life and to fit it into any place that I am. Not only will I be strengthened by the onslaught of distractions, but I will also be loved and encouraged by the people who bring them.

I must also mention the incredible woman I met this morning, a free-lance writer who has made writing a significant part of her life, even with a full-time day job. I wish I could say I have become immune to the what's in it for me question that plagues me too often when asked to do something, but I haven't, which is why I am continually amazed by professional men and women who are happy to meet with me about writing, only to help me begin a career. They inspire me with their kindness, because I know that there is nothing I am giving back to them. I enjoyed listening to her writing experience and wisdom, and I am so eager to invest more deeply in my writing.

Well, my sister is yelling I thought you were watching this with us! And she is right. Writing is wonderful, but people first!

A Bit of My Mind

Today I am cheating and posting something that I wrote earlier, what came after I began the writing exercise of just writing until I write something worthwhile. Here is the something like worthwhile that I came to, which discovery means great progress for me:

"Though my head might be spinning with a thousand characters and interesting things to write about, I will never be able to translate them all into words. Writing is work, just like everything else. It takes discipline, and while sometimes I need to shut off those voices and habits that thwart my imagination, sometimes I will have to neglect those imaginary voices that tell me to write about something else. I will have to tell those characters I have not yet created but are begging to be created, or whom I've imagined and are dying to be in my pages, that I just cannot write about you right now.

It's like sitting and having coffee with one friend. Though I love every person who might text or call me, I must devote myself, all of my attentive faculties, to the person in front of me. When I went to dinner with my boyfriend, he left his cell phone in the car. I said, 'But what if people call about the movie tonight?' (he had been the one making the plans for our friends). He said, 'Sorry, I am out to dinner with you right now.' It is not that the other people are not important to him, it is just that he recognized that that was the appropriate time to be fully present to me. And that is the same kind of honor that I have to give to certain characters I am committed to. I need to get to know them. I need to understand them. I need to think about their world, what they are thinking and feeling. That is when I will become a writer, because I will not just arrange words or tell what is already known. I will make a new person that can only exist in the mind. Not even a picture can tell their story.

Black shapes on white paper will open up readers' brains to a new story and to new people readers never could have known before. I know this because it has happened to me, and to my little sister, and to every person who has cried as they've read a fake person's story in a book. The unreal becomes real. But after all I or any writer has created, we still only touch on something already true. That is why humans connect with it, because they find something familiar in these made up characters, something they already knew or something they longed or hated to think of, and it is mixed together just right to help them to feel something in their lives they wouldn't have felt."

The Virtue of Imperfectionism

I did not write a single word yesterday, besides in my personal journal. I was thinking about it all day as I packed and as I prepared to move and as I spent time with the friends whom I am now living with, with whom I will no longer be living by the end of today. If people had seen me fallen asleep on the couch at 4 pm, exhausted from the emotional overhaul of every current transition, maybe they wouldn't believe that I had been lamenting all day that I was kept away from my commitment to write. Despite the victory I feel for gaining so much regret from not writing, I felt like a failure, and I had to convince myself that just because I could not write one day, did not mean that I would not write the next.

Perfectionism--stifling the imagination, something like what Anne Lamott (previously quoted) would say--can also stifle progress. It would be easy for me, because I am quite the perfectionist, to admit defeat because I realized yesterday that there are going to be days on which spring unexpectedly obstacles that prevent good intentions. I also had a conversation with a dear aunt, and as she encouraged me to be careful to schedule time aside for writing, so that it does not get washed over by insistent opportunities for service, I began to let a new wave of fear creep into all thoughts of my future. How on earth, when a new job begins and I live with four times as many people as I do now, will I ever be able to move my writing out of the dream state? I don't actually know. But what I do know is that I will attempt to do more than I can do, end up doing only what is actually possible, and then accept what I have accomplished.

Imperfectionism--giving full reign to free thought, something like what Anne Lamott would say--permits humans to do well, in spite of themselves. I would like to be a perfect writer who writes every day for three hours, reads for two, works on publishing and research for one; to be a perfect daughter and sister and friend who gives just the right amount of time and attention to all those close to me; to be an ordered woman at which the world marvels at her balancing act of faith, relationships, work, writing, and service, but if I want to be an actual person, then I must content myself with being like the incredible but faulty albatross bird, who never lets his awareness of awfully clumsy landings prevent him from performing the beauty he embodies when he flies.

Because You're Funny

On arriving at my family's house, my little six year old sister greeted me with a picture of a pony, holding a string of balloons in its mouth and wearing a birthday hat. She had colored it for me, "because you're funny," she said, and because it made her think of me. That brings me back to a couple of years ago after I'd spent a summer interning in Detroit. When I returned, she asked me if I was still crazy. I replied to her and my little brother, 6 at the time, who I saw also eagerly waiting for my response: "No! A big purple elephant came and took all of my craziness away!" They laughed and told me that now they know I am still crazy.

