Creative Courage

on the quad at VCFA (Diana F+, Kodak 400VC-3)

Last night, while feeling twitchy and nervous about writing my critical thesis for grad school, I finally had a moment of clarity about it. Not about the topic itself, but about my resistance to it. I understood, in one of those quick moments of cosmic alignment, that the thing holding me back from working on it -- the thing fueling my procrastination and resistance to the project -- was fear. Fear of not living up to my own expectations. Fear of not knowing how to put the whole thing together.

But wait. This wasn't really the moment of insight. I think I already knew I was afraid. The real stroke of understanding came in the next breath when I remembered the antidote to fear: courage. How about that? The best way to work through fear (at least in this case) isn't avoidance, but courage.

So today I'm doing my creative work with courage. I'm acknowledging that I'm afraid of this project, even while I'm excited about it. (It's called a "critical thesis," which makes it sound so much worse than it is. My topic is all about craft techniques that can create the magic and wonder of writing, so it's really a lovely thing to write.)

Today I'll be kind to myself, admit the fear, and then dive in again, full of as much creative courage as I can find. And if past experience is any indicator, I know I'll find plenty more courage and momentum along the way.

* * *

(Incidentally, I'm also working on these writing topics for Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing. Please consider joining me this fall for six weeks of writing inspiration and craft lessons. Alchemy is an online course for creative souls. And if you're reading this, that means you. Class starts October 11 and registration is open now.)

Registration for Alchemy is Now Open!

October 11 - November 21, 2010

I'm so excited to announce that full details and registration for Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing are now available.

I created this course for creative souls who want to improve their writing through practical techniques and inspirational tips. Alchemy is about transforming common, everyday objects (words) into something beautiful (your stories).

I created Alchemy for you, but I also designed it for me -- for the writer I was several years ago when my writing had plateaued and I was looking for ways to improve. So I've packed this course with techniques I wish I'd known back then. These are simple techniques with big impact, many of which I've learned while working on my MFA in creative nonfiction -- but you don't need to be interested in grad school to benefit from them. I've also included tools and tricks I've developed over the last seven years as a freelance writer and editor, along with helpful nitty gritty tips on writing basics.

During the six weeks of the course, we'll look at how to combine techniques and inspiration to deepen and  w i d e n  our writing. Each week we'll focus on a particular craft lesson and apply it to our stories. You'll choose the kind of writing you want to do, maybe blog posts, essays, articles, or a book project. It's up to you. Bring whatever stories are clamoring to be told. (There will also be prompts and nudges to help you find topics and capture inspiration if you need some guidance.) Once class is over, you'll have access to the materials and private community for eight more weeks. This means you'll have until January 16, 2011 to revisit lessons and catch up on anything you missed. (When you register, you also have the option to sign-up for private editing and coaching services with me at up to 33% off my normal rates.)

Alchemy is a combination of practicality and magic -- just like writing itself. I hope you'll join me in The Word Cellar for class next month!

Get all the details here and then register here.

In Memoriam

in 'sconset, nantucket (Diana F+; Fuji Velvia RVP 100 slide film)
I feel like I should explain this little essay, but I don't know what I'd say that isn't already there. So I offer it as is....

When a friend invited me on an adventure, I was so excited I immediately went out to my little garden and started picking the tomatoes that still hung on the vines. As I loaded a bowl with fat red rounders and little cherry reds, picking my way among the drying, brittle leaves, I apologized to the plants, and thanked them for providing for me even when mother nature and I haven't always provided for them. Some of the tomatoes had rotted on the vine or dropped to the dry ground and gone mushy. One oozed a whitish pus from a wound. A little piece of me mourned this wasted fruit, but I knew we were already glutted with “'maters,” more than we could eat or giveaway. I tugged a few green ones from the stems, to fry up later. This kind of harvesting feels like a premature death, but I'd rather have a fresh green, tart treat on my plate than a weepy mass of browning pulp in the dirt.

I came inside and put a few of my husband's shirts in the wash because he needs them for work this week, and because sometimes, when I feel generous and energetic, I don't mind doing these kind of favors. Back in the kitchen, the still dirty tomatoes sat off to the side, waiting for a rinse before joining their brethren on the countertop. I cleaned out the sink. I needed a clean sink because I wanted to wash the watermelon that had been sitting on the kitchen island for a few days, and in a plastic bag in the powder room sink for days before that.

Every time I clean my sink, I think of you, you who gave me housekeeping tips about a shiny sink while you were dying and trying not to die of cancer there on the other side of the world, down under, as we call it. I think of you and how you can no longer shine your sink, because despite fighting and trying, you did die. I didn't really know you, but you took time out for me, so I clean my kitchen sink in tribute to you. I should do it more often, I know.

