"I think that we're all mentally ill. Those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better - and maybe not all that much better after all." -- Stephen King
Reading
Hiding in the Back Row
10/09/2011 15:57
It’s been many more years than I care to think about since I saw the inside of a high school classroom, as a student. Don’t misinterpret, I’m not pining away for those days, by any means. I only mention it because last week in a writing class, at The Loft, I found myself transported back in time – and it wasn’t pretty.
The assignment was to write five opening sentences and three opening paragraphs for a mystery. I wrote, rewrote and rewrote, again over the week between classes. And spent a disproportionate amount of time angsting over whether or not my sentences were good. I placed them under a magnifying glass and tweaked them to within an inch of their life. And in the back of my mind was this thought that I would have to read these out loud to a class of fourteen ‘students’ and one instructor – a published author, no less. Did I mention angsting?
During the second hour of a two-hour class it was time for everyone to bring out their sentences and paragraphs. Slowly, I sat back hoping the wall would open behind me and swallow me up. I remembered how back in high school, I sat in the last row and hunkered down, out of the teacher’s sightline and hoped to make it through class without being called upon to share my work. Admittedly, it worked sometimes, more often than not, it didn’t. Fast forward to present time and folks were proffering their work right and left. They dazzled us with their dancing and devious orations. I slithered downward as the woman next to me, also a published author, spewed forth an impressive opening paragraph and treated it as if it were a rough around the edges rock that required a bit of polishing. No way was I going to read my stuff out loud. Not to this crowd, even though my tablemate whispered words of encouragement trying to bring me out of my self-imposed hiding.
Finally, as the others’ voices began to dwindle, I stuck my hand up, hoping it wouldn’t be acknowledged. I didn’t want to bare my vulnerability to these people. Damn. No such luck, the instructor called out my name, “Judy!” Yikes! Now I’d done it. I had to read … so, I picked one of the three paragraphs, ignoring my flimsy five sentences. I read, with what I hoped was a strong voice and about ten seconds later was finished. “Is that all?” The instructor asked. “You don’t want to read more?” Good grief, no way. “No. That’s it,” I said and looked down at the table. I felt terribly inadequate.
The other fourteen people in class had these bright shiny full of life sentences and bold energetic paragraphs, and I had mediocrity. This was one of my lowest points, as a writer. I wallowed in my despair and couldn’t wait for the clock to tick away the final minutes of class. With that one reading, I found myself back in the darkness of self-doubt. My inner self-editor was having a field day with my head. “What did you expect? Where was your punch? Where was your hook? You thought that was a hook? You better think again. You need to get yourself back to the drawing board. Basics, are what you need – basics. You belong in Creative Writing 101, not in a mystery writing class.” And on and on she ranted. Well, if my opening paragraph sucked, the entire manuscript was complete crap!
Needless to say, my confidence withered to nothing. I was back to questioning why I thought I could write. I’m not a writer. All these other people are writers, not me.
I’m my own worst enemy. And I say that now, because today a good friend, published author and my coach, shared a link to a TEDtalk by Brene Brown: The power of vulnerability.
Eye opener! And not just about writing, but about life itself. Bottom line, according to Brown, we need to tell ourselves that “I am enough.” Meaning, we need to listen to others instead of screaming at them. We need to be kinder and gentler with others AND with ourselves. Make ourselves vulnerable because through that we will achieve the joy and fullness of life. If we don’t, we numb ourselves to all aspects of life, good and bad. Okay, so now I feel like this profound revelation has descended upon me. Great. But it gets better!
My coach, Lori Lake, took Brown’s proven research, drilled it down and applied it to writing. “It reminds me that we have to be vulnerable in our writing and about our writing – not just in Life – and the more vulnerable we allow ourselves to be in front of others, the more connection we actually end up sharing.” Now that really hit home for me. I thought about my negativity and how I’d numbed my vulnerability by not wanting to read my work in front of the class. And further numbed my vulnerability by sharing, half-heartedly, one small piece and then shrinking into the background.
The truth is that by numbing myself, I’d short changed myself. Instead of approaching my writing and sharing in a half-hearted way, I need to delve into and own my vulnerability – whole-heartedly. I need to be vulnerable in the actual craft of writing and then further, in sharing my writing with others. Because only then will I be able to make and share much needed connections with others. I need to be one of the many drops in the larger pond. Connections will help me become a better writer – and perhaps I’ll be able to help others along, as well. Connections could bring me readers interested in my stories. Writing cannot be just for me. Writing has to be for the readers – to provide entertainment for others. It’s not just about me – it can’t be.
Readers = connections.
And without connections – what’s the purpose of writing?
Write on!
The assignment was to write five opening sentences and three opening paragraphs for a mystery. I wrote, rewrote and rewrote, again over the week between classes. And spent a disproportionate amount of time angsting over whether or not my sentences were good. I placed them under a magnifying glass and tweaked them to within an inch of their life. And in the back of my mind was this thought that I would have to read these out loud to a class of fourteen ‘students’ and one instructor – a published author, no less. Did I mention angsting?
