3 WAYS TO BE ETHICAL IN YOUR WRITING - OR - How to Love your Grandma even after she's gone

NOTE: I know that this post was supposed to be about using the Clearness Committee process for a writing group, and I have that post almost ready, I promise, in a day or two.  Today, though, other thoughts took over.

I am thinking today of a rather remarkable woman named Hermine Bozeanna Merker Forhan.  Born in Dux, Bohemia, she came to this country by way of Canada, and settled in the high mountains of Montana on a homestead she worked with her Irish-born husband, Billy Forhan. She spoke little English, and even years later when I (among the youngest of her many many grandchildren) knew her, she struggled with the language.

She was slight in stature, strong in spirit, gentle in nature.  She worked incredibly hard, suffering the loss of three of her children, the loss of her husband, and challenging and uncomfortable changes in the world around her - all faced with the softest, kindest eyes I have yet to encounter in my own

Hermine Bozeanna Merker (center)

increasingly long life.  I grew up listening to her heavily-accented voice talking, almost daily, over coffee with my mother - listening to her stories of Bohemia, listening to her laugh, watching her eyes sparkle, watching the weariness that lay heavier on her shoulders year after year, particularly as her memory began to go.  She died when I was away at college, and it had been some time since I had seen her.  

It occurs to me that few these days have the experience of direct exposure to someone like her in their childhood or in their lives.  She was an immigrant (one who might not make it into the country these days, and certainly one many pundits and wannabes would like to see kept out) - but she was also one of those who built this country.  A tiny woman, a powerful heart.  I won’t speak here of the conditions she faced when she fled her home country, or the challenges she overcame here.  I am thinking today of her, and of words.  I was in my garden with a friend recently and she said, “look - some plants are coming

up...some….”  …. And I said, “nasty-turtiums.”  She looked at me strangely, and I said, “Nasturtiums - it was what my grandmother called them….nasty-turtiums.”

“Didn’t she like them?”

“She loved them - it was just how she said the word.”

It hit me later how much of my long-lost grandmother has stayed with me -- the comfort in the memory of her kindness, the strength in the memory of her spirit, and even the humor of how she found her way around the language, and her own way to remember difficult words.  Like ‘nasturtium.’  I am fortunate (all of us in my over-large family are) to have known her, to have heard her stories, to have been exposed to her strength and the rich and meaningful arc of her life.  Not all are so fortunate.

Any time I think of good fortune, I am reminded by my upbringing (thank you to both Hermine and my mother, Margaret Ann) to remember also the obligations that good fortune brings - and this brings me to the relevance to writers.  In any fortune that we have - good or bad - we are ethically bound to honor it in our writing, lest we become merely hacks.  Here are the ways that I think we must, if we dare to call ourselves truly writers, meet our obligations to the past:

1. Honor the past.  Honor your past.   This is not simply avoiding the admonition that you might otherwise be doomed to repeat it - it is also a soul-deep obligation to be thankful for the gifts that past gives to you.  Whatever values, whatever skill, whatever inherent generational/genetic gifts it brought to you, those should be reflected in your writing.  My ancestors were all working people - homesteaders, brewmasters, bakers, seamstresses, nannies, railroad conductors, auto mechanics, cooks.  They worked hard - sometimes rewarded for that, sometimes cheated because of it, but always performed their work with pride.  They were honest, they loved to laugh, they cared more than anything about family.  Always I find the theme of the dignity of working people surfacing in my writing, and, each time I notice that, I feel gratitude for the past I have, that I was given.
2. Work as hard as your ancestors did.  Not one bit less.  Whatever they did, whatever they were, it meant, to one degree or another, working for it.  No skimping, no slacking, no sense of entitlement.  Pour that into your writing.  Never let a draft go out without carefully considering every element, every word, every transition, character, and scene.  Find the perfection that your grandmother found in every cross-stitch, that your father took in every polished piece of wood.  Do not be sloppy - your grandparents - and your readers - deserve better.
3. Do not forget.  Tell the truth.  One of the hardest things for working-class people, for people from oppressed groups, to hear is “you have forgotten where you come from.”  It is hard, because it cuts to the core of who you are, and so much in our culture urges us to break away from our roots, to become better than. It is a choice, this breaking away,  and not one you are required to make.  It is entirely possible to become the best writer you can be, and still be the child of your parents, of your culture.  Do not let it go.  Do not bury it.  Tell the truth about it - this is how literature is made. If your goal is to write pulp/popular fiction, then do that - but do it within the truth of the past you know, not some fantasized past.  

