7 posts tagged “writing”
I am now close to 20K words on the childhood memoir I have been plugging away at for the last six months or so. I want to keep going, to finish, but I am struggling with why I want to do this. What is the backbone of the narrative? It's not really about me, it's about growing up ("coming of age" if you must) at a specific place and time, surrounded by eccentric characters and a schizophrenic mother. If it's about anything, it's about the experience of living with mental illness. For me, this is just a somewhat disturbing, but basically mundane reality. For potential readers it may bring some understanding about mental illness. I believe that our culture ostracizes the mentally ill to a detrimental degree. People often see psychotic behavior as the fault of the mentally ill person, and not merely a symptom that can and should be treated.
So, would putting my mom out there as the human face of mental illness help to generate understanding? Perhaps it should morph into one of those "semi-autobiographical" works of fiction to depersonalize it a bit and give myself more room to play with the story. On the other hand it may have more power as a recounting of actual events. I'm not sure. Right now, I am trying to put it all down on paper... then I will begin to mold it into its final form. I just hope it does not turn out to be an exercise in self-indulgence. Everyone has stories... is mine really worth elevating to literature? I guess we'll find out.
I love this:
http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.wordpress.com/
...because it's true. I am a white person. About 80% of these accurately represent my likes. Among the most relevant to me:
- Expensive sandwiches
- Co-op shopping
- Writing workshops
- Toyota Prius
- Natural Medicine
- Apologies
- Irony
- Arts degrees
- Public Radio
- Sushi
- Indie Music
- Apple products
- Netflix
- Not having a TV
Speaking of Stuff White People Like, I had a writing seminar with Rick Moody today. It was the most useful writing workshop-type-thing I have ever experienced. As you may know, Rick Moody is opposed to writing workshop and thinks that focusing on things like story structure can lead to mediocre outcomes. Instead of traditional "workshopping" we worked on essential components and got into the mechanics of the prose, without worrying about meaning or narrative. It was refreshing and actually somewhat useful. He's also a super nice, funny guy.
Last weekend I had one of the best birthdays I've had since the bowling party of '96. Paul's recommendation of La Spiga was right on - a very nice environment without being overly fancy, and the food was good but not insanely expensive. Everyone expected showed up, and for the most part on time, which is some kind of minor miracle. People talked, laughed, ate, and no one seemed to be uncomfortable despite the somewhat broad range of guests including a boss, an ex-husband, an aunt, and a little boy. I ate pork and drank alcohol (first and only cocktail of the year). It was awesome. Getting home by 11:30 was even more awesome. Last year I got home at 9AM Thanksgiving day after my birthday celebrations.
I enticed my favorite travel-buddy to join me in my bright blue Chevy rental pickup and "do" some Oregon. I hadn't been to Powell's Books in Portland in three years, which meant I had to spend $126 there. It was very satisfying. We headed out to Astoria, only stopping for burgers at Ichabod's Restaurant (named for "Ichabod Indian" whoever that might be) in Scappoose. Astoria is about the same, except a bit more cutesy in the retail core, which I don't consider an improvement. We climbed the famous(??) column and noted that the story of the original settlers that wraps around the outside of the column from the top down would require either climbing gear or a helicopter to read. It was a clear day (except for a distressing smog cloud over the Columbia) and we saw for miles. On the way back we stopped at Cape Disappointment and Waikiki Beach (uh, yep).
This week at work has been about deflecting stress around Norway. Our client is in Oslo, and our task was to get him Norwegian versions of four retail demos before Saturday morning. I just got to work at 7:30AM to hand a hard drive to someone to take to someone else who is flying to Norway today. It was a bit tense when I left last night, but it's done now... and Christmas break begins. Kind of. Having a normal amount of work to deal with feels like no work at all.
Last night I used a coupon my friend gave me for a free introductory Rolfing session. I've wanted to try this for years as I have a lot of "alignment issues" from slouching, working at a computer, spraining ankles regularly, and having breasts. I had a notion of what I was in for, but I didn't realize what an intimate process it would be. The Rolf-er is a low-key, jovial guy named Jim with a shaved head, a soul-patch, and the most buffed out upper body I've ever been in the same room with. His limbs are like trees. I'll admit the idea of being manipulated by someone who could probably break my arm with one hand was a bit daunting. And then he told me that we would be starting each session with me standing in my underwear while he assesses me. Whoa nelly. I don't mind people seeing me in my underwear, but I have never had to stand there while someone actively assessed my entire body - front, both sides, and back - before. He even got down on the floor to look at my feet. Then I had to walk back and forth for him. Oy. I managed to suppress my self consciousness. Next time I'll be wearing newer underwear.
For a normal massage I would be naked underneath a sheet which is carefully arranged to allow for some modesty as someone jams their elbows into my derriere. In this case, I was sprawled out in my underwear with no cover at all, while he got his thumbs, elbows, and knuckles into areas of my body I didn't know I had. He pulled and pushed and prodded all around my pelvis and shoulders. He found a few really "interesting" spots that made me see colors and feel like I was going to pass out. Yes, it was painful and intense, but somehow I liked it. One of the last things he did was have me sit up on the table while he kneeled on the table behind me and pushed down from my shoulders all the way to my tailbone. The final thing was for me to lie back with my knees bent while he put his hand under my sacrum and pulled. Thas didn't hurt at all, but letting a stranger cup my ass is a new thing for for me. Well, relatively new. I'll be going back for more.
