by susan | Apr 3, 2014 | what I'm reading
if there is an art of critiquing the writing of others, it is a talent/skill/ability I fear I do not possess. I am a terrible critic. I like what I like, obscure and sometimes irrelevant segments of a work often make me deliriously happy, I react subjectively to the entire experience of reading a work, and I am not skilled in justifying my reactions. I like books or I love them or I consider the experience of reading them good training, and I cannot always explain exactly why.
the other day I read a review of cheryl strayed’s wild. it was detailed, provided examples to explain the author’s critique, and was in itself a work of art. I read it, silently agreeing and cheering the reviewer on, yes, yes, I agree, you’ve got it! he was able to put into words what I experienced while reading the book; he helped me understand my reaction to the book. he read the book, reacted to it, and put great thought into explaining his reactions. wow; I was impressed. I—on the other hand—read, feel, experience, and don’t really want to have to work that hard to explain my feelings.
a friend gave me two cormac mccarthy books to read a while back, the road, and the crossing. I read the road (I know, many years after the rest of the world did), and am now making my way through the crossing. while the setting and story of the road weren’t easy to love, I was from the very beginning awed by mccarthy’s storytelling skill. I moved quickly into his style, his way of describing sights cleanly and artistically, of explaining experiences in such detail that the reader falls into the scene with the characters. I read the book both to learn the story and to be immersed in the style, mccarthy’s incredible talent leaping from pages and swallowing me.
reading the crossing feels somewhat the same, though it’s settings are rounder, richer, more varied, less–usually–bleak. mccarthy has more to say in this book than in the road because the world is more full. but his style, his talent, his view, are what remain consistent and are obviously a gift he was given at birth, one he has honed and perfected. no one will write as he does for no one sees and experiences as he does. I picture mccarthy at his writing table, paper and pen (or laptop or keyboard) at hand, and I know his mind swims in a river most of us only hope to one day dip our body parts in. I see him lost in other worlds, visiting ours only to write down the words, draw us pictures, spin us into lands and stories we would never by ourselves find.
and that is the kind of thing I have to say about books I read. I don’t want to speak critically of word usage, semantics, grammar, metaphor, symbolism, themes, setting, plot, characters . . . I want to tell you how I felt. what I experienced. how I got lost or how I didn’t truly care. how I fell into scenes with characters or how I was left alone on my couch as the characters woodenly went through the motions. I’m not willing to work hard to critique what I read because I have so many, many more books in my stack that I still need to experience . . . my time is precious, and I’m happy to stop with just feeling what I feel, acknowledging it, and moving on.
so I’ll leave the book critiquing to the book critics. I’ll keep on writing my meagre reviews that say I loved it, I got lost in it, the characters still live within me, I learned a million and one things, I want this book to be part of my collection forever and ever . . . and leave it at that.
because a book critic I am not.
by susan | Feb 25, 2014 | Uncategorized
last may I began a project, a book about wolves. since that time I’ve traveled to montana, yellowstone, wyoming, idaho, montana again, yellowstone again. I’ve read a towering stack of books, and perused articles and op eds galore. I’ve interviewed dozens of people, from hunters to ranchers to conservationists, attorneys, retired schoolteachers, biologists. I’ve written, I’ve listened, I’ve reflected, I’ve written more. and more, and more, shaping and crafting it into something worth reading.
and yesterday, I took my manuscript–after giving it a thorough polishing–and put it down for a nap. it’s going to rest, now, for a few weeks. I’m going to leave it alone, no checking to see if its breathing, for I’m going to trust that it’ll be just fine without me.
a small period of dormancy is good for both of us. I’m going to focus on other projects, other areas in my life that might need a little attention, and I’m purposefully not going to think about wolves. I’m going to tidy up my living spaces, maybe go for a walk. catch up on all those things I’ve let slip to the bottom of the pile. maybe sing a little bit. sweep out a few corners. think about the cover of the published book, envision it on people’s tables and nightstands, in their hands, in their minds.