There are many ethical obligations in our world - certainly those obligations abound in our current climate, and no less for the writer.  If nothing else, as writers and as human beings, we have the obligation to honor those who got us, for good or ill, to where we now are.  

A New Approach to Writing Groups

Several years ago, I was the focus of a group called a “Clearness Committee.”  In a Clearness Committee, the “focus person” is both the luckiest member, and the one most on the spot.  The “focus person” is generally the one who convenes a clearness committee, because they have a problem to solve, or a decision to make, and are struggling.  In advance of the meeting, the focus person writes up their problem in as much detail as possible and gives it, ahead of

The Mabel Dodge Lujan House in Taos, New Mexico
Where my Clearness Training took place

time, to each member.   In the meeting itself, once it convenes, the members of the committee are only allowed to ask questions, not to comment or advise, and the focus person may either answer, or pass on a question.  Those who attend such meetings usually have training ahead of time, and the questions may only be what are called “Open Honest Questions” designed to help the focus person examine their own thoughts and feelings - never should the questions be leading, or advice masquerading as a question.  That is, no such questions as “Have you tried X?” - or - “Don’t you think the real problem is Y?”  Learning to ask only  open, honest questions is the real challenge in participating in a clearness committee, and takes a lot of practice.  The challenge for the focus person is to be as honest and thoughtful as possible with herself and the members, and to be ready to face thoughts and feelings that may be uncomfortable.

I volunteered to be the focus person for a group in training for Clearness Committees (as I was in training as well) because I was having a problem with a troublesome coworker.  I wrote up as much detail as I could, submitted it, and showed up for the committee meeting.  I had participated myself as a member several times, as all of us in this training were fairly advanced in the process, and had participated in several such committees as well as workshops and discussion groups.  I was prepared.  I thought.

There were, inevitably, a few questions which felt less than completely open, as though they were trying to lead you to an answer preferred by the questioner, and, in those instances you can (and I did) quietly say that’s how the question felt, and the group would move on to the next questioner.  The majority of  questions, though, were thought-provoking and revelatory.  I found myself facing ownership of more of the problem that I had previously realized, and, for the rest of it, realizing the best course was simple forgiveness and letting go.  I was never again distressed or concerned over the troublesome coworkers behavior, which continued unchanged, but which no longer felt relevant to my own job, even though her ire was quite clearly directed at me.

Recent life events have had me reflecting on that experience, and the need for that kind of focused clarity as I go forward in my life.  In addition, I was struck by how much I would like to have a writing group that functioned like a clearness committee - helping me to mine my own goals for a piece, explore the characters as they exist in my mind, and uncover the depth of purpose for a story I’m crafting.  I’ve been in many writing groups, and, as long time readers of this blog will recognize, there is at least one group, though I am no longer attending, that I dearly love.  Such groups, though, tend to practice essentially the same - a piece of writing is either submitted ahead of time, or brought to the group, the group reads and marks, and then gives line editing feedback, pointing out logistical errors or point of view problems, and reflecting on the construction of character, or the mood, or the arc of the story.

What if a writing group abandoned that, and simply asked the author questions, open honest questions, challenging her to mine her own intentions, her own purpose, her own goals for the story, in order to hone them, and hone it to a fine point, to it’s own ultimate clarity?  

In the following two blog posts, I am going to explore  a) the structure of Clearness Committees and how they could effectively function for a writing group, and b) the process of structuring (and answering) open, honest questions, again in the context of how this could work for story/character/theme development for authors.

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END NOTE:  Clearness Committees are a regular practice of Quaker Communities.  I became exposed to them through three years of training in a group developing Formation practices for Higher Education - adapting Quaker spiritual guidance processes to the development of authentic educators and pedagogy.  This practice and the training was begun by Quaker author/philosopher/educator Parker Palmer, and I am forever grateful to him for introducing me to a way of thinking which enriched my life, widened my mind, and calmed my spirit.

