It’s Veteran’s Day.
To regular readers of this blog, I suggest that you might skip the last post. (It was done just past midnight this morning, yes, about Robsten, I couldn’t resist.)
Go instead to the post immediately before about Fort Hood and the internal distance from the military felt especially in those formed by the 60s/early 70’s: https://manicddaily.wordpress.com/2009/11/10/somehow-less-f…fter-fort-hood/
Thanks for reading.
Listening to Obama at Ford Hood, I am struck by his praise for all those soldiers who willingly put themselves in harm’s way. Of course, I’ve heard it before, but the tragedy and the sheer length of our continuing conflicts, put it in a different light.
I am a child of the 60s (even more than Obama. He was simply born in the 60’s; I could walk and talk throughout that whole decade.) I was a teen of the 70’s. I remember Kent State well. I was actually present when Nixon’s helicopter took off from the South Lawn. My brother had a lottery number and, though my father was a veteran of two wars, Sweden was not an absolutely unthinkable option.
As a result of these factors, and despite spending a significant and very pleasant part of my childhood recreational life at officer’s club pools, a discomfort with the military runs deep in me.
I’ll add, in my personal defense, (i) that I’ve frequently been impressed by individual soldiers; (ii) that I deeply loved the stiff attention of checkpoint guards at air force bases, and the guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I also feel great sympathy for the economic and human strain felt by military families.
But there’s always been this 60’s thing going on in the back of my head. Distance. Discomfort. The praise of politicians for our men and women in uniform sounded artificial to me. I’ve felt, or imagined, the distance in many of those politicians too, both conservative and liberal ones.
Reading and thinking about the Fort Hood victims has brought me up short.
For one thing, it’s made me remember a couple of busloads of GIs we ran into in Chinatown (NYC) a few months after 9/11. It was late on a Friday night, and a great line of very young men and women in combat fatigues, with a large automatic weapon slung on each back, trooped down the stairs of each bus, and continued on down the stairwell of the Canal Street subway stop.
We had been about to say good night to a ninth grade friend of my daughter’s who had planned to take the train at that same station. But, hey, I’m a New Yorker. So I stopped one of the soldiers, and asked why they were there.
“We’re here to keep you safe,” she said, without missing a beat.
We walked our young friend to the next station on that line. Not exactly because I doubted the soldiers, but because I didn’t feel great about putting our young friend in a train car in which every other passenger carried an M-16. But what I worry that I truly wanted was to put more distance between him and them, between me and them.
I’m still not convinced of the helpfulness of a bunch of M-16s on a subway car. But tonight I feel a much more present and intense gratitude to those soldiers. I doubt if many were New Yorkers; the subway system alone must have felt alien to them, and, after both 9/11 and the anthrax scare, threatening.
But there they were, trooping earnestly down the stairs. Some, I’m sure, trooped on to Afghanistan, Iraq. Some may still be there; or some remnant of them may be.
Putting aside questions of policy—it makes me sorely regret my distance, and theirs.
How do you inure yourself to criticism? How do you view it as instructive rather than destructive? (Note that when I say “you”, I mean me. This is a task I find truly difficult.)
When I first considered this question, I thought of a cockroach—something with not just a thick skin, but a hard carapace. A creature that is at the height of evolutionary sustainability. A survivor.
But I can’t quite stomach becoming more cockroach-like, and I don’t think I can advise it for you either. Because, aside from its general lack of appeal, a cockroach scurries away from any bright light, which is exactly what a lot of criticism feels like–a too-bright light shone right into your eyes, or on your weak spots (that flap of flab at the back of a thigh. Or worse, if you’re a writer: those awkward transitions, that plot that just isn’t credible, that character, based on you, who’s simpering and inane.
The fear of criticism, or the experience of criticism, can be an old-style Berlin Wall to a struggling writer. Not only is it an obstacle between your desire to work and your ability to work; it is also a wall between the two halves of yourself—the half that really does want to learn and grow and improve, and the half which wants anything you do, no matter how flawed, to be called brilliant, at least, good enough.
