One of the pastors at my church has this running joke about how he can't make it through a sermon without mentioning C.S. Lewis. One of the other pastors has the same running joke, but about Bono. (Yea, in case you were wondering, my church is kind of really totally awesome. A few weeks ago, we thanked God for beer. ) Here's my bit--I have a hard time writing a blog post without gushing about Elizabeth Gilbert. She's just so . . . present and real and self-deprecating and witty and brilliant and radiant and whole. And she's a damn good speaker, too. If you haven't seen her speech about the role of the divine in the creative process, I implore you to take a break and watch this. It's not just for writers, but for anyone engaged in any act of creativity, be it modeling or singing or sewing or lunch packing or lego building. So, yes, it's for all of us.
Happy Weekend! May the genius find you (watch the clip . . . you'll get it)!
Showing posts with label Elizabeth Gilbert. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Elizabeth Gilbert. Show all posts
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
My Girl Crush
This isn’t going to be one of those long, meandering posts in which I invite you to wander around my cranial cavity, viewing my memories, fantasies, and dreams through the prism of writing. (So, you know, it’s nothing like my usual posts.) You’re in luck, because it’s ugly up in there these days – memories like a child’s security blanket, worn thin from overuse; fantasies bleeding off the canvas, mixing with reality in unnatural ways; dreams recoiling and shrinking into the darkness at the mere glimpse of my outstretched hand. Oh yea, and melodrama abounds. It’s the techno-beat to which my brain dances. Like I said, you’re in luck.
Instead, I want to take a couple of moments to talk about Elizabeth Gilbert and her new book, Committed. When I read Eat, Pray, Love (and then reread it and then forced everyone I know to read it and then listened to it on CD and then read it again) I felt as if Liz was speaking directly to me. Like she’d come over for a cup of tea, which turned into an empty bottle of red, and by the time she left my eyes were puffy from crying and my stomach hurt from laughing and I felt, much like I do after a good yoga practice, complete. I put off Committed for a few weeks, because I was afraid I wouldn’t feel that way again; afraid it would disappoint in the way The Mermaid Chair bore not even a passing resemblance to The Secret Life of Bees.
But this was Lizzie G . . . I should have known better. My mom gave me the CD of Committed, with Liz reading, for Valentine’s Day. And, again, Liz speaks directly to me. Somehow, while weaving in marital statistics and history lessons on property acquisition and her views on same-sex marriage, Liz manages to sit right beside me, pull up her knees, and chat. She can do this because the book is, in effect, a conversation. She acknowledges as much in the forward, telling us she wrote the book for a group of specific women, whom she names. As a result, she has once again written something intimate. Words that are whispered tenderly. A book that feels less like an escape and more like an embrace. And an approach to writing that is both genuine and extraordinary.
Instead, I want to take a couple of moments to talk about Elizabeth Gilbert and her new book, Committed. When I read Eat, Pray, Love (and then reread it and then forced everyone I know to read it and then listened to it on CD and then read it again) I felt as if Liz was speaking directly to me. Like she’d come over for a cup of tea, which turned into an empty bottle of red, and by the time she left my eyes were puffy from crying and my stomach hurt from laughing and I felt, much like I do after a good yoga practice, complete. I put off Committed for a few weeks, because I was afraid I wouldn’t feel that way again; afraid it would disappoint in the way The Mermaid Chair bore not even a passing resemblance to The Secret Life of Bees.
But this was Lizzie G . . . I should have known better. My mom gave me the CD of Committed, with Liz reading, for Valentine’s Day. And, again, Liz speaks directly to me. Somehow, while weaving in marital statistics and history lessons on property acquisition and her views on same-sex marriage, Liz manages to sit right beside me, pull up her knees, and chat. She can do this because the book is, in effect, a conversation. She acknowledges as much in the forward, telling us she wrote the book for a group of specific women, whom she names. As a result, she has once again written something intimate. Words that are whispered tenderly. A book that feels less like an escape and more like an embrace. And an approach to writing that is both genuine and extraordinary.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Two Roads Diverged...
Kris and I are at a crossroads of sorts. (By the by, each time I use the word “crossroads,” I picture that scene from The Muppet Movie where Kermit tells Fozzie to turn left at the “fork in the road.” In perfect Muppet fashion, they soon come upon an actual giant fork stabbed into the ground.) Kris recently returned from her great European adventure and is settling back into American life, so it’s to be expected in her case. Me, I’m stripping wallpaper—not the kind of activity that generally raises life-altering questions, but there you go.
In a nutshell, we’re wrestling with our writing habits—whether we’re disciplined enough to become writers. (I also wonder whether one “is” a writer or “becomes” a writer, but I’ll save that for another day. Let’s just say we wonder whether we’re sufficiently disciplined to write for a living. Or to even get published once, for that matter.) As rabid fans of those who purvey the written word (we are the literary equivalent of groupies), we often search for information about authors we love. What inspires them? How did they start? What makes them tick? We are particularly interested in writing habits and advice for writers. For example, on her website, Jodi Picoult explains she has a firm discipline. She doesn’t believe in writer’s block, because in the early days when she had to fit writing around her children’s schedules, she couldn’t afford the luxury of writer’s block. She generally writes all day, every day, but not on weekends, and she writes rather quickly.