I'm considering starting an evening program at the UW in January. It's a certificate program for Editing. This seems like a very practical skill to have for a writer, and possibly a means to support myself when I can't stand working for The Man any longer. I find I'm antsy not being in school.
On Saturday I did an afternoon writing workshop at the Hugo House. For four hours I had the pleasure of sitting next to Eleanore. Eleanore is 86 years old and the oldest of seven siblings. She went to a 3 room schoolhouse - I'm not sure where, but it may have been around Seattle because she remembers a time before the housecats took over and there were thousands of robins here. Now there are very few. Eleanore's Italian mother ran away from home at the age of seven. Eleanore is writing a memoir called "Mama's Fireflies" about her childhood.
Her hair is not yet fully grey and she wears it pulled into a ponytail. She says she has a hard time feeling like she's 86. She openly admits to a serious thrift store addiction, and she has a problem preparing meals for less than eight people. She is well-read in the classics, but she finds contemporary fiction too "navel-gazing" and not universal enough. She did, however, just finish Swimming to Cambodia and thinks Spaulding Gray has a good grasp on the universal.
I just wanted to write her down before I forget.
I'm trying to write this essay about Treasure Island and it feels like extracting one word at a time from my brain with a very long, pointy pair of tweezers.
Long John Silver was not a simple character. He was a "bad guy" but he wasn't all bad. He was loyal and charming and clever, and yet shifty and duplicitous. Is duplicitous a word?
OK. Can I go to bed now?
I really feel that I have nothing more to say about Long John Silver or the petulant Jim Hawkins. It was a gripping read, but my writing parts are just tired and out of practice at the short, sweet college essay. This if the final class for my BA and I should be inspired to power through, but somehow it's not so. I want to do anything but homework right now.
Somehow I have gotten myself into a Friday afternoon meeting at Microsoft, and I have to drive over on my own, which I always try to avoid. Eastside driving is one of my least favorite things, and I still don't quite trust my car. Plus, my boss will already be over there and could do it alone, but when I suggested it he said he would feel empty without me. That's the closest he would come to issuing an order. So I'll drive over.
And besides, I should be there. This is a new project based on a referral from one of my clients. I suggested an in-person meeting. It's my own fault.
Trader Joe's dark chocolate covered pretzels may well be my downfall.
Yesterday I went to a one-day class at the Richard Hugo House. This is the first of three writing classes I'm taking this quarter to kill two proverbial birds with one proverbial stone...
First proverbial bird: Quitting drinking has left me in a social vacuum of sorts. Rather than spending all of my time at home potty training my bird I thought it would be wise to work in some alternate forms of human interaction. So... writing classes. It beats AA meetings by a mile, at any price.
Second proverbial bird: To kickstart actual writing projects I've been wanting to get going for years. We'll see.
One thing I've noticed about non-credit writing courses, writing groups, etc., is that they seem to be full of middle-aged white women. Here's the demographic breakdown of yesterday's class:
White women 40-60: 10
White women 25-40: 4
White men: 2
With the exception of one poet and one short fiction writer, they all have memoirs ("mem-wa" as our instructor pronounced it). I didn't get the opportunity to read any of their writing, so I have no idea if it's any good, but I have begun to wonder, is this the middle-class white woman's mid-life crisis? After their husband leaves them for the younger woman, is it some sort of cultural compulsion that makes them all want to be published? Are they clinging to life and youth by writing about it? And, good lord, am I one of them?
OK, 35 is a bit early to be in a mid-life crisis. Still, I wonder if this urge to write is some sort of act of desperation in the face of mortality.
Oh, well. I'm going to stop analyzing and get on with it.
Lately I have started reading Fresh Air Fiend, a collection of essays by travel writer Paul Theroux...
Being a fan of travel writing, and mildly enamored with Paul Theroux's son Louis, I decided to finally pick up one of his books. The introduction begins with Theroux's musings on the experience of alienation through travel - of being a stranger in a strange land, so to speak.
There's a loneliness that compels people out of their familiar space and into foreign territory, but it is not a desire to seek out a place to "fit" but rather to become ever more "the stranger". This voluntary alienation is a means of becoming an observer of life, and in Theroux's case the natural course took him from observer to writer.
Henry James once told a friend that his inspiration and purpose for writing was "the essential loneliness of my life." James was a socialite, but he was an essentially lonely person, which allowed him the objectivity to process life into fiction. In order to create real characters a writer learns to keep a certain distance from real people. This may not apply to all writers, but I think objectivity is challenging without a certain distance.
Ever since I was a kid my favorite thing about traveling has been hotel rooms. There's something indescribably wonderful about walking into that vacant, sterile, private space. Maybe it has something to do with growing up in a messy house with very little privacy. Maybe it's the tiny soaps.
I love to be "the stranger" even in my own neighborhood - to be able to sit in a cafe and watch life like a movie. I like being anonymous, and I like being alone. Does this mean I'm destined to write? I don't know, and I don't believe in destiny. What I do believe is that there is no reason to try to fill up my life with people. I like people, but I'm ok on my own.
