No explanation needed

                                                                   Muse

                                                 January 2015 column for the 
                                                Greater Canton Writers' Guild


     I guess I'm just going to "go on" about some thoughts I've been having lately.  My dad wasn't artistic in the least - and he had no clue as to what was "good art".  And I've a whole rant on the nail on chalkboard shudder I experience when I hear people say "I don't know anything about art but I know what I like". 

    All that said, there was one thing that he always said that made sense.  It was "if a painting needs a whole book written about it in order to explain it, it's not art".  I get that.  Paintings, sculpture, and any other piece of artwork should be able to stand alone without explanation.  Nothing needs said or explained for the viewer to appreciate the beauty before them.  And the same can be said for our writing.  I understand the need to explain ourselves, but shouldn't our writing stand on its' own?  We deal in words – and that’s all any writer needs.  And if there's something ambiguous about what we've written, we either need to be more concise or we just need to let the reader use their imagination over what we could possibly have meant.  Some writers have actually killed their story with over explanation.  The readers’ imaginations are a tool we often forget about when we write.  Your writing should end climatically with a BOOM, not anticlimactically with an overabundance of explanation.  I hate that.

Paperholics

Paperholics

I am drowning in a sea of paper, the edges swim around me like sharks in water.  Sometimes the sheer numbers of papers I live with overwhelm me – like the stack of books, notebooks, and sketchbooks

that loiter on every flat surface and teeters precariously on the footstool beside my bed.  I am a self-confessed paperholic; I love paper in all its forms. 

During a conversation with a fellow artist/writer, she confessed that she was a near-hoarder in the amount of “stuff” she had accumulated and was not looking forward to packing for a move overseas. That started me thinking about the massive quantities of books, notebooks, journals and sketchbooks that I live with.  When I decided to count only the books in my possession, I came to a startling realization: there are books in every single room of my home.  There are Celtic warriors in the hallway and mostly romance in my bedroom. And although I counted only 75 books in my room, I just know that some of those scoundrels crept further under the bed when I went looking for them. I have to hide the newer books around here for obvious reasons…

I did not count the books in storage – nor did I count the five boxes of Guild books I’m currently holding.  Neither did I count the textbooks that are tucked away in closets or wedged under dressers.  Or the myriad of sketchbooks and half-filled notebooks, or magazines and art instruction booklets that lay around.  I did count 781 hard-back books. (I am a book snob. If I purchase a book, it is going to be in hardback). Yet despite that number, I know where each book is lovingly kept.  I know the people that reside within each one and have committed their stories to memory.

The good news is that not all the books are mine: the bad news is that I may have passed the hoarding gene on to my two boys. Jordan, my oldest, has all the history, political science and books of wars and weaponry. Ryan, my youngest, has most of the science fiction and fantasy books. Jordan gets his passion for history from my father the history teacher, and Ryan, my engineering major, is a study in contrasts.  While he is well-grounded in math and the sciences, his head is in the clouds during his down-time with science fiction and fantasy novels.

The smell of paper is like catnip to me and many times I have found myself giddy, standing in the middle of a stationery aisle just taking in all that beautiful paper.  The last thing I touch at night is paper, whether it is my need to write, doodle, or read, that compulsion has developed slowly over the years.  That is also the reason I have a towering stack of books, and writing and drawing paraphernalia by my bedside. Artistically speaking, nothing excites me more than the blank pages of a notebook, sketchbook, or a blank canvas.  They scream of new beginnings and endless possibilities.

And while I have kept up with technology in other areas of my life, I will never be reading from a hand held device.  I understand that in the truest sense of the word, writers will write anywhere with any media available.  Writers are more cerebral; their sole medium is words and as such, words matter more than form or format.  Artists are both visual and textural.  So as both an artist and writer that puts me and others like me somewhere in the middle. I even kept my first library card. It was made from orange oak tag and had a metal code bar inserted on the front of it.  Sometimes when I close my eyes I can still smell on that library card the particular scent of unopened books and the dust of kings that linger in the still air of libraries. 

I will use the computer and all its resources available to write, but I believe reading should be a sensory experience.  I want to feel the book in my hands and turn the pages myself.  I want to hear the sound of the pages as they turn.  Kindle?  To me that’s firewood. 

The boxes in which we put ourselves

MUSE

September's  column for The Greater Canton Writers’ Guild Newsletter

The boxes in which we put ourselves

     First time writers are always told, “write what you know” and they dive into their pool of knowledge head first, taking their first tentative strokes with their pens.  But after a few years and many laps of swimming in that subject matter, writers  may feel the need to expand.  To be brave, writers must get out of the pool and take a dive into the ocean.  

