Wisdom Tree

For the Writer: Face Your Own Story

Your life is a deep well, and that well contains the material that bubbles up into your creative work. When you are truly creative, you are tapping that well.

What you should know:

You are not in control of what bubbles up. The soul is wise and knows when it's time to deal with a memory, a fear, a desire, a hope, and so on. Usually what bubbles up is what you need, in your deepest self, to bubble up.

Your story is in the well. Different aspects of your story bubble up from time to time, and if you want to move forward--as a person and as a writer--you must face your own story.

When you deny your own story, it's a type of rebellion against life itself. It's a form of spiritual suicide. Even the horrendous parts of your story have built something inside you--determination, compassion for others who are in pain, sheer endurance, even healthy anger. We cannot have a different past.

In facing your own story, you tap the well. And then all sorts of other stories can arrive.

Your own story gives life to every story you will ever write. Through your memory, your emotion, your passion, your wisdom, your sensual experience, your creative work will truly live.

So, please, receive the story of yourself. Listen to it, care for it, write it if necessary. Say yes to life--and thus yes to creative movement.

Write on the Run

It would be nice to have lots of contemplative time to shore up the writing life. What happens most of the time is flurry, work, write, edit, work, flurry, flurry, write, write, edit, sigh, sigh, edit, write, sigh, end.

 

I tell myself that, in order to have anything to write about, I need to live a real life. Real life includes lots of flurry and work. The disadvantage is the absence of contemplation. The advantage is that there’s no time to overthink. In other words, when I write in the midst of movement and even disorganization, I’m less able to get in my own way.

 

Journalists have been writing on the run since journalism was invented; sooner or later they figure out a flow right there in the flurry. Some really good stuff comes out of such a writing life.

 

So. I’m writing this blogpost five minutes before I leave the office for the weekend, which will include critical gardening tasks, editing work, and study for a major test. No leisurely stretches until Sunday, which I have declared a true Sabbath in that I don’t work, study, write, or edit on that day. Because, while I can write while fully in motion, I cannot live in constant motion without losing spiritual quality and a certain charitable glow I hope to maintain around loved ones and people in general.

 

Too busy to be creative? Just write the flurry and hope it flows. You’ll probably surprise yourself. Peace.

Follow Your Passion

 

A writer has to connect with what she's passionate about. Yes, we can do assignment writing; we can shape our words to make them more marketable and popular. But at the heart of any truly creative work must be desire and honest caring.

Your heart needs to race sometimes, and your mind needs to be overrun with beautiful chaos. Passion releases all sorts of dreams, struggles, and even chemicals within you. While under the influence of passion, you're willing to do battle over what is flat-out important. When passion thrums your nervous system, reality can open up suddenly and with great clarity.

Passion makes you impatient with the petty. Passion quells your hesitation to pose questions. Passion leads you down deep and complicated passages of the soul, on journeys you must take if you are to learn anything at all.

So, please, in the midst of all the work you're doing, make time to write from your hungry and excitable center. Make yourself stop and get quiet until you can hear that interior song that breaks you in two at the very moment you are spontaneously uttering breathless praises to God, heaven, the angels, a plum tree . . .

Write what stimulates your hopes. Write what haunts your late afternoons. Write what inspires the tears that choke and sting.

Write what blasts through in gasps of laughter, and in the soft ache of relief.

Blessings on your loves and your right-now living.

Copyright 2009 Vinita Wright

Understand the Difference between Personal and Public Writing

I’ve been in book publishing for about twenty years, and I’ve lost track of all the manuscripts that have come in from people who survived tragedy, processed the experience through writing, and now feel strongly that their written accounts would help others dealing with a similar tragedy. We editors dread the arrival of such manuscripts because we know that 1) 99.999 percent of these are not publishable, and 2) regardless of their quality, they needed to be written. That is, people often need to process their lives by writing about their experiences, but needing to write is not the same as writing something that should be published.

That sounds cold, but honesty will take people further than polite denial will, and my desire is for people to move forward, whatever their situation. So, for anyone out there who wants to understand the difference between personal and public writing, here’s a distillation of what I’ve tried to communicate through workshops as well as carefully written reject letters.

