Ode to Writers Everywhere

March 28, 2014March 28, 2014 / roughwighting / 27 Comments

The Writing Instructor

The refrigerator hums like a turtle in a small trickling stream. Soft, contented, but with a slight hiccup now and then.

I try to ignore the soothing hum and continue to talk on, too loud at times, but there’s a cougher in the group, and I don’t want my words drowned out.

What an expression: how can words drown? Well, I guess the same way my ideas seem to drown at times. When I’m trying so hard to express myself, I get intense, yet I see a dazed expression on my listeners’ faces, so it must be me, my words, that are drowning them in boredom.

Oh shoot, am I boring? I stop the conversation mid-stream, and no one seems to notice. If a small waterfall suddenly stopped in the middle of Yosemite, you’d think those around would notice. The hikers and bikers, the park rangers and sightseers would shout out: “What in the world?”

But no shouts of concern from my listeners when I shut my mouth and halt my waterfall of a fascinating story about writing. Well, I have been told that my stories can go on and on, and on, for paragraphs when they could be just a sentence or two.

So I order them to practice what I have just preached about Cinquains.

A 5-line poem, invented by the early 20th century poet Adelaide Crapsey and inspired by the Japanese tanka, with 22 syllables arranged in a distinct pattern, no mandatory rhyme scheme, stanzas of 2, 4, 6, 8, and 2 syllables. Crapsey always titled her cinquains, effectively utilizing the title as a sixth line.

“WRITE!” I command.

But before I begin I pause in our little writing room (a converted kitchen/dining room, in fact), which vibrates with the sound of fingers tapping on flat black keys and ink sliding against paper: a happy sound; a creative, invigorating, satisfying sound; while the low hum of a dog’s sleepy snores surround my group in a warm writing hug.

Now, a challenge – do you dare create your own cinquain here?

It’s Just Your Imagination!

January 10, 2014 / roughwighting / 31 Comments

Flash!

Scientists are trying to understand the creative brain.

Hmmm, some people in my family have been trying to understand my brain for decades. My dad used to shake his head at me and intone, “It’s just your imagination, Pammy.”

He never knew how angry that statement made me. What did he mean, JUST my imagination? Did that mean it didn’t count?

But now, wonderfully, neuroscientists and psychologists are claiming that “imagination is the cornerstone of creativity.”

Unfortunately, back when I was growing up in the “olden” days, creativity wasn’t so highly touted. But now a neuroscientist and director of the Brain and Creativity Institute of the University of Southern California says, “having original ideas is a process, not a place (within the brain).”

The implication is that it takes a lot of brain to pull off imagination and creativity.

So my capability to see tiny, dragon-like lizards on top of maple trees that suddenly glow purple, is not “just” my imagination.

It’s genius!

Researchers are now determining that imagination is only possible with the use of (1) memory (yes, it’s good news that you remember the smell of your 7th grade science teacher’s hair spray) and (2) emotions.

Carousel, Shirley Jones, Gordon McRae, imagination, emotion

Falling in love, in “Carousel.”

Here’s one of my good (emotional) memories: my brother sneaks down to the basement where I’m watching an old movie on TV – “Carousel” with Shirley Jones, in which the love of her life is killed. Little brother taunts me because I’m sobbing at the end, but my dad defends me, saying, “The world would be a better place if all people had the imagination to feel other people’s pain and joy.”

Which brings me to another point researchers are discovering. Some people are inherently more creative and imaginative than others.

I always knew that. Now, perhaps others will view creativity and imagination as immensely special and as a talent to strive for, not ignore.

In fact, a Harvard University researcher noted: “the brain is a creativity machine. You just need to know how to manipulate your software to make it work.”

Hector

Yes, that’s what I do at 5:30 a.m. when I gently wake up, neurons firing, the vivid dream world slowly fading away as I locate Geminia and Frederica, my two soul soothers/imaginators who sit invisibly within my eardrums.

“Did you notice the large whale swimming in the Bay this morning?” Geminia whispers as I begin my early morning walk.

I see a hiccup of a splash in the middle of the bay, and then a seal slaps up, barking an explanation: “That’s Hector. He gets lost all the time. He’s supposed to be in Hawaii by now!”

Ah, Pammy, there’s your imagination again….

Are YOU Successful?

November 1, 2013 / roughwighting / 32 Comments

Funny, how conflicted a person can feel about success.

And there’s the rub. What IS success, and what is not?

That is what I’m thinking at 5 a.m. as I take in a deep breath, smell the essence of my tropical green tea, look outside my window and glory in the darkness, the blinking lights of the town and the city beyond the bay.

This, this is my success.

Waking up at 5.

Stretching and pulling and moving my muscles, yoga style, in bed before encouraging the whole lot of them – the cold feet, the sleepy leg muscles, the torso, the heavy head, to rise up from bed and start a new day.

This is success, starting a new day, every day, with freshness and vigor.

But sometimes I, and a lot of us (let’s be frank, it’s human nature to lie in bed in the middle of the night and …) ask the age-old question — “why?”.

Why strain and strive for another day, for another “success,” whether it be writing or banking, running a business or running a marathon, selling sailboats or collecting stamps, lawyering or antiquing (and I’m just listing a few of the passions I know of friends and family).

Don’t we all stop once in a while and ask, “what the hell does it matter?”

That’s when we should stop and, well, just STOP, and ask ourselves, “what does matter?”