We don’t write all day, every day. We sometimes go days, nay weeks, on end without writing. We both have small children to raise, dinners to cook, paychecks to earn, and, in my case, moldy wallpaper to strip. There are soccer games and classroom help and rare, stolen, intimate moments with husbands. We exercise, clean our houses, and catch up with friends on occasion. I’ll be honest. At night when I finally have a couple of free hours, sometimes Cabernet and a good book seem infinitely more enticing than a blank word document and a mocking cursor. And yet, we both want (dare I say, need) to write. We both crave creativity. But do we want it badly enough to devote every spare moment to it? And if we have to question our dedication, do we even have any business writing in the first place? After all, Ms. Picoult has three kids, and she managed to make it work.
Of course, I’m terrified a potential agent will read this and question our work ethic. (Note to agents: if you show us even the whisper of interest, we will spin straw into gold for you.) And then I have to remind myself: we have written a book. We wrote over 250 pages while working at the kind of law firm you read about in Grisham novels. We wrote briefs and motions all day, six days a week, and then stole time in the early morning and evening hours to create The Pecking Order. We have effectively rewritten the book twice. We spent countless hours on the synopsis, outline, and query letters, not to mention time spent researching agents and publishers. The fact that we’ve recently taken a much-needed breather from daily novel writing(during which I wrote a short story and Kris wrote two short stories and took a writing class), does not diminish our previous efforts; it does not portend a future devoid of creativity.
As that most admirable of writers, Elizabeth Gilbert, says, it’s natural to be disappointed in both the substance and process of our writing. But, it is important that we continue to write, nonetheless—that we continue to put our work, our soul’s language, out there. According to Ms. Gilbert, strict discipline in writing is sometimes overrated, but self-forgiveness is essential.
And so, I forgive myself for not writing in every spare moment. I, for one, needed a break. I needed to do something mindless—something that, unlike writing, was finite. At some point, I will have stripped my wallpaper and repainted my bathroom and I’ll reevaluate my time. For now, I’m staring at that giant fork and taking the “easy street,” knowing that the road runs both ways, and I’ll be back here again in no time, hopefully refreshed and ready to charge (pen in hand) off the beaten path once again.
In a nutshell, we’re wrestling with our writing habits—whether we’re disciplined enough to become writers. (I also wonder whether one “is” a writer or “becomes” a writer, but I’ll save that for another day. Let’s just say we wonder whether we’re sufficiently disciplined to write for a living. Or to even get published once, for that matter.) As rabid fans of those who purvey the written word (we are the literary equivalent of groupies), we often search for information about authors we love. What inspires them? How did they start? What makes them tick? We are particularly interested in writing habits and advice for writers. For example, on her website, Jodi Picoult explains she has a firm discipline. She doesn’t believe in writer’s block, because in the early days when she had to fit writing around her children’s schedules, she couldn’t afford the luxury of writer’s block. She generally writes all day, every day, but not on weekends, and she writes rather quickly.
We don’t write all day, every day. We sometimes go days, nay weeks, on end without writing. We both have small children to raise, dinners to cook, paychecks to earn, and, in my case, moldy wallpaper to strip. There are soccer games and classroom help and rare, stolen, intimate moments with husbands. We exercise, clean our houses, and catch up with friends on occasion. I’ll be honest. At night when I finally have a couple of free hours, sometimes Cabernet and a good book seem infinitely more enticing than a blank word document and a mocking cursor. And yet, we both want (dare I say, need) to write. We both crave creativity. But do we want it badly enough to devote every spare moment to it? And if we have to question our dedication, do we even have any business writing in the first place? After all, Ms. Picoult has three kids, and she managed to make it work.
Of course, I’m terrified a potential agent will read this and question our work ethic. (Note to agents: if you show us even the whisper of interest, we will spin straw into gold for you.) And then I have to remind myself: we have written a book. We wrote over 250 pages while working at the kind of law firm you read about in Grisham novels. We wrote briefs and motions all day, six days a week, and then stole time in the early morning and evening hours to create The Pecking Order. We have effectively rewritten the book twice. We spent countless hours on the synopsis, outline, and query letters, not to mention time spent researching agents and publishers. The fact that we’ve recently taken a much-needed breather from daily novel writing(during which I wrote a short story and Kris wrote two short stories and took a writing class), does not diminish our previous efforts; it does not portend a future devoid of creativity.
As that most admirable of writers, Elizabeth Gilbert, says, it’s natural to be disappointed in both the substance and process of our writing. But, it is important that we continue to write, nonetheless—that we continue to put our work, our soul’s language, out there. According to Ms. Gilbert, strict discipline in writing is sometimes overrated, but self-forgiveness is essential.
And so, I forgive myself for not writing in every spare moment. I, for one, needed a break. I needed to do something mindless—something that, unlike writing, was finite. At some point, I will have stripped my wallpaper and repainted my bathroom and I’ll reevaluate my time. For now, I’m staring at that giant fork and taking the “easy street,” knowing that the road runs both ways, and I’ll be back here again in no time, hopefully refreshed and ready to charge (pen in hand) off the beaten path once again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)