Creating a space for thought

I'm writing my first post from my new office. Well, let's be honest. It's a bedroom in a house. But as far as I'm concerned it's an office. It isn't finished yet, but it is beginning to come together and I thought I might as well start breaking it in. I have three bookshelves in here so far, and more to come. I've got a desk and some sets of plastic drawers and a printer and, by golly, this is going to be one heck of a writing room once I'm through with it. I'm creating a space for myself to think and dream and write in, and I hope it will do wonderful things for me.

Linked from the happy news of the new office is the event which caused the vacancy of the bedroom I'm using. My brother and his wife have moved out, much to my dismay. They've been wonderful company since they moved in with me, and I already miss them a great deal. As another dear friend has recently moved out of the area, I've been thinking about friendship and about exactly why it hurts when people move out of our lives. As I drove down a winding country highway at about eleven thirty on Monday night, I had a thought that has lingered since then. In the movie Shall We Dance?, the character Beverly (played by Susan Sarandon) asserts that people get married because "We need a witness to our lives." I think the principle applies to real friendship as well. Our friends are the people who witness our lives, who chat with us about the little dumb things that happen to us, who comment and inquire and participate. That's what true community is: living life alongside other people, making them feel that they are not alone.

I suppose that's all I have to say tonight. I like this room. The light is just right, which is ideal. It is quiet, which is also ideal. I think having an office will do me good.

The Seine at Marly, Camille Pisarro

I love Impressionist paintings. I think it may be that the softness of them, the blurring of the lines, is indicative of something. They come at life sideways, so to speak, obliquely and with a great subtlety. They do not state unequivocally. They hint. I was looking yesterday at a painting by Camille Pisarro, The Seine at Marly. It's a picture of a river curving away to the left; a steamboat, I think, and maybe a sailboat on the water. A man fishing. But what strikes me is the couple walking away from the viewer, down a cobbled walk beside the river. The man is a simple silhouette in a dark suit, just a touch of white where his collar marks the end of his coat and the beginning of his dark hair. The elbow of the left arm pokes out, as though his hand is in his pocket, or perhaps adjusting his coat. His right arm hangs down at his side. She's walking next to him, her silhouette even simpler. Full black skirt, black hair. Her cape is brilliantly red over her rounded shoulders. There's an elegance about her that I can't quite put a finger on. And there's an intimacy about the couple that's equally intangible. They're not even touching. Perhaps it's simply the fact that they're walking along the Seine on a path intersected by bars of golden late-afternoon sun, roofed by a patchwork of green and yellow and a hint of red. I wonder if they're talking about what they see, or if they're discussing the details of his day, the happenings of hers. Just as likely, they're walking along in companionable silence. A painting like that doesn't tell you what to think. It doesn't even tell you how her hair is arranged, or what their faces are like. It just suggests something to you, and then lets you tell the story yourself.

The trick is to write it down...

Today I went to McDonald's to write. It seems a little ridiculous to me that I can focus better there than at the library, but such is my life. At the library noise is out of the ordinary, so when people make noise, as they inevitably do, it stands out and distracts me. At McDonald's I expect noise and it blends into the background hum of life and activity. You can take the girl out of Mexico City, but you can't take Mexico City out of the girl, I suppose. Anyhow, when I say that I went there "to write" I refer to a conglomeration of activities that goes beyond just typing words on my computer or scribbling them down in a notebook. I do both, of course, but I also sit and ponder, read books on writing, drink coffee, read good fiction with a critical eye, do occasional research on different ideas, revise previous writing, shift stacks of books around on the table, and other such writerly activities. Today I read part of a chapter in a book called One Year to a Writing Life: Twelve Lessons to Deepen Every Writer's Art and Craft by Susan M. Tiberghien. The first of her twelve lessons is about the importance of journaling in a writer's life. Journaling does a lot for a writer: it establishes the habit of writing often; it records memories and images that would otherwise be forgotten; it develops the depth of the writer's understanding of his own thoughts and feelings; it develops the writer's voice; and it gives the writer a safe place to take risks (3-4). I often underestimate the significance of any journal-type writing when I'm actually writing it. When I return to these writings much later, I find that they take on a completely different tone and personality for me. It's as though I forget that I've written it, and I'm able to see my thoughts for what they are. Tiberghien includes an excerpt from the journal-style book of Burghild Nina Holzer. One of the things Holzer said stood out to me in particular: "Sometimes it seems as if one thing has nothing to do with another thing, but it does. The trick is to write it down. Not to figure it out. To write it down, one vision at a time." I think writers often struggle with the pace of life. I know I do. It all happens so fast, and sometimes you see the art that other people are producing and think that they must know something you don't. You feel like you ought to be able to just look around you and find some grand inspiration out of thin air. Holzer's words were a good reminder to me that a writer's work (or any artist's, really) is slow and patient. You look around you and see the world, and you write down the things you see. Then you go back and read what you wrote, and re-read it, and see new things and write those, read and re-read them. And slowly, the connections begin to come to you. Even though it seems, at first, that one thing has nothing to do with another thing. Slowly, ever so slowly, a thread begins to stretch between them, and then you become sure that it's there. That's the moment that writers long for and strive for, the moment when all the elements click into place and the idea seems whole and complete. It's not a moment that is cheaply bought. A dear and wise friend of mine once told me that "true art is never, ever a cop-out career. It takes discipline, vulnerability, actual creativity, and most of all, a unique kind of courage." I agree. When you're just writing down what you see and experience, "one vision at a time," it can feel a lot like you're shooting in the dark and hoping you'll hit something. With the discipline to keep at it, the vulnerability to invest yourself without a thought to your ego,  and the courage to believe that something worthwhile will come of it, you're well on your way to seeing the connections that will make great art.

