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Blocking Writer’s Block – Part IX – An Exile of One’s Own

November 8, 2009

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!)

Categories: Uncategorized, writer's block
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Blocking Writer’s Block – Part VIII (at least) – Ignore Insignificance

November 7, 2009

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.

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For the Inspirationally Challenged – Writing Exercise for Harried Poets

October 22, 2009

For those, like me, who want to write but have limited time and mental space, inspiration can be difficult to come by. 

In large part, this is a “limited mental space” problem.  Your “free” moments may be free of immediate obligation, but your brain may still be tangled in worry, chores, regret, lonliness. 

The problem is that you don’t want to just whine.  Whining in print may offer some relief to the writer, but it’s  a  lot like the relief that vomiting offers to a person who is sick to their stomach.  It’s not all that great for the person doing it;  it’s even less appealing to their audience.

 So how can you make good use of your writing time when inspiration is otherwise engaged? 

 Here’s a trick:  try something that’s both completely arbitrary, and yet carefully defined.  In other words, a writing exercise!  The arbitrariness of the exercise can nudge you out of your over-trod groove, while the structure turns into something like a game, reducing both decisions and ego-involvement.  (It’s only an exercise!)

 In July and August, I wrote about exercises aimed primarily at prose writers.  This one is for the inspirationally-challenged poet.

 Before reading on, please set side aside snobbery.   The exercise below is a bit stupid, but it is offered as a springboard.  It relies on the fact that many poems involve tropes (a wonderful word I hardly ever get to use), that is, metaphors.  The exercise sets up a structure which is intended to turn an extended metaphor into something resembling a poem.  And it’s intended to make you think about verbs. 

 The specifics:

 First, choose an occupation, preferably one that involves some physical craft.  (Carpenter, fisherman, cook, for example, not stock analyst.)  Now, list all of the verbs that are particularly associated with that chosen occupation.  (Usually, “crafty” occupations have strong verbs.  Cook, for example: “braise, broil, boil, peel, sauté, fry, deep-fry, mince, cube, slice, skewer, stab.”)    List at least ten of these verbs.  This list is called Column B.

 Second, make a list of nouns which will be called Column A.   These nouns should be fairly randomly chosen and NOT specifically associated with your Column B verbs.  (For example, if you’ve chosen “cook” as your occupation, you can choose “mother” as a random noun, but not “chef.”) 

 While it’s nice to choose some specific nouns – such as “lilac” rather than “flower”–choose at least a couple that are very flexible  (examples:  “mother,” “father”,  “ocean”.)   You should list at least ten.

 NOW,  imagine you are at a Chinese restaurant ordering a luncheon special in which you are allowed to mix and match items from Column A (egg rolls or dumplings) with items from Column B ( bean curd homestyle or General Tso’s chicken.) 

 And NOW,  write a poem of at least five lines, using a noun from Column A and a verb from Column B in every line.   (Example:  “the ocean braised the shore.”)  (Sorry!) 

 Clarifications:  (i) Verbs from Column B can take any tense;  (ii) you do NOT need to use every word listed in Column A and Column B, just one from each Column in every line;    (iii)  line length is up to you (meaning you can use some long lines with lots of extra  uncolumned words.)

Finally, remember the two most important rules of any writing exercise:

 1.  Follow the rules.   

2.  Cheat.  (Remember that you’re trying to write a poem, not an exercise.)  

And, NOW, get going. 

Tomorrow, I’ll post some samples of my own.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized, writer's block, writing exercises
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Friday – Weekend Projects (The Creative Ones You Put Off) – Don’t Put Them Off

October 16, 2009

Friday!  Finally.  The boy not in the balloon is safe and Where The Wild Things Are is primarily in movie theaters.

For those of you who like to do creative projects (write, paint, write some more), and have limited freedom and focus, now is the time to get going.  (School has started, Halloween is not yet here, Thanksgiving/Christmas are still genuinely still far away.)

My primary immediate advice: take the time.   Make an appointment with yourself, for yourself, time for your work.  Schedule a slot in what may otherwise seem an inpenetrable weekend—10-1, Saturday–your work time.  Don’t just pencil it in;  write it in indelible ink.  Then, don’t allow a conflict; don’t take on a chore; don’t slip into an accidental cancellation, don’t cut yourself short.  (It may be best not to tell others what that Saturday appointment is for.  You may also need to turn off your internet access.)

