Miteypen

Op-Ed Writing

2009-07-29T11:47:00.003-05:00

I ran across this helpful article the other day: "10 Rules for Writing Opinion Pieces," by Susan Shapiro. Here is a summary, but I suggest you read the entire article.

Be timely or early.
Be very opinionated.
Convey a strong link to your subject.
Add unknown facts.
Don't share the obvious slant.
Keep it short and sweet.
Be aware of your audience.
Don't be afraid to be Sybil.
Don't comment on another commentary.
Follow up.

This article appeared in the May/June issue of Writer's Digest. Click here to order your copy in print. If you prefer a digital download of the issue, click here.

Women Writers and Success

2009-06-04T14:29:00.004-05:00

"From George Sand to George Eliot, Isak Dinesen to E. Nesbit, P. D. James to James Tiptree Jr., there’s a long history of women writers who have used disguised names to realize their ambitions. Even J. K. Rowling—the best-selling author of all time—adopted a neutral moniker on her way to success: Before Harry Potter became a phenomenon, Bloomsbury, Rowling’s publisher, asked her to use initials to reassure the target audience of young boys who might be reluctant to pick up a book by 'Joanna Rowling,' a female author. "

This is just one of the observations by Anna Clark in her article, "The Ambition Condition" that first appeared in Bitch Magazine's "Loud" issue in Fall, 2008. I've touched on this problem before (see my Femagination blog for the post "Women Writers Get No Respect."), but Clark has more to say about the way women are treated if they are talented and ambitious.

It's all too common for a woman to belittle her accomplishments or pretend to not care about fame or fortune. If she shows her hand, she is either ridiculed, criticized or, worst of all, ignored. She does what she has to do be successful, knowing all along that her success will never be rewarded to the degree that men writers' are. She's damned if she fails and damned if she succeeds.

I see this pattern in my own writing career. I'm working on an essay right now that I really think has potential. Okay, I'll go ahead and say it: I think it's marketable. But after the first burst of enthusiasm I found myself downgrading what I'd written: It couldn't possibly be that good. Not only that, but I began to doubt whether I had a right to publish an essay that mentions other people. Isn't that an invasion of privacy? Women aren't supposed to make others uncomfortable, especially for the sake of their own ambitions.

So what do I do? I'm at a stalemate right now. I've lost my motivation to finish because I don't know if I will ever try to market it. Better to just keep it with my papers, as if it is only a journal entry. Maybe it will be discovered after I die.

I think that a lot about things that I'm working on: if I don't have enough guts to submit this, I'll save it and maybe someday after I'm gone someone will read it and say, "She was a really good writer!" But maybe they'll also say, "Why wasn't she ever published?"

Is that really how I want my career to play out? Am I so damn afraid of success and of being seen as ambitious that I will passive-aggressively let the dice posthumously fall where they may? How pathetic!

Ms. Clark suggests at the end of her article that perhaps women shouldn't worry about fame and fortune. Maybe what women have to offer is "simply writing to a different standard. It may be a part of the creation of our alternative to the traditional literary culture." 

I take issue with that. I'm not saying that women can't contribute something that is uniquely their own, or that they can't show men different ways to be successful. I am saying that they shouldn't have to, if that's not what they want. Women should be taken as seriously as men are, and if they're not, they should raise a stink about it.

Of course, the tricky thing about writing is that you're competing with yourself, trying to beat your own record, struggling to find your own voice. You can't afford to spend any of your energy on righteous indignation.

But then again, you could write about it.

Author Interviews

2009-05-26T10:46:00.003-05:00

I just happened upon a gem: Powell's Books Author Interviews. Each interview I read was lengthy and revealing. Just the thing for readers and writers who are fascinated by what makes authors tick.

Five Tips From Michael Crichton

2009-05-14T07:12:00.003-05:00

Click here for Michael Crichton's top five writing lessons.

Following Blogs

2009-02-15T16:44:00.003-06:00

I have a friend who just recently decided to get on the Internet with a blog of her own. She started it toward the end of January and has written every day since. Her blog is called "Erasing the Bored," and that's exactly what she attempts to do with every one of her posts. She could have written about a multitude of topics but she zeroed in on Change and Creativity and her post is all the stronger for it.

I've been reading her post almost every day (and I always catch up if I've missed any). I enjoy reading her thoughts and gleaning bits of knowledge from her posts. I am officially a follower of her blog--she has 18 official followers already--but I would follow her blog even if I wasn't. She has a voice that I love to "hear." And she makes me think.

This got me to thinking about all the blog followers out there. Unless you have analytical tools that keep track of your visitors and what they view (see Google Analytics, for one), you would never know that they'd been there unless they leave comments or link to your post from their own. I have a blog on Word Press, too and it keeps track of your visits automatically. From that I found out that one of my posts, "The Future of Newspapers" drew 13 "hits," but only one of them left a comment.

These ghosts that pass through our lives are our audience and we don't even know them. That's not so different from writing a book and not knowing who is buying it (hopefully) and reading it. But the Internet is so transitory and so secretive. People who followed mailing list conversations used to be called "lurkers" and that's a little bit how it feels when people visit your blog without leaving a trace.

I do the same of course. We're too busy to leave comments everywhere we go, not to mention that sometimes we just can't think of anything to say. But now that I've become a blogger, especially one who hopes to be read, I can see that I've been remiss with the blogs I follow. I need to let the posters that I'm out here and that I care. That might sound sappy, but I'd hate for someone to stop blogging just because they think no one is reading the words they've thrown to the universe.

I have my blogs listed in my profile, except for my newest (and most personal) one: miteypen.wordpress.com. If you do happen to pay me a visit, leave a sign. It will encourage me to keep on blogging. (Although to tell you the truth, I'd probably keep on doing it anyway.)

Tips for Writing a Novel

2009-02-04T06:10:00.001-06:00

For those of you who are interested in writing a novel, here's a great article on WritersDigest.com. It includes a Story Plan Checklist. Good stuff!

Fear of Marketing

2009-01-22T08:09:00.004-06:00

I love to write--I hate to market. I can't be alone in this, but all you ever read about in articles about writing are the success stories. People who were published because they learned how to promote themselves, through queries, submissions and networking.

All I've ever wanted to do was write, and I don't even mind being left in my own little world in order to do so. But I admit that there's a part of me that needs more: I want to be read. I want to make my mark on the world, no matter how small.

I have been published a few times, but being published at all is like a drug: once experienced, you want to experience it again. And again and again. And that's besides the need you may have to make money. Like me, you just want to be read. The money is frosting on the cake.

I wouldn't turn down the money, but what I really want is fame. I want to become a word-of-mouth writer, to have people recommend my writing to others. But I don't take the steps necessary to be read. I'm overwhelmed by the marketing process.

First of all, I have trouble picking out suitable markets. If I find something before I write, I get twisted into knots trying to cater my writing to that publication. If I find a market for something I've already written, I'm afraid it's not quite right and will just be rejected. And it's not so much that I fear the rejections--okay, it is partly that. But mostly I need the feedback (which you don't usually get in rejection letters anyway). I need encouragement and validation. Publication gives you that. Hiding your work under a bushel gets you nothing.

Almost all of us have special readers: friends, family, fellow writers. But it's easy to dismiss their judgments because they know you and might not want to hurt your feelings. The opinions of editors and unknown readers carry more weight. I'd love to get those outside opinions--I crave them, as a matter of fact. That's one reason I write for my blogs. But how do you get readers if they don't know you're there?

I don't know how many times I've read that if your writing is good, you will eventually get published. I tend to think that my writing must not be any good, because I'm not getting published. It hardly ever occurs to me that I can't get published unless I put my work out there. And not in some blog that people only discover by accident.

Don't get me wrong: I love to write posts for my blogs. Because it gives me practice, it gives me an outlet for my writer and it gives me the illusion of being published. But that's just it: it is an illusion. I didn't have to pass muster with any editor or make money to prove that I'm a writer.

But I have to admit that I feel like the tree that falls in the forest: if there's no one to hear, does it make any sound?

Reading Nonfiction

2009-01-09T09:53:00.003-06:00

I ran across the post "Reading Nonfiction" today and thought I'd share it. It's from the blog Educating Alice.

Bookshelf

2009-01-08T12:14:00.004-06:00

I just ran across a thought-provoking post on Bookpuddle about not finishing books. It's called "What's Your Abandonment Rate?" and it contains many jewels about the relationship between reader and books, like, "Regarding consummation, how many boring and uninteresting pages or chapters will you endure before you annul your vows and open the covers of another?"

The avid reader can relate to the concept of taking a vow every time you open a new book. That's why it's so hard to give up on it: you feel like you're asking for a divorce--and you're the one who is at fault. I know that I do. I don't give up on a lot of books. But when I do, I agonize over my decision. I generally will hold onto the book as long as the library allows me to. (I rarely buy books: I can't afford to and haven't the room for them if I could. I will often buy a book after reading it from the library if I just have to have it.) And if I haven't finished it by then, I let it go. There are so many books in the world, I rationalize, I just can't afford to waste time on a book that I'm not enjoying. But still I feel guilty.

I do three kinds of reading: books that are good for me (Literature with a capital 'L'), "junk" books, and books that give me information. I always have to have a junk book on hand for quick reading--I can go through two or three while I'm perusing one non-fiction or literary book. My junk books of choice are mysteries and thrillers. Sometimes horror or science fiction. I don't care for chick lit or romances, although I've read them from time to time.

I'm terrible about reading Literature. I tend to rebel against authority and if someone tells me that reading a certain book is mandatory if I want to be well-read, I instantly take a dislike to it. In all fairness to myself, however, the literary novels I do read rarely satisfy me. They tend to be about nothing, in my humble opinion, and therefore make for slow reading. I'm an extremely fast reader, but only because I skim like mad, and it's hard to get anything out of a literary work if you skim it. Basically, I'm just impatient.

One of my resolutions for this year is to read more meaningfully. That means, I guess, that I'll give Literature a fairer shake than I have in the past. I've been looking at book lists for suggestions and tuning in at Good Reads and Library Thing. I've also found a couple of really good book blogs besides Bookpuddle: So Many Books and Semicolon.

The books I read for information depend on what I'm delving into at the time. I periodically gather up several writing books, I've gotten books on motherhood, feminism, biographies and memoirs, how the brain works, travel, spirituality and religion--and the list goes on and on. I'm sure my librarian thinks I'm schizo, my reading list is so eclectic.

I spent four months in Germany a few years ago and was appalled to learn that their libraries are not free. You have to pay a fee for so many books, sort of like a subscription. Since I regularly have 50 books out of the library at a time, I'd be broke in no time. Or terribly frustrated. I have to have a lot of books around me for fear that I will run out of things I want to read. (As if.)

I know I'm not exactly an oddity--unless all bibliophiles are oddities. But I suspect I'm in the minority. Except for readers of this post: if you're a writer, you're probably an avid reader; the two seem to go hand in hand. What and why do you read?

Excerpt From "Write Is A Verb"

2008-12-10T10:19:00.006-06:00

In this excerpt from the book, Write Is A Verb, by Bill O'Hanlon, the author discusses the four energies of writing and what it takes to write a book. I particularly like his quote from Henry Miller: "If you can't not be a writer, then be a writer."

That might sound simplistic, but it's actually good advice. First, it requires that you determine how badly you want to write and second, it exhorts you to give it your all. Be a writer. The subtitle of Write Is A Verb is "Sit Down. Start Writing. No Excuses."

You can find the book from WritersDigest.com as well as Barnes & Noble, Amazon and I'm sure at other book sites and stores.

The Fear Obstacle

2008-12-09T11:13:00.006-06:00

I always have to have something to read, from the time I get up in the morning until just before I turn out the light at night. If I'm not reading, I'm writing. I have an almost pathological need to be doing those two things to the exclusion of all else. I've often wondered why I'm this way. The other day, I think I found at least a partial answer.

I like to keep my mind occupied, because if I don't, I think about things that drive me crazy. I have a diagnosed anxiety disorder, but I don't think you have to be mentally ill to be debilitated by anxiety from time to time. At any rate, if I'm not reading or writing--in other words, if I'm not directing what I'm thinking about--my mind goes wild. Thoughts of what could go wrong in any area of life--health, finances, family, marriage, nationwide and worldwide events--come close to paralyzing me. My mind is so overcome by fears that I can't think of anything else, let alone of creative writing ideas.

I think I need to learn to trust my mind. To believe that I can handle whatever fears and anxieties come my way. Unless I learn how to do that, I will never be able to move beyond those actions and thoughts that make me feel secure. What complicates matters for me as a writer is that I am always anxious about my writing as well. I start things and then don't finish them because my anxieties prevent me from doing so. I'm not just afraid that I can't finish, I'm also afraid that the finished product will be crap, and that that will be the best I can do. I'm afraid of being found out to be talentless. Of having to face that reality about myself as a writer.

Better that I not finish and leave my potential as unknown and unverifiable. Then I can at least fool myself into thinking that I do have talent--as long as I don't let myself think deeply about it. Better to keep busy with reading, journal-writing and blogging than to set out in uncharted waters. The saying goes that it is better to be safe than sorry, but that's assuming that you will always be sorry if you let go of what is safe. I need to convince myself that there is greater joy in challenging myself than in protecting what I already know to be true. Fear keeps me from exploring the world, even the world of my own mind. I need to reject that fear and let myself go.

Chutzpah and the Writer

2008-11-02T11:30:00.005-06:00

Michael Schiavone says in his short essay on Glimmer Train's website that he would "rather address my irrational fear of being followed (I always run up stairwells for this reason) than announce to a stranger that I'm a writer. The shame I endure should be reserved for ticket scalpers and animal abusers, yet I feel like a sleaze when I confess to being a writer."

Now this is a writer who has been published in numerous literary magazines and won several contests, who has earned close to $5000 so far this year, and who has an agent "with a New York zip code." But he fears that he will never consider himself a writer until he has a book on the New York Times' bestseller list, an appearance on Oprah and his work is made into a movie. But from what I've heard about successful writers, even they suffer from the feeling that they are never quite good enough. They fear that they aren't quite there yet.

If we could only tell ourselves that we are successful as soon as we set pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. Because it is a major accomplishment when we are able to put our thoughts into words. Even if no one ever reads them. We need to recognize the sheer brazenness of the act of writing. It takes a lot of chutzpah, which is defined in Wikipedia as a "non-conformist but gutsy audacity." And that's exactly what it takes to be a writer.

We are already non-conformists because we assume that we have something new to say. There would be no point to our writing if we were just going to repeat what someone else has written. So we break out of the pack and set our sights higher than the average person does. To do that we need supreme self-confidence or we wouldn't even try. The trick is to keep believing in ourselves throughout the entire process. We not only need the nerve to start writing in the first place, we also have to have the gall to send our work out for others to read. Even a letter to the editor in your local newspaper causes anxieties we'd rather not encounter--but we do it anyway.

Michael Schiavone titled his essay, "Must I Write?" and he concludes that he has no choice. No matter how anxious or depressed he gets about his (lack of) progress, he knows that he's stuck; writing is in his blood. It feels almost genetic, the way that an athlete has a body designed for physical activity. Even when we fear that we are not the best writers that ever lived (and who really has that distinction anyway?), we feel compelled to keep on trying to express ourselves through words.

But it goes a step further than that, if we're honest. We must write because we want to be read. This is the part of being a writer that we are reluctant to reveal to others: our need to be heard. It takes real chutzpah to admit that we want attention, even fame. But what's wrong with that? What would be the point of writing if we didn't care about communicating our ideas to others? That means putting ourselves and our words out there. We already have chutzpah or we wouldn't write or call ourselves writers. So let's just muster some of that outrageous energy and send our words out into the world. What do we have to lose?

