How to Write: Climb the mountain, explore the plateau

view from Neahkahnie Mountain, Oregon (March 2010)

Today I'm over at Liz Lamoreux's Be Present, Be Here blog with a guest post on the writing process. 

When the rejection letters arrive in the mail;

When I don't know how to fix a clunky paragraph;

When my creative taste outstrips my creative ability;

When I've neglected my muse and can't hear a word she's whispering;

When writing feels more like walking alone under a hot desert sun without water instead of riding a flowing current down a beautiful river;

When I sit down to write, each time, every time, even now, and

I wonder: What if this is as good as I'll ever be? What if I never improve? Can I really learn to be a better writer?

Keep reading....

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If you'd like to join me for six-weeks of exploring the writing process, including how to combine inspiration and technique into something transformational, please check out Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing. The next session of this online course starts April 2.

Fill Me With Flowers (an Everyday Essay)

March 13, 2012 — I have been thinking about the local farmers and their crops, this early warm weather and the buds on trees aching to burst out into flowery flames. I'm worrying about the planting schedule. Winter was so mild; did the farmers move up their timetable? Will there be fresh spring peas and asparagus in April instead of May? Or will we skip over those first vegetables of the season and head straight toward early lettuce or whatever comes next? I'm thinking about the berry farm, too. It always snows here in April, though who knows if it will this year. But if it does, if the weather pendulum swings back from spring to winter, what happens to that delicate fruit? We need strawberries for our poundcake and whipped cream, for Easter and Mother's Day. Yes, I'm thinking about the local farmers and the weather, fretting over all of it on this day filled with sunshine and cloud, the alternating currents of the sky. I'm thinking about all of this as my grandmother lies in a darkened room, the mercy of morphine her constant companion. It's easier to worry about the crops that might suffer and die than to think too much about her. I want to take her out of that dark hospice room, out into the play of sunlight and cloud, the dance of blue and grey. I want her to have the breeze on her tissue skin. I want to believe that the air is soft and sweet enough not to bruise or tear at her, like every human touch seems to do. Last night I hummed to her a song I don't know, just me and her in that darkened room. I don't know if she could hear me. I wanted to touch her head, her grey hair all pushed back from her brow, but I didn't, too scared to disturb what I hope is a peaceful sleep, or at least a gentle drug trip. So I hummed, because that room was so damn dark and cold. People we love should die surrounded by beauty. Everyone should have something human and beautiful right up to the end. I keep thinking about buying some grocery store daffodils for her bedside, even if she'll never open her eyes to see them. I want to fill that room with the early flowers: cream, yellow, white, and orange hued daffodils; purple crocus with slender white-striped green leaves; voluptuous tulips in every shade, their black stamens punctuating the heart. A few days ago, when she was still semi-coherent, I wanted to tell her what a beautiful day it was outside, how soft and nice it felt to have the top of your head warmed and the skin of your arms cooled. But this seemed like cruelty, to tell her of the things she'd never again feel in her current body. I never knew my grandmother well enough to know how she'd feel about these things or which flowers were her favorites. If one day I'm in that same room, please tell me about the world. Regale me with descriptions of sky, trees, sun, and wind. Bring the puffy cumulus clouds indoors for me, let nature force its green shoots up through the brown haze. If ever I am you, Grandma, feed me a story of flowers.

In memoriam, Leona Jane McGuiggan (July 20, 1923 – March 14, 2012): May you have armfuls of flowers or whatever brings you the most joy.

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About Everyday Essays: At least a few times a week I jot down notes about something -- usually a small moment, detail, or thought -- that I want to write about. Most of those ideas stay frozen as notes and never bloom into essays. Everyday Essays is my new writing practice to allow some of those notes to move beyond infancy. I've decided to share some of them with you here, even if they're still half-naked or half-baked. The word "essay" (as is almost always noted when the form is discussed) comes from the French verb essayer, which means to try. The essay is a reckoning, a rambling, an exploration, an attempt. Think of these Everyday Essays as freewriting exercises, rough drafts, or the jumbled, interconnected contents of my mind, which may or may not take root and grow into longer (deeper) essays.