My secondary advice, before starting and before turning off your internet:  check out the series of posts I wrote in July and August about writer’s block.  Although these were specifically about “blocking writer’s block”, many of them can apply to other types of creative blocks as well, particularly those aspects related to taking yourself seriously.  (These posts can be found by clicking the “category” on the side called Writer’s Block: some of the ones categorized under Stress may also apply, especially to less writerly blocks.)

If you have writer’s block (or some other creative block), I can’t guarantee that these will help you.  But you may find something useful. Reading them may also give you that one more little justifiable delay (ha ha!), which (it is to be hoped) may serve as a springboard into a wellspring of creative flow.

Good luck!

(If none of that works, you can always go to Where the Wild Things Are, or check out another children’s animal book, 1 Mississippi, by Karin Gustafson, at the link to the side.)

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Niceness – Writing – “Oh Plunge Your Hands In Water”

August 19, 2009

I was thinking today about women from my generation–I don’t quite want to confess what generation that is, let’s just say that we are just old enough to actually remember when President Kennedy was shot–and the internal pressure many of us feel to be “nice.”

We are sometimes accused these days of being overly nice, or artificial or precious in our niceness, or just plain mamby-pamby.   This really is maddening.  Some of us are still too well-trained to get openly mad about these  unfair characterizations, but they are still upsetting.

This piece  deals with that issue indirectly.   It was actually a writing exercise, written with my writing buddy, in a ten or fifteen minute session based on the phrase “Plunge Your Hands in Water” from the poem “As I Walked Out One Evening,” By W.H. Auden.

(The Auden poem is simply wonderful.    Here’s a link to an online copy:  http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/as-i-walked-out-one-evening-3/.)

The piece has been slightly edited since the original exercise, but it really still is an exercise.   (Sorry.)

(Final point re my Blocking Writer’s Block series – a line from a poem can be a great starting point for a writing exercise.   While your exercise may be quite different from the poem, your work will may still get some depth from such an elevated jumping off point.)

“Plunge Your Hands in Water”   – W.H. Auden

At my elementary school cafeteria, the tiles were blue green grey and the trash cans were an amalgam of ketchup and fishstick skins and small red milk cartons usually half full.  The women were large and wore white stiff dresses like nurses.  They served the food in surgically cut portions on brown cafeteria trays, which were topped with mauve or yellow plates, the colors of everything an illustration of the word “faded.”  Their big rounded hair curved around their heads like the double breast that curved from their fronts, the hips from their sides.  It was good food–we all knew that–good meaning solid.  No one used the word nutrition much back then; what we knew was meat and starch, ketchup and pickle.

We sat at long tables, whose benches folded out;  the tables were cleaned with vinegar water and the whole placed smelled of the Golgotha Christ, his side or head or thirst, a reminder that we were all there, undeservedly, to be saved.

We were supposed to sit still but I dreamt that everyone ran from gorillas who chased us from spot to spot–through the lunch line, inbetween the line and the tables, then from the tables to the garbage cans.  They were big furry gorillas who ran on two legs, their forearms outstretched as they chased, while we ran, ran to do what we were supposed to do, and then sat where we were supposed to.

It was an old-fashioned school;  ice cream did not appear for some years.  When it did, all hell broke loose.  No one would eat anything else and Scott entertained us all with taking the chocolate coating from his ice cream bar and spreading ketchup and mustard on the vanilla ice cream, then re-anointing it with its chocolate sheathe.  The girls squealed in horror, the boys howled and scowled, as he took a big smiling bite, the ketchup/mustard smearing his lips with variegated orange like a fire-eater’s.   The girls pretended to bend over in nausea, and Scott looked like he felt incredibly cool for a time, though he was a troubled boy, a sad boy, a boy on whom I felt somehow that belts had been used, and who, in first grade, sometimes peed in the little classroom bathroom with the door open.   I felt it my duty to always smile at him, and he, in turn, sent me a letter covered in huge slanted writing I LOVE YOU.

