The Void

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After dinner last night, I said to Sasha: Maybe this is going to sound strange, but it’s the days when I’m most productive that I feel the most pointless.

And she looked at me like I’d lost my mind and got up to do the dishes, but not before saying, It doesn’t do you any good to think that way.

I wanted her to be right. I wanted to concede to her point.

But.

Being the argumentative over-thinker that I am, I didn’t. Instead I rambled on for a few minutes before coming to this idea: Confronting this emotion – this completely irrational feeling of pointlessness in the face of productivity – is absolutely essential to being a writer. Every day, I get up and write things down, and every day I battle that thought: Why am I doing this? And everyday I don’t have an answer, except to write more. And no matter how much I write, it will probably never feel like enough. As a writer, this will go on forever.

To which Sasha said, Ah, the void. You’re writing into the void. Very existential, babe.

Just call me Sartre.

I like the idea of the void better than the other image I so often conjure for myself, which is a brick wall that I repeatedly bash up against.

. . .

Brevity Magazine recently posted some advice for post-MFA despair. I’m sure post-MFA is an SEO keyword or something, because you don’t need an MFA for despair. Despair is a human condition. Especially if you’re a writer. Nevertheless, it’s always good to read other writers’ advice on coping with that eternal question: What’s the point?

I wonder though, if coping is the right word. I wonder if What’s the point? needs to be embraced, needs to be championed.

What, after all, is the point? Of anything at all. I’m no nihilist, but seriously, when you think about it – what do we really do anything for? Most of what we deem necessary in our lives is societal conditioning. We ascribe meaning to apparently meaningless things. (I am in no way exempt from this: I see a hawk perched on a highway sign and immediately my brain says something like, Oh, the universe is telling me to have some perspective.) We think refrigerators and antibacterial soap are necessary. We wear shoes and bras and other ridiculous things because of cultural expectation. Lots of us park ourselves in front of a pixilated screen on a regular basis and willingly watch commercials for carbonated sugar water and foods made of little more than high fructose corn syrup.

I don’t have to look super-far to find plenty of perfectly “normal” activities that make me go: What’s the point?!?

. . .

Writing doesn’t always seem normal. It feels like a pathological condition most days.

That sharp edge of one’s own limitations, that looming specter of pointlessness, will always, always exist.

Despair, like doubt, can kill you if you give it too much power. But without it, there is no chance for growth.

Strange as it may sound, the void is kind of a cool thing. It’s big and endless, which means it has space for you and your writing to be big and endless.

Call me an optimist. I am. A cynic, absolutely. But an optimist too.

So instead of turning away from the void, why not stare right into it? Why not make peace with it? Why not say, Alright void, you asked for it, and give it everything you’ve got.

 

 

Running {In Photos}

Running {In Photos}

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Back in the depths of February, I bought a new iPod. Kind of an enormous investment, being the under-employed grad student that I am, but worth it (my other, ailing iPod, which was fast approaching the anniversary of its first … Continue reading →

On making space for the sublime to slip in

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White space.

I was in workshop in January and we got to talking about white space. After some discussion about whether or not white space in a story is a good thing, I said, Wait. I’m sorry. When we say white space, are we talking about a line break between sections? 

It took a lot for me to ask that question, mostly because I felt dumb in doing so. I later realized that I’m not dumb, I just think of that space between sections in editorial/design terms. But this justification of my question is beside the point.

The point is: white space.

I’ve been thinking a lot about white space lately. First in my stories and also in my life. (As is the order of importance these days.)

*

I’m not a linear thinker. That’s just a fact. I can find connection in almost anything; past, present, future roll together to become something else entirely in my mind. (I just discovered there’s a word for my brain: gestalt. But that’s another post.)

So writing a story that moves from point A to point B without a lot of time spent at points M, X, and 7, can be pretty difficult. You’re telling me that the number/color of the subway line my characters ride everyday isn’t important? I think it is. (Okay, I’m kind of joking about that. Kind of.)

Turns out I can write a story without backstory. Here’s how: I write the story the way my brain thinks it and then I strip the backstory out. This can take a long, long, long time. Like 25, 30, 80 drafts. Sometimes my characters change genders, names, locations, in those drafts. Writing is a sort of alchemy after all. But I digress.

Somehow, in that workshop, white space and backstory got wrongly conflated in my brain.

