Wednesday, November 13, 2024

Writers and Artists

 I’m sitting in the car waiting for my grandson.  Moments ago, I read a post by Grant Faulkner, who in 2016 was the Executive Director at National Novel Writing Month.

“I’ve been remembering the 2016 election this week,” he wrote.

Normally, he said, November draws thousands of writers; however, after Trump’s election in 2016, writers’ stories literally collapsed.

It wasn’t just the NaNoWriMo writers. (Writers who commit to write 50,000 words for a novel in 30 days.) Many of his friends and professional writers stopped writing.

They were traumatized.

Faulkner said before that November, he didn’t believe in writer’s block, but then he saw that writing is difficult and sometimes impossible for a battered brain.

Trauma and depression can turn off the spigot of creativity.


“It’s easy to think that our art is trivial when it’s up against such a menacing and malevolent block of history as we’re living through, but the opposite is actually true: our art isn’t trivial; it’s what can deliver us.”


 Faulkner said that James Baldwin (Go Tell it on the Mountain 1953, Notes of a Native Son, 1955) expressed the importance of the role of the artist better than he could:

 “You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was Dostoevsky and Dickens who taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who ever had been alive.”

 Howard Zinn’s quote, “An artist is a sort of emotional or spiritual historian,” provided Faulkner with hope because we need to see that “compassion, sacrifice, courage, and kindness” are a part of every era.

I look up from behind the steering wheel and notice that the great flock of Canadian Geese I admired before settling into this page have dwindled to about 25.

The 25 are scattered about the grass, their white breasts glowing like snow patches left after the bulk of snow has been absorbed into the ground. Some are preening, and occasionally, one—male or female, I can’t tell the difference –will spread their wings in a morning wake-up stretch, revealing dark feathers beneath.

(Like some of us, some geese are slower to wake up or are simply basking in the glory of the day before getting to work.)


 Don’t let them destroy your connection to life and the joy of living. Appreciate the world we live in and the fantastic beauty surrounding us.



If you are still reading Your Story Matters, Living Your Life in The Most Awesome Way Possible, Chapter 54 "What We Need is a Wise Grandmother," is posted here Page: Edit

Friday, October 25, 2024

I Got a Call from a Literary Agent

 

I got a call from a Literary Agent.

A dream come true, right?

However, I was suspect. I didn't want to get too excited, for I know getting a Literary Agent is about as rare as finding a hen's tooth.

I have been getting calls from people interested in a book I wrote way back in 2008—I don't know why it suddenly got attention, but I wondered if this was like the other calls—they wanted me to pay them to market my book.

No, says this agent, he would take a standard 15% commission. He would write up the proposal, a pitch, and approach publishers, plus promote worldwide distribution. He thought it had universal appeal, for it was a journey, a life story, human interest, horse training, and is about an animal-human bond.

The book It's Hard to Stay on a Horse While You're Unconscious is a horse book I paid Xlibris to publish. I was innocent then. I didn't know you could publish a book for free on Amazon, which would take a small fee if it sold, but not before. Xlibris provided some editorial input; they sent paperback and hard copies to me, plus I got a Kirkus review. (It was good; I rambled some, but they liked it.)

I sold a few.

I stopped paying attention to the book when it wasn't selling, and I thought it was overpriced at $19.99 for a soft copy, $29.99 for a hard copy, and $9.99 for an eBook. (I made around $2.50 a copy plus or minus a few cents.) I thought the title was too long. I was rebelling when I heard that you must use a short title, and I felt that the two ways of looking at the word unconscious made sense. If you are hit in the head and out cold, you can't stay on a horse, and I was awed when I discovered that a horse would follow your conscious attention to a point ahead. Also, when you aren't paying attention, a horse can spook, and you will sit in thin air while the horse is elsewhere. (I once rode my daughter's horse Dee and found if I focused on a fence post ahead without touching the reins, she would go straight for it.)