I felt sadder than ever for Scott watching him eat that ice cream, thinking of his open-doored pee, and kept my head down, only looking up with the corners of my eyes, and even then trying to focus on the gorillas, the chase, and the fact that if I sat exactly where I was supposed to, they wouldn’t be able to get me, and maybe not anyone, no matter how they circled.

Categories: Uncategorized, writer's block, writing, writing exercises
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Person Blocks – “Pretending”

August 17, 2009

Thinking today of blocks other than writer’s block.  A person block is a big one;  the force that keep one from putting one’s true self into the world, that keeps one from being publicly one’s self.

When I say “being publicly” one’s self, I’m not referring to celebrity.  (Although, weirdly, the subject makes me wonder again about my fascination with Robert Pattinson.  If there is anyone who has a hard time being himself in public, it would seem to be him.  See e.g.  screaming girls and clicking paparazzi.)

But I wasn’t really thinking about Robert Pattinson.  I was thinking more about people like me, perhaps you too.  How hard it is for me (us) to take actions that might make us vulnerable to criticism.  How difficult it is to show openly the parts of ourselves which do not fit so well into a mold of other’s expectations.  (Or really, one’s expectations of other’s expectations.)

These kinds of pretenses are deeply ingrained, at least for me.  Even as a little kid—I was not an especially hip one—I felt the need to pretend I knew all kinds of rock bands that I’d never heard of.   For years afterward, a more complex camouflauge seemed to be called for.  I won’t go into the specifics.  I’m sure most of you know the types of things I mean.

What seems strange is that we actually live in a fairly tolerant society.  I compare my situation with my mother’s, for example.  A teacher, she happened to move shortly after I was born to a county where women teachers were only entitled to substitute’s pay (about 50% of the scale) during the full school year following the birth of a child.  It was a rule apparently motivated either by (a) a wish to keep mothers of infants at home; or (b) an assumption that mothers of infants would be at home, whether working full-time or not  (i.e. an assumption that women with young children were inherently unreliable.)

My mom, both reliable and unwilling to take a pay cut, spent the whole first year of my life pretending I didn’t exist.

My mother had a concrete reason for hiding a fairly big part of her life.  But for many people (me at least), the reason for the camouflauge boils down to the simple fear that if others really knew me better,  I would be deemed very very imperfect.  (Not just imperfect, downright faulty.)

Unfortunately, however, a failure to be openly one’s self can doom one to being less than one’s self.    (Even less perfect!  And much less happy.)

My ex- husband, an artist, gave me some good lessons in this area (though I am only beginning to follow them.)  He is a master of carrying out what sometimes seems to border on the silly.  (I admit, carrying out the silly is a whole lot easier in the art world than in the average professional arena.)

In an early performance piece, he played a violin with a loaf of Italian bread.  He does not play the violin.  His lack of expertise with the instrument wasn’t important, however, since the violin he used was broken.   Besides, the bread, though shellacked, wasn’t a great bow.

You can probably immediately intuit the piece’s potential silliness.  In fact, it was truly magical.

I am not extolling performance pieces.  Many are self-indulgent, and full full full of pretense.  (One reason my ex-husband’s violin playing was so powerful, I think, is that it was not a piece about himself, but about Paul Klee during the World War II.)

I’m not extolling confessional art either.  (Remember, you may someday wish to talk to your friends and family again.)

What I’m urging, I guess, is not to be afraid to risk some silliness.  The unabashed showing of ignorance.  (Sure, ignorance isn’t something to be proud of, but pretended knowledge is way worse.)  A lack of hipness.  To be, in short, more openly yourself.

Here’s a sonnet (unfortunately not terribly silly) about the long-term price of protective coloration:

Pretending

After years, pretending to be what you’re not
becomes a nature;  a second skin
coating you like a heavy make-up, caught
in your pores, nestled in your grooves, a twin
of features, caked, you need not reapply.
But habits, faces, fail; pretense wears thin,
until, worn through, you can hardly try
anymore.  Too wary, weary–the word
“cagey” describes so much of what you’ve been,
the opposite of free-flying bird,
while unheard, and hardly there within,
is all you’ve been saving, what you hid, why
you did this, what wasn’t supposed to die.

All rights reserved.

Categories: Perfectionism, poetry, writer's block
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Blocking Writer’s Block Part VII – Don’t Show Draft Manuscripts Too Soon

August 16, 2009

Rule No.  9  –  Be Brave but Know Yourself.  Don’t Show Drafts Too Soon.

