Category: writing

Working the Muscle

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Yesterday, I ran into my cousin, who told me she’d been in a 48-hour funk and couldn’t figure out why she was so grumpy. Finally, she sketched out a short story based on the old house she is renovating.

“My whole mood shifted,” she said, a self-satisfied smile spreading across her face. “I just needed to write.”

“Exercise the writing muscle every day, even if it is only a letter, notes, a title list, a character sketch, a journal entry. Writers are like dancers, like athletes. Without that exercise, the muscles seize up.” – Jane Yolen (via Writer’s Bloq)

 

 

 

Kindness

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I think a lot about this. Why aren’t we more? What does it take to be? How does ego get in the way?

Author George Saunders (oh, what a fabulous writer) recently gave the convocation speech at Syracuse University. The Sixth Floor Blog of the NY Times reprinted it. Here’s part of it:

Why aren’t we kinder?

Here’s what I think:

Each of us is born with a series of built-in confusions that are probably somehow Darwinian.  These are: (1) we’re central to the universe (that is, our personal story is the main and most interesting story, the only story, really); (2) we’re separate from the universe (there’s US and then, out there, all that other junk – dogs and swing-sets, and the State of Nebraska and low-hanging clouds and, you know, other people), and (3) we’re permanent (death is real, o.k., sure – for you, but not for me).

As I read this, I nodded, thinking all the while, that a shift in attitude should be so simple. But it’s not. Saunders does say this about kindness and aging, and I believe it to be true:

We get our butts kicked by real life, and people come to our defense, and help us, and we learn that we’re not separate, and don’t want to be.  We see people near and dear to us dropping away, and are gradually convinced that maybe we too will drop away (someday, a long time from now).  Most people, as they age, become less selfish and more loving.  I think this is true.  The great Syracuse poet, Hayden Carruth, said, in a poem written near the end of his life, that he was “mostly Love, now.”

How sad that it takes a backward perspective to see life so clearly.

I read about Saunders here, too, and decided I like him as much as a person as I do a writer.

“Don’t be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen.”

And now I am going to buy his newest book.

Missing Workshop

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I’ve put my writing workshop on hold for the summer, but I miss the weekly writing we do. There’s something about honoring that time to write.

I do less without the group.

So today, I’m using a prompt I found elsewhere to write a few sentences to tuck away for a future story or poem.

Prompt: Sizzle

The sizzling skin didn’t bother me, nor the roasting toes perched on the end 
of the beach chair. I baked intentionally, thriving in temperatures most people can’t stand. I was a child of the sun, ignoring warnings of cancer and wrinkles, spending hours with a book propped, an occasional glance at the sea.

Even though I take care these days, slathering myself in sunscreen, I dread summer only for the whirring of air conditioners, temperatures that cause condensation drips on outside windows. Inside, I am chilled to the bone, air blasts like endless jabbing pins. I wrap myself in blankets, only to shed them outside where once again I find comfort in sweltering days and nights, when even my flannel pajamas feel right.

Writing Notes

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Flump_1015I’ve returned from New England, a week spent visiting my mom, playing with grandkids, and soaking up sun. I also managed to eat swordfish-twice.

In spare minutes, I read (books on the beach, my iPad on the train, and my Feedly feed on my laptop).  What I didn’t do was write. But I’m ready to dive in again. I always manage to find nuggets of joy and sadness when I visit my mom, thoughts I process by writing.

But that’s not all I brought home. I’ve learned to pause and record conversations and feelings that I’ll mix and remix later in poetry and prose. From this visit, I’m considering:

  • a sailboat race with a small, blond child (she looked so fierce)
  • a strange conversation between three 20-somethings about their parents
  • a drunk women on the train who tried to engage other passengers in bizarre conversations
  • my father’s workshop  (a topic I am revisiting)

Now, where to start……..