If You Are a Dreamer, Come In...

Dreams. 

They're feisty, elusive little things, aren't they? Anne Shirley once said, "It wouldn't do to have all our dreams fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream about." And yet, it can also be detrimental to our poor little souls to have our dreams constantly denied. The book of Proverbs says, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when dreams come true, there is life and joy."

I don't know how you feel about the subject, but I tend to keep my dreams pretty close to the chest. For one thing, I know how vulnerable they are: some of the more fragile ones can be slayed by a single skeptical glance. For another thing, I tend to feel (erroneously, perhaps) that revealing them makes me seem weak, or even more seriously, that admitting I want them shows what a selfish prat I really am.

But I begin to wonder if I shouldn't hold them so close. I wonder if perhaps I ought to let them try their little wings from time to time. Because when it comes to other people, I find that I consider dreams to be among the most precious, sacred things the heart contains. Nothing connects me to another person faster than learning about their most cherished desire, even if that desire seems outwardly ridiculous. Almost always, I find myself saying, "Oh, you should!" Why? Because I believe it is important to dream. I believe it is imperative that we frail, ephemeral humans run headlong after the things tugging at our souls. How could we live full lives if we didn't?

So. Here are some of my dreams:

 

A wee cottage in the country...

 

with one of these,

 

and one of these,

 

and some of these,

 

where I could spend every morning doing this

 

and every afternoon doing this.

But of course, the dream that haunts me most looks like this:

Others I have cannot be captured so easily in images, but they linger just the same, whispering in my ear when I catch a glimpse of a sunrise, settling over my shoulders when I sit around a table with my family, brushing past my ear with the sudden strain of a violin.

Why do I bring all this up? Because I have begun to be convicted in the belief that it is of the utmost importance to encourage one another in our dreams. It's awful to see your dreams "deferred" (see this poem by Langston Hughes), but it is infinitely worse to have them scorned, discouraged, or even simply doubted. (Anyone who has ever had to explain their writing "habit" to a dubious acquaintance or extended family member understands the torment of that experience.) Conversely, the experience of being wholly and unflaggingly believed in is almost as wonderful as achieving the dream itself. When someone you love is willing to stand at your side in the face of grueling hard work and opposition, and say, "I know you can do this," you find, miraculously, that you can.

So I say to you now, do not be a doubter of dreams. Do not look into the soul of another human creature and say, "You can't." Because while it may only cause that dreamer to toughen her skin and overcome another battle against doubt, it might also break her. And this world is broken enough to be getting on with.

What say you? If you feel so inspired, share your own dreams on your blog and post a link here. I would love to come by and say, "You can."

A Revelation

Every once and a while I have one of those epiphanies that stops me dead in my tracks no matter where I am or what I'm doing, and makes me turn to whomever is closest (even if it's just my dog) and say, "OH MY GOSH. DO YOU KNOW WHAT I JUST REALIZED???"

Usually this turns out badly for me. Not only because you can never tell what poor, innocent bystander will fall victim to this verbal assault, but also because my revelations tend to be a little, er, shall we say, behind the times.

For example: When I was in college (college, mind you) I realized that the phrase "Take it with a grain of salt" was not in fact, as I had so long assumed, "Take it with the grand assault." This one rocked my world for at least a week.

A few years before this, I was made to understand that the large quantities of fizz produced in the quick pouring of a glass of soda did not result in the irrevocable loss of said soda, but merely indicated some kind of chemical transformation best known by mathematicians and NASA employees. (I had long been indignant at the idea that Coca Cola would sell a product which, if it were not poured slowly enough, would vanish in vast amounts and leave the purchaser with less than half of what they paid for.)

I recently had another revelation, and I hope this one is less embarrassing. It goes like this:

ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS

= 

SHOW INSTEAD OF TELL

If I were the sort of person who said OMG, I might say it now. For me, this is the best kind of epiphany. It takes something I've been hearing my whole life and links it with something I've been telling myself as long as I've been a writer. And the result is that both ideas are illuminated.

"Actions speak louder than words" is a phrase so overused by elementary school teachers that it draws eye-rolls from anyone over the age of fifteen any time someone so much as thinks it. But consider it in these terms: The reason we must SHOW our readers instead of TELLING them is that actions speak louder than words. Ha! Do you see it? New meaning altogether!

Writing a character's actions conveys your point so much better (so much LOUDER, you might say) than describing that character's feelings or mental progression, doesn't it? Ludwig's shoulders sagged and he dropped into the nearest armchair with a whimper is ever so much more effective than Ludwig was disappointed and tired and he didn't know what he was going to do, as we all know.