When I read the contract, it sounded much like a real estate buyer's agency contract. (A realtor once tried to coerce me into signing one of those, which meant I would owe him a fee for any house I bought, no matter what agent showed it to me, or if I found it myself, or had an owner-to-buyer agreement. In other words, I was stuck.) Yes, sign a buyer's agency contract when you like the agent and want them to help you find or buy a particular house. Now Oregon law is pushing that, and I'm a licensed Real Estate Agent.

What to do?

(In Real Estate School, the instructor taught that most Real Estate issues are negotiable. Remember that when buying a house or signing a publishing deal.)




Wednesday, October 16, 2024

Alpine Meadow

 


On the Fourth of July, I trekked through an alpine meadow with a gurgling stream straight off ice melt, with plants and little flowers hugging tight to the earth.  I saw what the wild wolves see. I was at the base of Mt. Shasta.

Thinking about it, I can’t think.

Ray Bradbury had a sign by his desk. “Don’t think.” People call that nebulous something various words—intuition, the internal knowing, the muse, the Holy Spirit, God.

I sat beside the lake, dangling my feet in ice water until they turned numb.   

It will take a while to integrate what I learned on the mountain, and even longer to articulate it. Maybe nothing will come, perhaps everything. Maybe seeing that all creatures and non-creatures are imbued with spirit—the trees, the water, the flowers, the rocks, the little raccoon that wanted to look at me, but didn’t want me to look at him, that giant old Grandmother tree that fell to the earth. It is crumbling, providing shelter for the little ones, providing mulch for the ground—soon, it will be soil.

I got it that human beings are not warring, sniping, sniveling, petty entities by nature. That has been drummed, conditioned, and taught to them. Human beings are love, expansiveness, beauty, and children of a divine creative force.

“Miracles don’t happen overnight. Sometimes they take an entire weekend”


P.S.I didn't have my camera with me. This picture was taken from the highway.


Monday, October 7, 2024

Break Out

 

Most everyone writes like most everyone walks. But we don't all strut like Carole Channing in Thoroughly Modern Millie (Movie 1967).

 Don't you sometimes want to break free and feel that free abandon with work and life? 

They say that every kid is an artist. But we're adults, and we have built up some self-consciousness. Or we're in the gap between where we are and where we want to be. 

We have good taste. We can tell when a story doesn't ring true. We have a good idea, but we ask ourselves, why do I sound like a freshman when I want to have graduated with a Ph.D.?

It's the skill we need before applying what's in our hearts.

Skills can be learned.

But before we study grammar, story structure, plot, The Journey of the Hero, or the mechanics of the Screenplay, we must still the voice that screams in our ears that we can't have the thing we want. 

We hesitate to play full-out in most endeavors. We want to dance while scrubbing the floor but scowl instead. A slight change of attitude would have made our time joyful instead of burning sunshine.

(I used to work in an office where the receptionist, when totally frustrated, would clean the office. It worked for all of us.)

We hear about doing what we love and getting paid to do it, and we try. We hear that life is supposed to be fun but feel we have little of it.

It's break-out time.

It might not happen all at once. It might come in spurts, but it will come. We are writers. We have declared ourselves to be, and so we are. 

Now, we want to be good writers.

That's called learning our craft.

Once, at a writer's workshop, an author/presenter asked: "Who wants to be a writer?"

Everyone in the room raised their hands.

"Then what in the hell are you doing here?' he boomed. "Go home and write."

Here's where I have a problem: if you keep putting out the same old, you won't advance. Some input is necessary.

Let's investigate…

Wednesday, October 2, 2024

Art is Expressed in Many Ways

 



"It is the inner commitment to be true to ourselves and follow our dreams that triggers the support of the universe."—Julia Cameron.

I have written this blog for years, and I have another blog, https://wishonwhitehorses, that I have written for even longer. For a time, I was using the same material on both blogs for I thought I had two different audiences.  I am keeping this one for writing, blogging, and supporting artists.