During the second hour of a two-hour class it was time for everyone to bring out their sentences and paragraphs. Slowly, I sat back hoping the wall would open behind me and swallow me up. I remembered how back in high school, I sat in the last row and hunkered down, out of the teacher’s sightline and hoped to make it through class without being called upon to share my work. Admittedly, it worked sometimes, more often than not, it didn’t. Fast forward to present time and folks were proffering their work right and left. They dazzled us with their dancing and devious orations. I slithered downward as the woman next to me, also a published author, spewed forth an impressive opening paragraph and treated it as if it were a rough around the edges rock that required a bit of polishing. No way was I going to read my stuff out loud. Not to this crowd, even though my tablemate whispered words of encouragement trying to bring me out of my self-imposed hiding.
Finally, as the others’ voices began to dwindle, I stuck my hand up, hoping it wouldn’t be acknowledged. I didn’t want to bare my vulnerability to these people. Damn. No such luck, the instructor called out my name, “Judy!” Yikes! Now I’d done it. I had to read … so, I picked one of the three paragraphs, ignoring my flimsy five sentences. I read, with what I hoped was a strong voice and about ten seconds later was finished. “Is that all?” The instructor asked. “You don’t want to read more?” Good grief, no way. “No. That’s it,” I said and looked down at the table. I felt terribly inadequate.
The other fourteen people in class had these bright shiny full of life sentences and bold energetic paragraphs, and I had mediocrity. This was one of my lowest points, as a writer. I wallowed in my despair and couldn’t wait for the clock to tick away the final minutes of class. With that one reading, I found myself back in the darkness of self-doubt. My inner self-editor was having a field day with my head. “What did you expect? Where was your punch? Where was your hook? You thought that was a hook? You better think again. You need to get yourself back to the drawing board. Basics, are what you need – basics. You belong in Creative Writing 101, not in a mystery writing class.” And on and on she ranted. Well, if my opening paragraph sucked, the entire manuscript was complete crap!
Needless to say, my confidence withered to nothing. I was back to questioning why I thought I could write. I’m not a writer. All these other people are writers, not me.
I’m my own worst enemy. And I say that now, because today a good friend, published author and my coach, shared a link to a TEDtalk by Brene Brown: The power of vulnerability.
Eye opener! And not just about writing, but about life itself. Bottom line, according to Brown, we need to tell ourselves that “I am enough.” Meaning, we need to listen to others instead of screaming at them. We need to be kinder and gentler with others AND with ourselves. Make ourselves vulnerable because through that we will achieve the joy and fullness of life. If we don’t, we numb ourselves to all aspects of life, good and bad. Okay, so now I feel like this profound revelation has descended upon me. Great. But it gets better!
My coach, Lori Lake, took Brown’s proven research, drilled it down and applied it to writing. “It reminds me that we have to be vulnerable in our writing and about our writing – not just in Life – and the more vulnerable we allow ourselves to be in front of others, the more connection we actually end up sharing.” Now that really hit home for me. I thought about my negativity and how I’d numbed my vulnerability by not wanting to read my work in front of the class. And further numbed my vulnerability by sharing, half-heartedly, one small piece and then shrinking into the background.
The truth is that by numbing myself, I’d short changed myself. Instead of approaching my writing and sharing in a half-hearted way, I need to delve into and own my vulnerability – whole-heartedly. I need to be vulnerable in the actual craft of writing and then further, in sharing my writing with others. Because only then will I be able to make and share much needed connections with others. I need to be one of the many drops in the larger pond. Connections will help me become a better writer – and perhaps I’ll be able to help others along, as well. Connections could bring me readers interested in my stories. Writing cannot be just for me. Writing has to be for the readers – to provide entertainment for others. It’s not just about me – it can’t be.
Readers = connections.
And without connections – what’s the purpose of writing?
Write on!
All Writing is a Mystery
07/10/2011 10:28
Writing is a mystery - no matter what genre of the art a writer pursues. Stories are made up of clues and motives and a need for resolution. And we need people, places and things to get us to the resolution - people that aren’t us, but are us.
Writers exist in parallel worlds. Don’t you think? Well, if you haven’t thought about it - please do! When writing we are the characters and we’re also ourselves (the writer) watching our character selves from a distance. Up close and personal and at the same time hovering above, ala out of body. Without having thought about this before, I examined the prospect and found, for me, it’s true. For instance, I love mystery and love to ‘live’ in mystery through my writing and my characters. I am them and I’m watching me be them in the creative process. Don’t confuse this with the specific mystery genre because it’s so much deeper than a matter of genre.
I read a superb essay in the New York Times today (Sunday) entitled, “The Spooky Art,” by Roger Rosenblatt. The article presents a clarity to the art of writing. For me, writing has been a secret addiction, as far back as I can remember. My dirty little secret that I was afraid to share with anyone for fear of ridicule, discouragement or embarrassment. No one could know. I wrote in journals and destroyed the evidence. I love writing because I do it alone. Yes, I’m an introvert. Yet I’m not alone because I’m surrounded by all those that I create. And as alone as I am in the writing my goal is to have readers pick up the story and lose themselves in the world I’ve created - to know my world, be part and parcel of this thing that I’ve constructed. Putting myself out there is a bold and scary prospect.
