No Short Cuts

Yesterday, even though it was a perfect late summer day, I spent the golden afternoon indoors listening to a successful author read from her best-selling book and answer questions about her writing process. She was very articulate and interesting, but I left feeling a bit disappointed. Where was the advice that would help me achieve similar success? Where was the magic formula that would propel my writing to New York Times critical acclaim? What exactly is that elusive key to getting the writing right?

Actually, she did mention the key, and the formula is simple. I've heard it before from almost every author I've ever heard speak. The one message they all have in common is: sit down and write. Then rewrite. Then rewrite more until it's good.

There just doesn't seem to be any way around the sad fact that this business of writing takes a hell of a lot of time. There are no easy paths, there are no short cuts, and when you are finally finished, there certainly are no guarantees that anyone will give a damn.

I have been reading Selina Hastings' excellent biography of Somerset Maugham. Author of dozens of short stories, plays, and novels, Maugham is one of my writing super-heroes. "Mr. Know-It-All" is a wickedly amusing little tale, and Of Human Bondage is a recognized classic. But even Maugham had a rough start. Like all the rest of us, he struggled to get published. He was broke and forced to fake his way through expensive social events before he achieved recognition for his work. Even after financial success, he had to endure vicious criticism, not only for his work but for his life-style.

As Christopher Vogler points out in The Writer's Journey, we all travel our own writing paths, encountering heroes, guides, adversaries, allies, and shapeshifters along the way, but no where does he mention anything about shortcuts.

Writing Assignment

As the new school year begins, college-bound seniors are faced with what is likely the most challenging writing assignment they've ever had: the application essay. Even in its friendliest form on the common ap, the task is daunting. At the ripe old age of seventeen or eighteen, how does a kid sum up the best of his/her personality, indicate his/her future goals and aspirations, and write a bang-up, reader-grabbing narrative in 500 words?
As a tutor, I've seen confident, well-adjusted, highly intelligent students sweat, squirm, and quiver on the verge of tears with frustration as they grapple with this essay. Fortunately, I've also seen many of them produce dynamite stuff that gives me hope for the future of fine writing, even as I feel slightly intimidated by their abilities. Was I that self-aware at their age? I doubt it. I have no recollection of the essay, the ACT, the SAT, or all the other hoops kids have to jump through these days to put themselves and/or their parents in a serious financial commitment with the ever-dwindling hope of being gainfully employed someday.
Last week, as I sat across the tutorial table from yet another youngster writhing over which of the six questions on the common application to tackle (including "Topic of your choice"), I began to wonder what I would write about if I were given the assignment. Whatever I chose, it had to be something from the first seventeen years of my life. The playing field should be level. No reflections on several decades worth of existence on this planet, marriage, parenthood, or anything else absolutely beyond the scope of a typical teenager.
Five days later, I finally discovered my "topic," and I have to say even that first step in the process makes for some interesting introspection. And writing about oneself without being a colossal bore is quite the challenge. I wonder, how many admissions officers have ever put themselves to this test?
As for my essay, it's going kind of slowly. I'm on the third draft. Hey, I have until January. I'll get it done.

5-4-7

I can only come up with five reasons for seven weeks of blog silence:

1) I'd rather be in Ireland. We've been back from our trip there for over a month, but every time I sit at the computer I get distracted by my own photos. Here are three of 216:

2) It's summer. My brain is out the window and my feet are out the door. Day after day of gorgeous weather means each morning I walk the dog, then go for a run, then walk the husband, then go to the beach or farmers' market or town or any place except my office.

3) Minimal discipline level. The few hours I manage to force myself to work are devoted to revising the novel. I'm depressed by how many mistakes I make and by how dumb my sentences sound. It's much more fun to look at those photos of Ireland.

4) No ideas. Except...in the middle of the night. 3:14 a.m. to be precise. I'm wide awake and the ideas for blogs and stories are buzzing around like dozens of mosquitoes. Totally annoying and impossible to ignore. Shouldn't there be a collective term for mosquitoes? Maybe a "vexation" or an "itch"? Ah, well, I digress. Curse of the writer's mind.

5) Digression. Just finish the damn thing.