In Part VI of this series, as Rule No. 8, I wrote, Be Brave, Read Aloud.  That post was about the liberation of reading your writing exercises aloud to your writing buddy, almost immediately following the writing of them.

This type of immediate reading is very different from handing out a written draft of your work, a manuscript.  In that case, I would not urge bravery, so much as self-knowledge.  (Or perhaps bravery and self-knowledge.)

Here’s the gist of it (for me at least):

I am incredibly insecure.  Especially about writing.

It’s frankly amazing to me that I can do this blog.  ( All I can think of is that it must have something to do with Robert Pattinson.  I mean, if you’re going to be silly, you might as well take it to the max!)   Even so, the night that I realized a guy in my office had discovered my blog name, I got physically ill.  I thought I would simply have to drop the whole thing.

But I kept on.  Because it really is useful for a writer to have a sense of audience (even a slightly noncomprehending one).

I also believe that, if you ever wish to publicize your work, it’s important to expand the limits of what you can tolerate–your comfort level, or perhaps more accurately, your discomfort level.    Keep in mind that even when your discomfort level gets quite high (that is, when you can tolerate a whole bunch of it),  you should not expect the discomfort to convert to ease.   You will still feel uncomfortable with many of the same things, the difference is that you will be able to breathe through more of them.

That said, be very careful of prematurely sharing work that is truly important to you.  The danger is not copyright infringement so much as ego infringement.  Ego incapacitation.

The showing of a manuscript can be paralyzing.  I usually cannot revisit the project when it is out with a reader.   If I do try to re-read it, it’s like looking at a mirror under an interrogator’s bright light.   Every single blotch shows up.  Stain, tear.  (How could I not realize that I had a long strand of toilet paper hanging out from under my skirt?)

Even after comments have been delivered, it can be difficult to pick up the work again.

A caveat to this rule.  The process does get considerably better with time. And, frankly, it is crucial to show manuscripts to test readers.  (Your goal is to produce a good manuscript after all, not to simply shield your ego.)

One way to reduce the possible unpleasantness of showing work  is simply to really know your manuscript.  A good technique here is to wait a few weeks without looking at the manuscript before giving it to anyone else.  Then, still before you give it out, read it again yourself.  (If you can stomach it, read it aloud to yourself.)

When you do give the manuscript out, try to separate yourself from it so that any criticisms will not seem to be shots at you personally.  In other words, go back to Rule No. 1 (in Part I of blocking writer’s block):  don’t care so much.

At the same time, don’t forget Rule No. 2 – care.   Care enough to want to make your manuscript better.  Accept that part of that process is finding out what just doesn’t work.

Most importantly, look for a sympathetic reader, ideally, someone who is also interested in writing.  People who are not writers will not realize (i) the amount of work you have done or (ii) how sensitive you are.

But be sensible as well as sensitive.  If the manuscript is about your childhood, maybe your mother, or even sibling, is not the best first reader.  If it’s about your marriage, maybe you should  start with someone other than your spouse.   If it’s about Robert Pattinson, probably best to avoid your boss.

If you are interested in counting and elephants and watercolors, as well as writing, check out 1 Mississippi at link above or on Amazon.  Thanks!

Writer’s Block – Part , Rule No. Don’t Show Your Drafts Too Soon.

In Part of this series, Rule No. , I said Be Brave, Read Aloud. I meant by that to read your writing exercises aloud to your writing buddy, almost immediately following your first writing of them. This type of exposure of work that is absolutely fresh (and clearly clearly a draft) is incredibly exhilarating. And the great thing about reading aloud is that you’re not actually showing anything to anyone—you read the words aloud, and then you can basically swallow them again. You can keep them private as long as you wish.

For me this type of immediate reading is very different than actually handing out a written draft. In the case of written drafts, I’m not sure that I would urge bravery, so much as self-knowledge. And, if you are someone who is prone to writer’s block, you may wish to exercise some caution.

Here’s the gist of it for me at least:

I am incredibly insecure. Especially about writing.