We need a place for happy thoughts, at least uplifting thoughts. I spent the weekend with a lady, an old friend with whom I have been out of touch for years. She was the daughter of my mother's best friend—since they were in Junior High school. She has her own business and works out of her house. Now she is single, and with her kids gone, she says she will go for days, maybe weeks, without talking to someone except over the phone or via email.

Come on folks, we need some human contact. Although here we will stick with our internet connection.

I once took a workshop where an editor would critique one page of the participant's work. She called it a "No blood on the floor critique." It takes someone with the confidence of Johan Travolta to counter a "Blood on the floor critique." When an agent told him he would never be an actor, he walked away saying, "They're nuts."

Many never recover from such a put-down.

Yet artists grow. They mature, they learn their craft, and if a person keeps on, they will improve. (Unless, of course, they keep repeating the same old tired ways of doing things.) Artists need some fresh blood in there from time to time to push them to the next level.

Many writers use Beta readers (or sensitivity readers) to review their manuscripts. For many, such readers are a friend or spouse. We can offer such a service, but only one page please. We can be fresh eyes on your page, and offer non-professional opinions, Hey, we’re readers. We know what we like.

Or tell us about your desire to express yourself creatively. Even if it is throwing ingredients into a pot to make a superb spaghetti sauce. It’s fun to cook with no recipes, that’s creative.

If you would like to submit a page of your writing, I will offer an opinion, but I am not an editor, nor do I claim to be a writing expert. And we will offer it to our readers for comment—that can be private if you prefer.

If you have been reading my memoir Your Story Matters, we are up to Chapter 46 and 47.  It is available to read at https://www.wishonwhitehorses.com


 P.S. None of my material is A.I. I heard over the weekend that someone (who is that person?) is writing small books selling like half-priced hamburgers at McDonalds, which are AI-generated. That drives me crazy!

P.S.P.S.  In honor of an artist:




Two moments ago, I looked up James Earl Jones and was saddened to learn he passed away on Sept 9, 2024. 

James Earl Jones—that baritone velvet-voiced guy did not speak for eight years because of a severe stutter.

This story is from Michael Moore recapturing the voice of James Earl Jones:

Somehow Professor Crouch, to his surprise and pleasure, discovered that I wrote poetry. The boy who had written the poems was the same mute boy who had fought with uncontrolled fury. Both fury and poetry poured out of my silence.

"I'm impressed with your poem, James Earl," Professor Crouch told me after he read my ode to grapefruit. "I know how hard it is for you to talk, and I don't require you to do that… [But I think it’s best] for you to say it aloud to the class," he told me.

"It would be a trauma to open my mouth in front of my classmates, who would probably laugh at my poem and my stuttering….

"I was shaking as I stood up, cursing myself. I strained to get the words out, pushing from the bottom of my soul. I opened my mouth — and to my astonishment, the words flowed out smoothly, every one of them. There was no stutter. All of us were amazed, not so much by the poem as by the performance….

"Aha!" my professor exclaimed as I sat down, vindicated. "We will now use this as a way to recapture your ability to speak."

 

The voice of Darth Vader did good.


Monday, September 23, 2024

"Art? Just Do It."

 


One moment ago, I leaned back in my chair brain fatigued and opened a random page of Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way.

A small quote on the right hand of page 141 gave me an oracle for the day: 

"Art? You just do it."--Martin Ritt

There is more to be said about art if you want to go into the content of the page, which is "Filling Out the Form." Cameron explained that if you are writing a screenplay—which I'm not—you must do the steps: Think of an idea, commit it to paper, and then write page by page for 120 pages. That's your daily work. And when obsession strikes—and it will—how the damn thing is not any good, you put that question aside and go back and write the next page.

 

I had completed a synopsis of a book I have written when I turned to Cameron’s book. I take that back; I had brain fatigue, but I can't say the synopsis is complete. I need to go over it again.

I was telling the story that agent’s and publisher’s request. They want the skeleton of the plot and the ending—no hiding that from them.

