Tension?

July 26, 2013 / Lisa / 3 Comments

I’ve mentioned before how I usually know the ending of a story before I know anything else about it. I end up writing my way to the very last line, which is always there during the process.

I’ve also mentioned before what my theory is on stories. That they are all around me, and really, really want to be told and don’t care how they’re told. So if I outline, or talk about a story before I’ve finished writing it, then it’s been told. The story is happy and it goes away and I’ll never finish it. Which is why I’m careful not to talk a lot about a work in progress.

So this week, while visiting with my friend Jenni, we got to talking about the writing process and I realized that my two comments above are connected in a way. If I don’t know the ending, there’s no tension. If I talk about a story, basically tell it instead of writing it, there’s no tension. And without that tension, I won’t write.

That got me wondering if ‘tension’ is the right word. Could it be anticipation? Is it the mystery of the unknown? Not knowing the story, discovering it as I write it?

Well, what’s the definition of ‘tension’? Skipping over to an online dictionary I find the expected definitions of stretching and tightening. But then I also find this: ‘a balance maintained in an artistic work between opposing forces or elements’ and ‘an inner striving, unrest, or imbalance…’.

For all you artistic types out there (not just writers), isn’t that what it feels like before the project is finished? A simmering sense of anticipation, inner striving toward something unknown, and a lack of balance? These things, I think, are what drives someone to create. Would I take the time out of my busy life to write 100,000 words if I wasn’t striving toward fulfilling the anticipation, toward finding that balance? Think of the huge, heavy mental sigh you give when your creativity is captured on paper or canvas or even in your job. I know I usually am overwhelmingly relieved that I made it to that very last line before the story escaped.

So I guess ‘tension’ is a good word. However, I read a blog post a week or so ago about how, when you’re struggling to find just the perfect word in your story, and nothing seems to work, to use the definition instead. I agree with that because the phrase ‘an inner striving or unrest’ explains the writing process, for me at least, much better than ‘tension’.

How does it feel for you, before you pick up the pen, the paint brush, the crochet hook, the garden trowel, the hammer?

Beginnings

June 20, 2013 / Lisa / 7 Comments

I’m pondering beginnings.

1. A young friend is a writer. I’m hoping to interview her, here, mainly for selfish reasons. I want to remember what it was like when I started out. Which means I’m trying to find the right questions to ask. I remember the feeling of secrecy as I sat alone in my room with lined paper and pencil, afraid someone would walk in and ask what I was doing. I’m not sure I was consciously aware of the world opening up, but I remember realizing that dreams were, in a way, coming to life on the page. When I read things I wrote a long time ago, I cringe. But at the same time I laugh and don’t make changes because there is so much enthusiasm in those stories, even if the craft of writing still had to be learned. Heck, I’m still learning. But you know what I mean. Those early pieces are just dang fun to read.

Have I lost that enthusiasm? No, but the stories don’t overflow, meaning I don’t write non-stop all day. Now I’m more inclined to write while the muse is flowing and then go back and revise. Back then, I just knew that everything was perfect. So maybe the naiveté has been tempered by craft.

2. A story is finished and waits on cover art. I have another story I’m fiddling with and a bit overwhelmed by. I also want to start on a third in the series. I know I want it to be a prequel as several people liked a character that is killed off in the first book. I can feel the tiny, faint, niggling feeling that tells me an idea is there, but still buried. I have some thoughts, I’ve jotted a few notes, but I can also tell it’s too soon. If I try to jump in and force the beginning, to start before the idea is firmed more, then the whole story will die.

That itch is there but it’s too soon to scratch.

3. And then there’s the beginning a poet starts. She has finished her radiation, her chemotherapy, and the changes to her body. Now she starts the healing. Those who haven’t been through it assume it’s the start of a joyful time, of relief, and there is that, in a small part. But it’s also the start of anger and deep sadness, and feeling like you’re going insane. Few people realize that some who have had to deal with cancer, end up with PTSD afterwards. Few people want to talk about that. And so she begins the uphill battle to regain who she was, and learn who she is. As part of that she wrote an amazing poem that I hope she will allow me, some day, to share here.

The thing about all these beginnings, that I hope she realizes, is that they pass.

pincushion flower (scabiosa)

Guilt

April 27, 2013April 27, 2013 / Lisa / 8 Comments

Over the years I have struggled (and lost) to overwhelming guilt whenever I wrote.

You know what I mean. How dare you take time to sit and write, when there are dirty dishes in the sink? When dinner has to be made, eggs collected, dogs fed, etc., etc.

If it wasn’t the specter of chores slapping me with guilt, it was a little voice whispering that my writing would never benefit the family, that I needed to do something to help out more.

Then of course there’s the guilt for taking time to write ‘when you know you’re really not any good’. That’s the nasty inner guilt-slinger again.

Today is a very wet day in the woods. Raining, after days of rain. A perfect time to build up the fire, put on the kettle, and write. Right? Until guilt reared up. So first I went out into the rain and planted several things that were gasping in too-tiny pots. Into bigger pots, and some into the ground, went bell peppers, thyme, marjoram, parsley, costmary, lovage, sage, golden bush, forget-me-nots, beans, peas, and…well you get the idea. I came inside in late afternoon soaked.

Don’t get me wrong. I love that feeling of coming inside cold and wet, knowing you’ve accomplished something. There have been many, many times I’ve worked out in the rain. In the Pacific Northwest, if you wait for good weather, you’ll never get anything done. I remember days of climbing up into the woods with my father to repair the pipeline that brought water to a water wheel and generated electricity for us. Coming back down covered in mud, soaking wet, hauling a soggy backpack full of tools, smelling like pipe glue. I loved coming inside, where my mother would have tea waiting. Or hot chocolate and cinnamon toast. A reward for the work.

And that’s what I realized today. Writing is my reward for work. I have to ‘earn’ the words. If I do something first, I am then justified in taking time for myself. It’s stupid when I spell it out like this because no one puts that expectation on me. My husband is the first one to tell me, leave everything and go write. Matter of fact, he’s doing the dishes right now.

If the only way I can silence guilt is to buy it off by doing some chores first, then I guess that’s what I’m going to have to do.

Now what I need to learn is how many chores is enough. Because I also have a tendency to do so much that I end up too tired to write, or with no time left in the day. But oh well. One lesson at a time.