Tag Archives: Julia Cameron

Fear and salvation

Posted on April 27, 2014 | 6 comments

Unknown-1I am heading to a week’s training in the Amherst Writers and Artists writing workshop method. Aka the Pat Schneider workshop method.  We’ll be working with Schneider’s book Writing Alone and with Others. I cannot recommend this highly enough! Buy it today if you can! The “Five Essential Affirmations” she articulates in this text resonate deeply with me:

1. Everyone has a strong, unique voice.

2. Everyone is born with creative genius.

3. Writing as an art form belongs to all people, regardless of economic class or educational level.

4. The teaching of craft can be done without damage to a writers original voice or artistic self-esteem.

5. A writer is someone who writes.

Ah. That last one. A writer is someone who writes.

I am afraid I have not been writing. I have been fussing with stuff in my house, liberating books and tchotchkes to create a clear writing space.

I have not been writing.  I have been telling myself everything else is more important than my writing: the college visits for the older son, the dog walks, the volunteer work for my faith community, the exercise to whittle the extra five pounds from my belly.

I have not been writing for a couple of months, since I gave a very rough (as in, splintery!) draft of a story to a writers group without a clear request for the type of feedback that would be most supportive for my writing.

Unsurprisingly, the feedback was uneven; there were positive and negative responses. Somewhat surprisingly, the less-than-positive responses really got under my skin. I ranted and raged and cried and whimpered my way through Julia Cameron‘s recommended three longhand “Morning Pages” for a couple of weeks. Then for another couple of weeks I donned the TaskMasterLesley hat in my Morning Pages: you know full well how to handle this! Buck up! But I can’t, I whined, scrawling my heart’s distress across the pages. I just can’t write anymore. I’m dried up. I’m barren. I’m a wasteland.

You can imagine the gaping abyss of terror that my squirrel brain has come up with. In fact, if you’ve read any of my previous posts, you are probably overly familiar with my squirrel brain.

But this morning, seven weeks since that critique, my Morning Pages delivered me to a new place. My squirrel brain … bored me. When it started its high-pitched chatter, today I simply noted: h’mm, there’s that squirrel, desperate for nuts. And I strode forward past the tree it perched in. I did not engage in a loud chattery chirrupy shouting match while flicking my tail in wild anxiety and circling the tree trunk like a maniac.

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I wound up in a clearing wherein I laid out a plan for how to find the sandpaper to begin to smooth my story’s splinters. And furthermore, the Morning Pages said, look at how much you’ve written! You’ve written your Morning Pages every day. It’s whiney writing, non-brilliant writing, repetitive writing, prosaic writing.

But it’s writing.

Saved again.

 

 

 

 

 

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Fifty things …

Posted on February 10, 2014 | 2 comments

… I’m proud of. Listing these out is an exercise Julia Cameron recommends in her book The Right to Write. My writing group tackled it last week. As my fellow writer and blogger Andrea Badgley was reading Cameron’s instructions aloud, I thought: no problem! This will be easy! And fun! Things I’m proud of will certainly make me feel good about myself. Whee!

I numbered from one to fifty in my notebook.

x4001And freaked out. The following is a Whitman sampler of my thoughts in the nanoseconds before I forced myself to start writing: I have done nothing. Getting married and having children was a mistake, I’ll leave nothing behind when I die. Wait, I’ll leave my children. So perhaps they were a good idea. Unless bad luck strikes and one or, god forbid, both of them die before me. Could happen. 16 y.o. is on track to get his license. Sweet holy mother of everything. That would be terrible. What have I done, what have I done, what have I done? I’ve  not written a book. I can barely keep up with my blog! I am getting old, it’s getting too late. ALL IS LOST: I can see the burning lifeboat analogy of my life surrounding me and [spoiler alert] that hand at the end is a dying man’s fantasy.

At which point I managed to come up with a few tangible bits and pressed on; remembering Cameron’s admonition that these can be small or large things, I included my five-layer orange mandarin cake and the soft spot I hold for animals.

This exercise took us about 15 minutes. Then it was time to share. I’d not planned on sharing, and said so very quickly. But when my fellow scribblers shared their fifty things, I was both humbled and inspired.

