Creator v. Editor: The Smackdown

Today my novelist friend said writing a book was like raising a child, because just when you learn how to handle a 10 month old, you have to learn how to handle an 11 month old, and just when you figure out one aspect of novel writing, a new challenge appears.

This has certainly been true for me. In writing my first draft, I edited what I had written the day before, then wrote at least 1,000 new words. But since finishing the draft, I’ve struggled to create reasonable daily goals for editing, and without them find it hard to feel satisfied, know when to quit for the day or to measure my progress. Also vexing is learning how to both create new work and edit existing work, tasks that use different parts of your brain and require different kinds of focus and energy.

In thinking about creating and editing, I have discovered a few things. My creator likes to work in the morning, as close as possible to waking, while in her pjs, before I talk to anyone or think about my “real” life. The creator likes to believe that nothing matters but the world she is creating, and this is easiest before the world interrupts. Having realized this, I’ve been writing new work first thing in the morning, consistently and easily meeting my daily goal.

Still I struggle with my editor. In fact, I had begun to hate and resist the editing process. But this week I remembered that I love to edit other people’s writing. I love getting a piece of work and tearing into it—rewording, excising and rearranging until it’s as strong as it can be. So if I love to edit, how can I learn to love editing my own work?

First, I’m going to pretend that the editor and creator are actually two different people. I’ll schedule separate sessions in which I will either create or edit, but not both. When editing, I will play with words, rearrange, and delete, but when I see a gap, I will merely note it for the creator, who will come back to work the next morning and fill the hole when she is ready. (She’s an artist, you know, you can’t rush her.)

I hope that with separate and reasonable daily goals for my creator and editor, and more of a separation of tasks, I will make more progress, feel better as I go, and love both the creator and the editor, each of whom I need to get the job done.

Kind People Rule

This blog entry would have been called Mean People Suck if I had written it anytime in the previous two weeks, during which I encountered vicious and sneaky meanness masquerading as help. This nastiness created doubt—in myself and my work. Julia Cameron says that for an artist, entertaining the first doubt is like an alcoholic taking the first drink. If that’s true I went on a doubt bender.

Thankfully, today I finally feel free of this nasty web of negativity. But getting my optimism and good spirits back wasn’t easy. I had to acknowledge to myself that I was hurt. I had to be extra kind and gentle with myself. I had to (gasp!) ask for help, and then accept it. To reaffirm my faith in humanity, I’d like to share a few examples of the kindness that has helped me to heal.

1) My Artist Friends

They listened, sympathized and encouraged. Then they invited me to create a collage. Making any kind of visual art intimidates me, but with my friends there, all working quietly, I dove in, ripping out pictures, playing around with them, immersing myself in the moment. The result was a beautiful collage, full of life and color that literally brightened up my house, and by extension, my mood. God bless the artists!

2) Leslie, Owner of The Bead Garden

Encouraged by my collage experiment, I visited a bead store, to try to make something out of three small white shells I found on the beach. They already had perfect little holes, as if God had intended them to be worn. I’d never made a piece of jewelry, but the idea enchanted me.

The store itself was magical-a place where pretty shiny things get made. Beads of every size, shape, and color glimmered at me appetizingly. Sparkling glass beads from the Czech Republic covered an entire wall in garnet, tangerine, amber, dusty rose. Sea treasures gathered on another—smooth pebbles of coral, spiny shells. Turquoise, rose and purple marbles called to embrace my wrist, dangle from my ears.

Leslie looked at my shells, listened to my ideas, made suggestions. Together we picked out flower coral, chocolate-brown beads, and silver wire to complement the shells. I strung it, Leslie fixed on the clasps and voila—a necklace was born! I raced home to my writing, wearing my treasure and bursting with creative energy.

3) Kathy, Beautician and Friend

I stopped in to Eterna Bella to buy some moisturizer, and received a rousing pep talk (in Spanish!) about how yes it hurts when people are mean, but we have to learn from the experience and sigue adelante (keep moving forward.) Kathy knows my book is going to be a success, and gave me solid reasons to support her belief. I left with a huge boost of energy, morale, and gratitude.

