Three Chords and the Truth

One of the members of our WG (Writing Group) composes simple sounding verses with what appear to be homespun observations about everyday life's triumphs, silliness, misdirection and shortcomings.

Occasionally the rhymes are strained and sometimes the metre is off by a beat or two.  The insights are, though, often both astonishing and arresting.  Sometimes humorous, but more often presented with the tone of "I know many people see it that way but this is the way I see it."

It is often, is it not, the backwoods and the dropouts, the poor and the blue collar, the sequestered nd the ignored who have the gift of presenting complex human truths in Dollar Store tissue.  Will Rogers.  Albert Camus. Jeff Foxworthy. William of Occam. Emily Dickenson. Henry David Thoreau.  Mark Twain. 

Truth first.  Technique second.

The Towns Along the Way

Here's something you might experience, the way it happened to me.

When I read my first sentence to the Group in my first meeting (yes, that's correct, one sentence. Maybe it was two.) I had great anxiety that I, in that brief but telling moment, exposed myself as a fraud with zero talent or potential, let alone skill.  They would probably think I wandered into the wrong room.  "Oh, turn left?" I would say.

But, no.  They were all supportive.  Encouraging. Asked about whether it was the beginning of a novel or a short story or did I know yet?  "Fictional memoir," I said.  "Uh huh," they said.  I regularly brought more and more offerings, from postcard stories to light verse, and people seemed to like them.

They wouldn't let me say everyone else in the Group is so much better than me, (uh, which they are but we're not supposed to say it).  I wondered then and sometimes now, what am I doing here anyway?  I'm learning, all right, but what am I contributing?  Do I belong?

Then (drum roll), I wrote an 800-word short story that took several weeks to complete and aspired to be a mixture of Alice Munro, Anton Chekhov and Elmore Leonard. Maybe Hemmingway.  Maybe not better, and maybe not quite as good even but, you know, up there.

I thought it was pretty good, thank you very much, and they liked it.  Except, after I completed it and re-read it, and no one suggested a place it might be published, I knew Alice M. could rest easily.  The story had its moments, certainly, but there were grand canyon gaps and a general awkwardness. Structurally it was weak, or over-reaching, or just clumsy.

My skill could not bear the weight of my striving.

Then, finally, after torturing everyone around me, and missing blog posting dates (sorry), I came to the realization that the 'writing is a journey' metaphor really does hold up.  That there are towns I just pass through (probably children's' stories in my case) and towns I camp on the outskirts of, towns with houses to rent or to think about buying some day.

But it's far too early to buy one now.  Just because something didn't work this time, doesn't mean I can't wander around town again, or move to another town, or maybe both.

Mind blowing lack of stupendous success is not a permanent condition.  Nor does it define me forever.  It's a town.  A good town, perhaps even if it is not my town.  Or my neighbourhood in the right town.  

The trick is to keep journeying with an optimistic view even when your heart is hurting.  Or you're angry with yourself.  Or feel like a fraud.

There are two main things that differentiate people from other animals.  Only people think about the future in any serious way.  And only people write.

Homo Prospectus

OK, so here are two positive things (at last, I know) you may find useful.

First, like most anxious waiting and hoping, it looks as though I won't be able to use either of my posting headlines.  What I submitted wasn't quite what my editor (I love saying "my editor") was after.  But 'everything was there' and she is going to re-shape it.  While I suspect this was her kind way of saying "What the heck was that???!!!", I will give myself a quiet 'O frabjous day' (no headline; no exclamation) because she might well have said: "I have re-assigned this to someone who understands simple instructions."  I will admit I am both disappointed and relieved.

You may find yourself in a similar situation if you have the good fortune to be given an assignment by someone else early in your writing life.  There are phrases in tradecraft that have specific meanings which are blindingly obvious to those having used them for awhile, and mysteriously obtuse to newbies, c'est moi.

This is the second thing I learned or, at least re-learned in my new writing world:  When you are taking a test (i.e. the assignment) imagine a positive outcome and view future risks realistically by thinking of what possibilities there may be even if the outcome is not 100% positive.   As opposed to, say: "The world as I know it will come to an end if this doesn't work."

(Read "We Aren't Built to Live in the Moment" in the May 19th, 2017 New York Times free article online)

That way you will sleep more soundly and the actual results will be no different than they would have been if you hadn't done all that useless catastrophizing.

You probably know that already.  I knew it.  I just hadn't figured out how to apply it to this situation.  Next time.  Count on it.

Still Waiting

Well, I guess holding my breath, crossing my fingers, and not writing a blog entry does not make anything arrive faster.

I have not yet heard whether my newspaper article -- the writing of which was torture plus I missed my deadline, not by much and not fatal, but still -- has been accepted.  It seems to me there are a reasonable range of possibilities (in addition to the "You're a genius" option):   Accepted pretty much as received; Accepted but essentially re-written; or, trashed.

I even have my next potential blog headings selected: O frabjous day! or I am of all men most miserable. Stay tuned.

I have, though, finally completed my short story.  That felt good.  I needed to abandon it during the writing of the article but it is now clear to me it is the kind of challenge, even though the process was difficult, that I happily take on.  Well, maybe not happily but, let's say, very willingly.  With the heart to try something hard like that again.  After a week or so to re-capture my breath and to re-establish relationships with the rest of the universe around me.  Good Night Moon.

So, the point that I am beating to death here, not including my whining, is I have found it useful to try a number of things to find out if they are 'my' kind of thing.

Maybe that's just me.  Think about what you think about writing challenges.

How to Write the World's Great Novel

The

World's

Great

Novel

Waiting Is Not Easy

Waiting Is Not Easy! is An Elephant and Piggie Book by Mo Willems.  

