The Story River

What is it? I’ve heard instinct is your subconscious picking up on cues you miss. Okay. So what’s your subconscious? Well, a friend told me one time it’s ‘that still, small voice inside that makes you feel still smaller’. Huh. I thought that was guilt. Whatever these weird things going on inside us are, I have yet to hear a definition that feels tangible to me. And I need tangible. I’m not much of a ‘take it on faith’ sort. But this isn’t a rambling on biology and the workings of the brain, or faith.

What fascinates me about instinct is how it intrudes in writing. I’ll be working away, words are flowing, everything seems hunky-dory. And then that still, small voice starts niggling back there behind the door I closed so I could write uninterrupted. It’s a mental whisper that manages to shout at the same time, yelling at me to stop, to go back, to take a breath. Which I don’t want to because I’m writing. Who wants to stop when things are working?

So I don’t stop, I ignore whatever that ephemeral presences is in the gray matter and keep going. And usually, a few days later, when I read over what I have written, I realize things weren’t going as well as I thought at the time. Sometimes it’s a simple matter of having headed off in the wrong direction, or sent a character off to do something totally out of character. Or I got too caught up in description, or have nothing but talking heads on the page. Whatever the problem is, I realize I should have listened to that voice because, in not doing so, I end up having wasted a lot of time.

Which raises the question, why don’t we listen? I can excuse that in someone who’s young. But someone with enough experience to know that not paying attention to that niggling doubt always, and I mean always, ends up in wishing attention had been paid? There’s no excuse. Possibly laziness. Possibly the ability to self-deceive and tell that voice that this time it’s wrong.

I have yet to have a situation where instinct told me to watch out, and it ended up being wrong. Whether it’s when the stranger comes up to the truck in the parking lot wanting to know if I have cash, to the family friend that everyone loves but your inner voice tells you is a creep, to the simple act of writing.  I know better. I know to listen. Sometimes I choose not to.

But I still want to know exactly what that voice is that’s telling me, at this moment, that the writing I did last night isn’t going to work.

Dang it. Did it again. Didn’t listen last night. I guess I have some rewriting to do.

The photo below has nothing to do with writing or this post. It’s simply that my son is 5’10 and driving and sometimes I wish he was still little and the future simple.

Every time I talk to friends they tell me, ‘oh you should write that down!’ and I think, why? It’s funny in the moment of oral storytelling but would that translate to the written word? I’ve decided to find out. Every so often I am going to digress from writing, and share a story. Let me know if you find this a stupid idea.

Back in the 1970′s we were madly in love with the Bay City Rollers, a pop band from Scotland. Last week while driving one of their songs played. I was instantly grinning and happy and started telling my patient teenage son stories.

The Bay City Roller conventions in Seattle where we would bum rides from parents or take the bus into the city, gather at the Seattle Center with lots of other crazy teen girls, and immerse ourselves in Roller fandom. We wore the required uniform of short pants with tartan trim and striped socks, and carried long tartan scarves with the name of our favorite Roller on it. We formed huge human pyramids for some reason. We trekked to Pike Place Market, clutching our dollar bills to buy black and white photographs. We came home blissed out.

The hundreds of letters we mailed out. Keep in mind this was before the internet, social platforms, and cell phones. We had pen pals. Not only did we write letters we highly decorated the envelopes. Stickers of our favorite Roller, labels of the same, with lines of songs or poems. Stamps that we put on upside down, and then wrote, around the stamp, ‘Roller fans stompin’ round, put their stamps on upside down’. Must have driven the post offices crazy trying to find the addresses.

Then there was The Trip, still talked about stridently, by my brother. A camping trip back to Montana, where us kids rode in the camper (allowed at the time). My sister and I were riding high because the Rollers were coming fora  concert. We had their new release ‘You Made Me Believe in Magic’ on a cassette tape that we had recorded off the radio station. During hours and hours of driving time, we played that one song over and over, while my brother suffered. And threatened to throw the recorder out the back. And then threatened to throw us out the back.

And of course the concert itself, arriving outside the Paramount theater in the wee hours of the morning, standing in line all day, and then standing on the arms of the chairs inside, during the concert, absolutely convinced that your Roller looked right at you and your madly waving scarf.

My son said it sounded like Justin Bieber and girls right now. Who? I told my son that it wasn’t the song making me smile, it was all the memories associated with it. Those giggly days of making new friends and innocent fun. Well, innocent for the most part. Slumber parties and posters on the wall.

About half an hour later a song came on that made my son laugh. It reminded him of when he was little and seriously believed he had super hero powers. I told him he’d just had a Bay City Roller moment.

I think every generation has females out there who can point to similar moments, and who still smile when a certain song plays.

