I found a post on another blog that captures perfectly how writing feels much of the time – and explains the name of this blog. No need for me to say more. Ramona nailed it here – http://bit.ly/2mPPrPq
If you’re a writer or anyone who loves words and is excited by how they can used, this is a great blog to follow.
Thanks, Ramona, for your insight.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone. That’s it. No profound thoughts on this day or what it means to be Irish. I just want to wish everyone a happy day, one filled with pride in your heritage, whatever it may be. I’m proud and grateful to live in a country with such diversity.
2017 is flying by. It’s March 10, just a week until St. Patrick’s Day – a good time to look at the world from an Irish point of view. Who better than George Bernard Shaw? Look through almost any book of quotations and there are sure to be quite a few from this irrepressible Irishman.
So … a half dozen of of his more famous remarks:
Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.
Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.
The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.
Beware of false knowledge; it is more dangerous than ignorance.
A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.
And, my favorite:
If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.
Happy March, my friends. If it’s St. Patrick’s Day, can spring be far behind?
I wrote a post about persistence several years ago. At the time, I was thinking of the persistence needed to finish a book, but the idea holds true for any goal worth striving for, as evidenced by the phrase “she persisted” heard so often the past several weeks. I had to smile when I came to the reference to my grandmother. I’m glad I included her. Her gentle wisdom was a huge influence on an impatient young girl. I remember her saying to me: “I’ve voted in every election since I’ve been allowed to vote.”
Allowed to vote? That arrow found its mark. It was probably the first time I’d thought about the battle some had to fight to gain a right that I take for granted most of the time. It was also the first time I wondered if there would ever be a woman president. I didn’t mention this to my grandmother. I wish I had. I don’t know what her answer would have been, but thinking of her in the context of today, but I’m sure that, gentle soul though she was, she would approve of the feisty woman who prompted what has become a rallying cry.
It’s a sight that overwhelms, nature’s handiwork on a scale that defies comprehension. The canyon is at some points over eighteen miles wide and a mile deep. It is, in the words of Naturalist John Muir, “. . .a gigantic statement for even nature to make.” It’s hard to believe that it was created by the ordinary interaction between sand and water. Grain by grain. Drop by drop. Wind, too, played its part. And time. Lots and lots of time.
Looking at the pictures, I thought of a little poem I learned from my grandmother:
Tiny drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean,
And form this pleasant land.
I still like that little verse. When I was small, I responded to the sound of it, the way the words flowed with a kind of seesaw rhythm. I liked the fact that it was short and, probably most of all, I loved sitting in Gram’s lap while the two of us recited the words together. Back then, I’m pretty sure I didn’t comprehend the implications of those few short lines. Now, as an adult who is, to put it kindly, discipline challenged, I read a lot into them. They remind me of the power of persistence, of what can be achieved by simply chipping away at a monumental task, ticking off one small item at a time until the job is done.
As a writer, that little rhyme tells me not to listen to the niggling voice that asks: Do you really think you can do this? Writing a book, a whole book, is a huge task. I’ve learned (actually am learning would be more accurate) to forget about the huge task and focus on one thing at a time. Stop worrying about the whole book. Just write the next word. Trust that another will flow from that. That’s how stories are made. Even great stories, the ones we call classics. Yes, but–the niggling voice answers back–those books were written by geniuses. That’s probably true, but not a reason to quit. Genius would be nice but, since we don’t get to pick that card, I’ll settle for persistence. Even the books that make the most gigantic statements were written one word at a time.
A word. A sentence. A paragraph. These are the sand, the water, and the wind that shape our stories.
And time. Sometimes lots and lots of time.
So a book is written and so other goals, large and small, are achieved by people who refuse to give up.
The year just past was not the best for me. Things happened that I didn’t like, but that’s part of life – everyone’s life – and I know I’m fortunate in that I have many more good than bad things in mine. One of the best of those good things is the pleasure of books.