And as it turned out, around that time I was working on a story that takes place over the course of an afternoon. As I worked/re-worked the first several drafts I thought I probably couldn’t have any white space. Not in such a straightforward narrative. Right?

Wrong.

Every story, every life, needs white space.

I mean, when else are characters going to use the bathroom, brush their teeth, eat a sandwich, smoke a cigarette, or feed the cats?

*

I sometimes think that if I were a story, I’d be mostly white space. This isn’t to say I’m blank. It is to say that I need plenty of room to move and feel and expand and intuit and think my crazy, time-free thoughts.

*

Minimalism (the hardcore version of simple living) is all about space.

It’s one of the things that attracted me to it in the first place.

I tried to convince Sasha that it was a good idea to get rid of our couches.

But where will we sit? she asked. Then: You’re taking this a bit too far aren’t you?

The couches stayed. Which is probably be a good thing. But I do still daydream about sitting on pillows on the floor and having a big room of – nothing. Space.

*

I’ve been busy these days. Busier than I’ve been in a long time. And it feels good. Mostly because I’m busy doing the few things I really love doing. Writing is work, but it doesn’t usually feel like it. Editing is work, but it doesn’t usually feel like it. Reading is often work – but very rarely feels like it.

Still, busy-ness comes with its own set of troubles.

Like, realizing it’s noon and you’ve been sitting in one position for three hours and you haven’t eaten breakfast and your bladder is about to burst.

White space.

(By the by: I’m not condoning this behavior. It’s actually pretty unhealthy.)

*

It’s hard for me to take a day off from writing. When I talk to other writers about this, they agree.

But days off are essential.

Really. Truly.

Essential.

They are white space.

*

And white space is where the sublime slips in.

As I’m sure those of you who know me know, when I say sublime, I’m not talking Mozart concertos. I’m talking about leaves and long walks and thrift-store discoveries and Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra. I’m talking about cat purrs and laughter. I’m talking about long walks and sunsets and being woken by a raucous orchestra of birds at 5 a.m.

These things might not be what the story is about, but they’re essential just the same.

*

When one puts white space into a story, it’s on purpose.

As a writer, one must learn to sense when and where white space is necessary. Pull away too soon and you’ll give the reader blue balls, stay in the scene too long and the reader will start to chafe.

There’s a balance to be struck (oh, balance!).

In life, it’s much the same. One must learn, again and again, when and where to insert a white space. Take a break. Take a nap. Take a walk. Take a breath.

That moment between inhale and exhale is the original white space.

 

 

 

Brute

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At AWP in March, I saw Julianna Baggott read, and since then have been reading her blog and following her on Facebook.

I’ve also had my nose to the dirt, working my ass off, sometimes fourteen-hour days, so much so that my mother recently sent this guilt-inducing FB message that said: I know you’re busy, but I miss talking to you. Last night Sasha and I went to have dinner with some friends who just had a baby, and when the conversation turned to me, something like this came out: Pretty much all I’m doing is working.

Okay: blah blah right? I don’t mean to complain. I’m not complaining. I’m damn lucky to live the life I’m living right now, and I don’t forget it, not even when I’m going cross-eyed from hand-(re)writing the 37th draft of a short story about a woman who gets bitten by a coyote and becomes clairvoyant.

But yes, back to Julianna Baggott – who is brilliant and amazing and you should go check out her blog and some of her books. One of her status updates recently ended: “writing is brutal work. it is for brutes.”

I read that, and I thought yes. Why yes it is.

People become writers, or want to become writers, for a lot of reasons. I honestly have no recollection of why I ever decided I wanted to be a writer. I just know that at some point as a teenager I did and then the urge never left.

I remember as an undergrad having Matthew Zapruder tell me that to be a writer, one needs to be obsessive. That was back when I was a poet. I heard him. And part of me understood – I am obsessive about certain things. Cats, for example. Kale. Bourbon. Coffee. Arm balances.

And fiction.

Sometimes, when I think about how long I wanted to be a writer, and how long I spent avoiding that urge, I get sad. I get sad because I feel like I wasted a lot of time. Okay, so I didn’t really waste that time: I wrote some good poems and I read a ton of novels and I figured out, to some degree, who I am and what I want out of my life. I traveled. I fell in love. I saved a few cats.

But now that I write fiction, I see what I was missing before, back when I was a poet. For me, writing fiction isn’t merely about inspiration and love of language the way writing poetry was. Writing fiction is an obsession.

