Who are my teachers? Who are my fellow students?
Finding teachers (recognizing them, really) wasn’t too hard, but this Rule also mentions fellow students and that was a much harder find. Who exactly are my fellow students? Without being enrolled in a school or class, I’m kinda just on my own. My teachers are the successful authors and artists and thinkers whose books I can study, but who then are my study-buddies?
Perhaps the real answer is one I’ve been avoiding for over a decade now.
My fellow students are my fellow writers who are at or slightly above where I’m at right now in my craft and career.
The trouble is that I am resistant to joining writers’ groups. I always have been. I’m not sure why either, other than I’m not naturally a joiner and I am painfully shy and awkward when it comes to meeting people and making friends.
The other problem is that I’m not exactly sure where to look for fellow students who are at my same level. I can find beginning writers easily enough. But I’m not sure how helpful that would ultimately be for my own growth.
And I can identify writers who are further along than me, but they won’t want me in their groups for the same reason I’m resistant to joining a group of beginners: too much gap between their skills and mine.
Finding fellow students is probably a good project for me to undertake, but for now, for this week-to-week experiment in following Sr. Corita’s Rules, I’m fudging it a bit and defining fellow students as those writers and artists whose newsletters I subscribe to. They are also, in a lot of ways, my teachers. Teacher/student is a fluid designation, then. Those who can teach us are also themselves students.
I am both teacher and student too. In some ways, Rule 2 and Rule 3 are leading to the same destination: pulling everything out of everyone. Who the teacher is and who the student is may change and shift at times, but our “General Duties” remain the same.
But how to do that pulling? How does it work to “pull everything out” of one’s teachers, one’s fellow students?
What I did this week was read and listen and watch more deliberately. I took more notes on what I was reading. I spent time with pieces of advice and examples and words of wisdom from my various teachers, reflecting on these small lessons in my notebooks, mulling them over and trying to make connections. I spent more time copying quotes and ideas down, letting them sit for awhile before moving on to the next chapter or the next video.
Essentially, being more attentive and more thoughtful.
Also this week, I just started reading In Praise of Slowness, and I think its thesis fits with my idea that “pulling everything out” requires thoughtfulness and deliberate study. It requires a slowing of the pace so that ideas can sink in and take root. Carl Honore’s book is also proving to be one of my teachers at the moment, so I need to make sure I pull everything out of his book that I can.
I’ll admit that following Rule 2 this week was harder than last week’s Rule 1. Rule 2 requires a lot more slowness, more time for inquiry. It’s not just about being in a place but about relationship between people (even if those people are only coming to me through the pages of a book). Relationship, study, learning: these things take time. If things are too haphazard, the “pulling out” of everything turns into a half-hearted scurrying for crumbs.
I tried hard to do more than scrape up crumbs this week, but I’m not sure how successful I was. Got some good lessons and ideas from my teachers (namely, Derek Sivers, James Scott Bell, Ursula Le Guin, Mervyn Peake, and Rebecca Roanhorse). But reflecting back on the week, I don’t think I’ve quite achieved EVERYTHING.
Maybe the lesson is that this Rule requires persistence. Pulling everything out of one’s teachers and fellow students requires patience, diligence, and humility. It can’t be achieved in a week. Not even a semester or a year. We often only have limited time with our flesh and blood teachers and students, and so trying to pull everything out of them in the school term can feel like an impossible race against time.
But what if we continue to pull things out of our teachers even after the last bell has rung and summer vacation beckons? What if we hold onto their wisdom, their advice, and keep it rolling around our brains, peppering our journal entries with their ideas, mulling things over well past the semester’s end?
I often think back to things I learned in classes gone by, of wise words from my teachers, of projects and lessons done in a classroom or workshop. I continue to pull new things (and old things renewed) out of those experiences. The general duties continue even as the classes have ended. Even decades after.
Just as I am continuing to trust my place in the downstairs room, I have to continue to pull things out of my teachers, my students, and myself. Attentiveness and trust. Thoughtfulness and patience. Slowing down and sitting with things for awhile. Openness and humility.
