The more I write, the more I learn, the more I enjoy writing.
I’ve been inspired in the past couple months by some kind strangers who have read and reviewed Free to Be. The feedback for the book is wonderful, but a couple guys took the time out to offer detailed constructive criticism and encouragement. The most motivating compliment has been, “I want more!”
Who am I to deny my adoring fans?
Seriously, there is more coming. I’ve been asked to consider writing a more in-depth biography of my life in fundamental christianity and how I studied my way out. I imagine this would be something of a prequel to Free to Be, written a lot more cohesively. I’m also writing and collecting material about being an atheist living in the bible belt, which may turn into a work of its own someday. In addition to that, I’m writing general essays on life--some you’ve read here on the blog--and will eventually publish them all in a book.
Most recently I’ve been encouraged to consider writing fiction. This has lead to some very constructive and fun conversation with one of my reader/reviewers who is also an author (a good and quite humorous one; check out his book, The Unhappy Medium). I expressed to T.J. the hesitancy I’ve always had with writing fiction. He walked me through it, helped me to see the reasons I might be good at it. He encouraged me enough that I’m giving it a shot. I’ve put 7,000+ very rough words down in the last week.
This is quite fun. I am learning much. I am learning to push past my perfectionism to let the creativity do its thing, saving the editing and fine-tuning for later. I’m not great at this yet, but I feel like I’m getting better. I started to get the hang of it while I was writing Free to Be, but it feels so much more necessary when writing fiction. I make myself a lot of notes along the way, all in caps so they stand out; DESCRIBE LOCATION HERE, INSERT SOMETHING FUNNY, FINISH THIS SOMEHOW, etc.
I came up with a motto: Write while the writing’s good. Not only does it remind me to let the creativity flow, uninterrupted by my perfectionism, but it helps me make the most of moments. Life inspires me and the words start coming together in my head; if I don’t take just a few minutes immediately to jot down the thoughts, the scene, or idea, the same life that inspired me can steal away the moment and the words that would ultimately give my best pieces their weight.
T.J. gave me this tasty bit of advice: “Watch the doubt thang. I find that the best device is to say to yourself, 'I'll doubt it later, when there is time to do it.' Work flat out. Rest. Look for errors and holes, the snags, list em and then pick em off. Rinse and repeat. The book then kind of inflates. I dislike perfectionism, it makes everything grind to a halt. You can fix a something no matter how bad, but you can't publish something amazing you have not done."
I especially like that last sentence. I have scrawled it on a sticky note and posted it above my desk.
If I had time, I would do some guided writing exercises. I don’t. I’ve always just written (and read—never underestimate reading as an aide to improve writing). This is on-the-job, train-yourself-training. I’m lucky to have people like T.J. Brown, P. Pray (who left me a great review on Amazon awhile back), and my own Denny, who take the time to talk with me, read my work, and offer their experience and opinions. It’s the encouragement that really keeps me going. And it’s the keeping-going that has me learning some things about myself and my writing.
I have occasionally tried my hand at fiction. I'd get an idea,
throw down a couple thousand words, then abandon it. So many plot ideas! So many characters! It’s overwhelming. It flowed, but I didn’t feel like I had the stamina. And to what end? What’s the point?
Obviously, the point is whatever I want it to be. Maybe the story is just fun. Maybe it’s moving or thought-provoking. I think that too often, as an adult, I have dismissed fiction as, um... less useful for life. Or something. I often feel guilty just taking the time to read it, let alone to write it. I’ve forgotten what a joy and often what a learning experience fiction can be, in all its forms.
So, attempting a fiction novel is a super fun new adventure for this writer. My approach is to jot down a bunch of notes, a bit of story structure, then pour out ideas and scenes and see what happens. It’s been quite interesting. One of the first things that came together over the last couple weeks, between writing and reading this, that, and the other thing, is an idea about how to write a scene, how to tell a story so the reader feels like they’re smack in it. Then I happened across an article about writing creative non-fiction which confirmed what I’d been thinking about but hadn’t quite put my finger on: the difference between showing and telling. Suddenly I was able to look at my writing (and at a memoir I was reading) and understand exactly why some parts felt good and some parts felt sorta lifeless. Some scenes drew me in, some left me on the outside looking in.
I’m totally geekin’ out.
Something else I’m learning, about myself in particular, is how writing essays in the 1,000 to 3,000 word range has ingrained in me the habit of being (at least, attempting to be) concise and to the point. Ideas must be wrapped up in one or two sittings; details, which I’m quite prone to, limited. I think in short-form. I start out with one happy little idea and expound upon it. It’s been good. I will always enjoy it. But it’s been interesting and a tad difficult for me to stretch out my legs and settle in for the long haul; writing involved scenes, bringing characters to life, giving them things to do and think and say, and doing crazy things like leaving ideas dangling to explore something, someone or somewhere else, then returning later to the first idea, eventually tying everything in together. You just don’t do that in essays. Well, I don’t do that. It’s fun, though!
