Letting your art dissolve

Today at work a friend recited a poem to me that she had composed in her head. She will not write it down. Never. She was very excited about the poem, eager to share it and it was lovely. It walked an edge of meaning.

She often composes poems while driving or waiting for her kids and she never writes them down to preserve them. Composing the poems and reciting them to friends or simply to herself delights her and it's enough for her. Then she lets them dissolve.

So unlike me! I must write it down with the IDEA that someone besides me will read it and enjoy it in the future. My writing (this is my intention) will have a life without me. Beyond me and after I am dead and gone. I'm astonished that she never saves her poems, especially as she gets so much pleasure from them.

It's like dance as art form. Ephemeral. It may be recorded on video, but the art itself is about kinetics and by nature disappears. Dancers talk about this and value it, while it makes me sad. These people are honoring being in the moment - it's part of their creative expression. Writing, books have some permanence. Or at least the illusion lasts longer than the dance!

I am delighted to learn about my friend's driving activity!

POV This!

Ah, the swimming. It changes my POV, this morning literally.

I was in the pool, thrashing through the laps, thinking of the 1,200 words I'd written yesterday that told a pivotal moment in my novel from Eugenia's POV. Then it sloshed into my head that I might consider relating the tidbit from Willie's POV; after all, he knows the secret on which the whole rest of the book turns.

Delay, delay, delay, my mind shouts, keeping the strong rhythm of my strokes. Trust myself. The words I've written are powerful enough, are tempting enough, to keep the secret for one more chapter, one more conversation.

I can use POV the way a painter does shadow and light. "Look here." "Don't look there." The funny hitch in Eugenia's gait is unseen only by her. But it's there every time anyone else in the book looks at her.

A novel with multiple points of view is like an honest marriage--eventually the whole truth can be revealed. ~ Victoria Tirrel

Dance as the Writing Muse

Yup, I went to latin dance aerobics tonight and within 10 minutes I was on the Silk Road teaching latin dance to Uigher women at the home of Old Sister. It was great, a few of their neighbors joined us, the naan maker's wife and her daughters, and Guzal's young nieces took off their headscarves and we steamed up the room until we had to move out into the courtyard.

I wasn't sure what to do about music -- would I have brought a tape along? Could I do latin dance to traditional Uigher music? I don't think I could. Bringing a tape along would be possible, but I liked the idea of dancing acapella, no music, just clapping a rhythm. I know they would like latin dance as they love rhythmic music and love sensual dance as I watched a lot of this in the Indian movies that are so popular among Uighers.
I never taught Guzal and her sisters latin dance so I have to be careful how I write about it as I want to reflect how people from this culture are likely to react to it. So I can't have Guzal say very much, she can only be enthusiastic. She can exclaim that it is very sexual, as she was always frank about such things. But when I remark that some of the rhythms are African in origin, I can't have her sister remark on this as I don't know what she would say. The Uigher people's experience with Africa is extremely limited.

Because I am trying to honestly represent someone else's culture, I have to be careful about what I write, there are limitations. I can't freely make up stuff. It has to be something that I experienced or we talked about or it has to be very close to that. Even body language is cultural. Chinese people rarely shrug their shoulders. I don't know if Uigher people do. I never saw a Uigher person shrug shoulders.

The idea of these Muslim women taking off their headscarves is accurate. Guzal and her sisters refused to wear headscarves. Her little nieces wore them but they were bright red and purposely set off their gold earrings. Headscarves were a custom, an ethnic identity, not a religious declaration.

The story progressed during my aerobics class to me trying to teach them Scandinavian folkdance. This would be difficult, as the rhythm is more subtle, so in fact, I decided I would attempt it and be unable. but it would be good to discuss it as it is my own ethnic background and Guzal would understand its importance to me.
Of course, the book is long enough and doesn't need any more interesting passages. Maybe it's too long. It's a little hard to stop with it. This book is an old friend, a rich story, a turning point in my life, an exquisitely colorful foreign culture. Such a wealth.
Reva

Writing as Rage Therapy

Last night I met someone from a previous writing class for dinner for the first time. Instead of the usual lies about how well we were doing, we each told the truth. Her partner of 20 years is leaving and I am still adjusting to the loss of my stepson.