 

Explore new topics, learn new things. 

     The world of writing is vast and I find that exciting – and there’s no need to stay on the same topic all the time. To be honest, your readers might be bored hearing the same topic all the time.  Understandably, writers may discover they have a tendency to stay within certain comfort zones.  But it is always good to take a step out of what we so often  find ourselves  writing.   Learn something new and play with ideas – push them around, see how far they’ll stretch.  We do need to keep in mind that there is,a difference between having a re-current theme and redundancy.

 

     Writers may wish to ask themselves what they have learned as a writer this past year – your writing needs to grow right along with you.  If  your writing doesn't grow, if it stays the same, it becomes stale. Make a promise to yourself to take a chance or two with your writing style and subject matter, explore and reach out into new horizons.  Starting something new - topic, idea or story line - is exciting and keeping to what you’ve done before is limiting. Take a chance. Who knows where you’ll go.

 

Who is your Audience?

MUSE

August's column for The Greater Canton Writers’ Guild Newsletter

          Writers write for many reasons, all of them valid.  And those writings – what we produce – and the words we use to express our thoughts and ideas -are a measure of ourselves.  They tell the world who we are and what lies within our minds and hearts. 

          Many times the act of writing is therapeutic: it exorcises the demons that plague us. That’s personal. That’s also between the writer and his therapist.  There’s’ something called too much information that your readers don’t need to know.

          When we write for publication, it is necessary to connect with your readers and in order to do that, we need to know who our targeted audience is. Shared experiences and common interests are a way to do this.  When you write about nature, you would want to share it with someone who loves the outdoors – and you would submit it to a nature magazine.

          A few years ago I attended a poetry writing workshop taught by Jeff Gundy. One of the women in the class asked him if she was writing for herself, why would she need to observe form, punctuation and the like since it would seem that “anything goes”.  His response was perfect.  He said that “the minute you give your work to someone to look at, asking for their time and opinion, you are immediately then bound by the rules of grammar and composition.”  Meaning that if you write for yourself (or therapy), chances are you should probably keep it to yourself. But go ahead and rant on paper. Then burn it – or in my case, hit delete.

          Writers face rejection enough without submitting their work to the wrong audience. Knowing our audience when we submit (and I’m not talking about writing for the judges) makes a big difference in whether our writing is accepted or rejected.

Pottery

"I wonder if your father would notice if I were to dig a hole in the back yard for a raku kiln?" I glanced at my son as we were driving home.  He looked a me with a puzzled expression
   "kill"? 
   "No, kiln.  The 'N' is silent." I smiled. "You don't know what raku means, either, do you?"
   "That depends...are there like five letters in that word that are silent, too?"

The Perfect Time to Write

MUSE

July column for The Greater Canton Writers’ Guild Newsletter

            Yesterday was a great day for writing, but before I could begin, I wanted to get the laundry started and put some things away. After that was done I could really devote some time to that story I had started in my head.  Then I thought perhaps I could work better if I straightened the house first and vacuumed. At that point I started thinking maybe if I started dinner early, I could sit down for the rest of the afternoon at the computer with a cup of tea.. The dogs needed out and then on my way back in I picked up the mail and had to sit down to write out a few bills, sort the rest of the mail, and do some shredding. Soon I found myself sorting and folding laundry.  After the dinner dishes were done I ended up doing some much needed ironing.  By 9 pm my favorite show was on and by ten that evening I wondered where the day went. Wow.

            Do you ever find yourself in situations like this? Perhaps you find yourself in other obligatory meetings, running too many errands, constantly over-scheduled and at the beck-and-call of family members and well-meaning acquaintances. I get it.  But I’ve got to tell you something I’ve learned (unfortunately) from experience: It is possible to lose yourself in obligations and relationships to people who 1: don’t get you and, 2: don’t care.  And once lost, it can take years to find yourself again and regain your voice.

            There is no perfect time to write. You either write in the midst of your life as it is happening, because it is happening or in spite of it happening around you, or you don’t write at all. You either make the time or you don’t.  It’s your call.

            But if you wait – it’s not going to happen and sometimes hard decisions need to be made. I urge you to seek out relationships with other writers – people who get you, people who encourage your writing. Maybe, if you find your life in a turmoil, with needy people surrounding you all clamoring for attention, you especially then, need to carve out some time just for yourself to write. You do this for your sanity.

