WRITING AS A CALLING

When I was in my graduate writing program, regular conferences were required with my main adviser.  Her office was comfortable and welcoming, and she was then (and remains) one of the primary influences in my writing life.  She could motivate me with a single word, oftentimes a word of challenge.  It was the ways she challenged me, compassionately but relentlessly, that made her such a strong and unique influence.  I loved her then, and I love her now.   

One early conference, as we were just getting to know each other, had to do with the content of the creative work I would do in satisfaction of the Master’s requirements.  I don’t remember exactly what I said to her in answer to her opening question, but I remember her face, leaning towards me, open, thoughtful, and then her first comment.  “You’re like the ancient mariner - the person with the story that must be told.”

It was the first of many discussions we had about the motivation for story, the urge to write, the undeniable need to tell a particular story.  Until I met her, until those conversations, I thought of writing as something I did well, something I’d received praise for from teachers, something that I wanted to do more of, but impractical - who make a living at writing?  What I needed to realize is that writing made my life.

I’ve been turning out stories and poetry since I learned to put a pen to the page.  I’ve written articles, essays, poems, stories, novels, how-to’s, critiques and reviews.  I’ve written for every job I’ve ever had (and likely ever will), and when a day goes by without writing, there is a wrongness to that day.

I needed to realize that writing is my calling.  That it doesn’t matter whether I make a living at it, or

succeed by anyone’s standards but my own - that writing is how I live.  I think on paper, I feel on paper, I understand on paper.  Words are my music.  They set the rhythm for my life, they set its boundaries, they encompass everything I understand and strive to understand.

If you’re not sure that’s you, if you think so but don’t quite yet understand it, I’m going to do something I rarely do on these pages:   recommend a book.   Find a copy of Gregg Levoy’s marvelous book Callings.  I got my first copy twenty years ago, when it first came out, and, since I have given away multiple copies to friends who were struggling with direction and satisfaction, whether they were writers or not.  I was also pleased to have a correspondence with Mr. Levoy for a few years when I, first, asked his permission to use a quote from his book in one of my writings, (which he granted happily), and then to discuss efforts to bring him to speak at my campus.  There are only three books in my life I’ve felt strongly enough to buy copies for friends and give them away, and buy more than one copy for myself, and this was one.  Read it - do each of the activities he recommends as you encounter them.  

Think about the place of writing in your life, reflect on it as you read.  If writing is your calling, you will soon be very sure, and know what place it holds for you, and where to begin.  In subsequent posts, I will put some adaptations of the activities Levoy recommends, adapted specifically for writers, but, if clarity is what you desire, if you need assurances, need a strong foundation for your writing, begin there - with his book, and the process it will take you through.

Writing in Times of Chaos, With Lessons from Dickens

Writing should be a problem right now.  But it’s not.  It should be a problem because winter weather is harassing my home town, a virus is circulating that seems never to go away, it seems like my country has descended into indiscriminate madness, and my supply of huckleberry jam has run out. Not to mention kids, work, favors asked, etc.   It should be a problem, but it isn’t.

We all know these times - the kids are too noisy, there are extra shifts at work, the wash machine breaks down, the cat pukes on the rug, and the phone will not stop ringing.  There are bills to pay and repairmen to deal with and relentless noise.  How in the name of all that’s holy can we be expected to sit down and focus on the page, to immerse in the story, to get even a single acceptable word written?

Lots of us are having that feeling right now.  We feel overwhelmed with daily news of contention and

protests and accusations and lies and deep, nation-wide division.  Then, y’know, the wash machine, too.

So why am I writing so nearly effortlessly?  Why are pages and pages of words just flowing from my pen right now?  Why do I stop in the middle of the million or so other things going on to grab pencil and paper and write a scrap of scene, a section of dialogue, a perfect description?   That is what is happening to me right now, and I have been a bit confused by it.  Like so many, I am overwhelmed and saddened by the state of our country (and the world) right now.  I have children and work and bills and broken drawer-stays and a leak in my storage shed.  I have phone calls and emails and letters to answer, and more of the same to make.  Nevertheless, daily, ten, twelve, thirteen, fourteen pages are flowing from my pen. (Yes, I am writing the first draft of my current manuscript entirely by hand - I often do that.)

