This first one was for practice. :-)
Archive for the ‘following through’ Category
Usually I write a post, then tweet a link to it. This time I tweeted a thought and now will expand on it.
The tweet: Stop thinking “This should be a book.” Start writing on the topic and see what it turns out to be. #creativity #writing
* * *
DRIVING HOME FROM THANKSGIVING, I have a thought, and the longer I think about it, the more I think I may have something worth writing about.
“I should write a book about that,” I say.
Or maybe he says it and I nod. No matter.
Yeah, actually this idea is a refinement of another idea I thought I might write a book about.
But there’s no book.
There’s no book on the original idea nor several (dozen) before it on other topics.
Add it to the list, not the list of discarded ideas, but the list of ideas never acted upon.
This “I oughta write a book” thing is the wrong way to go about it, I think. Maybe it’s best, when an idea seems promising, to just start writing and see what form it wants to take. Maybe it’s better to write down the thought, then write down the thought that comes after it, and so forth and so on, until you’re done writing about it. Then see what it is you have.
Maybe you have a book’s worth of stuff to say.
Maybe it’s an article’s worth or a blog post.
Maybe you have thoughts that ought to go in a letter to someone – just one someone. Or an email.
And maybe, just maybe, like with this, the whole shebang can be contained within the confines of a tweet and there’s no need to expand. Still, some of us can’t resist. :-)
Eliminate preconceived notions about what form a thing should take and just start writing. It will become clear as you go.
“The greater story is unfolding before their eyes….and they are clinging to their smaller stories.” – Tina Howard
THE FILE CABINET I want is not in stock. It’s not available online either. But I’ve already given away my old one and the files from it lie everywhere.
I glance at the line-up on the bench, the many linear inches, and see that huge chunks are unfinished manuscripts and bits and pieces of once-important ideas I never started on, clippings that once struck me, the “someday I’ll write about” things.
Are they important to me now? Do I even know what’s there?
* * *
AN ARCHAEOLOGY intern, digging through these remains, might venture guesses about me and what presses in now. They’d get it wrong. No hint exists. Not here. There’s no room for now here.
Maybe a new file cabinet isn’t the answer.
“I can’t write the stuff I once did and I need to let it go,” I say and it seems like such an epiphany. But didn’t I say the exact same words to a friend in Texas last September?
She heard me. I was the one not listening.
* * *
EPIPHANIES happen in an instant, but the follow-through can be long in coming.
“The greater story is unfolding before their eyes….and they are clinging to their smaller stories.” I read. Yes indeed. My feet are all tangled up in the old stuff and I have no room for what’s before me now.
Scratch file cabinet from the list. Add shredder.
Time to make room for now.
* * *
A THOUSAND WORDS A DAY, I see it’s been.
Not on purpose, not a goal,
but just because my pockets were full.
This is how the economics of writing works.
You have to spend it all.
1,000 words a day, give or take a few,
and the proof,
a 3-ring binder,
new in summer,
once holding a solitary sheet,
now almost full.
What’s given in a day
must be spent,
all of it.
Next day, if needed, more comes.
A FEARFUL WRITER, risk-averse,
always saving for the rainy day,
finds this a difficult principle to act upon,
to pull the pockets inside-out
and shake free
every bit of lint,
every last comma.
Maybe not all running
involves getting on a ship and sailing for Tarshish.
It can’t be something this simple, can it?
Twice it’s happened, sitting in church.
I learn of someone
receiving a diagnosis,
starting treatment -
all familiar trigger words, familiar territory -
and it strikes me
I need to meet this person.
I need to gather together the lot of them.
My border collie tendencies, that.
But months pass
and I do not act.
Stuck in idea stage, no follow-through.
* * *
Finally, Nineveh-pondering, I move forward.
“I don’t know,
but there might be some benefit
in our gathering together,”
And nobody thinks it’s a stupid idea!
What made me think they would?
* * *
With less orchestration than it takes to roll out of bed
The meal is easy
The conversation is easy.
And when at the end they say,
“We must do this again,”
the YES of it is easy.
I see Wally sitting on the screen porch,
which adds to my own savoring.
Can it be this simple, a Nineveh?
but just as easily not done
by failure to follow through?
Still savoring, but with way too much leftover dessert in the freezer. :-)
image: “Sail Away” by Martha Kuper Brinson. See this and other prints of original watercolors by Martha Kuper Brinson at her Etsy shop
I WRESTLE THE CHAIR into my car and take it to the repair shop, thinking, on the way there, of the chairs turned upside down in my father’s workshop all those years ago.
So many years.
So many chairs.
So many kids in that house being told
“Feet on the floor, not on chair rungs.”
It did no good.
There was always a chair being hauled to the basement for fixing.
Always one out of circulation.
Always one being brought back up,
set in place,
and stern warnings newly issued,
near-threats to life and limb.
But life and limb survived
and here I am, traveling through town with a chair in my back seat.
I was forever down there in the basement,
following him around,
just to see what was going on,
just for conversation,
just to feel safe.
And it seems like he was forever standing over things turned upside down, trying to set them right.
He was the glue.
* * *
I AM PULLED OUT of my workshop memory by the need to find my way.
“If you’ve gone as far as the Baptist Church, you’ve gone too far,”
the man on the phone said.
(a clever title for something, that)
And there it is. I turn onto the stone driveway, park and wrestle the chair back out of the car. A man comes rushing out to help me. People are always rushing to help me now that I look like somebody’s grandmother. And I’m just starting to get the hang of letting them. :-)
Into the dimly-lit workroom we go.
Furniture stacked on furniture.
The secret recesses of a furniture hospital.
I love to troll through these places
where real work is done.
“Now let’s see what we have here,”
and the first thing he does
is turn my chair
I haven’t stopped smiling.
You might also like At the Shoe Repair.
HE SWEEPS the dusting of snow.
I blow the dust off the scale. Also a manuscript.
I’m tackling the FORMLESS this year and the first act appears to be blowing the dust off. I gather words out of a thought-swirl, capture them, hoping they’ll make sense. It feels good to start. But I find in my computer I’ve already written 30 chapters. When was that? I’d completely forgotten! It’s amazing just how far things can fall off the radar screen.
I cringe at the old words. It’s a writer thing, hating the sound of our own voices. The key is to find the gems buried in the mess and try again to sculpt a setting for them, one that is accessible.
In two sentences I have just equated writing to song and sculpture. Not that crazy, I guess. All art shares this: Something to be expressed and an endeavor to express it.
In this, I contend every person is an artist. Everyone has something to express and seeks a way to express it. I hear it in everyone I know, even those who would no more call themselves artists than birds.
But I digress….
IT TAKES GUTS to go back and read old words, to hear the sound of a voice that grates, especially one’s own.
But I am not without guts.
I am willing to blow the dust off. (Admittedly, it has taken a week to decide this and go back and look at them again.)
* * *
On the kitchen counter sit Christmas cards received, hung, taken down. Nearby, 2 cards that arrived for Ma from people I didn’t know about. I saved the addresses and will today write to let them know. Mom is gone.
I will do it today before today turns into June or July.
It’ll be the most important writing done today.
And then….I will go blow more dust off things.