A Self-Pity Picture Post!

All right. It's time for me to post something, not because I have something wildly original or artistic to say, but because this is my life right now, and you have to write from where you're at. Forgive the unfortunate grammar, but considering "where I'm at" (namely, trying to figure out how to be an adult living with my parents in a tiny, tiny town in South Carolina), it would be wrong to say that you have to write from "where you are." So where am I at right now? I'm in the oddest place. I'm a grown person (mostly) who has been out of college for a year. I keep thinking, "Can it possibly have been that long already?" At the same time, it feels like it's been forever. Nothing new there; I'm sure most people experience that sensation when they're starting their life as independent grown-ups. I've been living in my parents' house, but without my parents up until last Wednesday. And then Mom and Daddy moved in. Cue not knowing what to do with myself. Part of what came with them moving into their house, in which I had already been living, was that I had to consolidate all my worldly possessions into my bedroom. Madness. I have pictures to prove it.

To the right is my bed. And that heap in the left of the picture? Yeah, that's a bed too, only you wouldn't know that on account of the massive load of stuff on top of it

A better view of the junk heap. My poor beleaguered bookshelf in front of the window, shut off from my access by more stuff on the floor. 

And of course, the floor. Let's not talk about it.

The really heartbreaking thing for me is that I had this room so beautiful before now. I had just rearranged the furniture and things were working beautifully. But anyway, my point in this post was not originally to talk about the state of my life so much as to discuss the unrealistic, disheartening, impossible, overwhelming list of things that I want to "straighten out" in my life. Get this room in order. Go through my entire wardrobe, discard what I don't need, buy what I do, and become efficient at dressing professionally and attractively. Go through all of my documents on my computer, get things backed up so I don't lose things I've written like I did earlier this year, get started trying to get some stuff published. Start cooking again (and that one's probably not going to happen, what with my parents being here...I mean cooking in a different sense than just preparing food. Perhaps I'll post more about what I mean about that some other time). Learn everything I can about how to better teach Josh, the fourteen year old boy I tutor. Write a novel draft. Read the books I own instead of just accumulating more because I can. Figure out my finances, budget my current income, figure out how best to use my money. Start looking at MFA programs and begin to get things in order for the application process this fall. If I kept going, I could think of more, but I really need to stop now so I can get to bed to go to work tomorrow. But before I do, I've got to end on a good note. Nice thing is, a long history of experience with overwhelming to do lists (English Major...'nuff said) allows me to remind myself that no one ever ate a whale in one bite. Thank you, Shel Silverstein. 

Melinda Mae

Have you heard of tiny Melinda Mae,

Who ate a monstrous whale?

She thought she could,


She said she would,

So she started  in right  at the tail.

And everyone said, “You’re much too small,”

But that didn’t bother Melinda at all.

She took little bites and she chewed very slow,

Just like a good girl should…

…And in eighty-nine years she ate that whale

Because she said she would!

–      Melinda Mae, Poem and Illustrations by Shel Silverstein 

Lesson of the Day

Strange how the small things in my environment affect writing. Here I am at my alma mater with about two and a half hours to burn, and the excuses I'm making to avoid writing are kind of ridiculous. The table my computer is resting on is too high. It jabs into my forearms as I rest them there while I type. If it were lower, this table would be perfect. This seat is hard. I liked the old chairs in the computer lab better. The back of it isn't high enough. One would think it'd be the noise, the people, the clanking of the enormous doors that would be my excuses for not writing. But somehow boys singing in the stairwell and tour groups full of freshmen passing through talking about what a drag freshman seminar is and the incessant thud and clank of the doors as people walk through don't bother me. I suppose it's my small personal sphere that needs to be as I like it to be for writing. Anything outside my circle becomes material to write about. But I don't usually want to write about hard chairs and tables that are too high. Odd thing is, I believe I've done just that. Lesson of the day, write no matter what.

A Kiss Otherwise Motivated

Today I was watching a TV show that is undeniably ridiculous in many ways. It's a science fiction show from the late 90s by the name of Farscape. A great deal of what's laughable in it is the use of puppets to represent certain aliens (think early Yoda or Jabba the Hutt), bizarre makeup jobs, dialogue which must have been pretty snazzy sounding at the time but now makes you chuckle, etcetera etcetera...

