For the first time today, I experienced a feeling I've only read about up until now~a character, inserting themselves into my head, popping into my subconscious while I'm clearing the kitchen after breakfast, peeking in as I'm putting on tennis shoes to go for a walk, interrupting me as I'm talking to my husband about plans for the day.
Where did she come from, this woman with slightly sad dark eyes and long auburn hair, streaked with gray? She smiles at me, but there is pain behind the smile, a sorrow that comes from unimaginable loss.
Last night I was thinking about a friend who lost her son to suicide about 18 months ago. I've written about Jeff and his impact on my life, and while I still think about him quite often, its his mother Vicky for whom I feel the pain. You see, Jeff got his wish, at least I'm supposing he did, awful as it seems to me. But Vicky ~ she's the one who lost so much, whose life he changed in an inalterable and cruel way.
This woman who keeps nagging my mind is not Vicky, but her pain seems somehow the same. There is an unmistable aura of it surrounding her, and I find myself thinking about some way to help her dispel this darkness that engulfs her.
I think there's a story here...a long one, perhaps even a book.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Last Chance Kid
Carol hoped she hadn't made a mistake, forcing Chuck to come on this field trip. After 20 years of teaching, Chuck was one of the few students who had confounded every technique in Carol's book of teacher tricks. Rude, angry, insubordinate, disrespectful, he never missed an opportunity to flaunt authority or buck the system. When his counselor had begged Carol to allow him in the Choraliers, she was reluctant to say the least.
"I can't have unruly kids in that group," she warned.
"Come on, Carol," Lee Washington had cajoled. "I've seen you work miracles with kids before. This is pretty much his last chance before he hits the streets."
Always a sucker for a "last chance kid," Carol had reluctantly agreed. In the three months since school started, Chuck had made no progress toward assimilating himself into her advanced group of singers. He blew off rehearsals, stood in the back of the room with his arms folded when the choreographer was teaching steps, and wore a chip of his shoulder the size of Dallas. So, she sighed, watching the kids pile out of their cars on this sunny December afternoon, bringing him to perform for their annual program at Ridgeway Convalescent Center was probably a huge mistake.
The choir members trekked happily inside, familiar with the punch and cookie reception they knew would be waiting for them. Eager and excited, they passed through a gauntlet of elderly, infirm residents waiting silently in their wheelchairs, reaching out gnarled and trembling fingers to touch the girls bright dance dresses, shake the boys firm hands.
Taking their positions in the middle of the dining room, the choir smiled, sang, shared their youthful exuberance with unguarded selflessness. Carol let her eyes run the gamut of singers as they finished their last song, noticing Chuck's sullen look in the farthest corner of the bass section. His eyes remained downcast and hooded, his mouth barely moving, even as they concluded with Silent Night, that most familiar of all carols.
Their set done, the students moved around the room one last time, bending down to greet those who made eye contact, saying a few words here and there in exaggeratedly loud voices. Then, hastily throwing on coats and hats, they were rushing through the sliding doors, heading off to one more performance at the local mall.
Carol took a quick head count as they passed into the frosty air. Chuck was missing. Had he managed to sneak out the back, heading for the nearest arcade or even bar? Snatching up her car keys, Carol quickly turned toward her car. Suddenly, she heard loud guffaws emanating from the dining room behind her. There he was, his large, bulky frame seated comfortably on the sofa between two wizend grey haired women, laughing and joking. Both women were grinning broadly, and one reached up to gently pat his large back. "Such a sweet boy!" she exclaimed.
Noticing Carol's amazed look, he rose hastily from his seat. "Ms. Woodward," he said, "I'll be right there. I just wanted to speak to these ladies for a moment."
"That's fine, Chuck," Carol said, doing her best not to sound as dumbfounded as she felt.
"You know, I just love old people," he confided, shoving his arms into the sleeve of his padded down jacket. "My grandma, she's the one that raised me. She lives in a nursing home now, too, and I go see here every chance I get."
Carol followed him to the cars, watching as the group he was riding with called out joyfully for him to "Hustle up, bud!"
Maybe Chuck's last chance would pay off after all, she thought.
Written for an exercise in the Gotham Writers Workshop on Fiction Writing
"I can't have unruly kids in that group," she warned.
"Come on, Carol," Lee Washington had cajoled. "I've seen you work miracles with kids before. This is pretty much his last chance before he hits the streets."