Of Hemingway, Or Whoever It Was Who Said This.....

“Write hard and clear about what hurts.”  Hemingway is reputed to have said this, though a couple of hours of searching have not found the source of the quote - those bloggers and websites who have (apparently) tried just note that they, like me, were unable to find a source, but love the quote.   I love it, too, and I sincerely hope that Hemingway did say it, as it fits my image of the man

quite well.

I love the quote, but I think it’s problematic.  I checked 14 different websites and/or blogs using this quote as a headline or a search term.  All but one interpreted the line to mean that you should write about your personal pain.  The other examined how Hemingway had written about universal pain in the human experience.  

Writing your own personal experience can be therapeutic, and writing about your own personal pain cathartic. But I don’t think that Hemingway, if he did say this, was proffering an invitation to view the craft and art of writing as a solipsistic endeavor.  Read his works, and you won’t believe it either.  While his works are rife with stories of the pain of human experience, they are not autobiographical.

What I think that Hemingway meant (if indeed he said this) is that you have to write about what hurts about the world - what matters to you to such a depth that the existence of the situation (or the problem or event) in the world breaks your heart. Write about what matters - and for that to be true of you as a writer, something has to matter to you.

I’ve written before (and struggled with for years) about the tendency of most writing advisories, most workshops, most books, etc., focusing on writing for the market - making what matters to you

getting published and not writing about anything that matters.  I still struggle with this, as there are certainly reasons to want your writing published, to work towards that -- but if there is no core to your writing, what kind of satisfaction can be had?  Another writer, a contemporary of Hemingway, had thoughts on this as well, saying:  “ It is better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self. ‘(Cyril Connoly).

There have seldom been times when the world presented the human heart with so many challenges as it now does, when the battles of a human being were so critical to the survival of human dignity.  There are things in the world that matter.  Know about them.  Care about them.  Write about them.  Otherwise, why can you dare to ask readers to spend their time on you?

Dancing Alone - Thoughts on Faking It as a Writer

“Sometimes I paint fakes,” Pablo Picasso once said, though probably the story is apocryphal.  In a public gathering, where one of his paintings was on display, he’d denounced it as a fake and left.  A protege of his, who had watched Picasso paint the piece, ran after him, asking why he’d said it was fake, when he had, in fact, painted it.  Picasso is reported to have shrugged, uttered the line, and walked on.  

We all ‘fake it’ sometimes - let others believe we can do something or are skilled in some way.  Actors ‘phone it in’ for a performance; teachers do an old lesson not really suited to their present class; parents do what their parents did instead of what they feel they should.  At times, others get an impression of us or our abilities and we’re not quite sure how it happened, but we don’t correct them -  and, then, when the times comes to step up, we face the task or the situation with apprehension -- sometimes delighting ourselves in making it through, sometimes embarrassing ourselves, sometimes surprising ourselves that, in spite of the fact that we thought we were faking it, we actually were capable of….whatever.  And, sometimes, we simply choose not to do our best, because it’s easier to be middling, and we’re tired.

Sometimes we paint fakes.

In the face of that, though, is one thought to consider.  Those viewing the painting Picasso thought of as ‘a fake’ did not recoil from that work.  They admired it, lauded it, were moved by it. It did what the work of an artist is supposed to do - it engaged them.   Every artist, writer, musician - every creative soul - if they have been at it for any length of time - has had the experience of creating something that they think of as a “little” thing - an exercise, a lark - and then been surprised when others are moved by it.

In a recent conversation with my sister, she told me how a friend of hers named Eagle Man had wanted her write a section on Islam for his book.  She had been trying to ‘get out of it’ and he said to her:  ‘Do you want to pass into the spirit world not having said what you have to say?”

I have been thinking about this a great deal ever since.  Knowing what you have to say is one problem, but, beyond that, is the question of saying it.  Saying it right, at the right time, in the right way, in the right format, with the right metaphors, in the right venue...etc.  The number of things that can go wrong in just saying something are legion.  For some people, the thought paralyzes them, or sends them off to ‘paint fakes’ -- to do something that is, in their minds, lesser. And what occurs to me is that is entirely the right thing to do at some times, and the wrong thing to spend one iota of energy worrying about.