Personal writing is for the person doing the writing. It doesn’t always have to be in journal format. I’ve written stories that were not publishable but that did my own soul some good. A LOT of poetry falls into this category—Lord knows, I’ve written enough of it. I have a couple of friends who enjoy reading my amateur poetry, and that’s audience enough.

Personal writing is too specific to one situation to translate well to anyone else’s situation. For instance, all the details of Molly’s battle with cancer are Molly’s details alone. Although many other cancer patients will share some of that experience, they don’t benefit from reading about Molly’s journey exactly as she recalls it.

Personal writing helps those close to the event make some sense of it. Most of the time, readers outside that circle don’t have the same need to make sense of that particular event. The audience for most tragedies is a limited one; even if a million other women watch their children die of a certain disease, not all of them will want to read about someone else’s experience with that. Each of them is already grappling with her distinct search for meaning in the context of tragedy.

Personal writing often works out an issue specific to the writer. In grieving for my deceased father, I’ve written some eloquent words. But those writings moved in a direction I needed them to move, and I don’t expect many other people to have exactly that same need.

Personal writing is usually emotional, passionate, and tunnel-visioned. This is as it should be, because the writer is working through emotions, living out of her deepest passions, and doesn’t need to see anything but what she must focus on. This kind of writing might work for religious or political tracts, but otherwise it’s not very useful for the larger public.

Public writing takes a long time to distill from the original personal writing that generates it. Years ago I lost my only pregnancy to miscarriage. I was journaling about it all along, and I wrote several versions of an article that I thought would help other women who experienced miscarriage. As an editor, though, I knew that this article was not ready for the public. It needed more time. I needed more time. It took me five years to produce a publishable version of this material. It takes time to gain enough objectivity from your own experience to shape the material for the benefit of others.

Public writing is shaped for the readers, not for the person writing it. This means that lot of the details and nuances meaningful to the writer get edited out. The structure gets reworked. I have to imagine what would motivate a person to read this piece—and I have to imagine what that person would expect to get out of it. Once I answer those two questions, my task as a writer is to shape the work accordingly—which often means that I am ruthless toward my own needs and preferences. Whole paragraphs will disappear. The tone will change as well, to be welcoming and respectful to the readers rather than merely expressive of my own passions.

Public writing takes the concrete details of a single, personal experience to generate a discussion of the more universal experience readers will relate to. This is tricky, because I’m using personal details, but they are carefully selected ones. The end result is that they don’t point so much toward my experience as they evoke in the readers’ minds their own experiences that fall into the same category. To write more universally is not to write in more general terms. Here is where, in the world of essays, the truly skilled writers shine above the rest of us. They manage to choose just the right details. They unfold very personal experience in such a way that to the reader it feels like her own life.

Please write what and when you need to write. Write for yourself. Write for those people close to you. Write until you accomplish within yourself what needs to happen.

Then put it away for awhile—maybe even a year or two. Take it out and read it and look for clues that the world out there might benefit from this story or reflection. Then do the work that must be done. I wish you well, because, in my opinion, this is the hardest writing of all. When we manage to do it well, the result is powerful and rich with beauty.

Copyright © 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

What Words Are Worth

Those of us in the communications field--writers, broadcasters, singers, actors, and so forth--inevitably, and usually periodically, come around to the question: Why does the world need one more book/play/poem/song/article? Should I be doing this or something more  . . . concretely helpful?

We probably should be doing some concretely helpful things on a regular basis. In fact, the writing life dries up if we are not involved somehow in what's happening outside our doors and windows. As a Christian I believe that community is crucial even for an introvert like me. The best writing is often shaped and informed by the people we know, the places we frequent, and the help we offer.

But human beings are creatures with words. Language moves us through our relationships and our work. Language helps us process our most personal experiences; it gives us terminology for the profound moments that cause shifts in our existence. We cannot escape language, and we must use it in some form. Words make up the environment for a person, even if she is in solitary confinement with only her own thoughts forming word patterns in her head.

