Freewriting: Requires No Lessons

Last Sunday my writer’s group tried something we hadn’t done for a long time: freewrite together. Because I keep files of “word prompts” and pictures for freewriting at home, it was easy for me to bring both to the group. Just before I left home I chose two at random: the phrase: “Requires no lessons” that I paired with a photograph of a hand holding up to the sunlight a honeycomb shaped like a Grecian urn.

We gave ourselves exactly thirty minutes to write in silence. Afterwards we read our writing aloud and as always when we try this, I was stunned by what we accomplished in such a short time.

Other than with group members, I don’t usually share my unedited, unpolished, and very repetitive writing, but today I want to take a risk and include you in the group. The following is what I wrote raw, ignoring my ice coffee and using my favorite fountain pen:

This much I know about bees: The bees require no lessons on honey-making. It’s just something they do like breathing or swallowing. They are raised from the larvae stage by grown, adult worker bees who buzz and hum over the bee nursery, feeding them pollen, fanning them with their wings, singing them bee lullabies for all I know. The tiny bees mature in their wax cells, growing in golden light, their entire world a place the color of honey; their early lives are bathed in sweetness. They dream unaware of the harsh battles their queen endured to bring them to life. The queen is their mother and she is aeons apart from them in her uniqueness, her special status as royalty. When they emerge full-grown, they are made of honey, it is in their bee blood, it is in every cell of their bodies. The first thing they do upon seeing daylight is to fly outward, away from the hive to collect the ingredients to make more honey. Freed from the responsibilities and trauma of queen-hood, they simply fly out of the hive and return to the hive, making honey, raising more young in their own turn and time. There is no question of “how” or “why.” They live the ultimate bee-ingness of bee-ness. The only thing that is ever asked of them is a willingness to defend the hive, to sting an intruder and to mysteriously accept that to attack and defend is to die. The stinger, once used, pulls from their bodies and leaves an irreparable, incurable wound.

Once, and only once, I was stung as a child by a bee. I was about eleven and I was in the backyard of our house in the California San Fernando valley. My parents had purchased the house because it was the only one on the street with mature trees still on the property. The housing development had been carved from farmland, the old farmer and his wife still lived in the original farm house that backed onto our yard. Perhaps that’s why the elms and mulberries, the figs and apricots had been left intact. In a shift from open plowed fields they had been the survivors of a sale that may have made the farmers a small fortune but was also the beginning of why the San Fernando valley today is an expensive, over-crowded and uncomfortable place to live. The last trees were however in our yard alone, and their blossoms, I am sure, attracted the bees. I was never afraid of them, never was one to go , “Oh, bee—help!” and I would never dream of hurting one. Yet the day I stepped on a bee and it stung my toe, I can still remember the excruciating pain and the horrible sight of the bee separating from its stinger; the bee dying slowly, the stinger lodged in my toe, the bee throbbing and finally quieting, the bee dying and my terrible guilt and my terrible pain. I don’t know how long it lasted. I pulled the stinger from my foot; my mother made a paste of baking soda, her cure for everything. When it was over she went back to her book and I hopped one-legged to the darkened living room where the drapes were gold silk and the entire room was the same color as the honey I imagined the bee producing and the same color as the pollen I remembered coating its furry legs. The entire episode seemed yellow to me. The sting was not as severe as I would have thought it could be. I suppose I quickly forgot it, read a book of my own, was forever more careful walking through summer grass in bare feet. What did I learn that day except that life was arranged strangely, that bees could die simply for drawing their swords in self-defense?

It required no lessons to observe that life went on in my house no different from the day before: my one-year-old brother crawled and chewed his way through the house; my mother hid in her room and read library books; my father demanded ironed socks; and the gold drapes gave the impression the house was bathed in honey. If only that had been true. If only we were born without stingers, and if only we had the kind that could only be used once.

Pain requires no lessons; kindness rarely comes naturally. The bees manufacture honey and we manufacture problems more complicated than the multiple cells of the hive. For a long time I have wondered what is the difference between humans and animals, humans and insects, humans and anything else at all. And this I think is the difference: we require lessons, we cannot make honey on our own. We are too smart, too dumb, too helpless to do anything but learn, again and again and again until we come up with honey and still we ask: “Where the hell did that come from?”

Thought for the day: What in your writing “requires no lessons”?

In My Dreams I Write in Paris (but I Really Went to Frankfurt...)

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had this image of me writing in the perfect Parisian café: outdoors on a little street fragrant with coffee and budding chestnut trees. I even know what I’m wearing: a tan linen skirt, leather sandals, an orange silk top and a straw hat. My journal is brown leather and I’m using a smooth-flowing fountain pen just like I do in real life. Whatever I’m writing, it’s profound. Serious. Deep. It’s writing-that-matters. Better yet—it’s already contracted to be a best seller! As I write I see a group of little boys playing soccer nearby. The ball rolls close to my table. I smile, unconcerned at the interruption. I toss the ball back; I sip the coffee I just ordered. It’s a warm, sunny day and the words are unstoppable. I breathe in the image, feel it, believe it. So how come I still ended up in Frankfurt?