But holy mackerel! That's because actions speak louder than words! If I had really understood the depth of that phrase when my first grade teacher droned it to the class so many years ago, maybe I'd be a better writer today! (Are you sick of the exclamation points yet?)

Excuse me. I have to go gaze starry-eyed into space for a while. And then I have to go do some revising.

Thoughts?

Publication is a Moot Point

I don't think I'm alone when I say I've been feeling the pressure of the un/pre-published life lately. Bills are stacking up. Unfulfilled dreams are starting to get cranky. Unmet goals are rubbing saddle sores into my sides. I've not achieved what I hoped I would have by now.

Indeed, I'm not getting paid to write. I'm not published. I'm not agented. And sometimes these rankling facts infect me with an apathy that makes even writing a chore. Do you know what I mean? It looks something like this:

But here's the thing. It's the main thing. And somehow, in the middle of all my striving and longing and journeying and bleeding and trudging, it manages to be the thing I forget most.

NONE OF THAT MATTERS.

No, I'm not crazy. Let me say it again. None of that matters! Not a bit! Not a whit! Not a Dr. Seussian Snit!

Sure, it'd be great to get paid to write. I'd love to have my books published. And I would be enthralled to work with an agent who liked my writing enough to champion it. But none of those things are the reason I write. None of them are why I started writing in the first place. See where I'm headed yet?

I just finished reading Emily of New Moon, a book by L.M. Montgomery (you know, the wonderful woman who gave us Anne Shirley?), and in it I found a certain amount of refreshment as a writer. As it happens, Emily Starr, the protagonist of the book, also longs to write for a living. But when her teacher demands to know why she wants this, he leads Emily to the heart of the matter--for her, and for all of us. He says:

"Tell me this--if you knew you would be poor as a church mouse all your life--if you knew you'd never have a line published--would you still go on writing--would you?"
"Of course I would," said Emily disdainfully. "Why, I have to write--I can't help it at times--I've just got to."

For me this conversation was like a knock over the head. Never mind that I've said this very thing many times before (I have to write! I'll go on doing it forever whether I get paid for it or not!); somewhere in the wild scramble for the prize of publication, I'd temporarily lost sight of it.

But I didn't start writing because I wanted to be published, or because I thought it would make me rich and famous, or because writing somehow impresses people. I didn't even start because I loved it--although that certainly plays a helpful role. It was because the stories in my head were all but leaking out of me, suffocating me with their need to be told. It was because I HAD TO.

And I think that's what we have to remember. Because that's the only thing that will keep you happy in your work. Doing it because you must--and because you love it. And if publication happens along the way, well... that's a lovely bonus.

What do you think? Why did you start writing? Do you find yourself getting distracted and consumed by dreams of agents and editors and publishing contracts so that your writing takes the back seat? Please share!

Raise a Glass to Turnings of the Season

[ATTENTION: This post has almost nothing at all to do with writing. I know. It's weird. I sometimes forget I have ordinary human things in my life, too. But hang in there, and don't judge me too fiercely. I'll go back to being strictly writerly in my next post.]

Oklahoma doesn't get blizzards. Ever.

Except lately.

The last week and a half have felt remarkably like living in the Arctic tundra, or in Narnia, or maybe on a wintry frontier. We had eighteen inches of snow with the first bout last Monday, then an additional four or five inches a few days later, and then today, about four more. This would not be a big deal if we were (like so many other places who had blizzards) a city who knew what to do with snow, but as it happens, Oklahoma is decidedly unprepared for any accumulation beyond two inches. The consequence? Most everyone I know has spent the last eight days caved up in their houses like bears, or hiking cross-country in full Eskimo gear, desperate for some social contact--or just bread and milk.

I've spent the larger part of those eight days working on my WIP (50,000 words! There's an allusion to writing, guys!) or exploring the frontier with my canine friend Ophelia, who turns into an arctic wolf in the snow. Here's proof:

Even if you hate cold weather with all the molecules of your being (like me), it's hard to resist a dog who has this much fun outside. But I'll be one glad little sparrow when Spring arrives.

And speaking of Spring...

I went to see the Decemberists play in Kansas City on Monday. It was unequivocally brilliant (of course), and their new album, The King is Dead--rather more subtle than some of their others--comes at an appropriate time, as one of its primary themes is the changing of the seasons. The first song on the album makes me itch for spring so badly I am tempted to march out into the waist-deep snow on my balcony and start planting petunias.