Rule 2 is a general duty. It’s always there for us to follow. We must never stop the work of drawing forth the good and the true from one another. We are all us teacher/student. Not just for a week, but always.
This is the first rule of the Immaculate Heart College Art Department under the direction of Sr. Corita Kent.
I’ve decided to take one rule each week (hopefully) and try to live it out as fully as possible (while also continuing to live out the previous weeks’ rules).
Rule #1 is to find a place I trust and then try trusting it for a while. This place is my downstairs desk in my house. It’s kinda been my “place” since we bought the house and bought the desk, but I feel like this past year I haven’t been using the desk as much, for various reasons, and I’d like to get back to this “bliss station” and see how it helps me work.
I think I drifted away from the desk because I felt a bit lonely down here, like I was abandoning my husband and kids. But when I tried to work up in the main areas of the house (dining room, living room), I found that I was perhaps too available? Maybe? There are definitely more distractions up there. It’s warmer, both temperature-wise and relationship-wise, but maybe the slight cold and emptiness of the downstairs room desk is a good thing. I’m creating stuff to fill that void?
So I’ve been hanging out down at the desk this week, making a point to do morning pages here five-out-of-the-seven days, and also writing some fiction here too.
I’m trying to spend the time in this place, trying to give myself permission to be here. Thinking less about the work I’m doing and more about being in the place itself. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s a subtle shift that speaks to “trusting.”
I can’t trust a place if I don’t allow myself to dwell in it a bit. It can’t be transactional. If all I’m doing is trying to hit a word count or complete a task, then I’m focused on the end product, on the thing and not on the place. Nothing wrong with focusing on the thing, but I feel like trusting the place requires that I spend time there, emphasizing the dwelling and not necessarily the doing.
Though what I’ve found is that once I settle into my downstairs desk and allow myself to be fully present in this place, I end up getting a lot done. It’s me saying, “I’m here. What shall I do while I’m here?” For whatever reason, that trust — the trust that says, “I will end up doing something fun and worthwhile here” — has resulted in me having lots of fun and doing stuff that feels worthwhile.
Part of that trust is also accepting that when I come downstairs and place a little distance between me and my family, it’s a good thing. It’s like Madeleine L’Engle’s need to go to the brook in the afternoons at her farmhouse:
“I used to feel guilty about spending morning hours working on a book; about fleeing to the brook in the afternoon. It took several summers of being totally frazzled by September to make me realize that this was a false guilt. I’m much more use to family and friends when I’m not physically and spiritually depleted than when I spend my energies as though they were unlimited. They are not. The time at the typewriter and the time at the brook refresh me and put me into a more workable perspective.”
I don’t stay in my place all day long. It’s a respite. A short span of time, but a very full and meaningful span, and by trusting that it will refresh me, it does.
I can’t say I’ll always be able to do my creative work at my downstairs desk. Sometimes the place I must trust will change. But for now, I’m glad to have this place. I’m going to keep trusting it for a while.
This was an idea my husband proposed today, so we’re getting a one-day-late start to the challenge, but he suggested that everyone in our household (aka me, him, and the kids) should try to make or draw something every day this month.
(If we miss a day, we can do multiple things in a day to catch up.)
I decided that I might draw some stuff for a zine I’m working on (title: “Saturday Morning”), but I might also “make” something for my various role-playing game campaigns (a solo one, a husband-and-me one, a family one, and a kids one). These somethings can include making a PC, an NPC, a map, a location, a dungeon room, a whole dungeon (!), or a treasure/magic item. I’m stealing this a bit from Dungeon23, that fabulous challenge from last year that got me started making my very first megadungeon (which, sadly, I never finished… so maybe I can work on that for my “makings” this month!).