The Courage to Write

2008-10-26T12:21:00.005-05:00

I am currently reading Ralph Keyes' The Courage to Write. It's not a very long book--203 pages, not counting the notes and bibliography. It was written in 1995 and you can also find it in paperback. I forget where I heard about it. It might have been when I was browsing at Barnes and Noble. Instead of buying books I might not like, I write down the titles and try to get them from the library. Then if I do like them, I buy them, but usually from Amazon or Half.com. I'm not sure if I'm going to want to buy The Courage to Write yet. But so far it seems promising.

Here is an excerpt from page 7:
"I've learned that a rising tide of anxiety isn't necessarily bad. It's a sign that I'm getting serious. Nervousness keeps me alert. Fear forces me to focus and to work longer hours. Restless nights mean I'm gaining momentum. The end is in sight. Getting there isn't always pleasant. Neither is running in a marathon. Or staging a play. Or climbing a mountain. All such activities take courage. And all reward those who complete them not only with an unparalleled feeling of achievement but with a thrilling sense of adventure along the way."

I don't know about the thrilling sense of adventure, but the part about anxiety makes a lot of sense to me. I suffer from anxiety anyway, about everything. I take medication for it, but it creeps into my psyche several times a day. And it is worse when I'm trying to write. I get so far and then start feeling anxious and can't continue. Apparently this isn't as unusual as one might think. But it sure wreaks havoc with my writing career.

If I could just learn to work through the anxiety, I might be able to finish more pieces and even submit them. But I even experience anxiety about writing query letters. The only reason I'm able to write my posts for my blogs is because they don't feel real. I don't think anyone is really reading them. So I can make mistakes, write sloppily, even be incoherent and who's going to know? I almost dread the day when (if) someone lets me know that they're reading my posts. I wonder if I'll start experiencing anxiety once that happens and not be able to write them anymore.

Right now the blog posts I write are the only writing outlet I have, besides my journals. I've gotten addicted to them. I don't often write good ones, but every once in a while I think I've done a pretty good job and then my spirits soar. But it's very hard for me to maintain a sense of self-confidence. Especially when I'm working on other things besides blog posts. I've started countless essays and I just can't finish them. I've written over 50,000 words of a novel and it's awful, but I don't have the guts to start over.

Maybe this book will give me some insight into why I let myself choke so often when I'm writing. I'll keep you posted.

Thoughts on Writing

2008-10-01T08:25:00.005-05:00

I've heard some writers say that they hate to write. I don't believe them. Maybe they hate to rewrite; I can understand that. But I can't imagine why anyone would do this if they truly hate it. The closest I come to that is when I hate what I've written--that's actually a common experience for me. But that doesn't negate the pleasure I get from putting the words down in the first place. It's just that they don't always work out the way I'd like for them to.

My doctor recently told me that I should do something for myself at least once a week. What he doesn't realize is that I do that every time I sit down to write. I agree that it's good to do something different every once in a while or else your writing becomes sterile. You need to feed your mind. Of course, I do that every time I read a book about something I never knew that much about before. I'm so busy writing and reading, I rarely find time to go outside the house. I worry that I'm becoming a recluse. But I'm happy in my little world. So why should I have to change what I do and the way I do it?

I could make some improvements, however. I read a lot of non-fiction, but the fiction I read is usually genre stuff. I'm especially drawn to books about serial killers (I know, I'm sick). But I can't imagine writing one, even though I've often heard the advice that you should write what you like to read. Perhaps the reverse is also true: you should read what you like to write. I have trouble making myself read the classics and literary giants. That could be an indicator that I'm not meant to write like those authors. (As if I could.)

What I really like to write are essays. Which is a pity, because essays are as hard to sell as poetry, in my opinion. And I do read a fair amount of essays. I love essay collections. I fell in love with essays years ago when I read Gift From the Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. And I also love memoirs, which are really book-length personal essays. I should probably write a memoir some day. One reason I have trouble writing anything other than essays is because I keep trying to interject my life experiences into what I write. So maybe I need to get that all out at one time and get it over with. But can you ever exhaust your life experiences as material?

Maybe I'm destined to write about myself and my opinions for the rest of my life. I'm not sure how I feel about that prospect. I keep thinking that I should be able to write all kinds of writing (see my post "A Real Writer?"). But then I keep writing the same old thing. I don't know why I disparage my efforts. What's wrong with striving to excel at essays? If that's what keeps coming out of my mind, who am I to question it?

A Real Writer?

2008-09-18T09:57:00.003-05:00

I have a confession to make: I'm not a real writer. I must not be because I can't seem to write fiction. And real writers can write anything. I can't even come up with ideas, let alone be able to write the story afterward. Every idea I do have is about something that really happened, and then I find myself wanting to write an essay instead. I just can't get away from wanting to write the facts, and just the facts.

I know that fiction can be as true as nonfiction and maybe even more so sometimes. I get that. But I've always thought, "Why gussy up an idea and hide it in a story? Why not just come right out and say what you mean to say?"

I don't think I'm a bad essay writer. But essays don't get noticed. And I find it hard to find markets for them. A lot of journals and small presses take what they call creative nonfiction, but I'm not even sure that I can write that. I took two courses in writing creative nonfiction and it turned out that I didn't write enough scenes; my essays weren't enough like stories to qualify as creative nonfiction.

I also took a magazine article writing course and felt a little more comfortable there, but I don't have the guts to query magazines with my article ideas. So the bottom line is, I don't get published. Which further proves that I'm not a real writer.

And yet I feel like a writer. I've felt like one ever since I started writing stories and poems for my grandfather when I was a little girl. He paid me fifty cents for the stories and a quarter for the poems. So I guess I was a professional (read: real) writer even then. What happened to my ability to write fiction?

They say that children are naturally creative and that school and life experiences (including that of growing up) gradually leach it out of them. I wonder what leached it out of me, if I indeed had any to begin with. What I don't understand is that my dreams are incredibly vivid and inventive. If my brain can do that while I'm sleeping, why can't it do it while I'm awake?

I suspect that it's not true that a real writer can write anything. But I used to believe that I could. And I feel like a failure because I can't. I envy short story writers (I'm not even getting into how I feel about novel writers!) for their facility for telling stories. I seem to have lost mine.

I truly believe that God gave me the talent I do have and that He means for me to use it. But how? I already write every day. I write posts for my blogs, work on my essays, and if all else fails, I write in my journal. But I tend to judge myself on whether or not I get published. I've had a few things published, but that was a while ago. It would be a little hard for me to get published now because I never send anything out.

I need to be patient with myself. It hasn't been that long since I've been able to devote myself to my writing. I'm still developing the discipline of writing every day and finishing what I write. The next step is to submit. I'll get there, I know. I feel overwhelmed by the prospect, but because I can't stop writing, I know that eventually I'll get off my duff and get my stuff out there. I'll keep doing it until I get published and then I'll keep on doing it.

And then maybe I'll feel like a real writer.

A Writer First?

2008-09-10T08:45:00.004-05:00

In Marion Winik's book, Rules For an Unruly Life, she writes that she finally got to the point in her life where being a writer wasn't her be-all and end-all. (pp. 86-88) She actually took a four-year hiatus from writing. She ended up going back, but with a different perspective: people are more important than any achievements, even as a writer.

I, too, took a hiatus (except for writing in my journals), but it wasn't by choice. It was during the years when I was having and raising children (four in six years, before I was 28). I've often said that having children is like having ADD: you can't keep your mind on what you're doing for two minutes at a time. If I tried to write, something always came up with the kids. I finally gave up.

It wasn't until I was forty that I found real chunks of uninterrupted time to write again. My then-husband bought me a Brother word processor for my birthday, bless his soul. It changed my life. Most of my submissions and acceptances (and just a few rejections) took place in the three years afterward. But then I got waylaid by my parents' deaths, a divorce, and a "breakdown" and I found myself in another hiatus. After that I went back to school, where I finally got my bachelor's degree. I did a lot of writing in those three years, but it was for school, not publication.

I've been struggling ever since I finished school to "get my groove back" as a writer. I've found that I'm not the writer I used to be. I don't have the same perspective I had when I was forty, let alone when I was twenty. But one thing that hasn't changed is that writing is still more important to me than anything else on earth (except for reading).

I feel terrible admitting that. Don't get me wrong: people mean a lot to me. But without writing to help me sort out my feelings and my actions, I don't think I'd be worth all that much in the people-department. My writing keeps me from going crazy. And yes, it gives me a sense of accomplishment (on the days when my writing goes well, I'm much happier). In fact, I would love to achieve some level of fame, as a way of validating--and perhaps justifying--all the time and effort I put into writing.

But at the same time, without relationships in my life, what would I have to write about? Part of my problem in finding things to write about is that I write too much about myself and not enough about and for others. That's probably why I get so bored with what I write: I'm not that fascinating of a subject. But it's more than that. I need interaction with others to give my life real, not artificial, meaning. My essays and stories tend to be dry and intellectual. I live too much in my own head.

What I know about life I get from my reading. Oh, some of it comes from my own life, as I've lived it. But I don't often make the connection between my truths and universal truths. Or maybe I do too much of that instead of using my writing to open up the worlds of others.

If I were to describe myself in order of importance (to me), I would say that I am a writer first, a mother second, a wife third, a Christian fourth, and a friend last. That doesn't mean that I don't value my friendships, just that I don't spend as much time cultivating them as I do my writing. It doesn't mean that being a mother doesn't define so much of who I am, I can't tell where one begins and the other ends. Nor does it mean that I don't know that I owe my very life and well-being to God. And as for husbands, well, I've had four: I'm still not sure that I'm getting that part of my life right. (Just kidding, hon!)

I guess I don't want my tombstone to say: "Beloved writer, mother and wife." Or do I? Okay, maybe not in that order. But it would mean everything to me to know that my words and my love of words left an impact on people's lives. To do that, though, I need to have a better idea of what others' lives are like. I need to work on this.

Realizing that I put writing first is quite a revelation to me. If that's true, then I need to be taking it even more seriously than I already do. I need to allow myself to put it first in fact as well as in my heart. Writing every day is one way to do that. Opening my heart is another.

Fire in the Belly

2008-09-07T08:29:00.004-05:00

The other day I read this advice: To write a best-seller, you should write from the fire in your belly. That until you do this, you can't move onto the next thing. I agree with that. It's just that many things fuel the fire in my belly and I can't distinguish the one that generates the greatest flame.

There is one thing that lurks in my mind and my heart that I hardly ever write about. And that is my faith. I'm what I consider to be a "born-again" Christian. I was raised in the Lutheran Church, baptized as an infant, confirmed at fifteen, accepted Jesus as my personal savior when I was 21, started to attend a Methodist church, was baptized again in light of my renewed faith, married a man who became a minister, and was a minister's wife for ten years before we were divorced.

That was a major blow to my Christian life. I lost the church we had been attending (I'm the one who had to leave) and many of our Christian friends. I briefly took my kids to an Episcopal church, but because I got a job which required me to work on Sundays, I soon stopped attending church altogether. I didn't start attending church again until after I was remarried, at my new husband's request. We were active in that church (another Methodist one) for another eight years, until that marriage ended in divorce as well. I attended that church a couple of times after that, but since I had moved out of the area, I found it too inconvenient and stopped going. The last time I attended church was at a Catholic mass. I cried my way all the way through it and I haven't been back since. That was in 2000.

Sometimes I look back and wonder how I got here. I also wonder how I could get back to where I once was. But do I want that? I still consider myself to be an orthodox Christian, but I hesitate to write about my faith because I'm afraid that I wouldn't be considered to be "legitimate." Not unless I had a new experience in Christ. An indwelling of the Holy Spirit. A renewed commitment to Jesus. But I hold back because I don't want to become a "Bible-thumper." My beliefs don't line up exactly with the evangelical or fundamentalist communities. Is there a place for a Christian writer who doesn't go to church?

Perhaps this is the "fire in my belly." At the very least it feels like unfinished business. But I feel stuck. I don't know where I want to go to church. I don't know that I do want to go to church. I do want to be closer to God and I don't know how to get there. Perhaps I'm at a crossroads and I need to choose a direction before I can get where I'm meant to be.

My Blogs

2008-09-05T10:20:00.005-05:00

Most of the writing I've been doing these days is posting to my blogs. I actually have five, but rarely write in two of them. They are:
Femagination
Urbia
This one: miteypen.blogspot.com
ADD Women
German(e) and Human(e)

The first one is a feminist blog. I've considered myself a feminist since 1971 and lately have become much more interested in feminist issues. Recently I've been writing a lot about politics (what else?): Hillary, Sarah Palin, Obama, and mothers' political movements.

The second one is about city living. I moved into the city (of Columbus, Ohio--yes, it is a city) about ten years ago and I love it. It's not for everyone, but I use this blog to encourage those who are thinking about a similar move.

The third is about writing. I have been a writer all of my life, but only in the past sixteen years have I taken myself seriously as one. Still, I struggle with the whole process and that's what this "sounding board" is all about.

The fourth is about women with ADD. I was diagnosed with ADD eight years ago, when I was 48. It's not widely accepted that adults can have ADD, nor do most people think of it being something that females have very often. I like to shine a light on those misconceptions.

And the fourth is about all things German. I call it "German(e) and Human(e)" because its premise is to show that the German people don't deserve the prejudice that is often leveled at them. (Even though I understand it.)

Posting to these blogs is great exercise for a writer, but it is also an escape from my other writing. When I'm having trouble writing an essay or working on my novel, I find that I can almost always think of something to write about for one of my blogs. Whether or not what I write is interesting to others is something I have yet to discover. I have received only two or three comments among them. But one of my posts was cited on Mothers Book Bag in connection with a review of The Maternal is Political. ("Taking Mothers Seriously," Femagination, July 15, 2008). I felt very good about that.

I don't know how bloggers get their blogs noticed. I keep hoping that someone will stumble across one of mine some day and spread the word. But in the meantime I'm going to keep on "bloggin'."

Fear of Offending

2008-08-29T07:21:00.006-05:00

I have a dilemma common to most writers: I'm afraid to write freely for fear that I'll upset someone I care about. I thought that once my parents died, this would no longer be an issue. But I forgot that there are plenty of other people I could offend, including my children and husband. For instance, I have four children: how do I write about parental favoritism without making it sound like I do have favorites? Or, when writing about my marriages, how do I write frankly about my marital satisfaction without upsetting the one(s) who come across unfavorably?

I realize that the chances of ex-husbands or lovers reading my work is not high (unless my work becomes well-known--which of course is something I want, but am afraid to expect). But my family is very interested in my writing--at least my husband is--and wants to read what I write. I also want to share it with them. But how do I do that and be completely honest about certain things? It's no good to try to cloak what I have to say in fiction--in fact, that's almost even worse: I might want to embellish something that happened to me in real life and the embellishment might be interpreted as something that's real. If I write about a married woman who has taken a lover, or wants to, will my husband think that's what I've really done or thought?

This reminds me of the joke about the one-hundred-year old couple who go to a lawyer for a divorce. The lawyer asks, "Why did you wait so long?" And they reply, "We wanted to wait until the children were dead." Do I have to wait until every one is dead before I can write exactly what I want to write? Chances are I won't make it.