Since I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve recapped each passing year by looking through my book journal and savoring the experiences that reading has brought to me. We’re almost through the first month of a new year and I haven’t done that yet, so …
The first book I read in 2016 was The Princes of Ireland by Edward Rutherford, a sweeping saga of that country. To me, the most interesting aspect of this book was the way Rutherford moved though the centuries showing how various groups melted together to form the people we call Irish. We in the United States think of ourselves as a melting pot. We are, of course, but this book reminded me that all countries are, at least to some degree, melting pots. The difference in the United States is that our melting process is more recent in its inception. Every nation is composed of various groups that came for one reason or another and stayed. As the newcomers gradually, sometimes painfully, settled into their new homes, they retained some customs of their old culture and adopted some from the people they’d just joined, until the traditions merged, adding another layer to the existing culture, enriching it, making it more vital.
I started out to do a simple recap of a year of reading, but I seem to have gone off on a tangent. No apologies though. That’s the joy and value of books. They lead you down unexpected paths.
As I look through the titles in the journal, it seems to me that most of the books fall into the same category as the one that just led me astray. There’s an underlying theme of the value of diversity and being open to new ideas. That is certainly true of the works of Pearl S. Buck, a writer I spent quite a bit of time with in 2016. Pearl Buck in China by Hilary Spurling, a biography, deepened my insight into the experiences that shaped Ms. Buck, both as a writer and a humanitarian. I also read (in some cases, re-read) several books by Ms. Buck: The Good Earth, Wonderful Woman, Secrets of the Heart, The Exile (a biography of her mother), and Peony. The more I read her stories and learn about her life, the more I admire this woman. Sad things happened to her, things that could have turned her into a bitter, cynical person. Instead she became a humanitarian, creating a body of work and a foundation that carry on the ideals to which she devoted her life.
Some of my favorite books were written by people I know: Amish Born by C. K. Stein, Guilt Trip by Donna Huston Murray, A Blind Eye by Jane Gorman, Divine Hotel by Nicole Loughan, The Case Book of Emily Lawrence by KB Inglee, The King in the Stone by Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban, Hex, Death & Rock ‘N’ Roll (my award for best title) by E. F. Watkins, Shelby’s Ghost by Sarita Leone. Thinking about these, I am fascinated by the diversity of my friends’ creations. Most of them live lives that, while not exactly like mine, are really not very different. Yet they came up with stories that I could never have written. Such is the power of the imagination.
Other books I enjoyed this year were: Edge of Eternity by Ken Follett, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce, White Collar Girl by Renee Rosen, Clara and Mr. Tiffany by Susan Vreeland, Walden by Henry David Thoreau, Big Little Lies by Leanne Moriarty, The Secret Chord by Geraldine Brooks, Leaving Time by Jodi Picoult, All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins. OK enough. I’m not going to list every book I read in 2016, but I do want to mention how I ended my reading year: Bury Your Dead by Louise Perry. Ms. Perry is always a good choice. The world she creates is one I want to be in.
If there’s a common theme in these books, it is the value of diversity and the importance of the individual. We all have something unique to contribute. In fact, I can’t think of a single book I really like that doesn’t say this in one way or another.
How about you? Any favorites you’d like to share?
“No fathers or mothers think their own children ugly; and this self-deceit is yet stronger with respect to the offspring of the mind.” -Miguel de Cervantes
I’m reading through an almost ready manuscript before I hand it over to be edited. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read these pages. Every time I come to the end, I think the same thing: “I’ve finally gotten it right, but, just to be sure, I’ll put it aside and read it again in a week or two.”
Two weeks pass and I give it another try – and am appalled at the things I find. But that’s only half the truth. The other half agrees with Cervantes. I think my child is beautiful. But not perfect and I need to strive for perfection. Not possible, you say? I know that, of course, but still I have to try. That’s what writers do – a good thing, but we have to remember not to strive too hard. We have to recognize that some of the changes we make are just that – changes, not necessarily improvements.
Time has elapsed since we began our story and we’ve changed – no matter how short the period of time. Every day, things happen to us and to the world around us. Some are small, seemingly insignificant. Others are large, inescapably significant. All of them alter us, whether we realize it or not, and as we change, so do our stories.
The trick as a writer is to decide which is better: the younger, fresher version or the later, more thoughtful one. The thing is, we can never really be sure. At some point, we have to send our offspring of the mind into the world and hope we’ve made choices that make them beautiful to readers.