Category: observations/thoughts (Page 7 of 12)

Guilty/Not Guilty

I sat down to work on my fiction this morning, but I ended up doing a lot of writing in my notebook instead. Some fragments/thoughts about the morning walk with my daughter (something that’s becoming our daily ritual), some thoughts about plot structures (and the manuscript I am editing for a client), some thoughts about my own works in progress and what plot structures they follow, and then I took a bunch of notes on the Michael Moorcock system for writing a novel in three days.

I’d read about Moorcock’s system before, but today I felt like copying it down into my writer’s notebook so I could internalize it. Not that I’m planning to write a novel in three days, but I appreciate the way Moorcock breaks down how to structure and think about narrative. I especially love his idea of generating a list of fantastical images that employ paradox as a way to make something memorable and interesting (ex. “The City of Screaming Statues”).

Anyway, I didn’t work on my fiction at all during my morning “writing time.” There’s a part of me that says, “Wasted time!” and beats myself up for not adding words to my manuscript. But there’s the other part of me — the idler and reveler — who thinks mucking about in the notebook is both fun and necessary to my creative life. All the things I wrote in the notebook will help me later on — whether it’s later today or tomorrow or next week — giving me food for thought regarding my fiction work. Not “productive” in the strictest sense, but productive nevertheless. Sometimes I need to approach my writing “sideways” — not head-on but through the alleyways of my writer’s notebook. These alleys and byways set the stage for my later productivity in the manuscript. So it feels like I’m slacking, but really, I’m turning over the compost heap and making the fertilizer.

Notebook Fragment

Even now, I still worry that I’m being followed by the bee. It’s in my hair, just waiting to come out.

(This fragment was occasioned by the morning walk I took with my daughter. A bee or strange fly followed us from our driveway all around the block, past the wild blackberry bushes, around the school yard, and even down the sidewalk as we ran furiously from it. It kept wanting to nest in our hair. Maybe it liked our shampoo. To get back into the house, I lured the bee into the backyard while my daughter dashed through the front door. Then, she opened the sliding glass door in the back and I rushed in. Despite being inside again for two hours, I keep thinking the bee is with me.)

No More Vacation

Since summer began, I feel like I’ve been busier than ever. Should summer be this busy? When I retired from teaching in June, I hadn’t realized that I would need to start work right away, and that my usual “summer vacation” was a thing of the past. How foolish! Of course I’ll have to work in summer from now on, and not just work on my fiction, but work on my freelance career. Summers will be like any other season.

But perhaps this summer has been busier than I expected simply because I’m not used to it, and once I get used to the rhythm of my new work life, I’ll find summers can still be a respite from the hurly-burly. Maybe. It’s all uncharted territory, isn’t it?

I think that’s what’s making this summer so stressful: I’m in uncharted territory. I’m fearful. I’m worried. Maybe I’m not actually that much busier than normal, it’s just that everything has taken on an added weight of importance. No longer is freelance editing something I do on the side; now, it’s something I must do to eat and pay the mortgage. Summer’s freedom is weighed down by this new responsibility. Perhaps, after a few months, this uncharted feeling will abate. I hope. I guess even if it doesn’t, I’ll get used to it. I don’t want to trade this new adventure for my old way of life, but I do have to start accepting that being on an adventure means a lot of discomfort. Like Bilbo going out his door with Gandalf and the dwarves. There’s that tension between the comfort of Bag End and the excitement (and fear) of the open road. I want both, just as Bilbo did.

Figuring out a daily schedule has been the hardest part. Between summer school for my eldest, and swimming lessons, and birthday parties, and fireworks, and all the rest of the summer stuff, I haven’t been able to find four or five hours each day to get my work done. Every day is different, every day is a jumble of activities. I need to figure out how to settle things down and find a schedule that works. I suppose this trial and error is part of the adventure too.

Daily Blogging?

Can I get back to daily blogging? Would it be worth it? There’s a part of me that thinks, “What’s the point?” since nobody really reads my website, and the time devoted to daily blogging might be better spent elsewhere (like soliciting new editing clients…), but then I think about the joy I get from hitting “publish” and seeing my blog post go live to the world. Sure, nobody will read it (except my husband, maybe), but there’s something satisfying about being able to write a few thoughts, ramble a bit without any direction, and then hit publish.

I have loved the act of blogging since I first discovered it more than fifteen years ago. I have always preferred blogs to any of the other social media that have sprung up afterwards. Yes, I do have a newsletter (I’m on Substack like everyone else), but the blog is a different kind of space. It’s more intimate, somehow. And it’s a lot more like a playground. I’m just doing whatever, no pressure or purpose other than to muck around. I’m not doing this blog to make money; no monetizing or ads or anything like that. I just want to write and explore and post it for other people to see. Even if no one sees.

Maybe daily blogging wouldn’t be worth it. Maybe I should be doing something else, something more “productive.” There’s an argument to be made that I should spend these fifteen or twenty minutes a day working on my fiction instead. That’s probably the most persuasive argument against daily blogging. I love to write fiction, and I should always be doing more of it if I can. I have novels and series that need finishing. I have readers who are waiting for new books.

