Daily Decision: Writing or Painting

Everyday I have to decide what I'm going to do. Which is calling me more, writing or painting? It's tougher than it may seem. Painting is far easier for me to do; writing is more demanding. Add in reading and blogging, and I have a full day of work ahead of me. Most days, I start off reading, because I'm not ready to make the decision whether to begin writing or painting first. I'd say that most days I read for a while, then paint. Then the need to write calls me, and I start writing. Sometimes I just start off with painting, then when I've reached a point at which I'm ready to take a break, I can easily move into writing.

The saying that you cannot serve two masters comes into play. The question becomes, am I trying to serve two masters? And, if so, am I doomed to failure? Actually, I don't see myself as trying to serve two masters. They are both voluntary activities. I can walk away from either one at any time. I can give to them whatever amount of time I desire. There are days when I don't paint and days when I don't write, days when I do both and neither. I just try to be open to both and do what I can, and not fret over it.

The results of painting--the finished product--tends to come more quickly than that of writing. Writing tends to be a long-term project. So, they overlap each other. I'm happy working this way. It seems to suite me. I don't want to be a slave to either. I want to befriend the processes of both activities. They both give me satisfaction. They do, and I'm happy with that.

Lucid Dreaming: the heart and soul of writing.

Dreams (our indestructible desire to do, or be, something we find important), I think, emanate from our fantasies. The question then becomes, from whence come our fantasies? One of the definitions of fantasy is illusion, illusion being a mistaken idea, a misconception, a misleading visual image; hallucination. These definitions suggest a negative connotation. Yet, there seems to be nothing negative about my dreams. They seem positive and encourage me to act on them. So, perhaps, our dreams do not emanate from our fantasies.

If they do not originate in our fantasies, from where do they come? Maybe I should ask, which comes first, the vision or the dream? I have a vision of a scene and feel thrilled by it; it calls to me to save it. Don't let it die, because it has a life of its own. Does that vision morph into a dream and I act on it? I, therefore, start writing and fulfilling my dream. Is it the vision of the scene or the resulting dream that leads me to write?

Writing scenes is a pretty elemental part of writing fiction. In many ways, scenes are the heart and soul of fiction. They are the life of the story, the reason for everything. Everything the writer does is to make the scene come alive to the best of his ability. How does this relate to dreams? Visualizing scenes is a form of dreaming: lucid dreaming. Lucid dreaming is a positive form of fantasizing. For me, lucid dreaming is the thrill of writing. How does this form of dreaming relate to the big dream, the dream of being a writer? I think it's pretty obvious, the one flows from the other. The dream of being a writer is birthed in our lucid dreaming, in the satisfaction, should I say joy?, of lucid dreaming.

Is it a form of wish fulfillment? Another question for another time.

Summer is gradually coming to an end. Is my writing?

I like summertime. It's a chance to swim in the pool on hot days. It's a chance to swim at the beach. Many plants flower during the summer. And I've had a good summer. My daughter, who moved to Georgia from Florida a year ago, has moved back. I had my three grandchildren around me for much of the summer. I painted in the hot garage almost everyday, my grandchildren right around me, also drawing, coloring, and painting. They produced many masterpieces, which are hanging on my garage walls. But it was hot in that garage. I came inside the air-conditioned house, sweat dripping off me, my shirt soaked. And I didn't mind it at all. The grandchildren are back in school now, so I have more free time. I'll be signing up for another drawing class, which starts next week.

The one thing I didn't do this summer was write. I wrote hardly a word of fiction. It was a thinking, reading, and wondering kind of summer. To be honest, the wondering has been about whether I'll continue trying to write fiction or give it up. My characters used to live inside my head; I temporarily became each character, feeling their feelings, thinking their thoughts; I became a different person for a while (actually, many different people), which is an amazing, emotionally satisfying kind of experience. That doesn't happen anymore. I don't become my characters. I'm not sure which is the mental illness: being able to become someone else, or not being able to become someone else. This is a serious issue. Not being able to become someone else leaves me with nothing to write about. I feel as if there's no life in what I'm writing. And, if there's no life in it, what's the point? This is what I'll be trying to figure out this fall, whether there's a reason to write anymore.

Having Nothing To Say

It's somewhat baffling to me that lately I have nothing to say. I could post stuff just to be posting, and there's nothing wrong with that if it accomplishes what you want with your blog. But I don't find that appealing. That's just work, possibly without inspiration. I'm used to writing from my emotions and deeper thought processes. So, what does this mean? Have my emotions and deeper thought processes dried up? I don't know. I only know that I have nothing to say right now (although, ironically, I'm saying something right now, but I think you know what I mean).

What does this mean for my blog? Is my desire to blog dying? I don't think so. I still read a lot of blogs, or at least take a look at them. But truthfully, I've read enough author interviews to know that we're all experiencing the same things. Some authors succeed while others struggle on. I don't think I'll learn a whole lot new by reading more author interviews.

