I am a notorious slut-glutton for words. The favoured objects of my affection have always been, and remain, reference books. I devoured them from early childhood on, even reading dictionaries on car-trips. I cannot look up a word without reading several pages worth of entirely irrelevant definitions. As a writer, this obsession comes in handy: reference books are, or should be, our dearest associates. I own a slew of them: dictionaries, encyclopedias, volumes on style and grammar, miscellaneous fact-books, how-to's, market tomes. It is easy to be overwhelmed by the escalating mountain of reference-for-writers material.
The best way for someone like me to avoid the siren's song of reference books is to be exceedingly picky. If a volume is not enlightening, inspiring or practical with an interesting spin then I simply refuse to bring it home. I think that these guidelines are appropriate for any writer to follow. The "Useful Reads" column will spotlight books that have passed my stringent rules: as such, I am happy to recommend them for your use.
I am a savvy, technology-aware writer. I realize that the Internet exists. I realize that search engines are marvelous, time-saving niches: I use them frequently. They are, in their limited capacity, addicting. Nothing, however, beats the tactile pleasure of picking up a hefty book, balancing it on your knees, and idly or hurriedly flipping through its pages. You know that, eventually, you will find what you are looking for, and many other fantastical things besides.
The New York Public Library Desk Reference is the perfect volume for all of your fact-finding-or-affirming needs.It is laid out in neat, easy-to navigate chapters. It covers much of the same ground that you would find in an encyclopedia without the lengthy entries: it is precise, detailed, and to-the-point yet it is more all-encompassing than a regular almanac. It calls itself "The most valuable answer book you will ever own", which is certainly an accurate assessment. But be forewarned: it is definitely a traditional read . If you are looking for irreverent, dark or odd factoids, then you are better off picking up a copy of that wee gem, Schott's Original Miscellany.
With the famous stone lions decorating the outside, it touches upon everything from Frost Dates to Popes, Wine Selection to Royalty. As with any reference book worth its list price, it sucks me in every time that I open the covers. The New York Public Library is staffed with professionals who know there stuff better than anyone in the business. They have distilled that knowledge into roughly a thousand pages of practical information. Finding exactly the fact or figure that you need can be done with immense speed, and in less time than searching the Web would require. As long as you do not let yourself get carried away into mini-raptures of new-found but irrelevant wisdom, as I am apt to do ("What is this? A list of diacritical marks? Heaven!"), this can be a critical tool in allowing you to devote less time to research, and more for writing. Unless, of course, you are a word-fact geek like me, wherein meandering through the pages is half of the point, and all of the pleasure.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
An Approach Both Local and Global
I am not a great writer of place. This is not laziness : it is a real necessity if I am to give birth to my particular vision. In order to make way for the intimately universal, I do not set my fiction in instantly recognizable locales, nor is any regional influence obvious. My characters do not speak in dialect, do not exhibit traits characterized by a specific city or state. They are merely, inescapably human: a condition experienced by every soul the world over. There is atmosphere and description to be found in my stories but they are peculiar to individuals and their personal surroundings: there is no wider, deeper imprint of place. I respect and enjoy many writers who are profoundly connected to their home turf, and carry it into their work: Austen, Joyce, Faulkner. The passion and intensity that they imbued their novels with remains a strong pull across the tumble of so many years. Yet, a lack of specificity can be an equal lure for readers, and this is what I attempt with my words, however humble. The drive behind what I do, and how I approach the career that presents my artistry to the light, is another matter: it is an unbreachable combination of the local and the universal, and always as grassroots as possible.
