Everyday Bravery

Spring bloom on wooden step, Washington, March 2010

I could have been flying off to Europe in two months, maybe stopping to visit friends in England and venturing into Italy for the first time, and then spending ten writerly days in Slovenia. Instead, I'll spend those ten days in Vermont, home of the Green Mountains, moose crossing signs, and Cheddar cheese -- all good things, but not exactly the Alps, Dante's cave, or planinski čaj (mountain tea).

Vermont or Slovenia. It's a strange set of choices, one made possible by the wonders of higher education. My MFA program at Vermont College takes a group of students to Slovenia each summer as an alternative to the Vermont campus residency. As soon as I'd heard about it, I knew I'd be going. After all, I love travel. I embrace possibility. I'm the one who takes the adventure.

But then came the time to make plans. I'd already sent in my (refundable) deposit, but I  felt uneasy about the prospect. I pooh-poohed my anxiety, brushing it off as a collection of silly little fears for me to overcome. After all, I'm the one who takes the adventure, right?

My logic and my intuition wrestled for weeks. Sometimes one would win out over the other, but mostly it was a draw. Finally, I knew in my core that this was not the right summer for me to go to Slovenia. Even after I knew, I needed another week to accept it as the right decision. Am I still the one who takes the adventure if I pass up Slovenia? 

Why did the thought of this adventure fill me with weariness instead of excitement? Yes, planning a trip to Europe requires a certain amount of courage and energy -- courage and energy of which I am completely capable. I could book the planes and trains; find overnight accommodations before and after the residency; buy luggage more suited to such a trip; get new walking shoes to replace my worn-out pair; figure out an international cell phone option. I could do it all.

Yes, I am the one who takes the adventure. I can plan like a pro. I can be brave. But that's just the thing: I'm being brave every day lately. Sometimes everyday life requires heaping doses of courage. You don't have to be suffering through a particular trauma or disaster to need deep wells of courage to get you from the morning to the night and then through the darkness itself. The reasons for this in my life right now -- many of which are the practical reasons I decided on Vermont instead of Slovenia -- matter less than the necessity of the courage itself.

Every day I dip down into the well and heave up buckets of courage. Some days the well is low and threatens to run dry. I'm sure I could drill another well to draw from if I needed to. But for now, for this summer, for this particular trip, I need to save my courage reserves for the day-to-day. This doesn't mean there won't be other adventures in the coming months.

I get up in the morning. I tend to my chores; I do my creative work. I love the people around me and try to let them love me back. I buy groceries and cook meals. I clean. I stretch my body upon a pink yoga mat. I walk outside to get the mail. I pet my cats and kiss my husband. I go to sleep at night. My everyday life looks sane and tame. Maybe yours looks much the same in your corner of the world. But don't forget to give yourself credit for all the ways you're being brave -- for the staying, for the leaving, for the waiting, for all of the in-between spaces that require a stout spirit and an adventurer's heart.

Don't Stress About Verb Tenses (In The Word Cellar)

image by Banalities

So far, most of these "In The Word Cellar" columns have looked at theories and ideas behind writing. I love that stuff, but it's time to get down and dirty, to dig into the rich soil of language. I'm talking about the nitty gritty tips that help you find the sweet spot where technique supports, expands, and deepens inspiration.

And nothing is nittier or grittier than verbs. Verbs create the action in your stories. Verbs are action. Good verbs tickle and caress your nouns. They make your writing sing and sizzle; they impact your story's mood and movement.

There's so much to talk about, but today we'll look at verb tenses.

Past or Present: What's better?
You already use verb tenses without thinking much about them. Past, present, and future -- all very simple. In fact, these are called the "simple tenses." Many stories (fiction and nonfiction) are told in the simple past tense. This is an easy, straightforward way to craft a story.

Alternately, you can write a story in simple present tense. This technique infuses your writing with energy and gives it a sense of immediacy. It helps to pull your readers into the scene so they feel like they're part of the action. On the other hand, present tense can be a bit tricky to maintain in a long piece of writing because it can begin to feel contrived. But it's a great option for some blog posts and essays. I think present tense works well for humorous stories, but it can also work well in stories with poignant emotion.

TIP: If a piece of writing feels flat or just doesn't seem to be "working," try rewriting a small portion of it in another tense. Then see if it flows better in the new tense.

(You'll usually stick with past or present tense for this. Writing a whole story in future tense creates a much different feel and isn't usually the best choice. But it could be a fun experiment, so give it a try and see what happens. You might like it for certain pieces.)

EXAMPLE (past tense): I woke up and looked over at Marie's beach towel. She wasn't there, but her romance novel and bikini top were. I scanned the beach for her. When my eyes reached the water line, I saw Marie running in the surf and laughing, like a bare-chested Baywatch beauty. I thought to myself, "It's going to be a long week."

There's nothing wrong with this little scene in past tense. But for fun, let's see how it feels in present tense.

