Phi Beta Kappa featured a post on its Facebook page the other day from Mr. Spencer Klavan, a graduate student who trained a bot to write a Greek play by having it watch many hours of tragedies. He stated that the excerpt in the post was only the first page, but to me, everything that needed to be said was right there on that page, rendering the rest entirely superfluous (though it was all excellent, I’m sure).
With a stage direction indicating that the setting is the exterior of a “Cursed Dynastic Palace,” you know you’re in the hands of a straightforward playwright who’s going to let you know exactly where you stand. And the rest of this one-page mini-play is just as carefully observed, with characters such as long-suffering wife Dyspepsia and chief god Stankrocles (in charge of mathematics and ancestral guilt, that double whammy of random but somehow meaningful jurisdictions) and an authentic Chorus that really knows its stuff: “Welcome home, Great King ! Watch out ! Everything is normal !”
The action is crisp and the verbs active. Dyspepsia carries a big knife, Stankrocles eats a sandwich, the Chorus dances, and Dundertron laughs. There are greetings, warnings, forebodings, dancing, and dead lions. And the climax, in which Stankrocles turns everyone into barley, is as satisfying as you could wish. What else is there to be said after that? You are now cereal. Deal with it. If you’ve been waiting for someone to tell it like it is, no holds barred (someone besides Wordplay), your search is at an end with Mr. Klavan’s bot. The sheer audacity of its storytelling and bold willingness to take risks in delivering a Greek tragedy attuned to our gainful (that is, grainful) times will dazzle you, make you laugh, and take your breath away.
As a drama that captures not only the spirit of an earlier age, but the nihilist zeitgeist of ours, this play cannot be beat. And besides . . . What? What are you asking? Catharsis? Well, what do you want that for? Are you feeling bad? All Wordplay can tell you is, if you don’t get catharsis from barley right now, you likely never will. It’s barley or nothing. And that’s some good fiber, too.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, July 22, 2019
Sunday, June 30, 2019
Meme Able Me
One thing I may have neglected to tell you is that Wordplay now has its own Facebook page, and you can visit us there any time you feel you just can’t make it another day without us. (I’m really not being facetious, or not totally so. These things happen.) I thought about doing this several years ago when I was trying to promote my book and came across some writerly advice about starting a Facebook page. I don’t actually remember the reason I didn’t do it; in any case, the page is more an adjunct to the blog than it is to the book. As you know, Wordplay ranges over many interests since its underlying theme is mythology and everyday life. It has a structure but a very open one due to the subject matter.
Recently someone asked me for input on some labyrinth-building projects here, and while I was glad to give my opinion, I had to explain that my interest in the topic was not from the standpoint of building or using labyrinths but more from a literary stance. I think that the book, while timely, actually has a long shelf life and could be read by anyone with an interest in literary criticism or epistemology, at any time. I also ventured into social criticism with follow-up work that explored some of the social and political reasons why labyrinths may have started trending in the first place. While these topics remain an interest, I felt several years ago that I’d done as much as I wanted to with them and was ready to go in other directions.
It’s challenging to write a blog concerned with cultural mythology. I see a lot of things on the Internet and elsewhere that I don’t feel are worth commenting on or wasting anyone else’s time with. I’ve taken to posting links and images on the Facebook page that catch my eye, and if you’ve seen it, you know that I usually take a light-hearted approach. My voice is the same there as it is here, but the Facebook page is more conducive to sharing links and graphics and creating memes. I sometimes laugh when I’m working on it.
A couple of days ago, I came across a video in my Facebook newsfeed from Mom Versus. The heroine of this Facebook page often posts videos of herself trying out recipes and is in a decidedly humorous vein. After posting a video of her making an American Flag Cake, I was playing around with the idea of “Southern belles” and kept thinking of the penultimate episode of Game of Thrones, which was, as you may remember, entitled “The Bells.” I ended up branching off from my original idea but still managed to create a meme in which I brought together two very disparate things, Mom Versus and Game of Thrones. (If anyone can find similarities in completely unrelated things, it’s Wordplay. Remember Say Yes to the Dress?)
I plan to continue the Facebook page along with the blog; the page has more than once served as a point of inspiration for that week’s blog post. Sometimes it’s as simple as a photo I took myself and posted; other times, the inspiration comes from something in the culture. I’m often hesitant to “buy into” trends I see or to comment on the news (holds head in hands), but with humor, a lot of things are possible. You can make a serious point without seeming to, or you can just be silly.
Please check us out on Facebook if you feel moved to do so. You’ll recognize that both “feet” and “cups” (two very everyday things) have played a somewhat outsized role in some of our doings so far. I’m not really sure I can explain why this has happened, just that it has.
Recently someone asked me for input on some labyrinth-building projects here, and while I was glad to give my opinion, I had to explain that my interest in the topic was not from the standpoint of building or using labyrinths but more from a literary stance. I think that the book, while timely, actually has a long shelf life and could be read by anyone with an interest in literary criticism or epistemology, at any time. I also ventured into social criticism with follow-up work that explored some of the social and political reasons why labyrinths may have started trending in the first place. While these topics remain an interest, I felt several years ago that I’d done as much as I wanted to with them and was ready to go in other directions.
It’s challenging to write a blog concerned with cultural mythology. I see a lot of things on the Internet and elsewhere that I don’t feel are worth commenting on or wasting anyone else’s time with. I’ve taken to posting links and images on the Facebook page that catch my eye, and if you’ve seen it, you know that I usually take a light-hearted approach. My voice is the same there as it is here, but the Facebook page is more conducive to sharing links and graphics and creating memes. I sometimes laugh when I’m working on it.
A couple of days ago, I came across a video in my Facebook newsfeed from Mom Versus. The heroine of this Facebook page often posts videos of herself trying out recipes and is in a decidedly humorous vein. After posting a video of her making an American Flag Cake, I was playing around with the idea of “Southern belles” and kept thinking of the penultimate episode of Game of Thrones, which was, as you may remember, entitled “The Bells.” I ended up branching off from my original idea but still managed to create a meme in which I brought together two very disparate things, Mom Versus and Game of Thrones. (If anyone can find similarities in completely unrelated things, it’s Wordplay. Remember Say Yes to the Dress?)
I plan to continue the Facebook page along with the blog; the page has more than once served as a point of inspiration for that week’s blog post. Sometimes it’s as simple as a photo I took myself and posted; other times, the inspiration comes from something in the culture. I’m often hesitant to “buy into” trends I see or to comment on the news (holds head in hands), but with humor, a lot of things are possible. You can make a serious point without seeming to, or you can just be silly.
Please check us out on Facebook if you feel moved to do so. You’ll recognize that both “feet” and “cups” (two very everyday things) have played a somewhat outsized role in some of our doings so far. I’m not really sure I can explain why this has happened, just that it has.
Sunday, June 23, 2019
Wordplay Feels You on Fake News
Today was a nice enough summer day, I guess, but nothing like as simple as some of the lazy summer days I remember from the past. Modern life is constantly throwing complications at you. If reading the news makes you cry, forget the news and just find a good book, right? Sounds good in concept, so you head over to the library and wait for it to open, getting bitten by mosquitoes and sweating in the humidity, because the building opens late on Sundays. Finally, the hour arrives, and you go in with the other patrons, looking forward to getting a new book in your hands, although experience has taught you not to get too excited these days about anything.
You plug in, pull up NoveList, and start browsing titles. You know, because you’ve done this before, that some of them will sound amazing but prove to be disappointing, but still, facts are facts: English majors are ever hopeful about books. After looking for a while, taking the time to check your account to make sure that newfangled “Book History” is still turned off (because, a little too Big-Brotherish, even if seemingly harmless for someone with mild tastes), you home in on a couple of books. One sounds Edwardian and mildly interesting, and the other catches your eye because you saw it at the bookstore’s checkout counter recently and noted that it was a retelling of a Shakespeare play.
You check out both and settle in for a little reading in a refreshingly quiet back section of the library (relatively speaking: all libraries are noisier than they once were, especially this one). You’re a few pages into the first book when that familiar sinking feeling sets in, because, alas, the story is not what you thought it would be at all. You’re not losing yourself in the pages, you’re getting annoyed, whether because the story is not what you were hoping for or because the author’s mannerisms draw attention away from the story, you’re not sure which.
Fine, put that one down and pick up the other one, the one based on Shakespeare. This is an author whom, despite his having lost you completely on his last outing, you have decided to gift with another chance. At one time, he seemed unobjectionable and even distinguished, but now . . . Did you even get off the first page or were you all the way to the second page before you began to quoth, “Nevermore!” and slam that book shut, too.
Many artists seem preoccupied these days with “peacocking.” What else do you call it when a capable and even remarkable writer good enough to write a bestseller and/or literary prize winner starts preening, winking, talking to you from the back of his/her hand, and spouting nonsense. They might as well title the book, The Only Book You Need to Read, and in substitution for other content, drop in the words, “I know everything, I’m so important, and even if I don’t know what I’m talking about, I need your undivided attention.” Someone has gotten hold of these people and ruined them.
In complete fairness, let me say that the day may come when I will have to retract some of my opinions, too. I’ve considered opposite points of view too many times for all of the ideas I’ve expressed to be true—some of them have to be wrong. You do the best you can with what you know, and when people seem determined to spread disinformation, it’s difficult to know where the truth is. In that case, you consider alternate possibilities and try not to get overly attached to a single point of view. Rather than “wishy-washy,” I prefer the Keatsian term “negative capability”—the capacity to move among different points of view without settling too firmly into one entrenched position. Yes, confusion and doubt are the hazards of this type of thinking, but I’ve never been able to understand how some people can be so sure of everything anyway. How do you know that? Don’t you think it might be better to hold off on trumpeting something until you know more about it? I feel on firm ground with very few things besides the Golden Rule as a good (though not perfect) starting point.
When I write non-fiction, I try to be accurate and without malice. When I write fiction, I just try to capture the story out of my head (no small task) and tell it as well as I can. Artistic integrity, to me, is keeping the crafting of the story as your single aim. Name-dropping, scoring points on enemies (yes, I know Dante did it, thanks for bringing that to my attention), and spreading propaganda are artistic sins that we hope most people try to avoid.
If you’re wondering, I did end up leaving the library with a book, a collection of the short novels of John Steinbeck. When I’m in doubt, I go back to the classics. I’m sure Mr. Steinbeck had his faults, too, but at least he can’t alienate me by trying too hard to be in-the-know.
You plug in, pull up NoveList, and start browsing titles. You know, because you’ve done this before, that some of them will sound amazing but prove to be disappointing, but still, facts are facts: English majors are ever hopeful about books. After looking for a while, taking the time to check your account to make sure that newfangled “Book History” is still turned off (because, a little too Big-Brotherish, even if seemingly harmless for someone with mild tastes), you home in on a couple of books. One sounds Edwardian and mildly interesting, and the other catches your eye because you saw it at the bookstore’s checkout counter recently and noted that it was a retelling of a Shakespeare play.
You check out both and settle in for a little reading in a refreshingly quiet back section of the library (relatively speaking: all libraries are noisier than they once were, especially this one). You’re a few pages into the first book when that familiar sinking feeling sets in, because, alas, the story is not what you thought it would be at all. You’re not losing yourself in the pages, you’re getting annoyed, whether because the story is not what you were hoping for or because the author’s mannerisms draw attention away from the story, you’re not sure which.
