First Day

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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?

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.