Word After Word

“First, there is the barrier between image and language,” writes Irving Yalom in Love’s Executioner. “Mind thinks in images but, to communicate with another, must transform image into thought and then thought into language. That march, from image to thought to language, is treacherous. Casualties occur: the rich, fleecy texture of image, its extraordinary plasticity and flexibility, its private nostalgic emotional hues—all are lost when image is crammed into language.”

“Great artists attempt to communicate image directly through suggestion, through metaphor, through linguistic feats intended to evoke some similar image in the reader. But ultimately they realize the inadequacy of their tools for the task.”

I love this passage, and I think a lot about that “march”—getting the image in my head, in all its fleecy fullness, onto the page. But I don’t think we “cram” the picture into words. I think we use words—they don’t even feel like words when I am writing—to press the image out, to roll it out. Words aren’t thoughts, when writers work at this image level. They’re strings, pulling away the curtains, revealing only what is there, what was there all along.

(The Unfinal Assignment is below….a few posts down….here’s Kay’s response): 

“The voices of doubt were very aggressive. Lots of, “what’s the point? It’s not Friday.” Lots of ragging on me for falling behind and being sick. Not nice, these demons of doubt. It took me a while to stay still. I noticed I got up a lot for strange reasons before I could get started. Like, it was imperative for me to find the phone charger so I could charge my phone while I worked. This was not at all imperative, of course. The distractoid demons were full force. The mean ones kept chiming in “you screwed up. this is whack. this is pointless. don’t bother.” So I charmed myself. I charmed myself into the space, a desk in the downstairs facing a window with a view of spring green trees and sunlight, by lighting some candles, laying out feathers, amethyst and rose quartz and turquoise bears, and aromatherapy. I dabbed lavender and patchouli on my temples, back of my neck, wrists and third eye. I made myself tea, gorgeous tea, soaked rose, jasmine, and orange tea leaves. That is how I got myself to settle.  I tapped into that pregnant energy. I got my blue index cards out. Delicious blue cards. I began with a method on the blue card “sons.” Sons were quick to conjure. Lots of sons floating around. And then came Bob. I wrote a big lettered slow method on my friend Bob. It was golden to be with Bob, because he died when we were nineteen. After the method, I began to write poetry for him. I kept seeing him with long strands of wooden beads around his neck. which I never knew him to wear in life, but they really suit him.  The blue cards were great launch pads for poems. I wrote about the lads I lived with on the mountain in Oregon last fall. They wore thick sweaters and smoked pipes by the pond. All in all, a delightful time.”
I have these moments when I am so hungry to write, as though I wrote nothing for the last month. It’s always only the beginning.
 

Really, Toss It

Once I was in a conversation with an extraordinary and famous chef. She said something during the course of the chat that has always stuck with me. “Never hesitate to throw out anything. Just throw the whole thing out. Toss it. Don’t get obligated to the thing.”

In writing, I see my students and myself laboring over ugly, nasty, spoiled, or just plain dull concoctions. Really, we need to toss out more. We need to just move on.

Notice the famous chef didn’t say “Start over.” She didn’t say “Try it again!” She didn’t say “Always carefully read the directions and follow them to the letter!” She said only one thing: Toss it. Don’t get obligated to a failed dish.

In other words, when something doesn’t come out right, You haven’t messed up. You haven’t failed. You haven’t brought upon yourself an opportunity to self lacerate, self macerate. You don’t need a class, or easier recipes. You just need to toss it with complete and total joy and freedom. (We are afraid to do this. Afraid of waste, afraid of chaos, afraid of an empty plate, nothingness.)

But that’s what the famous chef is talking about it: freedom. If you aren’t able to move very quickly and sturdily past mistakes, you won’t enjoy cooking/writing enough to keep doing it frequently enough to see improvement, to keep the joy boiling. The freedom to fling the muffs out—out of your writing room, out of your vision, out of your life, your memory—that’s what is needed. Don’t file the duds. Don’t belabor or revise weak work, work that bores you, work that is heavy, forced, dull, tasteless. Burn it, fling it, throw it away. Don’t start over.

Go play: make a tasty snack.

The bad writing? Blow it off. Blow it all off. With a giant loopy grin on your face, fearlessly, hurl those fallen cakes, those sodden biscuits, that terrible swamp off rice. Away with it. Wanton waste. Get it away from you.

How did you get yourself to the desk?
I walked over to the Albion College atrium which is this room with
massive window walls, stage lights, a wooden staircase, pterodactyl
skeletons, and a wave simulatior
How did you keep yourself there?

I sat down, pulled up one of the tables and wrote, then spiraled then
wrote some more
What did you battle?

Demons, all sorts when I ripped the band aid off, self doubts, self
worries, thoughts of deserving the blame
How did you succeed?

Went slow, kept writing, addressed each demon in a way in the writing,
then wrote another game seen where the hero triumphed over the
villian, then spiraled, then wrote a story of all of us on the
Endeavor, plowing head first through a storm

On Friday, we don’t have class. But I want you to write. You must write. This is really the only way I will know if the class was successful.

