For me, to write is an act of rebellion, an uprising against that part of me that needs to be responsible, helpful, adaptive. It is one of the first things, maybe the very first thing, that is entirely my own, that doesn’t help anyone, doesn’t make anyone else’s life easier, doesn’t facilitate or provide structure or administrative support for anyone else.
p. 78, Shauna Niequist, Cold Tangerines
I'll be posting some more quotes from Shauna's two books in the near future, as well as an interview-ish post from when I got to talk to her a month or so ago.
This quote is from the chapter when she talks about her writing process and how she began to write. I think all writers feel this, the sense of rebelling against the ways of the world when we sit down to write. Maybe all artists do, because by working our art, we are saying that art and beauty are worth something, even though they do not feed the body or the bank account. It's frivolous, unnecessary, pointless even. But it is everything to us who breathe on paper. And hopefully it means something to the one whose eyes scan the words, making pictures of them in her mind. That is why the guilt should be banished to make room for more imagination and creativity. We must do art to feed our souls. That is what it comes down to.
Brief update: working on a few pieces for publishing later. I literally have about four essays started and a few more ideas floating around in this silly head of mine. Now, to finish. Stay tuned, more to come.
Showing posts with label on writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label on writing. Show all posts
Friday, November 5, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
True quote of the day...
"17. Omit needless words."
--The Elements of Style, Strunk and White
Strunk's brief advice - in keeping with the nature of the rule - has made it through numerous revisions, including that of White's, maintaining the concise nature of his 1918 edition text. People still live by this rule. My high school AP English teacher would simply write "#17" next to entire paragraphs in our papers, and thus we would know: too wordy. Alas, so much easier said than done.
I love editing the work of others, but sometimes editing my own work is nigh impossible. We silly humans grow attached to the words we see as the most intelligent and appropriate ways of expressing ourselves. We are blinded by our affection for our clever minds. We make perfect sense to ourselves, and any confusion is due to the reader's ineptness. Right?
As Stephen King so blatantly put it in On Writing, we need to "kill our darlings." Maim that which we love. Push it so far to the edge that we hardly recognize it. Take it too far and then bring it back. An easy enough principle, but I often find myself stuck, saying I can't possibly edit the piece down any further. It's always untrue. Instead of settling, I need to sacrifice my brilliance and thus my pride for the sake of the words, the story. It's all about the story, anyway. So take out those unnecessary words. Your writing will be stronger for it.
--The Elements of Style, Strunk and White
Strunk's brief advice - in keeping with the nature of the rule - has made it through numerous revisions, including that of White's, maintaining the concise nature of his 1918 edition text. People still live by this rule. My high school AP English teacher would simply write "#17" next to entire paragraphs in our papers, and thus we would know: too wordy. Alas, so much easier said than done.
I love editing the work of others, but sometimes editing my own work is nigh impossible. We silly humans grow attached to the words we see as the most intelligent and appropriate ways of expressing ourselves. We are blinded by our affection for our clever minds. We make perfect sense to ourselves, and any confusion is due to the reader's ineptness. Right?
As Stephen King so blatantly put it in On Writing, we need to "kill our darlings." Maim that which we love. Push it so far to the edge that we hardly recognize it. Take it too far and then bring it back. An easy enough principle, but I often find myself stuck, saying I can't possibly edit the piece down any further. It's always untrue. Instead of settling, I need to sacrifice my brilliance and thus my pride for the sake of the words, the story. It's all about the story, anyway. So take out those unnecessary words. Your writing will be stronger for it.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
True quote of the day...
"So I draw because I want to talk to the world. And I want the world to pay attention to me.
I feel important with a pen in my hand. I might grow up to be someone important. An artist. Maybe a famous artist. Maybe a rich artist.
...
So I draw because I feel like it might be my only real chance to escape the reservation.
I think the world is a series of broken dams and floods, and my cartoons are tiny little lifeboats."
--The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-time Indian, Sherman Alexie, pg. 6
I can't tell you how many times someone my age or older has said that this 2007 juvenile fiction book is great. Even as I was checking it out, Charlie the librarian said, "This is a great book." I was curious as to why everyone was raving about it. Needless to say, it is a great book. It balances precariously within the tone of an adolescent: alternately funny and sad, pathetic and witty, angry and giddy, afraid and lustful. Not only does it capture a teenage boy's mind, but it also addresses the beauty and the pain of living on a reservation as a Native American in a time when all men are supposed to be equal and the cycle of destruction on the rez continues to tear lives apart. It is honest and hopeful all at the same time.
ANYWAY (I'm into capitalization for emphasis these days), this quote from the book struck me. Junior is a cartoonist. He draws to express himself. He's a 14-year-old Native American boy stuck on a reservation with no future in sight. And somehow, he grasps hold of hope and won't let it go. Somehow, he feels like he is destined for more than becoming an alcoholic like his ancestors before him. All of us, we're the same way. We want the world to listen to us - hello, Facebook/Twitter/Myspace. Even blogs show our desperation to be heard by someone outside of ourselves. We need to be able to grab onto our lifeboats, to work at the things that help us keep our heads above water. Those are the things we need to be investing our time and lives into, because we'll need those investments when the dams break and the rains fall.
Basically, I need to get off of my butt and do something.
I feel important with a pen in my hand. I might grow up to be someone important. An artist. Maybe a famous artist. Maybe a rich artist.
...
So I draw because I feel like it might be my only real chance to escape the reservation.
I think the world is a series of broken dams and floods, and my cartoons are tiny little lifeboats."