In my day-job I work with my husband, Dave Storey, and his company that makes his patented line of guitar picks. And every year, the world’s largest music trades show is held in Frankfurt, Germany. So well-prepared with lots of warm clothes, throat lozenges (you do a lot of screaming over the noise at music trade shows), and for some crazy reason my latest manuscript (I thought I would be bored and would have all this extra time to write. Talk about dreams…), I dutifully followed my husband through acres and acres of booths displaying everything from the latest in electric guitars to the hot new trends in accordions and xylophones. (Yes, my hearing is still bad. Very bad.) By the end of the week, totally exhausted from covering what felt like thousands of miles of pavement and stairs; bored with my de rigueur and funereal wardrobe of ubiquitous black clothing; and a little overwhelmed by the starkness of a big industrial city poised between winter and spring, I wondered why on earth I ever thought travel was a desirable occupation.

Maybe it’s because I actually had a good time. Despite the non-stop meetings and hurried rush to get to all our appointments with distributors, there were wonderful moments I’ll never forget, such as stopping at the exquisite Faber-Castell pen store and buying a set of pastel pencils, and later going to an orchid show at the Botanical Gardens the Sunday before we flew home.

Now, two weeks later, recovering from airplane flu and finally figuring out which manuscript is going to take precedence for the rest of the year (not the one I took with me), I’m writing again not in Paris or Frankfurt, but in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I wear jeans and turtlenecks, my coffee is homemade. I do have the fountain pen, but find I’m using it mainly to journal; my Alphasmart is much better suited for the manuscript that isn’t exactly profound, but makes me excited enough to want to follow my new set of characters deep into my much-needed sleeping hours. And the pastel pencils are wonderful; I can’t wait for the weather to be warm enough so I can take them sketching in the park. And if that isn’t enough, I can always pretend I’m in Paris wearing my straw hat. The imagination has no borders—why should I?

Tip of the day: Where do you wish you were writing right now? Envision your “perfect” writing environment and see what happens. No matter where you are, you can always bring an element or two of that perfect place into your current writing nook.

Getting Back to Clay

Sometimes it’s good to switch disciplines and to explore new creative territory. For instance, I consider myself a prose writer, but there’s nothing I enjoy more than delving into poetry or tackling a screenplay. It’s the same with working in the visual arts. I’m fascinated by art materials and the wide variety of new pencils, sketchbooks, and paints available on the market. But like so many other writers and artists I know, giving myself permission to whittle out a little extra space for something new can often seem impossible.

Until a few months ago, it had been nearly a year since I had allowed myself the opportunity to “write” in one of my favorite mediums: clay. My reasons for keeping my half-used 20-lb. bag of cone 4 terra cotta in the closet were about as weak as my list of “why I can’t write today” excuses: no time, no real studio space, nowhere to stack green ware (manuscripts) without it (them) getting broken (disorganized). Thankfully, by mid-January I got sick of my whining and decided the kitchen table was as good a work space as any other. So was signing up for a refresher class at a local Albuquerque studio, Mudfish Pottery.

I admit that for the first half hour of my first class I was totally overwhelmed. What on earth was I doing getting up early on a Saturday morning to travel all the way across town to sit with a lump of dirt? The mantra “make something” kept going through my mind. But what? At the same time I’d forgotten how good the smell of clay can be when the plastic bag covering it is opened. Better yet is the endless stream of ideas flooding my head and hands as I struggle to settle on just one project. In the end I followed the rest of the class and made a coil flower pot that for some strange reason reminds me of the south of France. I can’t imagine not having it close by on my bookshelf.

As a child, I hated being dirty. No mud pies for me. The writer’s world of clean white paper, smooth-flowing fountain pens, and precise typewriter keyboards fit me, or so I thought, much better than a messy art studio. Like a lot of my childhood misconceptions, how wrong I was!
It was a writer friend who suggested I might want to give up some of those early biases. I am forever grateful to her insight. Clay, rather than repelling me, opened me to the raw power of potential and possibilities. I took to clay like some close relative of the Three Little Pigs. In the early days of my new found passion, I would spend hours scouring my yard and house for improvised clay tools. I saw rocks and twigs, bark and broken household items all as coveted items for pattern-making and story-telling. One remarkable afternoon I took a leather-hard coil pot outside to carve a design into the rim. I remember thinking, “I’ve done this before.” It seemed to me that I had spent dozens of lifetimes piercing and cutting away at a similar surface. As I worked, I found myself engaged in a story that spoke louder to me than anything I had heard before. When I was finished I went inside and wrote it all down. Part of it became my inspiration for this current blog posting.