Fine, put that one down and pick up the other one, the one based on Shakespeare. This is an author whom, despite his having lost you completely on his last outing, you have decided to gift with another chance. At one time, he seemed unobjectionable and even distinguished, but now . . . Did you even get off the first page or were you all the way to the second page before you began to quoth, “Nevermore!” and slam that book shut, too.
Many artists seem preoccupied these days with “peacocking.” What else do you call it when a capable and even remarkable writer good enough to write a bestseller and/or literary prize winner starts preening, winking, talking to you from the back of his/her hand, and spouting nonsense. They might as well title the book, The Only Book You Need to Read, and in substitution for other content, drop in the words, “I know everything, I’m so important, and even if I don’t know what I’m talking about, I need your undivided attention.” Someone has gotten hold of these people and ruined them.
In complete fairness, let me say that the day may come when I will have to retract some of my opinions, too. I’ve considered opposite points of view too many times for all of the ideas I’ve expressed to be true—some of them have to be wrong. You do the best you can with what you know, and when people seem determined to spread disinformation, it’s difficult to know where the truth is. In that case, you consider alternate possibilities and try not to get overly attached to a single point of view. Rather than “wishy-washy,” I prefer the Keatsian term “negative capability”—the capacity to move among different points of view without settling too firmly into one entrenched position. Yes, confusion and doubt are the hazards of this type of thinking, but I’ve never been able to understand how some people can be so sure of everything anyway. How do you know that? Don’t you think it might be better to hold off on trumpeting something until you know more about it? I feel on firm ground with very few things besides the Golden Rule as a good (though not perfect) starting point.
When I write non-fiction, I try to be accurate and without malice. When I write fiction, I just try to capture the story out of my head (no small task) and tell it as well as I can. Artistic integrity, to me, is keeping the crafting of the story as your single aim. Name-dropping, scoring points on enemies (yes, I know Dante did it, thanks for bringing that to my attention), and spreading propaganda are artistic sins that we hope most people try to avoid.
If you’re wondering, I did end up leaving the library with a book, a collection of the short novels of John Steinbeck. When I’m in doubt, I go back to the classics. I’m sure Mr. Steinbeck had his faults, too, but at least he can’t alienate me by trying too hard to be in-the-know.
Friday, September 1, 2017
Eventful Week, Unvarnished Telling
Never a dull moment here at Wordplay. I'm speaking to you this week from my former home city of Lexington, Kentucky, to which I was forced to repatriate by financial concerns. My plan to do temp jobs while searching for a regular job in California should have worked but didn't; if those employment agencies are placing anyone anywhere, it certainly wasn't me, unless you count nearly ending up in the poorhouse as a placement.
In a city the size of Los Angeles, in the summer, that is certainly surprising, if not shocking. And then there was the agency that actually lost all of my application materials clean out of their database, or so they said. I was told by another agency, when I questioned the lack of opportunities, that a temp agency was a free service, as if to imply that my actually expecting to get a temp job after spending hours filling out multiple forms was unreasonable and ungrateful. What I do know is that the agencies profit greatly from the labor of their workers, who are their single asset, but I guess the woman at that agency somehow thought I was born yesterday.
After several surreal days of contacting and re-contacting employment agencies, potential employers, YWCAs, and other agencies about jobs and possible housing options (including shelters, which aren't even that easy to get into, even if you wanted to be there), I realized that unless I wanted to sleep in my car, I was going to have to leave L.A., at least temporarily, and try something else. Since my plan consisted of returning to the very place I'd worked so hard to leave, it wasn't ideal but was really the only thing I could think to do; I do, after all, have more of a history and a network here than I do in Los Angeles, not that it has done me much good in recent years in terms of job-hunting. It really shouldn't be this difficult for a flexible, well-qualified person, but somehow it is. Someone asked me if I thought I'd been blackballed for some reason. Who, moi? If I find out that that is the case, I'm definitely suing. And it's definitely not true that I'm working undercover for the FBI or anyone else, though I don't suppose anyone is really gullible enough to believe that.
I was contacted yesterday about a temp job in Lexington that I had only applied for yesterday morning, and I had to scramble to find some suitable writing samples on hand to send in, but I did so. I still don't know whether it will lead to anything, and I haven't received the link to the writing test I was asked to take, so although it sounded yesterday as if they were rather interested in me, it may come to nothing, as many of these things do. I don't mind whether I work here or in L.A., as long as I'm working, but I hope to get back to California as soon as possible, as that is where I had planned to stay.
The trip back wasn't easy, though I did get to break it up by visiting a friend in Texas. I wasn't in the hurricane--that was one thing I did manage to avoid, except for a downpour or two in North Texas, which may or may not have been Harvey-related. It was disheartening to see the very sights I'd whizzed by only three months ago coming at me in reverse, but I tried to make the best of it. I continue to be amazed at the beauty of our country, and even if I myself am not a desert person, I enjoyed looking at the often stunning scenery of the Southwest. (Even if the Mojave Desert isn't the most inviting place to pass through when you're driving by yourself, I realize it has its own beauty and would probably be better appreciated under different circumstances.) I enjoyed the clear night sky over Flagstaff, Arizona, the rock formations, mesas, and canyons of New Mexico, and the rolling range lands and big, open sky of Texas, not that I was that thrilled to be seeing them again so soon.
I am now sitting in a hotel room in Lexington watching the rain fall and enjoying even that, since I have always enjoyed summers in Lexington--with their varied but generally warm and humid days and long, drawn-out evenings--more than any other season. I like a lot of things about Lexington and Kentucky, despite having found life here limiting in so many ways for so long. One question I have answered for myself concerns my ability to go somewhere else alone and establish a new life: I can do it just fine, and that was something I was never sure of until I tried it. I like California and think it realistic to suppose I could be happy there with a job and a permanent home. It was the obstacles to achieving those modest and reasonable goals that were the real problem.
I can hear my readers now complaining, "Oh, Mary, won't you ever get back to writing about anything besides your job search and your struggle to get established in California? I used to love your (insert the option of your choice) book reviews, film reviews, dream interpretations, random observations, advice to the lovelorn, household hints, groundbreaking journalism, dissertation previews . . . soooooo much. This summer it's been one long travelogue, when it hasn't been you complaining about not having a job. It's just no fun any more."
Well, here's an idea. Taking a page from the temp agencies, I must remind you that this, too, is a free service, and if you're reading it, you're benefiting from my talents without giving me anything in return. If just one person on your block bought a copy of my book, you could all pitch in together, and it would likely cost each person only a few pennies to have a brand-new copy of a tasteful item that you could all share (you could read it aloud on long winter evenings or set it on your coffee table if you want to show people how smart you are). Think about what a difference that would make to my bank account! Incidentally, though it may not matter to you, my blog appears to have many more readers now than it used to have, so I'm not so sure that people don't prefer the unvarnished truth, whatever form it takes.
I can't offer you any sky miles, travel points, or gift cards as an incentive to support a writer, but I can offer my sincere thanks to those who do. And if you can't afford to buy the book, no problem. I don't so much expect people to support my career as to avoid hindering it. If you do that, you're asking for trouble, and people who ask for trouble rarely avoid finding it, like whoever is responsible for the magically disappearing text, opening and closing applications, and randomly appearing highlighting that have plagued me the entire time I've been writing this blog today. I should be paid handsomely just for persevering through this nonsense. My feeling is that somebody out there needs to get his own blog.
To fans of Jungian interpretation and Hillmanian seeing through, I say (along with Shiva), "Fear not!" I have been watching television! It could be that next week, I'll want to address Yes to the Dress, Game of Thrones, or both, if something more interesting doesn't happen before then. But don't expect a long, tedious, respectful study of either one--it's likely to be something vastly more playful, if I do indeed get around to it. I never take anything I see on television very seriously--and I don't recommend that you do either.
Goodbye until next week--and consider supporting a writer today!
In a city the size of Los Angeles, in the summer, that is certainly surprising, if not shocking. And then there was the agency that actually lost all of my application materials clean out of their database, or so they said. I was told by another agency, when I questioned the lack of opportunities, that a temp agency was a free service, as if to imply that my actually expecting to get a temp job after spending hours filling out multiple forms was unreasonable and ungrateful. What I do know is that the agencies profit greatly from the labor of their workers, who are their single asset, but I guess the woman at that agency somehow thought I was born yesterday.
After several surreal days of contacting and re-contacting employment agencies, potential employers, YWCAs, and other agencies about jobs and possible housing options (including shelters, which aren't even that easy to get into, even if you wanted to be there), I realized that unless I wanted to sleep in my car, I was going to have to leave L.A., at least temporarily, and try something else. Since my plan consisted of returning to the very place I'd worked so hard to leave, it wasn't ideal but was really the only thing I could think to do; I do, after all, have more of a history and a network here than I do in Los Angeles, not that it has done me much good in recent years in terms of job-hunting. It really shouldn't be this difficult for a flexible, well-qualified person, but somehow it is. Someone asked me if I thought I'd been blackballed for some reason. Who, moi? If I find out that that is the case, I'm definitely suing. And it's definitely not true that I'm working undercover for the FBI or anyone else, though I don't suppose anyone is really gullible enough to believe that.
I was contacted yesterday about a temp job in Lexington that I had only applied for yesterday morning, and I had to scramble to find some suitable writing samples on hand to send in, but I did so. I still don't know whether it will lead to anything, and I haven't received the link to the writing test I was asked to take, so although it sounded yesterday as if they were rather interested in me, it may come to nothing, as many of these things do. I don't mind whether I work here or in L.A., as long as I'm working, but I hope to get back to California as soon as possible, as that is where I had planned to stay.
The trip back wasn't easy, though I did get to break it up by visiting a friend in Texas. I wasn't in the hurricane--that was one thing I did manage to avoid, except for a downpour or two in North Texas, which may or may not have been Harvey-related. It was disheartening to see the very sights I'd whizzed by only three months ago coming at me in reverse, but I tried to make the best of it. I continue to be amazed at the beauty of our country, and even if I myself am not a desert person, I enjoyed looking at the often stunning scenery of the Southwest. (Even if the Mojave Desert isn't the most inviting place to pass through when you're driving by yourself, I realize it has its own beauty and would probably be better appreciated under different circumstances.) I enjoyed the clear night sky over Flagstaff, Arizona, the rock formations, mesas, and canyons of New Mexico, and the rolling range lands and big, open sky of Texas, not that I was that thrilled to be seeing them again so soon.
I am now sitting in a hotel room in Lexington watching the rain fall and enjoying even that, since I have always enjoyed summers in Lexington--with their varied but generally warm and humid days and long, drawn-out evenings--more than any other season. I like a lot of things about Lexington and Kentucky, despite having found life here limiting in so many ways for so long. One question I have answered for myself concerns my ability to go somewhere else alone and establish a new life: I can do it just fine, and that was something I was never sure of until I tried it. I like California and think it realistic to suppose I could be happy there with a job and a permanent home. It was the obstacles to achieving those modest and reasonable goals that were the real problem.
