For Love of Words

photo by starmist1

If you know me at all, you know that I love words. And if you're reading this, I suspect you love them at least a little bit, too. So in honor of words -- their beauty, their power -- I share these gems with you today.

I found this little meme floating around some blogs I love. It goes like this: Pick up the nearest book and open it to page 123. Find the fifth sentence. Post the next three sentences. (And tag five people.)

I cheated a little. I chose a book that was behind me on the bookshelf, not one of the books sitting on the desk next to me. But then I was a good girl and followed the directions. Here's what I read:

When night falls, there will be armloads of branches and flowers on the street, all neatly tied with rope, ready for the trash pickup in the morning. The women who are called to the lilacs will arrive to see that the hedges have been chopped to the ground, their glorious flowers nothing but garbage strewn along the gutter and the street. That is the moment when they'll throw their arms around one another and praise simple things and, at long last, consider themselves to be free.

(from Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman)

In the spirit of community, I tag Allyson, Melissa, Lisa, Pink Shoes, Kelly, and anyone else who wants to participate.

also...

because i like lowercase and needed a poetic shot in the arm, i bring you mr. e.e. cummings:

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Evolution of a Writer

Between a Rock and a Hard Place, September 2007

Somewhere along the line, I developed a literary hierarchy. It looked like this:

Poetry

Fiction

Non-fiction

Magazine Articles

Newspaper Stories

Comic Books and Graphic Novels

Poetry topped the totem pole. Perhaps because it seemed so posh and high falutin' to my young mind, I thought it was the bee's knees of the written word. Maybe that's why I wrote a lot of poetry as a child and teenager. Was I aspiring to greatness? It's possible. But more probable is that adding line breaks and vague metaphors is a great way to jazz up pedestrian prose and purge all of that teenage angst. (My childhood poetry was less angsty and more cutesy. And it may have been better than the adolescent attempts. I was especially pleased when my award-winning "Five Little Flowers" poem made its way into an anthology during the fifth grade.)

I didn't write a lot of fiction. Short stories seemed like too much work, especially next to my admittedly anemic ideas of poetry. All those elements of plot, character, climax, and denouement just seemed like too much to dream up and keep organized. I internalized the idea that I wasn't a good enough writer, or creative enough person, to write short stories. And a novel? Surely you jest.

I submitted my angsty poems with my application to The Pennsylvania Governor's School for the Arts. I was rejected two years in a row, but my second attempt did get me a spot in the two-week-long, runner-up SHARE program (Summer Honors Arts Resident Experience). While there, I tentatively branched out into short stories. My group was given the word "heat" as a writing prompt. I wrote a short story about a homeless woman who had to warm herself in front of barrels of fire. Her luck finally turned and she got her own apartment -- which then burned to the ground.

While I usually steered clear of writing fiction, I read a lot of it. And I considered it to be superior to non-fiction. Even as recently as my 20's, I secretly scoffed at people who preferred to read non-fiction. I thought their minds and imaginations were inferior to those of us who had Literature Degrees. La-dee-da! Ironically, I considered fiction to be the "real stories." I wasn't interested in memoirs, most magazine or newspaper articles, or anything dealing with historical or actual events. And essays? I didn't know that was even a legitimate term. Who reads essays besides high school English teachers?

But oh how I love David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell -- both in print and on the radio. Give me an hour to listen to "This American Life" and I'm a happy camper. I dug Bill Bryson's witty insights after living in England for a year. One of the seminal influences of my adolescence was Robert Fulghum, author of All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten and It Was on Fire When I Lay Down on It. I even crafted my high school graduation speech around one of Fulghum's essays called "Giants, Wizards, and Dwarfs." When I extolled the virtues of being an individual and asked, "Where do the mermaids stand?", I think I brought my French teacher to tears.