One way or another, words are here. (I could comment at length about the need for images as well, but that's another essay.) So we must care for the words we have. Those of us in the word business are stewards of the globe's vocabulary and usage. We're the ones in the best position to seduce people into thoughtfulness and debate. We can give meaning to a phrase or gradually ease it out of existence. With our words we can be prophets, peacemakers, lovers, inventors. A poem can soothe someone's ache; a well-placed phrase can prick the conscience of a nation.

Depending on how skillfully we use words, they can be dull, repetitive, meaningless, or passionate, eye-opening, and generative. Their potential worth is incalculable. How I use them may well determine how the world is marked by my brief life.

So I keep writing, and I hope that others will allow the sentences to spill and say what needs to be said. The key, though, is to take what spills out and work with it as a painter works with color, as a chef works with dough or sauce. It's because words are worth so much that I must handle them with awestruck wisdom and a trembling love. 

Copyright © 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

 

Art Takes a Vacation

Artists need vacations. We need vacations from our art. The art-to-come will appreciate some space and time in which to germinate on its own, down in the part of you that is disengaged for awhile.

 

Although I often plan to increase my writing schedule during the summer—because the days are longer and I feel more energy—the summer does something to me, and the writing slows down. Sometimes it stops altogether. I am learning to give in to the impulse and to rest from creative work.

 

This means that I left laptop and serious reading at home when we took a week’s vacation recently. There’s always a journal in my bag, just in case, but the presence of a laptop applies emotional pressure to open it up and write something. Surely I could write about the canyon we visited, or the way our canoe slid silently through warm mist in the early morning. Surely time with family would bring up relevant and emotional material for a poem or story or essay or even the next novel. Surely the opportunity to become well rested would begin a new process of mindfulness and exploration into so many marvelous daily details.

 

But no. Sometimes life must be lived, that’s all. The day is here to be enjoyed, and left alone. Sometimes it’s best not to think too much or turn every event into meaningful reflection. As a writer, I experience vacation when I give myself permission not to write. Sabbath time is time be-ing without adding anything, including creative reflection or rendering.

 

In a way, I practice humility when I cease my writing. I recognize that a wondrous view is wondrous whether or not I write about how wondrous it is. A lovely conversation is no less valuable because I refrain from spinning its contents into an essay. When I take a break from creative work, I admit that, as powerful as that work might become, it is not necessary for the continuation of meaningful existence. My art, like everything else, is a gift. After the fact that I woke up this morning, still alive, my words are extra.

 

Yesterday, the evening bent low. The sky was lit in a vague pink, and the breezes moved lazily, warm as human breath. I sat in the back yard and looked up into the elm tree, its leaves nearly black against the dusk, and I thought, just for a moment, that I should be writing. How could I waste such magic? But I couldn’t move. I stayed there at least half an hour, just gazing upward.

 

Later, I brought the laptop to the porch, hoping to generate sentences. But again, some low-current hesitation stopped my hands. I realized then that this was one of those times for breathing in, for letting the wonder trickle down into all the cracks and openings and soak my every sensibility. The goodness of the evening—its taste and shimmer—would pool inside me like old wisdom, like eternal memory.

 

When I write again, I will have lost nothing at all.

Think Process, Not Product

A writer usually is working toward the completion of a specific project, but we have to be tricky about this. If we think too much in terms of the end product, the process of getting there could suffer.

 

After all, creation doesn’t happen instantaneously. It requires that our multiple voices reach some agreement; Ms. Intellect must cooperate with Desire, and together they must refer to Wisdom and then report back to Vision, and so on. Any work of art is happening on several different levels at once. When we limit our concept of art-making simply to the production of a finished piece, we aren’t allowing all those voices to be heard.

 

Sometimes we have to let the voices debate and argue. And if we hurry too much or start making unilateral decisions, they are very likely to clam up altogether.