I’m reminded of when I used to ride horses as a teen. Most of the riding I did was in small arenas, wooded trails, and small pastures. Walking, trotting, a slow lope. I thoroughly enjoyed it. But I can count on one hand the opportunities I had to open up and gallop, completely free and unbound. It was liberating. Writing this last week has felt like being turned out to a wide open pasture with a good horse under me. No limits.
The downside is that I have no idea if the end result of this particular project will be remotely worth reading. And I suspect I won’t know until I have exhausted myself with this exploration. But it doesn’t much matter to me at the moment. I’m writing, exploring, learning. I’m getting to know my horse and it’s a beautiful day.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Rainbows
This morning I craved rainbows. I was sad. I was wondering why hard reality always makes me sad, makes me want to curl up in a ball and disappear to somewhere with rainbows and unicorns, some place where problems somehow don’t exist.
I was somewhat obsessed with unicorns and rainbows as a child. When I was just a few years old my parents painted a big rainbow with clouds and rainbow-colored stars on a light blue background on the slanted ceiling of my bedroom. My room had no windows, but this cheered it up considerably. I had unicorn stuffed animals, posters, knick-knacks, a yellow Rainbow Bright lunch box and Thermos, a Rainbow Bright doll, and a Rainbow Bright blanket on my bed. Also on my bed was a vivid rainbow afghan crocheted for me by my mom. I still have it. Blue and Little take turns with it. I swear it’s as vivid and tightly stitched today as it was nearly 30 years ago. Remarkable.
I think I eased up on the rainbows as I entered into the teen years. The unicorn fetish continued. By this time I’d seen all the important unicorn movies many times over: Unico, The Last Unicorn, Legend. (If anyone’s wondering why my older brother has the strong character he does today, I’d bet it has to do with resilience formed hearing Unico’s voice over and over and over and over and over…and managing not to strangle me or tear the Betamax apart.) I’d rewritten the words to Shel Silverstein’s “The Unicorn,” about how unicorns didn’t make it onto Noah’s ark so you’re “never gonna see no unicorn,” which I’d learned in song form. My version was much more hopeful.
Symbols of childhood. Symbols of a time when the most difficult reality to face was Mom getting you up early for school or having to perform in front of the class. Naturally I would occasionally desire to go back there to be free of the mean tricks of adult life. If I could just magically land in Matt Martin’s dank cellar, the two of us playing “Dungeons and Vampires” and then running off into the woods and cornfields on Young Detective Club adventures…
There are things about adult life I sure do love and appreciate. Of course. Of course. It just gets me sometimes; the realness, the discomforts and pains. Especially when, like lately, my life is so rich and full and unbelievably happy. It’s the contrast. It’s the reminder that I’m not living in Never-Never Land.
About two hours after my little baby I-want-rainbows-and-unicorns-and-magic-to-make-my-problems-go-away crying fit this morning I was sitting outside on my back deck listening to the rain and writing lists (which are almost magical—bringing order and rightness to the world—the closest thing to magic besides love that we’ll know in this world). I was quite composed. Passers-by glancing my way may even have mistaken me for a grown-up. (Shhh! Don’t tell!) My daughter Blue decided to pop out onto the deck to see me. With her tow-colored ringlets bouncing around her slender pixie face and her green eyes twinkling, she handed me a folded piece of paper which had been carefully shaped with scissors. I opened it. There, in vivid crayon scribblings, taking up the whole page, was a rainbow.
Maybe there’s a little magic floating around the world after all. The children soak it up with their wide eyes and disperse it with butterfly kisses and crayons.
I was somewhat obsessed with unicorns and rainbows as a child. When I was just a few years old my parents painted a big rainbow with clouds and rainbow-colored stars on a light blue background on the slanted ceiling of my bedroom. My room had no windows, but this cheered it up considerably. I had unicorn stuffed animals, posters, knick-knacks, a yellow Rainbow Bright lunch box and Thermos, a Rainbow Bright doll, and a Rainbow Bright blanket on my bed. Also on my bed was a vivid rainbow afghan crocheted for me by my mom. I still have it. Blue and Little take turns with it. I swear it’s as vivid and tightly stitched today as it was nearly 30 years ago. Remarkable.
I think I eased up on the rainbows as I entered into the teen years. The unicorn fetish continued. By this time I’d seen all the important unicorn movies many times over: Unico, The Last Unicorn, Legend. (If anyone’s wondering why my older brother has the strong character he does today, I’d bet it has to do with resilience formed hearing Unico’s voice over and over and over and over and over…and managing not to strangle me or tear the Betamax apart.) I’d rewritten the words to Shel Silverstein’s “The Unicorn,” about how unicorns didn’t make it onto Noah’s ark so you’re “never gonna see no unicorn,” which I’d learned in song form. My version was much more hopeful.