Working with clay I had to learn that cracks were for letting in (or out) more light. Fingers—not my brain--had to do the walking. And disasters could always be recycled: broken shards could be put in the bottom of flowerpots; birds and squirrels never noticed ugly glazes on the food and water dishes I placed in the woods around my house. More than anything else, though, I learned not to take myself too seriously. And at the same time, I learned not to laugh at myself too hard, either. Whether I’m writing, painting, or sculpting, the main thing is I’m having fun. That’s all I ever wanted anyway.

Tip of the Day: Don’t get stuck in a creative rut. If you’re a writer, go to an art supply store and buy yourself some fun materials for a new way to tell your story. If you’re an artist, add some words to your latest project. Turn a painting into a poem and vice versa.

Great Review of the Great Scarab Scam

Hey, everyone: The Great Scarab Scam just received its first independent book review! Take a look at this page from the seriously fun group blog, Tales From the Crit,

http://talesfromthecrit.wordpress.com/2009/03/02/the-great-chapter-book-dilemma/

I love the way reviewer AJ refers to the story as a “chapter book.” To be perfectly honest, I never really regarded that angle before and I’m delighted that it took a parent-reader to point it out to me. Even after all these years I’m still learning new things about the business of writing.

Tip of the Day: What's on your reading list? Consider choosing a book to review on Amazon.com or any other of your favorite bookselling/recommendation sites.

It's All About Trust

Sometimes it’s hard to believe in our writing or that it will amount to anything but a bunch of messy pages nobody would even use for kindling. We’ve all had those days or months when we feel like giving up, ripping to pieces every draft we’ve ever written, deciding that we’re really best suited to being “readers” rather than “writers.” Yet no matter how seriously I may contemplate that possibility, I never feel any better after telling myself, “You’re right! Quit while you’re ahead—who wants to be a writer anyway??” Rather than feeling relieved (“Oh, good, I can go eat bon-bons and re-read The Eight for the umpteenth time) I always feel much, much worse. What’s even more annoying is that the only way to seriously feel better is to go write something!

After squirreling through this kind of burn-out more times than I can count, I’ve finally realized that what it all comes down to is trust; total trust that no matter how scary or frustrating or even boring writing can be, it’s what I like to do best in the whole world and it will always be there for me. The other day I made a list of what I’ve learned about writing and trust:

• Trust that when it comes to your own writing, only you can know what’s “right for you.”
• Trust “happy accidents.” Typos or omissions can turn into whole new phrases or ways of looking at a paragraph or character from a fresh perspective.
• Trust that all writing is fixable—no matter how extreme the “mistake.” Every piece of writing contains a nugget of gold.
• Trust that there is always someone who will want to read your work.
• Trust that you can always publish the writing you believe in.
• Trust that weird twist you feel when you just know something in a sentence or scene feels “off.”
• Trust that the right words will come to you to make it all better.

While you’re at it, consider the concept of “distrust.” For instance,

• Distrust the voice that says your writing is “bad.”
• Distrust the critique group member who always, always tells you you’re “wrong.”
• Distrust perfectionism.
• Distrust anything that makes ready excuses for why you can’t write today.

But more than anything, trust that if you’ve ever felt even the smallest urge to write, paint, draw, dance, sing, sculpt—it is a genuine call from your creative spirit! Never ignore the call.

Tip of the Day: Stop what you’re doing and sit down with pen and paper. Trust that the words will come. Start by writing the first word that comes into your head. Then another. And another… See? It’s really that simple. Trust simplicity.

Book Review, Marry Your Muse by Jan Phillips

I love “how to” writing books. In fact, I like them so much I wrote one myself, (just in case I haven’t mentioned it often enough !): The Essential Guide for New Writers, From Idea to Finished Manuscript. But I couldn’t have even started that book without an entire library of great titles to encourage and inspire me. Some of my favorites include the classics such as Writing Down the Bones and Wild Mind by Natalie Goldberg. Other titles on my bookshelf are less well known and these are the ones I’d like to share in this and future reviews, starting with, Marry Your Muse , by Jan Phillips.

As romantic as the title sounds, Marry Your Muse has nothing to do with Valentine’s Day or finding the perfect partner. Rather, it’s about committing to your creativity, for richer or poorer, for better or worse. And “poorer” is where my interest in the book began.

