Hi, folks, this is my February series on Golden Advice. I like to spend the month of February digging into the wisdom that has come my way, and that guides my art, my craft and my life. I find having some wise stuff in the soul helps me write stories with purpose.
Today I'm going to reflect on Ralph Waldo Emerson's Essay XII: ART. You may read this essay
here if you wish.
Emerson always stirs me up. He shares that the soul is on a journey. It's not a static thing. Artists look out on this would and see the unseen. We see the light in this moment that will be lost forever if we do not capture it. We don't see the surface of the world but also the character of the world, especially when we turn the vision on ourselves and try to reveal ourselves through art. No mechanical device can capture what the human mind perceives -- we are attempting to interpret that spark of life we sense and place it on our canvases, in our songs, our dances, our stories, in our every form of expression. We are capturing our moment in time.
The art of every age is a reflection of more that just what is seen but the unseen times of the artists. If you want to know what is going on in your culture, what are the signs of the times, look at what artists are producing. They can't but help but let what is going on in their world seep in and shape what they are creating. That said, there is an inherent understanding in artists that we are an expression of this vast Universe -- an imperfect picture of the glory that we perceive. There is no other creature on Earth that is so desiring to interpret what they perceive. We feel the invisible undercurrents and bring the invisible to the forefront. When we create our art and then consider it, we always find things that we didn't intend and that takes our breath away.
Art has a big purpose in the course of human history. It's is our record of things unseen. It is also the thread that reveals who we are and what we want. We are not unconnected with the art that has gone before us. I think about the explosion of superhero, fantasy, and science fiction stories in our days as a good example of this. These stories are extensions of the human journey of myth. I feel an undercurrent in them that we very much all looking beyond our times, staring into the void and wanting to be much more than we are now. We are also wrestling with "villains" so great that they boggle the mind. Also a perception is evident: a desire to do good will triumph, it will overcome the darkness.
Does this seem like our world?
So what does all this mean to me personally. When art is making me uncomfortable, making me squirm in my seat, I must take note, especially when art slips away from a pursuit of beauty. I consider our larger world and reflect about what darkness looms. I cannot help but respond. For me I am searching for the good and lovely of my times and seasons. I hunger for every voice to be heard. I want to find beauty and holiness in new ways. I want to be brave and earnest and see what springs up from my heart. This is my prayer. My heart's cry. My deep hope. I hope that you join me on this journey.
I will be back next week with more golden advice.
Here is a quote for your pocket:
Faith is what makes life bearable, with all its tragedies and ambiguities and sudden, startling joys.
Madeleine L'Engle
Hi folks, I'm writing a series about how certain artistic skills enhance other artistic skills. I am an artistic and crafty person. I buzz around art. I will dip my toe into most forms of expression. There are a few that I've focused on and have found that those experiences have informed my novel craft. This week I'm going to talk about pottery lessons.
Once upon a time back in my college days, I had the time learn how to throw pots. I have found that those long ago pottery lessons have always been with me as a writer. At first, you need much support to even begin to throw a pot. Someone else chooses your clay. She walks you through how to prepare it. You are give many hints on how condition the clay to make it suitable for throwing. Beginning writers need this same kind of support. I needed others to help me recognize my viable ideas versus my dead-in-the water ideas. I needed advice on how to approach ideas so that I could even get on the road to producing something that would engage readers. Seek out help in the beginning.
Throwing a pot is about finding the center of the clay, and getting all the other clay to revolve around that center. At first it feels impossible. The clay bulges in weird ways. It will even go flying off the wheel. My hands and elbows would be scraped. I practiced again and again. Experience is everything. Finally the day came. I slapped the clay on the wheel and pressed it with my hands, and the clay instantly centered. I had to have confidence and a steady hand. The first important step to writing is finding that story center. Stories revolve around their centers. It took much practice to throw the clay of an idea onto the wheel of my imagination and then center it with the force of my will. I always feel that sense of knowing when I center a pot or center of a story. It is unimaginably satisfying.
One more pottery lesson, once a pot is formed and hardened, it's time to fire it. A glaze is applied to the exterior of the greenware. This glaze will harden into shiny coating when extreme temperature is applied. All stories must go through a refiner's fire to come to elegant completion. This is a dangerous time for a pot and a story. I have worked hard to get it to this place, but the refiner's fire can destroy my work. Pots crack, Glazes wonk. You may end up with something very different from your initial vision. You may end up with a muddy mess that has to be thrown into the scrap pile. Stories are the same. In writing, the fire is revision. Revision may lead to a new novel or it may lead to a worthless disaster. Regardless, it is the only way to success. You may feel fear during revision time. You are right to be afraid. You will have to apply your hottest thought force to make your finished story emerge, and there is a good chance you will fail. Writing is not for the faint of heart.
I hope these pottery lessons help you on your journey. One more week of lessons is ahead. Drop back by for it.
Here is the doodle.
Here is a quote for your pocket:
Beautiful forms and compositions are not made by chance, nor can they ever, in any material, be made at small expense. A composition for cheapness and not excellence of workmanship is the most frequent and certain cause of the rapid decay and entire destruction of arts and manufactures. Josiah Wedgwood.
Hi, folks! This month I'm calling the series Uplift. The idea of uplift is to improve socially, culturally, morally, spiritually, etc. We are all hungry, our hearts beating, struggling for contentment and a sweet spot to thrive. This is part of journey for uplift.
This week I'm going to wander some, but I hope that you capture the uplift from my words and find ways to thrive.