 

We have to respect the process. When you or I do creative work, each of us has a certain way of operating—it’s the way we work best. Perhaps you have to stare out the window awhile; perhaps I must always begin by inventing an outline. Do not listen to people who try to tell you the “correct” writing process. “Correct” shifts and changes among individuals. It even shifts around within one person’s life. My writing life may adjust to the changing hours of daylight; your writing life might wrap itself around the schedule of your school-age children.

 

The point is, learn what your process is, and then develop ways of participating with it rather than fighting it. Don’t force a schedule that doesn’t work well with your personal rhythms. Don’t apply a list of marketing tips to an idea that has barely formed yet.

 

Creativity is a mode of living. It is alive and commands gracious attention. As you learn what works for you and what doesn’t, you’ll come up with creative ways to respond to your gifts and desires. That’s the really cool thing about creativity—the possibilities go on and on. The more you learn to work with the process, the more you’ll discover that the process is much more flexible than it seemed at first. Maybe you can’t write well in the evening, but you can write decently while waiting in a doctor’s office. Maybe you need to work with an outline to begin, but your outline can take the form of a sketch or a poem. Maybe you have to take a break after two hours of work—but you find that a brisk walk or ten minutes of Baroque music energizes you for the next two hours.

 

There’s so much that could be included under this topic, but just go with this: If you learn to work with your creative process, the product will come, and it will be a rich offering indeed.

 

Copyright © 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

Say Yes to Your Gift

Maybe you want to write. In fact, you long to be a writer. You have lots of talent and even more inspiration. But until you say yes to your gift, your longing will go unfulfilled.

 

Saying yes to your gift means that you own it. Drop the false modesty, okay? If you have a way with words, you probably can’t take much credit for it—it came to you through heredity, background, and the resources of your particular life. So it’s not being egotistical or vain to admit that you have this gift.

 

Saying yes to your gift means that now you will take responsibility for its development. Having a way with words isn’t good enough unless you’re a flat-out genius--and even a genius values learning and improving. Writing is a craft, and your gift needs to be developed. You need to learn the craft and practice it. This is your job. If you don’t develop your craft, then your gift will be wasted because it will never be truly fruitful in the world.

 

Saying yes to your gift means that you will make more room for it in your life. Maybe you have a house full of children and a spouse who is only partially employed. You have to work for a living. So you can’t afford a week-long workshop/retreat to help your gift. You can’t even give this gift an hour or two per day. But you can give it something. Maybe it’s late at night or early in the morning; maybe it’s a portion of your Saturday—a portion that ordinarily would go to housework. So give up your need to have an immaculate house. Or give up some television. Do what you can.

 

Saying yes to your gift means that you deem it an important part of your life. This is something you will learn to nurture and respect. This gift will teach you things, will give you comfort sometimes, will make you wiser. We’re not talking about a hobby to help you pass the time. This is a characteristic of your very soul, and the Good Lord gave you this gift in order to accomplish some wonder in life.

 

Saying yes will cost you—but that’s for another blog post. For now, consider your gift(s). What do you think of them, really? And will you give them more than a passing excitement? Will you say yes?

Give Yourself Permission

I have led numerous writers’ workshops and retreats over the past several years, and one issue surfaces consistently. Many people are waiting for someone to give them permission to write. Something prevents their free engagement in the simple act of putting words together.

 

My answer to this simple: Give yourself permission to write. And while you’re at it, give yourself permission to—

 