In my college creative writing class, the pieces I most liked writing -- and the ones that came easiest to me -- fell into the category of narrative essay. I loved capturing real people as characters, relaying tales of the real-life wackiness and poignant moments that surrounded me. There was my roommate who turned out to have schizophrenia; the time my teenage brother lectured me for using the word "shit" and told me -- an English major! -- that only people with limited vocabularies use swear words; and the moody nighttime walks I took with the brooding, clove-smoking actor I never ended up dating.

A few years ago I discovered the term "creative nonfiction" and things began to click. It was slowly dawning on me that my true passion for writing is non-fiction. I love the personal essay and was thrilled to find out that this was a valid form of expression. I never thought of myself as a journalist until I realized that I could tell real stories as stories: facts embedded within a narrative arc. The idea of "narrative journalism" moved journalism way up the totem pole for me.

Actually, I have to admit that my nice little construct has fallen apart. Poetry no longer seems better than journalism. Non-fiction is no longer sub-par to fiction. It took me a long time to uncover my writing strengths and passions. It's one of those obvious epiphanies that had me smacking my forward to say "Eureka!" and shaking my head to say "Duh!" all at the same time.

An interesting thing has happened now that I've embraced the non-fiction oeuvre: I want to write a novel.

For years I've thought about writing a novel. Mostly, I've thought that there was no way I'd ever write one. If short stories seemed fraught with dangerous elements like plot and character development, a novel was just out of the question. I mean, how on earth would I make up all that stuff?

I've read about novelists who say that their characters take on lives of their own, directing the plot with their actions. These writers say they often sit back and let the story go where the story must. I've long envied those writers. And never, ever thought I could be one of them.

Then I heard about NaNoWriMo: National Novel Writing Month. One 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Sound insane? Yes. And I think I'm going to do it. The sheer lunacy of cramming that much fiction into one month means that my standards will have to go way down. The inner critic who would normally make me slave over a paragraph will just have to take a leave of absence while I bang out a shitty first draft.

That's the whole thrust of NaNoWriMo: To aim for quantity, not quality. And by so doing, to achieve something that might otherwise feel beyond our capabilities.

I have no plot. But according to Chris Baty, the founder of NaNoWriMo, that's fine. I'm about one-quarter of the way through his book, No Plot? No Problem!. So far it hasn't helped me to overcome the no plot problem, but I'm hopeful. The novel writing experience starts on November 1, so I don't have that long to worry about it.

There's a small chance that I'll chicken out, but I think I owe it to myself to join the tens of thousands of others around the world who will be trying to write an average of 1,666.66 words each day. (Hm, that's rather an evil looking number...)

By announcing my intention here, I'm hoping some of my readers will offer their support and encouragement or even decide to join in and write their own slapdash novel next month. Oh, and I'm also open to plot or character suggestions. If you happen to have some lying about that you aren't going to use, please send them my way. Maybe they'll take on a life of their own and end up in my pages.

One life must be enough

When I wrote this week's Sunday Scribblings musings on Town & Country, I was thinking of something that Linford Detweiler of Over the Rhine wrote in a little booklet called Northern Spy Number One: Crawl Low Under Smoke. I couldn't find it at the time, but found a portion of it copied in my journal from June 1997. He says it so beautifully:

One life is hardly enough. I've had to kill so many lives to be alive in this one. The college professor life. The life lived in the South with the brave dancing words full of sweet storm clouds, grace and the reign of laughter. And me struggling with a first collection of short stories.

The life on the Northeast Ohio farm with mist like the secret birthing night breath of angels coming up off the five a.m. fields and the grey birds praising the new coming day in their secret symphonic language, full of mercy and foreshadowing. The life of the pianist braving The Well-Tempered Clavier, making the Mozart glimmer with purity, getting the warm fire of the Chopin Nocturnes and Preludes and Etudes under the palms of miracle hands, making Ravel's impressionist poems come in and out of focus, breathing all the while.

The young are apple trees. We prune off many limbs so that we might bear a little fruit. One life must be enough, but damn. (p. 18)

Yes, Linford, yes. Damn.

I Know How to Read

~~Hiding Behind Pages ~~
(photo idea inspired by Melissa)

When people find out that I was an English major in college and am now a freelance writer, eventually they ask me the questions I dread most:

~~What's your favorite book?
~~Who's your favorite author?