Here is a little story from my life. Recently, someone expressed disappointment in my lack of faith in in my writing and art. She seemed very assured that my work is total genius and the fact that I'm not doing more with it is a crying shame. She derided for my lack of respect for my own abilities. Part of me wanted to scream: You think I don't have faith in myself? You think I don't believe that my work is profound? You don't think I've tried to find a place for my voice? I had to squelch the wave of anger inside me and recognize that someone believed in my work passionately. I felt gratefulness for the connection.
Writing is a passion of mine. Almost every writer has a different reason why he or she writes. For me it is to connect with an audience. I want to say something that will kindle light within multitudes of readers. I literally ache with this need to connect. I am seeking an army of friends. This is a soul hunger within me. Some people want shiny stickers, truth on the page, I long for scores of letters and emails from people who have been moved by my art. I want to write back and rejoice in our connection.
My major writing goal is to travel close to the bone, and hence I put a lot of myself on the page. Here is some full disclosure honesty: my book, out this year, PLUMB CRAZY, was an intimate journey for me. My veins were opened and blood poured onto the page. My craziness. My laughter. My sadness. I know a few of you fell in love with my book, but that number is basically limited to my dearest friends and few new dearest friends. Of course, I TREASURE those who were moved by my literary journey, but I had great expectations that more people would love this book.
I've considered a new vocation of howling at the moon, but the better angels of my nature have appeared. My better angels whisper: all journeys bring gifts into your life. This is so true. I've learned a few things this year. My readers don't want prizes or swag. They don't want curse words. They really appreciate uber careful editing. I also see that my wheelhouse is sweetness, kindness, friendship and family, hence my sexy cover isn't exactly connecting for many. These are all good things to know.
I am not done. As I move forward on my creative journey, I plan to avoid the pop culture glue of brittle success and positive thinking, and guide my heart toward completeness and authentic thinking. I find denying failure and negative thoughts as a worthless endeavor. I embrace failure and negativity. These are a part of me, but I am so much more. I am joy and light, too. I am sinner and saint. I am angel and devil. I am art and craft. I am ridiculous and profound. I am mouse and lion. For me, true life is about being open to all this contradiction and embracing all of it with a tender heart. I will continue to put my garbled real on the page.
I will keep trying. I can respect this even if I ultimately fail. Giving up. This is the thing I can't respect. So stay the course or plot a new one. You may chose to abandon a dream but never abandon dreaming.
Come back next week for more Uplift.
Here is a doodle for you: "Cone Flower."
Friendship is born at that moment when one man says to another: "What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . .― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
Hi folks, This is a real ramble this week. I was out having breakfast at my favorite little breakfast stop yesterday. It was late morning and I was the only one in the place. I took some pages of my WIP, bought my obligatory cup of iced tea (this is Texas), and picked up the provided newspapers to sift through. I still like to read a newspaper one or two times a week. It brings back warm memories of growing up when my family shared the Sunday paper.
One of the employees was reading from her phone.
"Oh, I love Shel Silverstein," she exclaimed.
Her fellow workers all chimed back similar love. Immediately.
"Which one are you reading?" one called.
The phone reader called out, "You have to hear this.
Hug O'War."
She read it. Tables stopped being wiped. The kitchen grew silent. The manager put down his tablet.
When she finished, I heard murmured happy comments of how much they all loved Shel Silverstein and how they have treasured him their whole lives (18 to 25 years). They called out his book titles; Light in the Attic, The Giving Tree, and Falling Up! And when this conversation ended they launched into the The Giver by Lois Lowery.
I felt like a very happy fly on the wall.This conversation brought me close to my life's mission -- I'm caught up in the indomitable struggle for meaning. I know, I have a life mission. I'm fighting the sound and fury part of life. I'm kicking against entropy.
This hunger to share something of who we are and what we want feels like rocket fuel inside me. Unfortunately, failure is an option that I have run into again and again. You see, I really want to create a morning in a breakfast shop in the future where someone reads from their phone, shares my words, and heads nod in happy communing over these familiar words. I so want to contribute a verse.
I keep searching for that spark of meaning that will light the fire of human souls. I call this an indomitable struggle because I will not quit. I will not, but I must be honest. I've been feeling like Moses looking over into a promised land this week, wondering if I'm just barred because I hit a rock in frustration to make water flow. I'm feeling like Apollo Thirteen astronauts who got mighty close to the moon but their story became one of just getting home and the wonders of duct tape. The worst of it, I'm feeling like the member of a host of women whose quiet serviceable lives are lost amid the clamoring voices of the flashier members of our species.
I am the most pedestrian creature to have a far flung dream. I'm off the beaten track, dwelling in the yawning wilderness of suburbia, You really don't hear much about the "Voice that Cried from Surburbia!" I live in a "little box" on a street of ticky-tacky houses. I'm a housewife and a mother. I think the government calls me unemployed. My everyday projects are a garage sale and going grocery shopping. I might mow the lawn.
And yet I'm caught up in this indomitable struggle for meaning. Here I am, hoping to rattle the bones. You know, a weed will spring up in any crack in the concrete. I hope that you hold onto your struggle. I hope you find meaning on this journey of life. I hope that you share it. Bloom, even in that impossible place. I have a deep seated belief that "every little thing is going to shine."
Will be back next week with more musing.
Here is a doodle.
In our life there is a single color, as on an artist's palette, which provides the meaning of life and art. It is the color of love. Marc Chagall