One alternative is to write under a pseudonym. Donald Westlake writes about doing that in his essay "Pen Names Galore," but he never says that he did it to protect the feelings of people he was writing about. His reasons were mainly so that he could write prolifically, or change his style, without spreading his own name too thin. He doesn't address whether or not pen names are a good idea to protect the reader.

Some writers protect their loved ones and even acquaintances by disguising who they're writing about. But how does that help when you're writing about your husband and you only have one?
Or one of your children? (As if they couldn't tell which one you're writing about.) Or the person you've been friends with since the sixth grade? Some people might not know who you're writing about, but those you're writing about will?

I guess the only answer is to write freely and the consequences be damned. I'm just not sure that I'm ready to do that. The problem is, until I am, I probably won't be the writer I long to be. Because writing requires honesty. I can't cheat by pretending to feel differently than I really do. The result will ring false. Writing also requires "opening a vein"--letting it all hang out. Not every little detail, but the deepest meaning of the details you do include. Otherwise your writing will be flat. Mine often is, and I've diagnosed my problem as fear of offending. I need to get off this fence, jump in the mud and get dirty. Worrying about what others think of me is only going to give me writer's block. And it has.

Writing Memoirs

2008-08-28T13:16:00.006-05:00

"I can't stress enough how different it is to write about the real and the unreal. When I started writing my memoir my whole metabolism changed. I'd just turned 50 and I assumed it was just age, but I didn't want to get out of bed in the morning and I had the most delicious lie-ins of my life! It was just sheer emotional exhaustion, I now realise. Communing with your significant dead is what it amounts to, and that is an exhausting thing. Not unpleasant, but still hard work."
Martin Amis

"For me, the memoir is not autobiography. It's very, very distant from that. There's no attempt to give a chronological rendition of one's life. I was looking at the traces of the legacies. I used the novelist's skills of going into the minds of the people you know least - namely my parents before I was born! These are totally mysterious others. You also need to be able to set scenes and to be able create movement in the text and create characters the way a novelist would."
Lisa Appignanesi

"Lisa Appignanesi and I may have had peculiar lives but they're also fundamentally universal. The only things that really matter are births and deaths and separations and unions - and we all have them. This is the advice I'd give a prospective memoir writer: the critic leads the reader from quote to quote, but that's also what the memoir writer does - you're quoting from memory, and what stays in your memory is the interesting stuff and that's the stuff you should quote. And if these things hang together at all, you're on to something."
Martin Amis

"I think the first thing to do is to select out. Otherwise you'll have no time to live as you recollect the past - there is a great deal of it! So select out for the moments that have a particular resonance for you. Play with those and see where they take you. They may take you into interesting places and not necessarily the places where you thought you might visit."
Lisa Appignanesi

Suggested Memoirs

2008-08-27T15:29:00.002-05:00

I just finished and am still mulling over the book The Memoir and the Memoirist, by Thomas Larson. It gave me a lot to think about. It also made me want to start reading memoirs and personal essays like crazy, to see if I can apply the observations he made to each work. Here is a list of the books he discusses throughout the text:

The Kiss and The Mother Knot: A Memoir, by Kathryn Harrison
Angela's Ashes, by Frank McCourt (Also 'Tis and Teacher Man)
The Liars' Club, by Mary Karr
The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother, by James McBride
Fierce Attachments: A Memoir, by Vivian Gornick
This Boy's Life: A Memoir, by Tobias Wolff
A Hole In The World: An American Boyhood, by Richard Rhodes
The unexpurgated edition of The Diary of Anne Frank, by Anne Frank
Autobiography of a Face, by Lucy Grealy
Prozac Diary and Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir, by Lauren Slater
Light Years, by Le Anne Schreiber
Anna: A Daughter's Life, byWilliam Loizeaux
Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar Nafisi
Moments of Being, by Virginia Woolf
Lost In Place, by Mark Salzman
My Father's House: A Memoir of Incest and Healing, by Sylvia Fraser
Tuesdays With Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life's Greatest Lessons, by Mitch Alborn
An American Childhood and For the Time Being, by Annie Dillard
Firebird and Still Life With Oysters and Lemons, by Mark Doty
Fault Line, by Laurie Alberts
Fat Girl: A True Story, by Judith Moore
Intoxicated By My Illness, by Anatole Broyard
This Wild Darkness: The Story of My Death, by Harold Brodkey
Crossed Over: A Murder, A Memoir, by Beverly Lowry
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, by Dave Eggers
Breakup: The End of a Love Story, by Catherine Texier
Fugitive Spring: Coming of Age in the '50s and '60s, by Deborah Digges
Paradise: Piece By Piece, by Molly Peacock
Fear of Fifty, by Erica Jong
The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts, by Maxine Hong Kingston
Are You Somebody? The Accidental Memoir of a Dublin Woman, by Nuala O'Faolain
A Walker in the City, by Alfred Kazin
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou
Memories of a Catholic Girlhood, by Mary McCarthy
All Over But the Shoutin', by Rick Bragg
Prozac Nation: Young and Depressed in America, by Elizabeth Wurzel
Omaha Blues: A Memory Loop, by Joseph Lelyveld
An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness, by Kay Redfield Jamison
Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness, by William Styron
Lucky, by Alice Sebold
My Life in the Middle Ages: A Survivor's Tale, by James Atlas
Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris
Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith, by Barbara Brown Taylor

The author of The Memoir and the Memoirist does not so much review these books as dissect them and that alone would make reading them along with his book worthwhile.

A Writer Reads

2008-08-12T11:34:00.004-05:00

Bill Roorbach, in his book Writing Life Stories, insists that writers must do two things in order to become good at their art: 1) write, and 2) read. The first is self-evident, although I'm sure the author meant that we should write a lot. But what about reading? Is it really necessary to be a reader to be a writer?

I would guess that it's the rare writer who doesn't read. Most people fall in love with the written word when they're first learning to decipher it. Not everyone who reads will be a writer, but the two go together like torturing animals goes with being a sociopath. (The association between reading and writing is more benign, though, needless to say.)

I read for many reasons. It used to be that I read almost exclusively for entertainment and escape. I still read for that reason (usually to mask a bad period of depression or anxiety), but I also read for information and inspiration. I have several non-fiction books going at the same time. I read a little in one, until it gives me an idea that I find I want to write about and then I pick up another and read it until it does the same. Rarely do I read a non-fiction book straight through. I have fifty-some books out of the library right now. I'm not reading them all at one time; I tend to shift around to three or four and then switch to another group. Sometimes I don't read more than a couple of chapters before deciding I don't need that book anymore. Sometimes I find that a certain book just isn't that interesting. But I like to have this many on hand--just in case.

In case I can't think of anything to write about. In case I get bored. In case I feel curious about something. In case I want to expand my mind. Right now I have several books about feminism and about writing. I have a book about Catholicism and one about the black experience in America. I have a couple about personal finance. I have two autobiographies set in Berlin during the war years. I have three or four recently released novels. And these are just my library books. My personal library is all over the place: history (German, Islamic, Indian, World War I and II), religious books, collections of essays, poetry and literature, books on ADD, German language textbooks and tapes, gardening books, reference books, memoirs and biographies, social commentary, literary criticism, children's books and feminist writings. And of course that's not including all my writing books, which I will go into in another post.

I hold onto my books forever. A few years ago when I was really broke, I sold quite a few of my books on half.com. But most of the ones I sold were "new" books that I picked up at garage sales and discount bookstores. I still have all my textbooks from any class I've ever taken. All the books I've received through introductory offers from book clubs. And of course the ones I've been given. I keep them all.

Just in case.

The Angelic Spy

2008-08-06T07:20:00.003-05:00

Jayne Anne Phillips, in her essay in The Washington Post Book World's collection, The Writing Life (2003), calls the writer an "angelic spy." Writers are entrusted with the secrets we spend our lives discerning and attempting to reveal as truth on paper. The tricky thing is to do so without betraying the trust of those whose secrets we carry.

I once wrote an essay about my then step-daughter and it was published before she even knew that I had written it. I didn't reveal a big secret; it was about a gift she gave me. But even so, she was upset that I had written and submitted it without telling her first. I contended that it happened to me, so it was fair game (although I said it a bit more diplomatically). I defended myself more vigorously when my sister-in-law criticized me for using someone else's life to further my craft. But if we don't write about others--or what happens to us in our relationships to others--what do we have to write about? Every encounter has an element of secrecy to it. Everyone assumes that what they say and do is going to be kept sacrosanct by any witness. That's not realistic. We talk--and write--about each other as a way of telling stories. Call it gossip if you will. It sounds better to call writers angelic spies, but it amounts to the same thing.

But there is a difference. Gossip implies a certain maliciousness. Most (but not all) writers carry no malice when they write. We are attempting to tease the truth out of what happens in life and reveal that truth through our use of language. But others may see us as outlaws, living outside the boundaries of accepted behavior: we tell on people. We spy on them and then reveal what we discover to the world.

Our defense is that we do it for "angelic" reasons. We do not seek to hurt, but to heal. Secrets can be poisonous, festering in the minds and souls of those who keep them. The sensitive writer is not trying to "out" her subjects. She just wants to help the reader make sense of his behavior. Perhaps the reader has had the same thing happen to him. Perhaps he has done the same thing to others. Reading about these "secrets" can be cathartic. It gives the reader a chance to look into the souls of those who have tried to keep them and to learn the lessons they learned--or should have learned.

Saying that what writers do is angelic implies that we are above the world, seeing all and carrying messages from God. Isn't that exactly what writers do? There is a spiritual aspect to all writing, whether or not we are religious. There is a higher power of some kind at work as we seek to delve beneath the surface of a person's soul. I have used the word "soul" three times in the above sentences. That's not because I can't think of another word; I just can't think of a better one. Emotions, actions, thoughts, personalities all add up to the soul, that deeper entity that defies facile descriptions. That's why writers spend their lives trying to unravel the secrets others, and we ourselves, carry. We know that no life is fully described without revealing at least some of its secrets.

And so we spy. We witness and we record. And we attempt to explain, either directly or indirectly through the use of parable, analogy, simile and metaphor. We have come to earth to speak to the hearts of ourselves and others. You could even say that we have a divine imperative to do so.

It's not easy to be a revealer of secrets. It requires a certain sensitivity and discretion. We need to speak the truth in love. That is what angels do.

My Map Story: Two Houses

2008-08-02T12:00:00.007-05:00

A little girl rides up and down on her tricycle in front of a brick ranch house. She does this every day until a woman finally comes to the door and asks if she wants to come in to play. She never goes to the door herself. She always waits to be asked.

That little girl was me and this is a metaphor for my life.

I was always intensely shy and waited for everything that came to me. My sister, on the other hand, reached out and grabbed what she wanted. When we were pre-teens my mother told us that we could have our rooms decorated any way we wanted. My sister was quite specific: miniature yellow rose wallpaper, green carpet, frilly white curtains, white painted bed and dresser. I said I didn't mind leaving my room the way it was. It was already wallpapered by the previous owners and although I hated its pink gingham design, I hated to ask for a complete makeover. It would be too much trouble. It wasn't even that that bothers me now. It was that I didn't even know how I really wanted it. It might have partly been because I'd been forced to leave my special bedroom behind when we moved down the street to an almost identical house from the one I lived in from the ages of 5 till 12.

In our previous house I had asked for and gotten a room with three red walls and one white. The wall color was called "Apache Red." (It had either been that or "Canary Yellow.") I used ticky-tacky to put up maps all over the walls that I'd gotten out of our National Geographics and was particularly proud of the perfect accent: the globe that sat on my desk. In the new house, I didn't even have a desk, just a huge ugly gray dresser and two twin beds. I don't remember now how I ended up with the pink bedroom. In the first house it had been the master bedroom but a larger master bedroom had been added to the new house and I suppose because I was the oldest I got the next largest.

I liked the size of the room, but I never did anything to make it my own. I was twelve and the move wasn't easy on me. Even though it was just down the street, it took me away from the immediate circle of friends I'd had at the first house. The two houses were exactly alike except for the raised roof in the back of the second one that enabled the addition of a new master bedroom and bath. And it had a basement. But I never warmed up to the new house. I lived there for seven years--the same amount of time I'd lived in the old house--but I always thought of the old one as my true home, as if the second one was an imposter.

I still dream frequently about the first house and rarely about the second. I loved the shake shingles of the first, painted gray with white trim, the rock garden that Mom had built in the back yard, the brick patio with its huge awning outside the family room window, the pitch black attic where my sister and I tried to scare the bejeebers out of each other and our friends. We were the first family to live in that house. Our back yard was a sea of mud that first year. I remember falling into it and thinking it was hilarious.

Our dog became famous at that house. He followed us everywhere, to school, where we could hear him howl when the principal shut him up in the boy's bathroom until my mom could come get him, or to the grocery store where he learned to let himself in using the automatic door. Everyone in the village knew Jojo. He was de riguer at birthday parties because he would "sing" along with "Happy Birthday." The neighborhood kids were always trying to get him to howl to that and the Mickey Mouse Club theme--those were the only songs that did the trick.

When we moved to the new house, I had to leave all those memories behind. I felt homeless. I never settled in. It didn't help that I moved to middle school shortly after we moved and I began to have to navigate the waters of prepubescence. That wasn't the hardest part, though. We had originally moved to the new house so that my maternal grandfather, who'd been a widower for many years, could move in with us. I adored my grandfather and couldn't wait. I still remember the day he called and told us that he was getting married and moving to another town instead. I was crushed.

I was crushed a lot in that house. I had all of my first loves, requited and not, while living in that house. My mother and I began to fight bitterly during those years. And not five years after we moved there, my grandfather died suddenly of a heart attack.

With all of that, why would I care about pink gingham wallpaper?

Writing Exercises

2008-08-02T09:22:00.004-05:00

I hate writing books that sprinkle writing exercises throughout their text. Like medicine, I know they're good for me, but I find them irritating. I usually don't feel like doing what they prescribe. But I've admitted my need for outside advice. So why do I resist taking it?

Sometimes I just don't connect with the exercise. It seems too obvious, I've done something like it before, or I don't have the patience. But I often resist because of the author's tone: in Writing Life Stories, the author doesn't just suggest that you do his exercises, he demands that you do. I don't react well to that. I'm not saying that the exercises aren't valuable. I just want more meat in the text before I jump into a writing exercise.

One thing that throws me is when I don't know how thoroughly I should do the exercises.The first one Bill Roorbach presents is to make a map of your childhood neighborhood. He's used this exercise in classes he's taught and the response has been everything from a quick sketch to a collage. Another assignment is to make a timeline. Again, he's received the bare minimum to a color-coded life-long calendar. How detailed do I need to be? Isn't it enough that I have the map or timeline in my head? I can see the value of these exercises, especially if you're getting ready to write a memoir, but I'd rather come back to them later, if at all. I want to hear more from the author about his own writing and teaching experiences.

But it seems that this book is very much an exercise book and it seems that for maximum benefit I need to do the exercises in order. I bridle at that. I decide to compromise: I won't draw the map or the timeline, but I will do the writing exercises he assigns to go with them.

The first one is to tell a story from your map. Mine starts out with "A little girl rides up and down on her tricycle in front of a brick ranch house. She does this every day until a woman finally comes to the door and asks if she wants to come in to play. She never goes to the door herself. She always waits to be asked.

"That little girl was me and I've waited to be asked all my life."

