Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Fascinations

I was talking with R about a possible writing project. She asked me what I feel passionate about, and I realized that I don't feel passionate. I am fascinated by many things, but passions are beyond me. That's actually an ongoing angst/regret. It's part of my Jack of all Trades personality to be interested in many things, but unable to produce an excellent product. Still, as I age and I begin to become a little expert in various areas of fascination, I find that there is a product of sorts. I have songs and origami patterns and fudge recipes at my immediate disposal, for example. And I know a bit about wines, enough to buy or order something that I'll like. To my surprise, I realize it no longer bothers me that I remain a dilettante in all areas. I think I like it that way. In fact, I know I do. It's so much less work.

M thinks we fuss too much about things like passion and purpose. In her opinion, the activity of the moment is the passion. Looking at today, my passions have been eating toast and coffee, throwing a ball for Pekoe, cuddling the dogs, knitting, tutoring, listening to music, doing laundry, watching bad TV, and writing. Hmmm.

Facetiousness aside. I do get what she means. It's like the old adage: if you want to be a writer, write. Or, to be more psychological, your choices indicate who you are, what is important to you. The energy you put into a person or project is what gives it the meaning. "It is the time you waste on your rose..." in fact. I could take that silly list of activity/passions and say that my purposes are living a comfortable life, learning, creating, teaching, sharing and caring. It's a more generic list than the list of passions, but it's more encompassing. And the purposes can remain steady, while the passions change.

So, I make lists of my passions, or rather fascinations. I can choose to waste time on them, or I can be chosen by them. I deliberately don't say that I can be obsessed by them, because, again, obsessing is not what I do. Repetition, maybe. Many show up in blogs or Facebook posts: they have not been researched or developed, because that would be work. But if one can write about sheer observations and sound bites, here's the current list, which I shared with R.
  • Details in art: feet, patterns, fashions
  • Clouds and the desert SW Sky
  • Pterodactyls and other fossils
  • Ra Paulette: Cave digger
  • Waterfalls.
  • Columbia River Gorge.
  • Wild fires. Climate change.
  • Zozobra festival and burning Man and other traditions of burning
  • Dia de Los Muertos, marigold parade, etc in New Mexico
  • The tradition of the luminarias /farolitos: making them, setting them out, walking the paths.
  • Chimayo and other pilgrimage destinations
  • Stone circles
  • Andy Goldsworthy
  • Beauty and the beast, variations
  • Jane Austen
  • Dorothy Sayers
  • Georgette Heyer
  • Diana Wynne Jones
  • Strong girls in science fiction
It reminds me a little of Tim's 20-something to-do list: esoteric and eccentric. His included math problems and learning to speak with dolphins, so he had a creative product in mind. He was ambitious. I am not. There is so much to observe and experience, and I think that I am at the place where I'm interested in learning for learning's sake. And, it's difficult to focus on one thing. That's why I say I have no passions: what I really mean is that I have no obsessions.

That being the said, it's clear that I am, in fact, passionate about writing. In some way, shape, or form, I write every day. The question is, can I take that passion and actually create something coherent for R's imprint? I'm excited and confused by the prospect. Excited because it's new to me and has the possibility of actually being a remunerative activitiy. Confused, because I don't really know what's involved.

I'm thinking, though, that instead of writing about famous people or that earlier list of fascinations, I'd like to write about extraordinary ordinary people, people in my family, for example. Laura Ingalls Wilder is the closest model: she strung her family stories into a series of books which, while not completely factual, caught the spirit and experience of that pioneer lifestyle. All families are a product of their culture, and they all have stories that fit into the civilization's big picture. For example: women's roles changed with the advent of new careers and innovations. One result was my aunt, who, as The Flying Secretary, raced an airplane across the U.S. in the Powderpuff Derby in 1965. Women's roles were circumscribed after the War, but many had to work to supplement family incomes as the children grew older and needed more support in starting their own careers. And many wanted something meaningful to do. My Mom went back to school after we kids grew up and later took her teaching experience and love of music to start a community orchestra in a small town in IL.

There were other historical events that informed family trajectories. The Great Depression and World War II left their marks on everyone, of course. Esther, whose first husband worked at Los Alamos, left him for a woman and then temporarily left her to have a child. She lived to be over a 100; in that time frame she worked as a censor during WWII and did a similar job for 3 years in Germany after the war. Her mother supported the family during the Depression as a seamstress and a Christian Science healer. In my family, the Depression was responsible for much roaming. My grandpa played in a jazz band in Chicago during the Capone years and remembered being present for a gangster confrontation. "Keep playing," one of the gangsters growled. Dad, who as a radioman listened to Tokyo Rose, was at Guadalcanal after the Sullivan brothers got killed, and was on a troop transport that took wounded from Okinawa back to the West Coast. Mom lived through the Vanport flood. Dad went to college on the GI bill.