EXAMPLE (present tense): I wake up and look over at Marie's beach towel. She isn't there, but her romance novel and bikini top are. I scan the beach for her. When my eyes reach the water line, I see Marie running in the surf and laughing, like a bare-chested Baywatch beauty. I think to myself, "It's going to be a long week."

In this example, both tenses work. The present tense version feels more immediate, but the past tense version works just as well. In a case like this, you'd choose your tense based on the rest of the story and the effect you want to create.

Whatever tense you choose, be consistent. Using verb tenses consistently helps to create clarity. In other words, don't start a story in one tense and then randomly shift into another unless the action of the story warrants it. 

When would a shift in tenses be warranted? This is where the perfect tenses can come into play.

Past Perfect: Deeper into the past
First of all, what are these so-called perfect tenses? For a thorough overview, check out this handy explanation from Purdue's Online Writing Lab (OWL). If you just want the fast and dirty version, here are examples of the perfect tenses.

Past Perfect: I had skinny dipped.
Present Perfect: I have skinny dipped.
Future Perfect: I will have skinny dipped.

Since past perfect is the one that trips up a lot of writers, let's look at it. Here's how OWL explains it: "The past perfect tense designates action in the past just as simple past does, but the action of the past perfect is action completed in the past before another action." Before your eyes glaze over, read this tip.

TIP: What if you're writing a story in the simple past tense and want to refer to something that happened before the scene of the story? You need to go deeper into the past. This is when you use the past perfect tense. Think of the simple past tense as the "now" of the story. You use past perfect to indicate action that happened before the scene at hand.

Here's an example: I woke up and looked over at Marie's beach towel. She wasn't there, but her romance novel and bikini top were. Marie had said she wanted to try a topless beach, but I'd thought she'd meant next week in France, not here in New Jersey!

The first two sentences are in simple past tense. They set the simple past tense as the "now" of the story. The last sentence uses past perfect tense. Marie made the comment about trying a topless beach before this scene in the story. Using the past perfect tense ("Marie had said") makes this clear to the reader. 

If I had written that last sentence in simple past ("Marie said she wanted to try a topless beach...."), it would seem like Marie was saying it in this scene. But Marie is running around half-naked down by the water and not saying anything in this scene.

I know this might seem nitpicky. But remember: The nitty gritty details create the texture of your writing. Readers may be able to handle a few verb tense slip-ups, but too much inconsistency will give them verbal whiplash. Using consistent and appropriate verb tenses creates clarity and smoothness in your writing. When the sequence of events is clear, your readers won't have to think about verb tense at all; they'll just enjoy the ride.

TIP: Verbs -- and their tenses -- work best when they are clear, concise, and consistent.

Summary
1. Be clear, concise, and consistent with your verb tenses.
2. Past tense is easy to use and works for a lot of different stories.
3. Writing in present tense can add urgency, immediacy, and intimacy to your story.
4. Try rewriting a piece in a different tense to see if that improves its flow and feel.
5. Past perfect tense takes you deeper into the past. It indicates action that happened before the "now" of a story that is already being told in simple past tense. 

Question: Is all of this old hat to you? Or did you learn something new today? I want to tailor these columns to you, so tell me what you need!

**Have a writing question? Send it to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com.**

In The Word Cellar columns run on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Check out other articles in the series here.

What's More Important Than Speed?

Book Bindery, by appointment. Brooklyn, April 2010

Are some people built for speed?

This is the question Rachelle (over at Magpie Girl) asked me in my 1Q Interview.

She was referring to Lanterns and the way I produced a 50-page book of prose, poetry, and photography with six contributors in just five weeks this past winter. 

From that description, it sounds like speed is my superpower, doesn't it? But it's not. Click on over to the interview to find out what I think is more important than speed when it comes to finishing projects.

And if you're a member of Flock, you can find my full 3Q Interview there. I talk about the benefits of working on a collaborative project and being part a creative community.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to go take my own advice and work on another creative project....

Staying Aloft

Brooklyn blossoms, April 2010

My friend Kristen over at Sticking to the Point recently asked her readers to "Tell me where you are today." Here's what I wrote. It sums up so much of how I've been feeling that I wanted to share it here with you, in case you're in a similar place.

Today I'm wondering how far patience and love can stretch, how many little pinpricks of misunderstanding a heart can weather and still stay aloft like a hopeful red balloon. Today I remind myself when to hold my tongue and when to let it loose. Today I learn the lesson that comes again and again lately: Bravery can be something that happens on the inside, in the daily moments that nobody else sees. Courage isn't always evident to the wider world, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. I have a friend who says that love makes us brave. I know she's right, but on days like today I need the reverse: the courage to love and to keep on loving when the canvas stretches thin and my heart bobs and sinks, but never quite drops all the way to earth. 