I've read quite a few book reviews. But they're usually not books I would ever read. I've attempted to read some of the books that I read about that were highly praised, but usually couldn't get past the first few pages. Of course, there are some successes, that is, some books that did capture my interest and I read them all the way. So I usually don't read book reviews on blogs. (Goodreads is a different story.)

I've  read enough "Should I Give Up?" posts. Of course, we should never give up. (And the truth is, maybe some of us should give up and move on with our lives.)

To be honest, I've done no fiction writing for several months. I think this is probably why I'm not writing so many blog posts: I'm not sure that I'm still a writer. I wonder sometimes if I'm one of those people who should just give up and move on with my life? The desire to write is still there, but, like my blog posts, I've always written from my emotions and deeper thought processes, and they seem to have disappeared. So I could just write to be writing, but I'm not sure it would be satisfying.

My blog reflects my writing life in general. Fortunately, I've been doing quite a bit of art work. That's something I find interesting, even fascinating. So I still have an interest in creativity, still exercising it to a good extent.

This is one of those posts that writes itself. I'm just along for the ride. I hope you're still enjoying the writing process. I hope you succeed. I'll be waiting to hear about your success.

Writing Disillusionment

I've been reading The Hunger Games. As I'm reading I'm asking myself "What makes me think I can be a writer?" I mean, the writing is grabbing and engrossing. It's not Shakespeare or James Joyce, but it's not trying to be. It's just being what it is. And it's riveting. That's the competition we writers are up against. Not that it's a competition between writers for readers, but a competition between just writing, writing well, and writing superbly. It's a competition within yourself to reach for a higher goal. No doubt, Suzanne Collins had a team of editors, proofreaders, etc., to help her book reach the peak of perfection, which most of us don't have--yet. But, still, the book is hers; the idea, the execution, the final product is hers. I feel so much like a poor, inferior writer compared to her. Is that a dangerous thing for me as a writer? Help me to understand.

Art: It's in the details

My art teacher (Hillary Hogue) tried to explain to us that we are drawing too quickly. We need to slow down. She said, "Beauty is in the details." She explained this by stating there are many shapes within one's eyes, maybe thirty or forty details just in the eye. You can't capture those details if you're going quickly. Slow down; look; see. Then draw.

About writing, John Gardner in The Art of Fiction says, "In all major genres, vivid detail is the life blood of fiction." ...vivid detail... Have I been writing too fast? Am I visualizing, seeing, my characters, inside and out? Am I seeing my scenes in full color? Am I choosing words that show, that bring to life, yes, bring to life, my story? After all, isn't that what the reader wants, something that lives?

The differences in the arts aren't necessarily that different after all. We're all trying to get at the same thing: that which is real, that which lives.

Whether to finish what we've started or to start something new.

Last year I wrote a blog about this topic: http://richard-writingandliving.blogspot.com/2010/11/whether-to-finish-what-were-already.html. I discussed the value of polishing and finishing what we've started over going to something new before finishing what we've already started. So, here I sit, a year later, still working on the same novel. Is that patience, or what? And when you consider that I've actually been working on this novel in one form or another for over five years, well, that's a lot of patience.

Once again, I'm chomping at the bit to start something new. I so much want to do so. I so much want to move on to new characters, new ideas, new schemes, etc. But is it wise to do so? Is it better to keep working on this same novel, especially when I'm pretty close to finishing it? Tanya Reimer has read it and given me valuable feedback, which is what I'm now incorporating into the, hopefully, last draft. It is really, only months away from being finished if I can just keep working on it, not give up.

This novel is pretty long, though it'll be shortened a bit, thanks to Tanya's sharp eye. But in the future, I want my novels to be shorter. Say, about 80,000 words max. I want to be able to finish a novel within one year, maybe even six months. I'm sixty-five years old, not getting any younger. Am I running out of time? I hope not, but you never know.

I wrote another post: http://richard-writingandliving.blogspot.com/2011/01/making-it-when-youre-young-vs-making-it.html. I praised the value of making it when you're younger, which is difficult to do as a writer. It's lack of life experience (which is a debatable topic, to say the least, but it's the way I feel). Making it young as a writer is getting published (by the traditional method) maybe in you late twenties or early thirties. But, you can make it any time, really, in your fifties, sixties, seventies, eighties, and, with the aid of collaborative authors (James Patterson, and many other older writers are doing it) you can write until your dying breath. But, the value of making it when you're younger is unsurpassed for a comfortable writing life. But, that's out of the question for me. I'm no longer young. I am "running out of time." That's one of the reasons I've decided to self-publish from this point on. The years it takes to go through literary agents, if you can find one, and then the agent to find a publisher, if she can find one, then for the publisher to actually produce a book...well, I don't want to go that route any longer. Yet, I want my writing to be well done, as well as I can make it. So it's back to patience. Patience is priceless. I can only hope I don't run out of time.

My retirement ain't what it's supposed to be. (1)

I'm sixty-five years old and retired from the 9-5 rat race. For the last several years that I worked, I thought a lot about retirement, actually looking forward to it, because I would then have the time to write that I've always dreamed of having.

