Category Archives: writing, writers, and stuff we like

The whole big, beautiful, ridiculous idea

Posted on May 10, 2012 | 17 Comments

In December, 2010, I write an email to my friend. I tell him I have this crazy idea: a year-long project during which I will consciously, unabashedly dedicate myself to spreading love. I tell him all about the coffee shop text, the way it affected me, how it stayed with me for days. I tell him how kindness begets kindness, love begets love. I tell him, damn it, the world needs more kindness and love, and I don’t care if I sound like a song lyric.

(I am lying. I do care. Half of me is alive and humming with the possibility of launching a big, ridiculously hopeful year-long project… the other half is embarrassed by my own enthusiasm. I compensate for my inner dissonance by typing faster.)

I tell my friend that the world is too full of cynicism and snark, and that I can’t imagine a more worthy use of my time and energy than to spend one year actively attempting to counterbalance the ugliness. It’ll be my act of rebellion, I say, my stab at something truly beautiful in the face of the world’s unbelievable cruelty, its violence, intolerance and raging indifference.

And that’s when the cynic inside me saunters out of the shadows of my reptilian brain function and up into my frontal lobes like she owns the place. “Really, j?” she says, her voice dripping disdain. “A love project? How… adorable.”

I stop writing. I stare at the screen, at my blinking cursor, my exuberant note (typed at lightning speed in the hopes of outrunning the very voice that’s addressing me now), and I imagine my friend reading my words, the smile spreading across his face, the shake of his head, the (affectionate) roll of his eyes.

In that moment, my face burns. I feel intensely sappy, embarrassingly earnest. My finger hovers over the X that will make my message – and this whole big, beautiful, ridiculous idea – disappear.

~ From The Fearless Love Essays (which will be available in June if it kills me!)

~~~~~

Last week, in a piece for Fear Of Writing titled “Getting Personal,” I talked about why I’ve felt myself more and more drawn to “the fearlessness of writers telling their own stories, as openly, as honestly, as nakedly as they know how,” and why I decided to write The Love Essays. If you haven’t stopped by, please do. Corny as it sounds, I’m sentimental about sharing the piece with you… the Love Project started right here, after all, with you guys urging me on.

~~~~~

Recently, I read a collection of essays by a young writer named Chloe Caldwell. Her work is fearless and tender and arresting, and as I read her book, Legs Get Led Astray, I wondered how different my life would be if I’d dived into writing when it first tugged me, way back in elementary school, instead of decades later, in my thirties, when I returned to college and found my feeble, barely beating writer’s heart in a creative writing class. I can’t imagine where Chloe will be at my age, many years (and hopefully many books) from now, but she infuses me with hope when I read her words… hope for girls, for young artists, for brave-head-on-unfiltered-straight-through-the-heart love.