Unlike the work of Grace Paley, whom I'm sure I will greatly admire once I read her, this is a book I have actually read. Many times.  

Many.  Times.

Another distinct advantage of belonging to a WG (Writers' Group) is that its members can help you normalize emotional reactions to common experiences.

One member whose excellent short story was recently published said having her story accepted 'sort of' made up for the rejections she had received until now.  

Then she added that receiving rejections was far better than not hearing anything at all about her submissions.  Which was mostly what happened.

Misery not only loves company, it needs company to lessen the screaming weeping yelling moaning jee bees.

Company = WG

If a Poem Falls in the Forest

Another good reason to belong to a Writers' Group, mine at least, is they help me think.  

For instance, how do you reconcile writing based on your own 'self', using your own unique perspective and voice and, at the same time, meet an objective such as mine?  "When someone happens upon my words, they are glad they paused and read them."

Two of my thoughts are:

1. I am worth knowing
2. Some of what I know, feel or believe may be useful for you

There was animated group discussion around who we write for (for whom we write).  You need to write only for yourself, not so that everyone else will like it, which is impossible anyway, said most of the group.

(Formula fiction, with their predictable narrative templates that have been used so often they are easily recognized, is outside the boundaries of this discussion.  It is a whole different thing.  God bless those who do it, may they make a million dollars, but it is not what those here do.)

So, there needs to be both less and more to my objective for my own writing.  Let's try this: "When some people happen upon my words, they get to know some of my authentic thoughts, feelings and ideas better and are glad they have done so, even if they disagree."

Really, who's going to tell me that Shakespeare wrote only for himself?  "Look for me tomorrow and you will find me a grave man."  Give me a break.

My answer to the question is -- the falling tree produces sound waves.  How nice for the tree. Whoop dee doo.

Just Finished - Is It Any Good At All?

One of the benefits of reading your work aloud to a Writing Group is that the feedback you receive is, in my experience, and from what I have observed with others, supportive and kind.  If you receive an enthusiastic reaction, then your colleagues are happy either with the result, or with your progress, or enthusiasm or courage - or something. Maybe a couple of those things together at the same time.

And, if the members of the group, especially but not necessarily only the experienced published members, say you should submit it and, even better, name the place to submit it to, then you can have some confidence that the result is competitive in the marketplace, even if the market pay is publishing it for zero dollars.

On the other hand, when an experienced person gives you an assignment for actual publication in, admittedly, a small chain of community newspapers and 'only' 500 words, and you struggle for uncountable hours writing the so-and-so thing, and the type of assignment is our of your 'comfort zone' (even if it's false comfort), then there is real-world anxiety.

Is it any good?  Sorry it's so late.  I know it's not exactly what you expected (ain't that the truth). I hope I didn't let you down.  I'm not at all sure it's any good at all - not just below par, you understand, but maybe not any good at all.

I've been working on it so focused over so many hours, I can't tell any more.

I guess what I'm saying is that if you feel this way, you're not alone.

Art Is Long And Life Is Short

This aphorism (and you thought I didn't know big words) originally meant something like 'It takes a very long time to learn a particular discipline and there is so little time left to practice it' or, perhaps, 'A work of art lasts longer than a human life.' 

Grace Paley, I'm told and intend to find out soon for myself, wrote wonderful short stories.  When she was asked why she had not published as many stories, poems and essays as she might have, she responded "Art is too long and life is too short" by which she meant she was also a wife, mother teacher, feminist activist, anti-war demonstrator, and so forth.

All of these perspectives on the phrase strike me as true.  At the same time, it is also true that I wake up many mornings thinking 'That's the word I should have used' or 'Will I never get this so and so thing finished?', or 'Maybe if I wrote it this way instead'.

In a conversation she had with Auden when she was 17, Grace Paley discovered, through his kind feedback to her on some of the poems she had written, not to imitate, to find your own voice as a writer.  This seems to be a constant message (OK, sermon) from established writers of all kinds.

Art is long; life is short; use your own voice.  OK, OK, I get it. 
Now, back to that newspaper article I'm writing.  I'm actually making some progress.  

First, I will give our five-year-old grandson a bath.

The Statute of Limitations Must Have Run Out By Now

I think I can admit this now without serious fear of prosecution.  When I was attending university, Sandra and I were married.  We had no money and rent to pay.  I had a classmate (Hi George.  Wonder what you're up to now.) who had a hot car and lived in the best (OK, not so much but still the best) hotel in this smallish university city.  And, as a mark of incredible sophistication for the time, he drank red wine that had an actual name.

What George didn't have was a lot of attention to his actual schoolwork. He almost always found himself with an essay due in a week, no idea how to start it, let alone do it or complete it, and no inclination to find out.

So, over a glass of named red wine - in the middle of the day no less - he asked if I could 'help' him with his essay.  "Help" meaning write it for him.  For $50.  Not exactly a princely sum even for the time, but a welcome amount.

So, I wrote that one and many more following that one.  I got so I could actually write to the grade level he wanted - usually a "B".  "Don't make it too good" he'd say.

The one I recall writing was "The History of Art" during some specified time period.  I remember the process of doing it because I had, personally, no more real idea of the History of Art after writing the essay than before putting typewriter (yes) to paper.

It was an assignment.  I got the "B" he wanted and got the essay to him on time.  By nature, I am inclined to demand an "A" of myself.  And, as an executive in a past life, I learned how to meet deadlines at the same time.  It may also be a personality disorder.  

I tell you all this only because I just missed my deadline on my newspaper article assignment and, while I am finally making progress and it may turn out to be an "A" in my own head, it won't be exactly what was asked for.

I am simultaneously grateful for the opportunity to do this work and angry with myself for not meeting my 'deadline' standard.  My sponsor and editor said "OK".  

Now I absolutely have to get an "A".