I met Jan Phillips while we were both teaching at the summer conference of the International Women’s Writing Guild. One of the perks of the conference was getting to attend other people’s workshops and Jan’s was high on my list of “must-do’s.” On the very first day I was in her class, I heard a woman say that her husband didn’t support her writing “unless it was for money,” a difficult task as she had only started writing a few months before the conference. The rest of us murmured our sympathy, but I couldn’t help but wonder if we were all just as hard on ourselves, thinking if we didn’t have huge sales and fame right from the start we were failures. In her talk that day, Jan confronted this and other very real fears that each contribute to various forms of writer’s block. More than anything, Jan suggested, we can eliminate the negativity of worrying, “Am I really a writer? Or am I just wasting time?” by simply trusting your inner Muse to look after you. The initial trust may be the most difficult part for some of us, but it’s really just about letting go and showing up.

The following year, Jan’s book, Marry Your Muse, was published. It was as good as her workshops, filled with good ideas, strong inspirations, and seriously helpful advice. Divided into three parts, the book begins with “The Artist’s Creed,” an affirmation with lines such as, “I believe that what it is I am called to do/will make itself known when I have made myself ready,” and “I believe that the time spent creating my art/is as precious as the time I spend giving to others.” The rest of the section expands on the creed with short powerful chapters filled with very human and personal anecdotes from Jan’s own journeys on the artist’s path.

Part II, “Staying on the Path,” is designed as a series of exercises and meditations complete with music and video suggestions for developing your creative commitment. Chapter headings include “Giving the Artist Within Half a Chance,” “Start Anyway,” and “Leaving the Chaos Behind” (a personal favorite!). Most of the exercises can be done with a writer friend (lots of fun), and readily lend themselves for use or discussion in a writers’ group.

Finally, Part III, “Passing the Stardust” is a compilation of stories from ten established writers and artists who share their own struggles—and triumphs—with the self-doubt and isolation of the creative process. As the section heading stages, “They are here as wind for your sails, candles to your dark, the voices of your sisters and brothers calling you forth."

Drawing on her belief that we are all natural born artists, whether our medium is the written word or the camera lens, Jan’s style is essentially joyful and centering. For those of us who have ever wrestled with the seemingly endless reasons for why we can’t or don’t have the time to write today, Jan is the best friend we’ve all wanted to stand right beside us, cheering us on. Her gentle sense of humor and her insistence that we each have a right and a reason to create will send you soaring for pen and paper. Beautifully designed throughout, Marry Your Muse is illustrated with Jan’s black and white photography. The book finishes with an extensive reading list of works cited in the text. Five stars from me!

Tip of the Day: There are literally hundreds of books on writing, each one offering a wealth of writing advice, exercises, and affirmations. Rather than trying to absorb several books at once, choose just one and commit to reading it straight through, doing all the exercises and writing assignments. Set aside a certain time of day, every day, to do this. In other words, just show up. When you’re finished, evaluate everything you’ve learned and written. Maybe you’ll come through with the draft of an entire novel or a poetry collection from just the exercises alone!

Now Available! The Great Scarab Scam

Although pre-pub copies have been for sale on Amazon.com for a few weeks, today marks the official release date of my new book, The Great Scarab Scam. Hurray!

Written for 8-12 year-olds and set in modern-day Egypt, the plot follows eleven-year-old Lydia Hartley as she helps to solve a mystery that has plagued both her archaeologist father and her Egyptian hosts for years. Along the way, Lydia makes new friends, deepens her appreciation for her often irritating brothers, and discovers an inner self-reliance she never knew she had.

Q: When did you write the book?
A: Believe it or not—I first came up with the story as part of my seventh-grade English homework. Our teacher asked us to write about something we loved more than anything. I loved Egypt and I loved archaeology. At the time I was twelve, and my little brother was two. I decided to write a story about a girl with a baby brother and how they get to go to Egypt where all sorts of madcap adventures await them.

The idea stayed with me for a long time afterwards and when I became interested in writing, I wanted to try writing for children. I remembered that homework assignment and it eventually became The Great Scarab Scam. At various stages I would start, abandon it, restart it, and then put it away for another year or two. Last year I decided I really wanted to share it with young readers and the time felt right to go to print. It seemed the perfect book to launch the new incarnation of my publishing company, Dava Books.

Q: How did you do your research?
A: Reading, reading, and more reading! And of course I took a trip to Egypt. Like my main character, Lydia Hartley, my trip was not all I thought it would be. While it was incredible to see things like the pyramids and the Tutankhamen treasures first-hand, the heat, crowds, and not feeling my best health-wise made the journey somewhat difficult.

Q: Why did you choose to write a mystery?
A: For the sheer fun of it. I loved the challenge of working out my plot and foreshadowing, and weaving in various surprises whenever I could. Because I’m usually what’s referred to as a “pantster” (someone who writes by the seat of their pants), the order and calm of writing to an outline was very restful. I enjoyed creating the puzzle.

Tip of the Day: Do you remember a story or an assignment you wrote in school? Is there something you could turn into a piece for young readers today?