this period of enforced hibernation is a trick used by many writers, a way to view something with fresh eyes. it’s crucial to be able to step away from your work, to be able to see it from a witnessing viewpoint. to read it as if you were someone else. and this is impossible to do when you’re engrossed in the writing, the creation of it. some parts of my manuscript I wrote 6, maybe 7 months ago, and during my most recent full-manuscript assessment and edit, I had no memory of writing them. some parts I’d written just 2 or 3 months back, and I read them as if for the first time. I know when I pick the manuscript back up a few weeks from now I won’t have forgotten it all, but hopefully the time away will have dulled my memory enough to let it speak to me in a different way. perhaps parts will be less clear, perhaps new ideas will jump out at me, different ways to organize, to express thoughts, to make the story better hold together, intrigue, delight.
when I return to the manuscript a few weeks from now, I will read it from end to end, I will try to forget that I wrote any of it, I will let it speak to me. and hopefully it will howl.
by susan | Jan 7, 2014 | what I'm reading
I am writing a book about wolves. about people and wolves. about what people think, feel, and believe about wolves. about what it’s like to be a human in a world where there are wolves. it is an awesome book, one I’m extremely grateful to be writing.
currently I am working on a section about nature and its impact on us humans. richard louv has written a book about children and nature titled “last child in the woods” in which he suggests that much of our population suffer from what he calls nature deficit disorder, especially our children. this resonates with me. in a sentence I find particularly meaningful for its insight he states:
“Given a chance, a child will bring the confusion of the world to the woods, wash it in the creek, turn it over to see what lives on the unseen side of that confusion.”
it isn’t only children who benefit from that time in the woods; we adults, too, can take our confusion, wash it in the creek, and explore nuances and understandings we hadn’t yet discovered. the only one who won’t benefit from time spent alone in nature is the one who isn’t yet ready to face oneself. children–blessedly–are naturally open to this kind of exploration and will remain so until the world convinces them they’re not. the answers, the solutions and understandings, rarely come as lightning bolts ~ though they may ~ more often adjusting us minutely and softly, helping us to breathe more deeply and corral the strength that resides within.
often we aren’t even able to articulate a question, but have an awareness that we’re unsettled. taking that to the woods, to the river, to the mountain, is important therapy, inexpensive and wildly effective.
much can be learned from studying wildlife, and the way wolves live is especially instructive for us humans. they form bonds with others, and are extremely loyal and protective of the space they share with their family. they nurture and teach and play with their offspring. they persevere; they only give up when it’s necessary to give up. they roam and explore but always come home. they howl.
it’s possible they take their confusion to the creek, splash around a bit, and come away better.
when we listen to our hearts and souls and remember who we truly are, we are drawn to the land, to the wild. and it is there that we can embrace our truths and let nature work its magic on us.
by susan | Nov 7, 2013 | Uncategorized
I’ve just returned from three days in new york, publishing nexus and writers’ nirvana. on sunday evening, I walked past the simon & schuster building, noting all the lighted windows and cluttered desks, walls, and shelves I could see from my position far below on the street. the biting wind swept romance all about, as I considered junior editors slaving away, stacks of manuscripts piled on every available surface, visions of discovering bestsellers and having their own manuscripts published dancing behind grimy eyelids and living in hearts.
I know, no one uses paper anymore, and there was probably not a soul in that building, but my heart created a dozen dreams of what might lie behind that stone facade.
I still have a dream of being found. being discovered, being asked to come to new york to meet with my editor. and I’m not giving up: I’m being courageous enough to put my dream out there into the universe.
for years—off and on, as projects moved through life cycles and inspiration swooped and floundered—I have sent off queries to agents located in the new york area. many via snail mail, and these days, most all via the astounding and amazing internet. snail mail is more work but more creative, as I addressed envelopes and envisioned the streets, the buildings, the lobbies and elevator operators in creaky metal cages in old brick lairs. some addresses were office suites in tall structures, some were doubtless apartments in brownstones. many went to young agents, some to established names, a few to those top agents that are so busy with their best-seller-writing authors that it was surprising they still accepted queries. but always, inevitably, I would picture the building, the office, the desk, the credenza behind it, the person seated on the chair, the coffee mug on the blotter. the person wading through dozens of queries, coming upon mine, and pondering. can I sell this? do I care about this? will anyone else? can this person really deliver what she promises, and does it intrigue me at all? is my coffee cold? do I need to take a break, go check in with margaret down the hall?