It’s frankly amazing to me that I can do this blog at all. All I can think of is that it must have something to do with Robert Pattinson. (I mean, if you’re going to be silly, you might as well take it to the max!) Even so, the night that I realized a guy in my office had discovered my blog name, I got physically ill. I thought I would simply have to drop the whole thing.

But I kept on. Because it really is useful for a writer to have a channel, some sense of audience (even perhaps a slightly noncomprehending one). Writing is lonely enough as it is; if it is not a tool of communication (simply because no one reads it), the activity becomes very hard to sustain.

Another reason I kept on is because I truly believe that it’s important to try at least to expand the limits of what one can tolerate–one’s comfort level, or perhaps more accurately, one’s discomfort level. This comfort or discomfort level is very different from the comfort zone. If you ever wish to put any of your work in public, it is important to expand the level of discomfort that you can tolerate. Keep in mind that eve when your discomfort level gets quite high (that is, when you can tolerate a whole bunch of it), you should not expect the discomfort to convert to ease (to any kind of zone). Many of the same things will still be uncomfortable to you, you should will be able to breathe through them.

That said, be careful of prematurely sharing work that is truly important to you. By work, I mean a manuscript which is still in process. Because I know a little about law, a lot of people ask me questions about manuscripts and copyright infringement. But the danger here is not copyright infringement so much as ego infringement. Ego incapacitation.

The showing of a manuscript can be paralyzing (at least to me). I usually cannot revisit the project when it is out with another reader. If I do look at it, it’s like looking at a mirror under a spot light. Every single blotch shows up. Stain, tear. (Oh, and by the way, did you realize you had a long strand of toilet paper hanging from under your skirt?)

Even after the reader is finished, even after comments have been delivered, it can sometimes be very very difficult for me to pick up the work again.

A caveat to this rule. The process of showing work does get considerably better with time. And in general it is actually crucial to show manuscripts to readers. The comments of others are absolutely invaluable. (Your goal is to produce a good manuscript after all, not to simply prop up your ego with fake pats on the back.)

But if you are prone to writer’s block, take care. Know your discomfort limit. Know your reader. Know your manuscript too.

One technique is to wait a few weeks without looking at the manuscript before giving it to anyone else. Then, still before you give it out, to read it again yourself. At this point, you yourself will be more of a fresh reader, and can perhaps see the weak spots yourself.

When you do give the manuscript out, try to separate yourself from it a bit so that any criticisms will not seem to be shots at you so much as at the manuscript. In other words, go back to Rule No. 1 (in Part I of blocking writer’s block): don’t care so much.

At the same time, don’t forget Rule No. 2 – care. Remember your goal is to write a good manuscript, a great manuscript. Care enough to make it better.

One last tip—look for a sympathetic reader, ideally, someone who is also interested in writing. People may not realize (i) the amount of work you have done or (ii) how sensitve you are.

Also, be sensible as well as sensitive. If the manuscript is about your childhood, maybe your mother, or even sibling, is not the best first reader. If it’s about your marriage, maybe start with someone other than your spouse. If it’s about Robert Pattinson, probably best to avoid your boss.

Categories: children's book, Uncategorized, writer's block, writing
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Blocking Writer’s Block – First Assignment – Sample “I remember”

August 9, 2009

In yesterday’s post, I suggested “I remember” as a writing exercise.  It’s a place where almost anyone can start writing any time.

I did my exercise in a beauty salon waiting for a hair cut.  I have to confess I cheated a little.  Because I knew I’d assigned it, I started the exercise in my head en route to the salon;  I also had to write down the last few sentences after they finished the haircut.  (They wouldn’t let me hold my notebook once the shampooing began.)

I did try not to erase or cross out when I wrote, or since this is an exercise, to edit, when I typed (though I did change names.)

Finally,  I didn’t intend to make the exercise itself about writing exercises and writing buddies, but because I was thinking about the blog, that’s what came to mind.  Which was fine.   The point of the exercise, if you try it, is to write about what you remember at the moment you sit down.  So here’s what I came up with 1:30 p.m., August 8, 2009.

“I remember”–

I remember when I first started these writing exercises.  It was years ago now;  I was invited into a group, a women’s group; I guess it was inherent back then that it was partly about writing, partly about “empowerment.”