The feeling of being overwhelmed is akin to the feeling of loss - a loss of stability, of the familiar, of everything you’ve counted on.  It is like a barely-controlled internal panic, a deep anxiety that grips you when you don’t know what to do.

The story has been told, (possibly apocryphal), that Dickens, when he needed inspiration for his

writing, would begin walking around London, just taking random streets in random directions until he felt completely, irretrievably lost. And then he would walk some more.  It is said that he told those who asked that, in that feeling of lost-ness, that lack of sense of direction or anything familiar, he found it easier to open to whatever presented itself to him - that he could then look at the people of London around him and see in them their stories.

This may or may not be true, but, like many writers, I know poets and novelists who have odd routines to bring about inspiration, to bring about that openness to the world that lets you see stories that need to be told.  Nearly all of them I know of involve some sense of surrender to chaos.  Some sense of embracing the madness, of surrendering any hold you have on the familiar and just, simply…...opening.

It is, I think, why my writing comes so easily right now.  To borrow a line from a fictional character, we all have ways that we enter the world, and if writing is your way to do so, you need to surrender your perceptions of what is real, what is stable, what is dependable, and embrace the dark and the light around

you.

So, if your writing feels stymied by the state of the world right now, or by the state of your life, or both, sit down.  Put a pad of paper in front of you and a pen. Then let all the things that harass you IN - don’t resist them or block them out - let them in, let go of how you thought life was, and take it in.  Cry if you need to.  Rage if you need to.  But don’t resist it.  Hold the pen in your hand as if it were your lifeline, because it is.  And then feel the words as they rise up in you.  

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NOTE: This free-flowing period of writing (coupled with many of the things above) is why I have not posted weekly as I am used to doing. Returning to more regular posts now!

Three Decisions Every Writer Needs to Make

Every writer has known that moment of frustration - you’re facing the blank page, you have a good idea - you know it’s marketable, you know you can pitch it, but something is missing.  You can’t work up enthusiasm for it, you can’t focus your mind in the right way to approach it.  As good as the idea is, as much as others have responded enthusiastically to your idea for it, you can’t get there.  Something is missing.  For most, when we’re honest with ourselves, and really dig for that elusive thing, it comes down to simply not feeling all that important.  You know it’s good, has potential, but you’re just having trouble caring.

Students facing assignments and journalists facing assignments face this frequently, and perhaps more surprising, so do freelance and independent writers.  If you are at a loss what to do when that “something missing” haunts you, then this writing is for you, and, in the end, it might actually help you find a way to write that idea that you had, or to decide to let others take on that subject, while you change direction. To begin,  you have three decisions to make - in reverse order of importance.

Decision #3:   Who am I writing for?   How you approach this one may - may  - vary depending on whether you’re writing fiction or nonfiction.  I write both, and my answer is the same either way, but, for others, it makes a difference.  There is a story (very possibly apocryphal) that John Steinbeck used to, at the beginning of writing each of his books, put a one-sentence statement on the wall above his writing desk.  That one sentence described how he wanted the reader to think, and what he wanted the reader to feel at the end of each book.  Writing teachers love it, and refer to it as “The Steinbeck Statement” when they are trying to instruct their students on ways to focus their essays.  It’s a nice tool, but for it really to work, you have to know who that reader IS.  This is something only you can decide.  Who is your audience?  People who believe just as you do?  The young?  Parents?  The next generation or the previous one?  People whose minds you’d like to change?   Many are helped by sitting down and creating “the ideal reader” - a mental picture of the person you would want to read your work,  so that you can focus on how the writing you do may impact them.  It’s harder than it sounds - the first impulse is to describe a person much like yourself, and that is a perfectly valid audience, but if you hope to be widely read, or to change people, consider more who is it who needs to hear what you have to say?  It’s easier to focus on the ones who will approve of you, but those who need what  you are offering are a much stronger motivator when you’re faced with that blank page.