Nevertheless, I enjoy the show, and today while watching, I came across a really beautiful little piece of acting which I'm certain I'll not be able to describe adequately. I may well make myself blush trying.
But allow me to preface, since it's what I do best. Kisses in movies and TV shows tend to be mostly the same. Or at least, the motivations behind them do. It's extremely unusual to come across a kiss which is not motivated by mutual romantic attraction between two characters. Regardless of the self-awareness of these characters, that desire is almost always there.

Kisses which are otherwise motivated always interest me. The two characters in question, Crichton and Chiana, are not in love. They are not even in that state of being so ubiquitous in the film world, unaware of their true feelings for one another. They met several episodes earlier when Crichton rescued Chiana from some very nasty people who intended to mentally recondition her. Since then, she has been unpredictable, untrustworthy, and self-serving. She is attractive and charismatic, fully aware of the effect her alluring physique and personality have on men. Her skills include talented lying and a knack for ensuring her own survival. She always has perfect command of herself and never needs anyone. Gratitude towards Crichton or anyone else who has helped her has never been a priority.

Now the crew find themselves in a desperate situation, one in which the only solution, it seems, is for Crichton to go on a suicide mission to save Chiana and the rest of his shipmates. He encounters Chiana alone, and when she asks him why he wants to attempt it, he explains, "Scorpius wants me, and if I'm in the transport, it's more likely to draw the command carrier away from the rest of you guys."

She steps closer to him. "What if other people want you too?" Her voice is a little unsteady, although it's clear that she's desperately trying to sound nonchalant, like it's all a big joke. As though "other people" could mean anyone else on the ship.

"Is this some sort of weird alien send-off?" he asks.

She comes even nearer, takes his hands and places them on her waist, looks up at him. "Call it what you like. I know no other way to thank you for what you're doing." Knowing Chiana, I know exactly what she is offering. I also know exactly why. This is not a revelation of her deep romantic love for Crichton. It is a moment of transparency in a character who always has it together. Crichton understands as well.

"Never before the big game," he says, smiling. He sits her down and crouches in front of her, still holding her hands. She is unwilling to look at him, but he waits until she does before he adds, compassionately, "But thanks."

"You saved my life" she protests, in tears now.

"Pass it on," he replies. "When someone else needs it, return the favor."

She leans her forehead against his, then reaches forward to kiss him. He receives the kiss gently, then pulls away. He smiles, touches her head, and leaves.

It's truly wonderful acting when you come away from a scene like that knowing with perfect clarity what each character really meant, even if it's dreadfully difficult to put in words.

My last post was born out of anger at the world and the awful things, large and small, that populate its days. The last happy post was over a year ago, and I realize I haven't written for the fun of it in a long time. When was the last time I wrote with even the faintest expectation that I might achieve that sort of breathless, heart pounding feeling that I get when I feel I've really written? That expectation is, of course, only realistic when writing becomes more than an occasional thing in my life. Perhaps I'll achieve that soon enough. It occurs to me at this moment that being able to write has much to do with soft light and quietness and aloneness. Right now, my brother and his wife, who live with me, have gone to bed, and all the lights are out save my desk lamp and a lamp in the living room.

Perhaps I'll only be writing about inane things, but since I'm here I'd best take advantage of the fact that my fingers are moving over the keys fairly freely. There's a print of a painting in the living room, the first piece of art I've ever bought. It's called "The Fish House Waiter" by Christine Kidd. Her work amazes me, and this particular piece is significant to me for some reason. If you looked at that link, it's the fourth painting down, and it's much darker on the canvas. When I was in school, the art students would sometimes have displays of their work in the computer lab. From the first time I saw this picture, I loved it. I'd stop every time I walked by and study it. There's just something in his posture, in the light coming down on him from above, in the deep shadows over his eyes. I don't know, perhaps I've finally put my finger on what I love so much about the picture, and it's that it makes me want to write. It says something to me.

I watched the movie August Rush today, and marveled again at musicians. I understand visual arts: the artist interprets what he or she sees, works with color and line and shape. I can understand the dramatic arts: acting, whether on stage or film, is an attempt to grasp the very essence of the human experience. Obviously, I understand the art of language, the way writers use its sounds and its many hues of meaning to express the human condition, to glory in the beauty of the world, to explore emotion in all its forms, to delight in itself. But music is an absolute mystery to me. I don't understand how music comes to some people. I've never really written music. A few times, while playing around on the piano, I hit on a little snatch of melody that pleased me, but I couldn't do anything other than repeat it. Once I made up a simple tune to go with the words of Rudyard Kipling's "White Seal." But music, real music, always seems so otherworldly.

I don't have it in me to make any of this pretty. My life doesn't feel very pretty right now. But here's hoping that I'm at least on the road. If you keep walking long enough, you're bound to end up somewhere better than if you sit on your butt and bemoan your misery.