Always a sucker for a "last chance kid," Carol had reluctantly agreed. In the three months since school started, Chuck had made no progress toward assimilating himself into her advanced group of singers. He blew off rehearsals, stood in the back of the room with his arms folded when the choreographer was teaching steps, and wore a chip of his shoulder the size of Dallas. So, she sighed, watching the kids pile out of their cars on this sunny December afternoon, bringing him to perform for their annual program at Ridgeway Convalescent Center was probably a huge mistake.
The choir members trekked happily inside, familiar with the punch and cookie reception they knew would be waiting for them. Eager and excited, they passed through a gauntlet of elderly, infirm residents waiting silently in their wheelchairs, reaching out gnarled and trembling fingers to touch the girls bright dance dresses, shake the boys firm hands.
Taking their positions in the middle of the dining room, the choir smiled, sang, shared their youthful exuberance with unguarded selflessness. Carol let her eyes run the gamut of singers as they finished their last song, noticing Chuck's sullen look in the farthest corner of the bass section. His eyes remained downcast and hooded, his mouth barely moving, even as they concluded with Silent Night, that most familiar of all carols.
Their set done, the students moved around the room one last time, bending down to greet those who made eye contact, saying a few words here and there in exaggeratedly loud voices. Then, hastily throwing on coats and hats, they were rushing through the sliding doors, heading off to one more performance at the local mall.
Carol took a quick head count as they passed into the frosty air. Chuck was missing. Had he managed to sneak out the back, heading for the nearest arcade or even bar? Snatching up her car keys, Carol quickly turned toward her car. Suddenly, she heard loud guffaws emanating from the dining room behind her. There he was, his large, bulky frame seated comfortably on the sofa between two wizend grey haired women, laughing and joking. Both women were grinning broadly, and one reached up to gently pat his large back. "Such a sweet boy!" she exclaimed.
Noticing Carol's amazed look, he rose hastily from his seat. "Ms. Woodward," he said, "I'll be right there. I just wanted to speak to these ladies for a moment."
"That's fine, Chuck," Carol said, doing her best not to sound as dumbfounded as she felt.
"You know, I just love old people," he confided, shoving his arms into the sleeve of his padded down jacket. "My grandma, she's the one that raised me. She lives in a nursing home now, too, and I go see here every chance I get."
Carol followed him to the cars, watching as the group he was riding with called out joyfully for him to "Hustle up, bud!"
Maybe Chuck's last chance would pay off after all, she thought.
Written for an exercise in the Gotham Writers Workshop on Fiction Writing
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Sunday Scribblings-Second Chance
The young woman seated at the desk had barely reacted when Kate said, "Well, I can't have it." She probably heard that same statement a dozen times a day, maybe more. From the looks of the waiting room, there were dozens of young women in Kate's shoes, slumped dejectedly in the molded plastic chairs, waiting for a stranger to tell them the results of a question they already knew the answer to.
"Then you'll want to schedule an appointment as soon as possible," the nurse replied, reaching for an oversized black appointment book. "You're already 10 weeks along."
September 30. That was the day Kate had chosen, the one day of many empty squares in the clinic's calendar. Kate stared again at the masthead of the discarded New York Times she had picked up from the counter after ordering her usual Cafe Mocha - September 30, 2006. Thirty years ago today.
What would it be like to have a 30 year old daughter, Kate wondered, settling into her usual table by the back window. For some reason, she was convinced of the femaleness of that unwanted child, even though her body had produced four male children in the three decades since. She smiled, thinking of her boys, each one so much like his father~big, masculine men, who loved ribald jokes and roughhousing, and whose idea of cultural entertainment was James Bond movies and Bruce Springsteen concerts. They were good men, all of them, strong yet tenderhearted, always around when she needed a hand. One or the other of them stopped by nearly every day now, since Robert had died. Usually they would pretend to be looking for a handout-a fresh cup of coffee, some homemade cookies or cake, a meatloaf sandwich if it happened to be lunchtime. She knew they were just checking on her, making sure she wasn't lonely, rambling around alone in their big house.
Kate sipped her warm coffee and reflexively wiped a dab of whipped cream from the tip of her nose. Funny thing, Robert had really wanted her to have that baby. Even though it wasn't his, even though its due date was just days shy of the elaborate wedding they had already finished planning.
"I can't have it!" she had cried out to him. "My mother would never forgive me!"
"Kate, you're 23 years old, and about to be married," he had said. "Isn't it time you stopped worrying about what your mother will think?"