I can hear my readers now complaining, "Oh, Mary, won't you ever get back to writing about anything besides your job search and your struggle to get established in California? I used to love your (insert the option of your choice) book reviews, film reviews, dream interpretations, random observations, advice to the lovelorn, household hints, groundbreaking journalism, dissertation previews . . . soooooo much. This summer it's been one long travelogue, when it hasn't been you complaining about not having a job. It's just no fun any more."
Well, here's an idea. Taking a page from the temp agencies, I must remind you that this, too, is a free service, and if you're reading it, you're benefiting from my talents without giving me anything in return. If just one person on your block bought a copy of my book, you could all pitch in together, and it would likely cost each person only a few pennies to have a brand-new copy of a tasteful item that you could all share (you could read it aloud on long winter evenings or set it on your coffee table if you want to show people how smart you are). Think about what a difference that would make to my bank account! Incidentally, though it may not matter to you, my blog appears to have many more readers now than it used to have, so I'm not so sure that people don't prefer the unvarnished truth, whatever form it takes.
I can't offer you any sky miles, travel points, or gift cards as an incentive to support a writer, but I can offer my sincere thanks to those who do. And if you can't afford to buy the book, no problem. I don't so much expect people to support my career as to avoid hindering it. If you do that, you're asking for trouble, and people who ask for trouble rarely avoid finding it, like whoever is responsible for the magically disappearing text, opening and closing applications, and randomly appearing highlighting that have plagued me the entire time I've been writing this blog today. I should be paid handsomely just for persevering through this nonsense. My feeling is that somebody out there needs to get his own blog.
To fans of Jungian interpretation and Hillmanian seeing through, I say (along with Shiva), "Fear not!" I have been watching television! It could be that next week, I'll want to address Yes to the Dress, Game of Thrones, or both, if something more interesting doesn't happen before then. But don't expect a long, tedious, respectful study of either one--it's likely to be something vastly more playful, if I do indeed get around to it. I never take anything I see on television very seriously--and I don't recommend that you do either.
Goodbye until next week--and consider supporting a writer today!
Friday, January 6, 2017
Wordplay Says "Auld Lang Syne"
When I started this blog in January 2010, I was beginning my dissertation, so Wordplay was one of two creative ventures occupying my thoughts. I saw it as a sort of journal accompanying my dissertation research and writing; sometimes I worked out my thoughts in the blog and later went back to see what I had written once I was deeper into the research. Besides that, though, it was a way to put into practice what I'd been taught--how to look at the world through a mythic lens. I was very excited about it then and still am. When I talked to people about depth psychology and mythology, it usually seemed to strike some kind of a chord, and I felt a wider audience might also be receptive . . . so that's how Wordplay came about. I was having fun with what I was doing and thought I'd have even more fun writing about it.
At some point, I wrote a description of the blog that included a lot of the "descriptors" or buzz words that I thought would help people find it, but when I read that summary now (whether or not it helps in search results) it seems too wordy. If you were to ask me now, I'd just tell you that, pure and simple, this is a blog about the mythology of everyday life. The idea that ordinary life, and not just the doings of legendary figures from the distant past, is the material of mythology was one of the most exciting ideas I ever came across, and I think other people have also found that to be true.
Reading mythic texts from various traditions with a depth psychological eye was one thing; we spent a lot of time on this in my program, and it was a transformative experience. Learning how to look at the present-day world to see the myths and archetypes underlying current events was something else, at least for me. With an English degree in my background, I'm used to analyzing literary texts and can talk about the archetypes of any given book or film with a fair degree of comfort. But it seemed to me that for a degree in myth studies to be useful, it would have to encompass more than academic and literary subjects: it would have to provide insight into the world we live in.
The concept of reading events for meaning the same way one reads a literary text takes great skill, in my opinion, and subtlety--a certain amount of fearlessness doesn't hurt either. After all, real life moves and flows and doesn't stay still; it's not fixed on a page. There is no way to "prove" that one's reading of a particular event or phenomenon is "the" correct one, and chances are there are other ways of looking at the same event that are just as useful. We learned the term mythopoesis in my program, which to me means looking at the world the same way you look at a poem. In other words, you're alive to not only what's in front of you, the actual "words on the page," but also the implications of the words, the story that unfolds in between, beneath, and around them. This requires intuition and understanding; knowing what's there is only the first step.
Reading the world mythopoetically is complicated by the fact that, based on my experience anyway, it's often hard to know what the facts are. On any given day, I can read the news and think, "Hmmm, is that what really happened, or is that just what someone said happened?" It's much easier to read events when you know what they are, which may sound like a truism, but as recent events on the U.S. political scene have shown us, basic facts are often in dispute. Much of the news is colored by assumptions and written from a certain point of view. I'm firmly in favor of people expressing their opinions, but first I want to know what the facts are so that I can form my own opinion.
That brings me to an unexpected role I sometimes find myself playing on this blog, the role of mythojournalist. This happened because I often searched in vain for news sources that seemed to dig deep enough and connect the dots between events. Sometimes the what would be there but not the why; often, even the what would be hard to discern in a sea of opinion and misinformation. If an event left me scratching my head, I tried to understand the implications behind it. I certainly never pictured myself as a crusading journalist (book reviews and a little humor are more in my line), but my forays into mythojournalism were born of frustration. I often felt something was missing in other people's reporting, and I tried to fill in the gaps. After all, politics, business, and world affairs are a part of everyday life, too.
And speaking of trying to read events, I feel that our nation, and perhaps the world, is actually in a bit of a precarious position at the moment. I had hoped that when the election was over, things would seem calmer, but that hasn't happened. There's a lot of name-calling and saber-rattling and plenty of people ready to point the finger at anyone but themselves, and if you want me to say what I think the problem is, I'll give you my opinion: I think our nation has a deep unwillingness to look at its own shadow. This translates into: "We are pure; it's other people who have problems."
We seem to be sliding by degrees closer and closer back to a Cold War, which I don't suppose anyone views as desirable. I'm an American, and I support the Constitution, but still I find myself wondering: what's behind all the hostility between Russia and the United States? Is it barely possible that Russia has some legitimate concerns, too, as I have heard one or two American officials suggest? Does it really have to be "us or them"? I don't know who hacked the DNC, and I sincerely hope we find out, but even the facts of the who, what, when, where, and why seem to be in dispute. There are plenty of opinions being expressed, though, and since most of us have been taught to fear Russia, there seems to be a lack of balance to some of the coverage. I'm not saying that allegations of hacking and interference shouldn't be taken seriously; I'd merely like a little more light and less heat.
I will tell you that long ago, when I worked for a newspaper, I was assigned to write a Newspaper in Education supplement on Russia. This was right after the fall of the Soviet Union, and the supplement was meant to give students some background on Russian history. I didn't know much about Russia before I started, and as the country has over a thousand years of history, I feel that what I did merely scratched the surface--but I did come away from the project with a sense of respect for the Russian people, who have survived many difficult periods and apparently have great resiliency. It's a huge country, with many borders to defend, just like the United States. I am neither defending nor condemning Russia, but I am wondering what their point of view is in all the recent fracas. And I'm still not entirely sure I understand what happened in Ukraine.
Once you start looking at the world mythopoetically, your capacity to see things from more than one point of view increases, which I hope is a good thing and not a bad thing. Being understanding of someone else's viewpoint should tend to increase the chances of solving conflicts, not make things worse, according to my understanding of conflict resolution. I'm sincerely hoping there's a willingness on all sides to be honest and open about the real issues, as it seems to me that the world is much too small for this kind of conflict to be a good thing.
Well, six years of Wordplay, and there's much more to come, I hope. Perhaps someday soon I'll be able to get back to more lighthearted subjects, though I reserve the right to speak up on any subject if I feel the need. One thing I can tell you for sure is that Joseph Campbell was right: mythology is a call to adventure, though as is the usual way of things, the adventure may be different from what you imagined it to be. I was a writer without a topic before I started my study of mythology, and that blew my imagination wide open. It also helped me discover some personal qualities I didn't quite know I had. If you're feeling an interest in it yourself, my only caution is to be prepared: once you open your mind, things never quite look the same way again.
At some point, I wrote a description of the blog that included a lot of the "descriptors" or buzz words that I thought would help people find it, but when I read that summary now (whether or not it helps in search results) it seems too wordy. If you were to ask me now, I'd just tell you that, pure and simple, this is a blog about the mythology of everyday life. The idea that ordinary life, and not just the doings of legendary figures from the distant past, is the material of mythology was one of the most exciting ideas I ever came across, and I think other people have also found that to be true.
Reading mythic texts from various traditions with a depth psychological eye was one thing; we spent a lot of time on this in my program, and it was a transformative experience. Learning how to look at the present-day world to see the myths and archetypes underlying current events was something else, at least for me. With an English degree in my background, I'm used to analyzing literary texts and can talk about the archetypes of any given book or film with a fair degree of comfort. But it seemed to me that for a degree in myth studies to be useful, it would have to encompass more than academic and literary subjects: it would have to provide insight into the world we live in.
The concept of reading events for meaning the same way one reads a literary text takes great skill, in my opinion, and subtlety--a certain amount of fearlessness doesn't hurt either. After all, real life moves and flows and doesn't stay still; it's not fixed on a page. There is no way to "prove" that one's reading of a particular event or phenomenon is "the" correct one, and chances are there are other ways of looking at the same event that are just as useful. We learned the term mythopoesis in my program, which to me means looking at the world the same way you look at a poem. In other words, you're alive to not only what's in front of you, the actual "words on the page," but also the implications of the words, the story that unfolds in between, beneath, and around them. This requires intuition and understanding; knowing what's there is only the first step.
Reading the world mythopoetically is complicated by the fact that, based on my experience anyway, it's often hard to know what the facts are. On any given day, I can read the news and think, "Hmmm, is that what really happened, or is that just what someone said happened?" It's much easier to read events when you know what they are, which may sound like a truism, but as recent events on the U.S. political scene have shown us, basic facts are often in dispute. Much of the news is colored by assumptions and written from a certain point of view. I'm firmly in favor of people expressing their opinions, but first I want to know what the facts are so that I can form my own opinion.
That brings me to an unexpected role I sometimes find myself playing on this blog, the role of mythojournalist. This happened because I often searched in vain for news sources that seemed to dig deep enough and connect the dots between events. Sometimes the what would be there but not the why; often, even the what would be hard to discern in a sea of opinion and misinformation. If an event left me scratching my head, I tried to understand the implications behind it. I certainly never pictured myself as a crusading journalist (book reviews and a little humor are more in my line), but my forays into mythojournalism were born of frustration. I often felt something was missing in other people's reporting, and I tried to fill in the gaps. After all, politics, business, and world affairs are a part of everyday life, too.
And speaking of trying to read events, I feel that our nation, and perhaps the world, is actually in a bit of a precarious position at the moment. I had hoped that when the election was over, things would seem calmer, but that hasn't happened. There's a lot of name-calling and saber-rattling and plenty of people ready to point the finger at anyone but themselves, and if you want me to say what I think the problem is, I'll give you my opinion: I think our nation has a deep unwillingness to look at its own shadow. This translates into: "We are pure; it's other people who have problems."