We Need Each Other

MUSE

June column for The Greater Canton Writers’ Guild Newsletter

We need each other. The act of writing is a solitary endeavor and in that process we have a tendency to cut ourselves off from the world in order to pursue that which drives us. Do we have support networks at home? Some of us may but if I may hazard a guess, I would say that they are tentative at best if your spouse or significant other is not a writer or another creative. No one understands a writer like another writer. To others around us we may seem a little “off” marching to our own drummer..  But that’s okay, for we’re all weird in our own way here at the Guild.  Really.  This is your support network. Right here.

No matter our different personalities, backgrounds, genres or whether we’re writing novels, short stories or poetry, we all have one thing in common: the written word. And that unifies us.  There’s a sense of kindred spirits when we all come together and many, many times after our meetings, I come home energized and on a creative high simply by being with other writers and sharing ideas. You understand that. Most people would have no clue about creative highs. Writers’ think differently and that sets us apart from the rest of the people in our lives.  Because of that, being different in our own spheres, we do need each other for support.   Many, months ago I was told that the Guild didn't meet often enough.   Critique night meetings are a definite plus.  There’s no program on those nights, instead it is face to face writing, and talking about your writing.  It’s a great support system.  This is where you will get feedback on your writing and where we help each other.  Hope to see you all there this month!

Happy writing.

Eureka!
I finally figured out why I detest that trite saying "I may not know anything about art but I know what I like."  A few weeks ago I was with my parents as they went to an art exhibit. And then my dad had to say that. I cringed. The person who uses that phrase proudly admits that they don't know anything about art; they are claiming ignorance.  And then in the very same breath, they are announcing to the world that in their ignorance, they like what they're seeing.  Please...never, ever make a value judgement on something while at the same time tell a person you don't know enough to make that very judgement.

I'm glad I got that cleared up in my head.

Writing is a lot like exercising - something I feel good about once it is done, but finding the time to do it is another story.  I’m a procrastinator and the more anxiety I feel toward my writing, the more I tend to put it off. Everything else comes first: the laundry, errands, cooking. And after all that I end up exhausted and the last thing I want to do is exercise or write. I’ve discovered something: there is no perfect time to write and if I wait until that time presents itself I’ll never get anything done. Sometimes we have to make choices about how we use our time. Do we watch television or chat on the phone or do we sit down and work on something that’s been problematic for us within our writing? I’m sure I can find all kinds of excuses to not write, but the need to write is still there, the characters gnawing away inside my head, all trying to get out at once. Yes, I’m fairly certain that I need to write more than I need to watch tv.  My mother always called that inner urge to create a “fire in the belly”.

Marion Roach Smith, author of The Memoir Project, has suggested that rather than write in bed (of which I am guilty), that the writer be “hospitable” to their writing, meaning that one makes an appointment, a set time to sit down every day at a table or computer and write free of distractions

Writing in Layers

Exuberance in Blues      

 in acrylics and fabric  18" x 24"  (not finished, I'm just getting started here.)

When I paint, I do the entire canvas first with an undercoated background, let it dry, then go back over it with an enlarged drawing, adding lines, painting the composition, then finally adding details.  That's me painting in layers.  I also have the same tendency when I write.

And that tendency is to be a "meat and potatoes" writer.  I can tell you a great skeleton story: this is what happens, why it happens and this is how it ends - but that's not much of a story, is it?  The real story comes out in the details and the finesse in which it is told.  The reader wants to really be there in the story with real characters, not paper cut outs.  And the writer also needs to give his characters LIFE, with all its foibles.  Set the scene - hear the crunch of the dry grasses as they are walked upon, the feel of the hot breeze upon one's face.  Uncertainty and fear.  How does that physically feel?

Usually after I beat a story to death (by continually gong back over it ad nauseum, filling in more details each time), I quickly lose interest in it.  This is truly the "work" part of writing.  Don't let anyone fool you; writing - the constant editing and revising - is hard work, just as perspective, drawing and graphing is the work part of art.  Creativity carried out to its end is a lesson in perseverance and commitment.

The Long Road

My father had been in the hospital during Thanksgiving with an infection and once released, was on home care.  I was trained by the nurses to change his IV bag, tubes, and to reset his digital pump daily.  Hence, the reason I've not been here for a while with managing two households.  I've been a little busy. But the six weeks are up today and we're all celebrating - my parents are especially since they've been practically housebound for that entire time.  But to be honest about it, I'm going to miss the drive from the southernmost end of Plain township to  Green.  every day.  I had a 20 minute drive - but I made it in 15 minutes on New Year's - no traffic! 