But that's what daughters did, Kate thought. They worried about their mothers - what they thought, whether they approved. Kate wondered again about this daughter she might have had, the one that would be almost 30 years old now. Would they be close, going to concerts together, meeting for coffee in this very Starbucks to talk about the latest bestseller they had read? Or would they have butted heads from the very beginning, ending up as family but not friends, walking on eggshells with one another, avoiding revelations that would be greeted with disapproval or scorn.
Kate shook her head, clearing these cobwebs from her mind. Too late now, she told herself, briskly turning to the editorial section. It's water under the bridge, as her own mother used to say. "You don't get second chances with life," she would warn, usually when Kate had made a decision she didn't agree with.
Maybe not, Kate thought, tucking the blanket tighter around her granddaughter, who had been sleeping peacefully in the stroller while Kate finished her coffee. She smiled wistfully at the tiny face, full of possibility. Maybe there are no second chances, she thought, but at least there are new opportunities.
"Then you'll want to schedule an appointment as soon as possible," the nurse replied, reaching for an oversized black appointment book. "You're already 10 weeks along."
September 30. That was the day Kate had chosen, the one day of many empty squares in the clinic's calendar. Kate stared again at the masthead of the discarded New York Times she had picked up from the counter after ordering her usual Cafe Mocha - September 30, 2006. Thirty years ago today.
What would it be like to have a 30 year old daughter, Kate wondered, settling into her usual table by the back window. For some reason, she was convinced of the femaleness of that unwanted child, even though her body had produced four male children in the three decades since. She smiled, thinking of her boys, each one so much like his father~big, masculine men, who loved ribald jokes and roughhousing, and whose idea of cultural entertainment was James Bond movies and Bruce Springsteen concerts. They were good men, all of them, strong yet tenderhearted, always around when she needed a hand. One or the other of them stopped by nearly every day now, since Robert had died. Usually they would pretend to be looking for a handout-a fresh cup of coffee, some homemade cookies or cake, a meatloaf sandwich if it happened to be lunchtime. She knew they were just checking on her, making sure she wasn't lonely, rambling around alone in their big house.
Kate sipped her warm coffee and reflexively wiped a dab of whipped cream from the tip of her nose. Funny thing, Robert had really wanted her to have that baby. Even though it wasn't his, even though its due date was just days shy of the elaborate wedding they had already finished planning.
"I can't have it!" she had cried out to him. "My mother would never forgive me!"
"Kate, you're 23 years old, and about to be married," he had said. "Isn't it time you stopped worrying about what your mother will think?"
But that's what daughters did, Kate thought. They worried about their mothers - what they thought, whether they approved. Kate wondered again about this daughter she might have had, the one that would be almost 30 years old now. Would they be close, going to concerts together, meeting for coffee in this very Starbucks to talk about the latest bestseller they had read? Or would they have butted heads from the very beginning, ending up as family but not friends, walking on eggshells with one another, avoiding revelations that would be greeted with disapproval or scorn.
Kate shook her head, clearing these cobwebs from her mind. Too late now, she told herself, briskly turning to the editorial section. It's water under the bridge, as her own mother used to say. "You don't get second chances with life," she would warn, usually when Kate had made a decision she didn't agree with.
Maybe not, Kate thought, tucking the blanket tighter around her granddaughter, who had been sleeping peacefully in the stroller while Kate finished her coffee. She smiled wistfully at the tiny face, full of possibility. Maybe there are no second chances, she thought, but at least there are new opportunities.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Seeking Shelter
Clearly, someone had been living here, Devyn realized, staring at dirty dishes piled haphazardly in the sink. The fossilized remnants of canned pasta and beans were evident, even from where he stood in the doorway. A wide ray of afternoon sunshine beamed like a spotlight through the grimy window above the counter, illuminating the disarray left behind by the cottage’s mysterious inhabitant.
There was an odor as well, Devyn noticed as he stepped further into the room, the pungent odor of unwashed skin, the sour, musty aroma of damp towels left to dry in humid lake breezes. His mother had despised that smell, warned them against it every time they returned from the lake. “Hang those towels out on the line!” she’d cry, usually from her vantage point in front of this very sink, where she was likely washing dishes, or preparing one of the many fruits and vegetables their father might have gathered in from his garden that morning. “They’ll get to smelling if you bring them in the house.”
Devyn grimaced, thinking how much she would hate the smell of this place right now, her constant battle against dirt and dampness over the years of summers gone for naught. While he and his brother had scampered through the woods behind the cottage, relishing their seemingly innocent games of war and private eye, she had remained inside working furiously at her cleanliness project for the day– sweeping sand from the floors, cleaning foggy lake breeze residue from windows, removing ceiling light fixtures that became the final resting place for tiny black bugs and moths.