The Internet has opened up a heretofore unimaginable amount of venues for the selling, marketing and discourse of artistic product. What someone writes in Russia can be read in North Dakota as soon as a button is pressed. The possibility is breathtaking and would, likely, be unfathomable to the writers of even 50 years ago. This means that networking can be done on a scale as vast as the world itself. You can, with surprising ease, craft a sounding board or support group made up of individuals of many nations without ever going through the hoops of old-fashion and exhausting legwork. This may sound impersonal but it can be truly valuable, and genuine connections can be formed. Yet to use this as the sole means of contact ,and the only form of self-promotion, is sadly limiting. At the heart of it, nothing surpasses getting your hands dirty at a local level--the place where, perhaps, the most difference is to be made. This kind of approach is my life's passion, next to the actual act and offering of writing itself. I am enraptured with words, in love with history and dedicated to thanking those who came before me. I will briefly boil this amalgam down to the bone: Small press literary publications were the unheralded backbone of American and European literature in the earliest decades of the 20th-Century. They were a mouthpiece to some of the finest efforts of writers great and small; writers whose poetry, essays, critiques and stories would otherwise not have been published regularly or at all. These artist-helmed publications were their way to immortality, even if they did not know it at the time. Combining the above elements is where my devotion to the local becomes active.
While working for a Columbus-based art-and-culture start-up a few years back, my passions turned to convictions, and from there ideas sprang into being. One of the things that I set out to do as Literary Editor of The Atomic Tomorrow was to turn many of the pages over to the work of local writers, of all ages, genres, and voices. I was honoured to give others the same chance that I received, and continue to receive so generously from various sources. The literary section of that paper gave seed to what I am attempting to do with A Small Press Life and the 'zine that I have in production.
While I love blogging and lending my work to other on-line publications, where there is a true sense of community, I enjoy the change and challenge of crafting something from the ground up and then physically putting it together. In our techno-sated world, there is almost a sense of rebellion, even anarchy, in laying out, printing, and hand-assembling a magazine or book. The artistry seems to be of a higher order, and the satisfaction is beyond anything to be gained from hitting a "Publish Post" button. When done by professionals, especially, the end-product can be a masterly gem of vision, talent, and individuality. Zining is, for me, the perfect balance and blend of the modern and the classic.
There is something lovely and primal about creating a 'zine: the process, for me, is an organized yet organic exploration of what I am capable of. It stretches my talent in new directions. I do not indulge in the awkward, car-wreck known as the perzine, which is a glorified diary. I gather art and writing from my always-expanding circle of professional creative friends. My 'zines are a breathing, pulsing tribute to those little Literary Magazines mentioned-above, on a scale not significantly smaller than those put-out by my mentor-muses. The advantages of modern technology walk into the picture after an issue has been completed.
The wonders of Etsy and Papernstitch, coupled with electronic word-of-mouth, are the best free-marketing-and-selling venues available for hand-made goods. Your product reaches around-the-globe almost instantaneously. You can have fans in Australia or Iceland, without actively advertising there. I am an enthusiastic proponent of this concept: the local-gone-global. Still, nothing beats the giddy, visceral thrill of placing your work in your own city. Whether it be at a coffee shop or farmer's market, having something that I have worked so diligently at and for available in my own neighborhood is the biggest kick of all. These outlets will always be vital to my art: spreading it locally is always a heightened accomplishment.
I do not imagine, at this time, that I will drastically change course and become a writer of local colour and inflection. That is not a goal that I embrace: doing so would seem oddly foreign to my voice and viewpoint. I remain, however, a daughter-in-spirit to this place:I truly love Ohio's artistic urban vibrancy, and am proud to call the Buckeye state my home. We have both an outstanding artistic heritage and a lively, forward-thinking present. I choose to embody those ideas where the difference is greatest--through my actions, convictions, and life-style--rather than on the page. This way, my words and life are local-global, and remain my own.