But—

As much as I love writing fiction, blogging uses a different part of my brain, a different writing muscle, and I want to use that muscle. Blogging has a way of helping me with my fiction. It gives me a chance to get words down on paper, to open the floodgates so to speak, so that all of my writing — fiction, nonfiction, journaling, copy writing — becomes easier. There’s this weird phenomenon where words beget more words, and more words beget even more words, and if I’m writing on the blog, suddenly I’m writing more fiction, and if I’m writing more fiction, I suddenly have words I want to add to the blog. Instead of the blog taking away from my other writing, it almost ends up feeding it.

Time, of course, is the most precious commodity, and there will be days when I don’t have enough time to let all the words out that I have bubbling up inside, and so I guess on those days, one type of writing will be sacrificed for the other. Maybe some days I only blog or I only write fiction. But I gave up my teaching job precisely so I could have more time for writing, and even though time is still scarce (I have young children, after all), I have more freedom now to use my time as I will. Even if it’s just for five minutes, I can use that time for blogging.

It’s not really the time that matters anyway. It’s the desire, the will to do it. If I say I want to blog everyday, then I can do it. If I say I want to write fiction every day, then I can do it. Even one minute is enough.

I think that’s why I want to start blogging again. It’s another way to write, another way to get words on the page. And words beget more words, and more words, and more words. For a writer, that’s a good thing.

Rule 8

I’ve loved Sr. Corita Kent’s “Rules” for Immaculate Heart College’s art department since seeing them on Austin Kleon’s blog, but of all the rules, Rule 8 wasn’t one that stuck with me. I am much more a Rule 9 and Helpful Hints kinda gal, but the other day I was thinking about the difference between reading a book and writing a book, and I thought of Rule 8: “Don’t try to create and analyze at the same time. They’re different processes.” First, I’m not saying that reading a book is the same thing as analyzing it… but maybe I am? We tend to define analysis as this super-serious and intellectual thing, but at its heart, analysis is to study something with care, to look closely, to learn the nature of something. When we read deeply, are we not doing this? When we delve into a book (not just skim it or run across it like basilisk lizards), aren’t we looking closely? Aren’t we trying to learn the nature of the story, of the ideas, of the author who gave voice to its words?

Rule 8 feels like another way of saying that when we take something in, it’s a different process than putting something out into the world. When I read, I’m looking closely at something that is outside myself: I’m taking it in.

When I write, I’m releasing something from within: I’m letting it out.

And these two processes must be different, though related. I can’t be looking closely at something and studying it with care if I’m in the midst of releasing it. My eye is directed inward when I am creating. It’s only once the thing has been released that my mind’s eye can be directed outward. But it’s the cycle between these two visions that Rule 8 is hinting at. It’s not one or the other: it’s not all creating or all analyzing all the time. It’s creating: putting things out into the world. And then it is analyzing: taking things in from the world. Or vice versa. Not sure it matters which comes first, the creating or analyzing. But it’s the interplay between the two, the cycle. That is what matters. We just have to remember to not try to do both at the same time. We can’t steep the tea and drink it at the same time.

On Tidying and Stuff and Resisting “More”

I’ve been trying to Kondo my stuff for over a year. This is partly because I have too much stuff and want to minimize, partly because all my stuff is making it hard for me to keep a (relatively) clean house, and because clutter and an unclean house give me anxiety. I’m also doing it because I want my husband and children to perhaps see my example and follow suit. I’m hoping our house in general can become tidier and therefore more comfortable.

I don’t need a house that is uber-minimalist, not by any means. I like piles of books stacked up on desks and shelves. I like random sticky notes stuck all over the place and tons of kiddo art hanging from the refrigerator. I like that we have an art room that is messy and an art shelf that is wonderfully helter-skelter. But what I don’t like is the feeling of my stuff closing in and creeping all around me like a black pudding. I want to be able to breath. And to dust a room without having to lift fifty million things.

So I’ve been Kondo-ing, but it’s going slow. I did the clothes pretty easily, but then I’ve never been particularly attached to my clothing. Books weren’t hard either because I basically kept everything. (Okay, that is an exaggeration, but  honestly, I didn’t get rid of many books. They are the objects that “spark” the most joy.)

Paper — the category Marie Kondo says is the easiest — has proven to be the hardest so far. This has to do with the fact that I have a lot of drafts of my writing sitting in boxes, and notebooks from years past, and old magazines and cut outs that I plan to use one day for… something (maybe making zines?), so it’s not just a matter of shredding a bunch of old credit card statements and outdated bills. Also, my kids make art at an incredible level — and they often refuse to throw any of it in the recycling box — so we have boxes and boxes of their drawings and art projects. I want to keep some of their things for sentimental reasons, yes, but honestly, most of it needs to go. I feel bad though because this project was supposed to be about tidying my own stuff, not my kids’. Nevertheless, if I’m going to have any sanity, I need to tidy some of their artwork. Remember, for me clutter = anxiety.