--The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-time Indian, Sherman Alexie, pg. 6
I can't tell you how many times someone my age or older has said that this 2007 juvenile fiction book is great. Even as I was checking it out, Charlie the librarian said, "This is a great book." I was curious as to why everyone was raving about it. Needless to say, it is a great book. It balances precariously within the tone of an adolescent: alternately funny and sad, pathetic and witty, angry and giddy, afraid and lustful. Not only does it capture a teenage boy's mind, but it also addresses the beauty and the pain of living on a reservation as a Native American in a time when all men are supposed to be equal and the cycle of destruction on the rez continues to tear lives apart. It is honest and hopeful all at the same time.
ANYWAY (I'm into capitalization for emphasis these days), this quote from the book struck me. Junior is a cartoonist. He draws to express himself. He's a 14-year-old Native American boy stuck on a reservation with no future in sight. And somehow, he grasps hold of hope and won't let it go. Somehow, he feels like he is destined for more than becoming an alcoholic like his ancestors before him. All of us, we're the same way. We want the world to listen to us - hello, Facebook/Twitter/Myspace. Even blogs show our desperation to be heard by someone outside of ourselves. We need to be able to grab onto our lifeboats, to work at the things that help us keep our heads above water. Those are the things we need to be investing our time and lives into, because we'll need those investments when the dams break and the rains fall.
Basically, I need to get off of my butt and do something.
Monday, July 19, 2010
True quote of the day...
"I am dreading the publication for it will be impossible not to mind what is said. I have exposed my heart to be shot at."
-- J.R.R. Tolkien, concerning the publication of The Lord of the Rings.
I wrote this quote down my freshman year of high school, on my mom's pastel floral notepad, while reading a biography of Tolkien for a school report. It has always stuck with me, always been around to remind me that others are taking the risk. Tolkien was looking at publishing this novel he had been working on for a decade. Anyone who has read the book (all three volumes) knows it is not merely a novel; it is, in fact, a world - with mythology, languages, folk songs, and geography. No wonder Tolkien was nervous! This world was his life's work. I'm sure at certain points he felt like he spent more time in MiddleEarth than he did in England. At the end of it, he gave it up to be lambasted by critics. Every harsh review was another hole in his heart.
And yet, what if he hadn't? What if he had, very neatly, stowed his thousand-page opus in a trunk in his attic? It would have been safe from the slings and arrows of critical opinion. But it would have affected no one. Been read by no one. Loved by no one. What, dear friends, is the point of that? Sure, he could have felt impressed with a job well done. But its impact would have been simply a fraction of what it could have been. What it is today.
-- J.R.R. Tolkien, concerning the publication of The Lord of the Rings.
I wrote this quote down my freshman year of high school, on my mom's pastel floral notepad, while reading a biography of Tolkien for a school report. It has always stuck with me, always been around to remind me that others are taking the risk. Tolkien was looking at publishing this novel he had been working on for a decade. Anyone who has read the book (all three volumes) knows it is not merely a novel; it is, in fact, a world - with mythology, languages, folk songs, and geography. No wonder Tolkien was nervous! This world was his life's work. I'm sure at certain points he felt like he spent more time in MiddleEarth than he did in England. At the end of it, he gave it up to be lambasted by critics. Every harsh review was another hole in his heart.
And yet, what if he hadn't? What if he had, very neatly, stowed his thousand-page opus in a trunk in his attic? It would have been safe from the slings and arrows of critical opinion. But it would have affected no one. Been read by no one. Loved by no one. What, dear friends, is the point of that? Sure, he could have felt impressed with a job well done. But its impact would have been simply a fraction of what it could have been. What it is today.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
True quote of the day...
"'I remember years ago watching the commercial folktale-tellers in a Cairo bazaar. All writers ought to have observed this ancient practice of oral narrative -- all critics likewise. Getting the audience, I remarked, depended not at all on preaching and philosophizing but very much on baser tricks of the trade: in short, on pleasing, wooing, luring the listeners into the palm of one's hand.'" --John Fowles (via Ted Kooser)
This is from Kooser's book on writing poetry titled The Poetry Home Repair Manual. Probably one of the most discussed ideas in poetry and in writing in general is that of the reader. How much say does the reader have on a certain piece of art? Does a reader (usually an ideal reader) need to shape the writing, or is artistic integrity (whatever that means) more important than pleasing a certain population?
For one, it depends on the type of writing you are doing. Obviously, a piece of journalism needs to fit the reader of the magazine or newspaper - otherwise, it will a) stick out next to the tone and topics of the other pieces, and b) cause people to skip over your article. Some writers would be fine with that; I don't think magazine editors are quite as fine with giving writers about whom their readers could care less space in their limited pages.
Poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction is slightly different. Especially poetry - people tend to simply write what they feel needs to be said, often just obeying their own mind and heart without much regard to the reader. Some writers function this way quite effectively, but, as Kooser mentions, most poets need to start out with a great sense of their reader. You can be as opaque as you wish once you are a well-established poet, but often poetry needs to be accessible to a certain population of people in order to make one well-established.
It's a hard line to toe, because on the one hand, you want to be able to create freely and without limitations. On the other, in order to become a professional, there must be limitations. There are line limits, word counts, and content suggestions made by editors that cannot be ignored. So, then, the balance: write for the type of people you want to read your work. Write to please them, but only so much as you please yourself. I don't think there's anything wrong with simply writing things for yourself, but you cannot expect others to necessarily enjoy it unless you have thought about them and their responses to your work.