I interviewed Chloe for Used Furniture Review and she was just as bold and quirky and wonderful as I thought she’d be. I hope you’ll go read us.

~~~~~

I keep meeting cool people on Facebook. If we haven’t met there, we should.
xo

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Our crunchy stories

Posted on April 12, 2012 | 35 Comments

I can’t decide which post I want to write – the one about perfectionism, the one about getting naked, or the one about handling criticism. All three have been on my mind lately, rumbling around in my brain, writing themselves in my head when I’m driving, or in the shower, or on the phone so I can’t stop easily to get my thoughts down on paper.

All three are on my mind now too, so rather than tease one out and shape it into a post, let’s talk about all three. I think they’re related anyway, the undercurrents of a creative life.

… On perfectionism

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and on my way to the bathroom, I thought this: the Love Essays don’t have to be perfect, they have to be honest; they have to be true. It was a reassuring thought, but I had to let it to go because waking up in the middle of the night is a dicey proposition for me. If I let my brain get started on even the tiniest of things, there’s a good chance I won’t be able to coax it back to sleep. Thinking about all the times when my desire to write something dazzling and masterful has prevented me from writing anything at all is a sure way to be up all night.

I was able to go back to sleep by telling myself I didn’t need to write a post on the dangers of perfectionism. I could just show you Robin Black’s piece, “Writer’s Block: On The Persistence of Demons” because it’s all about the stultifying effects of wanting to write (be, live) perfect.

… On getting naked

In writing the Love Essays, I’m attempting a literary nakedness that is new to me. It’s not that I’ve never dug deep before; I have. But it’s different pouring myself into a fictional piece. Writing fiction is like dancing naked… but doing it under all my clothes so only I know. Writing openly about my own experiences… that’s more like pole dancing in a strip joint under a white-hot spotlight.

In her inspiring post for Writer Unboxed, author Robin LaFevers says:

In order to take our writing to the next level we must embrace our strange, unique, and often embarrassing selves and write about the things that really matter to us. We need to be willing to peel our own layers back until we reach that tender, raw, voiceless place—the place where our crunchiest stories come from.

I think that’s right. I spend a lot of time feeling jagged and uncertain these days, wondering as I write what to put in, what to leave out, certain I’ve nailed it one minute and then just as certain the next that I’ve fallen short. I think that’s okay. I think that’s how it feels to be in the “tender, raw, voiceless place.”

… On handling criticism

Here’s the thing about “the next level.” It’s scary. That’s why it’s called “the next level.” If it weren’t scary and challenging and occasionally nauseating, we’d call it something innocuous like, “right over there” or “just over yonder.” Let’s face it, taking your art (work, relationship, life) “just over yonder” is way less frightening than taking it to “the next level.”

The next level is scary and, by definition, unfamiliar. So when you get criticized there, told that you’re doing it wrong or that you are (as your demons have said) not good enough, it’s tempting to want to jump back to the level you know. But don’t. It’s not about your critics. It’s not about what other people think you should or shouldn’t do. It’s about you and your own unquestionable, unstoppable, dogged evolution… that especially crunchy story only you can tell.

(It’s true that I wrote that last part for me, but I’m leaving it in just in case you need to be reminded too. And if you’re feeling stung by a critic or critics, read this from Tara Sophia Mohr about the nature of feedback; it’ll make you feel better.)

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My journey to the (emoticon) dark side

Posted on March 29, 2012 | 37 Comments

Years ago, when I first ventured online, I shunned the use of emoticons. I didn’t mind when other people used them, but I knew they weren’t for me. I believed they were a shortcut for people who wanted to communicate without sweating the actual words.

But sweating the actual words is what I do all day. I love words. My reverence for the power (the music, the magic) of language knows no bounds. True or not, I feel defensive when people say that a picture is worth a thousand words.

And anyway, I reasoned (social network newbie that I was), how hard could it be for a writer to make herself understood? I’ll be fine. Just me and my very precise, very selective, very graceful (famous last) words.

http://goodwizz.blogspot.com/2011/09/history-of-emoticons-and-smileys.html

x

My journey to the dark side was slow and reluctant. It took a few years and more than a few misunderstandings – not just with messages I’d written but also with messages I received. I once got a stinging tweet from a friend to which I responded with an earnest, heartfelt, overly long email trying to understand where his anger came from. He wrote back, “Oops. Forgot the smiley. Read it again with a smiley at the end.”

I did. It changed everything.

Not long after that, I had a similar situation in reverse. This time I was the tweeter, and the feelings hurt were someone else’s. I too asked the offended party to read the tweet again with a smiley at the end. She did, and she said okay, but our online relationship has never felt the same.

That incident was the beginning of my slide. I realized it was more important for me to properly communicate tone than stay strident on the question of emoticon usage. In the end, people’s feelings are worth more than my delicate writer’s ego, and humor – especially subversive or satirical humor – is hard to nail in writing. I may wish it were otherwise, but I’ve had to face facts: I’m no David Sedaris. In twitter-length communication, without benefit of my actual, real-life smile (tone of voice, posture, unwavering willingness to resort to slapstick), I’m much more likely to be misunderstood.

I wouldn’t call myself an emoticon advocate, but these days, when in doubt, I :).

How about you?

~~~~~~~~~~

I’m taking a break next week to grab some necessary downtime. I’ll be writing, and reading, and writing, and hiking, and writing, and planting, and then writing some more. I’ll be posting something special over at A Human Thing this Monday, and I’ll meet you back here on April 12th.

In the meantime, I just want to say that you guys totally rock. Thank you for all you give me… it is more than you can possibly know.

xox

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Sister Helen Prejean’s a badass

Posted on March 15, 2012 | 25 Comments

Above my desk is this quote from Sister Helen Prejean: I watch what I do to see what I really believe.

It’s there to remind me that talk really is cheap, that getting where I want to be takes movement, being who I want to be takes action.

Yesterday, working on the (fearless) love essays, venturing into powerfully emotional, uncharted territory in myself, I kept forgetting about the details of the day. I was late to pick up The Boy (twice), late to make dinner, late to go to bed.  I forgot to return a phone call and a number of emails. I left most of my to-do list undone. I forgot today was a post day here on ZS.

On the other hand…

x
I believe I’m capable of creative badassery.

I believe love changes everything.

I believe the people who love you love your passion
even (especially) when it rules the day.

I believe words (like sticks and stones) can hurt me…
and heal and connect and transform me.