Learning to Write

2008-07-30T13:31:00.003-05:00

I have approximately 75 books on writing, on topics ranging from instruction to inspiration. How to write query letters, how to format a manuscript, how to do interviews, travel writing, screenwriting, romance writing, memoir writing, novel writing, science fiction writing, how to get organized, how to make time, how to make $25,000 to $50,000 or more a year as a freelance writer, how to get an agent, how to get published, how writers write, what writers think, and of course, basic how to writes--the list goes on and on. And that's not counting my subscription to Writer's Digest magazine and my yearly purchase of Writer's Market.

You'd think I'd be a successful writer just from looking at my library. How could I read all these books and not be?

The truth is, I haven't read all these books. I probably haven't even read half of them, not all the way through anyway.

But I keep on buying them--and checking them out of the library--as if somehow, just possessing them will turn me into the writer I long to be. And I keep on getting nowhere.

I'm not saying that reading all these books would automatically make me successful. (Read: published.) But they could help to fill the void in my writing life, the one where I don't have a writing teacher or writer's group to give me feedback and encouragement. I haven't taken a writing course since I was in college three years ago and then I only took two of them (both in creative nonfiction). In fact, those are the only writing courses I've ever taken.

It's hard to find writing courses outside of a college setting. Sometimes the local adult education program has some kind of writing course, but I'm not really interested in taking courses taught by writers who are only slightly more successful than I have been. I want a real challenge, like I had in college.

Then again, I'm leery of taking courses at all, or of attending writer's groups. I don't think my ego can take it. Of the two courses I have taken, one was a positive experience and the other was negative. I left with more doubts about myself as a writer than I started with. I was sure that I didn't measure up to many of the others in my class. I couldn't seem to write what I wanted to write or say things the way I thought I wanted to say them. I did learn some things, but looking back, I feel like I need to unlearn some of them. There was this tendency on the part of the teacher to say that creative nonfiction had to look exactly like "this." Maybe it wasn't so much that she was wrong as that I don't do well with rules. They fill my head when I start to write something and I freeze. I've been freezing ever since I graduated.

So I've decided to take a different tack: I'm going to start reading all these books on writing and try to get what I need from them. If I run across one that isn't helpful, I'll lay it aside. If I find one that seems to resonate with me, then I'll milk it for all it's worth.

I'm going to start with Writing Life Stories by Bill Roorbach. It's a new book (2008) that I just checked out of the library. It's subtitled: "How to Make Memories into Memoirs, Ideas into Essays and Life into Literature." Sounds right up my alley. I've only read the introduction, but so far so good. The author is writing to people just like me, writers who can't seem to write and don't know why. He insists that it is necessary to turn back the clock and become a beginner again, a learner. Somehow I think he's right.

I'm going to give it a try and report on my progress (or lack thereof) in this blog.

Memoirs

2008-07-17T10:51:00.003-05:00

Chuck Sambuchino writes this about memoir writing in his blog, Guide to Literary Agents. After reading the advice he and some literary agents had about memoir writing, I couldn't help but apply it to my own life. What makes my life interesting enough to make someone want to pay $25 to read about it? And what would my memoir have as an overall theme?

Good questions.

As the blog suggests, you either have to have had something really unique happen to you or you have to have a fantastic voice in order to get a publisher interested in your memoir. No one wants to read the ramblings of a writer recounting his entire life. He has to emphasize the juicy parts. I've had a lot happen to me in my life, some of it exciting and unusual, a good deal of it boring and pedestrian. How do I determine what's worth writing (and reading) about?

Like most people my life could have many themes: love and hate, spirituality and religion, mental illness, motherhood, marriage, to name just a few. My memoir would be very different depending upon what theme I choose to base it on. How do you reduce a person's life to a theme, like some kind of television show? But that's exactly what you have to do to make your memoir commercial. That may not satisfy the chronicler in you, but if you're serious about becoming published, you have to put your ego aside and look at your life the way a stranger would.

When you write a bio, how do you sum yourself up? When you're getting to know someone, what tidbits do you share with him or her? We tend to cater what we say depending on our audience. So maybe the first question you ask yourself should be: who is your audience? Who do you think would be interested in the story you choose to tell? And then pick those themes or parts of your life that would be the most interesting to them. If I were writing to women of a "certain age," I might want to emphasize my mid-life crises, my multiple marriages, the fourteen-year age difference between me and my husband (he's younger), or what it's like to be a grandmother to a boy after having had four daughters. If I were writing to younger adults, I'd need to pick up on the themes that are universal: self-esteem, leaving home, sexuality, education, career, political involvement, socialization, or relationships with our parents and our peers.

What are your triumphs in life? Your failures and disappointments? What have you done that you want to be remembered for? That you normally wouldn't want anyone to know? What have you always been interested in? Struggled with? Done well? Answering these questions can be key to helping you establish the themes in your life.

But don't be surprised if you still end up with a big, sloppy mess. That's what life is like. The role of the writer is to sift through all the junk and end up with the core truths. If you're writing about your own life, you have to do the same.

My Writer's Block

2008-07-10T13:11:00.000-05:00

I have plenty of time (I work at another job, but only part-time), a new laptop, an encouraging and supportive husband (who doesn't expect me to do housework) and a certain amount of faith in my writing ability. So why am I having so much trouble writing?

It occurred to me recently that I'm not having as much trouble as I think I am. But I'm obsessing about how hard it is for me to finish anything, let alone submit it somewhere (which automatically means no publication). And I think the reason I'm obsessing is the same reason I don't feel good about myself and my life in general: my clinical depression and anxiety. Not so much because I still suffer from those two bogeymen of the mind, but because I still act and think as if I do. I haven't revised my behavior and thinking to correspond to the strides I've made in achieving mental health. I'm used to being down on myself, because mood disorders make you feel that way. You can't control how you feel or think because your depression, anxiety or whatever is doing the controlling.

How do I break through the control that depression and anxiety have over me? One technique is to act "as if" I am no longer controlled by them, to step out in faith in myself as a new person. Easier said than done, I know. But imperative if I'm going to get anywhere with my writing.

Writer's Block

2008-07-09T15:06:00.000-05:00

Lack of inspiration. Scarcity of ideas. Insecurity. Laziness. No motivation. Fear of approbation or rejection. Disorganization. Unwillingness to work hard. Mistaking being published for being a writer. Paralysis. Perfectionism. Procrastination. Inability to follow through. Low energy. Depression. Anxiety. Trying to write outside your comfort zone. Being impatient. Insufficient time. Lack of faith, in your talent or your efforts.

These are both reasons for and descriptions of the block all writers experience from time to time. Most of them are normal. Some present a unique challenge to the writer trying to overcome his or her inability to write. But the more of these that are on your list, the more severe your writer's block will be.

It's important to identify the true parameters of your block. If you don't know what your weaknesses are, how are you going to compensate for them? What you don't want to do is try to justify them. They are what they are. Some blocks have only one reason and are easily resolved. Most blocks are more complicated than that. And it's not easy to fight writer's block on many fronts at once.

There are two components to writer's block. One is external--no place to write, inappropriate writing utensils, lack of materials and resources, distractions. The other and perhaps more formidable one is internal--insecurity, fear, anxiousness, depression. How do you change the very essence of your mind? You can always buy a new computer--you can't exchange or upgrade your brain. You have to learn to work with what you have.

A Place to Write

2008-07-08T13:06:00.000-05:00

Some writers can write anywhere--or so they say. Others need very specific conditions in order to write: favorite music, an inspiring view, easy access to their files, reference materials right at hand, a comfortable chair, just the right height of desk. I haven't yet decided which kind of writer I am. Maybe that's part of my problem.

I've set up offices in my bedroom, the laundry room, the living room and the kitchen. I've had rooms to myself and shared a room with another. Once I turned the entire front room in my apartment into an office. That was probably my favorite. I had plenty of room for my books and filing cabinets as well as tons of desk space. And if was all for me. What a luxury!

I don't need a view. When I'm writing, I'm only thinking about the words, not trees or sunshine or landscapes. Sure, that's nice when I take a break, but I can go to another room for that, and probably should, to really give my mind a chance to rest.

I've often dreamed of having a little writing cabin at our place in Canada. I could write in the large cabin, but there's not enough solitude when I'm there with other people, which I always am. Also, until recently, I didn't have a portable computer (i.e., laptop) and I've gotten used to writing on one. I don't know if such a venue would make it easier to write.

I do have trouble finishing projects. Maybe if I was isolated--no TV, no television, no drop-in visits, I'd actually get something done. Oh, and no Internet, because I spend a lot of time looking things up that way. Of course, I also submit and query by email sometimes, although, to be honest, I don't get very many responses when I use email.

As it is now, I sit on my living room couch with my laptop literally on my lap. My files and books--except for the ones I'm currently using--are upstairs split between two bedrooms. I'd prefer one room like I once had, but I don't have the room right now. Maybe if I ever move from here, that will be on my wish list for my new home.

Distractions

2008-07-06T07:03:00.006-05:00

What distracts me from my writing?

1. My grandson, when he visits. He loves his cartoons and I need peace and quiet. Last year I was doing a NaNoWriMo type project only in June instead of November. Because of that I made it very clear that I had to write a certain amount every day. And lo and behold, Will left me alone during that time. Why can't I do that more often?
2. My kids. I always drop everything whenever they need something. Sometimes it's just phone calls, but they can be long ones. I can't tell them I'm writing either.
3. My job. On the days that I work, I rarely write, even though I only work part-time and often don't even go to work until 5 at night. In fact, whenever I have to do anything, like doctor's appointments and errands, I tend to skip writing that day.
4. Surfing the Internet. I like to have the Internet on when I'm writing on the computer, supposedly so I can do research. But I spend more time checking my email and reading various blogs and articles than I do writing.
5. Worrying. About money, about my writing, about marketing my writing, about my kids and grandkid, about my weight, my age and my mortality...the list goes on. If I give too much energy to worrying, I have too little left for writing.
6. Snacking and smoking. These are delaying tactics, things I do to avoid what I should be doing.
7. Reading. I know a certain amount of reading is good for a writer. But it obviously depends upon what you read, and I often read junk. I do this for the same reason that I snack and smoke. I sometimes do all three at the same time.

Notice that I didn't list housework as a distraction. I use my writing as an excuse for not doing any.

Dreams or Delusions?

2008-07-03T09:14:00.002-05:00

Ever since I knew I wanted to be a writer, I've dreamed about how famous I would one day be. How people would say, "She's one of the best writers I've ever read!" I even made a mock-up magazine cover once with my photo on it and the caption: "Everything she writes turns to gold." Now that I'm older and feel like time is running out, I've come to see that I was delusional. Even so, I miss the time when I actually believed that my delusions were bona fide dreams.

I thought I could do any kind of writing. I can't. I thought I could repeat my successes (I've had some). I haven't. I thought that someday I'd be famous. I'm not.

I realize that my life isn't over yet, but honestly, how much longer can I hold onto my dreams? And where do dreams stop and delusions begin? I could lower my expectations, but that feels like giving up. I don't want to accept mediocrity. I want to be great. But the more I read of other writers' work, the more discouraged I become. I can't write that well, I think. I used to think: I can do better than that. When did I lose my confidence, and why? Is it just that I've grown up?

Not There Yet

2008-06-14T08:33:00.003-05:00

I'm still going through a dry spell--but it's lasted so long, I'm beginning to think that I've just lost "it." I've always wanted to be a writer, always thought I could write, but now I'm not so sure. I can't seem to write about anything of consequence. I have a theory though. It's about my mind. But it's not at all comforting: I think I've talked myself into not using it fully.

I've just come through a pretty traumatic period of my life, so traumatic that I can't bear to be reminded of it. I can't stand the strong and negative emotions certain things evoke. I won't listen to music anymore, which is a pity because I used to really enjoy it. I stopped going to church, something that once was very meaningful for me. Which is exactly the point: I don't want to be reminded of anything that once caused deep feelings. So, how can I possibly write anything that touches anyone if I don't allow myself to be touched?

When I do write something, it's as an artisan, not an artist. I go through the motions, I employ the techniques, I churn out reasonably well-crafted words. But the spirit is missing. I've lost my ability to plumb the depths of my soul. And that makes for bland reading indeed.

I don't know how to break through the walls that I've built in my mind. Maybe when the pain of not being able to write becomes greater than my fear of feeling. It's getting bad, but I'm not there yet. I just hope that someday I will be.

Beware of Writing Teachers

2008-06-07T18:38:00.004-05:00

Pat Schneider writes in her book, Writing Alone and With Others, that a good writing teacher will make you want to write and a bad one will make you feel like quitting. (paraphrased) That's a little simplistic, but I think she has something there. It doesn't matter what credentials your prospective teacher has, what matters is does she inspire and encourage you to write?

I took two writing classes when I was in college. Both were on writing creative nonfiction, but one was for beginners and the second was for those who had a little experience. I managed to get into the second one based on work I did in the first. I had a wonderful experience with the first class and the second one almost destroyed me as a writer. I'm still recovering from the damage.

Both teachers are published writers who have written several books, both fiction and nonfiction. Both are nationally known. Both were great teachers. But I reacted completely differently to each of them. At the end of the first class, I was eager to go on, which is why I applied for the second one. Little did I know that it would be my undoing.

The first teacher was a man and the second a woman. I don't know if that had anything to do with it. But I do know that the second teacher caused me to make an emotional investment in her as a person and when I didn't feel like she liked me that well, it felt like she was telling me that I was a bad writer. She had (has) a strong personality, scads of charisma, and a very personal way of relating to her students. She made you feel like she really liked you and cared about you--until something happened and she suddenly became cold. That's when I felt completely undermined as a writer. I was like a little child who thinks she causes her parent to abuse her: If I was a better little girl (writer), she wouldn't abuse me (shut me out).

Not that this teacher was abusive. She was always completely charming. She would sign her emails: Love, ______, and would tell you that she wanted to be your friend. Toward the end of the quarter she mentioned that she liked to get together with her friends, and somehow I got the idea that she might like to go to lunch with me. So I asked her and she accepted and we met a couple of weeks later for lunch. We were having a nice conversation on the surface, but I could sense that her attention was wandering. When we parted, she was fine, but didn't say that she'd like to do it again sometime. That was fine, but when I sent her a friendly email later, she completely ignored it. I waited a while and sent another. I never asked her to lunch or anything. She ignored that one. I began to feel like a stalker. And I finally stopped emailing her; it was just to painful to be rejected.

On one level, this didn't have a thing to do with what she thought of me as a writer. But the rejection of myself as a person translated itself into feeling rejected as a writer. Pat Schneider states that "A good teacher engages you with affection and keeps appropriate boundaries." Perhaps my story is a good example of why that's so important. I wasn't in that class to make a friend; I was there to learn how to write. I ended up torn about myself as a potential friend and writer.

Writer's Block

2008-06-04T11:17:00.006-05:00

I've been feeling glimmers of wanting to write again. My novel, essays that I've started, etc. But just glimmers so far. I'm still struggling with self-confidence. The only writing I've been doing are my blogs. It seems like I've been doing less creative writing since I got the laptop. I'm not sure why. It could be coincidental. Maybe sitting on the couch isn't the best place to write. It's true that I'm not using the office anymore. But the desk there is too high, I think. And I like having the laptop with me at all times. Has anyone invented a laptop desk that can be used when you're sitting on a couch or in an armchair? Are there lower desks that you can get for your office? But then that kind of defeats the purpose of a laptop, doesn't it?