More importantly, it’s the way you will know if the class was successful. For three hours—you have from 1-4 scheduled for this class on Friday, but you can do your three hours at the time that’s best for you—I want you to sit down, with pencil and paper, and write. On Friday. It has to be Friday. You can do this with your writing group. You can do it with your new group. You can do this by yourself. You won’t be alone. The Endeavor will support you!

And then let me know: how did you get yourself to the desk? How did you keep yourself there? What did you battle? How did you succeed? Email me. Tell me everything about it. I really want to know. I absolutely must hear from you. This is our class, it’s our last day and it’s the most important day—it’s your real writing life.

What will you write? You know what to write. And you know how.

You could K, write moon poems. Extend your town. M, maybe it’s time to write love poems to each family member’s hair. Put in some of the good, some of the bad. M2, tell the truth. Write that scene you are so afraid to write. Show it to no one. Just write it. Let it take all three hours. You can do it, I know you can. Rip off the band aid. Things are more healed than you think they are. You’ll see. Ch, write your life story in dialogue. Steer towards everything you didn’t tell us yet. Pay attention. Three hours: this could change your life! Cl, I want you to write that condo book. For three hours you could write, by hand, the book in miniature, the tiny key scenes that will anchor each braid. It’s the little developer’s model for the entire condo village, the village that is your book. I can’t wait to read it. T, write the shadow semester. By hand. Everything that happened these weeks of May that kept you from your town, that is your real town. Go slowly. Almost fall asleep. Rage is your laser. Use it to let yourself see.

For all of us, the goal isn’t to spew for three hours, but to make something, using focus, and craft, and power and what we know of beauty, and tension, energy, and leaving room for the reader.

I’ll be writing that day in my studio from 7 am that morning until 1 in the afternoon—that’s one hour, in honor of each of you, my fellow writers, Endeavor-mates, co-sailors. If we all do this writing that day, we could stir up a good wind, a wind that could be with us, behind us, for a long, long time. You must revise your life. You must write even though nothing is “due,” even though—especially because!—the teacher is not going to read it.  More than any other writing you do this semester, this is the writing that counts.

And in my studio, I will have seven candles. It’s so goofy, New Age, Catholic, and sensory and slightly dangerous, my house is wood—I love it. (K, I think you will like the candle thing… btw thanks for the beautiful prayer-card.) I will light one for each of us and imagine (image) our concentration like this light. Know that we are in this together. At 1 pm, I’ll blow out our candles and here’s my wish: that at that moment you are lighting yours. You are writing.

This is the parade from Cubby’s point of view.

When the parade had veterans, people clapped and Cubby barked.  Politely, just three times each time. “Very patriotic dog,” a woman said.

He likes applause. He knows a good thing when he sees it and feels it.

I was so happy my friend thought the soup was pretty enough to photograph! This is my Silver Palate Cherry Soup. Organic blueberries, organic cherries. Antioxidant brew.

I made it for a friend, Pea, who is graduating from Creative Writing School. What was the best thing for her? New friends. The seventy plus year old professor from the South, the kid from Kentucky who is in love with Sylvia Plath. Knowing these other writers, that’s what she loved.

And how I love my soup.

So I keep talking about this great class I have, how funny the students are, how stunning it is three hours can go so fast–such great writing, such good company. The best class ever, I keep saying. I go on and on.

Ron said, “It sounds like how you talked about the Pandas. Remember that class?”

I almost forgot. The Pandas! That was a good class. The kind that ends with a themed cake, presents for everyone, mottos and promises and photographs. A secret language, inside references and nicknames. We all had nicknames and dramas and we sat in a basement at Betty’s house and cried on the last day of that class. And longed for bamboo.

“What writers want is time to write!” a brochure advertising a summer writing retreat exhorts.

No no no no no no no.

They do want time to write but it’s not what is needed.  What is needed is something to bound the work, a Square or other Shape. (For many writers, the workshop itself would be that shape, but it isn’t about time, it’s about space. Big difference.)

Most professors I know (but not all, such as the amazing gifted ND, but certainly me) greet a giant uninterrupted block of time with a strong vision for kitchen renovation and a new proclivity for napping, blogging, Wagner, etc.

I can work today because I have in front of me fifteen pages, printed out, which I dragged along in my purse yesterday on all the errands—the chicken store, the camera store, the garden shop (there is a monkey there, Mingo)—just in case there was downtime, like the car died or we were stuck behind a train for a couple of hours, and I had time to work. I kept the file open. Literally. I have the pages here on the desk, and I know what I am supposed to do today and how to do it, more or less.

Sarah asked me so how long do you have to work to get a star? It doesn’t matter how long I work, only that I do my best, bring my best concentration to the book that day. It might be ten minutes or it might be thirteen hours. Time doesn’t matter. Shape matters.

It doesn’t usually work to say “I will work for four hours a day this summer.” What works is to say “Tomorrow, I will work out the sequence of beats in the Schulers bookstore scene. Then, I need to sort my cards again for the scenes in Part Two. If I have time (which means energy for more concentrating), I can start the next scene.  There’s also all the little notes I took over the last 48 hours—in the tub, in the car, in the middle of the night—and I can feather in those little bits.” In my books, I call this “Wake Up Working.”

Rarely do I feel I am working hard enough. When I hear N and