I believe we make time
for the things that truly matter to us,
which is why Sister Helen Prejean’s quote is so amazing,
so simple and scary and sharp
and true.

What do you believe; what will you DO today?

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So create

Posted on March 1, 2012 | 35 Comments

“When you don’t create things, you become defined by your tastes rather than ability. Your tastes only narrow & exclude people. So create.” 
~ Why The Lucky Stiff

A friend shared this quote with me. It was tweeted by a guy who called himself “Why The Lucky Stiff.” I know. It’s quite an alias, and the guy was, apparently, quite a computer programmer (prolific writer, cartoonist, musician, artist). He’s very enigmatic and mysterious, and I spent way too much time learning about him and his virtual disappearance in August, 2009.

But this post isn’t about him. It’s about that quote, which has been rolling around in my head ever since I first read it. It feels very powerful to me, even though I’m not sure what Why meant when he wrote it.

Here’s my stab at it though…

Creatives need to create – to feel whole, to feel purposeful, to feel alive. Every writer I’ve ever known feels terrible when they aren’t writing. And maybe “terrible” isn’t even a strong enough word because I’m not sure it gets at the guilt, self-loathing and existential angst that writers who aren’t writing face every day. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that this is true of all artists. Painters need to paint, musicians need to play, dancers need to dance.

When we don’t, we must define ourselves by lesser things – our “tastes,” which are, by definition, narrow and exclusionary. For example, if I say that I loved, loved, loved the Twilight movies, I will find my tribe, no doubt, but I will also lose a bunch of people, because that’s how tastes work. We naturally align ourselves with like-minded beings and to some degree judge the ones that don’t share our preferences.

I sincerely believe the reaction would be different if I were to say that I made the Twilight movies. Even if you didn’t like them, you might be interested in how I got into making movies, what drew me to the Twilight project, what’s next on my obviously enormously exciting horizon.

If someone tells me that they read mystery novels, our discussion will be short. I don’t read mystery novels, and I can’t think of very much to say on the subject. On the other hand, if they say they write mystery novels, I’m suddenly full of interest. I want to know if they’ve been published, how many books they’ve written, how does one write a mystery – beginning to end, or the other way around. I’m interested in the process, the experience of being a mystery writer.

There is a certain excitement around the act of creation, almost no matter what is being created. “I made a film.” “I painted a portrait.” “I started a company.” I danced, acted, sewed, knitted, wrote, built, launched… I created. There is passion there, and it’s the passion as much as the achievement itself that is fascinating, big, inclusive.

Of course I’m not saying the reason to create is so that we can be more interesting at parties; that’s just a bonus. I’m saying (or I think Why was saying) that in the act of creation we expand ourselves. We give expression to our ideas and passions, and in bringing them into the world, we are able to connect with each other; in the words of Michael Chabon, “Every work of art is one half of a secret handshake, a challenge that seeks the password, a heliograph flashed from a tower window, an act of hopeless optimism in the service of bottomless longing.”

Yeah. It’s like that… so create.

I’d love to hear your take on the quote, if you like it or don’t, what you think it means.

(Important Note: I’ve never seen or read Twilight. I have no opinion.
Please don’t yell at me.)

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Posted in creative badassery, michael chabon Love, writing, writers, and stuff we like

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My Valentine’s Date with Sugar

Posted on February 16, 2012 | 17 Comments

On Valentine’s Day, I went to The Rumpus’s coming out party for (Dear) Sugar. A couple of hours before the party, because I was brave enough to ask and she was generous enough to say yes, I got to sit down with her one-on-one and ask questions about being Sugar and coming out and what it all means to Cheryl Strayed (who, now we all know, is Sugar).

Anyone who’s been reading my blog for a while knows how I feel about her, how wise and kind and utterly badass I think she is. I’m honored she shared part of her big day with me. I wrote about it all on Used Furniture Review. My essay is “Sugar Love: Dispatches From A Coming Out Party.” Go, read it; I tried hard to write like a motherfucker.

I’ll be back here over the weekend with a little surprise for you.

xo

p.s. Cheryl’s memoir, WILD, is coming out March 20, 2012. It’s one of the most anticipated releases of the year. I’ve read it and it rearranged my heart. I’ll be interviewing her for that too. There will be a Sugar book coming out July 10, 2012. I’m VERY excited.

 

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Posted in interviews and reviews, writing, writers, and stuff we like

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This one is a poem

Posted on February 9, 2012 | 64 Comments

On this, my last post before Valentine’s Day, I wrote you a poem…

I know it’s a little hard to read, especially that last line, so here it is all typed out…

If I loved you, I would tell you this.

I am an emotional creature,
running with scissors
after dark,
attempting
self-help
during
cocktail hour under the tree of forgetfulness.

