Category: observations/thoughts (Page 10 of 12)

Wide-Open Saturday

Today was one of those days where I had lots of plans — lots of stuff was gonna get done — and instead, I did practically nothing. I went to the grocery store; that was my big accomplishment. Also, I made some homemade hummus. Otherwise, all the essays I was going to critique, all the fiction I was going to write, all the editing work I was going to do: Nada.

I did manage to read a bit. I wrote in my notebook. But these little things — the reading, the notebooking, the hummus-making, the grocery shopping — they don’t add up to much. I know they’re good things to do, I’m glad I was able to do them, but they feel small. And today was my wide-open Saturday! The day my kids spend with Grandma and Grandpa. It was *the* time to Get Things Done. Instead, I did little things. Good things, important things, but little things. The “big things” — the projects, the assignments, the teaching and freelancing work — none of them fit into the day. Instead, I wrote a few pages in my notebook, ate breakfast with my kids, read some of Pope Francis’s new book, watched TV with my husband, made hummus, went shopping, went to mass, came home and ate dinner. A good day, and yet… and yet…

I don’t know. Maybe it was a good day, full stop. No regrets for the big things I didn’t get done. Maybe the expectation that I should use my “wide-open Saturday” to do “important” work is a misguided expectation. Is it really wrong to spend my free time with my husband, or make some homemade food to feed my family, or go shopping for groceries, or go to mass and worship God (the most important thing I’ll do all  week), or read a book, or just relax? The projects and assignments are still looming, and I’ll have to do them eventually, but for this one day, this one Saturday, the little things were worth it.

Black Dog

One of my students mentioned Led Zeppelin the other day, and man, what a great band. I have loved Led Zeppelin for decades but haven’t listened to them much lately. No particular reason why, just listening to other stuff. But when my American Lit class brought them up this week, I was all about going on a Zeppelin binge.

So. Many. Great. Songs.

Seriously, I can’t think of any Zeppelin songs that are actively bad. Or even mediocre. All their songs rock. All have something interesting going on. All are eminently listenable. “Kashmir.” “Going to California.” “That’s the Way.” “Tangerine.” “Black Dog.”

I once tried out for my high school talent show by singing “Black Dog” with a band of guys who were total stoners and awesome dudes. Very talented. My singing, alas, was not so much, and we didn’t get in. But I still had a heckuva good time jamming to that song.

Ordinary Day

I didn’t blog yesterday. It’s okay; one miss isn’t a big deal. Two misses, though, can be the “beginning of a pattern.”

Today’s been a day of music. Lots of listening to old favorites. The Smithereens. Great Big Sea. Mumford and Sons’ first album (always the first album; sometimes the second; never the third).

“The Road Goes On.” (I might be the only person who remembers the Lord of the Rings musical.)

“Morning Has Broken.” (Gosh, do I miss Pushing Daisies!)

“Colours.”

“Beautiful.”

I know it’s not very original or unique to feel this way, but there’s nothing that can make one’s heart swell and yearn more deeply than a good song. Music is sometimes the air I need to breathe. Today was one of those days. I needed to feel the old ache that comes from hearing good music. I don’t know why I needed it, but I did. And somehow, when the music crescendos, when the harmonies gather into a rising wave, when the melody explodes into a final refrain — it’s in that moment that everything falls away, and there’s nothing but me and the music, and life is somehow distilled into that moment, and goosebumps cover my skin, and I know everything’s gonna be okay.

It was nice to have those moments today. To have those songs. To feel good.

Boredom

The only way to become excellent is to be endlessly fascinated by doing the same thing over and over. You have to fall in love with boredom.

James Clear, Atomic Habits (p. 236)

I’m always blathering about practice, practice, practice. My students are probably sick of hearing me wax on about how “even professional musicians practice their scales,” or how basketball players “can never do too many free throws.” But even if they’re sick of my blathering, I’m not gonna abandon my mantra: writers have to write. And the only way to get better is to practice, to form the habit, to do the work everyday.

Often, when I conference with my students individually, I hear them express a sincere desire to get better at writing. But when I give them daily opportunities to write in their writer’s notebooks, many of them don’t seize the opportunity. They do other work. Some of them read a book (which I always encourage), while others try to get caught up on their homework (which I always discourage; do your homework at home, kids!). But the same students who say they want to get better at writing don’t use the time and space I give them in class to practice their writing. The reasons are usually some flavor of “I’m not inspired!” and I quietly remind them that it’s not a good plan to wait for inspiration. Inspiration is fleeting and unpredictable. We can coax the muse by reading a lot, listening to interesting music, looking at interesting cinema, going places, paying attention, taking walks, etc., but even if we feed our muse daily, she’s a fickle creature and won’t always come out to play.

James Clear’s quote about boredom distills a lot of what I’ve been trying to help my students understand. The only way to get better at writing is by doing it OVER AND OVER. The writer’s notebook is one tool that I’ve found immensely helpful; it’s a space where I can write every day. It’s an easy method for making something habitual. Those students who have embraced their notebooks, who have used them frequently, almost daily, are the students who have seen the most growth in their writing. I’m sure they didn’t sit and wait for inspiration. They wrote in their notebooks consistently, letting the routine snowball into something habitual, and eventually that repetition and consistency paid off: they developed the skills they were hoping for.