The Internet has opened up a heretofore unimaginable amount of venues for the selling, marketing and discourse of artistic product. What someone writes in Russia can be read in North Dakota as soon as a button is pressed. The possibility is breathtaking and would, likely, be unfathomable to the writers of even 50 years ago. This means that networking can be done on a scale as vast as the world itself. You can, with surprising ease, craft a sounding board or support group made up of individuals of many nations without ever going through the hoops of old-fashion and exhausting legwork. This may sound impersonal but it can be truly valuable, and genuine connections can be formed. Yet to use this as the sole means of contact ,and the only form of self-promotion, is sadly limiting. At the heart of it, nothing surpasses getting your hands dirty at a local level--the place where, perhaps, the most difference is to be made. This kind of approach is my life's passion, next to the actual act and offering of writing itself. I am enraptured with words, in love with history and dedicated to thanking those who came before me. I will briefly boil this amalgam down to the bone: Small press literary publications were the unheralded backbone of American and European literature in the earliest decades of the 20th-Century. They were a mouthpiece to some of the finest efforts of writers great and small; writers whose poetry, essays, critiques and stories would otherwise not have been published regularly or at all. These artist-helmed publications were their way to immortality, even if they did not know it at the time. Combining the above elements is where my devotion to the local becomes active.
While working for a Columbus-based art-and-culture start-up a few years back, my passions turned to convictions, and from there ideas sprang into being. One of the things that I set out to do as Literary Editor of The Atomic Tomorrow was to turn many of the pages over to the work of local writers, of all ages, genres, and voices. I was honoured to give others the same chance that I received, and continue to receive so generously from various sources. The literary section of that paper gave seed to what I am attempting to do with A Small Press Life and the 'zine that I have in production.
While I love blogging and lending my work to other on-line publications, where there is a true sense of community, I enjoy the change and challenge of crafting something from the ground up and then physically putting it together. In our techno-sated world, there is almost a sense of rebellion, even anarchy, in laying out, printing, and hand-assembling a magazine or book. The artistry seems to be of a higher order, and the satisfaction is beyond anything to be gained from hitting a "Publish Post" button. When done by professionals, especially, the end-product can be a masterly gem of vision, talent, and individuality. Zining is, for me, the perfect balance and blend of the modern and the classic.
There is something lovely and primal about creating a 'zine: the process, for me, is an organized yet organic exploration of what I am capable of. It stretches my talent in new directions. I do not indulge in the awkward, car-wreck known as the perzine, which is a glorified diary. I gather art and writing from my always-expanding circle of professional creative friends. My 'zines are a breathing, pulsing tribute to those little Literary Magazines mentioned-above, on a scale not significantly smaller than those put-out by my mentor-muses. The advantages of modern technology walk into the picture after an issue has been completed.
The wonders of Etsy and Papernstitch, coupled with electronic word-of-mouth, are the best free-marketing-and-selling venues available for hand-made goods. Your product reaches around-the-globe almost instantaneously. You can have fans in Australia or Iceland, without actively advertising there. I am an enthusiastic proponent of this concept: the local-gone-global. Still, nothing beats the giddy, visceral thrill of placing your work in your own city. Whether it be at a coffee shop or farmer's market, having something that I have worked so diligently at and for available in my own neighborhood is the biggest kick of all. These outlets will always be vital to my art: spreading it locally is always a heightened accomplishment.
I do not imagine, at this time, that I will drastically change course and become a writer of local colour and inflection. That is not a goal that I embrace: doing so would seem oddly foreign to my voice and viewpoint. I remain, however, a daughter-in-spirit to this place:I truly love Ohio's artistic urban vibrancy, and am proud to call the Buckeye state my home. We have both an outstanding artistic heritage and a lively, forward-thinking present. I choose to embody those ideas where the difference is greatest--through my actions, convictions, and life-style--rather than on the page. This way, my words and life are local-global, and remain my own.
INSPIRATION BOARD-27 June 2009
This is the first of many new elements that will be added over the next few weeks. Every weekend, I will be sharing with you some of the eclectic things that inspire me, both as a writer and person: after all, the two are completely fused. Artists of the visual variety are famously inspired by all manner of things. I believe that this holds true for every creative, including writers. While the words, deeds, and lives of other wordsmiths certainly help goad one on in the hope department, ideas often arise from the most random, unexpected sources. Some of these muses run a true and constant course, providing you with a steady stream of encouragement and fecundity. Others dash in front of you, inspiring a passionate moment or two before flitting out of your mind. Anything that encourages you to pick up the tools of your trade and get creating is valid and luminous. On this week's board:
"I love you without knowing how or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way."
from "SONNET XVII" by Pablo Neruda
I just re-discovered the novel "Depths of Glory" by Irving Stone, historical fiction about my favourite Impressionist, Camille Pissaro. I read it as a teen and plan on borrowing my mom's copy in order to dive back into the excellently re-created world of 19th-century French art.