With the help of these and many other kind people, I’m back on the wagon of optimism and faith, and I intend to stay there.

O Ye of Little Faith

That’s me. A Doubting Thomas. I’ve always related to the story where Thomas didn’t believe Jesus had risen until he saw him, until he put his fingers in the wounds. I myself am slow to belief, quick to demand proof. That may be a good quality for a law career, but how about for a life?

While waiting to see my holistic healer last week (I know, I know, I belong in California), I read an excerpt from The Call, a book written by Oriah. The book began with a poem with the following lines:

“Remember- there is one word you are here to say with your whole being.
When it finds you, give your life to it. Don't be tight-lipped and stingy.

Spend yourself completely on the saying.
Be one word in this great love poem we are writing together.”

Intrigued, I skimmed through the chapter where she elaborates on this idea. What I gleaned is that each of us has one overarching lesson to learn in life. And that once we learn it, or as we learn it, we can teach it to others. The word is the thing that encapsulates this message, the thing we would entreat people in the world to do. Oriah’s word was “rest.”

She said one way to find your word was to look at where you have really struggled in life; to see if there was one lesson that we really struggled to learn, some mistake that we repeated over and over.

As I’ve thought about this over the past week, I decided my word is “trust.” My lack of faith is what gets me in trouble: my shaky faith in any kind of higher power, my lack of faith in humanity, in myself, my talent, my intuition. Faith does not come easily to me.

But here’s my new realization: just because it doesn’t come easily doesn’t mean I can’t have it. It just means I have to work harder at it than other people. So that’s the good news. It’s still possible. And maybe (dare I even wish this?) maybe once I finally learn the lesson, my faith will be even stronger for having been tested so severely. A girl can dream, huh?

So over the past few days, as I’ve been panicking about throwing a party for 60 people in my small home, and getting ready for my first writer’s conference, when I find myself anxiety and doubt-ridden, heart racing, breath shallow, overwrought, I’ve begun gently saying to myself, “Trust.” Just the word. And miraculously, it works. I get a small reprieve from my fear. Even if it comes back 30 seconds later, for a short time, I enjoy the belief that I am good, safe, and loved. That I am enough. What a gift.

Trust.

Make Art! Make Art! Make Art!

So said Glen Hansard, the winner of Best Song for the movie Once, in his acceptance speech at the Oscars this year. I loved the film, loved the music, loved the story of how it was made for $160,000, found by a vacationing Sundance employee, and catapulted to huge success. Great inspiration for all us struggling-artist types.

Closer to home and even more inspiring for me is First Person, a film directed by my friend Ben Herold, which premiered at the Philadelphia Film Festival last Sunday. I will disclose here my awe of Ben’s vision, courage, and cojones. But putting that aside, his film is a powerful, beautiful, stop-your-heart, challenging work of art (that incidentally won Ben the Philly Film Festival’s award for best new director.)

Just as amazing as the film is the story behind it. Ben was involved with a program that helped Philadelphia public school students make it to college and had an idea to follow a group of the students through their junior and senior years of high school, documenting their educational progress. I don’t know much about what is involved in making a film, but I know it takes a lot of money, time, people and expertise, none of which Ben had when he came up with this idea. But he began it, feeling his way and figuring it out as he went. And with lots of help, perseverance and good old-fashioned chutzpah, he created an incredible piece of art.

First Person is not just about the six kids featured, or Philadelphia, but the challenges that face our children, our education system, our neighborhoods, cities and societies. The film raised many questions for me. Like what is the difference between these kids and myself? I grew up within miles of these children, and my life couldn’t seem more different. Why is that? And what can we do to make sure that we don’t lose the potential, the talent, the gifts that our children have to offer? When bright, ambitious kids end up failing out of school, working at McDonald’s, or God forbid, in jail, we all lose. What can we do to change this? How do we support our teenagers to keep them from falling through the cracks, from giving in to the temptations that surround them to devastating effect?

