Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Immortality

I am absolutely obsessed with journaling. I write almost every day, even when I haven't done any other writing. I write in my journals first. ( They are plural because I keep one on my computer, one that is handwritten and sometimes I write in journals that have specific themes, like my writing journal.) I've been trying to transfer this obsession over to blogging, but I still think that what I write in my blogs should have a point, which my journals rarely do.

A sample from May 20th:

That's weird. I was just watching House Hunters and the woman's name was Joanna and then I switched to What Not to Wear and the woman's name there was also Joanna. Guenther thinks I watch WNTW too much and it's making me paranoid about my looks. I disagree. I've always been paranoid about my looks! It's just that now the issues are different (somewhat); they're more about my aging than my weight. I'm not exactly happy about my weight, but I realize (partly because of WNTW) that I can still look good. And I love my hair now, the color and the style. I also know how to use makeup more skillfully—I even think that it makes me look younger and fresher. But I am sorely in need of plastic surgery, which I will never get. If I had the money, would I? If I had plenty of money I might, but I'd be scared, too. It's just my jawline—damn, damn, damn. Guenther keeps saying that I look great. He's nuts. I may look good for 56 but I want to look 40! Don't want too much, do I??


I include this sample because it's about one of my other obsessions: my concern about my looks, which I write about ad nauseum in my journals. I can't imagine how boring my journals would be to another person. Which brings up another point: What the hell am I going to do with all these journals? I've kept all of them since I was 20 (and I'm sorry I threw away the ones from high school). But I rarely even look at them. Why do I even write them? Somehow I feel as if my life is more real if I write about it. But instead of writing essays or articles based on my experiences, I write primarily in my journals.


I intend to hold onto my journals until I die and I've told my husband that I want him to keep them for my kids. That makes for uncomfortable writing sometimes; it's hard to be completely honest when you know there's a chance that someone else may be reading them later on. I try to be as honest as I can, but I know that I often hold back on my anger or my dislikes, because I don't want to hurt anyone. And I don't reveal everything about myself because I'm afraid I'd be embarrassed. But if no one reads them until I'm dead, what do I care?I guess I'm afraid that my kids will find out things about me that put me in an unflattering light. Maybe that's one reason I don't re-read my journals. I don't want to give in to the urge to edit them or throw them away.


Will anyone else ever read them? Maybe someone in the future will find them mildly interesting. I don't know. It's odd to think that you'd leave behind something about yourself that is so revealing, because you won't have the opportunity to explain anything. People will just think what they're going to think. Again, I'll be dead, so what will I care? I think the main reason I write in my journals--and intend to leave them behind--is so that I will have left a mark on the world. Maybe no one will be interested, maybe only a few will be. But at least my journals will be out there. I think that's better than just an epitaph on a gravestone.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

Nothing to Say

It's been 13 days since I last wrote in here. I told myself that I was going to start blogging regularly, but it's easy to let it go by the wayside. And it doesn't help that I think I have to write entire essays instead of just jotting down what's going on in my life and my head on a given day. I'm not usually coherent enough to write a well-crafted piece, so I figure I don't have anything to say.

Well, I don't have anything to say today. Except that I dreamed last night that I got out into the world and started observing people and listening to their conversations. And as I dreamed, I noted to myself that this is what I should be doing to get material for my writing. (I actually dreamed that I was a writer!) I tend to shut myself up inside my house and try to pry something interesting out of my brain without putting anything in it to inspire me. But even when I'm in a group of people, I sit back and watch rather than be the center of attention. So I'm still alone, in a way.

Frankly, I question whether I ever have anything to say. I admire writers like Richard Selzer whose career as a surgeon so beautifully informs what he writes. What could I write that would possibly be of interest to people? No, more than that, what is it about my life that adds texture and depth to what I write?

On the surface, I'm a white married middle-aged mother of four and grandmother of one. I'm sure that's how my co-workers view me. But I've gone through three divorces, married four times, was once married to a minister, am now married to a man fourteen years my junior who is also German, worked at the post office for sixteen years, earned my Bachelor's degree when I was 53, live in the inner city and suffer from chronic depression and anxiety. There's a lot of material right there. But I have a tendency to discount my experiences because they're not as exciting or dramatic as some people's. I figure I have nothing to say that would add to the collective wisdom of humanity.