I sip my tea and watch the harsh blackness of the night begin to slowly, slowly become a softer dark, a black that silhouettes the hills, the dark floating islands, the deep mystery of the bay in front of me. A black that mystifies and entices. These dark shadows soon will be illuminated by the sun’s rays. Objects that are dark now, will soon glow pink and peach and glory in the day.

Like me.

That’s what matters. I just want to glory in each day, stretch my body and my mind to wakefulness of the light, and the dark. Wakefulness of the laughter that surrounds me, and the sadness. Wakefulness to the aroma of steaming tea, and the soft strain of the classical music in my background.

Rosy dawn turns to a blue morning.

That’s what makes my day. I throw out the fear and insecurity of being a “success,” since it means nothing.

Instead, I promise to just stay in the moment, and ignore the rest.

Success!

Here’s to your success!

Life’s Great Lessons on a Rocky Wall

April 5, 2013 / roughwighting / 35 Comments

We sit out on the deck on a perfect late spring Saturday, drinking gallons of lemonade and munching on turkey subs. The three of us – my man, my son and I – have been working for hours in the garden planting, snipping, weeding, watering, and for the men, moving rocks.

The father and the adult son have little to say to each other most times – it’s that time in their lives when the father can no longer tell the son what to do, and the son is no longer willing to listen to anything the father suggests anyway. But when they take their shirts off in the hot sun and push and pull 200-pound rocks to remake a 100-year-old rock wall, then, then they love each other. No talk, just grunts, a curse now and then, and suddenly a spurt of laughter.

Father and Son on the Rocks.

When the food is gone, my man goes back to rebuilding the stone wall, and my son and I sit quietly, companionably, not wanting to move from the warmth and relaxation.

“What are you up to, mom?” he asks suddenly. I never talk with him about what I’m doing. I’m too busy asking him about his life, his plans, his philosophy on life. I’m the questioner and the listener. But now he insists that I talk about me.

“Just the usual,” I reply. “Working, teaching, writing, not much, I guess.”

He looks at me with blue eyes as clear as the sky above and says, “You must be kidding.”

“What?” I ask.

“You could write anything. You could write something like, what’s his name, the guy who wrote Tuesdays with Morrie.”

I laugh. “This from the son who doesn’t read my stories.”

“Yes I do,” he retorts. “I read your stuff. Some of it.”

“Well, what should I write about?” I ask kiddingly. But he ponders the question seriously, thinking.

“Well, a book like Tuesdays with Morrie but about being a mother. You could write a great book about being a mother.”

I examine his face, one-day growth on it, intense eyes, no smirk.

He means it.

I want to cry. Instead, I hug my son, and he returns to the rocks.

And me? I return to my writing…

Do Writers Have Big Egos?

March 15, 2013 / roughwighting / 33 Comments

That’s the question I suddenly ask myself after I’ve been on hold for 13 minutes. Thirteen minutes with a faceless woman who spells my name wrong, three times. Who can’t find my order for 6 minutes (see above re misspelling), and who does not make me feel confident that the order, once placed, will be correct.

And what am I ordering?

Faceless woman.

Bookmarks. Customized bookmarks that feature my book and links to my book as well as my blog.Now, see where I’m leading?

Who wastes their time on faceless people after creating a bookmark for hours (oh yes, it took me a total of over 8 hours in front of the computer cursing, screaming, pulling out my hair and scaring the dog) while the ‘easy to use’ website crashed, burped, blinked, and generally made my life hell as I chose colors, downloaded my book cover, and then added text.

Scared dog – see him rolling his eyes at me?

Self-involved people, that’s who waste their time on these frustrating tasks. I never ever considered myself one of those people who think only of themselves – those kind of self-important people who are clueless about the world around them.

But. Gulp. Have I just described writers?

We sit in a room by ourselves and make up people, imaginary people with whom we use up (some would say waste) a lot of our time and energy.

We join our friends at a café but our eyes glaze over during the intense conversations about….life…. while in our heads we plot the next chapter in our imaginary characters’ lives.

We create blogs that talk about ourselves, and our writing, and our characters, so that everyone will know about our work when we publish. (Thank you, Karen Elliott for featuring my “A Brave New World” post on your Word Shark blog today!)

SEE??

We go on Facebook and post ‘Buy my book!” or “Like me and my blog and my newest publication.”

We spend our time marketing our books and stories, creating bookmarks and accepting invitations to women’s groups and book clubs, and library workshops to talk about ourselves, and our writing and our books and…

Oh dear.

Writers must have big egos!

I sit back in my chair as the faceless lady takes my credit card number, and I realize I’m a self-involved, heartless soul, despite my years of parent-ing and wife-ing and attempting to be a good sister and daughter and meditating peace and good will to all.

But perhaps those of us with a passion, those of us who believe in what we do, whether it be writing fiction or skiing down a mountain or collecting antique cars or hitting a small ball on a long stretch of hilly grass, perhaps we all stroke our egos to allow ourselves to believe (and to encourage others to believe) in what we do.

And what, exactly, do we do?

We make up people – but in doing so, we help ourselves and our readers to understand life just a fraction better. To understand what makes us humans work (or not work) in the scheme of this confusing universe.

So really (my big ego says) we writers are quite important.

Perhaps I should have ordered 200, instead of 100, bookmarks… 🙂