These are the kinds of instances that make me want to be a writer, to believe that it is not just for myself, but that somehow I might be able to put together enough words, arranged just right, to get adults to finally find those tears they'd been waiting for or to cleverly paint a picture that will make a child laugh. But then there are also those instances when someone has nothing good to say about a story I've written or when feel I might be so far behind in this process or I just haven't heard something positive in a while. These instances, seemingly prone to my failure, provide the opportunity for me to lunge all the more forward in my efforts. It is easy to be a writer when little kids tell you you're funny or people tell you they are delighted in your stories, but it is necessary to being a writer, that when they don't, you do not doubt what they once let you believe.

I have made progress, that is, if progress means learning just how big the mountain is, which it must because it would be ridiculous to approach one without a humble fear of what climbing it entails. Yesterday I pondered and finally admitted that I actually have to write things people will never read, that becoming a better writer doesn't just mean that reading a lot will convert my written words into essays, books, and stories without blemish--the essays, books, and stories will grow from a compost of word waste, in which somewhere there is a patch of fertile soil from which grows a perfect--pretty at least--flower.

My good teacher told me never to end with a quote, which I have firmly obeyed, usually, but since this is a blog, and blogs are first drafts, I leave you with this, which is not just for writers: "I heard a preacher say recently that hope is revolutionary patience; let me add that so is being a writer. Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try and do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up" (Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird).

More Than a Song

Today I sat down to write, after the weekend, after a one day break, after thinking about other things for a little bit. I closed all of my internet tabs, plugged in my computer charger, and, well, sort of stared at the screen for a minute, wondering what to do next.

I thought of those fantastic movie scenes, somewhere in the middle of the film, when the main characters have decided to embark on some sort of project or some progression needs to be conveyed. A wonderfully emotional song comes on, some trees quickly go from gold and red to brown and bare to green and flowery when the song ends; or the hockey team starts doing drills and all of the players look great by the end of the song; or some friends put cucumbers on the ugly girls' eyes and after the song ends, or the music changes, a beautiful woman is pulling her hair out of a pony tail or, for the first time, looking in the mirror with a smile. Whatever the course of action displayed, all it takes is a song.

Looking at the blank computer, I remembered that I am neither in the song and neither will my success come in 7 or 8 exciting musical clips. Sometimes I think I accidentally pretend that I am in one of those captured moments, like as long as I am wearing glasses, zealously casting distracting clutter off the table (today it was a book that I later found under the table), and staring with a window nearby, I will not only look like an eccentric thinker, but I will also think of something brilliant that will within minutes translate into public language.

I didn't write a novel today. However, I did learn that sometimes I need to put the computer away and open a notebook. I also wrote 3 more pages that might contribute to my book idea. I also decided I need to stop writing the beginnings of stories--I have quite a collection. And I even accepted that the inspiring music my roommates are randomly listening to in the background will have no effect on the the reading of this post, leaving it much less romantic then I feel right now. I put in a little more time than a sentimental movie song and came out with a lot less than they portrayed, but those movie scenes that deliver such an experience probably did take more than a couple of minutes.

In praise of writing

"That's interesting," the woman said to me when I told her what I was doing with my life right now. My mom had told me that a friend, recovering from surgery, wanted to pay someone to clean her house, and I gladly accepted the task, every honest dollar giving me further permission to write.

Her response was somewhere between the %100! support I've received from a lot of friends and the casual nod of those who firmly disagree. Trying to distinguish exactly where she stood, I recalled all of the positive feelings I have had towards those who, upon the small talk question what are you doing these days, have told me that they were going to cut back on hourly work and spend all time afforded investing in the art they long to live, and realized that there exists no solitary time I've been confronted with this response. It is a strange response I guess.

Reflecting on my unique situation (which I've been doing from time to time), I've recently implored the help of another artist--Robert Frost--who helps me to understand why I love to write and whose words have increased devotion to my own. Words each name--they name people, places, things, ideas, actions, etc. Because you and I speak the same language, forgive me for assuming, when I say a word such as "table," we encounter a similar picture. A lot of life's experiences have already been named and commonly understood, but with writing, we do more than say a word: with writing we arrange words, combine them, create a new order of them, and in so doing, we can both capture what has not yet been named and create a new word or understandingof it.

Robert Frost has accomplished this mighty task. He has expressed an idea that has blossomed in my own head but which he has explained so much better in his poem "The Road Not Taken." (http://www.online-literature.com/frost/755/) When I decided to venture in the direction I've gone, I was completely relieved that in revisiting this poem, the confusion of a concept, a thought, a burden that I could not quite understand or whose presence I could not seem to justify, had been defined by Frost years previously. Now I am not so fearful, because his poem has named it.

I am indebted to Frost, for by skillfully beatifying the way I am living in his designed explanation of it, he has convinced me that words do in fact have such power.