So it’s back to the old grindstone, trying to sort my way through all these papers.

The latest installment of The Convivial Society newsletter couldn’t have come at a better time now that I’m rededicating myself to Kondo-ing. In this issue, Sacasas explores the way our economic system and society program us to want and need more and more stuff, and while our culture is perhaps very good at providing for our material needs, it’s less good at satisfying immaterial needs:

This is one of the most perverse effects of contemporary society. People need food, water, shelter, etc. These are, of course, material needs we cannot do without. Profound suffering accompanies their absence. But there are other critical needs which are nonmaterial in nature and thus cannot be simply manufactured and distributed. Your list and mine of what these might be will differ in the details of the enumeration, but I suspect we would both agree that such needs exist and that their absence also entails profound suffering. Material deprivations manifest materially. You can see when someone is being starved. Nonmaterial deprivations typically manifest non-materially. Someone who looks perfectly healthy may bear a crushing load of loneliness, desperation, or anxiety. I would argue that while modern societies may be particularly adept at the satisfaction of material needs (4), they are also structured so that nonmaterial needs are more likely [to] go unmet. These two tendencies are not unrelated. The relative degree of success on the material front depends upon conditions that undermine the satisfaction of nonmaterial needs.

The newsletter goes into much more depth than I’m quoting here, but what struck me about it was that even though I don’t think of myself as being particularly materialistic, my family’s life is still very much centered around material goods. My kids have a woeful amount of toys, so much so that they have taken over the living room. My husband and I buy entertainment-based stuff all the time: board games, role-playing games, gadgets, gear, books, DVDs, CDs, LPs, etc. I tell myself it’s okay to buy these things because these are the things we like, these are the things that “spark joy,” but what if I asked myself a different question? What if I asked myself whether this new CD or record album or book was necessary to my happiness?

I’m quite confident that my answer, in almost every instance, would be “no.” No, I do not need that CD or record album or book to be happy. I can find joy without it. In fact, we have so many books and CDs and records we’ve never even read or listened to that we could probably spend the rest of our lives just making our way through the stuff we already have. And on top of that, we could probably spend the rest of our lives making our own music and telling our own stories and not consuming anyone else’s at all. My husband and I can both play several instruments. We have musical instruments all over the house. We both love storytelling (and related pursuits like puppetry). We could entertain ourselves and our kids without any consumer products at all (as wonderful as many of them are).

But are we willing to live that kind of austerity? And if not, why not? Is it because when we feel an urge for something new, we know we can satisfy it, and there’s nothing really stopping us? How can we stop ourselves when the newest gadget or gear is just a click away?

My desire for more tidiness is one such antidote to the accumulation of stuff, but as a family, we don’t live an anti-materialist life. We — all of us, myself included — accept the default of our economy which is that if you can afford it, there’s nothing wrong with satisfying your desires by getting something new. After all, that newest DCC RPG product looks fun and we love to play role-playing games, so why not? After all, listening to music is fun and we’ll spend hours listening to that new Fleet Foxes album, so why not? I’m not even saying these products are bad or unworthy of purchase, but when we already have a lot of stuff, are they really necessary? Why aren’t we content with the DCC RPG stuff we already have? Why aren’t we content with listening to the four Fleet Foxes albums we already own?

The lure of novelty, of newness, as well as the fear of missing out, are strong pulls on our desire. Austerity and self-denial do not come easily. You’d think, since we’re Catholics, we’d be pretty good at self-denial, and I guess we are when it comes to things like Lenten sacrifices and no meat on Fridays, but when it comes to the things we really love — the books, and music, and games — then it gets a lot harder to deny one’s wants and be content with what one has.

I have no answer to give. I’m lost in the muddle of trying to declutter and minimize my stuff, but I don’t know if I’m ready to stop buying. Of course, I have to buy some things — food, clothing, toilet paper — but can I call a moratorium on buying entertainment products? Can I spend a year without buying a new book or a new game? Can I spend the next ten years?

After all, we have these places called libraries. I can always just check out books I want to read. I can check out DVDs too. And we have enough role-playing stuff already in our possession to last a lifetime.

In many ways, our desire for more stuff inhibits our ability to create. There’s nothing stopping us from making our own music or inventing our own games. There’s nothing stopping us from even making our own movies.

But of course, creating and consuming are two different activities, and they do fulfill two different needs. There’s input and output, after all. But nevertheless, perhaps we need to do more output to balance the scales.

Again, I’m not sure of the answer. I know I want to reject consumerism as much as possible and help my kids to do the same, but I also know how weak and flawed we are as humans. I suppose all I can do is try. I can keep Kondo-ing, and I can keep resisting the urge to satisfy my every entertainment whim. I can invite my children to create more and consume less. I myself can create more and consume less.

I can try saying, “‘That’s enough, thanks,'” to myself and to the marketplace. I have to believe it will be worth the effort.

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