I think it does matter where you write, but I can't seem to find my ideal place. My own office is a catastrophe. I keep meaning to straighten it out; I have papers stacked everywhere and my files need reorganizing desperately. But I just can't make myself do it. I guess I don't really like being in there. Maybe a writer needs a place that says to her, “This is your writing place.” Just like they say that you shouldn't do anything else (watch TV, work at your desk) but sleep and have sex in your bedroom, maybe you shouldn't do anything else but write in your writing place. That way when you go there, you associate it with writing and nothing else. Maybe that's why I'm having trouble sitting on the living room couch. But I've done some of my best writing in the past in our laundry room, a corner of our basement bedroom (no windows) or in the aforementioned office. I don't think it matters so much where I write but whether or not I have something to say.

I think that's my real crisis: I don't feel that I have anything to say. I suppose my life has been interesting, but I can't think of how to write about it. I used to think that I had unique insights on things but now my thoughts bore even me. Is it my medication? But how could I be any more productive if I went off it and became a mess emotionally? There has to be a way around this. But all I feel is despair. I need a writing mentor or coach. But is there such a thing? I really don't think that a writing group would do it for me. I don't want to spend my time writing from prompts like the group I've joined (but never manage to attend) does. Although maybe I should. I obviously need something to inspire me. I have all these writing books, but none of them seems to help.

One thing I know I need to do more of is read good books. What I mean is, books by good writers. But then I think I have to emulate them and what I really need to do is find my own voice. That's exactly how I feel: like I've lost my voice. I don't like who I am right now—or what I'm doing—so I don't like my own voice. Or maybe you don't have one when you're not being true to yourself. The only problem is, I don't know what I should be doing. I feel like I need plenty of time to write, but then I don't use it. I waste entire days writing in my journals and looking things that interest me up on the Internet. I bet I could wander all day at the library. I don't want to give up the luxury of time that I now have to do things like that. All my life I've wanted time to write. Now I have plenty of it. So that doesn't appear to be the main problem.

What do I love writing about? What do I feel drawn to? I love writing about my house—about all my houses. Maybe I should pick up on that idea I had of writing about all the parts of a house. But whenever I start to write something like that, I think, who's going to be interested in this? This is too specific to me. Maybe I should stop worrying about who would want to read what I write and just write to please myself.

Immortality

2008-05-28T13:37:00.004-05:00

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.

Nothing to Say

2008-05-24T06:49:00.004-05:00

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.

My New Laptop

2008-05-09T14:39:00.005-05:00

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.

My Giveaway

2008-05-08T12:25:00.002-05:00

Read it here: "Piece of Mind."

Giving Away Our Art

2008-05-07T08:15:00.006-05:00

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.

Semantics and Politics

2008-05-05T17:45:00.004-05:00

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.

The Imposter Syndrome

2008-05-04T12:57:00.003-05:00

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.

Quickie Progress Report

2007-12-27T12:06:00.000-06:00

In my last post I told you about my experience of trying to write a novel in one month. Did I end up with one? Not even a shitty first draft. It was more like I jotted down 1500 words' worth of notes every day for a month. Not a waste of time. But definitely not a novel. If anything, it taught me that I don't have a coherent idea for one.

NaNoWriMo books that have gone on to be published (according to About.com's Fiction Writing column): Sarah Gruen's "Flying Changes," Rebecca Agiewich's "Breakup Babe," Dave Wilson's "The Mote in Andrea's Eye," and Gayle Brandeis's "Self Storage."

For more information, click here: www.nanowrimo.org.

Writing Marathon

2007-06-16T11:21:00.000-05:00

I've taken the idea of the National Novel Writing Month for my own. Since June 8th, I've been writing at least 1500 words a day of a novel that I've been wanting to write for at least six years. As of today I have 16,064 words, which averages 2000 words a day. So I'm a little ahead of schedule. I was really stuck yesterday--I still managed to get 1500 words out, but just barely. I kept looking up things on the Internet because there are so many facts I have to check. I can see why John Grisham needs all the researchers that I read he employs in order to be as prolific as he is. It's extremely time-consuming. Finally I just had to write some descriptions and let it go. Today I was back to primarily dialogue.

Is it working? I am getting down some ideas that have been percolating in my mind and I've gone in some directions I hadn't planned ahead of time. The truth is, I didn't have much planned before I started writing. So this is really a rough draft. But that's what it's meant to be, nothing more. I've discovered that I can crank out the words, but I still don't know if I can shape them into something worth reading. But, first things first.

I got some books out of the library that are along similar lines as my novel. I also got out a lot of possible resource books. Twenty books in all! I've designated a corner of our living room as a reading nook. All the books are stacked behind my favorite armchair. Along with piles of papers and other books. My favorite pens are there, too, as well as a lot of scrap paper. (Do I have scrap paper!) The only problem I can foresee is that I'm going to have limited time to write over the next week, because my grandson is coming to visit. Maybe I can get some input from him about how my novel should go, even if he is only eight!

The main result of all this industry is that fiction is no longer the scary form I thought it was. I had myself convinced that I can't write fiction, that my strong suit was essays and that's it. But the truth is, I'd never really tried to write fiction except for when I was young enough not to be afraid of things of it. (Which means I was maybe between eight and twelve.) I still don't know if I can write fiction, but at least I'm giving it a try, finally. Another result has been that I can't read anything now without comparing my writing with the author I'm reading and trying to glean tips from it. I suppose I should have been reading like that all along, but I think it took this boost of writing activity to make me see that.

Just a few thoughts about the process. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

First Day

2007-01-01T11:24:00.000-06:00

I don't think there's anything magical about the changing of the years. Dates after all, are what we use to mark the passage time. Sometimes it's helpful and sometimes it's merely depressing. With every day that goes by, I'm reminded that I have not yet "arrived," by which I mean some kind of recognition that my life counted for something. But maybe we never "arrive" till the day we die. Maybe we never "arrive" until our work here is finished.

Hallmark thought, I know. And it doesn't really help us figure out what our work is. I have an idea about that: I think our work is everything that we do in this life. Is it right to label just one thing as our "work" and then assume that as long as we do well in that one thing, we are successful? We've all heard of geniuses in their fields who were failures as spouses and parents and friends. No one expects us to be perfect in all that we do, but isn't it just as important to do our best in all areas of our lives and not just in our "work"? I'm reminded of a minister who put off doing things with his children because he had to do "God's work." What did he think being a parent was if not also God's work?

I happen to believe in God; it's a fact about me that can't be changed. But not everyone sees life in the terms I outlined above. So what? Don't we all seek some kind of recognition that we existed and that we mattered? This is mainly an existential matter, not a religious one. I don't know how many writers hope that their writing will leave behind some kind of evidence that they once existed, but I would guess that it's most of us, if we're honest. One reason I write this blog is to offer some kind of proof that I exist. Not a very permanent proof, I agree, given the nature of the Internet. But it's a start.

Perseverance and Self-Doubt

2006-12-30T15:04:00.000-06:00

One of the things this blog has made me do is consider whether or not I should join or start a writer's group. The authors of Art and Fear make the observation that the attrition rate of artists after graduation is incredibly high; if it were that high for doctors after medical school there would be a Senate investigation. They recommend getting together a support system for when you are out of school, perhaps to take the place of the one you had while you were in there.

Myself, when I was taking my second writing class, I just found it intimidating. Oh, it had the result of making me write (I had to earn a grade, for one thing), but I was more discouraged than encouraged by my experience there. Part of that was my reaction to the other students. If I felt that anyone had written a better essay than I, I was demoralized completely. How is it communicated to a student/artist that their work is their own and stands on its own merits? Why can't I accept that for myself?

I couldn't write the essays the others wrote partly because I hadn't had the experiences they had had. I don't mean that in an existential way, either. I mean the actual experiences that they wrote about. Some events lend themselves to a more dramatic, or funnier, story than others. Some even dictate the style of writing. My topic was too big, too rambling, I bit off more than I could chew. I need to learn to deal with my life in my writing in more manageable pieces. (Or be prepared to write a much longer essay, which is what I eventually did).

But did that experience make me stop writing? Obviously not. So, although I think the writers of Art and Fear have a very good point about support systems, I still think that "real" writers won't quit. Or, if we do quit, we will be miserable. There have been many periods in my life when I didn't write a thing. Except for in my journal. And in there my most common criticism of myself was that I wasn't writing. And yet I was, if "only" in my journal. Because I couldn't stop writing no matter what was going on in my life or how I felt about myself. I just couldn't.

Gifted

2006-12-30T14:06:00.001-06:00

My husband gave me a book to read called Art and Fear: Observations on the Perils and Rewards of Artmaking. The introduction of the book states that "it is about committing your future to your own hands, placing Free Will above predestination, choice above chance. It is about finding your own work.”

That brings up an interesting and bothersome idea: that God works through us. Does that mean that what we do is really God's doing, or our own? What does it mean exactly when we say that we have a gift from God? Is He the one who expresses the gift? Of course not: we're not automatons who are set in motion and robotically churn out works of art (or good deeds). We do have Free Will. Which implies that we can shirk our duties and ignore our gifts. I guess the real point is: how do we get ourselves to 1) recognize our gift(s); 2) accept our gifts; and 3) use our gifts to the best of our abilities? (A synonym for “gift” is “talent.”) Maybe #4 would be to dedicate the expression of our gifts to God. It might be that on our side all we need to do, to be in the will of God, is to work as hard as we can to bring our gifts to fruition. So, if I think that God has given me the talent of writing, a gift of communication, don't I owe it to God as much as to myself to really work at it? What that means fills countless “how-to” books; it is up to us to adapt the advice to our own situations. While it is good advice to say that I should write every day, only I can decide when I write and for how long (or how much). If I had my way, I would write all day long, off and on. It never feels like work to me. It's now 3 pm and I've been writing in here for at least three hours, maybe four. It doesn't look like it, I know; I've been putzing around doing other things now and again, but the main reason I've not showered or dressed yet is because I keep turning back to the keyboard and trying to say all that I want to say today.

That's probably what motivates me to write: I have things to say. And I want to write every day to find out what it is that I wanted or needed to say that day. Often I have no idea until I start writing. Oh, I'm thinking stuff all the time, but it doesn't really coalesce until I try to put that “stuff” on paper/computer.

Who's to say that my desire to write on any given day isn't God pushing me to use my gift? All my life I wanted time to write and now that I have as much as I want, I find that it's still not enough. I would spend every waking minute on the computer, writing, except when I'm reading.

Unfortunately (or fortunately) there are days that no matter how hard I try, I just can't write. But when it's going well, when the words are flowing and I can even type fairly quickly, I just want to go on forever. Maybe I ought to cut myself some slack and recognize that this is one of those days and that days like this make up for the days when I have zip to say.

The authors of Art and Fear write that “It's easy to imagine that artists doubted their calling less when working in the service of God than when working in the service of self.”Yes, but how do we know the difference? Is it working in God's service only when we paint religious paintings or write devotions? Or does any use of our gifts qualify as serving God? We would all draw the line somewhere I think, but where? Is it different for each person? Does it depend on our motivations?

Another point made in Art and Fear is that “the flawless creature wouldn't need to make art.” Does that mean that the only way we can even hope to compete with God is through artistic expression? That making art makes us like Him? After all, when we make art we are participating in the job usually reserved for God: that of the Creator. Could it be said that it is exactly our imperfections that give each of us our distinctive voices? We are limited in what we create only by what we can imagine but we are limited in our imagination by what our life experiences have been and how we came into this world? We are not all created equally. That doesn't mean that some people are better than others; rather, it means that we are all different.

A Writer's Resolutions

2006-12-30T10:15:00.000-06:00

Same old, same old. Get published. Make money.

What else is a writer going to say? After all, you're not really a writer if you're not published. And if you make money at your writing, well, then you've arrived!

If you've read my previous blogs you know that I don't believe either of those "truths" about being a writer. But when I went to write my resolutions, these two items were right on the list. Why? Because it tells others that you're a writer. They probably won't believe you otherwise.

The first question I'm asked when I say that I'm a writer is "Where have you been published?" The unspoken question--or sometimes spoken one, if the asker is crass--is "Do you make any money at it?" Never mind that you write every day. Or that you made $700 in 1994 and only $600 since. You're not a real writer unless you've passed these two tests, consistently.

You can't change what other people think being a writer is. But you can change what you believe. Do you believe that you're a writer? What do you believe qualifies you as one? Maybe you should stop following the crowd and emancipate yourself as a writer: Make the proclamation! I'm a writer. Do you even say that when people ask what you do? Or do you judge yourself by the standards of others?

Let me ask you this: do you write almost every day? Could you give up your writing? Are you passionate about writing? Does it make you feel good when you write? Do you learn anything from your writing? If you can say yes to every one of these questions, then you're a writer, no question about it. If you can't, you'd probably be better off developing another of your talents.

Maybe the only resolution that really makes sense for a writer is this: Believe in myself as a writer. You don't have to resolve to write every day--you'd do that anyway. You don't have to be published--you can't control that. You don't have to make money at it--that's not really why you do it, is it?

Having said all this, there's nothing wrong with wanting to be published or to make money at your writing. If you must, put them down as resolutions. But if those are on the list, don't forget to also include: Explore the markets. Develop writing ideas. Send out query letters. Join (or start) a writer's group. Read a writing book. Take a writing course. But just remember, none of these activities qualify you to be a writer: writing does.

Journaling vs. Blogging

2006-06-25T12:23:00.000-05:00

I cannot believe that I haven't written anything since the 5th of January! I keep a journal--a couple of them actually, one handwritten, one on my computer--but I forget that I have this blog that I can write in. But there's another reason why I rarely write here: I think that everything I write has to be nuggets of gold, because it's open to the public. Why else would anyone want to read what I write? I need to get past that attitude and write just for me. But if my thoughts aren't interesting to other people, so be it.

My writing has been shaped by my journaling. I've kept a journal since my teens and I've kept all of them but the earliest ones (and I now regret throwing those away). I rarely read them; it's just comforting to know that they're there. They are some kind of confirmation that my life has been worth something, even that I've actually been here. That's one reason why I write in the first place: the hope that something of me will still be here after I die. Of course, that presupposes that someone will hang on to them and want to read them. But what happens after I die is completely out of my control.

I don't use any clever techniques to get myself going when I journal. I just write. I don't feel like I'm in touch with my day--and my life--unless I write something. I'm often disappointed by what comes out of me. I'd like to think that I'm more interesting than the person who shows up in my journals. I can't say that I really know who that person is or how she comes across, though. But if I worried about that, I'd never write anything.

I haven't made the transition from journaling to blogging. I know that they aren't one and the same although they can feel that way. Journals are ultimately private. I can choose to share mine with people, but for the most part they are purely for me and I wouldn't want anyone else to read them (unless I'm dead; see above). But with blogs there is the presumption that someone else will read them, even the hope that that will be so. How does that shape what I write here?

In a blog, I'm writing for an audience (a potential one). I can't help but be somewhat self-conscious about what I write. But it also makes me think a little more deeply, try a little harder to be understood. Journaling can be like shorthand. A great deal of it means something only to me, and some of my posts are only meant to be reminders of what was going on in my life at the time. Blogs have to be more specific and fleshed out. I can't just say that my grandson came to visit, I have to elaborate. Why did he come for a visit? How old is he? How did he act? What was my response? Sometimes I cover these things in my journal but often I don't. I just assume that I will remember what the visit was like when I read that he came for one.

But that's a dangerous assumption. In my journals, I'm guilty of telling, not showing, because I figure that I'll remember the details. I need to write in them as if I'm writing to someone who doesn't know me because in the future I probably won't know the me that wrote in my journal. I've had that frustrating experience many times when I have read parts of my journals. Who was I talking about here? What did I really think about that?