We seem to be sliding by degrees closer and closer back to a Cold War, which I don't suppose anyone views as desirable. I'm an American, and I support the Constitution, but still I find myself wondering: what's behind all the hostility between Russia and the United States? Is it barely possible that Russia has some legitimate concerns, too, as I have heard one or two American officials suggest? Does it really have to be "us or them"? I don't know who hacked the DNC, and I sincerely hope we find out, but even the facts of the who, what, when, where, and why seem to be in dispute. There are plenty of opinions being expressed, though, and since most of us have been taught to fear Russia, there seems to be a lack of balance to some of the coverage. I'm not saying that allegations of hacking and interference shouldn't be taken seriously; I'd merely like a little more light and less heat.
I will tell you that long ago, when I worked for a newspaper, I was assigned to write a Newspaper in Education supplement on Russia. This was right after the fall of the Soviet Union, and the supplement was meant to give students some background on Russian history. I didn't know much about Russia before I started, and as the country has over a thousand years of history, I feel that what I did merely scratched the surface--but I did come away from the project with a sense of respect for the Russian people, who have survived many difficult periods and apparently have great resiliency. It's a huge country, with many borders to defend, just like the United States. I am neither defending nor condemning Russia, but I am wondering what their point of view is in all the recent fracas. And I'm still not entirely sure I understand what happened in Ukraine.
Once you start looking at the world mythopoetically, your capacity to see things from more than one point of view increases, which I hope is a good thing and not a bad thing. Being understanding of someone else's viewpoint should tend to increase the chances of solving conflicts, not make things worse, according to my understanding of conflict resolution. I'm sincerely hoping there's a willingness on all sides to be honest and open about the real issues, as it seems to me that the world is much too small for this kind of conflict to be a good thing.
Well, six years of Wordplay, and there's much more to come, I hope. Perhaps someday soon I'll be able to get back to more lighthearted subjects, though I reserve the right to speak up on any subject if I feel the need. One thing I can tell you for sure is that Joseph Campbell was right: mythology is a call to adventure, though as is the usual way of things, the adventure may be different from what you imagined it to be. I was a writer without a topic before I started my study of mythology, and that blew my imagination wide open. It also helped me discover some personal qualities I didn't quite know I had. If you're feeling an interest in it yourself, my only caution is to be prepared: once you open your mind, things never quite look the same way again.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
A Writer in Winter
The silence I hear outside right now is due to a muffling effect; there are several inches of snow already, it's been falling fast since early evening, and there could be a foot of it by tomorrow. This is shaping up to be a repeat of the big snowstorm of two weeks ago, which had nearly finished melting off as of today. We've had almost all our winter near the end of the season; spring is just over two weeks away.
Naturally, a writer should be at home in any kind of weather. No matter the climate, the heck with the season, anything is potential material--in theory, anyway. Bad weather provides a golden opportunity to think, read, write, look through your drawers, make hot tea, and twiddle your thumbs. Failing inspiration, you can always bake bread, make soup, practice yoga, give yourself a spa treatment, or dance to zydeco in your living room. But even the most stoic of writers needs fresh air at some point, and that's not easy with a foot of snow on the ground and temperatures in single digits.
Over the last few days, I've been able to go for walks, though it hasn't been loads of fun since the post-storm landscape has involved a lot of sludge and standing water, not to mention persistent icy patches. Nothing, however, that you couldn't get around, if you really wanted to and weren't averse to mud. And it was nothing compared to the day I hiked through the park when the snow was still deep--and hiking really is the word. That turned out to be more exercise than I'd bargained for.
It was a couple of Sundays ago, and the temperature was mild enough that an hour's walk didn't involve the risk of hypothermia. I was feeling the need to stretch my legs, having been unable to do so since the previous weekend, so I pulled on my boots and crunch, crunch crunched my way up the street. At that point, we'd had several days of melting, but the snow was still half a foot or more deep in places. It wasn't so much that it was icy but that it was like walking through sand--just difficult to get anywhere. Needless to say, there was hardly anyone out. The path was hidden under snow, though a few people before me had somehow managed to find it and blaze a very sketchy trail.
I slipped and slid around as best I could, trying to stay on the path when I could see it. The air was refreshing, and the wintry scene pretty enough, if a little gray--though I'd much rather it had been summer. It took me half again as long to do the walk as it normally does. I ran into even more difficulty two-thirds of the way around when I came to a stretch where the snow was undisturbed by anything except a single bicycle track. Determined to finish, I struggled on. What I really needed were snowshoes, but lacking that, I relied on native stubbornness. I had three things in mind: 1. what a good workout it was 2. that I was possibly making it easier for someone who might come along later and 3. how fast I was going to get into my down slippers when I got home.
The long and short is that I did make it through the untrod territory and eventually around the whole circuit. I didn't realize how hard I'd been working until I got back onto an actual (mostly clear) sidewalk that allowed for a normal gait; ordinary walking suddenly felt like floating, the easiest thing in the world. I stepped into some muddy water at the end of my street and managed to get my feet wet, but since I was almost home, it didn't matter. I pulled my boots off right inside the door, put on my slippers, and thought about dinner. I was also thinking that I'd never have gone on that walk if I'd known how uncongenial it was going to be, but now that it was over, I felt pretty virtuous.
From what I hear, this week's winter blast will be followed by relatively mild temperatures next week, so maybe we'll have a faster melt-off this time and I won't have to make another deep-snow trek. We'll see how it goes. Yoga and living room dance sessions are great as far as they go, but writers need to walk, too. I don't know if this is universally true, but I suspect it might be. I won't say I do some of my best thinking while walking, because I've done my best thinking in all sorts of situations, but putting one foot in front of the other does seems to jar things loose sometimes, in more ways than one.
Naturally, a writer should be at home in any kind of weather. No matter the climate, the heck with the season, anything is potential material--in theory, anyway. Bad weather provides a golden opportunity to think, read, write, look through your drawers, make hot tea, and twiddle your thumbs. Failing inspiration, you can always bake bread, make soup, practice yoga, give yourself a spa treatment, or dance to zydeco in your living room. But even the most stoic of writers needs fresh air at some point, and that's not easy with a foot of snow on the ground and temperatures in single digits.
Over the last few days, I've been able to go for walks, though it hasn't been loads of fun since the post-storm landscape has involved a lot of sludge and standing water, not to mention persistent icy patches. Nothing, however, that you couldn't get around, if you really wanted to and weren't averse to mud. And it was nothing compared to the day I hiked through the park when the snow was still deep--and hiking really is the word. That turned out to be more exercise than I'd bargained for.
It was a couple of Sundays ago, and the temperature was mild enough that an hour's walk didn't involve the risk of hypothermia. I was feeling the need to stretch my legs, having been unable to do so since the previous weekend, so I pulled on my boots and crunch, crunch crunched my way up the street. At that point, we'd had several days of melting, but the snow was still half a foot or more deep in places. It wasn't so much that it was icy but that it was like walking through sand--just difficult to get anywhere. Needless to say, there was hardly anyone out. The path was hidden under snow, though a few people before me had somehow managed to find it and blaze a very sketchy trail.
I slipped and slid around as best I could, trying to stay on the path when I could see it. The air was refreshing, and the wintry scene pretty enough, if a little gray--though I'd much rather it had been summer. It took me half again as long to do the walk as it normally does. I ran into even more difficulty two-thirds of the way around when I came to a stretch where the snow was undisturbed by anything except a single bicycle track. Determined to finish, I struggled on. What I really needed were snowshoes, but lacking that, I relied on native stubbornness. I had three things in mind: 1. what a good workout it was 2. that I was possibly making it easier for someone who might come along later and 3. how fast I was going to get into my down slippers when I got home.
The long and short is that I did make it through the untrod territory and eventually around the whole circuit. I didn't realize how hard I'd been working until I got back onto an actual (mostly clear) sidewalk that allowed for a normal gait; ordinary walking suddenly felt like floating, the easiest thing in the world. I stepped into some muddy water at the end of my street and managed to get my feet wet, but since I was almost home, it didn't matter. I pulled my boots off right inside the door, put on my slippers, and thought about dinner. I was also thinking that I'd never have gone on that walk if I'd known how uncongenial it was going to be, but now that it was over, I felt pretty virtuous.
From what I hear, this week's winter blast will be followed by relatively mild temperatures next week, so maybe we'll have a faster melt-off this time and I won't have to make another deep-snow trek. We'll see how it goes. Yoga and living room dance sessions are great as far as they go, but writers need to walk, too. I don't know if this is universally true, but I suspect it might be. I won't say I do some of my best thinking while walking, because I've done my best thinking in all sorts of situations, but putting one foot in front of the other does seems to jar things loose sometimes, in more ways than one.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
The Game of the Surreal, or: The Not-Quite-Haunted Apartment
The human mind just naturally wants to make sense of things and see passing events in a coherent manner. Writers, given a disparate group of facts and the leisure to make of them what they will, come up with stories. I often find myself musing on events and trying out different plot lines. Who knows, I may make a novelist yet.
Take this past week, for instance. Beginning last Saturday night, the noise from the apartment above me began to take on added life (this is a continuing saga, as those who follow my blog are aware). From repeated horrendous crashes (what passes for normal around here) to mysterious tapping sounds to remarkably persistent creaking floorboards to muffled, inexplicable noises directly overhead while one is trying to sleep (as if someone is doing a full-body buffing job on the floor) to other things I won't mention, it's akin to living under the sound effects department of a Hollywood B movie studio.
Then there are my adventures with the probate court system, where I went to correct a mistake in my middle initial (which is not "J"), simply because I don't like typos and the confusion that can arise from muddles. This mistake was in the file of my mother's estate case; while the case isn't active, the errant "J" (from a misreading of a signature) has always troubled me, and even more so lately, as I've seen from my own experience just how many Mary Hackworths are out there beating the bushes of the world. It's not as distinctive a name as I used to think it was.
In adding a note to the probate record, I discovered another anomaly: the case number originally assigned by the court is not the one that ended up on my mother's case file. The original number, for reasons no one was able to explain to me, ended up on the file of another person (who may or may not even be dead, since one document listed the date of death as June 31, 2007).
Then, too, there are the current events one reads about, spinning away in the background of all our lives . . . politics, money, corruption, etc. If you pay attention to the news long enough, you begin to see patterns, and in that case, you may be tempted to either run out and become an investigative reporter yourself (though who has time for a journalism degree) or let your imagination run wild in the creation of a fictional narrative that ties motley pieces of facts into a rational story line.
How about this one: a person dies without a will. Unknown to the descendants, he was worth a fortune. However, someone else knows about the money and sees an opportunity to make off with it when a simple typo creates an opportunity for confusion about identities. A series of lugs are hired to move into the apartment building of the unfortunate heir, causing enough noise and unpleasantness that (it is hoped) the tenant will move, creating the possibility of a cold trail and misdirected mail. (If that doesn't work, the lugs are instructed to create an "accidental" fire or some other disaster that cannot easily be traced, thereby eliminating the party.)
The plot thickens when it becomes apparent that the fortune -- not just any garden-variety fortune, but a rather large one -- has actually been targeted by not just a greedy opportunist, but one with shadowy connections to the financial world, highly placed politicians, the deep state, and terror organizations. The money is wanted to grease the wheels of war, misery, and disaster in order to create even larger fortunes for those who stand to gain from all of the above.