Decision #2:  Why am I writing?  It seems simple, but if you really explore your motivations, it is often not quite so straight-forward.  For some of you, if you’re fortunate to actually have a job writing, you may think you don’t need to answer this - you’re making a living, but I urge you to consider it anyway.  Most of us - the vast majority of writers - do not make a living at it.  Many wish that they could (I’m not one of those), many strive for it (not one of those, either), and others just do it because they feel compelled.  So, think about this:   are you writing because you want to make your living at it, or because you feel driven to communicate what you see about the world to others, or both at the same time?  I never thought that I could become a best-selling writer, and so I never tried.  I just thought that I might from time to time get lucky and have something “hit” in some small way, and the resulting windfall cash would be helpful - and, from time to time, it’s happened exactly that way.  Others strive from day one for that “big hit” and therefore never get to appreciate the smaller victories they have along the way.  I write for the love of three very simple things:   the love of words, the love of stories, and the unmatched joy of that moment when you see/feel the connection to a reader.  What are the things that you must get from your writing?  Who is there on the other side of the page and what do they need from you that you are willing to give?

Decision #1 What kind of writer do I want to be?  There are dozens of large and small decisions writers make about this - fiction or nonfiction - independent or traditional - mainstream or literary - generic or sci fi or mystery or …   Writers make these decisions often on the fly, trying out different shoes and different paths in their pursuit of whatever suits their creative style best - and that is exactly what they should do.  Exploration is a fundamental characteristic of good writers.  With this decision, though, we’re talking about something more fundamental - what do you want to accomplish?  What is the essential purpose of your work with words?  This question, this decision, reveals that all three of these questions and decisions are deeply interwoven (as if you hadn’t figured that out already).  Why do you sit down to write, and who you are writing for both reveal (either to you or to others) what kind of writer you are trying to be.  Before you answer this question, make this decision, I urge you to think about your purpose - what is it that is the most important thing for you to accomplish with your writing?  I figured out a long time ago, with the help of an excellent mentor/guide, that my main purpose had to do with exposing abuse of power, and at the same time dispelling myths based on class or social standing.  That clarity of purpose has guided me ever since.  I don’t sit down to begin a new story or essay thinking, ‘ok, how can I expose abuses today?’ - but I do find it developing in my characters, informing how a character develops under my pen, and how the truth of people’s lives unfold in my stories.  It gives me a clarity of  purpose and a strong sense of direction with each and every piece I write, and I would not have that had someone with far more wisdom than I not guided me through exploring these questions and making these decisions many years ago.

There is nothing wrong with having one of your goals be publishing and making a living off of your writing, but remember these two things as you pursue that goal:  editors buy the pieces that speak most clearly and distinctly to them, pieces where the clarity and the passion jumps off the page, and you cannot write those clear passionate pieces unless you feel  that clarity and passion.  Do that, follow Joseph Campbell’s advice and ‘pursue your bliss,’ and let it guide you to the success you seek.  For all those times when the rejection slips come and it’s hard to summon up the courage to send your piece out again, remember that the most successful writers have been turned down dozens, often hundreds of times before their work ‘hit,’ and also remember, as has been said by many better than me:  it is better to write for yourself and have no market, than to write for the market and have no self.  Be brave.  Make your decisions, and then live them.

Breaking Your Writer's Heart

I work all day long.  Sometimes that work keeps me at my desk, pencil frantically speeding over the page, or fingers scrambling to keep up with my thoughts on the keyboard.  Sometimes that work is reading, researching, staring out the window, stalking about my house in frustration, or checking and verifying sources for research.  I am at work from the time I get up and grab my coffee, often until I notice it’s well past time to go to bed.

In other incarnations of this life, I’ve been jealous of the time that my job takes away from what I’ve always considered my work:   the page, words, stories, and essays.  The most fundamental gift the human race possesses, in my humble opinion, is the gift of language, the ability to share our thoughts with others, to influence, to inspire.  It has been the single most driving force in the development of the stunning and beautiful variety of cultures on this planet - that we can communicate with each other.  It is our vehicle for understanding, for progress, for problem-solving, for learning, for warning, for instruction, for touching each other’s hearts.  What greater work can there be, and what other work can possibly contain as many frustrations and heartbreak.

