Words of Comfort from Dr. Seuss

(stolen from Theo)

"You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself, any direction you choose."

"Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is youer than you."

"From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere."

"Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened."

"Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So...get on your way."

"If you never did, you should. These things are fun, and fun is good."

"I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. An elephant's faithful, one hundred percent."

"So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads."

"And will you succeed? Yes indeed, yes indeed! Ninety-eight and three-quarters percent guaranteed."

"Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple."

And, if you want to do the assignment...which do you like, and why?

One Thing That Is True

I feel better when I write every day.

How about you?

Writing Is Like Sculpting

Everyone is different, but for me, writing is like sculpting.

First, come up with the point of my story, and write my top, really tight. I really hone that, until it is sharp and clear and I can return to it like a roadmap whenever I get lost in the mess that I know will follow.

Then, I vomit everything in my notebook out in one giant, messy regurgitation that verges on incomprehensibility. The only thing I make sure I get perfect is my quotes. No sloppiness. I go long so I can cut them back later, but I have everything down. I have completed that stage on the story that is now plaguing me and giving me nightmares, and that I am literally using this blog to procrastinate from.

Then I wait a few days (if I have the time) for my mind to clear, and sort, and organize on auto-pilot, without any input from me. During those days I am jotting down points I do not want to leave out, and details I am afraid I forgot to put in, and larger themes that I think need to be enhanced. I also agonize. A lot.

Then I wade back in, with a giant cup of espresso and cream, and read through the run-on mess that shames me to death, right through to the end.

Then I take notes again, on what each section is supposed to do, the function it is supposed to perform in this story. I weed out redundancies and move things around. I start whacking away at all the verbal weeds, so I can see my story more clearly.

And then, like a sculpture emerging from rock, it begins to show its form. When it does, like right now, I start to get really excited. I can see it. I can see the form. I think it is going to be beautiful. I get a rush of energy. I drink more coffee. I also get depressed. My God! It is going to take so much work to hack the beauty and meaning and truth from this hunk of verbiage!

I realize how lazy my words can be, how ill-conceived many of my steps. I beat myself up a little, for not being one of those people who writes out a perfect outlines, then sets to work and creates a nearly perfect draft.

But I also start to have fun. I cruise through and see some sharp little phrases and surprising emotions that glitter like little gems in the mess. I pluck them out and polish them and try to build around them.

I am starting to see a little beauty, a little sense, a little logic.

I have so much more to do. I am still whacking with large clumsy instruments trying to get to the form, the big, beautiful form that will carry the whole narrative. But I know it is there. I can see it and I will not lose it again. This part is actually fun, even if it takes forever, and it pains me to think of what my time is actually worth on a story like this.

How about you?

What is your writing process?

Please do tell, because I really am so curious, and would love a break from my own neurotic writer's mind.

Media Thoughts

Blogs are to inspire, to rant, to tell you how-to. They are passionate, or practical, and appeal to the emotions.

Newspapers are to inform, to tell you what is going on. They should give you new information and include original reporting. They should be more than a yahoo summary, and more than a reporter searching blogs and news online at his desk. We can do that ourselves! If the story is top notch, it should offer inside analysis that only that reporter, who was on the ground, talked to people, and knows more than he could ever include in his story, could know, and he should weave that in.

Magazines are to inform, with a point of view. They are personal, but also include reporting. They should be deeply reported, but so well-written that you barely register you are taking in the facts and figures. The smooth, colorful narrative makes those facts slide down like honey hiding the medicine.

Books are everything, the top of the heap, meant to inspire, to draw on emotions, to tell great stories, to do analysis, and to do original research and reporting that you have never seen, or to illuminate corners of the psyche like a philosopher or a sociologist, bringing to light parts of ourselves we recognize, but could not have articulated. They are just familiar, like a dream.

Which do you like to read? Which do you like to write?

Do you agree with me?

Despair

I rack my brain constantly trying to figure out where I can carve out a little bit of time for myself. All for me. When, specifically, can I write?