This jolly group of plotters, making use of everything from unscrupulous acquaintances, hired guns, secret operatives, mind games, foul plots, harassment, spying, and all sorts of mayhem, tries to silence or eliminate the descendant, his friends, and any possible allies. Various people stumble onto parts of the plot and attempt to join forces to stop a heist that could be the prelude to World War III. Some act out of love, others for altruism, and others for love of country--and some for all three.
Thrillers and espionage have never really been my thing, so I'm not sure how this would hold up to scrutiny by John Le Carré or Robert Ludlum, but I'm fairly proud of it as a novice's contribution to the genre. I've been equally influenced by actual events, things I've read and heard, things I've experienced, and the same daily news to which all of us are privy. If I ever write this novel, I will, of course, include the statement that all similarities to actual persons and events are purely coincidental and not meant to be construed otherwise.
When the royalties start coming in, maybe I can move out of this noise-infested apartment and into something more to my liking. I'd start with peace and quiet, but a fireplace, a front porch, and a rain-bath showerhead would be nice. Oh, and I want a garden, too.
Take this past week, for instance. Beginning last Saturday night, the noise from the apartment above me began to take on added life (this is a continuing saga, as those who follow my blog are aware). From repeated horrendous crashes (what passes for normal around here) to mysterious tapping sounds to remarkably persistent creaking floorboards to muffled, inexplicable noises directly overhead while one is trying to sleep (as if someone is doing a full-body buffing job on the floor) to other things I won't mention, it's akin to living under the sound effects department of a Hollywood B movie studio.
Then there are my adventures with the probate court system, where I went to correct a mistake in my middle initial (which is not "J"), simply because I don't like typos and the confusion that can arise from muddles. This mistake was in the file of my mother's estate case; while the case isn't active, the errant "J" (from a misreading of a signature) has always troubled me, and even more so lately, as I've seen from my own experience just how many Mary Hackworths are out there beating the bushes of the world. It's not as distinctive a name as I used to think it was.
In adding a note to the probate record, I discovered another anomaly: the case number originally assigned by the court is not the one that ended up on my mother's case file. The original number, for reasons no one was able to explain to me, ended up on the file of another person (who may or may not even be dead, since one document listed the date of death as June 31, 2007).
Then, too, there are the current events one reads about, spinning away in the background of all our lives . . . politics, money, corruption, etc. If you pay attention to the news long enough, you begin to see patterns, and in that case, you may be tempted to either run out and become an investigative reporter yourself (though who has time for a journalism degree) or let your imagination run wild in the creation of a fictional narrative that ties motley pieces of facts into a rational story line.
How about this one: a person dies without a will. Unknown to the descendants, he was worth a fortune. However, someone else knows about the money and sees an opportunity to make off with it when a simple typo creates an opportunity for confusion about identities. A series of lugs are hired to move into the apartment building of the unfortunate heir, causing enough noise and unpleasantness that (it is hoped) the tenant will move, creating the possibility of a cold trail and misdirected mail. (If that doesn't work, the lugs are instructed to create an "accidental" fire or some other disaster that cannot easily be traced, thereby eliminating the party.)
The plot thickens when it becomes apparent that the fortune -- not just any garden-variety fortune, but a rather large one -- has actually been targeted by not just a greedy opportunist, but one with shadowy connections to the financial world, highly placed politicians, the deep state, and terror organizations. The money is wanted to grease the wheels of war, misery, and disaster in order to create even larger fortunes for those who stand to gain from all of the above.
This jolly group of plotters, making use of everything from unscrupulous acquaintances, hired guns, secret operatives, mind games, foul plots, harassment, spying, and all sorts of mayhem, tries to silence or eliminate the descendant, his friends, and any possible allies. Various people stumble onto parts of the plot and attempt to join forces to stop a heist that could be the prelude to World War III. Some act out of love, others for altruism, and others for love of country--and some for all three.
Thrillers and espionage have never really been my thing, so I'm not sure how this would hold up to scrutiny by John Le Carré or Robert Ludlum, but I'm fairly proud of it as a novice's contribution to the genre. I've been equally influenced by actual events, things I've read and heard, things I've experienced, and the same daily news to which all of us are privy. If I ever write this novel, I will, of course, include the statement that all similarities to actual persons and events are purely coincidental and not meant to be construed otherwise.
When the royalties start coming in, maybe I can move out of this noise-infested apartment and into something more to my liking. I'd start with peace and quiet, but a fireplace, a front porch, and a rain-bath showerhead would be nice. Oh, and I want a garden, too.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Gone Fishing
Not really, but Wordplay is on a short break while I wrestle with revisions, labyrinths, cultural complexes, the myth of the rugged individualist, the potency of the myth of the rugged individualist, majority-minority demographic trends, the exact location of the Minotaur, Benjamin Franklin, the Knights of the Round Table, and the peer review process.
Friday, February 22, 2013
What's in a Weekend?
O for a Muse of fire.
I started a new book this week -- this time, it's a novel. It's a story I've tried to write before, without success, but this time, having already written another book, I may be able to bring it in for a landing. I now know that doing something daunting one time can be enough to break up your mental reservations about what you are and aren't capable of for good. Actually, that's one of the themes of the book.
It's not exactly true to say this is my first novel, because I did finish one during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) about seven years ago. That was my first novel, and if it wasn't stellar (or even remotely publishable), it was a fun exercise in creativity. With only a month to work in, your fingers really have to blaze to meet the deadline, and the speed is freeing in and of itself. There's no time to edit, ponder, or second-guess. Whatever comes into your head is what ends up on paper. It's a great way to show yourself that you can produce a story with a beginning, middle, and an end, but it's very unforgiving as far as allowing you an "out" if you start down an unproductive plot line.
I'm intrigued by limitations. Haiku are my favorite kind of poems to write because I like having to get it just so in a few simple words. My new novel has a built-in limitation in that it tells the story of a single weekend. No tortured, extended Proustian remembrances here -- my challenge will be to try to relate how one weekend can change your life, even if it does so in a different way than you imagined it would. That's another of its themes, the disconcerting experience of looking for one thing but finding something else that may in the long run be more valuable.
Patience, ambiguity, the seizing of the moment, the fallibility of the heart, truth, illusion . . . all of these play a part in my story. Actually, it may be more of a fable, something you can read in less time than it takes the described events to unfold. I'll play with it and see where it goes. Unlike some other stories I've started in the past, I already know the ending of this one. I've sometimes thought that not knowing where a story is going can be one of the most exciting inducements to write it, so that you can find out what happens. I think there are times when that's true. This time, though, having the plot sketched out lets me concentrate on how to tell the story, which to me, in this case, is a much more interesting prospect.
Ian McEwan's novel Saturday, which tells the tale of a series of game-changing events occurring in the course of a single day, comes to mind as a literary example of how much life a single day can hold. As I recall, it revealed how a number of seemingly inconsequential events led to completely unforeseen and devastating consequences. A bit of an existential nightmare, that one, but very well told. Mine will be more light-hearted than that and deals with intentionality instead of chance. Rather than leave you shuddering, I hope to leave you smiling.
So far, I've enjoyed the writing. As always, the process of putting things into just the right words is exciting, frustrating, painstaking, difficult, and liberating. I may be at it for a while, but this time there's no rush.
I started a new book this week -- this time, it's a novel. It's a story I've tried to write before, without success, but this time, having already written another book, I may be able to bring it in for a landing. I now know that doing something daunting one time can be enough to break up your mental reservations about what you are and aren't capable of for good. Actually, that's one of the themes of the book.
It's not exactly true to say this is my first novel, because I did finish one during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) about seven years ago. That was my first novel, and if it wasn't stellar (or even remotely publishable), it was a fun exercise in creativity. With only a month to work in, your fingers really have to blaze to meet the deadline, and the speed is freeing in and of itself. There's no time to edit, ponder, or second-guess. Whatever comes into your head is what ends up on paper. It's a great way to show yourself that you can produce a story with a beginning, middle, and an end, but it's very unforgiving as far as allowing you an "out" if you start down an unproductive plot line.
I'm intrigued by limitations. Haiku are my favorite kind of poems to write because I like having to get it just so in a few simple words. My new novel has a built-in limitation in that it tells the story of a single weekend. No tortured, extended Proustian remembrances here -- my challenge will be to try to relate how one weekend can change your life, even if it does so in a different way than you imagined it would. That's another of its themes, the disconcerting experience of looking for one thing but finding something else that may in the long run be more valuable.
Patience, ambiguity, the seizing of the moment, the fallibility of the heart, truth, illusion . . . all of these play a part in my story. Actually, it may be more of a fable, something you can read in less time than it takes the described events to unfold. I'll play with it and see where it goes. Unlike some other stories I've started in the past, I already know the ending of this one. I've sometimes thought that not knowing where a story is going can be one of the most exciting inducements to write it, so that you can find out what happens. I think there are times when that's true. This time, though, having the plot sketched out lets me concentrate on how to tell the story, which to me, in this case, is a much more interesting prospect.
Ian McEwan's novel Saturday, which tells the tale of a series of game-changing events occurring in the course of a single day, comes to mind as a literary example of how much life a single day can hold. As I recall, it revealed how a number of seemingly inconsequential events led to completely unforeseen and devastating consequences. A bit of an existential nightmare, that one, but very well told. Mine will be more light-hearted than that and deals with intentionality instead of chance. Rather than leave you shuddering, I hope to leave you smiling.
So far, I've enjoyed the writing. As always, the process of putting things into just the right words is exciting, frustrating, painstaking, difficult, and liberating. I may be at it for a while, but this time there's no rush.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
That's What You Get for Being You
What with baking gingerbread cookies, making the local arts scene, and doing what writers do, I've barely had time to wash clothes and go to the grocery store. Somehow, though, I still have time to think about things I'd like to write but haven't yet. I have so much material, between one thing and another, that I'm not sure how my head even holds it all. (People keep saying to me, "I bet you have a lot to write about." That's true, but how do they know?)
Take this thing about researching my family history . . . have I mentioned that? My mother had some questions about her origins that I think deserve to be answered. In between an Irish family tree I couldn't make heads or tails of and some memories that troubled my mother throughout her life, I think I'm more than justified. I don't mind an Unsolved Mystery on TV, but when it comes to my own life, I'm a regular Sherlock Holmes.
Of course, you know writers have a lot of imagination and a tendency to take even a tiny bit of material and run with it. Well, picture this: my mother was told (by her father) that her mother was not her mother, and she remembered being visited as a child by some wealthy people who singled her out for attention.
This suggests to me something like the following:
Child born out of wedlock in 1930s Ireland (or maybe England, and she was spirited to Ireland?). Wealthy, powerful father; poor, powerless mother (possibly a maid of some kind?). Maybe the father doesn't know about the pregnancy; maybe he insists on an abortion, but the mother refuses. She finds someone to take her baby in (a relative? a friend?). But somehow the father (or his people) find out about the baby.
Now, why would these people care? If the baby is raised in ignorance of her origins, no harm done -- right? But suppose there was a lot of money involved, and the father died without another heir. Or suppose the baby was his first-born, or the other heirs died, or joined nunneries, or were castaways on desert islands. (Note to self: investigate the laws of inheritance in Ireland and/or England.) Suppose -- suppose there was even a title involved. Now that's something people could really get worked up over.