This may seem to take the passion and heart out of poetry in general, but I think of it simply as another element to the craft. It's important, as important as line breaks and sound phrases.
Speaking of readers, I'm going to be writing a piece here in the next few weeks that has a very specific reader. There's a contest author Donald Miller is doing about living a better story, with the winner getting flown to Portland for his conference this fall. I'm hoping a selling point for me is the lack of airfare necessary to get me to Portland. Unless he wants to hire a bitty plane to fly me from Newberg to Portland...I wouldn't say no to that (or maybe I would...). Anyway, it's a fun challenge to do something specific. Plus, I would love to go to this conference!
This is from Kooser's book on writing poetry titled The Poetry Home Repair Manual. Probably one of the most discussed ideas in poetry and in writing in general is that of the reader. How much say does the reader have on a certain piece of art? Does a reader (usually an ideal reader) need to shape the writing, or is artistic integrity (whatever that means) more important than pleasing a certain population?
For one, it depends on the type of writing you are doing. Obviously, a piece of journalism needs to fit the reader of the magazine or newspaper - otherwise, it will a) stick out next to the tone and topics of the other pieces, and b) cause people to skip over your article. Some writers would be fine with that; I don't think magazine editors are quite as fine with giving writers about whom their readers could care less space in their limited pages.
Poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction is slightly different. Especially poetry - people tend to simply write what they feel needs to be said, often just obeying their own mind and heart without much regard to the reader. Some writers function this way quite effectively, but, as Kooser mentions, most poets need to start out with a great sense of their reader. You can be as opaque as you wish once you are a well-established poet, but often poetry needs to be accessible to a certain population of people in order to make one well-established.
It's a hard line to toe, because on the one hand, you want to be able to create freely and without limitations. On the other, in order to become a professional, there must be limitations. There are line limits, word counts, and content suggestions made by editors that cannot be ignored. So, then, the balance: write for the type of people you want to read your work. Write to please them, but only so much as you please yourself. I don't think there's anything wrong with simply writing things for yourself, but you cannot expect others to necessarily enjoy it unless you have thought about them and their responses to your work.
This may seem to take the passion and heart out of poetry in general, but I think of it simply as another element to the craft. It's important, as important as line breaks and sound phrases.
Speaking of readers, I'm going to be writing a piece here in the next few weeks that has a very specific reader. There's a contest author Donald Miller is doing about living a better story, with the winner getting flown to Portland for his conference this fall. I'm hoping a selling point for me is the lack of airfare necessary to get me to Portland. Unless he wants to hire a bitty plane to fly me from Newberg to Portland...I wouldn't say no to that (or maybe I would...). Anyway, it's a fun challenge to do something specific. Plus, I would love to go to this conference!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
True quote of the day...
Haters abound. If you’re not being criticized, you’re not doing it right, you’re only playing in front of family and friends.
Hate intensifies the bigger you get, especially in the Net world, where everybody gets a voice. There is no protection.
Wander into the world and experience the slings and arrows, toughen your skin.
- Bob Lefsetz
I won't say where I got this quote, but let's just say it was tweeted by an embarrassing public figure and I am pathetic enough to have picked up on it. And yet, there can be wisdom over twitter. Some background: Bob Lefsetz is a music industry icon, apparently, a harsh critic of the details of the music business.
He's right, you know. Still, it doesn't make it easier. My skin is very thin, even though I want to be rubber. I want that criticism - often perceived as personal slights - to bounce right off, not affecting me in the least. But at my very core, I want to be loved. Because of this fact, I focus on pleasing others at all costs, when my core really needs me to be true to my artistic nature. Whatever that looks like.
There's nothing wrong with playing in front of family and friends. You probably won't change the world, but that's okay for some people. Me, I'm not looking to change the world. I am looking to pierce hearts - not every heart, because some are too hard for me, but hearts of strangers. I want someone to love my work not because they love me, but because it speaks to them. I have so many people in my life who support what I do, but my safe haven is too much so. The world is there for me to wander into.
I'm coming back, slowly. I'm coming. Please wait for me.
Hate intensifies the bigger you get, especially in the Net world, where everybody gets a voice. There is no protection.
Wander into the world and experience the slings and arrows, toughen your skin.
- Bob Lefsetz
I won't say where I got this quote, but let's just say it was tweeted by an embarrassing public figure and I am pathetic enough to have picked up on it. And yet, there can be wisdom over twitter. Some background: Bob Lefsetz is a music industry icon, apparently, a harsh critic of the details of the music business.
He's right, you know. Still, it doesn't make it easier. My skin is very thin, even though I want to be rubber. I want that criticism - often perceived as personal slights - to bounce right off, not affecting me in the least. But at my very core, I want to be loved. Because of this fact, I focus on pleasing others at all costs, when my core really needs me to be true to my artistic nature. Whatever that looks like.
There's nothing wrong with playing in front of family and friends. You probably won't change the world, but that's okay for some people. Me, I'm not looking to change the world. I am looking to pierce hearts - not every heart, because some are too hard for me, but hearts of strangers. I want someone to love my work not because they love me, but because it speaks to them. I have so many people in my life who support what I do, but my safe haven is too much so. The world is there for me to wander into.
I'm coming back, slowly. I'm coming. Please wait for me.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Existential/artistic crisis.
I had a coffee meeting with a dear professor and friend last Wednesday early morning. It had been a while since we had talked last, as I haven't kept up very well with those professors that meant so much to me. Bill and I have always had a interesting connection. I think we're almost too similar in many ways, which means I didn't really connect with him on a personal level until my final year of college. Regardless, we met at the Coffee Cottage, he arriving first and sitting by the window, his CD player and wet green rain jacket next to him.