Gingerly, he picked an orange plastic coffee cup out of the sink, -melamine, he thought it was called. “Perfect for cottage use,” his mother had said with satisfaction, purchasing a set of six at the local Ben Franklin. Now grimy and discolored inside, a gritty residue of instant coffee granules cemented to the bottom, Devyn let it fall from his fingertips, and clatter back into the sink. He could recall his mother quickly downing a half cup of instant coffee from this cup every morning, then hurrying off to her "chores." Why did she never take the time to sit comfortably on the back porch, watching the sun rise over the lake, sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee? It seemed to Devyn as if his mother and father had never really lived here - between his mother's cleaning and his father's gardening, the cottage was a workplace, rather than a place to enjoy life.
Five summers had passed since his mother had been here, the cottage carefully closed and locked that last autumn morning. Devyn could picture his father, walking through the rooms with his tattered checklist in hand, carefully consulting the list of duties that must be performed before closing the place for the winter, not knowing he would sicken and die before spring's arrival. Almost immediately after, Devyn's mother had begun her descent into the neverland of dementia that had by now claimed all memory of this summer cottage and the times she had spent there.
Devyn knew they should have rented the place out, not let it sit empty all these summers. The local sheriff had warned him about “squatters”. “Folks ‘round here are hurtin’ these days,” he’d said when Devyn had called and asked him to keep an eye out. “And some are desperate enough to seek shelter anywhere, even if it don’t belong to ‘em.”
Whoever was living here must be desperate indeed, Devyn thought, turning his back on the sink filled with crusty dishes and focusing his eyes on the door in front of him. He didn’t bother to lock it behind him – after all, someone was clearly living here now.
There was an odor as well, Devyn noticed as he stepped further into the room, the pungent odor of unwashed skin, the sour, musty aroma of damp towels left to dry in humid lake breezes. His mother had despised that smell, warned them against it every time they returned from the lake. “Hang those towels out on the line!” she’d cry, usually from her vantage point in front of this very sink, where she was likely washing dishes, or preparing one of the many fruits and vegetables their father might have gathered in from his garden that morning. “They’ll get to smelling if you bring them in the house.”
Devyn grimaced, thinking how much she would hate the smell of this place right now, her constant battle against dirt and dampness over the years of summers gone for naught. While he and his brother had scampered through the woods behind the cottage, relishing their seemingly innocent games of war and private eye, she had remained inside working furiously at her cleanliness project for the day– sweeping sand from the floors, cleaning foggy lake breeze residue from windows, removing ceiling light fixtures that became the final resting place for tiny black bugs and moths.
Gingerly, he picked an orange plastic coffee cup out of the sink, -melamine, he thought it was called. “Perfect for cottage use,” his mother had said with satisfaction, purchasing a set of six at the local Ben Franklin. Now grimy and discolored inside, a gritty residue of instant coffee granules cemented to the bottom, Devyn let it fall from his fingertips, and clatter back into the sink. He could recall his mother quickly downing a half cup of instant coffee from this cup every morning, then hurrying off to her "chores." Why did she never take the time to sit comfortably on the back porch, watching the sun rise over the lake, sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee? It seemed to Devyn as if his mother and father had never really lived here - between his mother's cleaning and his father's gardening, the cottage was a workplace, rather than a place to enjoy life.
Five summers had passed since his mother had been here, the cottage carefully closed and locked that last autumn morning. Devyn could picture his father, walking through the rooms with his tattered checklist in hand, carefully consulting the list of duties that must be performed before closing the place for the winter, not knowing he would sicken and die before spring's arrival. Almost immediately after, Devyn's mother had begun her descent into the neverland of dementia that had by now claimed all memory of this summer cottage and the times she had spent there.
Devyn knew they should have rented the place out, not let it sit empty all these summers. The local sheriff had warned him about “squatters”. “Folks ‘round here are hurtin’ these days,” he’d said when Devyn had called and asked him to keep an eye out. “And some are desperate enough to seek shelter anywhere, even if it don’t belong to ‘em.”
Whoever was living here must be desperate indeed, Devyn thought, turning his back on the sink filled with crusty dishes and focusing his eyes on the door in front of him. He didn’t bother to lock it behind him – after all, someone was clearly living here now.