You are
the history of love,
wild
varieties of disturbance,
the feast of love,
a map of the world,
a good hard look,
the chronology of water,
a whack on the side of the head.

And…
no one belongs here more than you.

xo

 

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How the pendulum swings

Posted on February 2, 2012 | 43 Comments

1.

I’ve written about the idea of balance before, usually work-life balance (as if they are separate entities). Lately I find myself contemplating (and by “contemplating,” I mean stressing over, discussing endlessly, writing about, and wrestling with) the balance between connection and solitude.

I love connection. I crave it. After having spent most of my adult life battling my (at times debilitating) shyness, I’ve spent the last few years ditching the shy girl, wading out into the currents of my life as if I believe I’m as fearless as I pretend to be. The funny thing about acting brave is that it forces you to be brave. It’s been an amazing, bruising, awkward and often embarrassing time for me. I never, ever want to go back.

And yet…

At the risk of beating a dead metaphor, I do sometimes feel caught up in the rapids of so many smart, creative, fascinating people doing smart, creative, fascinating things. The number of hours I have in a day never changes, and it seems no matter how careful I am with them, there is always (ALWAYS!) one more blog to read, one more person to meet with, one more worthy cause to embrace.

2.

I have two friends on opposite ends of the connection-solitude divide. One is absolutely connected, plugged in, aware. She works for a non-profit, keeps up with what’s going on in the world, reads an astounding number of blogs, essays, articles and books. She’s an involved mother of a teenager. She goes on walks with her husband every evening. I know she makes time for her friends because I’m one of them.

Feeling myself to be often on the ragged edge of overload, I asked her how she does it and it was as if I’d pulled off her superhero cape. “Seriously, j,” she said, “I’m losing my mind. Something’s gotta give.”

My other friend has some very internal work to do. He’s pulled away from all his connections. He has his (sound and soulful) reasons for doing that, but it’s left him feeling dislocated, adrift and out of touch. He’s staying clear of the yucky stuff – the big, bad, stressful stuff – it’s true, but he’s also missing out on the tiny, brave and beautiful things that make up the lives of the people he loves, or could love, if he were here among us to see them.

3.

The truth is, we humans need to feel both connectedness and solitude. Author Susan Cain says we “have two contradictory impulses: we love and need one another, yet we crave privacy and autonomy. “

To be our best, most loving and creative selves, we need both time to connect and time to be alone. Our connections on and offline offer us not only love and support, but new perspectives on familiar issues, new ideas, critical analysis. Solitude then gives us the chance to process all that newness, reject what doesn’t work, embrace what does, and then make the necessary adjustments to our world view.

I get inspired by the world outside my door, by people, by nature, by art, by my conversations, my debates, my everyday interactions. But I can’t create out there. In the words of super Zen genius Leo Babauta, “It’s only when we are alone that we can reach into ourselves and find truth, beauty, soul.”

4.

Although I often suspect it’s just a myth, or an experience (like orgasms) too blissful to stay in all the time, I still find myself searching for the balance point between connection and solitude. I set limits to how many emails I’ll respond to in a sitting, how long I’ll play on Twitter, how many news stories and blog posts I’ll read in a day. I try to be fiercely protective of my writing time.

But the reality is that I tend to swing from one extreme to another, from connection to solitude and back again. I struggle against my restless demons, feeling out of touch and a little antsy when I focus for days on a project, and guilty about the work that isn’t getting done when I’m busy connecting, meeting with people who fascinate or love or inspire me.

If there is such a thing as balance, maybe it’s just a matter of accepting how the pendulum swings. Maybe it’s less about divvying up perfectly the hours in a day, and more about embracing the mess of a fully lived life, where people get loved and work gets done and cool stuff gets made in fits and spurts, and it’s okay that it doesn’t happen neatly. It’s okay to feel, by turns, productive and then wildly irresponsible, focused and then utterly scattered. The well gets emptied and then it gets filled, and it’s okay that I spend so little time at the half way point… everything just so.

In fact, I’m beginning to understand that it’s more than okay.

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Getting it up

Posted on January 26, 2012 | 33 Comments

The thing about creativity is that unless you make a living practicing your art, it’s easy to deprioritize it. (Note: WordPress is saying deprioritize isn’t a word, but I’m sticking to it because WordPress also says that WordPress isn’t a word.)

On the to-do list you might not even have had time to write today, “make something awesome” would likely fall somewhere near the bottom, after “drop off the kids-prescription-dry cleaning-car,” “write the report,” “attend the meeting,” “reassure the boss,” “pick up the the kids-prescription-dry cleaning-car,” “do the laundry” “pay the bills,” “cook, clean, cry, collapse.”