So, the whole game becomes one of watching and making sure this baby never finds out the truth. But she's already wondering, because the people stupidly came and showed their hand. ("She doesn't look like the rest of them.") She'll never remember; she's a child! But she does; she does remember! Eventually, she marries an American serviceman and moves to America, where she has children and tries to forget the past. But it won't forget her, because, because -- (why not go for broke?) she's the daughter of a king! She's an actual princess (or a duchess, or something), starching shirts and changing diapers, in 1950s America.
Now, this won't do. She's already the heiress to a title, and now her line is flourishing. All those healthy babies. So attempts are made . . . that time with the gas jets, very, very strange. The car accident. The broken leg. All that interference with her marriage. Her life falls apart. A lot of trouble for this lady, but she keeps on ticking, and all of her children survive to adulthood.
It's years later, the lady is now elderly, and her children are scattered. She is feisty and difficult. While her daughter is away, she is hospitalized. The hospital uses the wrong telephone number to notify the daughter (Note: a similar plot device was used by Thomas Hardy in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, in which an all-important note, slipped under a door, goes under the rug by mistake). The children find out in time to rush to the hospital, but the lady dies, having barely regained consciousness.
Life goes on. But unbeknownst to the daughter, the forces that tried to bring her mother down are now marshaled against her and are even closer than she thinks. An unfortunate coincidence has placed an enemy in the very office she works in! (Gasp!) The siblings, engrossed in their own lives, are unaware of the danger that stalks their sister, and the sinister beings (disguised as ordinary folks) who have infiltrated her life will do anything for a buck. (I'm sorry to have to break it to you.)
Gradually, the daughter has to wonder: how long has this been going on? (How long has it been going on: plot point yet to be decided!) When the daughter calls in some surprising allies, things really get twisted: things half said, half unsaid; mysterious messages; people who look like other people (some of them dead); pretense; deceit, attempted murder. So the daughter decides to fight back with a little help from her friends and a little acting of her own.
Literally, a cast of thousands (by conservative estimate). Feigned madness, cross-country chases, mind games, stolen keys, identity theft, money changing hands, double agents, skinny dipping at 2 a.m., musical interludes, midnight rambles, Hollywood, the FBI, the CIA, foreign agents, garrulous cab drivers, incompetent bankers, jealousy, poison, trains, planes, automobiles, stolen guitars, politics, biological warfare, "accidents," veiled threats, unshakable loyalty, shakable loyalty, Democrats, Republicans, kings and queens, a MacBook, a possible love story (or several), some really bad disguises, traps, strange tapping noises, and a whole lot of people muttering "WTF!?" Somewhere in the book, someone has to shout, "Why are these Brits always in our face? We fought a war 200 years ago, and we're still not shed of them! I mean, I like scones as much as the next person, but still!" (That dialogue is non-negotiable.)
Sounds like a best-seller, doesn't it? I never thought espionage was my line, but life throws up some surprising material, and some of it may even be true.
Evildoers: All I can say is, never, ever put material like this in the hands of a writer. (And one who happens to be a librarian? Are you mad? They can look stuff up!) You've been warned -- and if it's already too late for you, well, that's what you get for being you. Maybe Jack Nicholson will play you in the movie, or Glenn Close, but as for my money, you ain't gettin' none of it. I've got student loans to pay.
Take this thing about researching my family history . . . have I mentioned that? My mother had some questions about her origins that I think deserve to be answered. In between an Irish family tree I couldn't make heads or tails of and some memories that troubled my mother throughout her life, I think I'm more than justified. I don't mind an Unsolved Mystery on TV, but when it comes to my own life, I'm a regular Sherlock Holmes.
Of course, you know writers have a lot of imagination and a tendency to take even a tiny bit of material and run with it. Well, picture this: my mother was told (by her father) that her mother was not her mother, and she remembered being visited as a child by some wealthy people who singled her out for attention.
This suggests to me something like the following:
Child born out of wedlock in 1930s Ireland (or maybe England, and she was spirited to Ireland?). Wealthy, powerful father; poor, powerless mother (possibly a maid of some kind?). Maybe the father doesn't know about the pregnancy; maybe he insists on an abortion, but the mother refuses. She finds someone to take her baby in (a relative? a friend?). But somehow the father (or his people) find out about the baby.
Now, why would these people care? If the baby is raised in ignorance of her origins, no harm done -- right? But suppose there was a lot of money involved, and the father died without another heir. Or suppose the baby was his first-born, or the other heirs died, or joined nunneries, or were castaways on desert islands. (Note to self: investigate the laws of inheritance in Ireland and/or England.) Suppose -- suppose there was even a title involved. Now that's something people could really get worked up over.
So, the whole game becomes one of watching and making sure this baby never finds out the truth. But she's already wondering, because the people stupidly came and showed their hand. ("She doesn't look like the rest of them.") She'll never remember; she's a child! But she does; she does remember! Eventually, she marries an American serviceman and moves to America, where she has children and tries to forget the past. But it won't forget her, because, because -- (why not go for broke?) she's the daughter of a king! She's an actual princess (or a duchess, or something), starching shirts and changing diapers, in 1950s America.
Now, this won't do. She's already the heiress to a title, and now her line is flourishing. All those healthy babies. So attempts are made . . . that time with the gas jets, very, very strange. The car accident. The broken leg. All that interference with her marriage. Her life falls apart. A lot of trouble for this lady, but she keeps on ticking, and all of her children survive to adulthood.
It's years later, the lady is now elderly, and her children are scattered. She is feisty and difficult. While her daughter is away, she is hospitalized. The hospital uses the wrong telephone number to notify the daughter (Note: a similar plot device was used by Thomas Hardy in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, in which an all-important note, slipped under a door, goes under the rug by mistake). The children find out in time to rush to the hospital, but the lady dies, having barely regained consciousness.
Life goes on. But unbeknownst to the daughter, the forces that tried to bring her mother down are now marshaled against her and are even closer than she thinks. An unfortunate coincidence has placed an enemy in the very office she works in! (Gasp!) The siblings, engrossed in their own lives, are unaware of the danger that stalks their sister, and the sinister beings (disguised as ordinary folks) who have infiltrated her life will do anything for a buck. (I'm sorry to have to break it to you.)
Gradually, the daughter has to wonder: how long has this been going on? (How long has it been going on: plot point yet to be decided!) When the daughter calls in some surprising allies, things really get twisted: things half said, half unsaid; mysterious messages; people who look like other people (some of them dead); pretense; deceit, attempted murder. So the daughter decides to fight back with a little help from her friends and a little acting of her own.
Literally, a cast of thousands (by conservative estimate). Feigned madness, cross-country chases, mind games, stolen keys, identity theft, money changing hands, double agents, skinny dipping at 2 a.m., musical interludes, midnight rambles, Hollywood, the FBI, the CIA, foreign agents, garrulous cab drivers, incompetent bankers, jealousy, poison, trains, planes, automobiles, stolen guitars, politics, biological warfare, "accidents," veiled threats, unshakable loyalty, shakable loyalty, Democrats, Republicans, kings and queens, a MacBook, a possible love story (or several), some really bad disguises, traps, strange tapping noises, and a whole lot of people muttering "WTF!?" Somewhere in the book, someone has to shout, "Why are these Brits always in our face? We fought a war 200 years ago, and we're still not shed of them! I mean, I like scones as much as the next person, but still!" (That dialogue is non-negotiable.)
Sounds like a best-seller, doesn't it? I never thought espionage was my line, but life throws up some surprising material, and some of it may even be true.
Evildoers: All I can say is, never, ever put material like this in the hands of a writer. (And one who happens to be a librarian? Are you mad? They can look stuff up!) You've been warned -- and if it's already too late for you, well, that's what you get for being you. Maybe Jack Nicholson will play you in the movie, or Glenn Close, but as for my money, you ain't gettin' none of it. I've got student loans to pay.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Press Releases for Ariadne
I went to a reading by writer Barbara Kingsolver tonight at a local bookstore and enjoyed hearing her read and talk about her new book. I went to the reading partly out of interest in Ms. Kingsolver's work and partly for inspiration. It's always enlightening to hear other people talk about how they work and what inspires them.
I wanted to ask her the same question I asked of Neil Gaiman a few years ago: Do you know where your stories are going before you write them, or do you find out as you go along? She partly answered the question in talking about the thought she puts into her stories before she starts writing. I especially liked what she said about deciding at the beginning what she wants the reader to get from the book and using that as a guide; I hadn't thought about doing that with fiction, but yes, it makes sense. I'm going to try it the next time I attempt a novel (it's got to happen sometime because I already have a title).
I'm not, like Ms. Kingsolver, a methodical writer. I'm more from the Writing by the Seat of Your Pants School of Composition, which has its drawbacks. (Plan blog posts in advance -- are you kidding?) Outlines have always seemed a little artificial to me, and I've always had fun writing just to see what would show up on the page. When I started my dissertation, I struggled to corral my thoughts, which ran all over the place like a herd of stray cats. I had to work hard to organize my ideas and was in despair at the seeming ease with which other people got their thesis in focus. What works for a shorter piece isn't necessarily appropriate for a dissertation.
Two years ago, I was just finishing my first two chapters. At the time I didn't know that I was off to a good start, just that it was hard work each and every time I sat down to write. It's like that sometimes.
Happily, it worked out over time, the dissertation got done, and I turned it into a book, which is out there for the world to see. I think it turned out great and would like everyone to wind up with one in their Christmas stocking, if at all possible, so that I can give readings just like Ms. Kingsolver and have my own driver.
I could have paid someone to write a press release for me, but as I told my sister the other day, I used to write press releases for a living and am not sure someone else can write a better one than I can do myself.
So here's my homemade press release, guaranteed to tell the truth and guide you in your buying decision:
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Dazzling New Talent Scores Big With First Book
Lexington, Kentucky - November 27, 2012 - Ariadne is a king's daughter living the good life on Crete when a dark secret from her family's past catches up with the present, threatening to destroy her romance with a prince on a mission. When Theseus arrives on Crete as part of a contingent due to be sacrificed to the insatiable Minotaur, Ariadne is smitten, even in the face of her father's anger. As keeper of the labyrinth's secrets, she is the one person who can save Theseus and the Athenian youths by revealing the labyrinth's innermost ways. Moved by love and haunted by fear, Ariadne must decide between loyalty to her father and country and loyalty to the sinewy Theseus. Like any good myth, this story has it all: love, death, family, sex, betrayal, a boat, and a man with a bull's head.
But behind the story you think you know lies an even more exciting terrain. Just who is Ariadne, after all, and why does she know the secrets of the labyrinth if Daedalus built it? Who is the Minotaur, really, and what does everyone have against him? If Theseus is such a prince, what's up with him and Phaedra? What really happened on Naxos? Why is everybody doing the Crane Dance? And why do these characters show up again and again in different guises over the centuries, almost recognizable but tantalizingly transformed?