~written in response to this short story contest
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Baby Makes Three
Clarissa always drove fast cars, Ellen thought, watching the snub nosed grille of the new Saab Turbo come roaring up the tree lined driveway. She apparently wanted people to think she was daring and outrageous, buying those expensive European cars and bragging about red-lining the speedometer. Ellen's fairly large Italian nose wrinkled, slightly disgusted, as the chrome wheels on the dark green convertible sent a billowing cloud of dust trailing behind them. Instinctively, she stepped back from the door as the car made it's approach toward the house, narrowing her eyes and inadvertently preparing herself to jump back even farther should Clarrisa be unable to stop the car in time and come crashing into Ellen's living room.
Further retreat proved unnecessary, as Clarissa executed a perfect braking maneuver, setting the car perfectly in line with the garage and well away from the front of the cottage. Ellen quickly smoothed her freshly high-lighted auburn bob, and slipped on her navy blue Crocs- ridiculous looking shoes, she was the first to admit, but so perfectly suited to life at the lake. A quick glance over her shoulder insured that the living room looked it's best. The cushions on the blue and white checked sofa were neatly plumped, the navy blue chenille throw tossed artfully across one corner. Her reading chairs-two captains chairs recently reupholstered in denim blue-faced each other companionably in front of the fireplace, the gate legged table between them stacked with her latest book stack. The aroma of lemony furniture polish filled the air, mixed with the fresh clean scent from the brisk summer breeze blowing off the lake. A white milk glass pitcher had been placed in the center of the heavy oak coffee table, filled with a carefully arranged bouquet of flowers.
She stopped just shy of the back screen door, taking a few moment to observe Clarissa before she announced her presence. What in the world was she doing? Ellen thought, marveling once again at the way her friend could spend so much time in commonplace activities. Was she putting on makeup? Freshening her lipstick? Making a phone call? Ellen peered around the corner of the door, but all she could see was Clarissa’s shadowy figure, twisted uncomfortably toward the back seat of the blue sports sedan.
Abruptly, the driver’s door swung open, and a long slender leg emerged, tanned slightly golden in color, with the glint of delicate diamond bracelet encircling the ankle. Ellen couldn’t help but sniff disdainfully-after all, Clarissa was pushing 50. Wasn’t an ankle bracelet just a little bit over the top?
~to be continued
Further retreat proved unnecessary, as Clarissa executed a perfect braking maneuver, setting the car perfectly in line with the garage and well away from the front of the cottage. Ellen quickly smoothed her freshly high-lighted auburn bob, and slipped on her navy blue Crocs- ridiculous looking shoes, she was the first to admit, but so perfectly suited to life at the lake. A quick glance over her shoulder insured that the living room looked it's best. The cushions on the blue and white checked sofa were neatly plumped, the navy blue chenille throw tossed artfully across one corner. Her reading chairs-two captains chairs recently reupholstered in denim blue-faced each other companionably in front of the fireplace, the gate legged table between them stacked with her latest book stack. The aroma of lemony furniture polish filled the air, mixed with the fresh clean scent from the brisk summer breeze blowing off the lake. A white milk glass pitcher had been placed in the center of the heavy oak coffee table, filled with a carefully arranged bouquet of flowers.
She stopped just shy of the back screen door, taking a few moment to observe Clarissa before she announced her presence. What in the world was she doing? Ellen thought, marveling once again at the way her friend could spend so much time in commonplace activities. Was she putting on makeup? Freshening her lipstick? Making a phone call? Ellen peered around the corner of the door, but all she could see was Clarissa’s shadowy figure, twisted uncomfortably toward the back seat of the blue sports sedan.
Abruptly, the driver’s door swung open, and a long slender leg emerged, tanned slightly golden in color, with the glint of delicate diamond bracelet encircling the ankle. Ellen couldn’t help but sniff disdainfully-after all, Clarissa was pushing 50. Wasn’t an ankle bracelet just a little bit over the top?
~to be continued
Prefab Story
I have a new project this week, The Four Page Traditional Story exercise, as presented by Rick Hillis, in Now Write. Here's the "rules" for creating this story, which Hillis says he generally assigns to creative writing students very early in their semester, allowing them no more than three days to write it (don't know whether that's viable for me with my schedule, but it's the deadline I'm setting now at least).
- The story is to be between three and five pages in length;
- The action happens over a long weekend;
- The story opens with a line of exposition as the protagonist watches the antagonist arrive;
- The antagonist has something the protagonist wants or thinks he or she deserves;
- Over the course of the weekend, the protagonist is presented with the opportunity of taking this object of desire...or not;
- Important, this "thing" should have metaphorical suggestiveness. It should be the controlling metaphor and the title of the story;
- As important, nothing is explained; we are told nothing or almost nothing. Everything - meaning, feeling, thought-unfolds through action, detail, description.