Then, there is the entire immigrant experience. So many stories, so many people. I remember hearing of a woman in Colorado who went crazy with the loneliness and hard work, holed up in the homestead, and held off her entire family with a shotgun. While insanity may not have been the only response, my great aunt told us that Grandma married at a very late age, mid-thirties, just to escape all the hard work of the eldest daughter on a farm.

I think I'd like to research family stories, for my family at the very least. It would be an interesting way to combine my interest in history and my attempts to find meaning in the lives that are lived around me. People have endless ways of being and creating and just living: how do we grow as a people and as individuals? How do we tell our stories, to ourselves and to others? My aunt's story is particularly tragic, of course, but it's also inspiring in its way. Her tragedy is one of mental illness within (or created by?) a stultifying society. What leads one to paranoia? What series of frustrations and attacks and sorrows brought her from the bright adventurous pilot to the ranting schizophrenic? And yet, she managed to break the mold that had been set for her, at least for awhile. She was a fighter, and it was unknown women like her who set the stage for later battles, who provided the background for the Amelia Earhearts. Not everyone can succeed, but everyone can fight.

No, I wouldn't write this for R's kids' nonfiction list. And, it's probably not possible to find all the facts of these half-heard stories. But it is possible to set that scene, that history. It's possible to find the arc of the family story. Maybe someone will want to hear it. Maybe it has meaning, in the big picture.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Status Update

A friend posted a Facebook status by Anne Lamott which brought several things to mind.

Musing #1....
I LOVE Anne Lamott  Why don't I read more of her stuff?  Why don't I follow her writing advice in  Bird by Bird?  Then again, why do I even attempt to write? She's saying everything I want to say, and better.  It is validating to have someone of her caliber doing what I do:  writing about the every day stuff and posting to Facebook. But, her everyday stuff has larger implications, and her whining is to mine as a Bach Cantata is to Abba.

I sometimes feel guilty that I spend so much time focusing on First World Problems.  Yes, I am in Year 1 of a divorce.  Yes, I have ten years of stress behind me,  relational and financial.  Yes, I do not know what I want to be when I grow up.  Yes, I quit my job about 3 years too early, without knowing how I will be supporting myself 6 months hence. Yes, it appears that my traveling days are over, or at least in abeyance.  Yes, it will be difficult if not impossible to lose weight and get back to my CycleOregon shape.  Yes, it is unlikely I will ever be partnered again.

But who cares?  I have food, shelter, companionship, worthwhile work to do, music to make (and the ability to do so), things to create.  I have the potential to envision and craft a new life.  The elements currently present in my life are soul-affirming:  beauty around me, savory food within me, activities that stretch or console me.  And I am aware of that every moment.   As I type I am listening to wind chimes, watching the pinon dance, seeing E's white hair glowing in the sun, rejoicing that the birds have found the seed I scattered for them, getting ready to go listen to Christmas music in a beautiful old Catholic church in Cerrillos.

So, even though "the mind is a bad room-mate," I have other room-mates that bring much delight.

Musing #2
Facebook is usually banal, and the connections I make there are often trivial, but it is a window onto many worlds that I find interesting, invigorating, thought-provoking.  I know that my daily haiku-sometimes-mit-photo is none of those....it's more of a journal....but it's worth it to find out what other people are doing or thinking.  Living on my mountain, I am in touch with the weather and the local wildlife, but not much else.  Of course, I could just lurk and not post, but it seems if you don't post, your lurking misses out on certain posts, and people don't send things directly to you.  In other words, you are not part of the conversation. For example, Deb, who is not a friend but a person I admire who let me "friend" her, "liked" the Anne Lamott post, and her "like" appeared on my timeline because she has "liked" some of my haiku and, voila!  my mind is expanded.

Bonus:  Anne quotes a Rumi poem.  Don't we all like Rumi?  Don't we all want to think like Rumi?

Musing #3
I want to spend more of my time experiencing, and less of it ruminating.


Friday, November 8, 2013

When the heart speaks, take good notes

This is NaNoWriMo, and once again, I am NOT writing a novel.  But, it's only right that I should pay attention to the stories that I am not writing.