Big questions, I know. One could feel overwhelmed by such questions. And I think the answers are different for everyone. Some of us can give money (right through the First Person website - check it out!) Some of us can give time, talent, love. Some of us can and should make art.

Art? you ask? Yes. Because as shown by both Once and First Person, art challenges, provokes, makes us feel and think, shows us new perspectives, introduces us to people, ideas and circumstances we might not otherwise see.

Thank you, Ben for making your art and sharing it with the rest of us. None of us knows the good that we do, the ripple effects our actions have. None of the creators or fans of First Person know how it already has or will continue to affect people. But I believe it has already greatly impacted many lives. And that is a beautiful and inspiring thing to witness.

Feathering My Nest

Nesting is not an instinct of mine. A friend of mine bought a house a few months ago, and already it looks beautifully homey—pictures on walls, bright pillow arrangements, knick-knacks artfully displayed.

In comparison, I moved into my house three years ago, and my walls remain mostly barren, the home lacking much indication of who we are. Now, in my defense, having bought our home from my Great-Aunt Minnie, who God bless her, hadn’t done much to it since the 1970s, it took three years to transform the kitchen from a superfund site (see photo!), repair plumbing, replace ceilings, remove wallpaper, paint the entire interior and put down new carpet. So when in February we finally completed our initial work plan by having the floors refinished, maybe I just needed a break.

But recently, my lack of a comfortable work space began to bother me. And perhaps my vacation, where we stayed in other people’s homes for 12 nights straight, elevated my need to have a little corner of the world all to myself. So this week, I finally finished fixing the wall in my office. Then I set out to create an artist’s altar for myself, one of my assignments from The Artist’s Way. The idea is to have a place that belongs solely to me, a place filled with things that inspire me and lift my spirits.

So after a week of work, I now sit at my brand new desk, looking out my front windows at the dogwood tree that is just beginning to think about blooming. To my left are two curvy glass vases that fit into each other like puzzle pieces, one a deep pink and one carnation. To my right is a magenta candle, lit, in a black ceramic dish. On the windowsill are two fuchsia frames—one for a photograph of hot pink tulips and one for a card I received when I left my job that says “Sometimes you just have to close your eyes and go where your heart takes you.” In either corner sits a new lamp, one short with a long, narrow pink shade, the other a floor lamp with a multi-colored shade covered in circles, stars and flowers.

And sitting here, well, it feels like home. My very own writer’s home.

What I have learned is that we get back what we give out. So having put energy into my work space, through physical work, thought, time, and money, my work space is now giving energy back to me, through inspiration, comfort, motivation and joy. Pretty good trade.

3 Cities and a Funeral

We’ve been gone for 11 days, flying first to Oakland, California, then Portland, Oregon, then back to Philly, then hopping in the car to drive to Syracuse. I’m thrilled to be a)back in our quiet house in Narberth, b)writing again, c)not having to drive or fly anywhere for the foreseeable future. Before moving forward, allow me to recap our trip.

Part 1 – Sophia

I love the Bay Area, and have logged a lot of time there over the years. Every time we visit I fantasize about moving there. About waking up every morning to the sun shining on the Bay, surrounded by calla lilies and birds of paradise. California has always been magical to me, first in my imagination, and then in reality. It was where I met my husband, and is closer to my ideal in temperament, temperature, and philosophy than the East Coast has ever been. Is it my spiritual home? The fact I would even think or write that sentence may answer that question.

But the highlight of this trip was my niece Sophia. She is 11 months old, and we have that instant chemistry that is so rare in human relationships. For whatever reason, we instantly understood each other. Love at first sight. Her little face made me smile every time I saw it. Above is a picture so you can understand what I mean. I didn’t know someone could be goofy at 11 months, but she is. What a ham. She’ll do anything for a laugh. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why we understand each other...

Part 2 – Suzy and Barry

Suzy and Barry are my dear friends from college. Suzy was my roommate, and Barry was her boyfriend, (now husband). Suzy and I also had that rare, love at first sight experience. We used to speculate if we hadn’t randomly been assigned as roommates freshmen year if we would have found each other and been friends. The answer, of course, is yes.