The pleasantries first, then talking about life and books. I mentioned that I've had trouble writing since leaving school. And then he said, "You don't have to write. Maybe you don't like it that much. No one's forcing you."
Those words rocked me to my very core. It was like they entered in through my ears, and rattled around inside my rib cage, pushing vital organs out of the way while they created havoc. It was said nicely, but it felt like a blow to the stomach, all the air knocked out of my lungs. Simple words floored me.
As much as I can pinpoint, it was mostly surprise. I think I was expecting encouragement. I've come to expect that from my teachers, that cultivating of a special something they see in me. And now, one of my most valued opinions just said that I didn't need to write.
Now, I took it 100% the wrong way. He never said or even implied that I shouldn't write. He was just trying to be helpful in erasing any guilt or pain I had over not writing. But that, plus a rather discouraging look at my own poetry, made for a shattered artistic confidence. I realized, as he was critiquing some of my recent work, that I have fallen away from the technique, the things that make poems great instead of merely fine or decent.
So, what was I trying to do with my art? Why was I doing it? What was I doing it for? And if I'm not a writer, what do I possibly have? Who can I possibly be? This is all I've ever done, all I've ever been slightly above par at, and maybe I've been deluded all this time.
And here is my existential purpose: if I'm not writing, what am I doing on this earth? And what was I expecting to do with my art anyway? I don't have the fire or the self-discipline to try to be a starving artist, so I'm destined for a life of mediocrity, both as a human and an artist. That's okay for some; is it okay with me? Haven't I already been living it?
It was my first artistic crisis, where I questioned why I did what I do, if I love what I do, if I even should do what I fight to do. And it's not reconciled yet. I'm still in the midst of it, as I don't really have any answers. I'm just past the "throw myself off a bridge because I have no purpose in life" stage - thank God for one poor co-worker who "heard" my panic over MSN Messenger and one poor roommate who patiently listened as I threw all of my insecurity all over the apartment.
I still don't know what I'm doing, or why I am doing it. I'm not sure how to make this passion, this hobby, into something that lives and breathes and makes a difference in this world. I do know that art is important. It is beautiful. It makes the difference between light and dark both more distinct and more fuzzy. It is worth something. Now I just need to figure out if what I'm doing is worthy of being called art. And if it is, what does that mean? And if it's not, what does that mean?
If anything, remember that I'm not near any bridges, and if I were, I would not swan dive off of them. The tempest is only within my soul; the rest of me functions as usual. And so, the writing may be more sparse for now. But I am so thankful for those who read. And I'm so thankful for those who comment and give me things to think about. And for those who encourage me, I thank you. And for those who cause crises (like Bill, who is still one of my favorite people), thanks too - without the struggle, there would be nothing.
That's all for tonight. Until tomorrow, or the next day...I will return. I promise. I'm not too far away.
The pleasantries first, then talking about life and books. I mentioned that I've had trouble writing since leaving school. And then he said, "You don't have to write. Maybe you don't like it that much. No one's forcing you."
Those words rocked me to my very core. It was like they entered in through my ears, and rattled around inside my rib cage, pushing vital organs out of the way while they created havoc. It was said nicely, but it felt like a blow to the stomach, all the air knocked out of my lungs. Simple words floored me.
As much as I can pinpoint, it was mostly surprise. I think I was expecting encouragement. I've come to expect that from my teachers, that cultivating of a special something they see in me. And now, one of my most valued opinions just said that I didn't need to write.
Now, I took it 100% the wrong way. He never said or even implied that I shouldn't write. He was just trying to be helpful in erasing any guilt or pain I had over not writing. But that, plus a rather discouraging look at my own poetry, made for a shattered artistic confidence. I realized, as he was critiquing some of my recent work, that I have fallen away from the technique, the things that make poems great instead of merely fine or decent.
So, what was I trying to do with my art? Why was I doing it? What was I doing it for? And if I'm not a writer, what do I possibly have? Who can I possibly be? This is all I've ever done, all I've ever been slightly above par at, and maybe I've been deluded all this time.
And here is my existential purpose: if I'm not writing, what am I doing on this earth? And what was I expecting to do with my art anyway? I don't have the fire or the self-discipline to try to be a starving artist, so I'm destined for a life of mediocrity, both as a human and an artist. That's okay for some; is it okay with me? Haven't I already been living it?
It was my first artistic crisis, where I questioned why I did what I do, if I love what I do, if I even should do what I fight to do. And it's not reconciled yet. I'm still in the midst of it, as I don't really have any answers. I'm just past the "throw myself off a bridge because I have no purpose in life" stage - thank God for one poor co-worker who "heard" my panic over MSN Messenger and one poor roommate who patiently listened as I threw all of my insecurity all over the apartment.
I still don't know what I'm doing, or why I am doing it. I'm not sure how to make this passion, this hobby, into something that lives and breathes and makes a difference in this world. I do know that art is important. It is beautiful. It makes the difference between light and dark both more distinct and more fuzzy. It is worth something. Now I just need to figure out if what I'm doing is worthy of being called art. And if it is, what does that mean? And if it's not, what does that mean?
If anything, remember that I'm not near any bridges, and if I were, I would not swan dive off of them. The tempest is only within my soul; the rest of me functions as usual. And so, the writing may be more sparse for now. But I am so thankful for those who read. And I'm so thankful for those who comment and give me things to think about. And for those who encourage me, I thank you. And for those who cause crises (like Bill, who is still one of my favorite people), thanks too - without the struggle, there would be nothing.