The 'back way' consisted of omitting Cleveland avenue in favor of Whipple North to Shuffel,  Where I ended up was Aultman Avenue, State Street, then Boston Avenue. I love Boston Avenue.  That's where the above picture was taken shortly before Christmas.  The flatness of the land around Boston is, for me, wonderfully reflective of the farmland where I once lived when I taught in Arkansas.  That's a different story. For someone whose has half her family coming from Ireland via West Virginia, it's a little ironic that I found solace in the flatness of the land, but there was a peacefulness about it.  I also found some introspection and inspiration. 

No doubt those seeds sown during this time will eventually find their way to the surface when the time is right.  Maybe they will appear in a painting or possibly a poem.  The possibilities are endless. 

Our First Christmas Tree

 This being the month of December, I should probably tell you a Christmas Story, albeit not a typical one.  This was written in 2007-ish when I first started at the writers' guild.  This is a story of a newlywed couple's first outing together to get their Christmas tree, complete with disastrous results.    In retrospect, I really should have taken a picture of every Christmas tree we've had since.  Some have filled half the living room

.  Think Clark Griswold's over-sized tree.  The tree in this picture is undersized and tame in relation to previous years.  I have to keep telling him "Less is More".  He never believes me.

                                Our First Christmas Tree

                                                                        1989

My husband, Mark, and I were still newlyweds when I became pregnant with our first child, and by December of that year I was four months pregnant and very noticeable.  One cold and wintry day a week before Christmas we traveled an hour away to a tree farm to buy our first Christmas tree.  I was so excited since this was going to be my first real tree and I was anticipating the traditions we would start as a family.  Because it was so late in the season there were many trees missing from the tree farm and a snow storm the previous day covered all the ruts and stumps that were in the field.  My mother-in-law, bless her heart, lent me the maternity coat she had worn with all her spring babies and I could hardly refuse her generous offer.  This coat was from the 1950’s, hung down to my ankles, and was a color that would soon come to be known as “harvest gold” on all 1970’s era appliances.  Together with the multi-colored scarf Mark had lovingly wound around my face, neck and head that day, I felt like an immigrant.

            As soon as we arrived at the tree farm I saw the perfect tree right in front of our parked car.

             “Right there, Mark, it’s gorgeous!” I excitedly shouted, “Get it!”.  He turned and gave me a look that I could only interpret as meaning “Are you kidding me?  We only just arrived.”   That would have been way too easy.  Mark wanted to search; he enjoyed the hunt, and walked joyfully through the rows, up the hills, and around the gullies with his tree saw, a rope, and a grin on his face.  He was reliving his childhood.  That left me to follow him, struggling with a large stomach, my head and face wrapped like a mummy, and a coat that hung down to my ankles in the freezing wind.  Because the snow was blowing hard and strong that day, every four or five steps saw me up to my knees in every root hole and gully on that property.

            I thanked God when Mark finally found his perfect tree. At that point I didn’t care what it looked like and I wasn’t going to argue about it.  I was pregnant, cranky, and tired from meandering all afternoon around that tree farm.  What I had anticipated as an idyllic afternoon turned into an out-of-body experience; I desperately wished I wasn’t there.

            The tree was cut and strapped to the top of the car and we left for the hour drive on the freeway not knowing that we had to cover the tree to protect it.    By the time we arrived home, our once green tree had turned dirty gray.   It was covered with road salt.

            “What happened?” I cried as I looked at the tree.  There was no way I was going to let Mark put that filthy gray tree in our apartment.  He had better do something and he’d better do it fast.  It was freezing outside.  I looked at my husband for a solution.  He felt the pressure.

             “I’m thinking” Mark said as he surveyed his prize.   He walked around the tree, let out a big sigh, then sent me into the apartment to thaw while he hosed the tree down in twenty-three degree weather.  How else was he going to clean it?  Unsurprisingly, the tree completely froze.  It stood there in shock, covered head to trunk with ice crystals, glittering in the last of the day’s light and softly tinkling like wind chimes in the biting wind.   The tree was glorious in the fading light. It was a shame we had to bring it in to the warmth after that. There was nothing to do but bring it in the kitchen, put papers under it, and leave it to melt.  And it did.  The tree snapped, crackled, and dripped all night long.

            As I sat on the couch listening to our first Christmas tree melting, I vowed never to cut another living tree.  I shook my head.  “I’m going  to survive this” I  silently told myself.  “Next year will be different”.   And indeed, it was.