The object of desire...the protagonists friend arrives for a long weekend at her friend's cottage on the lake, unexpectedly bringing her grandchild (a toddler) with her. The protagonist, who is yearning for a grandchild of her own, becomes secretly angry with her friend for the way she feels she does not love or appreciate the child enough, and begins plotting ways to abscond to Canada with the child.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Why Write
I've been reading Brenda Ueland's book, If You Want To Write , a book that is uncannily reflective of everything I've been thinking and experiencing about writing in the past year. Here are some of the things that have resonated with me just in the first couple of chapters~
~We all have a creative power, we're born with it, and we all have a need to express it. Children know this, and do it without thinking. But this free expression of creativity often gets "drummed out of us" by critical teachers, parents, friends, and society. We let this happen, because we fail to see how imporant it is to nurture this in ourselves by using it, and to encourage it in others by listening to them. For the only good "teachers" are the friends who will love you and encourage you, and think what you have to say is important and worthwhile, who will say, "tell me more" about the things you think and say and feel...
~We must practice our creativity with great intention, "with all your intelligence and love," and not perfunctorily..."a great musician once said that you should never play a note without hearing it, feeling that it is true, and thinking that it is beautiful."
~We must not let "duty" (the everyday things we must do) come before writing, because "writing~the creative effort, the use of the imagination~should come first, at least for some part of every day of your life. " The benefits are endless...you will become "happier, more alive, more enlightened, impassioned, light hearted, and more generous to everyone. Even your health will improve. Colds will disappear, as will all the other ailments of discouragement and boredom..."
~Don't get caught up in modern society's view that if "there is no money in it, it's not worth doing." The intrinsic rewards of writing have been known for centuries. You know your own feelings better, you offer these feelings as a gift to the world, a world as Van Gogh said, was "so beautiful, he had to show others how it looked."
~The creative impulse is "a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and, in a direct, simple, passionate, and true way, you try to show this beauty to others by drawing (or writing) it." Don't be discouraged into believing that what you think about something isn't important or worth sharing..
~When you learn these things, you can write feeling, without feeling driven to succeed (at least according to socieities standards), but to accomplish your own best work for your own delight and satisfaction...
In just these ideas, in just these two chapter, Ueland has validated everything I've come to learn about the process of writing over the past year. And this blogging community~what better group of "loving friends" to offer my insight and feelings too, all of us encouraging and listening to one another.
I'm looking forward to reading the rest of what she has to say...
~We all have a creative power, we're born with it, and we all have a need to express it. Children know this, and do it without thinking. But this free expression of creativity often gets "drummed out of us" by critical teachers, parents, friends, and society. We let this happen, because we fail to see how imporant it is to nurture this in ourselves by using it, and to encourage it in others by listening to them. For the only good "teachers" are the friends who will love you and encourage you, and think what you have to say is important and worthwhile, who will say, "tell me more" about the things you think and say and feel...
~We must practice our creativity with great intention, "with all your intelligence and love," and not perfunctorily..."a great musician once said that you should never play a note without hearing it, feeling that it is true, and thinking that it is beautiful."
~We must not let "duty" (the everyday things we must do) come before writing, because "writing~the creative effort, the use of the imagination~should come first, at least for some part of every day of your life. " The benefits are endless...you will become "happier, more alive, more enlightened, impassioned, light hearted, and more generous to everyone. Even your health will improve. Colds will disappear, as will all the other ailments of discouragement and boredom..."
~Don't get caught up in modern society's view that if "there is no money in it, it's not worth doing." The intrinsic rewards of writing have been known for centuries. You know your own feelings better, you offer these feelings as a gift to the world, a world as Van Gogh said, was "so beautiful, he had to show others how it looked."
~The creative impulse is "a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and, in a direct, simple, passionate, and true way, you try to show this beauty to others by drawing (or writing) it." Don't be discouraged into believing that what you think about something isn't important or worth sharing..
~When you learn these things, you can write feeling, without feeling driven to succeed (at least according to socieities standards), but to accomplish your own best work for your own delight and satisfaction...
In just these ideas, in just these two chapter, Ueland has validated everything I've come to learn about the process of writing over the past year. And this blogging community~what better group of "loving friends" to offer my insight and feelings too, all of us encouraging and listening to one another.
I'm looking forward to reading the rest of what she has to say...
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