In her recent speech at the Golden Globes, the stunningly talented actress Meryl Streep quoted her friend Carrie Fisher’s advice:   “take your broken heart, and turn it into art.”   It is advice many writers have given, too.  Hemingway:  “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”  Brecht:  “When I say the way things really are, people’s hearts must be torn to shreds.”  Rico:  “Be Brave.”  LeGuin:  “Take the tale in your teeth and bite till the blood runs.”  And, variously attributed to many different writers:   “Writing is easy, you just sit down to the typewriter and open a vein.”  

It is what the soul of every writer yearns to do:   to take that which tears at our souls, and communicate it to others to broaden their understanding, to increase empathy, to perhaps, just maybe, inspire changes in the world that will prevent other hearts from being broken in the same way. So easy to say.  So often impossibly difficult to do.

I’m not talking here about Writer’s Block - that mind-freeze that happens when the words may be in your head, but just Will Not come out onto the page, or, in spite of your love for the piece you are writing, your mind goes blank.  There are plenty of books and articles about that.  I’m talking here about that voice in your head that urges you to make what you write MATTER, and the self-doubt that often plagues us that we are not doing that.  The part of your soul that wants to make your words make some kind of a difference.  In short:  knowing, identifying, and honoring your purpose in your work.  

Many who find that they are driven to write never know what this is for them.  Seduced by the market, by the cultural focus on fame, sales, and best-seller lists, they focus on what they are told they should write, rather than what drives their souls to the page.  If you want to write, if you want to “tear people’s hearts to shreds,” you probably have to find the way, the courage, to shred your own heart first, to look at it bleeding, and to unabashedly fling that blood onto the page.   This will hurt, you will run away from it, but if you find that courage, no act of writing you did before will ever seem worthy as those you do after that sacrifice.

Through a great deal of painful work, both in the world and in myself, I became aware that, for me, the most heart breaking thing in the world is abuse of power.  I could say that it enrages me, that it fires up my Irish soul and makes me want to fight, and it does.  It also breaks my heart, and when I have the guts to share that broken heart on the page is when I am able to write about women facing the heartbreaks of their lives, about how talented young people are so often abused by the wrong mentor, about how painful it is sometimes to have your sexual identity revealed to you.  To be able to do that, to be able to see the wound, I had to be able find the weapon that made it, the part of the world that reached out and hurt me.

There are many ways to go about this - some go into therapy, some have long tearful conversations with a trusted one, some will journal and journal and journal until they are in tears, until the pain rises up and forces its way onto the page.  I can’t say for sure what will work best for any individual, but am willing to share some strategies that have not only worked for me, but that I’ve seen open up the talent and voice and soul of many a creative writing student.

• The Steinbeck Statement.  It may be an apocryphal story, but John Steinbeck is said to have, with each story/book that he wrote, challenged himself to write a one-sentence statement that reflected what he wanted the readers to FEEL when they were done reading that piece.  A broader application could be:  “when someone reads any piece I write, I want them to feel _______”   Maybe try it a few times, hone it down, clarify it, get right to the heart of what you want in their hearts.
• A Focused Freewrite.  In writing instruction, freewriting is often used as a way to generate ideas - just sit with pen and paper, set a timer for 2-4 minutes, and start writing WITHOUT stopping, without even pausing.  A “focused” freewrite is to start with one particular idea in mind.  For instance, begin, “what really matters to me is _______” and go wherever it takes you.  Be okay with silly things “what matters to me is that I want coffee right now.  I don’t write well without coffee.  I don’t do anything well without coffee.”  Then KEEP writing - let it go where it will.  This kind of freewriting often works best in stages.  When finished choose one word or phrase from the first freewrite, and use it as your focus for the next.  For instance, from the above, I might choose “I don’t do anything well” and start from there - what would make me feel as though I WAS doing something well?  
• Make a collage.  Most creative people (and I count writers, here) have a strong visual element to their thinking.   Making a collage - choosing images that represent what matters, deciding which image should be next to another, thinking about the relationship between them, deciding what words or text to include in your collage, all help focus thinking.  You could make a “What Matters “ collage, or a “Broken Heart” collage, or a “This is What I want you to Know” theme.  