Because I’m so bad at this, I can only give a few random clues as to how to get better:
1. Don’t show work too early. It can be both humiliating and paralyzing to have your reader point out problems that you would have caught yourself if you’d only waited a few weeks beyond the glow of completion.
2. Take care to whom you show things. It’s helpful if you truly believe that your reader respects you and your abilities, no matter what they say about the particular piece.
3. Try to focus on what you can learn from a specific critique. Keep in mind that even if some criticism may not be fully justified, it may still point out something that doesn’t fully work.
4. After due consideration, if you feel your work is good, hold your ground. Consider your reader’s perspective and taste. Is it the same as yours? Is it infallible?
5. Distance yourself. Those words on the page are not you. What you wrote yesterday is not you today. There are countless ways to skin a cat; it takes all types to make a world. Which means—yes, you can revise it (no matter how impossible that feels).
6. When all the above has been tried, and you really just can’t bear any more, scurry into a dark crevice. But don’t just wait till it’s safe to come out again. Work from there. Keep working even from there.
For more on Writer’s Block, check other posts in this category. And, as always, check out 1 Mississippi by Karin Gustafson, on Amazon or at link on ManicDDaily home page.
I’ve been thinking today about writer’s block in the context of both Virginia Woolf and James Joyce. This is, in part, due to the stress inherent in a bifurcated modern life (that is, a life of both struggling writer and struggling person), and, in part, to one daughter telling me about a paper on Dubliners and another, a course on Woolf.
While, to my mind, the work of each of Woolf and Joyce is incomparably great, both seemed to have difficulties with blocks of a sort–Woolf sinking into terrible depressions, Joyce into (some would say) incomprehensibility. But I don’t want to write about their blocks today; what I’ve been thinking of were their specific devices for freeing blocks, devices for which they are respectively emblematic.
In Woolf’s case, I refer to the idea of having a room of one’s own; that is, space, time, and the confidence to work from. She wrote about the particular need of women writers for these resources, and, while I believe women still have a harder time than men (women having to fight with themselves, as well as the outside world), getting a “room of one’s own” is hard for any struggling writer.
When I think of a writing tool important to Joyce, I think of self-imposed exile; Stephen Dedelus, leaving home, family, Ireland. Exile represents freedom–from the bosom of the status quo, from one’s accepted identity, from responsibility to, and for, the feelings and well-being of loved ones, freedom even from the background noise and clutter of loved ones.
Exile also represents action, the conscious making of a commitment to one’s work.
I am probably not the best advisor on these points, as I (i) have rarely had a room of my own in my adult life; and (ii) can’t even bear imagining leaving my family. I do think it is important to keep some form of these tools in mind, however, if you are a struggling writer or artist.
First, re Woolf: A physical space of your own may not be possible,especially if you live in New York City, or some other high rent district. Your private “room”, as it were, may need to be on your laptop, in a notebook, in the simple habit of writing. Strangely, this interior space may best be initially framed in public. It may be easier to block out the noises and antics of strangers than of loved ones (for example, music in a café may bother you considerably less than the TV in your living room.)
Don’t be picky. Try making a room out of any quiet moment–a relatively uncrowded subway car, a bench in a museum, a wait for an appointment.
Carry your room with you. Get a notebook of a size and shape that you like, buy a large number of good pens, and keep them in an easy-to-access spot—your purse or coat pocket rather than backpack.
Once you have your room (your writing habit), go into it frequently, like a child for whom you’ve just built a fort or teepee. Take delight in how easily you can enter, then exit, then enter again. Enjoy the view, looking both in and out. Don’t bother to wipe your feet.
“Exile” comes in the form of realism. Know when you are simply not going to be able to work at home, and get your computer or notebook and drag them and yourself somewhere else. Treat yourself to a cab if your computer is heavy, or, better yet, treat yourself to a lighter computer. If you just can’t stand to leave home, pay family members to go to a sports bar. (Hey! It’s cheaper than moving to Paris.) Don’t be afraid to be a little openly irritable, if, inside, you are extremely frustrated.
The point is that it’s possible to get micro-versions of Woolf’s room and Joyce’s exile. And frankly, a micro-version may be all you are truly able to stomach.