That's all for tonight. Until tomorrow, or the next day...I will return. I promise. I'm not too far away.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
True quote of the day...
"Lower your standards and keep on writing."
-William Stafford, on removing writer's block
The Oregonian did a great section yesterday on Poet Laureates of Oregon (p.s. totally stole the paper from the gym, and I don't even feel guilty). I had forgotten that Stafford was one of them, and he was PL for a very long time (though apparently he disliked the title). It's simple advice, but great in its simplicity. For myself, I think I get bogged down in what is expected of me or what I know I can do. In fear of not living up to that potential, I am stagnant. I cease to produce because it may not be up to par with what I expect of myself. But writing is a very fluid art, and it can always improve or change. The first draft is never the perfect one, so heck, just do it. Just write it and go from there. Hold your ego loosely.
-William Stafford, on removing writer's block
The Oregonian did a great section yesterday on Poet Laureates of Oregon (p.s. totally stole the paper from the gym, and I don't even feel guilty). I had forgotten that Stafford was one of them, and he was PL for a very long time (though apparently he disliked the title). It's simple advice, but great in its simplicity. For myself, I think I get bogged down in what is expected of me or what I know I can do. In fear of not living up to that potential, I am stagnant. I cease to produce because it may not be up to par with what I expect of myself. But writing is a very fluid art, and it can always improve or change. The first draft is never the perfect one, so heck, just do it. Just write it and go from there. Hold your ego loosely.
Monday, May 10, 2010
True quote of the day...
"Don't be too harsh to these poems until they're typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction."
-Dylan Thomas, letter to Vernon Watkins, March 1938
This simply makes me laugh, and I recall many similar statements coming out of my mouth. Bad With Conviction!
P. S. Just because it's typed on my blog doesn't mean it's typed-typed. Doesn't count. Don't judge.
P. P. S. I'm running out of true quotes because I haven't been READING. I have, though, been working, organizing my poetry folder, going to the gym (okay, once), eating ice cream (okay, more than once), watching copious amounts of Project Runway, and sleeping. Oh, where to find the hours?!?
-Dylan Thomas, letter to Vernon Watkins, March 1938
This simply makes me laugh, and I recall many similar statements coming out of my mouth. Bad With Conviction!
P. S. Just because it's typed on my blog doesn't mean it's typed-typed. Doesn't count. Don't judge.
P. P. S. I'm running out of true quotes because I haven't been READING. I have, though, been working, organizing my poetry folder, going to the gym (okay, once), eating ice cream (okay, more than once), watching copious amounts of Project Runway, and sleeping. Oh, where to find the hours?!?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
True quote of the day...
"But when you write poetry, you hope to leave holes for transcendence to shine through rather than building a house of prose."
-Jonathan Foreman
#1. I think houses are necessary, and holes are necessary too.
#2. I think prose can be written in such a way there are holes where the windows and doors should be, little chinks between the logs of the house.
#3. In the same way, poetry (usually bad poetry, but not always) can be written as a block, a small house with no holes at all.
Thank you, Mr. Foreman. I strive for those holes.
-Jonathan Foreman
#1. I think houses are necessary, and holes are necessary too.
#2. I think prose can be written in such a way there are holes where the windows and doors should be, little chinks between the logs of the house.
#3. In the same way, poetry (usually bad poetry, but not always) can be written as a block, a small house with no holes at all.
Thank you, Mr. Foreman. I strive for those holes.
Monday, May 3, 2010
True quote of the day...
"Yet I am not silenced by the darkness, by the thick darkness that covers my face."
-Job 23:17, NIV
This is one of my favorite verses in the Bible, though I don't usually mention it to those who ask. Maybe it's my own bias, but I figure if you're asking me my favorite Bible verse, I'm not ready to shock you with this one.
Job's got it rough, man. This chapter, he's really low. He wants to come straight up to God and tell him what's what, but he can't find God. He's nowhere that Job can see. Even in his frustration, Job recognizes the sovereignty of God, though at this moment, there is no comfort in God's sovereignty. Instead, it inspires terror.
But Job is a stubborn guy, and he ends the chapter with this sentence. He's not going to give up. He's going to plead his case before God, even if it scares him, because he wants the chance for answers, even if there aren't any that are satisfying.
This verse found me during a very dark time in my life. I felt like I was in the dark, a suffocating blackness that threatened to snuff out any enjoyment of this life. I was stuck and broken and choking. But when I read Job's words, I took them for myself. I took them and said, "Yes, I am depressed and hopeless, with no noticeable way out. But I will not let it silence me." I wouldn't let the fear, the clouds, the smoke take the thing that I knew would save me in the end - words. Words are where I find God, and where He finds me, so I knew if I kept writing, kept communicating in the only way I knew how, that I would find my way back to the light.
It worked. Not saying I haven't fallen down and let that cloud overtake me, but I cling to this verse. I won't be silenced by the darkness.
-Job 23:17, NIV
This is one of my favorite verses in the Bible, though I don't usually mention it to those who ask. Maybe it's my own bias, but I figure if you're asking me my favorite Bible verse, I'm not ready to shock you with this one.
Job's got it rough, man. This chapter, he's really low. He wants to come straight up to God and tell him what's what, but he can't find God. He's nowhere that Job can see. Even in his frustration, Job recognizes the sovereignty of God, though at this moment, there is no comfort in God's sovereignty. Instead, it inspires terror.