I know that if it is a short time frame I can write at night. Not with quality. But with intention. I did it two years in a row for National Novel Writing Month and I just made myself sit down and write for an hour every night after the boys went to bed. I did it. I don't know that it is sustainable. But the time is there.

But usually, by the end of the day I am too tired to write. My schedule, still, is simply too busy during the day to get to the desk, or a computer, or my journal, at the same time every day.

I have analyzed and broken it down. And in the end, though I am not a morning person, the only time left is early, early, in the wee hours, before the house awakens.

I am not a morning person. I hate getting up early. Hate it! In fact, when I tried getting up early another year Jonathan got so mad at me just setting my alarm at 6:00 am every morning and not getting up he was about to throttle me. My therapist asked gently if such a goal was realistic. "Because if it isn't," she said, "you are just making yourself feel bad."

And I was. Each day I failed to get up I beat myself up all day for failing again. AGAIN! So I started each day off on a negative footing, furious with myself.

But after New York I was determined. My body was on a slightly East Coast schedule, and spring was here. I want to buckle down for the final part of the school year. So the past few mornings I set my alarm early to grab a few minutes, or half an hour, of the only time that is truly all mine.

I set my clock radio alarm (OK, it was the soundtrack to Frida), got up, tiptoed down to the kitchen and put some water onto boil. I told myself I would do without my beloved coffee for the first hour because I know that even a whiff of espresso in the air can rouse people from sleep. At least me. I get my tea, tiptoe back to my computer, and sit down. I write down what I want to accomplish the night before so I am on track-and perhaps I have been solving my problem/issue/story in my dreams.

Do you know what happened?

Every one else got up, too.

Theo gets up early anyway. Jonathan bounced out of bed (blaming Frida) and Benji, my bedhead, heard all the commotion and got up himself. The coffee was on. The boys were building with magnatiles. Benji was asking to play computer games and demanding that I look at what he built.

It is funny. In a way. But I also just feel like giving up.

Early morning was my last option. I don't know where else I can find time.

Perhaps, for now, it is not meant to be. But giving up completely is as depressing as failing.

I don't know what to think.

All you mothers out there, any ideas?

Wisdom from Edith Wharton

For anyone, anywhere, who is sitting down to write this morning, as I am, here are words to think on, to inspire, from Edith Wharton:

The use of dialogue in fiction seems to be one of the few things about which a fairly definite rule may be laid down. It should be reserved for the culminating moments, and regarded as the spray into which the great wave of narrative breaks in curving twoard the watcher on the shore. This lifting and scattering of the wave, the coruscation of the spray, even the mere material sight of the page broken into short, uneven paragraphs, all help to reinforce contrast between such climaxes and the smooth effaced gliding of the narrative intervals; and the contrast enhances that sense of the passage of time for the producing of which the writer has to depend on his intervening narration. Thus the sparing use of dialogue not only serves to emphasize the crises of a tale, but to give it as a whole a greater effect of continuous development.

Does this speak to you?

For me, who struggles with dialogue, brilliant!

Untitled

Because that is how I feel right now.

Jonathan was away last weekend seeing friends on a glorious trip to Jamaica. I was jealous. But he brought me back a picture I love, and I got some blessed time to myself.

As I read my self help books, worked on my novel, played with my children and cooked crepes, I realized I am depleted.

If I were a field of grass I would be a dry, tired, hay-like patch with dirt showing through. The kind of patch where you wonder if anything will ever grow there again. Something might--with water and sun. Or, it might be too far gone, over-traveled and worn out and unfertilized and barren.

For years now I have nurtured others. And, it has been a surprise to find this out about myself, but I like nurturing others. I like finding the hidden part of people's souls that needs to be nurtured and loved and drawn out, and pulling out of people. I like being the soul prospector who can see the beauty and help people, at least in some small way, along their way. And that is what I try to do for my husband and my children.

I am not perfect.

But I watch for flashes of brilliance, of interest, of exhaustion, of light, and I tend and encourage and nurture.

I do this freely, because I know that I know how to nurture myself. I know what I need to feel alive, to feel happy, to feel nourished.