But for the students who were always waiting for inspiration, the habit never formed. They wanted to get better at writing, but they weren’t able to “fall in love with boredom,” i.e.: the work of writing everyday, even when they were tired or didn’t have anything to write about or didn’t feel inspired.

I can relate to these students, believe it or not. For many, many, many years, I courted inspiration and only did my work when the “heat” was in me. I had a lot of cool ideas and did some good work, but NOTHING ever came from it. And yet I kept waiting for the muse to carry me off into the wild night. I kept clinging to the idea that art couldn’t be forced or mechanical, that it had to be spontaneous and passionate all the time. And so I never really finished anything worthwhile until I realized — at long last — that waiting for the muse meant waiting my whole life.

After long years and many failures, I know now that I’d much rather write every day — even if I’m not inspired and the words are dross — than to write only in fits and spurts and never make any headway. I’d much rather do the same thing over and over, because it’s in the DOING that I derive my most pleasure. And it’s also how I’ve gotten better. My ability to write didn’t materialize overnight or just by wanting it “badly enough.” It happened because I practiced, and just like the musician and basketball player, I keep practicing. Everyday.

Yes, this means “falling in love with boredom.” Boredom means pleasure… when it’s practicing something you love.

For my students who want to get better at writing, they have to find a way to fall in love with boredom too. They have to be willing to play the scales, run the reps, shoot the free throws, and put pen to paper in order to improve. It’s not glamorous or thrilling. It’s not the muse dancing under starlight. It’s about doing the work, every day. And like a miracle or a magic spell, once the habit forms, it transforms boredom into love.

Dry Sponge

I feel like a dry sponge lately. All I want to do is soak up stuff. I want to read, read, read, and watch cool movies, and listen to tons of music. I don’t have any juice to squeeze out onto the page. My blogging has been perfunctory (but I gotta keep the streak going!). My fiction writing is non-existent at the mo’ (no time). The notebook’s doing alright, but the notebook’s always doing alright (my one constant).

Can a person take a reading holiday? Is that allowed? Can I just spend a week doing nothing but soaking up words, and images, and music?

Maybe that wouldn’t help, though. It’s kinda hard to imagine a whole week of just downtime. I’m so used to getting up when the kids get up, making them breakfast, changing the diapers, refereeing the disputes, buzzing from kitchen to living room to bedroom to bathroom to help with whatever “crisis” is at hand. I’m not sure I could handle an entire week of sitting around and reading. I’m too conditioned for controlled chaos after six and a half years of raising children.

Still. It would nice to have a *bit* more time for reading. For getting lost in an album or two. For having a film noir double-feature on a Saturday afternoon.

I need more input time. It’s a constant refrain, I know. I’m always complaining about not getting enough input. But right now, I’m a dry sponge, crumbling into brittle fibers. I need to get dunked in a bucket of input. A good soak. A trip into the imagination.

Poem #8?

Some words I thought of:

phosphorescent, lyrical, helter skelter, whimsical, dandelion, zoo, languid, poof, timpani, hullabaloo, chunk, sour, Brett, write/right, outside, car, irksome, pissant.

Why did I think of these words? I was preparing to lead a discussion in one of my classes about beautiful-sounding and ugly-sounding words. I wanted to brainstorm my list of “most beautiful” and “ugliest.”

Funny thing is: I’m not sure if any of these words sound ugly. I tried to think of some, but it was a struggle. I don’t love the name “Brett,” but is it really ugly? “Car” is a weird word, especially if you say it over and over again. It’s like there’s something stuck in the back of your mouth. But is it ugly? “Sour” also has a funny mouth-feel; it’s hard for me to say, to get the diphthong just right. But it’s not really ugly, just weird. In a lot of ways, saying the ugly-sounding words out loud can be almost as fun as saying the beautiful-sounding words.

The only truly ugly-sounding words I can think of are hateful pejoratives, but that raises the question: Do I find them ugly because they SOUND ugly, or because I know what they mean and I can’t ignore their hateful meanings? Is their ugly sound a result of the baggage and connotations they carry with them, or do the actual sounds offend my ears and lips?

I’m in love with language not just for its communicative powers, but also for its sounds. I like feeling words come through my lips and off my tongue. I like enunciating. I like hearing words strung together in beautiful and interesting ways. This is one of the reasons modernist and avant-garde poetry has never bugged me; I don’t care what the dang thing means, I just like the sound of it.

Maybe the lesson isn’t that words are “beautiful” or “ugly” sounding, but simply that language is more than just meaning. It’s also sound. It’s also speech. We can’t remove meaning entirely — nor would I want to — but there can be a lot of fun in playing around with the sounds of language. That’s one of the joys of nursery rhymes, in fact. “Higgledy-piggledy, my black hen,”‘ and all that. It’s nonsense, but it’s also not. There’s a sense in the sounds, and those sounds can be pleasurable, playful, and powerful. (See what I did there? ;D)

 

A sound poem:

The phosphorescent shelter held a languid hullabaloo in the zoo.

Brett, wet and sour, bent to hear the lyrical dandelion timpani,

When right outside, the car went on an irksome helter skelter,

Crying out a whimsical chunk of nothing: a pissant and a poof.

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