I am not saying - never, ever would I say - that you should settle for doing middling work.  We should always be brave, write about what hurts, sink our teeth into our stories, as LeGuin says, ‘until the blood runs.’  But, sometimes, the story or the work that occurs to you, that dominates your mind, may not feel like the right one for what you have to say.  But it won’t leave you alone so you write it, feeling all the while as though you should be doing something better.  For a writer serious enough to have thought about and identified what it is they have to say, what I can tell you is this - what you have to say is in there, whether you recognize it or not.  

Look at the work of a favorite writer, or artist, or musician - you will see themes within their work that carry across everything you read, or look at, or listen to.  One writer always ends up showing the plight of families trying to understand each other; a musician writes lyrics over and over that deal with the loss of innocence;  a painter is taken with the subject of liberation.  These themes, these messages, these expressions of what these artists have to say come through no matter where they were in the process,  or how well they believed they were doing it.

It will be there.  

That is, if you have something to say.  Just writing - just for fun - is perfectly acceptable. Like the trained dancer who, in the solitude of her own home, dances for sheer joy,  the writer sometimes needs to just let go and sweep words from the soul onto the page.  But when we bring our writing to others - to readers - they expect something.  That ‘something’ should be the thought, the message, the sheer purpose that drives you in your writing.  Which means that knowing what that is, identifying it, committing to it, is the one most  serious duty of the writer.  Know it.  Define it.  Hold it close, always.  That is task number one.  Then, as you learn to listen to the voice of the story in your head, to follow the whisper of a character in your mind, that message from your heart will come out with the words.  

Find what that is for you - and never let it go.  Then, from time to time, you can, without guilt, write to ‘paint a fake’ -- dancing in the privacy of your home.

Getting Lost

I had to do a lot of driving yesterday - errands, visits, etc - and, as is often the case in northwest towns in the Spring,  there were - obstacles. Road construction, work on utility lines, people in a hurry to be out in the sun crowding the streets, which, in many places, were narrowed by construction to a

single lane.  As a refugee from southern California traffic, I did what I could to avoid the problems, ducking down side-streets, taking alternate routes that circled around a crowded area instead of going through it, or just turning off down an unfamiliar street that happened to go in (roughly) the right direction.  I did fine - getting home in only five minutes longer than it normally takes me.

I did not get lost. It’s not a large city, but it’s also not a small town - quite possible to lose yourself in streets winding through a hilly section, or dead-ending when you try to go in the direction you need.  Neither of those things happened to me.  I navigated around the construction and congestion, took frequently-used and never-used alternate routes, and was fine.

Oddly, this bothered me.

When I first moved here, the plethora of one-way streets, streets that end and then, inexplicably, take up again blocks (or even miles) later, the dead-ends, the constant construction areas - all of that had me regularly lost on my way to work or shopping.  

It’s been a long time since that happened, and there’s a part of me that to some small degree misses it.

It’s said that Charles Dickens used to go out for long walks around London with the specific intention of getting himself lost;  he sought out that feeling of having no idea where he was, or which way to go.  Because then, in the midst of that feeling, is when his most creative streaks would hit - his story ideas, his characters, or the perfect scene around  to build a story.

I don’t get lost often; when moving to a new city, which I’ve done often, I find my way around quickly, building a mental 3-dimensional image of the town or city in my head.  The times that I did get lost, I either found my own way back relatively quickly, or was comfortable seeking help from whoever was encountered.  I have never felt that lost-panicky feeling - even when once, as a child, lost in the

mountains in the snow.  If my feet are on the ground, I seem to be comfortable enough moving a step at a time in whatever direction.

Untethered.  The best word I can think of to describe the feeling.  If I am not tethered to a place or a course of action or much of anything, then where I am right now is where I need to be.  When I thought of it that way, I fully understood Dickens and his urge to get lost in London - to be untethered, not connected or committed or bound.  A state of mind in which you can latch onto whatever thought or character or idea - real or fictional - that presents itself.  