But Job is a stubborn guy, and he ends the chapter with this sentence. He's not going to give up. He's going to plead his case before God, even if it scares him, because he wants the chance for answers, even if there aren't any that are satisfying.
This verse found me during a very dark time in my life. I felt like I was in the dark, a suffocating blackness that threatened to snuff out any enjoyment of this life. I was stuck and broken and choking. But when I read Job's words, I took them for myself. I took them and said, "Yes, I am depressed and hopeless, with no noticeable way out. But I will not let it silence me." I wouldn't let the fear, the clouds, the smoke take the thing that I knew would save me in the end - words. Words are where I find God, and where He finds me, so I knew if I kept writing, kept communicating in the only way I knew how, that I would find my way back to the light.
It worked. Not saying I haven't fallen down and let that cloud overtake me, but I cling to this verse. I won't be silenced by the darkness.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
True quote of the day...
"In an odd and poignant way these two lives, of a poet and a woman, have proved to be formidable historical editors of each other. In previous centuries, when the poet's life was an emblem for the grace and power of a society, a woman's life was often the object of his expression: in pastoral, sonnet, elegy. As the mute object of his eloquence her life could be at once addressed and silenced. By an ironic reversal, now that a woman's life is that emblem of grace and power, the democratized of our communities, of which her emergence is one aspect, makes a poet's life look suspect, can make it appear, to a wider society, elite and irrelevant all at once. Therefore, for anyone who is drawn into either of these lives, the pressure is there to betray the other: to disown or simplify, to resolve an inherent tension by making a false design from the ethical capabilities of one life or the visionary possibilities of the other."
-p. xiv, Object Lessons, Eavan Boland
There is so much in this quote. I've just started this book, and I can already see it's going to be a slow read - not because it's dull, but just because it's heavy with enormous statements. I'll have a lot to think about and chew on through this book.
It's interesting how she highlights the changing power statuses of both the woman and the poet. I see where she is coming from, saying that it's nearly as if the woman and the poet have switched roles in the last hundred years or so. And there is a tension between the woman's role and the poet's role, even in these changing times. At the most basic, a writer has to be selfish with her time, her ability, her art. A woman, especially one who is a wife and mother, is not allowed to be selfish. There is a tension. It's hard to reconcile, and as Boland implies, women tend to betray one or the other. I'm not sure I've ever put a name to that tension but I do feel it on occasion, especially when I think about my plans for the future. It'll be interesting to see how Boland discusses it throughout her book.
If it's not obvious from my scattered thoughts, I'm tired tonight. Spending all day working at a commencement when you watched those you love move past you is physically and emotionally exhausting. It was sad and beautiful all at once. Thus I don't feel like I have too much to offer, creatively. But it's fine. I'll see what I can pull out.
-p. xiv, Object Lessons, Eavan Boland
There is so much in this quote. I've just started this book, and I can already see it's going to be a slow read - not because it's dull, but just because it's heavy with enormous statements. I'll have a lot to think about and chew on through this book.
It's interesting how she highlights the changing power statuses of both the woman and the poet. I see where she is coming from, saying that it's nearly as if the woman and the poet have switched roles in the last hundred years or so. And there is a tension between the woman's role and the poet's role, even in these changing times. At the most basic, a writer has to be selfish with her time, her ability, her art. A woman, especially one who is a wife and mother, is not allowed to be selfish. There is a tension. It's hard to reconcile, and as Boland implies, women tend to betray one or the other. I'm not sure I've ever put a name to that tension but I do feel it on occasion, especially when I think about my plans for the future. It'll be interesting to see how Boland discusses it throughout her book.
If it's not obvious from my scattered thoughts, I'm tired tonight. Spending all day working at a commencement when you watched those you love move past you is physically and emotionally exhausting. It was sad and beautiful all at once. Thus I don't feel like I have too much to offer, creatively. But it's fine. I'll see what I can pull out.
Friday, April 30, 2010
True quote of the day...
"Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It's a gift to the world and every being in it. Don't cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you've got."
-p.165, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
I think this taps into the fear of the artist who lacks confidence (read: me). Every once in a while (read: every day), I find myself doubting my intentions. I wonder if I'm doing this writing deal because I love it or because I need attention, accolades. Am I creating for myself or am I creating for the world? And if it's the latter, who the hell do I think I am to even imagine I'm impacting the world in such a way?
No. My creation is a tribute to my own Creator. And even if it doesn't change the world, I hope that I'm making the world a little more rich because I am sharing my perspective on it. It would be selfish to keep this gift to myself...and it is a gift. I need to do something with it.
Even if I'm a grumpy pants on occasion. And I don't feel like creating and I don't feel like I have anything at all to offer. Like tonight, for example.
I will show up. I will do my work, even if my work is crappy. I will do it.
Though ice cream would help.
-p.165, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
I think this taps into the fear of the artist who lacks confidence (read: me). Every once in a while (read: every day), I find myself doubting my intentions. I wonder if I'm doing this writing deal because I love it or because I need attention, accolades. Am I creating for myself or am I creating for the world? And if it's the latter, who the hell do I think I am to even imagine I'm impacting the world in such a way?
No. My creation is a tribute to my own Creator. And even if it doesn't change the world, I hope that I'm making the world a little more rich because I am sharing my perspective on it. It would be selfish to keep this gift to myself...and it is a gift. I need to do something with it.
Even if I'm a grumpy pants on occasion. And I don't feel like creating and I don't feel like I have anything at all to offer. Like tonight, for example.