I’d like to be inside their heads as they read my queries. I’d like to read the other queries they receive, I’d like to know where the agent works who will fall in love with my project. I’d like to see her building, her office, her chair. are the walls bright orange and lively, or worn and weary ivory like the keys on my century-old piano? are reviews and cover proofs pinned alongside her desk, and is her bookshelf crammed with every book she’s ever loved? is she too warm, too cold, hungry, anxious about an upcoming release, nervous about a commitment she’s just made? I’d buy her a hot coffee. and a bagel.
manhattan is filled with hundreds of thousands of people focused on their own lives, projects, pets. a million stories rest upon a million stories, separated by walls and floors and sidewalks, by metal doors and elevator cages. I send my queries, they flutter on cyber breezes and magically appear on computer screens, they are stuffed in canvas mail bags and slipped into slots then unearthed by slender letter openers, unfolded and, like those which transversed the country in a split second, perused by eyes that have read a thousand other queries. somewhere, sitting in some kind of a chair, perches the agent who will read my words and find within them a sliver of illumination, a curiosity, and a chord deep in her soul will be strummed. her heart will warm, she will feel a pull, and she will want more.
I picture this, I see her office, her glasses pushed atop her hair as she lets her eyes rest unfocused upon the far wall, wondering, considering, feeling that tug that says pursue this, see where this goes, follow your heart. she types on her keyboard, quickly, efficiently, and makes her request. please submit manuscript.
I might have walked past her building last weekend. I might have passed her on the street. I don’t know her stories, only that she has them. her own hopes and dreams, frustrations and qualms. so today, I hope someone treats her kindly. holds open a door for her, moves out of her path as she walks down the sidewalk. smiles at her. compliments her, gives her faith in her own abilities to weed through queries and find the one that inspires her, that intrigues her, that has the potential to become a book of import. and whose author would gladly, if given the chance, buy her a cup of hot coffee. and a bagel.
by susan | Oct 1, 2013 | what I'm reading
every once in a while I am overtaken by the urge to help the real me feel loved and nurtured. sometimes I just take her outside, alone, and let her smell and feel the air and look up at the mountains. sometimes I light candles and spend time with oracle or tarot cards, sometimes I ask her to journal, sometimes I feed her donuts. sometimes I buy her clothes that make her heart sing, or yummy smelling candles or lotion, and sometimes I try to buy her books. books about creativity, books about living differently, books about being true to one’s soul, one’s inner artist, the deeper self that needs very very little to be satisfied.
the other day I bought her a book called the art of non-conformity. written by chris guillebeau and published in september of 2010, the book emphasizes being true to yourself and refusing to accept pressures to be what society seems to want you to be. it’s about charting your own course, designing your own life. choosing to play by different rules than those established by “the powers that be.”
reading it was like taking in great big gulps of fresh air: refreshing, clarifying, and reminding you to focus on the things that truly matter.
the book doesn’t tell me that I can become wealthy writing books, but it reinforces my belief that I will be happiest and most content when I am writing books, and that somehow, someway, I can find a way to make a living doing that which is most important to me. it reminds me that just because Others operate in certain ways, I am not obligated to operate in those same ways. the book encourages commitment to self, which is a beautiful way to let your unique light shine in this little world of ours.
one aspect of chris’s vision I find especially powerful is his suggestion that the things we do to create legacy are those things most important to our lives. he quotes stephen covey, “the need to leave a legacy is our spiritual need to have a sense of meaning, purpose, personal congruence, and contribution.” what this concept means to me is leaving a footprint behind when I go . . . hopefully a “footprint” that lives on through other people’s thoughts, lives, beliefs, and actions. part of this happens through our children–hopefully–but also through the other people we touch during our time here on earth. this isn’t about statues and wikipedia pages, but about heartfelt interactions with other humans, programs, writings, artwork, traditions, inspiration.
I hope to leave behind a number of books and essays and beliefs that people have considered, contemplated, and grown from spending time with. I also hope to be a positive part of some programs or organizations that work toward social parity. As for the rest of my legacy, I’m still working on that, and I expect new things to draw me in as I keep moving forward in life.
chris’s art relies heavily on listening to your inner self and finding ways to unleash your magical power, regardless of the situation you now find yourself in. he challenges us to reject the status quo at times, and to have the courage to say no to what is expected of us. anarchy, no, individualism, absolutely.
I like keeping the thought of legacy in mind, and I offer that you might plant that in the back (or front) of your mind as well, and let it help guide us to always becoming the next best version of ourselves.
RSS - Posts
Recent Comments