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."