I will show up. I will do my work, even if my work is crappy. I will do it.
Though ice cream would help.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
True quote of the day...
Since this is my game and my rules, today's quotes are from a song. Well, two, actually. If you know anything about me, you probably know I'm a pretty big Switchfoot fan. I respect those in the band as musicians, faith-followers, and human beings. Anyway, they released an album last fall titled Hello Hurricane. It's a beautiful musical journey that ends with my two favorite songs, perhaps ever, back to back.
The second to last song of the album is titled "Sing It Out." It starts out quiet, a man's voice against the void. "I'm on the run/ I'm on the ropes this time/ Where is my song?/ I've lost the song of my soul tonight." It's an individual defeated, a man who has lost his passion, his purpose, the very beat of his heart. In desperation and need, he cries, "Sing it out/ Sing it out/ Take what is left of me/ Make it a melody/ Sing it out/ Sing out loud/ I can't find the words to sing/ Come be my remedy." Today, I finally fully understood this chorus. The man is asking God, or the Muse, or the Universe, to sing him his song, the song that has been lost and forgotten. The song of his gifts, his genius, his purpose. He's asking to hear it, because he has no music in his ears or his heart. If he hears it, then he will remember and perhaps be able to sing along.
After that passionate plea to hear one's song comes the final song of the album, "Red Eyes." The first few lines are exactly where I continue to find myself.
"'What are you waiting for?/ The day is gone.'/ I said I'm waiting for dawn./ 'What are you aiming for/ out here alone?/ I said I'm aiming for home./ Holding on, holding on..."
This dialogue is what I feel internally every day when I choose between hope and despair. My pessimistic nature tells me that the day is gone. The light is now dark. There is nothing to see here. But my artist's nature, the nature in touch with the Divine, answers that I am just waiting for the dawn, the light that continues to return after the darkness. Because it'll come back. And though the darkness in me tells me that I am alone, I know that I am headed for the place where I belong: home. The title of this song could be interpreted in a multitude of ways. One's eyes are red after sobs, the despair that creeps in and takes hold. But red eyes can also come with intense searching. Looking for a way, a path, a light, a hope. Red eyes.
So not exactly the quotes on writing that I've been sharing over the last week or so. But music speaks to me on a deep level, the art of someone else's soul speaking to the art in mine. What I need to do is hold on, to continue forward, to do my work and encourage others in theirs. Because in doing so, we make this world livable. Hopeful.
Currently, I'm grouchy. Resistance is strong today. But I'm showing up to do my work anyway. I tend to get in funks for no reason (strike that; there's always a reason, but mostly it's a dumb one), but I'll fight it off, somehow. Showing up to work is the first step. Actually working and creating is the next. And the third? Well, I'll just find out when I get there.
The second to last song of the album is titled "Sing It Out." It starts out quiet, a man's voice against the void. "I'm on the run/ I'm on the ropes this time/ Where is my song?/ I've lost the song of my soul tonight." It's an individual defeated, a man who has lost his passion, his purpose, the very beat of his heart. In desperation and need, he cries, "Sing it out/ Sing it out/ Take what is left of me/ Make it a melody/ Sing it out/ Sing out loud/ I can't find the words to sing/ Come be my remedy." Today, I finally fully understood this chorus. The man is asking God, or the Muse, or the Universe, to sing him his song, the song that has been lost and forgotten. The song of his gifts, his genius, his purpose. He's asking to hear it, because he has no music in his ears or his heart. If he hears it, then he will remember and perhaps be able to sing along.
After that passionate plea to hear one's song comes the final song of the album, "Red Eyes." The first few lines are exactly where I continue to find myself.
"'What are you waiting for?/ The day is gone.'/ I said I'm waiting for dawn./ 'What are you aiming for/ out here alone?/ I said I'm aiming for home./ Holding on, holding on..."
This dialogue is what I feel internally every day when I choose between hope and despair. My pessimistic nature tells me that the day is gone. The light is now dark. There is nothing to see here. But my artist's nature, the nature in touch with the Divine, answers that I am just waiting for the dawn, the light that continues to return after the darkness. Because it'll come back. And though the darkness in me tells me that I am alone, I know that I am headed for the place where I belong: home. The title of this song could be interpreted in a multitude of ways. One's eyes are red after sobs, the despair that creeps in and takes hold. But red eyes can also come with intense searching. Looking for a way, a path, a light, a hope. Red eyes.
So not exactly the quotes on writing that I've been sharing over the last week or so. But music speaks to me on a deep level, the art of someone else's soul speaking to the art in mine. What I need to do is hold on, to continue forward, to do my work and encourage others in theirs. Because in doing so, we make this world livable. Hopeful.
Currently, I'm grouchy. Resistance is strong today. But I'm showing up to do my work anyway. I tend to get in funks for no reason (strike that; there's always a reason, but mostly it's a dumb one), but I'll fight it off, somehow. Showing up to work is the first step. Actually working and creating is the next. And the third? Well, I'll just find out when I get there.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
True quote of the day...
"Every breath we take, every heartbeat, every evolution of every cell comes from God and is sustained by God every second, just as every creation, invention, every bar of music or line of verse, every thought, vision, fantasy, every dumb-ass flop and stroke of genius comes from that infinite intelligence that created us and the universe in all its dimensions, out of the Void, the field of infinite potential, primal chaos, the Muse. To acknowledge that reality, to efface all ego, to let the work come through us and give it back freely to its source, that, in my opinion, is as true to reality as it gets."