E tells me about life in the depression.  She was born in 1915 and grew up on a farm. They had a horse and buggy.  She did the family ironing, including her father's shirts, using a flat iron heated on the wood burning stove.  They moved to the city of Bakersfield when she was 8.  Her father couldn't get carpentry job, and moved out.  Her mother supported the household because she was very good with the needle and "could make a poor figure look good."  Her mother was also a Christian Scientist.  After the war she lived in Germany.  She's been married twice, once to a chemist who worked in the radiation labs and played viola.

I've heard all of these stories so very many times, I could easily write a novel about it.

Then, there are my own stories.  I have travel journals for any trip that lasted more than a week (unless it was a Christmas trip home.)  I have the journal I kept when my sisters and I visited our 93-year-old aunt, shortly before she had to move out of her home.  There's my first trip to Europe with B, right after college.  The trip to Australia with K, where I met R.  The 2nd trip to Europe with B.  The trip to Italy to visit A and then meet up with V in France. Another France trip with V.  A third France trip, followed by a boat ride through the Channel Islands and a train ride up through Wales to Cumbria:  the Millennial Goldsworthy trip.  The visit to Yorkshire and London when my niece was studying abroad for her junior year.  Mexico and Hawaii with D.  Ad infinitim.

But now I'm not doing much external traveling.  This blog has been chronicling the internal journeys for the last few years, and I'm not sure how much more of that I want to think about.  Recently I sent extremely despairing letters to friends, even more despairing than the blogs I've been writing, which my friends and family also read.  It might be useful to have the journals to look back on, but what's the point in worrying people who love you?

When my sister E retired (early), she started keeping a journal.  It's more a date book than a journal:  she wanted to be sure that she had some sense of accomplishment, now that her life was no longer going to be scheduled around a work week.  My friend H (writer/reader extraordinaire) posted Lynda Barry's description of the 4-minute diary:

Why is it so hard to keep a diary?

IT ISN’T!

Keeping a diary is much easier if you limit your writing to four minutes each day: two minutes spent writing a list of what you remember from the day before and then two minutes making a list of things you saw.

I do a version of that, by posting pix and haiku regularly to my facebook account.  It's a way to let myself and others know that I'm alive, and that things are basically okay.   

C says I'm a writer, and have always been one.   But I think that I'm really a frustrated storyteller.  I'm not good at it, and I need a patient audience.  D used to interrupt me constantly, and then I'd be silenced and go pouting off to my morning pages or blog and spew out my thoughts, complete with a dose of whine.  That's not writing, though.  It's processing.  I need to feel like I'm alive, like I'm doing something.  I need to feel like I'm connecting with someone.  So, I blog, and I post, and I look for the comments and the "likes" and I re-read what I wrote a year ago and I think....have I progressed at all?   

At one time I kept my morning pages religiously, and I also ticked off activities from the online record, Joe's Goals.  These were more private:  only I saw them.  The morning pages were often laundry lists of things I needed to do, as well as things that made me feel bad about myself as well as rants about D or about work.  The goals were things like walking, knitting, origami, writing letters, tai chi chuh, practising, drinking 8 glasses of water, crafting, lifting weights, yoga....a mix of creativity and self-care.  It was like giving myself gold stars.

Now I'm at a place where work does not distract me, but I have nothing to say.  The stories really do depend on an active life.  So....let's see about that four minute diary.
  • D came in at around 5:45 with tales of wrecks and horrible traffic in Santa Fe.  I determined to take 599 to rehearsal.  
  • M gave me keys to the SF office and we talked about early music, the coop, and caregiving.  She said that it took a friend of hers a full year to get the caregiving organized for his parent, and that he wound up with two full-time caregivers.  Another friend had 4 caregivers.  All for one person.  It's a darn expensive proposition.
  • I got the code to 1st presbyterian church back door, so next time we rehearse there I don't have to stand in the cold until another person arrives.
  • Driving to SF in the dark featured a beautiful crescent moon.  After rehearsal, it was low and yellow on the horizon.
Okay, that's over two minutes.
  • I saw the moon.
  • I saw Venus, bright over the mountain as the sun set.  The mountain was blue-black and craggy.
  • I saw rocks and dirt as I dug out rocks and continued to create the labyrinth.
  • golden sun, blue sky
  • a spider, drowning in the shower water (I took it outside, crumpled and dead looking on a magazine.  It was gone 20 minutes later
  • dust on a picture
  • lots of zits on my face.  :(
And that's over two minutes, too.  I seem to remember a lot of banal things.  But, it is proof that I am alive, I guess.