I need to get over this if I'm to be a writer. No life is inconsequential. If I can see the interesting things about others' lives, why can't I see them in my own? I think it has a lot to do with my lack of self-confidence. If I'm down on myself in general, I'm also going to be down on my writing. It takes a certain amount of ego to be a writer, and my ego has taken a beating. (It was never that strong to begin with.) I need to find what it is about myself that makes me worth knowing if I am ever going to be able to write anything worth reading.

Friday, May 09, 2008

My New Laptop

I just got a new computer, a laptop, and my husband has been knocking himself out trying to get my files off of my old computers (a Thinkpad and an iMac) and onto the new one. He's been using Box.net which has worked fine except for the Mariner files he uploaded from the iMac. This is unfortunate because my "novel" is almost entirely on the iMac. I guess I should have stuck to the Thinkpad. All those files are downloading just fine. I was just trying out the iMac to see if I liked it, but it was so old, it wasn't really a fair representation. At any rate, I'm back with Windows on a laptop.

I really liked my IBM Thinkpad. I bought it used on eBay for $400 and I've been using it for four years. The only problem I had was that the display went out. Possible an easy fix, but I never wanted to spend the money just to have it checked out. So I hooked up a monitor to the laptop, opened it and slid the display part under the top of a computer desk with the laptop on the keyboard shelf. Sort of a glorified keyboard, I guess. But I loved the feel of the keyboard and it was always reliable. It just ran out of memory. I couldn't fit much more on it and when I surfed the Internet it was really slow.

Now I have a Lenovo laptop and I love it. I don't know all its stats, but it runs beautifully and it's really fast. And of course the fact that I can take it anywhere is an added plus. I've been spending all my computer time on the sofa. Not having to be shut up in my office (so-called) has made it easier to spend more time writing. And when I get bored with television, I can still sit with my husband in the evenings and surf the Net or do some writing.

That might be a drawback. It's tempting to spend all my time on the computer now that I can settle in anywhere. And I'm not close to my files. But this way, I'm stripped down to just writing, not messing with stuff on my desk. I've been writing blogs like crazy, both for Miteypen and for Femagination. I've been organizing my files on this one computer (I was scattered over three!), collecting all my "works-in-progress" in one folder on my desktop, trying to determine which ones to go on and finish. And a side benefit is that I've been snacking less because my hands are on the keyboard more than they're in the cupboard!

I'm looking forward to taking my new laptop out in public. (Did I mention that it has Wi-fi?) I've always envied people who have been able to take their laptops to the local coffee shops. Now I can join them. I may only be surfing the Internet, but it will give me a chance to get out of the house and do a little people-watching at the same time. Writers do need to get out there once in a while.

Why did my husband buy me a laptop? It wasn't for a special occasion, which puzzled me. But then he said that he felt a writer needed to have the right equipment. He was right.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

Giving Away Our Art

Today I "gave away" a story of mine to a website. It's not even one that showcases creative writing. It was just a "Share Your Story" set-up. Most of the stories there were simply things like "I have been depressed for 20 years" and "I have tried X (medication) and it doesn't work for me." Mine is an essay I wrote for a contest. I was one of seven finalists (I've been telling myself that surely there were more than seven entrants!). But I realized as I submitted the story that my writing is not about being published traditionally but about getting my stories out there in the hopes that what I've written can help someone else. Not only that, but just because most of the other stories are more like notes, doesn't mean that they aren't real writing. The writers may not consider what they wrote to be "creative writing." But anything that we create is art, and what is art but self-expression?

I would gladly write for free--at least for awhile. I haven't developed the commercial mindset. As long as my writing is published, I'm happy. The money is just a form of validation and the way that this society measures success. By that standard I am only remotely successful. I have made exactly $1400 in all the years that I've been writing. But one of my proudest accomplishments was the publishing of "Grief Garden" (see archives, 12/19/05) in an anthology called From Eulogy To Joy. I'm proud not only of the piece, but because of the venue in which it was published. I felt honored to be included in an anthology about how people have dealt with the loss of a loved one. I have no idea how many people have read my essay, or what they thought of it, but I know it's there, available to anyone who picks up the book.