"I can always be distracted by love, but eventually I get horny for my creativity."-Gilda Radner (1946-1989).
My newly realized passion for making dough.
The culinary chutzpah of every-man Andrew Zimmern. I am addicted to "Bizarre Foods."
The image at the top of the page: "Where there's smoke there's fire", a 1920's painting by Russell Patterson. I love how the colour of the sash is a near-perfect match to her hair. The cut and drape of the frock is still fashionable, and still contemporary. It is all-too-easy for me to create dreamy confectionery back-stories to art like this.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Voices
My fascination with words is no secret, even to the most casual ASPL reader. It is as readily apparent as my eye or hair colour, and even more essential to my sense of self.Although I would feel less fiery,I could pop in brown contacts and dye my hair blonde and still be at home.A life cut off from words is as unthinkable,scary and black as death:it would be no life at all.My strongest connection to anything this world has to offer,other than the hermetic bond that seals me to my mother,is an unbreakable tie to the English language.
Words are glorious;when the perfect one rolls off of the tongue it is,in a small way,an act of reverence,never more so than for writers. Any true wordsmith has their own voice,developed through a combination of nature and practice,that is as unique and resplendent as a snowflake or a soul.I have been writing since the age of seven.The journey from there to here has been full of much sweat,obsessiveness,passion and self-nurturing.At the end of the day, I am proud to state that my voice is recognizably my own, and cannot be mistaken for another's.If ,when time has ceased to shelter me and my journey is no more,this is the sum total of my artistic achievement I will be satisfied.
My creative voice is thorny.It is not for everyone,nor does it need to be.If my overriding desire was to place a number of books on the Best seller's lists,or to publish articles in the big glossies,this would certainly be an issue of gigantic proportions.I would probably have to dull my words to broaden my appeal.I admire anyone with the guts to go after the kind of career that they desire,for whatever reasons:I extend this respect to myself.I refuse to walk a path that I know would be littered with nothing but compromise and misery and recrimination.
Language is not merely a means to an end, the verbal equivalent of putting one foot in front of the other.At its best,its richest,it is hypnotic and commanding:it arrests you,distilling and then fragmenting your notion of what words can do.Moms are not always your best critic,as they want terribly for you to succeed.Mine is savvier and more realistic than most,nor am I a youth in need of coddling. She also has a preternatural understanding of what it is my voice is trying to say,why I arrange my words to suit a very specific rhythm.This comes as much from being a hard-core reader as from being my mom.
There are people who find my writing style exhausting (I say,"so be it"),not worth the effort to ponder,savour or turn around in their head or on their tongue.They want brevity,simplicity, writing un-enhanced, taken to the bone.They are entitled to that,but must go elsewhere for it. My mother has tried to explain to some of these people the nature and appeal of my style,what sets it apart,why it is worth the few seconds of extra effort . She says that I love words,revere words--that my writing is meant to be read slowly,with thought given to the flow and the meaning behind them. She is correct,at least, about the former:she has been witness to my life-long love affair with language,which gives full expression to my obsessive nature.
One of the main thrills that I find in reading is how happening across a stunning turn-of-phrase halts everything.Time stops,outside considerations cease to matter:the only focus is re-reading those words,pondering them,letting them fly or slink off of the tongue.Any writing worth a damn is enhanced,heightened,sharpened when read aloud.The words that I read two or three or four times in a row demand to be spoken.That is what I wish to accomplish with my writing:it is a tall order that I mercilessly task myself with filling.