Of course, there are many other ways, too.  The point is to do whatever it takes to summon the courage, and not only look at your own broken heart, but share that.  As a man I admire very much, Parker Palmer, once said in his book “Healing the Heart of Democracy,”  there is a difference between hearts that are broken apart, and hearts that are broken open.  Hearts that react to the pains of the world by breaking apart become scattered, shredded into useless bits that can only react with fear and anger.  Hearts that are broken open can take in the bleeding and broken hearts of others, and, together, begin to heal.  

The Courage to Write

There is a piece of advice I frequently gave to my writing students:   Be Brave.   It would often be my answer to a wide variety of questions.   On the first day of class, I would give each student a short stack of index cards, and tell them they could, anonymously, ask me any question they wanted.  “Think about the person who will be evaluating your writing - what would you want to know about that person?”  I told them they could ask questions about the course, about me, my teaching, how I grade, or personal questions, and that I would answer any question I could as long as they were genuine and respectful questions.  After a few minutes, I’d gather up the cards, shuffle them in full view of the students, and then pull out a half dozen or so to answer that day, and continue that once or twice a week until all the questions were answered.

The questions varied pretty widely - did I like Jazz?  (Yes, but not that knowledgeable about it).  What made me want to teach?  (Nothing - I started as a favor for a friend, and have never looked back- I love watching people grow). What sport do I like (“Baseball is the only game”).  Did spelling count for the grade (not in rough drafts, but in finals).  And, then, the real ones:

• What do I do if I don’t think I have anything to write about?
• How can I keep from boring the reader in a personal essay?
• If you don’t agree with me, will it affect my grade?
• How do I get started?   I can’t think of anything to say!
• Why should anybody want to read what I write?

…… with that last one being at the heart of their fears…. “It’s just me,” they’d say to me in conference, “why should anybody else care what I have to say?”   There were a number of classroom and conference strategies I used to get them past their self-doubt, all of which boiled down to:   Be Brave.   

What do you do when someone you love needs advice?  You tell them a story about how you handled something similar, or how someone you know solved a similar problem.  You connect with them by showing them that all of us have something to say to the others, and that we all need to hear from others when we are not sure - we use words as a balm for each other, as a way to teach each other, as a way to warn each other - we do it every single day, verbally.  But when we face the blank page, the notion of putting what we have down to say in permanent form seems to cause all of our demons to rise.   

So, be brave - write about that one thing that scares you the most because it matters the most, even if you’re not sure you’re right - say what you have to say, listen to critiques, and do better next time.  Dare to be bad, learn from it.  

Slowly, over time, they would get it (or they wouldn’t), and their writings would start to show their voice, and, miraculously, as they were exploring those issues that were their individual passions, at the same time their sentence structure, their grammar, their syntax, all seemed to fall in line.  Clear thinking, it has been said, makes clear writing. My years with those students proved that to be true.  But, more than that, their courage in sitting with a page, never having had anyone tell them that they had a voice, that they had things to say, and putting their thoughts on paper for someone they’d barely met - that courage inspired me.

It is a bravery I struggle to achieve now.  I want to be brave on the page.  I want the words in each story and essay to raise the heartbeat of every reader, to spark a fire in their minds, to make them see their own world reflected, with all it’s beauties and dangers and their own responsibility for it.  I want to be daring with my pen, to show the world both as I see it and as I wish it could be, and to hold that up to others and dare them to look.   I want the gumption, the spirit, the daring to put in my stories and essays and poems the whole truth of what I believe, its power to either elevate us, or to defeat us.

And that, each day, as I sit down to face the page, is the battle I join.  

A River Of Words - Workbook now Available

 The workbook developed around the principles I posted  earlier  for writing groups is now out and available on Amazon.