That’s something worth losing yourself for.  Go take a walk. Get lost.

Stillness and the Open Door: Living Alone vs Living With Others for a Writer

A few days ago,  a picture of my late husband came up in my “memories” on Facebook.  I re-posted it, as I had been thinking about him a lot in recent days.  I was surprised then, when two people who had known us and lived in our house back then posted lovely memories of him and of living with our family, and I also received private messages from two others about memories the picture had evoked for them of those times at our house.  I’ve often talked about our “crowded house” from the days before he became ill.   Over the years of our marriage, many people - some colleagues from work, some friends from volunteer or interest activities, some family members - came to live in our big communal home when they were without other places to stay for one reason or another.  Some just needing a place to stay for the few months between college and grad school, some between jobs or between moving, some in hopes of joining our family, some fallen on hard times, some just because they needed, for a time, to share expenses, and some taking shelter from stalkers or abusive partners.  Some stayed mere days and I don’t remember most of them;  many stayed for weeks or months, or, in some cases, even years.  

Each and every time, they brought different energy, different contributions, different problems into our home, but all of them live in my memory.  I think now of Tim, Lester, Gina, Sarah, Gilbert, Paul, Mary, John, Donna, Christopher, Denise, Ed, Wilson (and family), Ruth, J.T., Eric, Scott, and my oft-in, oft-out sister Jean Marie - I think of all of them with affection, and remember the laughter around the dining room table, the shouting up two flights of stairs, the veritable mountains of cloth on the laundry room floor, and the constant music and motion of such a household.

Since my husband’s passing, I have also lived with others from time to time - some family members moving back with partners and/or children, some friends on hard times, some just because.  In those years, I’ve lived with Berg, Shawn, Jinny, Madison, Rose, Amy, Denni, Kayla, Emily, Hannah, Daymon and Iris. Not to mention, while in Africa, Paige and Digna.  

I have also lived alone.  The first four years after my husband’s death, and from time to time in between, and all of the last year, I have been alone in my home.  This brings an entirely different energy, and, any time I live with a roommate or have others living with me, I feel more appreciation of those alone times, and struggle with the adjustment.   I have been fortunate that (almost) all of the room-mates, house-mates, co-habitants that I’ve lived with over the years have been congenial, fun,

respectful of boundaries, and have left me with pleasant memories.  But even the most pleasant of co-habitants cannot give back the comfortable solitude, the daily stillness that living alone brings.  The sense of deep inner quiet that the outer world cannot reach.

I do miss that.  Every time.  

I grew up in a similar household - six sisters, two Cuban foster-sisters, and a string of foundlings my mother would take in from time to time - a loud, raucous, chaotic Irish Catholic household.  In those days, I would simply leave - go out for long walks, find a park bench or perch on top of a hill just outside of town, and simply sit - alone, quiet, undisturbed.  It was in those times that words began to come to me, and I began to write. Then, even back at my desk in the noisy house, I could disappear into the stillness between myself and the page.   Living alone is conducive to a strong relationship with your page, to the kind of concentration and focus that helps to structure a story and weave a plot together, that allows you to know a character and sink into their thoughts.  

Living alone has seemed to me, from time to time, to be the ideal situation for a writer.  And for me.  And yet, I keep gladly opening the door to others to live with me.  I have, over the years, received many messages from people grateful for the times that open door was the thing they needed.  Every time someone (or several someones) stepped through, I struggled with the loss of that stillness, sometimes for days or weeks, sometimes for the whole time they were there.  But in my mind, I cannot imagine that door as anything but open.

Do I, in the early mornings, wish for days of the solitude, the stillness, the inner and outer quiet?  Certainly.  But mostly what I feel, as a person and as a writer, is a sense of gratitude for all of those with whom I’ve shared time and space, meals and laughter.  Gratitude for the company, the compassion, the lessons learned in cooking, building, logic, and life;  gratitude for the experience of difference, the lessons in the wide variety of humor, the discoveries of passions I might otherwise not have known.  Gratitude for all the things I learned and observed:  a young man’s pain over a troubled childhood; the struggles of a budding artist; the joys of a love found under our roof; the poems read out loud to each other; time spent with two friends knee-deep in laundry, sorting it out and laughing; the spontaneous dances in the living room; the boys and men, girls and women, children and couples who shared with us, laughed with us, cooked with us, and grew with us.  A closed door would never have generated those memories.  I cannot imagine that door as anything but open.  