What does it really matter if we're paid for our art? Oh, sure, we'd love to be able to make a living doing what we love. For one thing, then we'd have more time to do it. But I'm going to write anyway. And a lot of what happens to me at my "day job" informs what I write. I'd miss out on that input if I didn't do anything else but produce my art.

Of course, being paid is just one way to be recognized. I doubt that any of us would complain if we were mentioned in a public venue as one of this century's greatest writers, albeit an unpaid one. Maybe it would be better if no one was ever paid for his or her art. Then we could be sure that what was created was done for love of the art itself. I know I can tell a difference in my writing when I'm trying to write for publication and writing "for myself." I usually don't care for the former. I don't always care for the latter either, but at least I'm free from anxiety when I'm writing. Anxiety makes it difficult for me to be creative. I do better in an atmosphere of complete self-acceptance. When I feel that I have a God-given right to write.

Of course, with that right comes responsibility. (That's what "they" always say.) I have the responsibility to write as well as I can, to not put out any junk, at least not in my final versions. If God gave me the talent--and I believe that He did--then He intends for me to share it with the world, whether I get paid for it or not. He didn't say, "Don't feed the poor unless you get paid to do so." He said, simply, "Feed the poor. Give away the shirt on your back--don't sell it to the poor man who needs one. Treat others the way you want to be treated."

What if art were never shared freely? Sometimes I think that's a danger in this society when admissions to art exhibits, concerts, and plays are more than the average family spends in a week for groceries. (Or longer.) But when I open my eyes, I see that art is all around us, free for the experiencing. It's in the clothes we wear, the way we decorate our homes, the gardens we share with the neighborhood, even in the meals we cook. It most certainly is in nature. But I also see it in architecture and other man-made things. The only difference between these kinds of art and the kind the artist produces is that the artist is trying to reproduce in some way and interpret the meaning of the art in ordinary things.

I'm not saying that it isn't a worthy goal to be paid for our art. I just know that worrying about that stands in the way of my free self-expression. Art is to be shared or it is only the creator's possession. It may cost money to produce, and even to share, but being paid should never be the main motivation. That robs the artist of his joy.

Monday, May 05, 2008

Semantics and Politics

One of the most fascinating aspects of the race between Barack and Hillary is the role that words are playing. Both candidates are highly educated and well-spoken. They give the impression of knowing exactly what they're saying and the effect their words are having. That isn't always true with politicians, even the most polished ones. But I can just see Barack weighing all his words on a scale and Hillary practicing hers in front of a mirror. Some use the word "calculating" to describe Hillary, but the word is just as apt when applied to Barack. They are masters of the use of semantics.

Larry King had several people on his show the other night to gauge their reaction to Barack's denouncement of his ex-pastor. He showed a clip of a portion of Barack's speech. I saw a man who was being so careful to not step in the shit he could barely talk. But others had a whole other range of reactions: He was graciously trying hard to control his anger, he was brave, he was eloquent. Of course the ones who had such laudatory words to say about Barack were supporters of his. The man who supported Hillary was much more temperate in his assessment of Obama's performance. (Notice the tone when I use the word "performance.") Words were being batted around like shuttlecocks. For me, half the fun of political campaigns is dissecting the way words are used in every ad, commercial, debate, news story, op-ed column and sound bite. It isn't hard to tell who supports whom by the words that they use.

I'm especially sensitive about this on Hillary's behalf. She tends to draw out the most unflattering adjectives because of the fact that she's a woman bucking the male system. (Did I mention that I'm a feminist?) For example, there's a world of difference between calling her a fighter and calling her pugnacious. I'm sure that Barack draws his own share of unflattering (insulting?) adjectives but the media seem careful to not allow them to stink up the public arena. The kid gloves are off when it comes to Hillary. That may be my perception, but that's what I find so fascinating: how we use language to serve our purposes and support our positions.