But now I’m at the point of life where I want to toss off the cape of fear - fear of being “found out” - and take pride in ownership of my alter ego(s). Each character that pops into my head and onto the page (virtual or paper) is me, good and bad, all the nitty gritty. And the best part? I have no idea who all these characters are, where they’re going or what they’ve got planned until it happens. The journey is an unknown - a road that could lead just about anywhere with curves, turns, straightaways and dead-ends. A trip I’m excited to take. Rosenblatt describes this phenom best when telling how E.L. Doctorow compared his own writing process to driving at night, when you’re only able to see as far as the reach of the headlights.
Darkness is my friend. I’m infatuated with the darkness because it holds all the secrets. Secrets buried in nooks and crannies that maybe I’ll find - or maybe not. And the light of day allows for picking apart and examining all the night’s transgressions. The murder and mayhem, good and evil, just and unjust - all pieces of the mysterious puzzle that I yearn to put together. Looking at clues, pursuing them and barreling through those that are roadblocks. Plunging onward until finally pulling the right thread unravels the whole scarf and uncovers what lies beneath - resolution.
Good prevails. Good must prevail because that’s what our readers want - a reward for agreeing to take the journey with us. There must be a reward or the time invested won’t have been worth it.
And once the ride is over?
As a reader, I’m always in search of the next great expedition, which is good news for writers!
As a writer, the feeling is bittersweet. I’ve finished with the story and I’m happy for having survived the sojourn - completed a monumental task. (To date, my experience is limited to one completed work, which requires a few rewrites.) But I’m sad because all my alter egos, those I’ve been living through vicariously, have gone and I’m left with just myself. Unchallenged. Lonely. Until the next time, which is good news for readers!
I hope for many ‘next times.’
Write on!
Writers exist in parallel worlds. Don’t you think? Well, if you haven’t thought about it - please do! When writing we are the characters and we’re also ourselves (the writer) watching our character selves from a distance. Up close and personal and at the same time hovering above, ala out of body. Without having thought about this before, I examined the prospect and found, for me, it’s true. For instance, I love mystery and love to ‘live’ in mystery through my writing and my characters. I am them and I’m watching me be them in the creative process. Don’t confuse this with the specific mystery genre because it’s so much deeper than a matter of genre.
I read a superb essay in the New York Times today (Sunday) entitled, “The Spooky Art,” by Roger Rosenblatt. The article presents a clarity to the art of writing. For me, writing has been a secret addiction, as far back as I can remember. My dirty little secret that I was afraid to share with anyone for fear of ridicule, discouragement or embarrassment. No one could know. I wrote in journals and destroyed the evidence. I love writing because I do it alone. Yes, I’m an introvert. Yet I’m not alone because I’m surrounded by all those that I create. And as alone as I am in the writing my goal is to have readers pick up the story and lose themselves in the world I’ve created - to know my world, be part and parcel of this thing that I’ve constructed. Putting myself out there is a bold and scary prospect.
But now I’m at the point of life where I want to toss off the cape of fear - fear of being “found out” - and take pride in ownership of my alter ego(s). Each character that pops into my head and onto the page (virtual or paper) is me, good and bad, all the nitty gritty. And the best part? I have no idea who all these characters are, where they’re going or what they’ve got planned until it happens. The journey is an unknown - a road that could lead just about anywhere with curves, turns, straightaways and dead-ends. A trip I’m excited to take. Rosenblatt describes this phenom best when telling how E.L. Doctorow compared his own writing process to driving at night, when you’re only able to see as far as the reach of the headlights.
Darkness is my friend. I’m infatuated with the darkness because it holds all the secrets. Secrets buried in nooks and crannies that maybe I’ll find - or maybe not. And the light of day allows for picking apart and examining all the night’s transgressions. The murder and mayhem, good and evil, just and unjust - all pieces of the mysterious puzzle that I yearn to put together. Looking at clues, pursuing them and barreling through those that are roadblocks. Plunging onward until finally pulling the right thread unravels the whole scarf and uncovers what lies beneath - resolution.
Good prevails. Good must prevail because that’s what our readers want - a reward for agreeing to take the journey with us. There must be a reward or the time invested won’t have been worth it.
And once the ride is over?
As a reader, I’m always in search of the next great expedition, which is good news for writers!
As a writer, the feeling is bittersweet. I’ve finished with the story and I’m happy for having survived the sojourn - completed a monumental task. (To date, my experience is limited to one completed work, which requires a few rewrites.) But I’m sad because all my alter egos, those I’ve been living through vicariously, have gone and I’m left with just myself. Unchallenged. Lonely. Until the next time, which is good news for readers!
I hope for many ‘next times.’
Write on!