And I just freeze up. Completely. My mind goes blank and I can't remember a single character, plot, author, or title. It's really embarrassing. I'm all: "Uhhhhhh.......What's a book? Eh? Reading? That sounds interesting. Perchance I will try it one day."

There's a little tip: If you're ever in an intellectual bind, and, like me, fear looking stupid, throw in words like perchance, ergo, hitherto, and, as a last resort, blimey! The first three will help you to feign (another good word) intellect. The people who aren't quite as smart as you just may be impressed. Those who are smarter than you will see through your ruse (good one!). But no matter -- they wouldn't have been impressed no matter what you did.

As for "blimey," well, it works best when talking to Americans. It can make you sound like you're well-acquainted with British culture, which automatically makes you sound smarter. (If you can use the accent, all the better! You can say anything in a British accent and it sounds posh. Try it: "I hurt my nose whilst picking it." See?) Just don't use "blimey" when talking to an actual British person. They'll know you're a fake. And whatever you do, do not try the faux English accent with a real life Brit. At the very least they'll point a bony finger at you and chuckle condescendingly. At the most, they'll call you Dick van Dyke. And that just hurts.

All this to say that I do my best to avoid conversations about books and such. But then my friend Allyson had to go and tag me with a meme about characters. I'm totally freaked out about it. Then my friend Melissa went ahead and answered the call to meme! So now I have no choice but to respond. Otherwise I look like a chicken. Which is only slightly better than looking stupid, so I'll take my chances.

So far, everyone is naming book characters. I guess those are the rules. But I'm going to use movies, too. After all, they started out as written screenplays, right? So I'm making the execu-blog decision that I can include all characters, regardless of medium. I'm supposed to pick three, but I'm wimping out at two.

Ergo:

1. Characters I wish were real so I could meet them:

a. Aslan from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe: Critics, cynics, scholars, and snobs can knock themselves out arguing whether or not C.S. Lewis meant Aslan to represent God or Christ or not. For me, I haven't come across a better representation of a saviour. Aslan makes me feel safe and loved and protected in a way that makes me wish I could cuddle a real lion.

b. Lloyd Dobler from "Say Anything": The trench coat is a bit dated, but Lloyd is still my man. After all, "To know Lloyd Dobler is to love him." And don't we all feel like we know Lloyd Dobler? Boombox and all?

2. Characters I'd like to be:

a. Anne from Anne of Green Gables: Despite hardships, Anne lives a life full of joy and wonder -- which I keep trying to figure out how to do. And I'm not even an orphan. Plus, I'd like to have red hair (like Megan Follows).

b. Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice: I considered listing this dashing man in the section above, but that's been done. Sure, it'd be great to meet Mr. Dracy, but I think maybe I'd like to be Mr. Darcy. I'd get to be rich, handsome, and full of brooding and good intentions. Plus, I'd get the beautiful and free-spirited Elizabeth Bennet as my spouse. (Okay, maybe I'd really rather be Lizzie, but it's interesting to think about being the male character for once.)

3. Characters that frighten me:

a. Anyone in Wuthering Heights: I admit that I don't remember much of this book, except for the soul-crushing sense of desperation, isolation, and depression. I have no idea how it ends at the moment, and I don't care. I just remember wondering what the hell was wrong with poor Emily Brontë.

b. Si and Am, the Siamese cats in "The Lady and the Tramp": Maybe it's that sinister song they sing, but these are some seriously creepy cats. I was afraid of cats for a good portion of my life, and I blame Disney.

Okay, my list feels a bit paltry. From reading it, you'd think I haven't read very much hitherto. So I'm finally going to start something that I've been meaning to do for a long time: make a cheat sheet. I'm going to compile a list of the books I read and include notes about characters, plots, and what I liked/disliked. And then I'll memorize a few of them, so I'll have a handy-dandy answer when anyone asks me these dreaded questions. And that, my friends, will make me look really well-read. Blimey!