What various paths we’ve taken, and how many of our footsteps have left behind a wee violet or sprig of evergreen. I shared my list last, and my voice was shakier than I’d have liked and I did not make eye contact with anyone while I read, but I managed to say all my fifty things out loud. Even the ones that I was embarrassed about (I am, narcissistically, proud of my sense of style in the wardrobe area. I experience what my “pure” self tells me is, essentially, sinful pleasure out of choosing my outfits).

Why was that exercise so hard? The feminists might say women have been taught not to take credit. Enh. Maybe that’s part of it. I think it has more to do with the inherent challenge of being the “active witness” to our lives and the world around us, as Cameron says this exercise forces us to do. It was scary to think that marriage and kids might have been a mistake. Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t, but regardless: this is my situation. It’s a situation of privilege and luxury, relative to the rest of the planet’s population and I am grateful, every day. But acknowledging my privilege doesn’t absolve me of my responsibilities, nor does it erase my own human neuroses, or brokenness or whatever-word-works-for-you.

I think it was hard because looking closely and without judgment at what’s in front of us isn’t easy. Starting this process by passing judgment on what we are proud of — and being real about even those aspects of ourselves that might be less-than-selfless (I mean, clothes, really? C’mon!) but that gives us a recognizable flush of pride — that takes a bit of guts. Guts are a necessary part of being the type of writer I aspire to.

James-JoyceWrite down your particulars. No one else has to see them or hear them or know about them. But we must be able to at least see and acknowledge our own  particulars if we are to have a hope of connecting with each other.  Or, as James Joyce said (and not surprisingly, said better): In the particular is the universal.

My individual life may be small, and yes, it is hilarious and perhaps petty that I am proud of my ability to match colors, but I am aiming for the Universal. Far as I have seen, it’s what makes the merry-go-round ride worth it.

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I know nothing

Posted on November 22, 2013 | 7 comments

This past Tuesday morning unfolded much as my Tuesday mornings have this fall: Engineer Hubby rises first, climbs into the  shower. I sit on the edge of the bed and do my ankle exercises (I managed an avulsion fracture on my left ankle, fairly impressive for a fall that involved zero alcohol, clutter or high heels), then put my tootsies into slippers and galumph my way through my morning wash-up and limp-trot downstairs in time to walk the dogs before driving carpool. All well-known activities; I could do them in my sleep. Except for the carpool part.

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Rosie the little brown dog did her business, then we moseyed over to a patch of grass that seemed particularly green and lovely and she paused and sniffed. Sniff sniff sniff. Slight adjustment in her hindquarters, increased energy into the sniffing. Head cocked, ears pricked POUNCE with great vigor and immediately subsequent, panicked squeaking — from the small brown mouse Rosie had neatly secured in her suddenly-massive-seeming jaws.

This, a mouse plucked from the grass, was my clue that I know nothing. In fact, I am unaware of perhaps Most of Life. My State of Wonderment is dulled. How many other dozens or perhaps hundreds of heartbeats and nervous systems and eyeballs and twitching whiskers live in the field behind my house? In the woods? Probably in my slippers every morning? OK, scratch the wonderment about the slippers lest I remain in bed all day.

Re-working a short story this week after having let it marinate for the better part of a month, I discovered a water theme running through it; not only was there a literal lake, my verbs included buoy and sail and float and drown; my protagonist struggles in the “wake” of lovemaking; her mother “sets off from the shore of agreeable topics” — none of which I deliberately chose, but all of which smacked me in my editorial face when I entered the revision stage. 

Cover of

Cover via Amazon

Julia Cameron speaks eloquently about this in The Right to Write, noting that while we blunder along capturing whatever we can, a gem is slowly forming within those bits and pieces.

I certainly didn’t set about creating this theme in the way that Rosie set about catching her wee mouse (which, dear reader, I forced her to drop). But it is only through patient listening-writing, with my not-so-great human ears, that I stumble upon the interesting stories, the living stories — the stories that will squeak or scream or holler or whimper.

This requires daily walks of my writerly self. And this week, when the page has loomed too large, too bare, too white, I have cocked my head and pricked my ears and written anyway and put the pages away and trusted that although I do not know what is in there, if I don’t set something down, I will never glimpse its whiskery face.

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