I need to ride waves and dance with abandon. I need to cook with spices and have crazy wonderful sex. I need to travel and take in new places with all my senses wide open. I need to write and write and write. I need to sing and be around music. I need time alone.

And I find now, after years of taking care of others, that I am in the same depressing place as a million women who have come before me. I am losing myself through neglect.

I have chosen this path. I have chosen to be home and witness my boys as they grow. I love watching my husband becoming a better writer, and seeing my boys develop into incredible little people. Some of that is me. My time. My love. My being there.

But I find myself dreaming of someone who will swoop in and nurture me. Who will pull me back up on my feet, and feed me the food I need to eat. Who will look at me and say, you need to jump in the ocean, write a book, climb a mountain, paint a picture, do some belly dancing. Let me cook you something wonderful. I want someone to tend to my soul!

But I am a grown up. I know the only person who can do that for me is myself.

Still, I wish.

And as sun returns to the earth and the days grow longer again (thank god!!!!!) I feel a need to cut my hair and reinvent myself. So perhaps this sadness, this feeling of barrenness, is just the slow growing, germinating, quiet time that will explode into wonderful things.

In the meantime, for today, I blog to nurture my soul.

To say: I am here!

Why We Blog

If you are looking for beautiful images to irrigate your imagination, check out the English Muse.

Always gorgeous. It is a blog by a stylish former LA Times reporter.

But I particularly loved the comments on this one--about why we blog. Scroll down and these cyber-scribbles will make you think.

Some people blog for friendship. Some to keep a journal. Some to be like pamphleteers. Some to believe they exist. Some to inspire--because they feel like traditional media is too dark and depressing, but the blogging world offers hope, inspiration, positive stories and thoughts.

What are you?

Why do you read? Why do you blog?

For anyone who loves writing--and reading--this is fascinating.

Mommy Shock

Last night I went to my first writing group with John Rechy. As some of you may recall from an earlier blog, I forced myself to submit first. My work was critiqued second for the night.

When I was there I realized it had been about nine years ago since I went last. He is older, and a little wackier. Though, when he waded into the writing he was just as brilliant, spot-on and inspired as he was nine years ago.

A lot has happened in my life since then. I got married. I had two children (when I told him that he looked shocked, but said nothing.) I quit my job. And I have done a million things that are fascinating, life-enriching, and have nothing at all to do with writing. At that time my whole life was writing. Really, whatever the quality, that was all I did. Fiction was just one more type.

So I returned.

And I was humbled.

The group went around and gave their comments. They were both kind, and pointed. That is what he allows. Only he gets to do the all out critique, and he is careful to balance the harshness with encouragement.

One woman got so rabid that when he tried to shut her down he failed. She could not reign herself in, about one section that drove her crazy because of my confused point of view. In the moment I felt like laughing. Now I feel like crying.

I left the evening stirred up, overwhelmed, my mind on fire, my body exhausted, my stomach in a knot.

I kept trying to figure out what it was that left my mind pinging in a million different directions. There are many things. But I think one was that fo the first time in three years my writing was being taken really seriously, edited seriously, at a very very high level. And it did not hold up. Or, at least there is much, much to be done.

It is not that I can no longer write. No. I believe I will always be a writer.

But if writing is like a discipline, like swimming, track, training for a marathon, I have gone from being an Olympic athlete, writing daily and hard at the paper, being questioned constantly, edited constantly, challenged constantly, to a fat couch potato. Sure, I tell myself, I am still a writer. I write this blog. I write freelance articles when I can. I wrote a novel in a month.

But all of this is solitary. It is being held to no standard, no editing, no outside eye. It keeps me writing, yes, but there is no discipline to it, no one pushing me, challenging me. And I have slipped. I have gotten lazy. Slipped into cliche. I dash things off without really taking the time to slow down and figure out exactly what I want to say, in an original, unique, careful way.

My outdated version of myself as a writer was punctured.

