This week-end, I did a two-hour workshop at the wonderful Wabi-Sabi, the goal of which was to create a felted pumpkin. Something just for fun. A little harvest themed bit of "me time."
The instructor showed the three of us how to wrap our wool to make the pumpkin shape. It was all very herbal tea and hand-knitted sweaters. Not one of the six women I encountered that morning wore an ounce of make-up.
I was pretty sure I'd be able to finish my pumpkin first, once I worked out a hold for the form that allowed me pierce the thing faster. I moved on, before anyone else, to the gussets and stem. Unlike the others, I fashioned my leaves without resorting to cutting. Everyone oohh'd and aaah'd my final product, as they continued to finish their own.
Of course, I concealed the ridiculous amount of pleasure this gave me.
I have a problem.
I'm working on it.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Saturday, October 1, 2011
The Mark
You know that thing about how 90% of success is showing up? I thought about that as I hustled to Pilates class the other day. On my way to showing up,the way I do every week.
On my way to showing up, exactly three minutes late.
About 20 minutes before class, the bargaining starts. I know its time to go. A voice whispers to me about one more phone call, or an email. Or maybe the voice just tells me to stare out the window. I obey that voice. 7 minutes later, I'll be flying out the door, still deluding myself that I won't be late. Again.
"How can I always miss the mark?", I wondered. Until I saw that I was right on target. Every time. Precisely, predictably 3 minutes late. I just hadn't seen where my real mark is.
My real mark isn't failure. But it sure isn't success, either.
Time to move the mark.
On my way to showing up, exactly three minutes late.
About 20 minutes before class, the bargaining starts. I know its time to go. A voice whispers to me about one more phone call, or an email. Or maybe the voice just tells me to stare out the window. I obey that voice. 7 minutes later, I'll be flying out the door, still deluding myself that I won't be late. Again.
"How can I always miss the mark?", I wondered. Until I saw that I was right on target. Every time. Precisely, predictably 3 minutes late. I just hadn't seen where my real mark is.
My real mark isn't failure. But it sure isn't success, either.
Time to move the mark.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Perspective
Boys spark the imagination.
I mean the ones who have only recently become men. The ones who seem unaccostommed to their beards, and the squareness of their shoulders.
I used to try on the skin of their girlfriends. Of the girl who woke up, perhaps, beside that sleepy boy. Or who broke up with the tall, lean one, who always thrust his hands in his pockets. I used to look at a boy's hands, and feel his touch on some other woman's skin.
I would gauge whether he could break her heart.
These days, my vision is stronger. I see into the past, to smaller hands, reaching up. To bike-riding lessons. To playground days and sleepless nights. I see boys as their mothers see them.
From this perspective, you feel the heart break every time.
I mean the ones who have only recently become men. The ones who seem unaccostommed to their beards, and the squareness of their shoulders.
I used to try on the skin of their girlfriends. Of the girl who woke up, perhaps, beside that sleepy boy. Or who broke up with the tall, lean one, who always thrust his hands in his pockets. I used to look at a boy's hands, and feel his touch on some other woman's skin.
I would gauge whether he could break her heart.
These days, my vision is stronger. I see into the past, to smaller hands, reaching up. To bike-riding lessons. To playground days and sleepless nights. I see boys as their mothers see them.
From this perspective, you feel the heart break every time.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Why, Revisited
Most of my meta-writing thoughts are about how, rather than why.
Why I write seemed obvious. Because I want to; it makes me happy. Five Lies made me re-consider all that.
Five Lies (which I wrote) was part of the Ottawa Fringe Festival, hence my recent hiatus. We sold out our 35 seat venue (a pub basement) almost every night. The actors and director did an amazing job with our limited space. We got great reviews. Audiences seemed to like the thing.
Each night of our 8-night run, I stood at the back and watched. That was cool.
It just wasn't satisfying.
It wasn't satisfying, I think, because I want to write a novel. Novels have been my friends all my life. I need to produce one. Its just really, really hard. Probably because I care about it so much.
More than I cared about Five Lies.
Back to the drawing board.
Why I write seemed obvious. Because I want to; it makes me happy. Five Lies made me re-consider all that.