The lyrics are as follows:

Here we come to a turning of the season
Witness to the arc towards the sun
A neighbor's blessed burden within reason
Becomes a burden borne of all and one

And nobody, nobody knows
Let the yolk fall from our shoulders
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all
We are all our hands and holders
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
And this I swear to all

A monument to build beneath the arbors
Upon a plinth that towers t'wards the trees
Let every vessel pitching hard to starboard
Lay its head on summer's freckled knees*

And nobody, nobody knows
Let the yolk fall from our shoulders
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all
We are all our hands and holders
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
And this I swear to all

A there a wreath of trillium and ivy
Laid upon the body of a boy
Lazy will the loam come from its hiding
And return this quiet searcher to the soil

So raise a glass to turnings of the season
And watch it as it arcs towards the sun
And you must bear your neighbor's burden within reason
And your labors will be born when all is done

And nobody, nobody knows
Let the yolk fall from our shoulders
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all
We are all our hands and holders
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
And this I swear to all

(*My favorite couplet)

Here you can listen:

I'm going to go ahead and raise my glass to a turning of the seasons. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to move out into the sun again, and watch the world grow. Here's to spring... and to leaves on the trees and blossoms on the Jane Magnolias.

Bonus feature: Here's a video I snagged at the concert. If you're a Decemberists fan, you'll like it. I promise.

Comfort Books

There is something about the month of January that makes me want to curl up into a ball under my blankets and wait for spring.  If you're a warm weather person like me, you probably feel the same way.  Possibly you find yourself sighing more than usual this month, or feeling slightly desperate when you look out your window and see nothing but grey for the eighteenth morning in a row.  Or maybe you start to wonder whether green grass and blue sky ever actually existed at all.

It's times like these I start to crave my comfort books.

Some people solve the January blues with comfort foods, comfort sweat pants, comfort music, or comfort movies.  But personally, I find the best antidote to January to be a supply of well-loved books.  These are more like old friends than they are stacks of bound paper.  For example: 

Last week, I saw one of mine on a shelf at an antique mall (it was Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban) and I had an actual moment of confusion in which I stopped with my mouth open, ready to smile and say hello, before I realized it was a book and not a person.  A second dilemma developed at this point, in which I had to fight the impulse to buy the book on the grounds of it being inhumane to leave my friend-book sitting beside a rusty kettle on the shelf like an ordinary item.  I wanted to march up to the shop owner in outrage, cradling Harry Potter to my bosom and shouting that this was not just any book she had sitting on her shelf like some kind of common antique!  This was my friend!  Thankfully, I recovered my common sense and walked on without causing a scene, but not without experiencing a pang of regret for Harry.

That is what I mean about comfort books.  When you run into them at book stores and thrift stores--and antique malls--you feel a stab of fierce ownership for them, and sometimes feel compelled to buy them even when you own at least one copy already.  This is because, like any dear friend, they loyally offer you comfort every single time you pick them up.  Here are some of mine; some of the books I reach for when the world turns into endless, iron winter and I just need a friend-book:

I suppose Harry Potter goes without saying.

Also, Ella Enchanted

Peter Pan

The Chronicles of Narnia

The Lord of the Rings

Pride & Prejudice

Anne of Green Gables

Heidi

The Princess Academy

Goodnight Moon (before bed, of course)

What about you?  Do you find yourself craving familiarity and comfort books during the long weeks of January?  What are some of yours?  

You're Weird: Motley Monday

Once upon a time, I read an interview on Rachelle Gardner's blog with author Matt Mikalatos which was all about embracing your inner weird.  (You can read that full post here.  And I'd highly recommend it.  It's great.)  At the time, I was feeling ultra-serious about whatever it was I was writing, and thinking things like, Oh gosh this had better be so-so-so good or I'll never ever get published, and, I've got to buckle down and be serious and write in the way that people will want to read because I'll be doomed otherwise and no one will ever read my... blah blah blah.

And I remember this interview being a turning-point for me.  You see, it's always the exceedingly simple things that rattle my brains and club me upside the head with epiphanies.  I'm never boggled by the complex things; usually my little mind embraces those without flinching.  But the simple ones?  No, the simple ones tend to leave me dizzy for days.  And this was one such.

The essence of the interview was this: don't be afraid of the weird things that make you you.  And don't be afraid to saturate your writing with them.  Because it is that side of yourself, those oddities which truly make you unique, that will set your writing apart.

Now, some people are naturally more weird than others.  And that's just fine.  But whatever level of quirk you have inside you, don't be afraid to let it show.  Because, as it turns out, the world doesn't really want normal.  The world wants weird, and the world wants you. 

Take this quote (a new favorite of mine), and post it by your writing desk:

"Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness." -Allen Ginsberg

 

And then cross-stitch this one on a pillow, and sleep on it every night:

EMBRACE YOUR INNER WEIRD. 

You tell me: do you let yourself into the things you write naturally?  Or is it a struggle for you sometimes?  What methods do you use to turn off that critical inner editor and allow your true weird self to shine through in your writing?