Perhaps only James Joyce could get away unscathed with writing words for the sake of words,in homage to their sound,their meaning,their chameleon-like quality when grouped in unusual and unexpected combinations.The rest of us,even when equally in awe of language,must find a more solid ground to erect our combinations on.We must learn to do so--train ourselves to do so--without sacrificing our passion,our individuality,our peculiar patterns.In the end,if we fail--if I fail,for,in trying to speak for others like me,I must first learn to speak for myself--at least we do so knowing that we wrote with honesty and unfailing dedication to ourselves and our craft.
How did you develop your voice,your style,your own writer's vision of things?
Words are glorious;when the perfect one rolls off of the tongue it is,in a small way,an act of reverence,never more so than for writers. Any true wordsmith has their own voice,developed through a combination of nature and practice,that is as unique and resplendent as a snowflake or a soul.I have been writing since the age of seven.The journey from there to here has been full of much sweat,obsessiveness,passion and self-nurturing.At the end of the day, I am proud to state that my voice is recognizably my own, and cannot be mistaken for another's.If ,when time has ceased to shelter me and my journey is no more,this is the sum total of my artistic achievement I will be satisfied.
My creative voice is thorny.It is not for everyone,nor does it need to be.If my overriding desire was to place a number of books on the Best seller's lists,or to publish articles in the big glossies,this would certainly be an issue of gigantic proportions.I would probably have to dull my words to broaden my appeal.I admire anyone with the guts to go after the kind of career that they desire,for whatever reasons:I extend this respect to myself.I refuse to walk a path that I know would be littered with nothing but compromise and misery and recrimination.
Language is not merely a means to an end, the verbal equivalent of putting one foot in front of the other.At its best,its richest,it is hypnotic and commanding:it arrests you,distilling and then fragmenting your notion of what words can do.Moms are not always your best critic,as they want terribly for you to succeed.Mine is savvier and more realistic than most,nor am I a youth in need of coddling. She also has a preternatural understanding of what it is my voice is trying to say,why I arrange my words to suit a very specific rhythm.This comes as much from being a hard-core reader as from being my mom.
There are people who find my writing style exhausting (I say,"so be it"),not worth the effort to ponder,savour or turn around in their head or on their tongue.They want brevity,simplicity, writing un-enhanced, taken to the bone.They are entitled to that,but must go elsewhere for it. My mother has tried to explain to some of these people the nature and appeal of my style,what sets it apart,why it is worth the few seconds of extra effort . She says that I love words,revere words--that my writing is meant to be read slowly,with thought given to the flow and the meaning behind them. She is correct,at least, about the former:she has been witness to my life-long love affair with language,which gives full expression to my obsessive nature.
One of the main thrills that I find in reading is how happening across a stunning turn-of-phrase halts everything.Time stops,outside considerations cease to matter:the only focus is re-reading those words,pondering them,letting them fly or slink off of the tongue.Any writing worth a damn is enhanced,heightened,sharpened when read aloud.The words that I read two or three or four times in a row demand to be spoken.That is what I wish to accomplish with my writing:it is a tall order that I mercilessly task myself with filling.
Perhaps only James Joyce could get away unscathed with writing words for the sake of words,in homage to their sound,their meaning,their chameleon-like quality when grouped in unusual and unexpected combinations.The rest of us,even when equally in awe of language,must find a more solid ground to erect our combinations on.We must learn to do so--train ourselves to do so--without sacrificing our passion,our individuality,our peculiar patterns.In the end,if we fail--if I fail,for,in trying to speak for others like me,I must first learn to speak for myself--at least we do so knowing that we wrote with honesty and unfailing dedication to ourselves and our craft.
How did you develop your voice,your style,your own writer's vision of things?
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A Balancing Act of Psychotic Proportions
I am a person of many talents,skills,interests and proclivities.Flat-cleaning,however,does not fit with ease into any of those categories.I am rather at odds with the concept of scrubbing and shining and dusting.It disturbs my mind to think that anyone could find true enjoyment and contentment in such a heinous necessity.Yet power and kudos to those fitting that description:you must have a mental component that I lack.If it was merely a matter of grudging the occasional upper-hand to a wily adversary,I would suck it up and cede the occasional victory when necessary.Round 1 goes to you, dirty dishes. Make the most of it.