One that I am willing to sit cross-legged in a closet for fourteen hours a day for. One that I’ll happily turn down an invitation to see a movie or go to brunch for. One that I’ll let the refrigerator get so damn empty that all I eat all day is bananas for.

I’ve only been writing fiction for 2½ years. I’m still a beginner. But something is different now.

And the thing that’s different is the sheer force of will I give my work.

I’m officially a brute.

 

 

Philadelphia

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First visit to Philly – and whew! my feet are sore. Philly is super-cute and super-walkable, full of old-school charm and delectable bites.

Per our usual travel agenda, we hit the streets on foot, and walked ourselves silly while sipping good coffee, stuffing our faces, drinking our fair share of beer, wine, and whiskey. And did I mention ice cream? There was plenty of that to be had.

What’s not to like about Philly? The skinny buildings, the shoe scrapers posted outside all the front doors (to clean off the horse poop, of course) and all the old bulkheads. Texture galore.

I only think the city missed the boat by naming their public transportation the SEPTA. It really should be called the PHART.

Here are a few of my favorite views.

DSCN7907

 

  1. Terrarium
  2. Peep hole / Bulkhead hinge
  3. Elfreth’s Alley
  4. Betsy Ross’ doorknob / Ice cream shop doorknob
  5. Poop scraper
  6. Skull in Northern Liberties / Reading Terminal Market
  7. Street view

On Not Getting Rid Of Stuff

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self-portrait with decaying leafOver the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about simplicity, and its effect on my life – how it has become a persistent undercurrent, shaping and directing me without overtly asserting its presence.

In this way, I’m like a piece of sea glass, rolling in the waves, smoothed and pummeled by something beyond my control.

Of course, simplicity is not beyond my control – in many small ways, I choose it every day.

But mostly I’ve been thinking about the flip-side of simplicity. That is: complexity.

Here’s why.

The other day, I had a strong urge to read Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” I’ve been working on a story that weaves together some lurking unsavory elements and wanted to look at how she wrote the scene when the Misfit’s car crests the hill and approaches the family. That scene scares the shit out of me every single time I read it. Anyway, I went looking for my book of O’Connor’s stories, and discovered that I no longer own it.

I almost cried. A wave of frustration washed over me. Flannery will have to wait.

*

I love simplicity, I really do. I love space. I love how clutter-free my home is. I love that giving away an enormous number of my possessions got me back to writing and through a first draft of a novel and into an MFA program.

But you know what else I love?

Books.

And I wish that I hadn’t given so many away.

*

This is my anti-simplicity simplicity post.

The day has come.

Of course it has to do with books.

*

One of the things that most transformed my life when I embraced simple living was discovering that my possessions did not own me. After years of feeling bogged down by the weight of who I thought I should be (a feeling, of course, that is rooted in a place much deeper than possessions), giving stuff away made me feel wonderful. It opened up a bunch of doors and windows and let the light in, let the air in, and in that space – I re-found my writing.

It was buried underneath a bunch of stuff that, truly, needed to be thrown away.

I doubt it was buried beneath my collection of Flannery O’Connor’s writing (though it was a big book – all her stories and two novels within the covers).

*

On many days, being a writer feels like being mentally ill (I spend hours with people who exist only in my brain). It feels like blindness (was Homer actually blind or is that just a metaphor?). It feels like handing my body and brain over to something much larger and stranger than me and letting the words channel through.

But writing is also the place I feel most at home. My truest self. And if I don’t acquiesce to it, that self will probably hack me to pieces with a meat cleaver.

*

Nobody told me that making the move toward simple living involved getting rid of all my books.

But my bookshelves were sagging. And admittedly, they were loaded with books I’d never read again (proto-feminist and early American history? nope.) and books I’d probably never read at all. Those were obvious choices, ripe for the thrift store.

There is a momentum in getting rid of stuff, and that momentum gave away far more books than it should have.

Of course, I had no idea I’d find myself in an MFA program. And, of course, I might not have carved away a path to that MFA program if I hadn’t taken the weight of my accumulated possessions and heaved it out the door.

*

Possessions don’t own us. They don’t define us. Unless we allow them to.

Simple living, I see now, has very little to do with getting rid of stuff. It’s a way of existing. And it doesn’t matter how many books are on your shelf, as long as they’re not suffocating the life out of you.

So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in town buying a new copy of Flannery O’Connor’s short stories.