Ms. Hackworth handles all of these questions with grace and aplomb, guiding you through the bewildering byways of labyrinth lore with the assurance of one who has been there, proving that it really can be solved by walking. You will be a-mazed as the Holy Grail, A Midsummer Night's Dream, a mysterious white whale, and even Bruce Springsteen flash before your eyes in this no-holds-barred tell-all. Solved by Walking: Paradox and Resolution in the Labyrinth is available now through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Powell's, and other online retailers, or you can always go to your favorite bookseller, be shocked if it isn't there, and ask for it. This timeless classic is sure to be on everyone's bestseller list, so beat the rush and get your copy today!
(I told you I could do it.)
I wanted to ask her the same question I asked of Neil Gaiman a few years ago: Do you know where your stories are going before you write them, or do you find out as you go along? She partly answered the question in talking about the thought she puts into her stories before she starts writing. I especially liked what she said about deciding at the beginning what she wants the reader to get from the book and using that as a guide; I hadn't thought about doing that with fiction, but yes, it makes sense. I'm going to try it the next time I attempt a novel (it's got to happen sometime because I already have a title).
I'm not, like Ms. Kingsolver, a methodical writer. I'm more from the Writing by the Seat of Your Pants School of Composition, which has its drawbacks. (Plan blog posts in advance -- are you kidding?) Outlines have always seemed a little artificial to me, and I've always had fun writing just to see what would show up on the page. When I started my dissertation, I struggled to corral my thoughts, which ran all over the place like a herd of stray cats. I had to work hard to organize my ideas and was in despair at the seeming ease with which other people got their thesis in focus. What works for a shorter piece isn't necessarily appropriate for a dissertation.
Two years ago, I was just finishing my first two chapters. At the time I didn't know that I was off to a good start, just that it was hard work each and every time I sat down to write. It's like that sometimes.
Happily, it worked out over time, the dissertation got done, and I turned it into a book, which is out there for the world to see. I think it turned out great and would like everyone to wind up with one in their Christmas stocking, if at all possible, so that I can give readings just like Ms. Kingsolver and have my own driver.
I could have paid someone to write a press release for me, but as I told my sister the other day, I used to write press releases for a living and am not sure someone else can write a better one than I can do myself.
So here's my homemade press release, guaranteed to tell the truth and guide you in your buying decision:
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Dazzling New Talent Scores Big With First Book
Lexington, Kentucky - November 27, 2012 - Ariadne is a king's daughter living the good life on Crete when a dark secret from her family's past catches up with the present, threatening to destroy her romance with a prince on a mission. When Theseus arrives on Crete as part of a contingent due to be sacrificed to the insatiable Minotaur, Ariadne is smitten, even in the face of her father's anger. As keeper of the labyrinth's secrets, she is the one person who can save Theseus and the Athenian youths by revealing the labyrinth's innermost ways. Moved by love and haunted by fear, Ariadne must decide between loyalty to her father and country and loyalty to the sinewy Theseus. Like any good myth, this story has it all: love, death, family, sex, betrayal, a boat, and a man with a bull's head.
But behind the story you think you know lies an even more exciting terrain. Just who is Ariadne, after all, and why does she know the secrets of the labyrinth if Daedalus built it? Who is the Minotaur, really, and what does everyone have against him? If Theseus is such a prince, what's up with him and Phaedra? What really happened on Naxos? Why is everybody doing the Crane Dance? And why do these characters show up again and again in different guises over the centuries, almost recognizable but tantalizingly transformed?
Ms. Hackworth handles all of these questions with grace and aplomb, guiding you through the bewildering byways of labyrinth lore with the assurance of one who has been there, proving that it really can be solved by walking. You will be a-mazed as the Holy Grail, A Midsummer Night's Dream, a mysterious white whale, and even Bruce Springsteen flash before your eyes in this no-holds-barred tell-all. Solved by Walking: Paradox and Resolution in the Labyrinth is available now through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Powell's, and other online retailers, or you can always go to your favorite bookseller, be shocked if it isn't there, and ask for it. This timeless classic is sure to be on everyone's bestseller list, so beat the rush and get your copy today!
###
(I told you I could do it.)
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Threshold Guardians
I'm at the point where I have read and absorbed pages and pages of words and have a whole forest of ideas in my head. I have culled arguments from papers I've written, taken notes on Virgil and Pliny, drunk chai lattes and mocha frappuccinos, stared into space, daydreamed, listened to the blues, considered buying a new mascara, and mopped my kitchen floor.
I have passed through the much scarier (and prolonged) period of just standing at the edge of the woods, staring at what appeared to be an impenetrable tangle. You start to push your way in, and you see that what appeared to be solid actually opens up a little, showing a passage where there didn't seem to be one.
It's like that instant in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, when pushing through an ordinary wardrobe full of coats with a seemingly solid back suddenly leads to another world, or in Through the Looking Glass, when Alice climbs through the mirror and finds herself in another country. You could also compare it to that moment in the Harry Potter books when, in order to get to Hogwarts, the kids have to run as hard as they can with a luggage trolley at a seemingly solid wall. Writing is like that.
No matter how long I write, or what kind of writing I do, I usually feel inadequate at the beginning. I've found that (solvitur ambulando) it's best to keep putting one foot in front of the other; progress is progress, including mistakes, and things start to take on a rhythm of their own if you just move. What seems like stumbling turns into something more graceful and patterned as long as you keep going. Think you're going to sound like Abraham Lincoln in the Gettysburg address? Forget it, at this stage. You have let go of your dignity and just scramble.
I recognize my delay tactics -- a sudden need to look at the Soft Surroundings web site, to check prices on silk comforters, and to watch a video of the cat that adopted a baby squirrel -- for what they are. They all express a reluctance to take a run at that hard place in case this time there really isn't a way through and I end up with bruises and scratches on my face. Or, more likely, there is a way, but it requires a lot of hard digging. Other people have explored writing (and reading) as processes of initiation, but this is actually my first time to realize that it applies to me, too.
Crossing the threshold is a liminal moment in any adventure, the signal that you've committed yourself. Fears are like the demons in The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Wrathful guardians, hungry ghosts, and hell beings may be just the projections of your own mind, but they still have flaming mouths and talons like razors. The minute you show them you mean business, though, they will simmer down and let you by -- they might even turn into a bouquet of flowers or an angel bearing that pale green sweater from Soft Surroundings. They are actually on your side, even if they do have ten heads.
I have passed through the much scarier (and prolonged) period of just standing at the edge of the woods, staring at what appeared to be an impenetrable tangle. You start to push your way in, and you see that what appeared to be solid actually opens up a little, showing a passage where there didn't seem to be one.
It's like that instant in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, when pushing through an ordinary wardrobe full of coats with a seemingly solid back suddenly leads to another world, or in Through the Looking Glass, when Alice climbs through the mirror and finds herself in another country. You could also compare it to that moment in the Harry Potter books when, in order to get to Hogwarts, the kids have to run as hard as they can with a luggage trolley at a seemingly solid wall. Writing is like that.
No matter how long I write, or what kind of writing I do, I usually feel inadequate at the beginning. I've found that (solvitur ambulando) it's best to keep putting one foot in front of the other; progress is progress, including mistakes, and things start to take on a rhythm of their own if you just move. What seems like stumbling turns into something more graceful and patterned as long as you keep going. Think you're going to sound like Abraham Lincoln in the Gettysburg address? Forget it, at this stage. You have let go of your dignity and just scramble.
I recognize my delay tactics -- a sudden need to look at the Soft Surroundings web site, to check prices on silk comforters, and to watch a video of the cat that adopted a baby squirrel -- for what they are. They all express a reluctance to take a run at that hard place in case this time there really isn't a way through and I end up with bruises and scratches on my face. Or, more likely, there is a way, but it requires a lot of hard digging. Other people have explored writing (and reading) as processes of initiation, but this is actually my first time to realize that it applies to me, too.
Crossing the threshold is a liminal moment in any adventure, the signal that you've committed yourself. Fears are like the demons in The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Wrathful guardians, hungry ghosts, and hell beings may be just the projections of your own mind, but they still have flaming mouths and talons like razors. The minute you show them you mean business, though, they will simmer down and let you by -- they might even turn into a bouquet of flowers or an angel bearing that pale green sweater from Soft Surroundings. They are actually on your side, even if they do have ten heads.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The Siren Call of the Octopus
It's Sunday evening, the apartment smells like heaven, and I've been listening to Bonnie Raitt.
At first, I couldn't figure out the chocolate smell. I do have four big bars of premium Lindt chocolate in the kitchen cabinet, but that's nothing unusual; I try to stay stocked in case of emergencies. I think maybe the kitchen got steamy while I was boiling pasta for dinner, and that released the aroma. I didn't realize it until I came back inside after a trip to the recycling bin and was suddenly enveloped by the scent, rich and dark. I would have opened a window, but I'm sure the chocolate air is good for my complexion.
Maybe this little treat is my reward for a day well spent. I got up and went out for a long walk this morning, right after breakfast, no makeup, no shower, no nothing. I wanted to take my walk early because I was serious about getting a lot done today. I worked on my proposal and started organizing my Works Cited from various lists I had pasted together haphazardly; that took a long time, and I didn't stop until 4:30, when I needed to go to the grocery store. I try to work on dissertation tasks every day, but I'm sometimes a little low on energy after a day at my other job, so in the evenings I'm easily distracted by other things.
Take the Internet, for instance. I was in a libraries teleconference with writer Neil Gaiman a few months ago. Mr. Gaiman talked about the siren call of the Internet, and of how it can lure you away from whatever it is you're supposed to be doing, so that you suddenly look up and realize you've spent a few hundred dollars on eBay for items you don't need, without getting a thing done on your own project.
For me, it isn't eBay -- it's YouTube, and those headlines on the MSN home page, links with enticing titles like "20 Spa Indulgences for Under $50," "Fifteen Desserts in a Bowl," "Sixteen Signs He's Into You," "10 Dating Truths You Can't Ignore," and "How to Wear Leopard Prints." At various times this week, I found myself:
None of these were related to my dissertation, but they all seemed compelling at the time.
It's nice to have access to the Internet while working to look up missing citations and do fact checking, but it can be a mixed blessing. I am pretty self-disciplined, but even I have trouble resisting temptation in the form of "The Best Jeans for Your Figure" and "Fourteen Tree Houses You Can Live In." I'm more easily tempted when I'm stuck in my own writing, so there may be fewer tree houses and fashion tips now that things are rolling.
I may sneak just one more look at that octopus video. Here it is, just in case you're trying to get some work of your own done.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5DyBkYKqnM
At first, I couldn't figure out the chocolate smell. I do have four big bars of premium Lindt chocolate in the kitchen cabinet, but that's nothing unusual; I try to stay stocked in case of emergencies. I think maybe the kitchen got steamy while I was boiling pasta for dinner, and that released the aroma. I didn't realize it until I came back inside after a trip to the recycling bin and was suddenly enveloped by the scent, rich and dark. I would have opened a window, but I'm sure the chocolate air is good for my complexion.
Maybe this little treat is my reward for a day well spent. I got up and went out for a long walk this morning, right after breakfast, no makeup, no shower, no nothing. I wanted to take my walk early because I was serious about getting a lot done today. I worked on my proposal and started organizing my Works Cited from various lists I had pasted together haphazardly; that took a long time, and I didn't stop until 4:30, when I needed to go to the grocery store. I try to work on dissertation tasks every day, but I'm sometimes a little low on energy after a day at my other job, so in the evenings I'm easily distracted by other things.