However,it sinks deeper than that, as it must for many artists. This is not to say that to be creative is to be a slob. I am sure that there are those who take especial enjoyment from wielding a feather duster or cleaning toilets,their surroundings always meeting the highest requirements of cleanliness and order.I,for one, am engaged in a constant struggle with time and priority and disinterest.Trying to find a satisfying place for diverse and demanding writing projects,outside employment,and cleaning is like juggling a bowling ball,an orange and a monkey. They have absolutely no organic connection but,somehow,must be made into a cohesive whole.
The problem--and that is exactly what it is--becomes all the worse when the muse is on a sustained visit.I become feverish when full of creativity,and single-minded to a dangerous degree.If I lived alone,it would be easy enough to slack off indefinitely,doing only the bare-bones chores until the muse again took flight.(Even then, with time stretching before me like an endless ocean of calm,I am not exactly obsessively tidy.)I can sit,slump,and contort myself before the keyboard for hours at a time,barely aware of the outside world but for the dog at my feet and the cat by my side.I am in what I can only hope is the early stage of a long and brilliant bout with creativity.I have been so full of ideas,and have had the empowering luck and guts of follow-through,these last few months that I see no possibility but that of success and endurance,and continuing fecundity.This will only add to my usual troubling choices:sweep the floor or write an article,clean the bathtub or start a story?
I realize that this is an ages-old dilemma for artists,especially women.Trying to balance,however perilously,outside demands and the creative impulse is something with which we have all contended.As there is no easy answer,no blanket panacea, we will doubtless continue to deal with this for a long time.I am not singing a song that no one has heard before.A hundred years hence it will likely strike an all too familiar chord.The words may be altered to suit the singer,but the refrain is the same.From Elizabeth Gaskell to Virginia Woolf to Sylvia Plath,the path has been trod by women (and men) of brilliancy and capability,by turns armed with confidence and disarmed by doubt.
Unless you are hermit-ed away in a cave,writing with the ash from your fire,there are so many factors that go into making up a writing life.They are not all glamorous,enticing and invigorating.They are mundane.They are frustrating.They never cease to cloud your mind and cut into your creativity.Even with modern conveniences,they are here to stay.How we deal with them differs from person to person.Hell,how I handle it varies schizophrenically, depending on: the day,my mood,what there is to be conquered,how many ideas and words are floating around in my head,how tired or energized I am,whether or not I have social plans or if I have,at that given moment,any confidence in my ability as a writer or human being.
This balancing act is a topic that will recur time and again on ASPL, as it is an integral part of the complex existence of this writer,and so many others.Upon realizing the desire--the urge--to write,and pulling up the ability from deep within yourself that makes it all possible, all externals do not suddenly,gloriously fall away,leaving your time unfettered.The writing life does not open itself wide to you:it has to be grasped,subdued and continuously commanded.There are new battles every day, and they are not always won.The maw of the real world is always gaping,always reaching for you, wanting to steal back what precious little time that you managed to take from it. Yet I acknowledge that I would not want to live wholly in either place.I feel like Persephone,caught between two worlds that are,in this case,neither entirely darkness or light but a constantly altering,swirling mixture:and,instead of being allowed the reliability and slight repose of 6 months in one world,6 in the other I have the awkward,tiring challenge of rocking back and forth,with one foot perpetually in each place.
Lest it sound like all ache and doom,the payoff to the writing life is the best thing that I know of:it is a thing of thrilling,comforting beauty.Although someone I am very close to insists that to compromise is to lose the battle at hand as well as part of your soul,the subtle dance of compromise is the very thing that makes my artistic existence possible.To be all artist would give too much weight and power to an over-riding selfishness that would eat up everything of external importance,including my own complexity and the love of those that I love.To be all civilian would mean to deny the very things that set me apart as an individual,and would sap a large part of the strength that I have for living.My small contribution to the world and to those I care for is shaped from the best parts of both incarnations.The struggle to find balance is ultimately a sign that I am paying heed,albeit imperfectly, to all of my needs. It means that I am doing something right.
