Fresh Hot Waffles

Waffle Window. Portland, OR. (Diana+, Fuji Pro 400H)

This photo has been sitting in a draft blog post while I hunted for some words to go with it: a juicy story to match the feel of that luscious blue against the red-and-brown brick, a string of words worthy of the dreamy cloud-haze hovering over the hanging basket. But what could I write that this photo doesn't already tell you? This is the Waffle Window in Portland, Oregon. You walk up, order a waffle done one of at least a dozen ways, and then you can sit outside and eat it and people watch (keeping an eye out for hipsters on tall bikes). It's scrumptious and so much fun. Those are the facts of this photo, and they're fine facts. But what could I possibly write that says more than the image itself?

(I finally have a photo scanner and have been uploading my analogue Diana pictures to Flickr. One more roll to go.) (Until I finish shooting another!)

On Speed, Annie Dillard, & Being Good

the sands of time. Target. taken with cell phone camera.

Are you fast?

How many words can you type per minute? Maybe you know that number. I used to. Now all I know is that I type fast. I also make a lot of typos, but I hit backspace fast, too.

How fast do you read? Now there's a words-per-minute count that isn't quantified so often. But you probably have a sense of yourself as a reader. Are you fast? Slow?

I have a friend from college who reads like the wind. The girl is fast. And she remembers everything, too. I'd thought I was a good reader until I met her.

Wait. When did "good" become a synonym for "fast"?

**  **  **

I'm reading Annie Dillard's The Maytrees. Dillard brings me to my knees. Her writing makes me swoon. (Have you read her? Please do. And if, like me, you think you don't like her writing at first, give it some time and then another go. There was a time when I thought I didn't care for her work. Now I can't stop reading it with love and lust, envy and inspiration.) 

**  **  **

But back to being fast.

I've decided to read this novel slowly, to luxuriate in its richness. A few days ago I found myself feeling guilty about this while my performance-driven psyche pushed me to read faster, faster, faster. Why? Because then I'd be proving (to whom?) that I'm a good reader. And I like to be good at things.

I remember a professor at my last MFA residency saying that she'd taken all summer to read a book. She immersed herself in it. She lived with it. She was, I think, trying to give us permission to sink into the words we love, to put aside this need to do-do-do and go-go-go. Reading shouldn't be a competitive sport in which we strive to prove something about ourselves.

**  **  **

The Maytrees is strange. I call it strange because its style, language, and structure are unusual, and because I don't yet have a better word for it. I'm 28 pages into it and I'm trying to decide if the writing is dense or sparse. Somehow it is managing to be both at once, as though an artist used thousands of slight brushstrokes to sketch the barest outline of an immense scene. (According to Cynthia, an MFA colleague, the book's structure is even stranger than I yet know from my position on page 28.)

I borrowed this book from the library, and there is a robin's egg blue comment card paperclipped into the back of it . There are two comments, each in a different handwriting. The first reads: "Couldn't get into this book." The second: "A chore to read -- disjointed pap." Maybe those readers would have felt otherwise had they slowed down and let the book work its way into them. Or not. Either way, I bristle at seeing Dillard's work called "pap." (Then again, it was an interesting choice of word. I'm guessing the commenter was either pretentiously erudite or British. And no, I'm not equating the two.)

I'm taking my time with this book and feeling good about it. I've banished this idea that I have to go fast in all things to be good at them. (There are times when speed is the key to unlocking greatness. Not every time is one of those times.) So I'm letting Annie's words simmer.

**  **  **

And you. How are you equating things that don't really belong together? What story of "good" are you holding onto just to keep yourself boxed in all neat and tidy and presentable to the imagined world of social acceptance? Also, what words are you sinking into lately?

Writing Masquerade: Finding Your Voice (In The Word Cellar)

my shadow (with crazy pigtail buns in my hair)

(Scroll down to the end of this post for a finding-your-voice prompt called Writing Masquerade.)

I have to be honest with you: I've started to dread writing these "In The Word Cellar" columns. This is only the sixth post in the series, and already I feel overwhelmed and worn out. Today I finally figured out why. I'd lost my voice. So today, I'm going to write about voice. (Ever hear the adage that we teach what we need to learn?)

Sometimes, when I really-really care about something, I freeze up. I get twitchy and over-analytical. I worry myself into a state of paralysis. Or worse, I start acting like someone who isn't really me. That's what happened with these posts about writing, because I really-really care about them. I'd seized up with too much caring.

I wanted you to trust me as a writer and a guide on this writing journey. But I was worried that you wouldn't. My go-to move when I feel frightened or insecure is to use logic. So I allowed my analytical left-brain to take over. And that darling leftie told me that I should sound smart for you. And then you'd trust me, right? Ugh. Is there anything worse than someone trying to sound smart? Oh, wait, there is: Someone trying to sound smart while simultaneously pretending they're NOT trying to sound smart. Ugh-ugh.