These truths made me think of how writing functions as rage therapy. On the page, I'm free to be as murderous, as depressed, as dramatic and as pitiful as my psyche needs to be. I can trust time and my editor eye to hone those distractions away as I progress through drafts until the kernel of truth about the trauma reveals itself. Perhaps I thought I was sad when I'm really relieved. Maybe I can throw away my thesaurus now, because bereft is the exact right word for this pain.

Trauma also gives us empathy for our characters. It's no mistake that a character I'm writing now has lost her child. I can let her be tortured by my memories, while I'm free to live my life and forget for a while what I lost. She's carrying that burden for me. And, if I choose, I can change her outcome. The delete key could give her back her daughter's warm hug, silken hair and belly laugh. I could give her grandchildren and a happy old age instead of the regret.

But for now I need her to suffer with me and for me. It's selfish, but I'm not sorry.

Victoria Tirrel

Reflections on the Muse

Excerpted from a letter to Jay in San Francisco

<>
The muse is not external to me. It isn’t a second person lurking in my synapses and it isn’t divine inspiration. The muse is a state of mind that rises through many levels and requires exercise (or awareness?) to operate properly. There is a correspondence between the muse and meditation, rather like putting one’s thoughts on a specific track so a narrative begins to form, scenery begins to line the sidings and one’s eyes see the world as might an omniscient presence.

The world is of course not on the outside. It is inside, but there is a sort of portal, dare I use the word palimpsest, through which I’m allowed to see reality and fiction in a single frame of reference. I am watching the world to inform the development of my characters. They are nothing without some tie to actual experience.

As a writer it is easier for me to stand back and observe the experiences of others so I have a three-dimensional model of human interactions. When I am too close to the action, I can not fairly represent all sides. I use the word “muse” to specify the state of mind I need to write new scenes. I don’t need the muse to edit or to pad out a scene because the level of creativity for those tasks is not as great.

I often think of the days when I played piano for hours on end. I always began with Hannon exercises, which limbered up the fingers slowly and deliberately. The exercises were followed by scales and arpeggios, then octaves and Phillips exercises, which built finger strength and the muscle independence of each finger. All this took an hour. Once that preparation was complete, though, my hands would do whatever I asked of them. The fingers were an extension of thought and I felt transported to another dimension.

That is the benchmark I use to gauge the “muse.”

What exercises can I use to find that state as a writer? Playing an instrument is a physical and mental melding, but what is writing? Blazing away at a computer keyboard doesn’t make it easier to write fiction. Something else has to happen. Does a writer require leisure, a dream, a routine or an emotional memory to call forth the muse? What are your thoughts?


Amy

post number two

I have stalled on finishing my book, currently named "The Year I Ran Away to China." It's not a lack of discipline but life maintenance that has gotten in the way. Seasonal illness, home maintence and job stress. I have learned to respect these interruptions rather than call myself lazy or undisciplined.

Life has stabilized and today I can get back to the book. To my surprise I am thinking about fictionalizing it again. I have been on the edge of fiction vs nonfiction since early in the writing. This doesn't trouble me. It has freed me in my writing. I am trying to tell a story set in my three years in China. That's a lot of wonderful material and it surprised me when I realized I could not get everything that happened to me in three years into one book. So many stellar experiences have to excluded.

Time is a difficult concept to grasp. I was surprised to discover I cannot document three years in four hundred pages.

I am going to write freely today, without thought if this is fiction or nonfiction. I am just going to write so I can get at the story I want to tell.
Reva

Welcome to the Blog-O-Sphere!

Last night, six of the seven of us landed on the idea of creating our own blog. We're all writers, busy not just creating characters and worlds but also scrutinizing our work and ourselves to figure out what will propel us onto some publisher's list. Have we rid ourselves of cliche and passive voice and pesky adverbs? Have we told enough truth about our characters (and ourselves)? Is our query letter right and are we sending it to well-chosen agents or publishers? Can I write more words today than I did yesterday (or last week)?

We could question ourselves or we could write. And so we blog. Because writing and ruminating are what writers do.

Victoria Tirrel
One of Seven Authors in Search of a Publisher