The watermelon is almost perfectly round, like a bowling ball, and heavy like one, too. There's one flat spot that has yellowed, the ground spot they call it, and it glows pale against the hunter green skin of the ball. I bought it from an old man and woman selling produce out of the back of their truck at the farmers' market. They had set up shop away from the other vendors. I've seen others do this, and I'm never sure if it's because they've run out of space in the main area or if these are rogue sellers, piggybacking on the organized system. I was walking back to my car when I saw this round bowling ball of a melon. Is that a watermelon?, I asked. It's a sugarbaby, the old woman said, her face wrinkled and puckered, like an old grape with no teeth. While she put tomatoes in a bag for another lady, the old man talked to me. He was missing teeth too, and spoke with such a thick accent of old age and field work that I didn't know what he was saying, but I think he was telling me why his watermelons are so good. I pretended to understand him, nodding and smiling and saying, oh and ah. I bluffed pretty good. But I wonder if he knew I was bluffing. Old men who have worked in fields their whole life know things. And he probably knew this. Finally the old woman came around to fetch the sugarbaby for me. I couldn't fathom how she'd lift the beast. I said, here, let me get it. And I helped her put it in the bag. She looked frail, but for all I know that old toothless grape of a woman could have lifted me. Women have strength that surprises. When I cut into it tonight, that watermelon, after washing it like a baby in the sink, the fresh pink smell of summer juice filled me. I hurried to cut off a slab to bite into. And it was summer there in my kitchen on September First of the year after you died, even though it's almost fall here and almost spring there. I chowed down on that watermelon. Fireflies and the smell of sweet hay filled my kitchen. And wet towels after swimming in the pool all day, the coconuty smell of suntan lotion, and butter on sweet ears of corn. I chomped and slurped, filling my cheeks like a squirrel or chipmunk, gorging on the essence of summer and life. There in my kitchen, with the tomatoes waiting patiently next to my clean silver sink.

Rituals & The Writing Process (In The Word Cellar)

the view from my studio window (Diana F+)

This week's topic comes from Jenn, also known as the Freelance, Unconventional Nun (which is one of the best names ever!), who left a comment back on this post. Her question deals with the writing process and finding techniques and rhythms that work for each us.

Jenn wrote:

Once you let the writing take over and you're flowing, how do you know when to stop or rather how do you separate that life you are creating on paper from the life you are creating around you? I find it hard to write for a few hours and emerge from that space with the ability to stay connected with the people, places and things around me. The feeling scares me and as a result I haven't written much in the last few months. I just start to feel like I'm going crazy and I don't want to.

What an intriguing and powerful question.

I tend to have the opposite problem: The people, places, and things around me often pull me out of my writing. I'm too easily distracted away from the page. That said, I do experience times when the writing draws me in and I'm immersed in the story.

These moments of flow feel magical to me, but I understand how an intense writing experience could be disorienting and even frightening as you come out of that focused state.

I've developed a technique that I use when I need to quiet my mind and work through distractions. It's a little ritual, really. I make sure I have something to drink next to me (usually water, tea, or coffee) so I don't have an excuse to get up for a beverage. I light my favorite candle (Lavender Leaves by Henri Bendel) and commit to writing for an hour. I even make the commitment out loud to myself: "I will write for an hour while this candle burns." Sometimes I set a gentle-sounding alarm (on my cell phone) as a way to keep myself from checking the time obsessively during that hour.

This simple ritual helps me to enter into my writing. Sometimes I struggle for most of that hour, wrestling with words and trying to stay focused. But I don't let myself check Facebook or email or go do the laundry. I keep writing. Sometimes I find the flow before the hour ends, and sometimes I don't. Either way, I've put in an hour of writing, and that feels good. When the hour ends, I can choose whether to keep going or to rest and then do another round.

I wonder if you could create a ritual or technique to help you transition out of an intense writing experience. Maybe you could light a candle when you start writing, and perhaps set a timer to go off ten or fifteen minutes before the time you need to stop writing and re-enter the world around you. By giving yourself that cushion of time, you allow yourself to recalibrate and refocus. During those minutes, you could do some yoga poses or stretches, listen to some favorite music, do a little dance around the room -- something to ground you in the physical "now" away from the page. After this little interlude, you could blow out the candle to symbolize the transition to whatever you need to do next, knowing that the candle and the story are available to you when you can return to them.

This is just one suggestion. Everyone has a different writing process. I'd love to hear other ideas and techniques in the comments. How do you stay focused on your writing? How do you leave the story-world for the physical world around you? Please share.

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

The first In The Word Cellar online writing course for creative souls is coming soon! Learn more about Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing. (Registration opens later this month!)

Love, love, love

Me at the Polaroid booth, Kirtsy/BlogHer '10 Voices of the Year Gala, sending you a little love.

How it's going over here:

A little blurry and
a little busy.

But filled with love, love, love
for words,
for the seasons,
for Polaroid photos,
for feathers in my hair,
for little chalkboards,
for myself,
and for you.