How would my day go? Sleep until I feel like getting up (sleep has been a problem for me for the past fifteen years--just couldn't get enough of it). Drink coffee and settle down to my computer and start writing. Or, go outside and sit by the swimming pool and read and write--my favorite thing to do. Work for two or three hours, have lunch, take a nap, then write for another two or three hours. The rest of my time would be for whatever I want to do. I'd finally get published and make enough money to pay off the bills and do some traveling. My wife, who's six years younger than me, could quit her job if she wanted to, or just work a couple of days a week (she's a dental hygienest).

It would be the life I've always wanted to live. Give me fifteen or twenty years of good health and writing and I could accomplish my dreams.

But reality has a way of being quite different.

Writing "en plein air"

Recently I attended an event called "A 'Plein Air' Painting Event," in which close to forty painters were scattered throughout the many acres of the Jacksonville Arboretum & Gardens painting en plein air. I had never seen painters working in the open air before, and was eager to see how they do it. I've always been a lover of art, but not a collector, as I could never afford to buy the art pieces that I liked. I've been interested in the craft of painting, although I've never painted. I've attempted drawing, decided I have no real skill at it, and quit without getting into actually painting with oil or acrylic. So, my understanding of the craft is very poor. But I definitely love a beautiful painting.

My closest foray into art is photography, which I consider myself an amateur, maybe an advanced amateur, because I've never mastered the more advanced techniques of photography. But I take a fair picture. I in no way think photography is a more difficult art to master than painting. But the results of photography can be no less artistic in its own way than a painting.

What has all of this to do with writing. Over the years I have written en plein air. In fact, it's my preferred way of writing. Sitting outside under the open sky and writing is more satisfying than sitting inside and writing. There's something special about writing en plein air. It brings writing to a whole new level. Writing becomes a multi-dimensional experience: the activity of writing combined with the enjoyment of your surroundings.

I have enjoyed writing in many different locations. When I was working, I used to sit outside my office, which had a deck running along a lake. On my lunch hour, I would sit under the sun and write, either in my journal, in which the environment becomes, sometimes, the subject of my entry, or on a novel or short story or poem. It was the best part of my day.

At home, my favorite place to write is on the patio, sitting next to my swimming pool. There's something about water that inspires me. I feel as if I'm accomplishing more than just writing. I'm living at a higher level. The sun rising in front of me, the birds chirping, the squirrels running through the trees, the cooler morning air, all play on my senses. Writing is living. Writing en plein air is living beautifully.

Writing and Parenting (1)

One of the most difficult problems for a writer (painter, muscian, etc.) with children to overcome is how to find time to do our writing. Our children take up a tremendous amount of our time. How do we satisfy our need to be an artist and our need to be a parent? Parenting is immediate. It is now. There is no I'll get to it later. Unfornately, our writing can be put off until later, and that's what usually happens.

 It's an age-old delimma, in some ways more perplexing for women than for men, and in some ways more perplexing for men than for women. And, really, the problem confronts anyone who runs their own business, maybe even anyone who works and has a family. The demand for shelter and nurture comes first. It is paramount. The ideal solution is when writing, shelter, and nurture all merge into one. Is it possible for that to happen?

Family life is a constant mix, an ever changing matrix, because as our children grow older, and/or  new ones come along, our needs and relationships change. And oftentimes, with more than one child, different networks form. We might have to take care of an infant, an adolescent, and a teenager all at the same time. Besides being exhausting, it's time consuming.

Writing a novel, poetry, whatever, takes a commitment, and usually a commitment over a long period of time. Ideally, a person who wants to be a writer knows so at a very young age (I was about thirteen or fourteen when I knew it) and commits herself to writing then and there and gets published at a fairly young age, makes a lot of money, finds a wonderful spouse/partner, and her writing pays the bills, and she lives happily ever after. Of course, it usually doesn't happen that way. If it has, I don't know about it. (As I think about it, John Updike might have done it, or some version of it.)

So these two aspects of our lives--writing and parenting--are, at least on the surface, antagonistic to one another.

Downtime

The downtime between finishing a project and starting a new one seems interminable, even if it's only a few days or weeks. The anxiety of not knowing what I'm going to work on next is high and distressing. The fear that I can't write anymore is the most distressing part. So I feel compelled to get to work on something--anything--to erase that fear.

Why is writing so important to me? Is it bound up with my identity, my self-worth--sense of failure if I don't write? Is the very act of writing thrilling, satisfying, fulfilling? Is the thought of the finished product what drives me? Is it the thought of fame and/or fortune? Is it some psychological search for meaning, a kind of internal/external journey toward self-discovery? Is it the execution and fulfillment of a plan that gives meaning to writing? Is it the expression of myself and my beliefs through my characters that make writing so valuable? Is it the illusion of living a different life for a while that gives writing its appeal? Is it the sense of discovery that mesmerizes me?

I could probably answer 'yes' to all those questions. Writing is living a dream, and dreaming is one of the most satisfying things a person can do. And, if that is so, then getting published is really secondary to the pleasure of writing.