I love language. I thrill at the thought of telling a good story, of connecting with people through words, of creating something beautiful. Writing is my art and my passion. I wanted to share it with you so much that I lost my voice while trying to do it.

So enough. I'm not going to try to sound smart anymore. I'm going to share what I've learned about writing from my mentors and through practice. I invite you to share, too. You are an important part of this equation. This community can learn from its members. So share what you've got: questions, answers, observations. All of those things help us learn and grow as writers.

This is what I know about voice: We write best when we write in a voice that's true to ourselves.

But how do you find your writing voice? How do you develop a style?

You write. And write. And write. You practice the art and craft of spinning stories, of stringing together words to create meaning. You can also read writers that you love -- not so you can copy them, but so you can see what styles and topics interest you, what makes your heart sing. Follow the energy of what enlivens you. Be inspired to write with that energy.

Over time, your voice will emerge. It will be like that saying about pornography: You'll know it when you see it. You'll probably also find that you have more than one possible writing style. I have one basic voice here on my blog, but I have a different voice when I'm writing lyric essays. We're multifaceted people; it makes sense that we'd have different writing moves. Style, like language itself, is a living, changing entity that can evolve and morph over time.

Writing Masquerade
Here's a prompt to help you try on and tap into a few voices. Pretend the blank page or computer screen is a masquerade ball and you get to dress up your writing any way you like. You can play around with your words and your style, see what fits and what excites you.

(It might seem counterintuitive to talk about masks and pretending when the goal is to find our true voice. But trying something new or out of character can give us access to parts of our voice that we didn't realize we had.)

1. Pick a topic or event to write about. It can be anything. (A few suggestions: your favorite part of the day; an encounter with a stranger; a childhood memory; your high school prom or graduation; the moment you realized that you were a grown-up.)
2. For this experiment, you can write as much or as little as you like, but a few paragraphs is probably a good starting point.
3. Now write about your topic in whatever style comes to mind at first. Don't think about this. Just write.
4. Next, try on a few different writing voices. Write about the same topic again, but put on a different mask:

• Be a Jester: Could you be funny in the piece? Play and have fun. Even sad topics can sometimes handle humor.
• Be a Poet: What if you tried writing about your topic lyrically, with beautiful sensory details, imagery, and metaphors? Take a flight of fancy and see what gorgeous ideas you can string together. 
• Be a Vixen: What's the dark, shadowy side that you're not telling us? Pull on this mask and let your inner bad-girl come out and play on the page. Let her be as sexy, as mysterious, or as mean as she wants to be. (Remember, no one else has to see it.)
• Be a Queen: Own it, sister. Write like you mean it, every blessed word of it. Be strong. Write with authority. Write what you'd write if you ruled the land and could say whatever you wanted without consequence.

I hope you'll share your thoughts on voice and style and maybe a few of your masquerade experiments in the comments. And if you post something on your blog, please link to it!

**Post your writing questions in the comments or send them to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com.

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

Things I've Seen This Month

1. A miniscule apple-green inchworm on the warm mahogany wood of my desk.

2. The slow leak of light at dawn on a cloudy day, after pulling an all-nighter.

3. A pink nose and kitty whiskers on my pillow and in my face.

4. A blue and grey sky, as moody and changeable as the sea.

5. Fuzz on the couches and tumbleweed furballs in the corner of the dining room.

6. A kitchen sink full of dirty dishes.

7. Tulips and lilacs still in bloom on the other side of town.

8. A black and white cat chasing a grey bunny through the green grass in the dark twilight blue.

9. A pint of raspberries.

10. A good friend's name on caller ID.

What have you seen lately?

"Things I've Seen" is a sporadically appearing list of visuality.

In the Thick of It

in my backyard, last fall

My second semester writing work is drawing to a close this weekend, but I'm still in the thick of it. Looking for words in the wilderness, it seems. I've been wrestling with an essay for weeks now, and all I have to show for it are six mediocre pages. I know there's a glistening story in there somewhere, but I can't find it right now. In the past, when I've reached this point in the creative process, I've turned my frustration back on myself and wailed about my lack of talent or discipline. But this time it's different. Now, I can see that my ability and commitment have nothing to do with it. There's nothing wrong with me. This is just the way of things sometimes. It turns out that this frustrating essay has been a gift, allowing me to see that my view of myself and my creative cycle has evolved. (Of course, it took my husband pointing this out to me for me to see it.) This is the ebb part of the creative ebb and flow. I'm tapped out right now. But that's okay, because it doesn't mean I'll be tapped out forever. It just means that for right now, once this assignment is completed to the best of my current ability, I'm going to follow the energy. And that energy is telling me to rest; to watch movies; to sing loudly in my kitchen while I cook and bake; to sit outside, watch the birds, and feel the breeze; to get out of my wordy left brain for awhile and let my right brain take over in images through film and paint; to read good books full of juicy language and let the words sink deep into my bones. My words will come back; they always do. In the thick of things, that's an important point to remember. I'm grateful to have a husband and friends who remind me to that. May you remember the same.