Recently a friend mentioned she likes to have her writing edited as she works, that having a second set of eyes during the process is like flipping a light and illuminating the piece for her. I had this mental image of her sitting with her words, illuminated, just glowing as she wrote. I told her my process and figured it was worth dipping into a bit more, here.

It used to be that if I shared a work in progress before the first draft was done, the piece died and I never finished it. But as those of you who have followed this blog for some time know, radiation kind of fried my writing process and the past two years has been spent discovering the new ways I can write.

Over the past couple months, I shared my work in progress with my friend Jenni, who shows up here in the comment section, and  with two published authors during a writing retreat. I shared by giving them pages to read. I did so with trepidation knowing my history, but it was fine. The story survived.

I got overly enthusiastic and read a problem passage to Jenni. At the time it felt okay, but then that old familiar heavy feeling started, and sure enough I didn’t write. Saturday I forced myself to go back to the piece, wrote very stilted for a bit, and then very slowly found my way back to the flow of words. Kind of like writing CPR.

This is what I picture. Rather than being in that golden glow like my other friend, I’m more like this weird creature hiding in a dark room, caught up in an imaginary world. I can share the story only once I am done with it. If I share it too soon, it’s like the door opens and lets in too much light, glaring spotlight-like, and me and my words shrivel. Kind of like a slug with salt poured over it. No, I am not going to make vampire analogies!

So, letting Jenni read on her own, away from me, was me slipping the paper under the door, so to speak. I was still hidden away with my story.

Me reading out loud to her was cracking that door open just enough to let some light in. Luckily not enough to kill the story. But poor Jenni isn’t going to get read to until the story is done.

It brings to mind photos pre-digital, when you could over expose them and everything would be washed out.

The writing process is just so weird. And so individualized. And so tentative. And so lovely when it works.

I tried to find a photo of light, that would show how I pictured my friend illuminated. The closest I can find is one of my son, taken a few years ago during his first kayak lesson on the Skykomish river. The sun was slanted low, and he’s ringed with a glow.

Many years ago, I decided to travel to Scotland with a  friend. We had never even traveled to the big city of Seattle by ourselves, let alone a foreign country. But away we blithely went, with $500 in our pockets, for six weeks. The best advice I got prior to the trip was the reminder that everything that goes wrong just makes for a good story later.

That advice has come in handy many times over the years. When I’m in the middle of some drama, whether it’s traveling or simply broke down on the side of the highway, those words allow me to take a deep breath and find some humor in the situation. Granted, most times the humor isn’t found until days later when I’m retelling the story. Then the writer in me comes out.

But really, this time, my brother and his wife are testing that advice to its fullest. His boss gave them a cruise trip. All they had to do was pay the taxes. On a limited budget like all of us, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. They left last week. And now they are going to come home with a whopping story.

While on a walking tour in Italy, my sister-in-law fell and broke her hip. She’s healthy so this was quite a fall. And it appears the cruise ship then sailed away without them, without noticing that they had not come back with the tour. Today my sister-in-law had surgery for a full hip replacement, in Italy. They have another week to stay there (neither speak Italian), and then will be sent home. The cruise ship, thankfully, has agreed to pay for everything.

I think this tops any traveling tale I could come up with. These are the kinds of stories people tell all around us, from daily irritations to huge problems like having to stay behind in Italy for an extra week. And I have to admit, these are the things I take notes on. Bits and pieces that may show up in a story somewhere down the road. I’m going to have to thank my sister-in-law for giving me story fodder. Wonder what she’ll say.

It has rained all day. Dark stagnant clouds that got hung up on the mountains on their way to eastern Washington, too heavy with rain to make it up and over. But late this afternoon a wind gave them a big push. So right now, outside there is this odd light that I have wondered for years how to describe.

Where I am it is still deep charcoal gray.But  ’down below’ as we call it, that late, low slanting light has broken through underneath the clouds. I love it when this happens because the trees just glow. If any of you have ever found agates on the beach, when the sun is low and illuminates them so they shine amber among dull rocks you’ll know what I mean. It’s that same kind of glow.

But what color is it? Since you can’t see it, how can I describe it correctly? These are the things that challenge me as a writer, more so that stock writing exercises. When I see something that so moves me, and yet the words just aren’t right. How can you describe color unless you are a painter? Well, there’s that old box of crayons. But dang if I can remember any of the names other than Burnt Umber. That one sticks with me because, for some reason, I thought if I could melt it the color would change.

So this late, low light isn’t gold. It’s richer. It’s not amber. It’s a tad lighter. Maybe closer to a glass of my husband’s favorite single malt. It’s definitely not in the yellow shades. And yet it’s also not in the red shades. This isn’t the color you see during a normal sunset, where you get those flame colors, and those deep reds.