Finally–if your “room” or your “exile” is on your laptop, then keep it truly private, truly remote–i.e. write when you are writing, don’t go online. (Other than to ManicDDaily!)
I had a real Robert Pattinson-Kristen Stewart day today. This is not to say that I:
1. Googled their names;
2. Checked any other sources of current “news” about them;
3. Looked at any Twilight or New Moon trailers;
4. Caught sight of any super handsome male or hot chick in my apartment.
Nope. What I did do was spend most of an incredibly beautiful day indoors. In my case, this had nothing to do with the adulation of millions of fans, or the doggedness of hundreds of paparazzi, but simply the press of work that needed to be done on a computer. I told myself repeatedly I should do my work while my energy and resolve were strong. Nonetheless, as the sun moved across the sky (outside my window), I grew grouchier and grouchier, more and more depressed.
Finding lovely patterns of light on my floor did not make me feel better; even sitting in those spots of light did not do the trick.
I finally gave up/gave in/succumbed, stepped out into a brilliant day. Light bathed the New York Harbor, the horizon literally glowed. No one, running through a fountain, screamed for me to stop. I kept my shirt on. My shoes are not brown.
Despite my lack of brown shoes and six-pack, despite my lack of long curly dark hair, for that matter, I thought of Rob and Kristen. What I thought of was all those days when they weren’t filming New Moon and Eclipse and felt stuck in their respective luxury hotel suites (or same luxury hotel suite. Whatever.) Not able to go out into the sunlight—not because of the Volturi, but the vulturi–all those nonstop camera clicks.
It made me sympathetic with Kristen’s recent explosion, even of all the f-words, and Rob’s occasional surliness. Yes, they’re both making tons of dough; but the value of a quiet walk on a public riverbank on a beautiful sunny day is pretty hard to calculate, and must be very hard to give up.
One of the side effects of a tragedy like the shooting at Fort Hood is its overshadowing of so many other concerns. The event is just so sad that it makes much else seem, at least, temporarily, insignificant. (I say, temporarily, because, attention spans are short in our media-drenched culture.)
Such overshadowing can be especially problematic for a writer or artist suffering from writer/artist’s block. One feels idiotic to even mention such an issue, but there it is–one more reason why one’s work feels stupid, not worth the trouble. This is especially true if you are a writer or artist whose work doesn’t deal with these kinds of violent tragic impulses, this extent of sudden loss.
This reaction sounds terribly narcissistic. But usually the struggling writer/artist feels the national tragedy deeply. He/she may want to respond in some helpful, articulate, way, but can only come up with platitudes. Writing well about politics and despair may simply not be one’s cup of tea. However, in the midst of such events, writing about anything else may feel idiotic.
Don’t be driven into inaction because you feel insignificant. Go on. You are who you are. You do the work you do.
This is not to say that you shouldn’t stretch yourself. You absolutely should. (Especially if you’re someone prone to blocks or avoidance.) But don’t give up on something because you feel that it seems silly, inconsequential.
Think about (i) Dutch interior paintings (Vermeer); and (ii) still lives (Cezanne, Braque, Picasso).
Think about (i) Charlotte’s Web, (just about the most brilliant children’s book every written – about a pig, spider, and barn); (ii) Ulysses (a day, mainly, in the life of humdrum Leopold Bloom, (iii) To the Lighthouse (which has, to my mind, one of the most heartbreaking descriptions of the changes in England wrought by World War I, told mainly by the wind rushing through an abandoned house, (iv) The Importance of Being Earnest, (v) A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream; (vi) almost any poem by Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, lots of Chinese poets, (vii) too many others to name.
Don’t judge yourself so much. If you are someone that writes about Columbine, or 9/11, or Fort Hood, that’s wonderful–our world needs help understanding these horrible events. But don’t worry if you do not directly work on these things; everything you are and know and think about is in the core, or texture, or background of what you do. So just do it; it will do.
PS – check out my many other posts re writer’s block, and writing, and writing exercises, by checking those categories. Also, check out 1 Mississippi by Karin Gustafson at Amazon, or at link from home page.