I tend to try to write "equal time" essays where I'm really careful to give each point of view its due. But I think it's a lot more fun to be opinionated. It needs to be done in a classy way, though. And that's where a sophisticated use of language comes in. Throwing words around can be done by anyone. It takes a student of words to do it with style.

Sunday, May 04, 2008

The Imposter Syndrome

I was telling my therapist how I never feel that I'm good enough as a writer and he suggested that I might be suffering from "the imposter syndrome." No matter what accolades come my way, or how hard I worked to earn them, I always feel like they were given to me by mistake. The first time I was paid for something I wrote was in 1994. The publication was Ladies' Home Journal and I was paid $700. I was floored. But instead of thinking that my writing was good enough, I felt that they accepted what I wrote only because the topic was timely. I imagined the editors shaking their heads and saying, "Well, it's all we have to work with." The worst part was that I didn't even get a by-line; the column for which my piece was accepted was written anonymously because it was about things that women keep secret. (I won't divulge here what my secret was.)

My next sale I was a little more proud about even though I didn't get paid nearly as much. But it was an essay that I dashed off late one night in a fit of inspiration and so I figured that was just a fluke. It's when things don't come so easily that I get caught up in the imposter syndrome. Who am I to call myself a writer? I haven't published anything in years. Yes, I write everyday, but I never finish anything so I'm not a writer. What I really mean is that I'm not a famous writer, but how many writers are? And what do I mean by fame? How famous do I have to be before I'll stop feeling like I'm pulling something over on my readers?

The main reason I rarely write in this blog is because I feel presumptuous writing about the writing life as if I was really a writer. As if I had a thing to say that would be helpful or interesting to (other) writers. And the fact that no one except for my husband has visited this blog proves to me that I don't. It's easy for me to come to this conclusion because that's how I view everything I do: as uninteresting, unhelpful, unimportant. As my therapist says, "You never cut yourself a break, do you?" No, I don't. And I don't think I deserve to.

The other day it dawned on me that maybe I've been trying to write in the wrong voice. After all, I'm a gloomy and pessimistic person and I've been trying to write like Ms. Well-Adjusted. No wonder what I write comes out sounding false. It might not always be pleasant reading, but if I want to write "true," I have to let the real me come out. That's the only way I can stop feeling like an imposter. Or at least not as much of one.

If I do have anything to say to other writers it's that I know what it's like to doubt yourself. I wallow in doubt everyday. Some days the only reason I think I'm a writer is because I can't stop writing. I've tried to give it up and I can't. But most days that's not enough to make me feel like a "real" writer. Dr. S (the aforementioned therapist) says that I need to be realistic about what I'm shooting for. It's all right to shoot for the stars as long as you know what is likely to happen--or not happen. He told me that his father made him apply to Harvard and Yale when it came time for him to apply to medical school, even though he didn't have a chance in hell of getting in. Being rejected probably hurt even though he knew he wouldn't be accepted. But he also applied to other schools and was accepted into one of them and became a very good psychiatrist with a thriving practice. Is he a failure because he didn't go to an Ivy League school? If that's all you care about, yes. But if you look at things realistically, it's obvious that he has made it.

I don't submit to or query the top magazines for the same reason that I wouldn't have applied to Harvard or Yale: I don't want to be rejected. And I'm sure I would be. Dr.S's father reasoned that sometimes "ordinary" people get into Ivy League schools, but not if they don't try. I just don't have the guts to put that to the test with the big publications. If I did get something accepted, I would feel like they made a mistake, but that my piece might slip through if no one takes a really good look at it.

Years ago, I got up the nerve to say that I was a writer. I needed to be able to do that. Now I'm going through the same crisis of confidence. I'm older, I haven't published for a while, I'm harder on myself than I was then. I'm afraid that when I say I'm a writer, others are thinking, "Right." But they would probably think that unless I became the next Anne Tyler or Elizabeth Berg. And even then they might not be impressed. Why do I worry about the impression I make on people? The only one who can really say whether I'm a writer or not is myself. So I'm going to try to stop feeling like an imposter and say it proudly: "I am an authentic writer." And then get about the business of writing authentically.