Friday, February 19, 2010

Freewriting again

Why do we stare out of windows at midnight?
Searching the night sky for something
simple, yet significant

What makes us sift through the darkness like laundry?
A list of old rhymes ever ringing,
reason to stay inside

When we are the dream of a desert nomad,
the sound of a song he has not heard,
the taste of ice and water

Where do we go when we leave our hands and feet behind?
trip through hidden keyholes in the sky
tasting the unknown and once remembered

Who plays the harmony that hums beneath the grass and trees?
sets summer toes buzzing like singing bees
the shadow lying gentle on the hot pavement

How can we have forgotten so much, yet lived so much?

We are the chipmunks of the endless universe,
hiding ancient treasures only to wake without their memory.

We are the dawning of a red sun
Sailors take warning at the once-again-begun

We skin our knees without warning,
and leave our blood and bruises on each others' upturned faces.

We are the puzzle, unsolvable and ancient
the torn down twice born
Lifting licked fingers to the freezing wind

We are the slow drip trickle of a steady change
Moving deep beneath the cornerstone of what has always been
And someday, some not-for-grownups day

We will be free

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Voice

I took my first Creative Writing seminar in my Sophomore year of college. It was a great class. We read a lot, did a ton of exercises and writing prompts. We spent the last half of the semester working on a longer short story; at least 20 pages of creative fiction, the story and style entirely up to us.

Of the 17 other students, I was the only one whose story didn't revolve around a romantic relationship in some way (I guess we were all sophomores in college or something...). Mine was a vaguely sci-fi story about two unusual young siblings. I loved it. Loved writing it, editing it, the whole bit. And it was really good. Not just "good for a college fiction workshop" good, but solid and meaningful in its own right.

Anyway, during the final weeks of the class everyone submitted their finished stories to the whole group, and we workshoped two or three of them a week. During the feedback on my story, one of the girls in the class started talking about a particular scene, in which the main character remembers the day she was born. This classmate started telling me how beautiful and moving that scene was, how meaningful it was to her personally because of her own relationship with her mother which she didn't go into. She started crying as she talked.

After the semester ended I didn't really think about it that much, but it leaped back to mind last night. I realized that that was the moment I decided I wanted to be a writer, that I wanted to tell stories that meant something to people and helped them look at things inside of themselves that they didn't even know they had been ignoring. And I realized that that was also the moment I took on a fear that has sat under the surface ever since.

I've been afraid that that story was a lucky fluke. That from now on my best efforts won't produce anything but "good stuff", not the kind of intangible yet powerful music that touches someone and stays with them after that put my pages down.

I think that's what a lot of us who struggle with creativity are afraid of. We fear that if we really open up and pour our hearts and everything we have into a song, painting, dance, film, story, or whatever else is jumping around inside of us, it will prove to be flat and small in the light of day. Not because we lack the skill or technique, but because in the end we just didn't have anything worth saying.

That unformed thought used to terrify me. I didn't even know that it was the reason I would just stare at blank white pages and then walk away.

But the great news is, I'm getting over it. Partly because I've been learning and growing as a writer. I've learned techniques and patterns that help me get past voices and crazy editing jitters and just start stringing words together. But mostly I'm getting over it because that fear is an evil, ugly lie.

We all have so much mystery and inspiration smoldering inside of us. We all have eyes that see the world for the first time. We all have a voice that sings and speaks like nothing else in heaven or on earth. It takes work and discipline and a willingness to open ourselves up to hurt and pain - to life in all its shades - to find it, but we all have it. It's an overwhelming and beautiful truth if you really stop to think about it.

Anyway, this is a long and disconnected ramble, but it's what I've been chewing on.

Monday, February 15, 2010

V-Day

Valentine's Day sucks

Ha, so there, I said it. The truth is, I would really like to be able to enjoy and appreciate the heart-shaped holiday, but current circumstances prevent that. So I am taking a tepid bath in the oily waters of bitterness (try fitting that on a conversation heart).

It is a rather strange holiday if you think about it. In my experience, Valentine's Day general falls into one of three categories:

1. You are already happily in a relationship with someone special. The holiday is, at best, a chance to re-affirm your affections. At worst, it is a mandatory check up to make sure the man can still remember important dates and plan ahead, lest he does not pass go nor collect $200.

2. You are solidly single. Valentine's Day reminds you of this, not just on the 14th, but the day or two before and generally the day after. You get to choose between proclaiming how happy you are in your singleness, or caving in and accepting the sympathy of your non-single friends. Expect one or two Pity-tine's from people you didn't want any from in the first place.

3. You are single, but kinda-maybe-sorta-on-the-verge-of-something-with-someone-maybe. Valentine's Day is an impossible puzzle of awkward. Gift? Card? Flowers? Chocolates? Too much? Too little? Good luck!

I hope everyone had a wonderful, love filled Valentine's Day! Or at least...you know, watched a good movie or something.

Cheers!

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Why so difficult?

I'll stop myself short of the ever annoying "sorry it's been so long" opener. 2010 has been so full of hustle, work, and progress that the thought of trying to focus on a single thought or event has felt positively overwhelming.

So instead I'll just jump down to one very specific little tidbit, a "nugget" (for those of you who were here for breakfast this morning) of recent self-discovery.

I'm a creativity junkie. Totally hooked, dependent even. With all the aforementioned hustle, work, and progress in January I have had zero time for writing or other creative pursuits (or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I have MADE zero time...). I think the absence from blogging was connected with this. In any case, I'm suddenly realizing that the long drought has caught up with me. I'm edgy, antsy, a tad cranky. I have this never-quite-gone feeling that I'm forgetting something important. When I'm alone in my room or taking a quick trip to Safeway I have the urge to chatter or sing to myself, kind of like a kettle in that rattling five second pause before the water boils.

Why is it that Creating, something so necessary and lifegiving, is so damned exhausting and hard to set down to? I've been wondering that lately. Sleeping and eating are necessary for a body to stay healthy, but I enjoy those things, and if I ignore them for too long they kind of force my attention back again. I feel like creating and making and expressing - singing and writing for me, dancing or painting or ice skating for others - is just as necessary for our souls. So why so difficult?

Right at this moment I think it's because real creativity requires two things that aren't always fun: Honesty and Awareness. I've had certain bubbling half-thoughts swirling around in my head for a month or more, and have so far managed to avoid really sitting them down for a good talk. The few times I've attempted to set down with a pen and my neglected composition book, those thoughts and feelings demand to be dealt with first. Does this ring true for anyone else?

Maybe the reason creative expression is so necessary is that it forces us to breathe deeply and ask ourselves the unvoiced questions that have been waiting in the quiet backs of our brains. Maybe that's why it's so easy to push blank pages, white canvass, or empty stages into tomorrow.

In any case, I have a scene to finish...