- p.162, The War of Art," Steven Pressfield
Besides the fact that the first sentence is exquisite, I think it taps into a beautiful truth: that we as artists are not our own. We have been endowed with gifts by a master Artist, and it is nothing of our doing. Thus, because we have been so given, we must give our gifts back to the ultimate Creator, doing our work for him. In denying our own egos that tell us we are the best there ever was, we give our work back to the One from whom it came, and in turn, continue forward, using the gifts and giving the work back. I think I can live within that cycle quite happily, I believe. It takes the pressure off and gives me full reign to express myself as I see fit. A glorious freedom, indeed.
- p.162, The War of Art," Steven Pressfield
Besides the fact that the first sentence is exquisite, I think it taps into a beautiful truth: that we as artists are not our own. We have been endowed with gifts by a master Artist, and it is nothing of our doing. Thus, because we have been so given, we must give our gifts back to the ultimate Creator, doing our work for him. In denying our own egos that tell us we are the best there ever was, we give our work back to the One from whom it came, and in turn, continue forward, using the gifts and giving the work back. I think I can live within that cycle quite happily, I believe. It takes the pressure off and gives me full reign to express myself as I see fit. A glorious freedom, indeed.
Monday, April 26, 2010
True quote of the day...
"You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair--the sense that you can never completely put on the page what's in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page."
--Stephen King, On Writing
On Writing is one of the best books I've ever read. In fact, it's the only Stephen King book I've ever read, and I've read it at least three times. The last line of this quote I've put on the first page of every single journal I've written in (or meant to write in). "You must not come lightly to the blank page." I've never had a problem with that. I'll sit and stare at a blank piece of lined paper, my pen tapping the table, for minutes that seem like hours. With my eyes, I'll beg my blank computer screen to please fill with these thoughts of mine, somehow, without me having to put myself out there. I am always heavy with possibility when I come to the blank page.
But I find when that page is filled...I feel lighter.
--Stephen King, On Writing
On Writing is one of the best books I've ever read. In fact, it's the only Stephen King book I've ever read, and I've read it at least three times. The last line of this quote I've put on the first page of every single journal I've written in (or meant to write in). "You must not come lightly to the blank page." I've never had a problem with that. I'll sit and stare at a blank piece of lined paper, my pen tapping the table, for minutes that seem like hours. With my eyes, I'll beg my blank computer screen to please fill with these thoughts of mine, somehow, without me having to put myself out there. I am always heavy with possibility when I come to the blank page.
But I find when that page is filled...I feel lighter.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
True quote of the day...
Write while the heat is in you. When the farmer burns a hole in his yoke, he carries the hot iron quickly from the fire to the wood, for every moment it is less effectual to penetrate (pierce) it. It must be used instantly, or it is useless. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience.
— Henry David ThoreauOkay, since I haven't read much lately (blame friends, Apple, and Hulu), I'm going for this old quote from HD Thoreau. While I haven't connected much with the fellow in the past, this quote struck me as golden. I find that the longer I wait to write on a topic that strikes me as intriguing, the less interesting and complete my my thoughts on the subject turn out to be. If I could pinpoint one major downturn in my writing life (besides the apathy I fight so strongly against), it would be this: I wait until I cool.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
True quote of the day...
"As Resistance works to keep us from becoming who we were born to be, equal and opposite powers are counter-poised against it. These are our angels and allies."
-p. 107, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
Yeah, I'm still in the middle of this short book. I love this quote for the last phrase: "angels and allies." There's something in that. A poem or a title...
Honesty time. I gotta admit that I am not in the right place (true story: I just wrote "write place") to write. I just got home from a long day an hour ago, then spent the last 25 minutes in full emotional breakdown mode due to jealousy, fear, and loneliness. Poor roommate had to hear the awful blubbering, and the worst part is? No resolution. I've never been good at living within tension, but I'm finding out life is tension.
I've just got to tap into those opposite powers that are on my side, champions of my cause. I need those angels, those allies, because life is a lonely journey, as is the pursuit of art.
-p. 107, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
Yeah, I'm still in the middle of this short book. I love this quote for the last phrase: "angels and allies." There's something in that. A poem or a title...
Honesty time. I gotta admit that I am not in the right place (true story: I just wrote "write place") to write. I just got home from a long day an hour ago, then spent the last 25 minutes in full emotional breakdown mode due to jealousy, fear, and loneliness. Poor roommate had to hear the awful blubbering, and the worst part is? No resolution. I've never been good at living within tension, but I'm finding out life is tension.
I've just got to tap into those opposite powers that are on my side, champions of my cause. I need those angels, those allies, because life is a lonely journey, as is the pursuit of art.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
True quote of the day...
"If Resistance couldn't be beaten, there would be no Fifth Symphony, no Romeo and Juliet, no Golden Gate Bridge. Defeating Resistance is like giving birth. It seems absolutely impossible until you remember that women have been pulling it off successfully, with support and without, for fifty million years."
-p. 57, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
My roommate is going to be a labor and delivery nurse. We've been talking (read: she's been talking, I've been pretending to be busy tidying up and unaffected by what she's saying) a lot about childbirth lately. And it does seem impossible, but apparently it happens. I mean, I'm here. So are you.
The same goes for creation.
-p. 57, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
My roommate is going to be a labor and delivery nurse. We've been talking (read: she's been talking, I've been pretending to be busy tidying up and unaffected by what she's saying) a lot about childbirth lately. And it does seem impossible, but apparently it happens. I mean, I'm here. So are you.
The same goes for creation.
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