This little entry has helped me to realize that I can write in my journals the same way that I would write in a blog, or a letter. Because a blog is like a letter more than it is like a journal. In a letter you're more informative (usually) because you want to reconsctruct what's been going on with you so that your reader will be able to understand. But there's no reason why I can't write letters to myself. In this way my journals can become like blogs, except that I'm the only reader. Perhaps then I'll become more aware of who I really am and what I really think.

Do Words Really Facilitate Communication?

2006-01-04T10:04:00.000-06:00

Words are only powerful if they can be understood. The main reason that people have conflicts is either that they don't or don't want to understand one another. Could it be said that one reason we are in Iraq is because real communication does not exist between our two nations? And if so, whose fault is that?

Americans are not known for their foreign language skills, but then how many non-Americans really understand English? Should we be required to learn one another's language? Or is that simply idealistic?

It is impossible to learn all the languages of the countries that we have (or should have) dealings with. That is, it's impossible for most of us, who are too old or too busy just trying to make a living and live our own lives or who have always been language-challenged in the first place. I know. I took French in high school and 35 years later I still remember much of what I learned then (when my brain was more impressionable). For the past nine years I've been attempting to learn German, first on my own and then through college courses. I'm amused and at the same time frustrated by the many times I can think of the French word for something when I'm trying to access the German one. I'm not giving up, but I can't even imagine trying to learn something like Arabic, Japanese, Chinese or Russian (or any language with a completely different script).

That doesn't mean that one can't learn a language phonetically--many people have done so quite satisfactorily, but then they are usually limited to speaking and listening and are not capable of reading or writing. We see the problem all the time in second generation immigrants. They pick up their second language almost by osmosis, they can speak it and understand it, but their second language skills are woefully behind their verbal proficiency. Not only does this make it difficult to fully participate in their new country's educational and occupational life, it also makes it difficult for them to access the deeper meanings in the words that the majority of their new countrymen speak.

But what about the citizens of their new country? Should they be trying to fully understand and participate in the immigants' languages? Again, this may be an impossible or at the least a very difficult task. But should they be trying?

If we accept the reality that language barriers exist and will probably always exist (who knows? maybe someday we'll all carry devices which automatically translate any language into our own), then we need to explore other ways to facilitate our communications with one another. If we can't understand what we hear, then we need interpreters. Those who know both languages might be seen as having the responsibility to translate from between the two language groups. Efforts like these are already being made in many venues, such as hospitals, where it may be a matter of life and death if doctors, nurses and patients do not understand each other. But what about in political arenas? How can people be expected to vote at all let alone responsibly if they don't have a clue what the issues and platforms are? Is it all their responsibility to learn a high enough level of proficiency to be able to participate in all areas of life? Will we stop treating patients who don't understand our language? Will we even accept that wrong things may be communicated because there is no interpreter on the scene?

When we put the burden on the immigrant, we should never underestimate the his or her desire to please and to not appear ignorant. People who are not really conversant in a new language will nod their heads and say the few phrases they do know, hoping that somehow they will get by. Shouldn't we at least know how to say, "Do you understand English?" in their language? And then to do something about it if they don't?

I realize that it is not always possible for interpreters to be present on the spot. But organizations and venues that can reasonably expect to run into this problem and who have a concentration of of other-language-speaking people under their jurisdiction should most certainly attempt to have interpreters available at a moment's notice, even if it is over the phone.

Another thing that could be done is to have people who are willing and able to be bilingual interpreters registered and on call, so that any misunderstandings could be avoided in a reasonable amount of time. If you are trying to work out a transaction with a customer who speaks another language, wouldn't it be beneficial for both of you to have an interpreter available?

Another idea, a very simple one really, would to make use of bilingual dictionaries. You don't have to know all the grammar rules to be able to communicate in another's language. They don't even know all of their grammar rules (do you know yours?). The best thing I did in preparation for my visits to Germany was to learn as much vocabulary as I could. That doesn't make you sound like a native, to be sure, but it does give you a point to start from. (I had trouble opening doors all over Germany because I didn't know the words for "push" and "pull." Imagine not knowing the words for "men" and "women" let alone for "toilet." Have you ever considered how hard it is to accomplish anything if you don't know the names for anything?

One more point needs to be addressed specifically to English-speaking populations: Never ever assume that everyone you encounter will know how to speak English. This is not only true when traveling in other countries, but is also becoming increasingly true domestically. Be prepared to make the effort, both to be understood and to understand. Maybe then we can start to learn how to get along.

"Grief Garden," An Essay About Death

2005-12-19T14:19:00.001-06:00

My father died five days before last Christmas. There was a foot of snow on the ground the day he was buried and his grave looked like a raw gaping wound all through a cold wet spring. It may be healed over with grass by now; I wouldn't know. I haven't been there lately. I've been too busy gardening.

When I first heard my father's prognosis (death-sentence), I instinctively turned to nature. I drove to where our house was being built, walked to the nearby creek and stood on its banks and watched the leaves fall from the trees. Each leaf's whispery flight was a sigh from my heart, a breath from my own life, leaving the earth with my father. He wasn't gone yet; this was only the beginning of the stages where we would bargain, deny, hope against hope that his case would be the exception to the rule, the special miracle from God.

But I think I knew even then, as I stood by the creek, that I would soon have a reason to never feel the same about fall, that I would never see a leaf float to the ground without thinking of the day I found out that my father had pancreatic cancer.

I had always been extremely close to my father. We didn't always talk that much, and I may have assumed more closeness than he really felt, but I had always counted him as my closest ally and friend. Besides that, he was a rarity: a genuinely good and kind man. I had always joked to my husband and children that they didn't want to be around me whenever he died, because didn't think I would handle it very well. I say “joked” because I always laughed when I said it. I didn't really believe that day would ever come. But it did, and my joke had become a nightmare. My chips were being called in. I was being forced to face the unimaginable.

To make matters even more complicated, we were in the last stages of having a house built, a house my father never even got to see except for in some Polaroids I took to the hospital about two weeks before he died. I had some more pictures ready to show him when I got the phone call saying he was gone.

We moved into our house and every day I walked through the barren woods and along the frozen creek. While everyone around me was complaining about the long siege of snow, I felt somewhat comforted by the bleak and frozen conditions that mimicked those of my heart.

Before my dad's illness I had been looking forward to the day when we would have a “virgin” yard in which to garden. We wouldn't have to put up with anyone else's concepts; everything we put into the ground could be entirely our choice. I devoured gardening books, magazines and catalogs, and even began to keep a gardening journal where I jotted down every idea and dream.

But after my dad's death, I lost my enthusiasm for almost everything: my writing, our new home, my family, my husband, my church and most of all for my garden. It seemed almost too painful to consider engaging in something that would remind me of our relentless journey from birth to death. I had yet to see the hope in the miracle of growth and rebirth.

Our new house has lots of light and a few weeks after he died, my mother sent me home with two ficus trees and a large palm because she and my father had agreed that they would prosper there. That was the day that my grieving process began. As so often happens with those who are grieving, I found myself engaging in ritualistic behavior, as if the steady repetition would somehow give my life a structure and therefore a meaning. Unfortunately for my family, my rituals did not include cleaning or cooking, What I did become almost obsessive about was my parents' plants.

I watered, rearranged, trimmed and fussed. I worried when the leaves dropped off, and my heart lifted, just a little, when they stopped. Then they began to grow. Though our sun-lit rooms began to come alive with life, I felt ambivalent. The growth seemed almost insulting. I had trouble accepting that anything could be alive, let alone thrive, when my father was dead. I hated being reminded that in some forms life continued.

But I was also comforted by the ritual of caring for the plants. Maybe fussing over the plants took the place of the care I could no longer give my father. His days in the hospital had been mercifully few, but I regretted not being able to nurse him there or at home. I had had no desire to see him suffer, but I had wanted to minister to him, soothe his pain, smooth his brow. One of the last times I visited him, I had stroked his head and he had closed his eyes and sighed, “That feels good, honey.” Now I had no head to stroke. I had only these plants of his to keep alive. And it seemed inordinately important to me to keep them alive, a feeling I soon transferred to my outdoor gardening efforts.

As soon as the spring rains slowed, I headed outside, puny trowel in hand, and began planting every plant I could get my hands on. I ordered flats of marigolds from the Boy Scouts and picked up an odd assortment of perennials at the local garden center. Every time I left the house I came home with a plant. I scoured the local discount store for bargains, or whatever struck my fancy. Not content with just our front garden, I bought window boxes and planted ivy and red salvia and white geraniums and blue lobelia, then fretted when the lobelia succumbed to the sun and the heat, and felt a small but recognizable thrill of excitement when a hummingbird paid daily visits to the salvia.

Meanwhile, most of the marigolds fell victim to bunnies and grasshoppers, and the sandwort and English daisy pomponnettes struggled in the unyielding and undrainable clay soil. A few plants shriveled away until I finally gave up and gave them a decent burial. Others clung to life with a tenacity that gave me pause on those days when I wondered what the point of living was.

Because I am middle-aged in a neighborhood of young families, I know how I must have looked to them, fussing in my garden morning, noon and night. I know I must have looked like my father had to his young neighbors, and the thought didn't make me sad.

There were many times when I wondered why I was going to all the effort to nurture something that would die in a few short weeks. It is only now as I write these words that I think to wonder the same thing about the creation of a human being. Why does God go to all that effort to create, to nurture, to sustain, when we are only going to be here for a few short “weeks”? But I would push that thought away and plunge my hands deep into the soil as if by doing so I could somehow become one with something eternal.

I didn't think of it at the time, but I look back now at all the symbolic burials I performed: digging the hole, leaving the mounds of dirt at the “graveside,” then depositing the plant which had only my ministrations to separate it from death. How wonderful to see a plant enter into its glory instead of decaying in the ground: to see the evidence of growth and the bloom of life. Even the daily nipping of spent blossoms did not diminish the steady progress of my precious plants' new life.

As the summer's heat bore down on my garden, I was careful to slake its thirst daily, then worried that I was drowning it Our tender young ash tree, which we did not pick or plant but which I was still determined to nurture through its infancy, began to turn yellow and lose its leaves as if it was fall. In my ignorance, I thought I had drowned it, until a friend assured me that, during that summer's drought, I couldn't water it enough. I also worried that it was suffering from still being wrapped tightly in its burial shroud. It was too late to remove it, but I did the next best thing: I pushed away the dirt, tore off the top layers of burlap, and then gently covered it over again—and watered and watered!

The next day I swore it looked perkier, and I made each member of the family examine it and offer his or her opinion. I'm sure they were humoring me when they agreed, but after two more weeks of incessant watering and despite the drought, our tree looked freshly green while all our neighbors' trees were yellow and shedding. Once more I felt as if I had scored a point on the side of life.

Summer wore on into August, and then suddenly the garden took off. The moon flower vine that had taken two months to look even remotely vine-like began to grow madly. The marigolds mustered their reserves and began to show off both foliage and flowers. The English daisies came back to life and rewarded me with a second blooming. The yarrow divested itself of its dessicated shoots while birthing feathery shootlets. The delicate moss roses offered flowers stunning in their intensity, as if to make up for the brevity of their existence. The eight miniature roses I had rescued, half-dead, from the local grocery's flower shop (for only $1.50 apiece) were developing cores of tiny buds and growing like crazy.

But even as the garden was bursting into life, I suddenly lost interest in mine. I withdrew into myself, caring little about anything. My husband faithfully took over the watering, and once reduced me to a stony silence when he accidentally sheared a newly planted azalea off at its base. One more piece of evidence that things die, I remember thinking. What's the use?

My depression deepened until I finally sought treatment. Weeks later, as I began to climb out of the hole in which I had been entombed, I saw my garden afresh. More beautiful than ever, it beckoned to me. Don't be afraid, it said. Enjoy me while you can; I will be gone soon enough, either dying or sleeping. But I can be reseeded and regrown, and I will emerge again, over and over, until the end of time.

In my shaky recovery, I fear the coming of winter, but I cling to my garden's promise. I am already making plans for next year's gardens (in the plural, you will note), and dreaming of a greenhouse someday. I am very busy these days pinching blossoms, ordering bulbs, and lining up large pots for the replanting of my father's ficus trees, which have grown too big for the pots they came in.

As I work, I absorb the silent lessons that my grief garden has taught me: that life is ever-changing, and death is not permanent. My garden assures me that my father's lifeless form was ministered to just as lovingly, until he reemerged in Another's garden, resplendent in his glory, and bursting with new life.

Does Writing Make a Writer?

2005-12-19T12:53:00.000-06:00

If I write a blog, and no one ever reads it, does it really exist? This is a question that can be asked about a lot of things on the Internet. Of course, technically, if even one person can access it, it really exists. But does it make a difference? Does it accomplish what the writer intended for it to? Which brings me to another question? Why do people write blogs? If it's just to keep a journal, anyone can do that with pen and paper, or on one's own computer. Why does it need to be on the Internet? What difference does it make if it's "out there" or not? Are all of us hoping to be "discovered"? If so, by whom? So, why do we write? Who do we write for? Who do I picture as reading this as I'm writing it, or am I only writing for myself?

This is the same issue that comes up about being a writer in the first place. Can you consider yourself a writer if no one but you ever sees what you write? Conversely, if others do read your writings does that make you a writer?

Me, Miteypen

2005-12-17T18:03:00.000-06:00

I thought about going through my early posts and weeding out the ones that aren't really essays about writing (or essays at all). But then I decided to keep them in: they will show the path I've traveled to finally turn this blog into what I wanted it to be all along. Why didn't I write essays about writing from the beginning? Because I wasn't sure that I had anything to say, because I was lazy and busy (if that's possible?), and because I couldn't quite put myself out there as a writer. I think it's significant that I changed the name of this blog from "The Mighty Pen" to "Miteypen;" it shows that I've begun to forge an identity for myself. This is not a blog about writing as much as it is a blog about one writer: me. Not so much me as a person, but the me who has never wanted to be anything but a writer, is never satisfied with what she writes, is afraid to let others read her writing, will never be happy unless she makes it, and struggles daily with what "making it" means for her.

Now that I've begun to put more work into this blog, I can tell you at least part of what makes me feel like a real writer. It's when I really work on a piece of writing. There's nothing that makes me feel like I'm a working writer like having to sweat over what I write. If I don't rearrange and reconsider what I've written, I can never be sure that I've done the best that I can do. (I'm never sure of that but at least working at it makes me feel like a professional.)
It took me forever to write the blog about Christmas, for instance. I'm not saying that it turned out to be brilliant as a result, but it's certainly better than it was when I first dashed off my thoughts on the subject.

But there are also times when the writing flows like water. Those are the times when I feel that I've been given a gift.

I've stated before in this blog that I've been "Miteypen" on the web ever since I first got on it. The saying "The pen is mightier than the sword" inspired my name. I am only one person, weak and imperfect, trying to have my say and influence the world around me. I could never single-handedly win a war, or even a battle. But I can stir up emotions, make people think, and even, sometimes, inspire people to action. Ideally, this blog will help me to sharpen my weapons and perfect my skills.

I am only one "pen," but I am a miteypen.

Xmas By Any Other Name...

2005-12-14T17:33:00.000-06:00

The current (and apparently annual) controversy over the use of phrases like "Happy Holidays" and "Season's Greetings" reminds me of a similar disagreement over the use of "X" to mean "Christ." Some Christians consider that to be blasphemous--or, at the least, disrespectful. I say, don't worry about it; God "gets" it. After all, He's the one who told us His name was YHWH (Yahweh).