It did not feel good. I had to look at my prose, my sloppiness, my inattention to certain details, and it was not a fun experience. I felt flabby, out of shape, like I had slipped.

I experienced Mommy Shock.

And part of me wanted to run and hide. To say Well, I must take care of my children. I have done so much. To justify my bad writing, my lack of attention. But that is a cop-out. And this is a turning point. Will I look head on at my writing, however shoddy, and learn from the master, and incorporate these lessons without ego, and work, with discipline, to get myself back on the Olympic team?

Or will I hide in my home, scared, and continue to write for no one but myself and a few friends, with an occasional freelance article to show for myself.

I know I am still a good writer. But last night I was faced with the question--now that I am venturing out of my safe, unassailable Mommy lair where no one really evaluates me--do I have the cojones, the discipline, the courage to do what it takes? To join the Olympic writing team again?

Or do I want to hide in my home, behind the excuse of children, and remember my outdated version of myself as a great writer, while my skills, my writing muscles, my tools and discipline atrophy?

I want to write.

Food for Thought

Yesterday a mama I love came over to talk and caffeinate with me. We spoke about creativity, finding time to pursue our dreams as mothers, and how much of your precious time should go to the "art" itself, and how much to the business, the promotion, the endless drumming up of business.

She told me about a documentary about an old Indian jeweler she knew, who used to work up in Malibu. He was ripped, talented, and successful. He looked like a man following his dream, his art, his bliss. But he revealed, in this documentary, that he spends more time on the computer and on the phone doing the business end of things, so that he can do his art.

It made me think.

Someone always has to do the business end of things. You cannot just do art, unless you find a patron, or have a brother with a sales background who will peddle your work with passion and leave you to the paints (Theo Van Gogh, for instance).

Creative people shy away from the business side, but it must be done. And today, it seems, in the creative arts you are expected to do more and more of the business side and promotion yourself. You must be an entrepreneur, too, to be an artist, a writer, a film maker, a poet. Otherwise, you will just be a hobbyist. Which is OK.

And I thought about that. Not that journalism is art--but I was so blessed to write in a place where once I was hired the only person I had to sell my idea to was my editor, whose door was pretty much always open. They might be good, they might be bad, but it didn't take long to get an answer.

Freelancing is a different story. You have to write the story, yes. But that ends up being such a small part of the whole process. You have to find the place to pitch (appropriate voice, etc), see if you have a contact, harass daily or weekly, write up a proposal, wait for them to decide, then, IF they say yes, file the story, wait to be edited, and finally, many months later, get paid. The writing part is probably only 30% of the total.

To me, it feels like not enough. But if your starting point is: you could do something for someone else all the time, OR you could spend three quarters of your time promoting yourself and trying to find the space and means to do this thing you love, well, then it doesn't seem so bad. Indeed, that privilege of doing your passion feels like a gift. Even if it is only for 30% of the time.

What do you think, you artists, writers, film makers, and creative people out there? What is the proper ratio between art and commerce in the life of one who wants to pursue what they love?

Writers Inspiration

On Saturday night, courtesy of Aliza Murrietta, whose husband was out of town at the Second City 50th Reunion, I got to go see Carlos Fuente speak. I almost didn't go. I said no, because it was the second night of Hannukah, and Jonathan's mother was visiting, but then I told Jonathan and he said, "Oh, you must go!"

Fuentes taught Jonathan at Harvard and somewhere in our house is a box of signed books from the great man. He is great, Jonathan told me. Then he began to imitate his former professor. (Something about a great negress's giant wet vagina)

We drove over. It was a dramatic night--very Mexican. There were sheets of rain, rivers of water running down the boulevards, and in Beverly Hills all the street lights and traffic lights were out. The city was dark. We arrived at Royce Hall at UCLA soggy and exhilarated.

The great man spoke. I bought some books. We listened. He gave a lecture. It was A-Z, This I Believe. It was OK. I was drowsy at first, after the adrenaline of the ride over, a belly full of latkes and apple sauce, and sitting in a big warm hall in the dark. I would awaken at certain letters and they would drill into my consciousness, beautiful images, incredible language. (J is for jealousy, O is for Odyssey, M is for Mexico, A is for Amor, L is for the Left) Others were more bland, or drifted by.