Courbet "Baigneuses" (detail - only one baigneuse)
The combination of day job, blog, and endless post-season baseball games, have made it difficult to do decent yoga and/or get to the gym of late. (Hard to blog in downward dog.) This, plus some brownies that I made for a visiting nephew, have left me feeling very chubby this Friday morning. To compensate for those feelings, I’m posting “Courbet”, an homage to the wonderful sensitivity of Gustave Courbet (1819-1877) to the womanly physique.
Courbet
All I can say is that
it’s a good thing we have
museums hanging Courbets,
Rubens,
Rembrandts,
the occasional Italian,
with their depictions of swelling bellies,
dimples gathered around spines, flesh rippling
like Aphrodite’s birth foam,
the creep of pubic hair juxtaposed by coy hands
whose curved digits
pudge, slightly sunken cheeks (above, below),
spidery blood vessels
rooting beneath the patina.
All I can say, as
I catch my face in the
glass, glance down at
my folio of torso,
is that it’s a good thing.
All rights reserved. Karin Gustafson.
The effect of context. As some ManicDDaily readers may recall, I was lucky enough to be given a ticket to Game 1 of the World Series last week. As grateful as I was, the combination of Cliff Lee (the Phillie’s amazing pitcher), a wet, cold night, and the materialism and misogyny of a small set of other Yankees’ fans, made the evening a bit of a bummer.
What amazed me this morning was how much better that Game 1 experience felt in light of the Yankees’ overall Series’ triumph. It was like the Yankees had once more pulled a difficult game out of the hat, only this time it was a game that they had actually lost, and the “pulling” was all done retrospectively. Now, Game 1 feels simply like one more step on the Yankees’ journey towards victory—a lesson of, and for, New York–a lesson in resilience.
Since thinking all these grandiose thoughts about the Yankees, the horrible events at Fort Hood, Texas have taken place. Sport seems trivial compared to loss of life. Nearly everything seems trivial when compared to terrible events of this kind, which, unfortunately, are all too common in today’s world.
Obama spoke about the tragedy in the context of a planned speech at a conference concerning Native Americans. I had not seen Obama’s remarks earlier in the day, so looked for them this evening online. What was (sort of) amazing to me is that on youtube, at least, there was already a fair amount of negative commentary about Obama’s sober words, mainly because, since they were given in the midst of a planned speech, they followed introductory thanks to conference organizers and attendees, including a special acknowledgement (“shout-out”) to one Congressional medal of honor winner. The negative internet commentary viewed this introductory “shout-out” to the medal of honor winner (who I presume was at one time a soldier) as disrespectful to the current soldiers who were today’s victims.
I admit that the term “shout-out” was not a good choice. (I’m guessing that part had been planned, like my Yankees’ bit, before the Fort Hood events transpired, and that Obama simply wanted not to forget to acknowledge the medal of honor winner.) However, Obama’s actual remarks, which immediately followed his introductory thanks, were grave and prayerful. Which again brings up the issue of context. Viewers expect that Obama is addressing everything he says to the world of TV. But in this case, the guy is also speaking to a live audience. People actually sitting in front of him, who have come with a detailed and specific agenda. The fact that Obama politely acknowledged and thanked these people, before turning to the events at Fort Hood, seems to be a product of a methodical and polite nature, and not reflective of any lack of concern or gravity. Certainly, this type of polite remark seems trivial in the face of the terrible events of earlier in the day; just as tomorrow’s parade for the Yankees will seem ridiculous in the context of such horrible events. It is just this shifting context of the horrible and wonderful, tragic and trivial, extraordinary and commonplace, polite and brutal, that makes up our lives. Nothing just stops.
I’m guessing that we will hear more about Obama’s speech. In the meantime, my thoughts and prayers go out to the victims of this terrible event, and their grieving families.
At Bat - Elephant Inspired by Hideki Matsui
Yeah!
All rights reserved, Karin Gustafson.
If you like elephants, check out 1 Mississippi by Karin Gustafson at Amazon, or link from ManicDDaily homepage.
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