A friend of mine who is a poet, swims the freezing Skykomish river. She has talked about the colors underwater, all the shades of green and gold. And she says she can tell when fall is coming because those summer shades deepen. She doesn’t know if it’s from leaf litter in the water, or just the changing angle of the sun.

Her description, the way I picture it (since I don’t swim in that river), is the closest I can find to describing this light. I can imagine those deep greens and golds that she would see underwater, and it’s that same image I get now. Maybe it’s the way water changes color. After a day of rain, when everything is saturated, and the light hits those drops, it might be the same as fall light angling through an emerald river.

It has taken me over 400 words to try to describe a color. That makes me laugh. Is it a sign of being a writer, that it takes so many words, or is it a sign of seeing something beautiful and being at a loss as to how to make you see it, too?

Well, maybe it’s just a sign of a piece that needs some editing.

But…can you see the color? Do you know what I’m trying to describe? Have you seen it? And how would you, writer or not, describe that shade?

Recently I spoke with a woman who has written several screenplays. She talked about what made them work, and what didn’t, and then segued into why some movies fail in spite of a good plot and good actors. As the title of this blog implies, she said it comes down to rhythm. It was great fun watching her because she would start quoting from a movie, then get into the role, and overly dramatize the rhythm to prove her point. It was like watching dialog become music. She even drummed the beats of dialog with her fingers on my desk.

I’m going to state the obvious here and say all our writing, no matter what kind, needs that rhythm.

What I find myself wondering though, is why? Are we working with words, or with notes? I’m certainly no musician (although I have a desire to play something dramatic: hammered dulcimer, harp, bagpipes…) and yet I can feel when a sentence doesn’t work. Usually in the editing process. I’ll stumble over a sentence, go back to figure out why, and realize the way the words meld is wrong.

So which came first, words or music? Do we have some inherited genetic memory of tapping two stones together and realizing we’re creating movement as well as fire? I’m also no archaeologist but I have to wonder if song came before speech. 

This proves the importance of reading your writing out loud during the editing process. Our ears hear the music, or lack of, in the words, that our eyes might skim over.

I find more and more ties between music and writing. Songs that inspire writing, as I’ve posted about before. The music that must be there in our stories. Even the rhythm of our speech.

The challenge is figuring out how to get that rhythm into our writing. Punctuation to create pauses, leaps, rise and fall. All the tools we have to link words into rhythm.

And our natural ear, tuned to that inner song of the story.

I was recently asked if I remembered the place where I first wrote and what I felt.

The setting I remember well. My dad had scrounged up a heavy desk with sticking drawers in plain wood. Someone painted it white. Probably my mom. I drew green leaves twining all over the face of it, imagining ivy draped over the drawers and wrapped around the handles. Reality didn’t match imagination.

I’d been writing stories for some time by then and was about twelve when the desk showed up. The previous stories had been carefully written on a Big Chief pad. Those over sized, extra wide lined pages those of us from a certain generation learned cursive on. The paper wasn’t white for some reason, but an odd brownish beige. Those stories, though, were the equivalent of fan fiction. Adventures that I created starring myself and Huckleberry Finn. Or starring myself and Fess Parker as Davy Crockett.

At the white desk, however, I sat down with a pen instead of a pencil, and a stenographer pad. Green paper instead of beige. Narrow ruled. I remember the smell of the wood desk, the bedroom door shut firmly, and me ensconced in the corner. With blank paper and the whole world waiting.

To be honest though, I don’t remember the emotions as clearly. I know there was the strong need for secrecy.  There was a sense of shame. There must have been a sense of wonder or joy. There must have been feelings of peace after writing. There must have been something that kept me coming back to the paper and pen but I can’t remember what that was.

It makes me wonder what instilled the belief that what I was doing was wrong, or a waste of time, or something that would be ridiculed if others found out. I didn’t come from a family that would have ridiculed me. My mother told me I would never make a living at writing, but she never told me not to.

So when did I lose that fear of exposure? When did it feel okay to admit I was a writer? In this I mean, okay to let people other than my closest friends know. Mariane, Sue, (over 40 years of friendship and counting) my sister Holly. Not until my 30′s when I confessed to my husband and his excitement and encouragement and belief allowed me to think, maybe I can call myself a writer. He convinced me I could write ‘for real’.

It’s weird to me now, thinking about that question the other night, to realize I only remember shame and secrecy. To me that shows the power of writing. That it courses through you in spite of everything.

What about you? Where did you first write, and what emotions do you remember? For those of you who don’t consider yourself writers, do you remember where you were when you first formed letters and realized you could create words? We’re all writers in one way or another.