It’s a perfectly understandable, soul-killing decision to NOT make something awesome. But as day after day passes in this frenzied “I have no time for creative badassery” mode, the muscle that creates your art – your wicked imagination – atrophies. It gets harder and harder to get it up.

So to speak.

I don’t want that to happen to you (or me), so I made a list of five ways to sneak back up on our creative natures. These ideas are small, but powerful… like Altoids.

  1. Unplug.
    Even if only for a few minutes each day, unplug your phone, your computer, your TV, your radio, and every device you have that starts with a lower case “i.” Immerse yourself in your physical surroundings. If at all possible, get dirty.
    *
  2. Take a picture.
    I seriously think cameras are magical in their ability to change our perspectives. Don’t believe me? Look at Marcie Scudder’s rainy day, Jen Erbe’s birches, jb’s kitchen table, my picture of stillness…
    *

    And – bonus! – the “make something awesome” goal is built right into this one!
    *
  3. Do something out of character.
    Wear a kilt or a tutu (or, for me, something purple). Publicly display your affection, throw yourself a surprise party, tell someone in no uncertain terms that what they do makes your knees weak, your head spin, your throat dry… and even with all that, you hope they never, ever stop.
    *
  4. Play.
    Alone or with your lover, your crush, your best friend, your kid, your parents, a perfect (or not-so-perfect) stranger. Do something, anything. Just. For. Fun.
    *
  5. Fuck should.
    For a day, an afternoon, an amazing hour of precious freedom, don’t do anything just because you should.

It may be that the awesome thing you make… is you.

xo

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What we mean when we talk about art

Posted on January 19, 2012 | 50 Comments

For a long time, I considered fiction my art. My essays, articles, interviews, book reviews and blog posts were something else. Writing, but not art.

Then I read a post by Tara Mohr. It was a great post that, unfortunately, I can’t find now, but it talked about how she left the corporate world to pursue “her art,” and it was clear that she was talking about everything she does now, all the writing, speaking and teaching women to play big and believe in themselves.

I remember being struck by the phrase. Tara’s book is called 10 Rules for Brilliant Women and while I think any book that attempts to teach women how to own (and wield) their brilliance is important and worthy… is it art?

Not long after reading Tara’s piece, I read this from Stephen Elliott in the Daily Rumpus. “We were talking yesterday about how there are artists in every medium,” he said. “You can be an artist and a cook, an artist and a small business owner.” He mused that the definition may lie in what you’re trying to do and why, whether you’re out for a paycheck or genuinely trying to create something good, something meaningful.

And then I read this from Seth Godin:

Art is a uniquely human endeavor, and act of genius. Art is what we do when we do something for the first time, do it uniquely, and do it to touch someone else. The generosity is built into the act. Painting might be art, pottery might be art, customer service might be art–but none of them are art if all you’re doing is commerce, or phoning it in, or following a manual or a map.

Art is where we expose ourselves, because in addition to being human, we really have no choice but to accept failure. And it’s failure (or the potential for failure) that creates art. When we talk about emulating the bodhisattva, we accept the risk that maybe we won’t touch anyone, won’t shed any light, won’t make a difference.

The only way to do art, real art, is to embrace that risk. To do less is to hide.

That is beautiful and rings true to me. In her most recent column, Sugar at the Rumpus said, “I’ve written [the Dear Sugar column] as a body of work in a way more akin to a novel or memoir than a years-long Q & A. There’s a beginning, middle and end.” I agree completely , and there is no doubt in my mind that what Sugar has created is art.

As my notion of what constitutes art changes and expands, I find myself contemplating other questions. Is everyone who blogs “a writer,” everyone who paints “an artist,” everyone who takes pictures “a photographer”? Do the titles mean anything objective? Should they?

I’m drawn to the idea of art being about more than the finished product. I like definitions that include intent and meaning. Is my reluctance to call everyone who writes poetry “a poet” reflexive, or do we owe it to the poets who have studied and read and honed their craft not to place just anyone in their ranks?

What do you think? What constitutes art to you?

~~~~~

Some odds and ends…

First of all, I can’t thank you enough for your support and comments and enthusiasm over the launch of A Human Thing. If I’d scripted the day myself, I would not have written it as wonderful as you all made it. My gratitude knows no bounds.

If you haven’t actually watched the video I made, I hope you will. I’m proud of it, and it was, like everything on the new site, a collaboration. Lots of talent and love went into its making.

Finally, my review of Deborah Jiang Stein’s new memoir, Even Tough Girls Wear Tutus, is up at Used Furniture Review. Go see!

xo

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