Five Lies (which I wrote) was part of the Ottawa Fringe Festival, hence my recent hiatus. We sold out our 35 seat venue (a pub basement) almost every night. The actors and director did an amazing job with our limited space. We got great reviews. Audiences seemed to like the thing.
Each night of our 8-night run, I stood at the back and watched. That was cool.
It just wasn't satisfying.
It wasn't satisfying, I think, because I want to write a novel. Novels have been my friends all my life. I need to produce one. Its just really, really hard. Probably because I care about it so much.
More than I cared about Five Lies.
Back to the drawing board.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Exhaustion
Its been a complex summer. Some of it was good (Bermuda, Muskoka and completely re-decorating my teen daughter's closet). Some of it was bad (won't bore you with that part).
I didn't write. Too exhilarated and empty from my play being staged in June, too tired from the bad stuff and too unsure about which of my 3 unfinished novels to dive into.
I also have a great new novel idea, but four unfinished novels seems promiscuous.
Its my birthday. I did some stock taking, registered for some courses in pleasurable things like felting and pottery. Today I get celebrated by people who love me. That's pretty great.
I was exhausted, but I'm not any more. I feel cleaner. Ready to go. Maybe exhaustion is like a good mental bleach.
I hope so, at least. I'm going with that.
I didn't write. Too exhilarated and empty from my play being staged in June, too tired from the bad stuff and too unsure about which of my 3 unfinished novels to dive into.
I also have a great new novel idea, but four unfinished novels seems promiscuous.
Its my birthday. I did some stock taking, registered for some courses in pleasurable things like felting and pottery. Today I get celebrated by people who love me. That's pretty great.
I was exhausted, but I'm not any more. I feel cleaner. Ready to go. Maybe exhaustion is like a good mental bleach.
I hope so, at least. I'm going with that.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Doing What Comes Naturally
My 12 year old daughter, who has a flair for things artistic, recently told me that she can only write when she's "emotional."
"Why is that?" I asked. She told me that the words only flow when she's wound up about something.
I get this. When I was 12, I wrote only when gripped by unbearably strong emotions. Fortunately, this happened every hour or so. In my twenties, the hormonal storm subsided, along with my productivity.
A lot of what makes writing good - the structuring, the editing, the organizing - is entirely unnatural. It needs to be learned. It can be practiced even when your inspiration is minimal.
If you're no longer 12 (alas!), you can wait a long time for inspiration to flow naturally. When it won't, why not focus on the unnatural stuff? I think of writing exercises as being akin to gardener's work. What's natural may bloom more easily once you've cultivated your skills in an entirely unnatural way.
"Why is that?" I asked. She told me that the words only flow when she's wound up about something.
I get this. When I was 12, I wrote only when gripped by unbearably strong emotions. Fortunately, this happened every hour or so. In my twenties, the hormonal storm subsided, along with my productivity.
A lot of what makes writing good - the structuring, the editing, the organizing - is entirely unnatural. It needs to be learned. It can be practiced even when your inspiration is minimal.
If you're no longer 12 (alas!), you can wait a long time for inspiration to flow naturally. When it won't, why not focus on the unnatural stuff? I think of writing exercises as being akin to gardener's work. What's natural may bloom more easily once you've cultivated your skills in an entirely unnatural way.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Rules
As you may have noticed, I love making them up. I'm not as big on following them. Your personality, like mine, is rooted in how you relate to rules.
Ready for a test? Which one of the five answers below best describes you?
Rules are:
1. Helpful guidelines for stupid people;
2. The basis of civilization as we know it;
3. Valuable in direct relation to who made them and why;
4. Always capable of being turned to your advantage;
5. What rules?
Made your pick? OK, here's what you should be writing:
1. Novels
2. Non-fiction
3. Plays
4. Self-help
5. Poetry
Make sense? Good. Remember to send me my commission.
Ready for a test? Which one of the five answers below best describes you?
Rules are:
1. Helpful guidelines for stupid people;
2. The basis of civilization as we know it;
3. Valuable in direct relation to who made them and why;
4. Always capable of being turned to your advantage;
5. What rules?
Made your pick? OK, here's what you should be writing:
1. Novels
2. Non-fiction
3. Plays
4. Self-help
5. Poetry
Make sense? Good. Remember to send me my commission.
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