Then he answered questions, and here he was brilliant: quick-witted, hilarious, warm, witty, sharp, alive. He answered questions political, personal and literary and made us laugh and think deeply. Being in the presence of a mind like that is exhilarating, inspiring.

At the end someone asked about dreaming, and the writing process, and this is what he said:

At the end of each day, around nine or ten at night, I sit down to write. I jot down the plot points of what I will write th next morning, Important events, conversational turns, things various characters say, surprises and challenges that will arrive--maybe thirteen or fourteen in all. Then I go to sleep. I dream. I awake in the morning and the story is there. It is not usually what I have written down the night before. My subconscious has been at work, and tells me what to write. It is as if, during the night, I have been visited by a second me, who takes over from the first me, and then feeds the first me what to write in the morning.

This is a paraphrase. But it captures the magic of what can happen.

I think I am going to try.

A Rumination for Writers

I read recently, and I think this is true, that the job of writers is to take the reader somewhere they either do not access, or cannot access. In journalism this was absolutely true. Our job, in the best cases, was to break into some world, some subculture, some political group, some organization, and tell the reader how it really worked from the inside.

In the past, writers traveled to distant lands and wrote great tales of what they saw there. I think this kind of British writing influenced me greatly.

But now, when people can travel wherever they want to go, where do readers want to be taken? Do they want to travel into someone else's life (the memoir)? Do they want to travel inside an institution that is basically blocked to everyone, including the media, to get the real, inside scoop (hence the rise in tell-all books from people once they leave an organization. The "This is what it was really like" genre of memoir).

Do they want to go inside a religious cult? Inside Hollywood? Inside a school? Inside a mind? Inside a dysfunctional family?

In this age where a staggering amount (too much?) incredibly personal information is available with a dance on the keyboard that takes you to a blog (like this one!) facebook, or youtube, tell me, dear readers and fellow writers, where is it that you want your storytellers to take you?

Or, is that, since we can now find a way to go anywhere, that we are looking more for a specific kind of a guide to take us there. Are we looking for a certain perspective? A certain voice? Is that the change?

Please drop me a line with your thoughts. I am so curious.

Our Stories

Who are the storytellers? Who are the bards?

When I was younger I was sure that my ancestors--at least on my father's side--were the theatrical traveling troubadors who journeyed from town to town telling great stories from memory in iambic pentameter with heart-stopping dramatic flair. Not actors exactly. Just the keepers of the tales.

I love writers. They are my favorite people. I love how they think and how they use words. There are many people I love--but writers speak to my soul.

But now, as time goes by, I think writers are the truth-tellers. Whether fiction or non (because many of the greatest truths are told in fiction...) writers are the ones who feel the need, the mission, the desire, the compulsion, to tell their story. And to get the story right. Sometimes they tell their story for their own ego or sheer love of language. But I am coming to believe that the calling to write comes from something deep, deep inside. And often it is to tell a story that has not been told, to tell the story no one else has heard, to tell a story for themselves, yes, but also for all the others like them who want, need and deserve to understand and be understood.

I think the need to tell a story can keep someone alive (we talked about this today with two of my favorite friends). Through war, genocide, illness. I think you can literally write for your life. Your sanity. Your sense of self.

But above all I think writers spring from a place where the truth was not told. The story was not known. It was secret. Or it was suppressed. Or it was denied. Writing is an act of defiance, of inves
tigation, of self-realization.

The person who is biggest, strongest, oldest, richest, gets to tell the story their way. But eventually, someone else gets their turn, to tell the story their own way.

It is scary, but so empowering. And--when it comes from a place of absolute truth--beautiful.

Jonathan, this is for you, my first truth-teller. And yes, M, you know this is for you. And, of course, it is for me. It is through writing--that of the many great authors and writers and poets and myth makers and playwrights-- that I can really bear the truth, better than anywhere else.