Action vs. Soul

September 4, 2014December 22, 2014 / Lisa / 9 Comments

After getting quite the talking-to from my oldest sister last night, I decided to tackle another question. Several posts back I listed some that people felt were too hard to answer, and thought it might be easier to take them one at a time, answer them myself, and see if that primed the pump. Well, everyone’s right. These are hard.

So, can I say who I am, without saying what I do? I’m sure you’re all familiar with my point here. That every time you meet someone new, the first thing they want to know is what you do, as if that defines all that you are.

Okay, following the theme of the bawling out I got (that I am pondering, honestly), I will start by saying I’m probably closer to the thorn than the rose.

More rose than thorn

I’m someone more at peace around less.

I relate to trees more than to some relations.

It’s obviously tempting here to start listing things I like versus things I don’t. Things that make me happy, or sad, or mad. All of that is part of who I am, but they don’t take the question to a broader scene.

I am residual genetics filtered down through generations of Germans and Scots. I am descended from Montana pioneers. I could go on with history, but it makes me realize that I am trying to say who I am by saying where I came from, and that isn’t right either.

Cherry Creek with generations of family

The labels I’ve talked about before start to surface: mom, writer, sister, wife, daughter…but those don’t say who I am. They only say what I am to others, and almost slide into defining self by what I do.

The easy way out right now is to simply write that I am the sum of all these things. That kind of feels like cheating. It also feels like a cliché and all writers hate clichés. Or should.

So whom am I? Someone who is loved. Someone who loves. Someone who also dislikes, and gets pissed, and cusses too much.

Oops. Slipping into defining by listing.

I am part of the earth, I gain balance from the places that feel like bone-deep parts of me: mountains, rivers, forests. I want to return to that earth some day, no coffin, no barriers, just part of the whole.

Dramatic sunset backdrop for dramatic words.

That sounds wonderful, but is rather dramatic. And there’s that pragmatic side of me that’s laughing at the dramatic side.

So who am I? I really have no idea. Someone who tried sandpaper to get rid of freckles so long ago that the majority of the people who remember that are gone. Someone who just realized those freckles have faded like those people.

Who are you? How do you define yourself? Please show me you would answer this.

‘Inside us there is something that has no name, that something is who we are.’ – Jose Saramago

Silverback Fir Cones

What’s This About?

August 20, 2014 / Lisa / 6 Comments

Recently a stranger asked me what the second book was about. My immediate thought was ‘I don’t know; I haven’t read it’. While I didn’t say that out loud, it did get me thinking.

I can tell you what the jacket blurb says. I can tell you the premise, the layers that are important to me, like family and history. None of that would be anything like what I would tell you if you asked me what a book I’m currently reading is about. For that I’d say, oh, it’s about this woman who’s doing jury duty when two guys storm the courthouse (Ransom River, Meg Gardiner) and then I’d go on in that vein. But if I asked Ms. Gardiner what the book was about and she answered in that manner I’d think, ‘great, now I don’t have to read it’ and walk away disappointed.

What makes the difference? For me, if I’m reading a book I want to share the excitement and the story. If it’s a book I’m considering reading, I want the person to hook me into really, really wanting to read, without giving away the story – something I want to discover on my own.

Looking on a new place to discover

When it comes to talking about a book I’ve written, however, everything changes and I believe it’s connected to intimacy.

During the writing process I am so closely involved that the story is part of my everyday life. I’m daydreaming it, thinking about it, mentally talking to the characters, and so on. In a way it’s like being pregnant, this thing slowly coming to life inside.

After the first draft I move into editing, and then I hate the story. It’s the worst thing ever written, I’m an awful writer, why didn’t I see those mistakes (usually thought after it comes back from an editor I’ve paid), I never, ever, want to see these characters again. Almost too much intimacy. You know – the one who insists on cuddling up close and crowding you out.

Vala and Arwen

Of course the editing phase passes, you realize it’s not quite as bad as you feared, and you let it loose into the world.

And in all that work and angst, I never read it outside of an editing standpoint. I never go back to it after it’s been published, pick it up like I would a ‘real’ book, and read it, relaxed, cover to cover. I never see it as a whole. I’m not sure I could read it without constantly picking apart every phrase. I would be afraid of finding a lot wrong. I know what I hoped to create. What I think the story is about. What I wanted it to be about.

But do I truly know what it’s about? I’m not sure I can answer that unless I go back and read it. And oddly, I find that thought a bit scary.

Nevada storm with scary flash flood

Question Creativity

August 6, 2014 / Lisa / 8 Comments

A few posts back (Endless Chains) I came up with a list of questions that no one answered. Some said they were too hard. I decided to see if I could answer them and if that might spark discussions. It was tempting to scroll through the list and pick what interested me but that seemed rather like cheating. So here’s question #2, which I didn’t want to answer.

What form does your creativity take?

The easy answer is writing, obviously. And handcrafts. I love to crochet doilies (and am always asked, ‘isn’t that something old ladies do?’), make bobbin lace, struggle with spinning, and so forth.

Making bobbin lace; image from wikimedia commons

The harder answer is that I actually don’t understand creativity. Why can’t we pick and choose what form it takes? If we could I would draw. Or at least have an eye for color and design, which I suck at.

Why do we need creativity? How did it evolve? I imagine things started out as survival skills. Spinning to create warm clothes. Writing and painting to create communication. Most likely, when survival became less emergent, those skills stuck around because a few people realized they enjoyed the tasks.

But let’s think about writing, or story telling. That’s been around since the beginning of time. I don’t know that it had much to do with survival other than maybe scaring little kids around the fire so they wouldn’t stray. I think it had more to do with keeping oral history alive. But whatever the reason, why did we, back in the beginning of time, have that desire to tell a story? To use imagination to create a fictional account that did nothing but entertain? There must be some deep-seated genetic reason that we feel the need to create and I’d love to know why.

Back to the question though. Writing is clearly my form of creativity. It’s something that eases my soul, makes me happy, allows me to move through the day and breathe. Whatever it is in our brains that requires us to need some form of creativity in our lives, I’m glad my brain chose writing. Because I really do suck at color. And cooking. And singing. For that matter, I was always terrible playing a musical instrument, too, even though I love music. I have no creativity where dance is concerned, either.

Hmmm. The more I think about it the more I feel lucky to have at least a few things I can claim as creativity.

So what is creativity to you and what form does yours take?