But it seems that retail stores and greeting cards are making a special effort this year to downplay the religious aspect of Christmas. I'd like to ask the Christians who are calling for boycotts of these merchants to tell us what they're really upset about. Are they worried that people will forget what the season stands for? Well, the fact is, this time of the year means different things to different religions. Not only is there Hannukah and Kwaanza, but there's also the Winter Solstice. Are Christians willing to share the stage with others? Or are they afraid that the competition will put them out of business?

The "politically correct" option has existed for years and I for one have always been glad to find cards that will not offend those I am not sure are Christian. In an ideal world, we would send cards to commemorate everyone's celebrations. But frankly, I'm not entirely clear about who celebrates what. It's much easier--and safer, if your goal is truly to send best wishes and not offend others-- if we use cards with greetings that everyone can agree with. I've always been partial to "Peace On Earth"--who can argue with that? And there are always greetings like "May your season be bright" and "Joy to the World" (song lyrics come in especially handy for this purpose). I do find it a little excessive, though, when it takes me a half hour to find cards that actually contain the word "Christmas." But Christians should count their blessings: none of the cards used the abbreviation "Xmas." And the word "holiday" isn't as bad as they make it out to be. After all, its original meaning was "holy day."

I have a suggestion that might help to quell the controversy: what about writing your own greeting inside the card? Then you could explain in your own words what this season means to you. And while you're at it, get rid of the gifts and the Christmas trees. The Christmas tree and many other Christian (not just Christmas) traditions started out as pagan customs. And the only gifts we give should be those we give to God (like the little drummer boy's). Stores like Wal-mart and Target may not be exhibiting the true meaning of Christmas, but then, neither are we.

"Word" As a Concept

2005-10-15T18:16:00.000-05:00

I feel sure that the following is true: from the moment I understood what a word was, I fell in love with the concept. It has always seemed magical to me, that letters arranged in groups could have so much meaning. All words are a code, even ones that are not meant to be. How tragic that illiteracy guarantees that these codes cannot be broken. What would it be like to not be able to access all that is going on?

Those who say that reading is becoming a thing of the past are not paying attention. The spoken word is powerful, but there is an extra mystique and special power in the written word. For one thing, it cannot be taken back. It is a permanent record of what someone once expressed. For another, it can bridge the cap between those who speak and those who don't. It also causes us to elucidate our thoughts. Some people can think clearly on the fly--in other words, while they are speaking. But many of us--not just writers--are never completely sure what we mean until we try to put our thoughts into writing.

Even those who speak often rely on the written word as a basis for what they say. The most moving and meaningful speeches and sermons are rarely made up as the speaker goes along. Sometimes we doubt the sincerity of the message if we know that it was written down ahead of time. But should we? It might be that the act of having to write has the effect of making the speaker think more deeply about he or she wants to say. In fact, I believe that it does. That's one reason why using speechwriters seems suspect to me. Whose words are being expressed, the speaker's or the speechwriter's? And even worse is the scenario where the speechwriter uses a third party's words and passes them off as the speaker's. It was not only appropriate, but an honor to the author, that President Reagan referred to the Challenger crew as having "slipped the surly bonds of earth" to "touch the face of God," except that Reagan (or, rather, the speechwriter, Peggy Noonan) did not give the author credit. Considering the history of the poem that the lines were taken from, I think the speech would have been even more meaningful if the story of John Magee would have been included. Following is part of his story: (For more, follow the link below.)

"On 3 September 1941, Magee flew a high altitude (30,000 feet) test flight in a newer model of the Spitfire V. As he orbited and climbed upward, he was struck with the inspiration of a poem – “To touch the face of God.”

Once back on the ground, he wrote a letter to his parents. In it he commented, “I am enclosing a verse I wrote the other day. It started at 30,000 feet, and was finished soon after I landed.” On the back of the letter, he jotted down his poem, ‘High Flight’.

Just three months later, on 11 December 1941 (and only three days after the US entered the war), Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr., was killed. The Spitfire V he was flying, VZ-H, collided with an Oxford Trainer from Cranwell Airfield flown by one Ernest Aubrey. The mid-air happened over the village of Roxholm which lies between RAF Cranwell and RAF Digby, in the county of Lincolnshire at about 400 feet AGL at 11:30. John was descending in the clouds. At the enquiry a farmer testified that he saw the Spitfire pilot struggle to push back the canopy. The pilot, he said, finally stood up to jump from the plane. John, however, was too close to the ground for his parachute to open. He died instantly. He was 19 years old."

How much poorer would be our heritage if John Magee had not written these words. After all, his words brought comfort to many when President Reagan spoke them. When Reagan's speechwriter neglected to give credit to James Magee (and essentially gave it to Reagan) the opportunity was lost to connect the present with the past and our country with a larger world.

Revision of Crappy First Draft

2005-03-23T18:36:00.000-06:00

It took me several weeks and I stopped counting how many drafts to come up with the first revision of my crappy first draft. (See previous post.) I finally realized that even though I put all that effort into it and lengthened it from six pages to thirty-three, it is still just that: a revision, a slightly less crappy second draft. It was not encouraging to me when the teacher said that sometimes you have to write something forty times to get one good paragraph. I figure if I have to do that, I don't have much of an idea of what I want to write about or how I want to say it. Maybe instead of putting all that time and energy into one paragraph, I ought to start over completely. I know what my teacher was saying and I don't really disagree with her, but I hope she doesn't mean that I have to write that much for every good paragraph.
Sometimes I end up with a paragraph that is so good it stands by itself and then what do I do with it? Almost every revision has something worth saving, but what do I do when I end up with parts worth saving from several revisions and they don't fit together?
Another issue: how about length in non-fiction, essays, etc.? My teacher also said that most journals want essays that are around 15-25 pages long. I've always written short essays so that figure seems daunting. What is really daunting about it is that you have to be a helluva writer to keep someone reading for 15-25 pages. But what choice do I have? I have to keep trying. Quantity and quality.

Crappy First Draft

2005-02-07T07:02:00.000-06:00

I just wrote the crappiest first draft* that I believe I have ever written, which is upsetting enough, but I handed it in as an assignment, which is humiliating. This is for a workshop class. Everyone was really kind in their comments, which at first I thought was encouraging, but then when I heard how kind they were about someone else's draft that was incomprehensible, I got nervous. Now I'm convinced that mine was almost as bad. It was comprehensible, but being so, it was easier for a reader to tell that it was an awful essay. The only thing it had going for it was my writing style, which made it easy to read (if not understand). If I ever get it cleaned up (which I have to do for a decent grade, God help me), I might put it up here, but I doubt it. It will be too long, for one thing. It'll have to be because of all the weaknesses I have to strengthen by expanding a comment here, creating a "scene" there. (The kind that brings vitality to one's writing, not that which I feel like doing).
Off to the writing board. Gulp.

*I owe this to Anne Lamott in her book Bird by Bird, only she was more vivid in her description. She has saved my sanity by writing, "Everyone should write a [crappy] first draft." Well, I've certainly done that.

Miteypen Types

2005-01-31T13:03:00.000-06:00

I travel the net as miteypen and have ever since I got my first computer (and my first Internet account) in 1996. I actually had a (so-called) business named "The Mighty Pen," but there are so many references to the mighty pen out there (and not just in cyberspace), that I decided to rename it "miteypen" and be done with it. Miteypen is easier to type, too, and not just because it's shorter. I hate having to type words with "gh" in them. For instance, Light, Might and even words like Through and Although. There are more difficult words to type--the worst I've run across for its length being Egypt. There is a "yp" in miteypen but no "g" so I can live with that.

I may seem to be picky, but the way I type (there's another one), I have to be. I am not a "hunt-and-pecker" (now that didn't come out right), but I am a "looker" (neither did that). That is, for the most part I don't have to hunt for keys one by one and then peck at them (although I have yet to achieve proficiency with the numbers and anything around the edges) but I do have to look an awful lot, if not at the keyboard, then at the screen. I suppose most people look at the screen, but I am one who shouldn't. I do my best typing when I stare off into space and try to visualize the keyboard. I make mistakes whenI don't have my fingers in the right position to start with (which happens a lot) or when I don't reach far enough so that words come out like this: cisualise, finders, but the average spell-checker can usually handle mistakes like that. (I just tried it and I was wrong: cisualize stumped it completely and it skipped right over finders. Oh, what did we ever do without spell-checkers?)

Why is this interesting? It's not really, except in the sense that most writers struggle at least at first with this problem. I am much faster than I used to be, but I could never get a job as a secretary. But then I don't want one, so that works out okay. It would be nice, though, if I could type more quickly (words with "q" in them are also a pain).

I have experimented with talk and type programs (where the computer types for you as you speak--and electronic dictaphone, so to speak), but so far haven't found one that was easy to use. You usually have to train them to recognize your voice, accent and all. And that can take some time, depending on the software. One I found that works really well is called WYNN, but it costs around a thousand dollars (and does a lot of other things, too), so I guess I'll bumble on the way I've been going. If and when I find a good program, I'll let you know.

Anything to make word processing more "processible." (See a coming post about making up words.)

Becoming A Writer

2005-01-25T10:19:00.000-06:00

It has taken two years for me to finally get to the point: that this is a writer's blog. I've been using this space like a journal, meaning that it has only been interesting to me. So what's the difference now?

I've been telling myself that I'm a writer for years. I found that I had to do that: tell myself over and over that I do qualify. And how do I know that? It's not as if I have very much published--and when I first starting announcing my "writerhood" I hadn't published anything. Part of my motivation was psychological. I figured if I called myself a writer long enough, I might actually come to believe that I am. It worked, to a degree. But there is no such thing as suddenly becoming anything, from one's work identity to one's gender. (Seriously. Think about it. Have you always known exactly what it means for you to be the sex you are, let alone how to act like it?) And the worst (or best) part is that the process is never complete. I suspect I'll be talking myself into believing that I'm a writer--among other things-- until the day I die.

Two things have made the process speed up for me in the past two years. One has been going back to school and the other has been taking writing courses (I'm now on my second one.) Just being in school means that you're going to be writing, and the better your writing, the better your grade (assuming that you know what you're writing about). I've had to sweat buckets trying to improve especially the clarity of my writing. Philosophical musings (otherwise know as bullsh**ing) don't impress teachers who just want to see that you've "mastered" the information. Damn!

Ironically enough, choosing history as a major may well have caused my writing to improve more than English/Creative Writing would have. It can be much harder to write about history in an interesting way than to write about many other fields in the humanities. At least I've found that to be the case. But having to do so has sharpened my writing ability and that has carried over into my creative writing (I hope).

In a way, I'm glad I didn't take a writing class until after I'd improved my writing of history. Yet I can see now that I needed to take a writing class at some point to learn something else about myself: that other writers think I'm a writer. They may be a writer's harshest critics, but it's good to know that their standards are the same ones you want to meet and that you feel you must meet in order to feel like a real writer.

It could be that the writing course, besides teaching me more about how to write, has also served as a way to encourage me. A's and B's in history don't necessarily tell me that I am a Writer. Sometimes my good writing isn't even recognized (although I admit that it was a thrill to have one teacher tell me that my writing was "clear, concise and almost lyrical"). But there's something special about another writer telling you that your work is good. And I have a feeling that I will never stop needing that kind of encouragement.

I have never sought it out before. I've never joined a writing group (online or in "real" life) and it has only been in the past year that I've exposed myself to other writers' scrutiny. Since I figure that they would be hardest on my writing than anyone else (which is probably the main reason I never subjected myself to the experience before), it means all that much more when they praise it. It doesn't even have to be effusive praise!

The bottom line is, however, that the only fool-proof way to become a writer is to write. A lot. Which is why I'm here right now, spilling my thoughts (guts?) on the Internet. I doubt that anyone else will ever read them, but it does me a lot of good to write as if I think someone will. After all, you never know...

Writing About Ourselves: Up Close and Personal

2005-01-09T10:12:00.000-06:00

What about writing about ourselves? How personal do we want to get? What is the fall-out if we do?

These questions are almost a moot point for me: it seems that I just naturally spill my guts. My writing often reveals more about myself than I would be comfortable telling an acquaintance or a casual friend. So why am I willing to share my secrets with total strangers?

I don't think I'm alone in this. What makes us bare our souls in print where anyone can read it when we would be extremely hesitant to do so in any other context? As for me, when I write, I reveal; I can't seem to help it. It's as if the pen or keyboard is a confessional or a psychiatrist's couch. Want to know how many times I've been married, what my social class and income are, whether I believe in God, the mistakes I've made (and paid for)? Just hang around and keep on reading and you will eventually know me better than my own parents or children do.

But is it wise to be so revealing? What does it cost us emotionally and socially? Do readers really want to know about our inner demons and private joys or will they get tired of hearing more than they want to know about us?

Of course it depends upon what we're writing and the context in which we're being read. But I have a theory that people are willing and even eager to learn what makes a writer tick. Writing is a mysterious act, even to writers. Some readers feel that writers are bigger than life and more than human. (There are many more who think that anyone could write if they wanted to, so what's the big deal?) The words seem to float in space, in some kind of intellectual miasma, where only the writers really know what they mean or why what they have to say should matter. To some, personal essays are as difficult to access as poetry: not knowing where the writer comes from makes it almost impossible for the reader to understand what the writer wants to say. And yet, if we are not willing to reveal something of ourselves in our writing, our words may never connect with our readers.

But to what extent and at what cost? That depends on the writer. I recently wrote a piece that was quite explicit about a chronic problem I have (no, I'm not going to reveal it here, or at least not now). In fact, it was more revealing than was probably appropriate considering the topic and context. (It was the first assignment in a creative nonfiction writing course.} I dashed mine off pretty quickly (two revisions, and that was mainly to cut down the length), but was left with emotional fall-out to the point where I was afraid that I would get emotional when I read it out loud (in other words, cry). I should have thought of that when I wrote the piece, should have made sure I kept it lighter and less personal. But maybe what I wrote was what I needed to reveal, and not trusting my instincts kept me from sharing it with people with whom I'm going to be working closely over the next three months. (I skipped the class.)

I don't exactly regret that I missed this opportunity; I know there will be others. What concerned me the most was the way I was affected by what I wrote. All that day and the next I was emotionally raw and exhausted. And that was over a simple little writing exercise. Sometimes I wonder if I'm going to be able to keep this up. Other times I know that I have no choice.

Snow for Christmas

2004-12-24T10:13:00.000-06:00

10 degrees or below. Two hours to chip the ice off the car. Downed trees and power lines. No power, no heat; thankfully that isn't true for us. But it has meant that one of my daughters spent the day here and the other the night and that's on top of the fact that we've had my grandson here for two days because his mother has to work. Now my third daughter wants me to go over and help her sort through the last of her "stuff," because she and her boyfriend are moving across country on Monday. They've already brought a lot of things to the house, some of which belongs to my daughter in S. Korea, who won't be back until June, and some of which is for the daughter who would have already begun to move into her own apartment if it hadn't been for the storm. Tonight is Christmas Eve and I was elected to have Christmas dinner here tomorrow and I'm not good at not having any time to myself, let alone privacy. I haven't even had a shower for two days.

But it could be so much worse. I could have a son or daughter in Iraq. One of my friends called me yesterday - one I haven't spoken or written to for years (she was responding to a Christmas letter I sent out) - and she told me that her son was in Iraq for 11 months and has to go back. She said she was a mess while he was there. I can't even imagine what kind of shape I'd be in. I'm very very thankful I don't have to deal with that.