Messiness (this business of living)

'Sconset coast, Nantucket, summer 2010

Dear You,

Life is messy here right now, full of literal messes, such as cats with digestive issues, soiled carpets, unpacked suitcases, and piles of laundry. There are also bigger, more amorphous messes, like a paren'ts trip to the emergency room (all is well), and a grandparent being put on hospice care (all is as well as can be). I'm telling you this because maybe it's messy over there, where you are. Maybe if we all said, "Well, shit, this being an adult thing is cumbersome and tiresome, and hot damn, wouldn't it be nice if things weren't so messy?!", maybe if we all said this to each other more often then we'd be nicer to one another, nicer to ourselves even.

I'm also telling you this because I feel bad about not writing here lately. Bad in a guilty way, yes, but also bad because I like to be writing. Writing can make me feel good, but sometimes cleaning up or mitigating the messes edges out the creative energy to write.

I've been trying to write you the story of how I caused a mild cow stampede last week. (I have photos.) I want to tell you about the two new projects that my muse has given me, even though so far she won't tell me anything about them but their names. (So mysetious! So exciting!) I've also been thinking about telling you about the sessions I attended at that enormous writing conference two weeks ago. Oh, and the next session of Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing starts in two weeks (April 2), so I want to invite you to join me for that. I've thought about writing about the messes themselves, about how I never really feel qualified to be an adult, about how it's one foot and then another, one day and then another, all accumulating into a life. The trees are about to burst out into blossom here, even though it's at least a month too ealy for that. Spring is pressing in too soon, and everything feels off-kilter, frightening and beautiful at the same time. (This is "the beauty and the shit" that my friend Liz writes about.)

I want to tell you all of this, but tonight I needed to make fish tacos, to mix up some vodka, crushed ice, and lemonade, to sit on the couch eating a red velvet cupcake with a cup of white peach tea. Tomorrow I reckon I'll need to go for a walk, stretch my limbs, and then see if I can dig down deep enough to bring some of these stories to light.

What's going on for you? Is it messy? Sticky? Sharp and pointy? Soupy? Sloppy and slippery? Share your messy self below if you'd like, and we can all share a big virtual sloppy kiss group hug.

Truly madly deeply,
Jenna

Post-travel Permissions

You are allowed to go to bed early and sleep in late.

You are allowed to go slow, to sink back into home, to let the stimulation of the last few days mellow out and ripen into inspiration.

You are allowed to make a second pot of tea, all for yourself.

You are allowed to read whatever you want.

You are allowed to watch the sky from your couch, watch it turn from a cold grey haze to a gentle blue buoyed up by fluffy white clouds.

You are allowed to skip taking a walk because the wind chill makes the air feel like 20 degrees, even though the sun is shining.

You can give yourself these permissions -- these gentle kindnesses -- again and again. You can repeat them to yourself, because you know that you need the repetition in order to remember.

Great Expectations

You go away for a conference, and you tell yourself you'll make time to write. You'll blog, do a little work, keep up with email, and even spend a few hours on an essay you've been noodling over. All of this in-between attending sessions, networking, and socializing. You believe it every time, with a silly sort of hope. And every time, in the midst of the time away, you wonder how on earth you ever thought you'd have time to write or work or keep up with anything. Today you barely had time to eat.

This is simply a microcosm of the way it all works when it comes to this creativity thing: You need time and space and quiet. Things take longer than you think they will (except when they don't, of course). And yet, you squeeze out what you can when you can, in the little moments you can squeeze into your day. Even if it's just a quick paragraph or two, you try to get it down.

You wonder: Is something better than nothing? Does half-assed make you look like at least you're trying, or does it just disappoint people? At 12:02am on the third night of the conference, you know that half-assed is all you have in you, and so you give that half. And then you drag your whole ass to bed.

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I'm in Chicago at AWP this week, an enormous conference of about 10,000 writers. It's wonderful and overwhelming, much like the creative life...much like life in general, I suppose. I am feeling inspired and am looking forward to writing full-assed when I return.