Suz and Bar saw me through one of the roughest times of my life. I hope everyone is so lucky to have friends who can just be there, at your ugliest, neediest, saddest, most pathetic moments, without pity or forced cheer. What an amazing gift. Thankfully, that period of darkness is long behind me, but these amazing friends are still in my life.

In a weird cosmic twist, at the same time I was leaving my law career and embarking on this writing journey, Suz and Bar were making some drastic changes of their own, leaving New York after thirteen years, changing careers, and moving to Portland, Oregon. It was great to see them in their new environment, to see the changes and to know that whatever changes life has in store, we can always reconnect, using humor as our home base. And food, of course. Who knew they had such amazing barbeque in Portland, Oregon? Suzy and Barry deny that played a role in choosing Portland, but come on, guys, I know better.

Part 3 – Gramps

My husband’s grandfather died while we were on vacation. What to say about Gramps? He was father to 12 children, grandfather to 41, great-grandfather to 26. Yes, those numbers are correct. I am honored to be one of the spouses who married into his tribe. He attended daily mass at his beloved parish church, Most Holy Rosary, and I’m told he especially loved the stained-glass windows. During the funeral mass, the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the window with words from the Hail Mary, and I knew that Gramps was still with us.

My favorite thing about Gramps was his wit. He left behind hundreds of jokes, one-liners and stories. My favorite recent example was from just last week, lying on his deathbed, apparently unconscious. He woke up, looked at his daughter and asked if any mail had come. She asked if he was waiting for something. He said, “Yeah, I want my check from George Bush.”

God bless you, Gramps. Thank God you passed your humor on to your children and grandchildren, and apparently, the lovely Sophia. His legacy of laughter, love, and family will live on and on.

A Return to Love

I just re-read a collection of love poems I wrote about my husband during the first flush of our relationship. Poems are the easiest way for me to capture intense emotion—having to be linear and logical inhibits the deepest things I feel. The poems capture the fear and uncertainty of new love, but also the awe, the wonder, the radiance.

I read A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson a few months ago. One of my favorite concepts of the book was the idea that the early phase of love—the honeymoon phase, when all you see is your lover’s perfection, is not an illusion. Rather, that image of your loved one is actually the truth. That is who they really are, in all of their God-given perfection and wonder. The fear, the doubt, the ennui, the annoyance, that creeps into every relationship over time is the illusion, the world getting in the way of divine love and goodness.

Do I buy that? I don’t know, but I like it. I’d like to think that my husband is truly the man who inspired crushing love and devotion in me all those years ago. And that the person who leaves his coat on the couch, his piles of schoolwork all over the house like a dog marking his territory—that person is the illusion. My focus on the idiosyncrasies that make him sometimes hard to live with, or my perception that he fails to meet my expectations, that is the world obstructing my ability to see him as God does, perfect just the way he is.

I still have glimpses of that first, perfect person. Fairly frequently. Sure, it’s easiest when he’s sleeping (because then he can’t mess it up by doing or saying anything.) But also, sometimes I am overwhelmed by affection, just seeing him reading in bed at night. Or slumped on the couch watching tv. Or running in circles around the kitchen island with his nephews. He is still my shooting star.

Below is one of the poems for your consideration.

Santa Barbara Mountain

Crossing the retreat grounds
the nighttime air caressed me—
cool, fresh, clean.
My eyes turned amazed
toward the heavens,
to the moon as bright as the sun,
and stars twinkling against a velvet blanket
that wrapped me in beauty
as I lay on the grass to moonbathe.

I imagined us meeting there—
the breeze scattering my hair
against my face,
the crickets our only witnesses.
You look into my eyes
and silently offer me your heart.
It is that simple.

The spark of a shooting star
tore me from my reverie
just as your form emerged
from the shadows.
Did you see my vision?
I waited in tense anticipation,
a lifetime
before you flashed
through my vision again,
another star trailing
across the sky above you.

You both disappeared,
leaving me
awe-struck.