• write just because you want to. No glorious purpose is necessary. No practical purpose, either.
• write whatever you want to write. Write about your kids or pets. Write poetry. Write a screenplay. Write your grandfather’s life story. Write a sloppy romance. Write a memoir.
• write without expectations. You don’t need to accomplish anything. And, unless you are in fact a trained and persistent writer, you’re wise to write without expectation of getting published—because professional writing is a craft and it usually takes much experience and hard work.
• write freely and wastefully. Any artistic endeavor involves waste. You’ll write stuff and delete it. You may write entire scenes and stories and pitch them later. You’ll probably go off in the wrong direction and have to start all over. If you can’t waste time, energy, and paper/computer memory, then please, don’t write.
• call yourself a writer—or not. Because we’ve overly romanticized writers, then often when you identify yourself as such, people think you’re being pretentious. I’ve been a writer for years, but when a new acquaintance asks what I do, I defer to my other identity and say I’m an editor. That’s easier and less painful than enduring the awkward silence or the, “I see . . .” or having to answer the next ten questions, such as, “Really, what have you published?” or, if you have published, then, “Have I seen that in Borders?” Like me, you may want to call yourself a writer privately and to a few trusted friends and leave it at that.
• embrace the gifts you have. You may have a talent for writing, but the talent won’t develop by itself. At some point you have to own up to being talented and get on with it.
• make writing a bigger priority. If this is a gift, or a desire, or just the thing you need to do now, then honor this urge and make space and time for writing. Do it without apology.
• write without explaining it to anyone. People either get artistic urges or they don’t. Please don’t waste energy on the people who don’t get you. And to those who do, be gracious and appreciative.
• write in obscurity. The celebrity culture we live in pressures us to be outstanding and famous in all we do. You don’t have to make a name for yourself or win any awards.
• write badly. If you can’t allow yourself to write badly, you’ll never get any better at it. This gets in the way of so many people who might otherwise develop their gifts. Even good writers do bad writing. Sometimes we write pages and pages of mediocrity in order to arrive at that one paragraph of miraculous beauty.
• write yourself. You may as well give yourself permission to write yourself, because you’ll end up writing yourself anyway. Your particular mixture of history, neuroses, nagging personal issues, and so on, will pop up in your work all the time. You have to let that happen. You can always edit out what’s useless to the work itself. But one thing art forces you to do is to face yourself.
• enjoy the act for itself alone. We were created to take joy in creating. When you finish a poem, rejoice and be happy. Don’t worry about its quality—that’s not the point for now. Take joy in the fact that you have engaged in something you love.

 

Copyright © Vinita Hampton Wright, 2009

Don't Wait to Start

The writing life does not hunt you down, hit you over the head, drag you to a writing cave, and compel you into a life of feverish creativity. The writing life does not grow out of longing, passivity, or whining. It begins when you begin—simple as that. On the day you put words on a page or a computer screen, your writing life has become present-tense. So please, stop waiting around.

 

·         Don’t wait until you have plenty of time, because you probably never will.

·         Don’t wait until you are well prepared, because no one is well prepared to write. The writing itself prepares you to keep writing. Being proficient at grammar, punctuation, spelling, and so forth will prepare you to construct language, but only writing prepares you to write.

·         Don’t wait until your relationships are healthier and less disruptive; where do you expect to get your characters anyway?

·         Don’t wait until you feel certain that you have the gifts of a writer. Our certainty of such gifts is not an accurate indicator. Some people who are quite gifted do not recognize it. And some people who are very certain they are gifted are in fact delusional about their abilities.

·         Don’t wait until you feel inspired. Inspiration can be a stimulating way to get started, but the practice of writing will generate its own inspiration—and will be much more dependable.

·         Don’t wait until you are assured of some reward, whether money, recognition, or satisfaction. The writing life must be its own reward, simply because other rewards come and go and often aren’t there at all.

·         Don’t wait until your life isn’t so chaotic. What do you expect to write about, anyway?

·         Don’t wait until you have the perfect place in which to write; the writing life will make itself at home anywhere if you give it permission to be at home in you.

·         Don’t wait until you have the bestseller-of-an-idea. Aiming to write a bestseller is not the same as living the writing life. No one has the formula for a bestseller, although lots of people will claim to have that very secret. When you put pressure on yourself to write a bestseller, that can pretty much paralyze what could have been a decent writing life.

·         Don’t wait until others see the value in what you’re trying to do. Support is a great gift but often we have to start—and persevere—without it.

·         Don’t wait until your deep personal issues are worked out—what do you expect to write about anyway?

·         Don’t wait until the world asks to hear from you. The world won’t even know you are gifted and articulate until you embrace the writing life.

·         Don’t wait until you are more courageous and confident. Those qualities will develop as you own your gift and follow where it leads.

 

So, close this page now and get started.

 Vinita Hampton Wright © 2009