Roller Derby Makes Me Feel Brave

1. Romp n Roll rink; shot with cell phone camera

Roller Derby is the great social equalizer. I am not even kidding. It is a land of freaks and geeks, of unshaven bluecollar men and shaven young people of indeterminate gender, of interracial couples and Girl Scout troops. You can be yourself at Roller Derby, and it's all good.

I wasn't sure how I'd feel at my first Roller Derby (yes, I feel the need to capitalize it) bout (that's what matches are called: bouts). I wondered if I'd be cool enough, hip enough, gritty enough to fit in with the crowd. I arrived at the Romp & Roll rink early, hoping to snag one of the few tickets available at the door. On my way to the entrance, I passed a cluster of men and women hanging out near the side door -- the one the insiders used, the entrance that means "I'm with the team." They were dressed in biker black and were smoking cigarettes. Suddenly my outfit (dress-over-jeans and little cardigan) that feels so funky in my suburban neighborhood marked me as fresh meat, a newbie, a Roller Derby Virgin, a goodie-two-shoes who couldn't skate with the big girls. But I kept walking, head held high and eyes averted. I glanced to the left to see if anyone noticed me, and here's what I noticed: Nobody gave a damn.

Here's what happened while I waited in line, which was a microcosm of the rest of the evening: I struck up a conversation with a man who reminded me of my father's factory worker friends. I told some young hipster guys that they were in the right line for tickets. A geeky guy bummed an American Spirit cigarette from one of the hipsters, and then had to ask for a light, too. A young woman in a wheelchair told the small crowd, "If they say the tickets are sold out, you all just pretend you're with me and I'll look real sad!" My husband arrived and got in line with me, and he didn't look out of place, despite still wearing his work clothes (dress shirt and slacks) and being the only non-white person in sight. No one batted an eye, because damn, this was Roller Derby, and we were all here to have a good time.

At this point in the story, maybe you're like: What's with all the judging-books-by-their-covers, McG? All I can say is: Why is everyone calling me McG all of a sudden? And also: Appearance is the first thing we see, so yeah, I'm a bit of a book-cover-looker. But I'm less concerned with judging others than of being judged. And now, maybe you're like: Whoa! Insecure much? And I'm like: Well, yeah, occasionally I am insecure despite all my efforts to be a strong, confident, self-actualized person, maybe just maybe I sometimes worry in new situations, just because I act like I'm all self-possed and brave doesn't mean I'm not shy and cumbersome on the inside, okay? And now you're like: Um, okay, chill out and stop putting words in my mouth, because, dude, I'm just trying to read about Roller Derby. And now I'm like: Frickin-a!

Inside Romp n Roll, the joyful melange of people expanded. I didn't feel out of place at all, because it was impossible to stick out. Goths and punks and bikers co-existed peacefully alongside white bread families with adorable toddlers. There was no baseline for normal here, which meant that everyone got to be beautiful and wonderful in their own way. If only the rest of the world were as integrated as the crowd at a Roller Derby bout! Dare I say it? Roller Derby is the key to world peace.

I think Roller Derby may also be the only thing (besides sex) that could convince me to enjoy sweating. I generally don't like to exercise or do anything that requires me to catch my breath. I'm a sedentary sort of person, but I have secret dreams of speed. I used to fantasize about flying around the ice as a figure skater, but now I'm hooked on old skool roller skates. The spandexed people of California can keep their inline skates. Give me a shoe with four wheels, one at each corner of my foot.

I watched those women skate and block and fall, and I wanted to be one of them. My husband thought I was tired because I was so quiet, but I was intently studying the techniques of the game. I've never played or cared about a sport in my life, but there I was, trying to figure out if I'd be a better blocker or jammer.

Earlier that day I had lunch with a former co-worker. When I told her that I want to be a Roller Derby girl, this is how the conversation went:

"I want to be a Roller Derby chick!"

"You're too nice for that."

"Oh, I have a dark side."

I'm not the kind of girl to wear fishnet stockings, to have tattoos or piercings, to know how to move my body in time to the rhythm of music and skates, to be strong and confident in my own skin. But I could be. I tap danced for eight years as a kid, and I'm sure a set of fishnets came with one of those costumes. On Saturdays my dad would drop off me and my friends at the roller rink, where I skated with all the bad-assery I could muster at eleven-year-olds, moving in time to Tina Turner's "What Love Got to Do With It?" round and round that rink like I owned it, even though I had no idea what the song was about. I sported a fake nose ring in high school, and the only thing stopping me from getting real piercings and tattoos is my body's rejection of foreign bodies as evidenced by two disastrous attempts at pierced ears.

Sometimes I feel like 11-year-old me had more bad-ass potential than 34-year-old me does. (After all, now I know what love does, and does not, have to do wth it.) Knowledge may be power, but innocence has a force all its own. I don't know if I'll ever try out for the Roller Derby team, given the practicalities of my knee that makes a grinding sound when I bend it and the fact that the rink is an hour from my house. But there's a bout next month and a general skate before that. I plan to be there, with or without fishnets.