Anyway, I like a loose definition of “making.” We have a similarly loose definition in our Creativity Club at my school. Spurred by their time in my Creative Writing class last year, the students who started the club are welcoming anyone who does any kind of creative endeavor to join, and we aren’t judgy about the kinds of things that count as “making.” We decided that even kids who want to make jam are welcome in the club! (But they should definitely share their jam with us once it’s made. :D)
My “making” for today’s family challenge was to come up with some NPCs and their backstories/personalities for the Hero Kids game I’m playing with my children. They are currently investigating the Basement O’ Rats and trying to find Roger, a local village boy. I’ve got an idea that Roger was taken by the King of Rats at the behest of a dark force that is also taking others away from Brecken Vale for mysterious reasons. This will be the central mystery of the campaign.
Does this counting as “making something”? I think it does. I took an idea, put it to paper, and developed it. I also stat-blocked Roger in case he comes with the Kids on any further adventures.
I’d say that counts for the day.
Now I just have to make something to count for yesterday…
I keep a writer’s notebook, and since I also carry a backpack with me most places, I used to take the WNB with me everywhere.
But honestly, I hardly ever took the full-sized notebook out in public and wrote in it. Just too unwieldy.
I like the idea of having one notebook where I keep all my thoughts, but since I’ve been watching a bunch of notebook “advice” videos, I’ve warmed up to the idea that maybe I need different notebooks for different things and different situations.
I started writing my fiction in my “fiction notebook.” And then I bought a Leuchtturm 1917 notebook for my RPG notes. Then, finally, I bought a little pocket notebook to be my “on-the-go” notebook for random thoughts and ideas. Basically, a substitute for my main writer’s notebook.
I almost bought a Field Notes pocket notebook, but my kids really love these little blank comic book notebooks from the Unemployed Philosophers Guild, and they’re the right size to fit in my pants pockets, so I thought I’d go a little quirkier than Field Notes and get a notebook from the Unemployed Philosophers instead.
There are many to choose from, but I went with the Cloudspotting one to start because cloud-watching is also a hobby I’ve wanted to start for a while, so I thought I could capture my random thoughts and sketch and identify clouds at the same time.
So far, about half-way through the notebook, I’m glad that I’ve started carrying it around almost everywhere I go. First, it allows me to be unshackled from having to take my backpack everywhere in order to have my full-sized notebook with me. I can leave my backpack at home when I go for a walk around the neighborhood or to the library or wherever, and yet I can still jot down some ideas in my cloudspotting notebook if necessary.
I find that I DO jot down things more often now that I’m carrying the pocket-sized notebook. It’s not nearly as weird to take out my little notebook and write a few lines of dialogue for a story or a blogging idea or whatever. And there’s the added bonus of getting to sketch some clouds if the mood takes me. (I don’t always use the cloud-sketching areas, though, so maybe next time I’ll get a more “normal” writing notebook.)
Often, I take the ideas in the pocket notebook and transfer them to my main notebook or use them in my fiction. I end up spending a lot of time during the day thinking about my fiction, about my writing ideas, and this, in turn, keeps my momentum going for my various writing projects. I’m less “stuck” since carrying around my pocket notebook.
In theory, I like the idea of one notebook for everything, but in practice, the multiple-notebooks strategy really does allow me to do more writing throughout the day. I grab my pocket notebook instead of my phone when I’m waiting in line or watching my kids at the park. I flip through it to reread earlier ideas and ruminate on them a bit more, sometimes expanding them, sometimes challenging or changing them. I look at the clouds and try to figure out which type they are, spending a few minutes sketching and paying attention to the weather and the wind.
And yeah, I like that my pocket notebook is a little different, that it’s got a bit more character than an ordinary Field Notes or whatever. I smile when I see the Cloudspotting cover. It’s kind of silly, but the silliness actually makes me want to use it more. I don’t know why, but the whimsy of a “cloud” notebook (or a “Captain’s Log” or “Neverland Passport”) gives me a jolt of pleasure that’s just strong enough to counteract the lure of my phone. I’m trying to break the habit of looking at my phone whenever I get bored, and if it means carrying around a quirky little notebook, then that’s what I’ll do.
And I’m getting more writing done too. Which is the whole point of a notebook anyway.