Reality

How long can I be consumed in my reading, writing, and research before I face the reality that I need food to write and I need money for food? Of course I know this already, but I have eagerly invested in my writing as I've waited to hear back from job situations. I just got off the phone with a particular coffee shop who is in no need of a barista, at least not a brand new one, which I thought would be an ideal employment for a writer. Thankfully I have had other odd jobs to hold me over, but I am afraid without consistency, my authorship of this blog will only be filled with complaints of hunger pangs and the wedding, shower, and Christmas gifts I cannot buy, not to mention perhaps I'd have to sell my computer which makes this "dream" possible.

The good news is, I may be on my way to accomplishing a key component of what it means to be a "struggling writer." After only a few days, I am encountering the struggle, though I cannot yet boast of much achieved poverty while still sitting here, in an air-conditioned house, with good health, paid payments, and painted finger-nails.

But there is a reason I am willing to do this. I would like to be a writer, and I believe that there is hope I will write something worthwhile. I am thankful that it is not easy, because then it would be too good to be true. What a relief it is not! It is actually difficult--that is how I know it is realistic.

Besides the circumstances screaming I am foolish, I have several reasons to hope, and I will describe a couple. Today I have been continuing to write a children's story which I made up at the request of my six-year-old sister and began to write last week. She begged me to tell her a story, an original, before she went to sleep, and so there I sat, pouring my heart into telling a story that would both entertain and edify her. At the end of the story, disappointed in what she believed to be the wrong ending, she exclaimed, "I thought this was going to be an exciting story!" Who says your family loves everything that you do? (I can tell you exactly who did. I read it on a website yesterday!) Perhaps some might be discouraged with such a response from the first audience of her creation, which for a moment I was, but I soon became glad of it. Her I thought this was going to be an exciting story confirmed every laugh, look of suspense, and complete attention she had offered throughout the rest of the story. I had found an honest critic!

The further encouragement I have to continue is my friend who is in this with me, though she has a regular job. Still, she has promised to spend hours of appointed times in which we will invest in our passion, hold each other to account, and praise and critique each other's work. Today we began. Not only did I work on my art for 3 and a half hours due to the fact she was doing the same, but I also received the gentle coaxing of a friend that we will enjoy all of the blessings and strains of being a writer.

Finally, I will review every memory I have of the teachers, relatives, and employers who have not only claimed me as I writer but urged me to use this gift. Corny I know, but I must repeat it to myself: I can write, I can write, I can write! And I will continue.

The Beginning of Something

I've begun my writing career. This is not to say that I have gotten anything published, established an audience other than those who read my facebook statuses, or gotten paid one penny for my words. Still, if there is such a thing as a writing career for me, then it must begin not only with writing, but with making decisions to commit more of my life to it, which I have done.

I have quit my 9-5 job with a salary and benefits because it is not my passion. I have changed my living situation, living with my family for free instead of with a roommate for a monthly bill. I have decided to work only the hours necessary for me to scrounge enough money to get from today to tomorrow and to only work at a place that provides inspiration and encouragement for writing. There are those heroic men and women who have traded sleep, relationships, and probably their entire personal lives for the sake of their art. They might work up to 60 hours a week and write a miracle book on the side. I am not one of these people. I am not quite so strong.

That is why this is a scary situation for me. The strange thing about writing is the line between crazy and respectable, between bum and achiever. There is no minimum wage accountability. My friends may eventually wonder why I am a college graduate who spends half the day inside my house at a computer holding a coffee cup. Why does she drive that car with the ripped up ceiling, the discolored back end, the broken air conditioning, and the constant uncertainty of whether or not it will drive when I put the key in the ignition? Why does she live in her family's basement and tell me again why she quit a job in which she could have made so much money? Because I am a writer, at least I want to be, I will tell them. What being a writer means I will learn, and have begun to, and I am determined to find out. I am determined to discover why I am passionate about writing and to whom my writing belongs--children, women, people of faith, every one, no one. We will see.

Carpe Diem or Live the Adventure, the new one to inspire me. I have clung to these phrases as I've plunged into the structureless zone of joblessness and spent the past few days facing what it means to be a struggling artist. Thankfully, I have managed to survive several job interviews. Meanwhile, I am writing, I am reading, and I am reading about writing. It has not taken long to see that the adventure is not what it sounds like. The accomplishment of a dream is not for the lucky. It is for those who take risks and willingly suffer the consequences, and when they realize that every victorious moment has behind it grueling hours upon painful minutes of discipline and perseverance and discouragement and the constant question of whether or not it is time to turn back, that is when they decide still yes--I will take that first step and then the next. At least I hope that this is true, because I have decided to pursue writing with my whole heart, though failure is always a lingering question.

And it is painful. I want to take a nap. I want to run away from the computer. I want to give up. I want to see how big the competition is and decide that I have no chance. Maybe that is true--maybe I am in fact just a dreamer wasting my opportunities by my faithfulness to words. Or maybe I will write something worthwhile. That is the question I will find the answer to--whether or not my writing career begins and ends with this blog about writing or whether someone will someday see this blog post as the first thing a certain author posted for a public audience--I and my one or two or maybe even more followers will see if I can write.