There was Barbara with frizzy black hair and a dark green minivan; Helena who was Finnish, made documentary movies about anti-abortionists, and lived in a heavily subsidized mouth-watering West Village apartment right next to the Hudson.  (I never could figure out how she finagled that one.)  There was Evelyn who had long Auburn hair and a fey Pre-Raphaelite pout to her lips and who already, she told us later, borrowing sunblock, had had a melanoma removed.  There was Carrie, who I think was my original contact and who later came up to my house in the country one summer weekend with new husband in tow.  It was an unusually hot weekend and she insisted on dragging a mattress from the atticky bedroom I’d assigned them, down the stairwell and onto the screened porch that was just outside my window.  It’s an old house; it was an equally old mattress.  Mouse droppings littered the stairwell marking the path the mattress had lumped down.  The next day, still hot, she walked around most of the morning in a loose sweater with no underwear (pants either) making coffee for the new husband.  I’d recently gone through a wrenching separation from my own husband.  Suffice it to say, I never invited Carrie back again.

Then there was Agnes.  Agnes who was slender and small and upright in every sense of the word.  A dancer, an editor, a reader, a disciplined person, her back was straight at all times; her clothes trim and unwrinkled even if somehow vintage, her wavy hair pulled back, sometimes with tortoise shell combs which seemed in my mind to have the authority of reading glasses.

Helena, the one doing the documentaries about anti-abortionists, seemed to me to write about blood;  Evelyn, sex, Carrie, irritations, Barbara, the family life, Agnes, the physical and mental world, accreting images with great precision.  And me, probably pain at that point in my life (wrenching separation, remember?)

It was fun.  We usually met at Carrie’s or Helena’s since they’d managed the best apartments.  We ate chips, but since this was New York and either the West Village or the Upper West Side, they were special chips, like Blue chips (blue organic corn) or vegetable chips (sweet potato or taro), served with, you know, hummus.

Slowly, somehow, I don’t know how long it took–maybe Carrie’s bottomless weekend in the country precipitated it, it ended up being Barbara and Agnes and me.

We met at coffee shops, restaurants, choosing places for their lack of, or low, music;  their lack of, or slow, service; their lack of, or little interest in the fact that every few minutes we would each read aloud.

Barbara died a few years ago.

I remember her writing about braiding her daughters’ hair, the luck that her own was so curly (the girls were half African-American, she wasn’t), what that gave them in common.

I remember her writing about the slap of her feet in her Karate dojo.  There was a host of square shouldered men at her funeral—black belts, I thought.  The sweat that gathered in the crease inside her elbow. The joy of a kyaii.

I remember her writing about sex; her husband coming home too late, proffering her his cock.

You get to know your writing buddies very very well.

You know about the times they fought with their parents, their boyfriends in back seats, the times they lied to themselves and others, the times they told the truth.

I remember a last writing session.  I don’t know what we wrote about.  Barbara made mango-scented green tea.  She was drinking a lot of green tea those days though the cancer was irretrievably advanced.  She dragged equipment behind her around the apartment, black plastic sacking on wheels.  She’d always been someone with dimples.

Agnes and I still write together when we have time.

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Blocking Writer’s Block – First Assignment

August 8, 2009

Since I’ve been writing so much about the value of writer’s exercises, I thought it might be interesting to actually give you one.

The rules are:

  1. Write for a pre-set time.  Ten minutes is a good start.  If you go over, fine, don’t go under.
  2. Don’t stop moving your pen, or stop typing.  If you are using a pen, use a good one, with flow.  If you are typing, try not to read too much as you go.
  3. Don’t cross out.  Don’t erase. Don’t backspace.  If you want to use a different word than the one you’ve just used, just write down the new word.  But keep going.  Don’t stop to judge or evaluate.
  4. Feel free to cheat a little if rules make you feel stuck.

(As noted previously, these rules are derived from Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones.)

The topic is “I remember“.  This is a nice topic for writers who are blocked, for writers who are not blocked but very tired, for people who don’t consider themselves writers but would simply like to write.   Hardly anyone can truly say that they can’t come up with something.

I will post mine tomorrow.

Check out 1 Mississippi, for people who don’t care so much about writing, but want to learn to count.   Link to the side.   On Amazon.