There is an old joke which has recently resurfaced as a social media meme:  “I’m a writer.  Fair warning:  anything you say or do I may use in my stories.”  While few of my characters feel directly based on this multitude of people I’ve known and lived with, every living breathing character who lives and loves and struggles on my pages -all of them- in some way or other,  walked through that open door.  Whether they are literally based on people who have lived with me, or just grew from the broadened knowledge of human-ness that came from so much life under my roof.

I will always find solitude, will always find my way back to the long days filled with comfortable deep stillness of mind, body, and home, and within that stillness, will always be an open door.

Two Things That Should be in NO WRITER'S Skill-Set

I've been absent from this site for a while - Life intervened, and so did Writing (with a capital "W").  I have just sent to a group of five first-readers the first-draft manuscript of my next book, "The Map of Faith," and am waiting to hear back from them.

Waiting, i.e. "patience," is not in my skill-set.

I kind of stink at it.

This isn't anything new to those who know me, especially my  children.  But, I find ways to cope.  Today, in realization that either I had to do something about it or be in danger of rivaling Neilsen families for logged television hours, I took action.  One of the things that has always stimulated me is to get my lazy self into a new setting.   I do this a number of different ways.  I have moved more often than anyone I know.  (I've lived in my current town for 16 years, and, in that time, have lived in twelve different places.)  I will go somewhere I've never been before - which,

in recent years, has included DC, Cancun, Dublin, London, Windhoek, Ongwediva, New Mexico, and other places I can't think of right now. Or, I will change something smaller - re-arrange my house (I can hear my kids groaning), go to writer's retreats, or just hit the road without knowing where I'm headed.   All of these things work.  Usually.


Today, after a couple of weeks of "slump" after finishing that first draft (the second book in a trilogy) I got in the car, yellow pad and computer in my shoulder bag, and drove to the first coffee shop I could find, ordered a mocha, and sat down, thinking I would write a blog post.  I wrote nine pages of backstory for book #3 in the series, after nearly three weeks of not being able to write anything.

Change is good.

I know not everyone agrees with that.  Writing "tips and tricks" lists always have the suggestion that you make it a rule to have a routine, and stick to that routine, to keep yourself writing regularly.

Rules are also not in my skill set.

I believe that they are probably not in the skill-set of most creative people.  Or shouldn't be. There should be only one rule:   no rules.   And perhaps "change is good."  (OK, so two rules).

As I sat in the coffee shop this morning, pounding out nine pages of backstory for book #3, framing the story, feeling the characters rise and stretch from the nap I'd forced on them, I knew that each day when I go to write, I'm going somewhere different.  Today, a coffee shop;  tomorrow, perhaps the neighborhood bar (which opens for breakfast and has good coffee).  Or maybe the library, or a McDonalds.  I'll go wherever I land each day, and leave when my fingers are itching with story.  So, perhaps at 2:00 in the morning I'll end up at the cafe tables inside my local 24-hour supermarket, writing through the night.
Tips and tricks lists, (and books, and lectures, and classes) for writers are wonderful.  They've helped me many a time to finish a piece or get over a block or find a character's voice.  But, really, all you need if you you can write is to listen to yourself.  Whatever it is that feels like it's holding you back, get rid of it, or at least get away from it.  If your 'writing routine' isn't working, change it.  Change the place, or the time of day, or the media you use.  (Sometimes just switching from the keyboard to pencil and paper has saved me).  The basic advice (call it a rule if you must) is simple:   pay attention.  

From Zen masters to counselors, to bosses, your third grade teacher to your grad school adviser, it is something they have all - always - been trying to get us to do.  PAY ATTENTION!!!

And give yourself a break.  If the way others are telling you to write, if the way you have been writing, is not working, dump it, ditch it, can it, CHANGE IT.   And don't stop changing it till it works.  For you.