That took more work than writing the book. Although I shouldn't say that either, for I've spent more years than I can to mention on that book.

So, the years passed, but I haven't been hitting the keys continually to write it. After I read that a protagonist needs to be young and beautiful, I rebelled and wrote a story about a 65-year-old woman, single, a schoolteacher, who retired on the first page. (She is lovely, I couldn't resist.)

A friend said, "A spinster schoolteacher, that won't fly."

We'll see.

The first page changed. Instead, it begins with Miss Sara Rose’s granddaughter, fifteen-year-old Patrice. You know how kids are, they write their own story. To go back a bit, Sara Rose had a dream.

That dream was to ride a river in Africa.

I changed things, I rewrote it. I added a second twist that involves a mystery.

I was learning. I didn't think I could write, but I liked the idea. I thought I could only write in the first person until, halfway through, I found that I could write in third. I thought I couldn't write dialogue, but I did it anyway, poorly, but I did it.

I’ve written many things since then. I’ve blogged, written books, and it hasn’t taken me as many years as this one, but that book was my basic learning experience.

You artists know why you do it.

You are dreaming through your fingers—no matter the art form. It could be the dough that grows beneath your fingers. The fragrance of yeast wafts up into your face until your cheeks are pink from the joy of it. Your hands mold that pliant pile of flour, yeast, salt, and water until it is “spankable.” When it’s formed into a loaf and placed in the oven, the house smells so delectable it makes the angels sing. (I’ve been reading about making a sourdough starter.)

"Art? You just do it."



Thursday, September 19, 2024

Taming the Dragon

Dear fellow writers,

Steven Pressfield* says an artist’s resistance is like a dragon we must tame every morning.

A reader commented that Steven King writes joyfully every day, perhaps because he puts his dragons into his stories.

Is that the answer?

 

Since this is called a Writer’s Blog, perhaps I have been remiss for not talking about writing.

I have written almost daily for years and joyfully. Only recently have I experienced any resistance. I have felt that writing is my expression, my art, a way to be creative. (I believe everyone is creative—just find it and do it.) In creativity we find that No-Time-Zone where angels sing, birds chirp, and you are driven away from the computer (or canvas, or keyboard) only when starved or needing a water closet break. (Isn’t that a fantastic term?)

There at my desk, I happily put words on a page, thought up stories, read for fun and research, and all the while tried to get better.

(Pressfield wrote a book titled, Nobody Wants to Read Your Sh*t.)  We will write it occasionally, forgive ourselves, and move on. Hey Pressfield, that was not our intention.)

Maybe that’s my dilemma—I’m reading too much good stuff—stuff better than mine, or I feel I “should” be doing something that helps pay the bills. I feel guilty that I’m not calling Real Estate Leads. (I have a real estate license) One rejection after another gets tedious after a while.

(I did get hold of a fellow horse lover, a cowboy, and we had a good time, but he was not buying or selling, just fishing for information.)

Why don’t we do the thing that will make us feel better? I’m guilty of it—maybe that’s the dragon. That’s the resistance. I know that writing “Morning pages,”(Julia Cameron’s term) works like magic. So why don’t we do it? I know that meditation helps the mood and the blood pressure, so why don’t I do more of it? Time? Right, like we’d rather wallow in misery and let the cycling mind run amuck rather than spend 15 minutes writing out the junk we’ve accumulated.

We, you, me, I’m throwing us all in the soup. Morning pages are for your eyes only. It’s a mind dump. It is clearing out the debris so the real stuff can come through. It’s putting a period at the end of a sentence, something the mind tends to forget. Pressfield says we need to clean our house so the Muse doesn’t soil her gown on the way in.

Morning pages are for your eyes only, it’s writing out the sh*t, it’s taming the dragon, it’s cleaning the house.

*https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#search/Steven+Pressfield/FMfcgzQXJGnzBbKjnHxWPjHpRFxGlhhR