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Blocking Writer’s Block – Part VI – Be Brave – Read Aloud

August 8, 2009

I want to begin with apologies for my last post to those who are not interested in Robert Pattinson’s struggle with paparazzi.  I find the subject fascinating – the part about the struggles with the paparazzi, that is — but I understand it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.  So let’s try blocking writer’s block again:

Rule No. 8   –  Be Brave.  Read Aloud.

If you’ve been following this blog at all, you may remember Blocking Writer’s Block Rule No. 3 –  Get a Friend.

By “friend,” I mean writing buddy, someone that you actually write with, meaning right next to, someone with whom you do writing exercises.  Your writing buddy may also be someone with whom you share finished, or nearly finished work, but the exercises I’m talking about are the ones that you do on the immediate spur of a new topic, the ones that you write for a set period of time (ten to twenty minutes usually) without stopping, erasing or crossing out.

The next step- after your set time for each exercise is finished –is for you and your buddy to read your exercises aloud.

To each other.

Right then and there.

(I’m not joking, and I want to take advantage of this break in the flow to give credit to Natalie Goldberg,  Writing Down the Bones, who originally popularized these types of writing processes.)

Yes, I know.  Reading aloud is a bit like taking off your clothes in a crowded room.  Only worse.  Because the crowd may be so busy, people may not even notice your nakedness.  Okay, they’ll probably notice.  But it’s a crowd, right?  There may be no one that you know, no one that you need ever see again

Your writing buddy is presumably a friend of sorts.  He/she is staring (i.e. listening) right next to you.  At/to just you.  You hope to know each other for a long time to come.

Plus, you’ve just done an exercise that absolutely proves how idiotic you are.

But here’s the trick of it.  Your writing buddy has to read aloud too.  You might even be able to make them read aloud first.  They too have written an exercise that exposes their idiocy.

When you each start removing the clothes… ahem… reading aloud, it’s a tremendous feeling—of freedom, exhilaration, acknowledgement, even if coupled with acute embarrassment.

I don’t know if it helps, but usually my writing buddy and I preface each reading aloud with some well-worn warning such as “this one is so stupid.”  Or “I don’t know where this came from.”  Or a simple heartfelt groan.  This type of introduction is not obligatory, but it does tend to clear the throat.

Natalie Goldberg sets a few ground rules for the listeners of read-aloud exercises.  These include a prohibition against evaluating the work—against saying anything akin to either “I really like that,” or “eeuww.”  In Natalie Goldberg’s workshops, she urges the listeners simply to echo the phrases that they remember from the piece, a practice which encourages closer listening, but also tends to emphasize what was most vivid about the writing.

That’s probably a good idea.  Even praise can be stultifying in the case of exercises;  soon you are distracted, writing your exercise for the praise, and frankly, you can’t always do a good one.  (Then, when you don’t, you feel horrible.)

But for me and my buddy, Natalie’s prohibitions are hard to follow.  We really don’t have the short-term memories anymore to repeat too many phrases  that we’ve just heard.   And we know each other too well not to guffaw, or say “wow” or “whoops!”  So we are usually quite free with our commentary.  This makes our writing time more fun.  I would warn you, however, that beginners at these exercises might want to be a bit more circumspect.

Still, the question of evaluations raises an important point.  One of the greatest things about reading an exercise aloud is that you are putting your work out into the world.  You are exposing your work in a very intimate way;  it’s not just your words you are putting out there, it’s also your voice.  It could hardly be more personal.

But what’s great, what might even make it possible, is that you’re only doing it for a minute or two.  You’re reading aloud, and then you are done.  No one’s taping you.  No one has your printed page to peruse.  You’ve put it out there, then grabbed it back.

Besides, it’s a DRAFT.  You did it in ten minutes, fifteen minutes.

It’s relatively easy under these circumstances to follow the first rule of blocking writer’s block which is simply not to care too much.

Nonetheless, they are your words, it is your voice, it does take courage.  So be brave—read aloud.

You’ll be very glad you did.

(To be continued with Rule No. 9– Don’t be too brave too soon!  Know your limits.)

Also, sometime soon, I’d like to write about the benefits of reading drafts aloud to yourself, and reading at public readings.  But that’s for the future.

For now, please check out the link for 1 Mississippi, my counting book for children who like elephants (and watercolors) on Amazon.  See the link above.

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