Take the Internet, for instance. I was in a libraries teleconference with writer Neil Gaiman a few months ago. Mr. Gaiman talked about the siren call of the Internet, and of how it can lure you away from whatever it is you're supposed to be doing, so that you suddenly look up and realize you've spent a few hundred dollars on eBay for items you don't need, without getting a thing done on your own project.
For me, it isn't eBay -- it's YouTube, and those headlines on the MSN home page, links with enticing titles like "20 Spa Indulgences for Under $50," "Fifteen Desserts in a Bowl," "Sixteen Signs He's Into You," "10 Dating Truths You Can't Ignore," and "How to Wear Leopard Prints." At various times this week, I found myself:
- watching Robert Plant singing "Angel Dance" in the back seat of a car cruising a Chicago neighborhood;
- perusing a slide show of the season's must-have little black dresses;
- learning how to create more style options with hot rollers (I don't have hot rollers);
- looking at pictures of the world's most dangerous bugs;
- watching a video of an octopus making off with a guy's camera (Hey, this one was educational. I learned a lot about octopuses from it.)
None of these were related to my dissertation, but they all seemed compelling at the time.
It's nice to have access to the Internet while working to look up missing citations and do fact checking, but it can be a mixed blessing. I am pretty self-disciplined, but even I have trouble resisting temptation in the form of "The Best Jeans for Your Figure" and "Fourteen Tree Houses You Can Live In." I'm more easily tempted when I'm stuck in my own writing, so there may be fewer tree houses and fashion tips now that things are rolling.
I may sneak just one more look at that octopus video. Here it is, just in case you're trying to get some work of your own done.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5DyBkYKqnM
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Escaping the Jaws of Saturn
I've been watching a DVD of a seminar James Hillman gave earlier this spring on the archetypes of the senex and the puer. I hadn't considered it before, but while listening to him speak, it occurred to me that they have a lot to do with the process of writing.
Hillman describes the puer as the spirit of spontaneity, creativity, and risk. The puer is a youthful figure, light on his feet and quick-moving. He has a certain heedlessness about him, maybe even a recklessness. He might be personified by Hermes, the stealer of Apollo's cattle, who manages to talk his way out trouble, charm the other gods, and invent the lyre all in one go.
The senex, on the other hand, is a somber figure associated with age and experience. He is steady, deliberate, rational, authoritative, and concerned with measuring and ordering things. His personification is Apollo, or -- according to Hillman -- Saturn, a somewhat cold and gloomy god, whose heaviness is in sharp contrast to the light-heartedness of the puer. (Saturn is also noteworthy for eating his children.)
Puer and senex characteristics are present in both men and women, at all times of life. They are more like patterns or types of energy than rigid representations of stages of life, though it is possible to see certain correspondences between puer and senex and the respective concerns of youth and old age. I'm wondering if they can also be related to the differences between right-brain and left-brain thinking.
Writing is a skill that requires the use of both sides of the brain, though not necessarily at the same time. When I write, the part I really like is playing with the words and ideas until they come out right. I might have a hunch about something that isn't substantial at all until I write it down, so I'm actually writing to figure out what I think. Writing itself is the way of discovery.
The other aspect of writing is editing, tidying up, and citation-checking, the part where you run the spell-checker and hunt for unmatched quotation marks. I am actually very good at this; I once worked as a copy editor and often had other people wanting me to proofread their work -- but I dislike it. I consider it the necessary finishing stage in writing and am meticulous about doing it but do not consider it fun.
I never thought of myself as a puer, but now I realize that that is exactly what I am when I'm engaged in the creative, exploratory part of writing. This is all risk-taking and not knowing if something's going to fly or not; it requires looseness and willingness to leap without seeing a net. The senex comes in later with the careful, deliberate editing, the consultations with the MLA style book, and the attention to structure and the length of paragraphs, things that usually don't occur to me until the end.
The puer-senex dimension actually explains a lot of things, not just writing. If you had asked me a few years ago, I would have said that I had more senex in me. I was usually the careful, reasonable, responsible one, always double-checking my work and being thoughtful about the way I approached things. I am still like that. But there was a whole other side of me trying to get out, which explains why I was always scribbling poetry at Starbucks, daydreaming, and driving around without knowing where I wanted to go. I was restless, but I tried to think I wasn't. What was really happening was that my senex was sitting on my puer and trying to eat him. My puer finally fought back and took such a flying leap that he landed on the other side of the country in graduate school.
I'm thinking about the wistful little boy from my dream, the one I wrote about in my first blog post in January. I think he's important on a lot of different levels, and I'm just now recognizing him as an infant puer. He showed up in another dream later on but was bigger and stronger and didn't seem quite so in need of protection. I didn't know I had him in me, but he did.
The senex, on the other hand, is a somber figure associated with age and experience. He is steady, deliberate, rational, authoritative, and concerned with measuring and ordering things. His personification is Apollo, or -- according to Hillman -- Saturn, a somewhat cold and gloomy god, whose heaviness is in sharp contrast to the light-heartedness of the puer. (Saturn is also noteworthy for eating his children.)
Puer and senex characteristics are present in both men and women, at all times of life. They are more like patterns or types of energy than rigid representations of stages of life, though it is possible to see certain correspondences between puer and senex and the respective concerns of youth and old age. I'm wondering if they can also be related to the differences between right-brain and left-brain thinking.
Writing is a skill that requires the use of both sides of the brain, though not necessarily at the same time. When I write, the part I really like is playing with the words and ideas until they come out right. I might have a hunch about something that isn't substantial at all until I write it down, so I'm actually writing to figure out what I think. Writing itself is the way of discovery.
The other aspect of writing is editing, tidying up, and citation-checking, the part where you run the spell-checker and hunt for unmatched quotation marks. I am actually very good at this; I once worked as a copy editor and often had other people wanting me to proofread their work -- but I dislike it. I consider it the necessary finishing stage in writing and am meticulous about doing it but do not consider it fun.
I never thought of myself as a puer, but now I realize that that is exactly what I am when I'm engaged in the creative, exploratory part of writing. This is all risk-taking and not knowing if something's going to fly or not; it requires looseness and willingness to leap without seeing a net. The senex comes in later with the careful, deliberate editing, the consultations with the MLA style book, and the attention to structure and the length of paragraphs, things that usually don't occur to me until the end.
The puer-senex dimension actually explains a lot of things, not just writing. If you had asked me a few years ago, I would have said that I had more senex in me. I was usually the careful, reasonable, responsible one, always double-checking my work and being thoughtful about the way I approached things. I am still like that. But there was a whole other side of me trying to get out, which explains why I was always scribbling poetry at Starbucks, daydreaming, and driving around without knowing where I wanted to go. I was restless, but I tried to think I wasn't. What was really happening was that my senex was sitting on my puer and trying to eat him. My puer finally fought back and took such a flying leap that he landed on the other side of the country in graduate school.
I'm thinking about the wistful little boy from my dream, the one I wrote about in my first blog post in January. I think he's important on a lot of different levels, and I'm just now recognizing him as an infant puer. He showed up in another dream later on but was bigger and stronger and didn't seem quite so in need of protection. I didn't know I had him in me, but he did.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Looking for the Beat
One of my biggest adjustments in the last six months has been to having free time again. Three years of full-time work and full-time school left little room for anything extra until I finished my classes in August. After that, I had time again to read frivolous novels, catch up with friends, go to arts events, or even do nothing. I didn't have to feel that every minute spent on something besides classwork was stolen time.
This time last year, I was spending hours just gathering images for presentations in my Egyptian Mythology class, not counting time spent doing research for those same presentations. And that was just one class; I had two others that were nearly as demanding. If I wasn't trying to wrap my head around Sufi mysticism I was reading Paul's letters to the Corinthians on my lunch hour or looking at pictures of Byzantine art. I was thinking recently that last winter didn't seem as gray as this one -- but even if it was, I may not have had time to notice it.
So I enjoyed my free time this fall, but by Thanksgiving, I was starting to miss the sense of purpose and drive that carried me through my coursework. Now that I'm in the dissertation period, I'm happy to be starting my research and settling into the process, which has its own pace. I'm also anxious. It's solitary, for one thing. You have to find your own beat, because no one is there to enforce a schedule or tell you what to do. It actually reminds me of my first semester in college.
I'm still looking for the balance of work and play. Ideally, work is play, when things are going well. Coming off a period of relative leisure, I'm working to find the intensity again, and I'm sensing there may be an ebb and flow. Today, for instance, I was in no hurry to get up, even though I had things to do. I answered emails, read the newspaper online, and watched videos on YouTube before settling down to read up to page 204 in The Name of the Rose. After a couple of hours of reading, I still had to go to the grocery store and take the garbage out. Then the afternoon was sunny, and spring fever set in. I went for a walk, getting back in time to meet friends for dinner.
I got home tonight in time to watch ice dancing and get ready for another work week. I just saw skier Bode Miller climb the podium to receive a gold medal, his first. He looks happy and proud (and maybe a little stunned), just the way I imagine feeling the day I defend my dissertation.
But I have to get it written first, and the journey promises to be eventful. The rest of my life won't stop for the project and will probably find a way into it. That seems to be the nature of the thing.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Are We Ready?
I told someone the other day that my clock was starting on January 1, and he asked if I meant my biological clock. No, no -- different clock, I said. My dissertation clock, to be exact, which is now ticking and will continue to do so for the next two years. I've never written a dissertation, have spent most of my life not expecting to write one, and don't know what to expect from the process.
I think the trouble started about four years ago when I was completing a survey from the Special Libraries Association about career aspirations and came across the question, "Do you have any plans to get a doctorate?" I thought that was one of the easier questions to answer, and I clicked the button that said "No" without a second thought. In my fanciful moments, I wonder if that answer, given so emphatically, might have attracted the attention of one of the Fates, lounging idly somewhere in the vicinity of my computer. What's certain is that within months of that day, a chain of events had led to my enrollment in a graduate program on the other side of the country, in a field totally unrelated to my day job. (Or is it?)
After three years of coursework, I'm heading now into terra incognita. My vision is to write something fresh, creative, and connected to real life. That's my hope.
I discovered something. When it came time to write my first paper for Greek and Roman Mythology, I found I had to overcome some resistance to the whole idea of Outlining an Argument, Surveying the Literature, and Employing MLA Citation Format. Those are the tools of the scholarly trade, of course, and I'm familiar with them. In the past I taught composition and earned a master's degree in English. I'm good at editing and the mechanics of writing. But from some hidden place, right at the start, this little scamp reared his head and insisted, "I want to play!" I realized that the part of writing I really enjoy is making leaps and fitting the words together to make a picture. Hard work is involved, but it starts with play.
I know enough about writing (and psychology) to know that that child is precious and that nothing of significance will happen unless he's happy. I even think I know what he looks like. He's the little blond curly-haired boy who gazed so wistfully over his father's shoulder in one of my dreams. I took care of him this fall by playing with labyrinths, walking as many of them as I could for an in-the-body and out-of-the-head experience. I even got my shoes muddy walking a corn maze.
Pretty soon the writing, rewriting, and negotiating will begin. Today, I primed the pump by going to a movie with a friend and eating the fudge he had secreted in his pocket. A little chocolate can never hurt.
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