However,it sinks deeper than that, as it must for many artists. This is not to say that to be creative is to be a slob. I am sure that there are those who take especial enjoyment from wielding a feather duster or cleaning toilets,their surroundings always meeting the highest requirements of cleanliness and order.I,for one, am engaged in a constant struggle with time and priority and disinterest.Trying to find a satisfying place for diverse and demanding writing projects,outside employment,and cleaning is like juggling a bowling ball,an orange and a monkey. They have absolutely no organic connection but,somehow,must be made into a cohesive whole.
The problem--and that is exactly what it is--becomes all the worse when the muse is on a sustained visit.I become feverish when full of creativity,and single-minded to a dangerous degree.If I lived alone,it would be easy enough to slack off indefinitely,doing only the bare-bones chores until the muse again took flight.(Even then, with time stretching before me like an endless ocean of calm,I am not exactly obsessively tidy.)I can sit,slump,and contort myself before the keyboard for hours at a time,barely aware of the outside world but for the dog at my feet and the cat by my side.I am in what I can only hope is the early stage of a long and brilliant bout with creativity.I have been so full of ideas,and have had the empowering luck and guts of follow-through,these last few months that I see no possibility but that of success and endurance,and continuing fecundity.This will only add to my usual troubling choices:sweep the floor or write an article,clean the bathtub or start a story?
I realize that this is an ages-old dilemma for artists,especially women.Trying to balance,however perilously,outside demands and the creative impulse is something with which we have all contended.As there is no easy answer,no blanket panacea, we will doubtless continue to deal with this for a long time.I am not singing a song that no one has heard before.A hundred years hence it will likely strike an all too familiar chord.The words may be altered to suit the singer,but the refrain is the same.From Elizabeth Gaskell to Virginia Woolf to Sylvia Plath,the path has been trod by women (and men) of brilliancy and capability,by turns armed with confidence and disarmed by doubt.
Unless you are hermit-ed away in a cave,writing with the ash from your fire,there are so many factors that go into making up a writing life.They are not all glamorous,enticing and invigorating.They are mundane.They are frustrating.They never cease to cloud your mind and cut into your creativity.Even with modern conveniences,they are here to stay.How we deal with them differs from person to person.Hell,how I handle it varies schizophrenically, depending on: the day,my mood,what there is to be conquered,how many ideas and words are floating around in my head,how tired or energized I am,whether or not I have social plans or if I have,at that given moment,any confidence in my ability as a writer or human being.
This balancing act is a topic that will recur time and again on ASPL, as it is an integral part of the complex existence of this writer,and so many others.Upon realizing the desire--the urge--to write,and pulling up the ability from deep within yourself that makes it all possible, all externals do not suddenly,gloriously fall away,leaving your time unfettered.The writing life does not open itself wide to you:it has to be grasped,subdued and continuously commanded.There are new battles every day, and they are not always won.The maw of the real world is always gaping,always reaching for you, wanting to steal back what precious little time that you managed to take from it. Yet I acknowledge that I would not want to live wholly in either place.I feel like Persephone,caught between two worlds that are,in this case,neither entirely darkness or light but a constantly altering,swirling mixture:and,instead of being allowed the reliability and slight repose of 6 months in one world,6 in the other I have the awkward,tiring challenge of rocking back and forth,with one foot perpetually in each place.
Lest it sound like all ache and doom,the payoff to the writing life is the best thing that I know of:it is a thing of thrilling,comforting beauty.Although someone I am very close to insists that to compromise is to lose the battle at hand as well as part of your soul,the subtle dance of compromise is the very thing that makes my artistic existence possible.To be all artist would give too much weight and power to an over-riding selfishness that would eat up everything of external importance,including my own complexity and the love of those that I love.To be all civilian would mean to deny the very things that set me apart as an individual,and would sap a large part of the strength that I have for living.My small contribution to the world and to those I care for is shaped from the best parts of both incarnations.The struggle to find balance is ultimately a sign that I am paying heed,albeit imperfectly, to all of my needs. It means that I am doing something right.
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