Symbols of childhood. Symbols of a time when the most difficult reality to face was Mom getting you up early for school or having to perform in front of the class. Naturally I would occasionally desire to go back there to be free of the mean tricks of adult life. If I could just magically land in Matt Martin’s dank cellar, the two of us playing “Dungeons and Vampires” and then running off into the woods and cornfields on Young Detective Club adventures…
There are things about adult life I sure do love and appreciate. Of course. Of course. It just gets me sometimes; the realness, the discomforts and pains. Especially when, like lately, my life is so rich and full and unbelievably happy. It’s the contrast. It’s the reminder that I’m not living in Never-Never Land.
About two hours after my little baby I-want-rainbows-and-unicorns-and-magic-to-make-my-problems-go-away crying fit this morning I was sitting outside on my back deck listening to the rain and writing lists (which are almost magical—bringing order and rightness to the world—the closest thing to magic besides love that we’ll know in this world). I was quite composed. Passers-by glancing my way may even have mistaken me for a grown-up. (Shhh! Don’t tell!) My daughter Blue decided to pop out onto the deck to see me. With her tow-colored ringlets bouncing around her slender pixie face and her green eyes twinkling, she handed me a folded piece of paper which had been carefully shaped with scissors. I opened it. There, in vivid crayon scribblings, taking up the whole page, was a rainbow.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Life in a Moment
7:47pm Cool and calm after an early summer rain.
The beautiful moments come when you least expect. Life slows down and you see the world around you. Really see. You are in tune with everything, or so it feels. Your children appear as the precious jewels they are, but which you don't always see because you aren't really looking. All the things they say and all the things they do touch your very heart. Your senses are alive, absorbing the color of the trees and the smell of the earth after the rain and the sounds of the birds and the laughter of your loved ones. There is complete peace right now, in this moment. Gone are the frustrations and the guilt of not doing enough or being good enough. Gone are the pressures and expectations. Gone is is the lazy half-attention you paid to your surroundings as you engaged in mental gymnastics; planning dinner, trying to remember to finish sewing your friend's birthday gift, planning your next trip into town and wondering if the goat feed got put into the barn. Gone.
Now you just are. You're simply being. You are not producing, not consuming, not coming, not going, just hovering in a static sort of existence. But it's good. Perfect, even. You have a sense that this is it. This is real life. The other stuff is just chaos distracting you from real life. And you wonder if you can create more of these moments. And how. Because what's the point, otherwise? What's the point of the fast paced, accomplishment-based lifestyle spiked with turmoil and mood swings? How can it be worth it?
These thougths play like background music while you live in the moment. You smile at your partner. The children giggle and bring you fresh sugar snap peas. You all take a walk, everyone pointing out interesting things and remarking on them, everyone engaaging, feeling the magic. Tweny minutes, an hour, an afternoon... Time is irrelevant. And as subtly as it came, it goes. It begins to slip away. The life. The real life. Now it's time to wash dishes, the kids found something to bicker about, the dogs ran off, the cat vomitted, you feel frustrated because you remembered that you were suppose to make an important phone call and now it's too late.
How much of your life is passing you by? How much of your life are you really living? I like to think that I am living many of these such moments, but I'm afraid the truth is I end most days making a mental list of all the things I did or didn't get done. What a sad measure of human existence.
Take a nap, it's good for the planet. --Denny Henke
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| Royal |
The beautiful moments come when you least expect. Life slows down and you see the world around you. Really see. You are in tune with everything, or so it feels. Your children appear as the precious jewels they are, but which you don't always see because you aren't really looking. All the things they say and all the things they do touch your very heart. Your senses are alive, absorbing the color of the trees and the smell of the earth after the rain and the sounds of the birds and the laughter of your loved ones. There is complete peace right now, in this moment. Gone are the frustrations and the guilt of not doing enough or being good enough. Gone are the pressures and expectations. Gone is is the lazy half-attention you paid to your surroundings as you engaged in mental gymnastics; planning dinner, trying to remember to finish sewing your friend's birthday gift, planning your next trip into town and wondering if the goat feed got put into the barn. Gone.
Now you just are. You're simply being. You are not producing, not consuming, not coming, not going, just hovering in a static sort of existence. But it's good. Perfect, even. You have a sense that this is it. This is real life. The other stuff is just chaos distracting you from real life. And you wonder if you can create more of these moments. And how. Because what's the point, otherwise? What's the point of the fast paced, accomplishment-based lifestyle spiked with turmoil and mood swings? How can it be worth it?
These thougths play like background music while you live in the moment. You smile at your partner. The children giggle and bring you fresh sugar snap peas. You all take a walk, everyone pointing out interesting things and remarking on them, everyone engaaging, feeling the magic. Tweny minutes, an hour, an afternoon... Time is irrelevant. And as subtly as it came, it goes. It begins to slip away. The life. The real life. Now it's time to wash dishes, the kids found something to bicker about, the dogs ran off, the cat vomitted, you feel frustrated because you remembered that you were suppose to make an important phone call and now it's too late.
How much of your life is passing you by? How much of your life are you really living? I like to think that I am living many of these such moments, but I'm afraid the truth is I end most days making a mental list of all the things I did or didn't get done. What a sad measure of human existence.
Take a nap, it's good for the planet. --Denny Henke
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