This method was developed after training I did over a five-year period in methods used by the Quakers for community support in problem-solving.  After participating several times during these training sessions in a process called The Clearness Committee, it occurred to me that elements of the process were similar to small steps I had taken with my students in writing classes, and that the process, if altered to direct attention to issues relevant to writers, could be useful to my students. I adapted the process for writers and implemented elements of it in my writing classroom, to remarkable results.
Over the years, as I've participated in writing groups, both good groups and bad ones, it also occurred to me that there was an element missing from what we have come to see as the standard writing group process, and that adapting the Clearness Committee process, as used for my students, for a more experienced writing group, could help fill that gap.  Most writing groups focus on feedback on an individual piece of work, rather than on helping a writer to clarify their purpose in a particular piece or in their overall work.   The Quakers, in developing Clearness Committees, believe that there is, in each person, "an inner light" that will help them to solve their own problems, if they simply have the help of their community to help them access it.  The principle behind RiverWords process is similar - use of the techniques and strategies of the Clearness Committee are used to help writing groups to help each other to find their own inner answers to their search as writers - either around an individual piece or around their work in general.

A River of Words contains full information on all the strategies used in this writing group process, worksheets and check sheets for each step of the process, and full information on the 'hows and whys' of each step to guide a group in preparation for a RiverWords session.    To find the workbook on Amazon, click here:   A River of Words

ON WRITING FOR YOUR LIFE

Last night, my sister asked me:  “What does a writer do to resist the disaster roaring down on us?”   My response to her was “Write for your life - use every opportunity to write against that disaster and for a better way.”

Since that conversation, I have been giving a lot of thought to what it means to “write for your life.”   It is, in some basic sense, what writers - those who are really called to writing - always do, have always done.  We write because it is impossible for us to not write.  It is, for many writers, simply the definition of who we are.  But now ‘writing for your life’ means more than that.  It has always meant more than that.

There are many ways to define the work of a writer, and which you accept depends on your perspective and how writing enters your life.  The difference for writers (or, the kind of writer that I am, at any rate), is that writing is how we enter the world.  It is the door that I open to go out, to find

kindred souls, to do work that I hope will make a difference.  We all do whatever work we have in our life for that purpose, either to make a difference in the world at large, or in our own lives, or in the lives of those we love.  No matter your work, whether it is an occupation you actively chose or one that you stepped into out of necessity, you do it to make things better.  If that weren’t the goal, if we weren’t allowed to hope for better in our lives or to make the lives of those we love better, going to work would have no fundamental difference from slavery.

For writers, the work is always chosen.  There is no career path, no signing bonus, no job posting that offers the advantages that other jobs or careers do.  We choose to do it because we must.  That is, to me, one of the essential differences for us - not only does writing offer the best way, the only true way, that we can enter the world around us, but it is, by force of a culture that denies the value of creative process, a choice that must be made intentionally and lived out in difficulty and division - writing at your desk after a long day at work, taking your writing with you on family vacations, finding alone time to write when others are finding relief in family, friends, and relaxation.  But if we do not make that choice, we don’t really live.  My sister (the same who asked me the question above) once told me that a friend said to her “Do you want to leave this world without having said what you have to say?”  That is the question, the drive, the motivation that feeds the fire in a writer.  

For me, that fire, that choice, means a commitment to truth, in spite of the fact that, recently, we

are being told that there is no ‘truth,’ no ‘facts,’ anymore.  The student (and teacher) of logic in me both rebels at this and denounces it.  Saying something does not exist does not make it so.  I could shout all day long that there was no sky, but all anyone has to do is look up.  Truth exists, and those writers who say they have no obligation to the truth (looking at you, Aaron Sorkin) are part of the larger problem, I don’t care what side they’re on.

So, for me, “writing for my life” means writing the truth, as clearly, cleanly, and plainly as I can.  It means that I do not accept, in any form, written or verbal, the kinds of pronouncements made during this campaign by the incoming PEOTUS.  It means that I will continue, with everything in me, to call out the blatant lies that are told, to oppose the violence against freedoms expressed as ‘policy initiatives.’   Let me be clear, here - I am not a Democrat, nor am I a Republican - I have been registered as an Independent for as long as I can remember.  I have had issues with politicians before, both Democrat and Republican, and, as those who have worked with me will tell you, I have no problem calling out people when I believe that what they’re doing is wrong.  

I believe this incoming administration is the most dangerous we have seen in my lifetime, possibly in our country’s history.  I will watch them closely, and will speak loud and strong when I see injustice.  As a writer, I must choose that, or choose to close my door onto the world, which I cannot do.