Even so, that doesn't mean that I'm looking forward to the next couple of days, and that's sad considering that it's Christmas. I haven't even wrapped presents and don't know exactly when I'll get the chance. At least my grandson will be picked up by his mother this afternoon. He's been so good and I love having him around, but I'm being expected to deal with about two too many things today.

I'm not freaking, though; not anxious or overly depressed. I'm not jumping up and down with joy, but I'm trying to accept the situation, including the way I'm responding to it. Instead of getting down on myself because I'm not cheerful, I need to be relieved that I'm not losing it. I'm just taking everything in a very low key way; that seems to work best for me right now. Being jolly is not a requirement; being aware of how blessed I am is is what it's supposed to be all about anyway.

What does this all have to do with writing? Everything, of course. Because everything boils down to whether or not I get to write. The most I've accomplished in the past few days has been a journal entry yesterday and now this. I had hoped that I could finish my incomplete in History while I was on vacation, but I see now that I should have known better.

Before I sign off, I just want to mention a strange development: I can't seem to get any satisfaction out of reading. I don't particularly want to and when I try to, I can't find anything that satisfies me. I don't know whether that's just a response to the stress or something that has actually changed for me, but it definitely makes me feel at a loss. But again, maybe I should be glad that I'm not dying to read right now or I'd be going out of my mind.

I have to get ready to go help my daughter. I'm taking my grandson with me. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Delayed Introduction

2004-06-28T09:45:00.000-05:00

I have another blog, "Family Matters" (I mean to change that title--bor-ing!) in which I could (or might copy) this post, but I'd like to turn "Mighty Pen" into my primary Blog, so I'm going to start using it first in most cases. I don't do well with too many choices--I become paralyzed, as a matter of fact, which is why I rarely write in any of them. Also, I'm still stuck in the days when it was fashionable to create a web page, but I guess now the thing is to blog, with much the same result, only it's much easier. I hope that's true, because I never seemed to get a web page published, and like many other people, I would really like to have a voice on the web. I know it would be an ethereal one, at best. But perhaps it would prepare me for the establishment of a more permanent one in print.

The other day I had the astonishing idea of trying to get on radio. I had never thought of that before, but I think it would be ideal for me, because I truly do have the gift of gab. (Unless I'm in the depression pit. But I find that I tend to slide into the pit when I'm not doing anything that excites me enough to keep me from the edge of it.) The only problem is (besides getting a radio slot--but if Reagan could do it, why couldn't I?) figuring out what it would be about. I'm one of those people who know a little bit about a lot of things; that could be an asset or a liability, in any area, I suppose. That's why majoring in history has been challenging for me, and has also been one of my main problems in my writing: it is often too shallow, broad, general. I seem to think that I have to cover all there could possibly be to say in everything I write, and then I throw in a few side trips for good measure. I'm probably doing that right now. Maybe if I indulge myself now, I can get it out of my system...no, that's totally the wrong approach; I'm only encouraging my bad habit. Oh, well, there's always the opportunity to edit (if I avail myself of it).

I plan to be more focused in the future and if I'm not, I promise to summarize each blog so that you'll at least know what I meant to say, even if I didn't actually put those words in my main text. So here is my summary for today's blog: I am a writer, but have been accused of having the "gift" of communication (which is an extremely tactful way of saying that I talk a lot, but that I manage to be at least marginally interesting). I do enjoy expressing my opinions, but tend to come across a little strong in person, so I'm hoping to appear a little less threatening in print. Writing has a way of calming me down, and making me think before I "blurt"(usually). But then writing clearly exposes my run-on sentences; I can get away with them when I speak. (Then again, it could be that I sound incoherent and I just don't realize it.) So, in sum, I will be usuing this blog to communicate my opinions and observations, and trying mightily to keep the two separate. I do know the difference between them, so that is a start.

My First Ever Writing Course

2004-04-06T14:06:00.000-05:00

It only took a half century for me to take a bona fide writing course. I am now officially taking English 268; Writing Creative Nonfiction, and at a university no less. The point being that I have never even had enough nerve (or I've been too arrogant; take your pick) to take an adult education or lifelong learning course or some such. The last time I had any kind of writing instruction I suppose was when I was in high school.

The strange thing is how I finally ended up here. When I decided to go back to school, I never considered majoring in creative writing. (OSU doesn't have an undergrad major like that anyway, only a MFA program.) It really boiled down to which major was I closest to earning, based on the hodge-podge of courses I had already taken over the years. My choices ended up being English, which didn't surprise me, and history, which did. But what really surprised me is that I chose history, and why I chose it: English (which would have been primarily studying literature) really really did not appeal to me at all.

So I began taking history courses, beginning with what they call a gateway course, an introduction to historical research, for which I had to receive at least a C before I could declare a history major. No problem, I thought. I could not have been more wrong. The teacher made us write a precis of every chapter of Marc Bloch's The Historian's Craft, one of the most difficult books I have ever read, much less written summaries of. And then there was the fact that I did not have the slightest idea how to write a precis, not to mention the fact that the style of a precis is about as antithetical to my natural style as night is to day. I was shocked when I got my first precis back with a big fat D on it: the first one I have ever received on a writing assignment in my life. My only hope for redemption was that the teacher let us write them over. It wasn't until my third precis that I finally "saw the light"--and it was literally a revelatory experience: until then I just couldn't grasp what I was doing wrong, let alone how to fix it. (Here I feel I must confess that without my husband's help, I don't think I would have ever figured it out, or not in time to redeem myself.) After that I redid all the substandard precis and ended up with an A for the course.

Similar things happened in my other history courses. I was surprised but also pleased to discover that how one writes is considered as important as what one writes about in the field of history, even though the standards and styles were all new (and somewhat more serious and dry) to me compared to the kind of writing I had been doing before. But I think the discipline was good for me: I learned a lot about structure, thorough research, and succinctness. I also began to see my worst habits, the way I meander and indulge myself, fail to come to the point, and leave parts of the story by the wayside, all unacceptable practices for the writer of history or the presenter of research. (Although I'm sure I'm doing it now!)

Then, last quarter, I signed up for a senior symposium on "Hollywood and History" which meant to examine the problems that films have in presenting historical accuracy. The end product of the course was to be a 25-page paper in which we would first review a book titled Past Imperfect: History According to the Movies, edited by Mark C. Carnes, then write a short piece about the difference between historical accuracy and historical authenticity, followed by in-depth analyses of two historically-based films of our own choosing, and concluding with a summary of how well the films we chose met the standards of accuracy/authenticity.

Well, I got off to a rocky start. I wasn't doing well mentally for some reason and bungled my first two rough drafts. The teacher didn't record our grades--they were just meant to be guidelines--but mine weren't good. Then I got really sick, physically sick, and not only couldn't go to class, but couldn't finish my second drafts on time. I worked really hard on them and when I finally did get them turned it, I thought they were practically in finished condition. I was wrong. The teacher had lots of criticisms, and still graded me badly. By this time I was so frustrated between still being sick and trying to figure out what the hell he wanted, I wrote him an email and pleaded with him for something to keep me going. He finally deigned to tell me that "my writing was better than most," I was "by far the most enthusiastic student in class," I had a lot of important things to say, and to not give up. Then he asked me if I had ever considered taking any creative writing courses.

Not really. Well, actually, yes. Of course. All I've ever wanted to be is a writer. But subject myself to that kind of scrutiny? Wait, what was I saying? What had I been doing for the past year in my history classes? So how could it be any worse to subject myself to it in yet another class which just happened to be an English class? At least I wouldn't also be expected to be learning about certain periods of history at the same time and would be freer to write about topics that might be closer to my heart. (Or whatever.)

So I mustered up my courage and registered for this Creative Nonfiction course and I've been to three classes now and done one of my assignments and so far it feels like a perfectly natural fit. If I had tried to do it a year and a half ago, or any time before now, I don't think I could have handled it. But everything I did up to now prepared me for this moment. And now, the ironic thing is, I'm beginning to think that I'll hold off getting my bachelor's so that I can take more creative writing courses and then graduate with a major in history and a concentration in creative writing but then apply for entrance to the MFA program in Creative Writing (maybe). Or maybe I will have made enough contacts and received enough advice to help me find my own direction as a writer. Either way, I think this would be a lot smarter for me than to graduate with just a major in history.

Giving Credit Where It's Due

2004-03-30T12:19:00.000-06:00

I was searching Google this morning for credit card offers for first-timers (credit-card virgins??) for my husband and thought I'd check out poor-credit offers, too. They were all pitiful, but what was even worse were the reviews. If you ever find yourself weakening in your resolve to not get another credit card, or you want to scare off your kids from the same temptation, have them read some of these reviews (these were at www. cardoffers.com). My husband and I were talking this morning about how uncomfortable we were with the student loan debt we're acquiring, but when I think of what our life would be like if we were in any kind of typical consumer debt...! I just got a call the day before yesterday (on a Sunday, as a matter of fact) from a company that just purchased a debt of mine from Providian, which I haven't heard a word about for at least two, almost three years--and I even called and tried to find out about it!). The guy was nice and is "letting" me make a $50 hardship payment for three months, subject to a 90 day review (which means that it will probably end up like my Toyota debt: an interminable $50/mo payment, because after all, what choice do they have when I only make $1456. a month?). But the point is, without the student loans, we couldn't make it at all, unless and until we have other income. And since I certainly can't go to school and work, too, and I can barely handle going to school, I don't see that I have any other choice. Because if I feel somewhat trapped going to school, what would I feel like having to work? And from what I've been able to determine about myself, I begin to deteriorate whenever I feel trapped.

Second Thoughts

2004-03-16T17:52:00.000-06:00

"Hollywood and History." That's the name of one of my classes this quarter. I've been really getting into it, but unfortunately I got way behind and I'm now in finals week with 75% of a 25-page paper to write. I may have to take an "incomplete" but I really don't want to have to do that. I'd be working on it right now, but I still have my "medieval tale" to finish and then my 8-page take-home final for German 19th century history. Remind me again: WHY am I doing this??

What's In A Name?

2003-07-18T18:29:00.002-05:00

I used to like my name in a modest way. My first name, that is; god, I've changed my last name so many times even I lose track of who I am now. But my first name: I liked it because it was simple, dignified, gender-appropriate without being prissy, and didn't lend itself to being turned into a nickname. And the best part was: I was the only one I knew--when I was growing up anyway--who had my name. The thought of being one of a hundred other Susies or Debbies or Kathys made me sick to my stomach. After all, I didn't have much going for me as a kid, so at least I had one thing that was unique about me.

Now you have to understand--if you haven't already guessed--I come from a pretty WASPy background. Which means that there are just not a lot of names to go around, especially for girls. Unless you start digging 'way back and come up with something like Grindell or Medusa. Probably so many girls are being given boys' names these days because there are only so many good female names that don't sound insipid. It's hard to take a woman seriously when her name is Bambi or Gigi. Even Lisa or Michelle are suspect. You notice that the woman who plays Buffy goes by Sarah Michelle Gellar, right? Not just Sarah and definitely not Michelle. (And the joke about the name "Buffy" is that a girl with a name like that goes against type by being a vampire-slayer.)

I have a theory that you can predict how serious a career an actress is going to have by the name she uses (not necessarily the one she was born with). Or what kind of career she's going to have, period. (Norma Jean Baker would never have had the career she had if she hadn't become Marilyn Monroe, you know what I mean? Of course, that means the career wasn't Norma Jean's).

Think about it though: Meryl Streep, Ellen Burstyn, Reese Witherspoon, Halle Berry, Catherine Zeta-Jones (that Zeta makes all the difference in the world), Annette Benning, Gwyneth Paltrow, as well as her mother, Blythe Danner, well, you get the idea. There are probably a few reasons why Demi Moore's career hasn't stayed a steady course, but I can't help but think that her name has been at the bottom of at least one of them, either because of how she sees herself, or how others see her. (And I notice that she and Bruce named at least two of their three daughters totally gender-neutral names: Rumer and Scout. How they came up with Talullah, I'll never know.)

You might ask me, "What about Goldie Hawn?" And I would answer, "I rest my case." Bette Midler instead of Betty, Sigourney Weaver, and even Meg Ryan did the right thing to go with Meg and not Margaret, Peggy or Maggie. (No offense, Ms. Smith; you've obviously risen above both your names!) But I'm going to make a prediction here: Goldie's daughter is not going to be Ms. Hepburn's professional namesake (especially because she goes by Kate instead of the regal 'Katherine'). Cate Blanchett bypassed the problem by spelling it like the cat (with an 'e').

Panic

2003-04-17T16:57:00.000-05:00

This week was hell. One thing that puts it into perspective for me is that five students died in a fire in off-campus housing over the weekend. It was even the one kid's birthday. And to make it worse (as if) -- it was arson. I can't even fathom how their families are doing. If that happened to one of my kids...Dear God in heaven, be with them, stick to them like glue.

But besides that I've been in a panic state from getting two D's in a row in my History class and I have no idea what I'm doing wrong. He's letting us re-write these but if I don't know what I'm doing wrong, what's the point? I had an appointment with Dr. Schneir and between him and Guenther I think I got some perspective back about being in school. I'm supposed to be doing this because I love to learn, but I got all caught up in proving that I can DO this! I've been a quitter all my life---well, maybe not a quitter exactly, but it sure has been hard to get a fire lit under myself. So I really want to see this through. And I want to enjoy it. But what is my long-term goal? And do I even WANT to have one?

2003-04-07T14:06:00.000-05:00

I lied: It is the German that is driving me crazy. (Not a person: the language.) I left class almost in tears today. I studied so hard and I'm more confused than ever. I had to make a decision: do I want to go through this for the next two and a half months? It doesn't even matter who's at fault, the teacher or me or the combination of the two of us. Maybe I'm too old to pick things up quickly. Maybe she's too inexperienced. But one thing that's different about me now from thirty years ago: I did something about it. Tomorrow I'm changing from her class to Individualized Instruction. That wasn't my first choice but maybe that's what I've been led to. After all, I'm not a typical student for a lot of reasons, the least of which is my age: I never took German in school (but the French is the first to pop up when I need a German word), I've had a lot of exposure to Germany and things and persons German (including my husband and my in-laws), and I've been trying to teach myself German, with varying degrees of success, for over six years now.

Academia

2003-04-06T17:06:00.000-05:00

Trying to do homework and feeling overwhelmed. Strangely enough it hasn't been the German that has been causing me the most anxiety; it has been the papers (short essays and precis) I have to write for my history course. I don't seem to know how to write "academically". Or at least that's what I fear. I haven't seen my grade on my first essay yet and I haven't had the appointment with my history professor from last quarter to discuss why my grade wasn't as high as I had anticipated.

I've been writing all along, and been published here and there, too. But maybe I missed the lessons about how to satisfy one's professors so that they think that YOU are thinking the way THEY think. Ya think?

Back To/In School

2003-04-05T08:58:00.000-06:00

After thirty years, I'm back in school. In a way I feel as if I'm just picking up where I left off. It's a shock when I remember that the last time I walked this campus it was 1971. What are the differences? The similarities? Where do I start??

All Over the Web

2003-04-04T20:12:00.000-06:00

I signed on to blog months ago---possibly even a year or more ago. Yet this is my very first blog. I have evidence of similar lack of commitment all over the Web. I wonder sometimes if I will run into myself somewhere and forget that I had ever been there. Actually, that HAS happened. But I've also ''disappeared''. Does one really disappear on the Net? Or just remain there somewhere lost in some broadband width, detritus from an abandoned web site?