Excuses, Excuses

The dog ate my homework. Yeah, sure.
My printer didn't work. My server was down. The techno excuses are just as lame as the old dog was. Unless, of course, it's true and it's happened to you.
Two days ago, I walked into my office to discover my hulking surge protector--the superhero guardian of my electronic world--screaming in agony. Something was seriously amiss. It took only seconds to determine that my wireless router fried and died, but it's taking (note present tense) days to correct the problem.
This is my reality check. Every time I think I'm getting sort of cool and know my way around the modern world, something like this happens, and I become a terrified child lost in cyberspace. Hopelessly ignorant. Woefully inadequate. Unable even to speak the language.
Shouldn't it be as simple as plugging the damn thing in, typing in a security code, and hitting "apply"? That's what it says on the new router's box.
But inside that box, there's a "resource CD" that has the real directions. You put the CD in the computer to read it, which is dandy, except that the very first instruction is to shut down the computer. How exactly does that work when you can't remember step 9? It gets better, too. Everything was all set to go, or so I thought until I got a "non-viable configuration" warning. Huh?
So while I wrestle with something interesting to blog about, I might as well blame technology for sabotaging my pearls of wisdom.
Maybe by the time I've sorted out the router, I'll have a better idea.

Gone, Baby, Gone

Sometimes it takes a while to figure out how to write about things I've seen during my walks and travels. I know there is some sort of a story in these two photos, but I haven't figured out what it is yet. The first picture needs explanation: a tree that was cut down during the burn off at the shoreline. In the photo, all that is left is a pile of charcoal. When I walked past this scene, I decided to draw the old tree stump with the tree's charcoal remains. Later, I wanted to take a photo, but the stump had already been removed. Therefore, this is a picture of something that isn't there. The second picture is the sketch I made of the tree stump, using the charcoal that used to be the tree. One of these days, I might figure out a story that relates to these images.

Tweet'll Dumb

OMG. I've been blogging for a year. Last week, I bought the book Blogging for Dummies because I am a dummy with this social media stuff. Recently, through various channels, it's been brought to my attention that my blog is SEVERELY LACKING.
I had no pictures, so I reluctantly put something in the profile section. With a B.A. in photography and fine art, you'd think I would do better with the visuals. Oddly, I had the idea that a blog principally about writing should involve words more than pictures. Silly me. Being eager to please, I promise to have photos in my future posts.
I'm also deficient when it comes to tags and links. It seems that if I mention and tag people like Sarah Palin, Justin Bieber, and Kate Gosselin, I'll get thousands of hits. I will not do that here--or ever--because I want nothing to to with them. As Michiko Kakutani writes in Texts Without Contexts, her very excellent NY Times article, "funny, snarky, or willfully provocative assertions often gain more traction than earnest, measured ones." (See? I can link if I want to.)
Finally, I've been criticized for posts that are too long, so this one ends with a little ditty suitable for the slightly snarky tone of the day:

A blog is tough
Enough, I fear,
To fill with words for
An entire year,
But
A tweet'll dumb
Me down, I think,
To writing that would
Really stink.

Mr. Ward's Letter

A couple of months ago, a grade school classmate sent out an email alerting fellow alumni that a former teacher of ours, Mr. Frank Ward, would be celebrating his 90th birthday. We were encouraged to send cards or call him with congratulations. Probably as a way to procrastinate further work on my novel, I went to the store, bought a card, signed my name, and posted it.
Ward was my seventh grade history teacher, but his true claim to fame was as the boys' P.E. teacher and coach extraordinaire. I didn't think he'd actually remember the odd little girl who tried her best to avoid any attention in his class.
Much to my surprise, a couple of weeks ago, I received from Ward a two-page handwritten letter, two photos enclosed. His handwriting, like the man I remember, is still strong, bold, and absolutely unique with quite grand flourishes on capital letters, and swirling tails on "y"s and "g"s. In one of the photos, he is unapologetically holding a mint julep cup, and on the back of said photo, he has written, "This is not medicine...it is a drink."
I've thought about this man and this letter quite a bit in the past few weeks. When was the last time I received a real, honest-to-goodness letter? It must be a decade or more ago. We don't write letters anymore; we email or text or pick up the phone. And that's a damn shame. Aside from the fact that the postal service has been bankrupted by our new techno habits, what will happen to our history? I don't mean the earth shaking global-economy-who's-the-top-dog-now history, but rather the little history of individuals and families. Without those boxes of yellowing, crinkly missives stashed in attics for generations to come, what will our grandchildren and great grandchildren know of our family struggles and triumphs? How will my great grandchildren ever know the bits and pieces of daily life that helped form their grandparents, their own parents, and ultimately they themselves?
Finding a treasure trove of family letters (as I did when clearing out my parents' house) is finding out much about who you are and how you came to be. So with that in mind, I have vowed to begin writing to my middle daughter (the only one who lives out of state). I hope to send a letter at least once a month. I've already told her she is under no obligation to write back (I'm not silly), but I do hope she will keep my letters. I hope I can chronicle just a little bit of our family's life and times here in 2010 and beyond. And maybe she and/or her children will understand that a great teacher can still teach a great lesson even when he is 90 and the student is...well, thinking about grandchildren.