Something to Say: Writing for Art, for Therapy, for Self...and for the World

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little." -Anne Lamott


I've come to realize recently, as I write more and more and integrate the practice into my daily routine, that writing is not a path for everyone. In addition to the isolation that is necessary for the creation of art, writing is a therapeutic process. Much like meditation, or psychoanalysis, writing is primarily a system of sitting with one's thoughts -- the good, the bad, and the ugly -- and translating them into something workable. Even if what you're writing is the furthest thing from yourself or your own experiences, it is your thoughts, and only your thoughts, that construct, color, and influence your writing.

This can be a frightening, intimidating fact for most people, in much the same way that meditation and therapy can be. Who wants to sit quietly with their thoughts? Who wants to dredge up their soul and every ounce of their history just to write a decent sentence? Who wants to try to make sense of our truly fucked-up world?

Hmm. I do.

In Buddhism, there is a meditation practice called Metta, or loving-kindness. In this technique, you wish happiness, health, safety, and freedom to first yourself, then a mentor, a loved one, a "neutral person" (someone you neither love nor hate, like the 7-11 cashier or the big African lady who sells chunky tacky jewelry at the T station), an enemy, and, finally, all beings everywhere. It's a very uplifting style of meditation, and when you're finished with a Metta sitting, you often feel quite good. As if you've just done something to help the entire world.

Though you're writing may not help the entire world, the process of writing can be much the same. As writers, we are trying -- through our tireless inspection of ourselves -- to understand this Earth we all share. Instead of sending our loving intention through our writing (which, of course, is possible), we are sending our thoughts to ourselves, certain people in particular and the world as a whole, in a grand attempt to make sense of it all. It is our passion for understanding that drives us, and attaining any kind of true knowledge or understanding is always beneficial to not just the student, but the universe entire. Our writing is our love letter (or, in some cases, our hate mail) to the world.

This action of trying to figure out who we are and what it all means is an unspoken rule, or standard, in the writing process. There are all sorts of rules out there when it comes to the process of putting words to paper, but, as in all areas of life, certain rules work for certain people. Even those who buck traditional guidelines are still adhering to some set of rules, even if they are of their own fashioning.

Many great writers have shared their rules with us. Hemingway found it imperative -- so imperative that he made them his first two rules for writers -- to use short words and short sentences. George Orwell agreed with this less-is-more theory in his own set of rules, the last of which particularly like: "Break any of these rules sooner than saying anything outright barbarous." One of my favorite writers, Erica Jong, has a list of twenty rules for writers, all of which are practical, powerful, and can be applied to other areas of life as well. But Jong's "hidden" twenty-first rule is my favorite: "There are no rules."

What Jong is saying is exactly my point. There's no definitive set of rigid instructions a writer must follow. Just as we create our own art, we create our own rules for the creation of that art. The one common denominator, though, throughout the process of said creation is the either conscious or unconscious desire to understand ourselves. I'm a firm believer that we all just want to be heard, or, in the case of the writer, read. Not for sales, or money, or fame. But for understanding, empathy, and communion.

Just as the great majority of writing rules are not universal, neither are the ways in which writers approach their work, even on the most basic levels. For instance, I once read that Jong writes all of her novels in longhand on a yellow legal pad. As much as I adore her, this would never, ever work for me. I have never been able to seriously write with pen and paper; even from the first poems I wrote in my teens, I pecked them out on a Smith Corona word processor the size of a Ford Festiva. I need the feel and the sound of a keyboard beneath my fingertips: this sensory experience excites and inspires me. Indeed, in between rapidly-flying thoughts, in moments of downtime, my fingers are usually still resting on the keys, stroking them in a nearly sensual way. But the biggest reason I require a computer to write is that it's the only way my hands can keep up with my thoughts. I have true monkey mind, hence the name and totally random content of my blog), and my thoughts and ideas are constantly swinging from limb to limb and connecting to other ideas and thoughts. I am typically focused enough to keep all of them on whatever it is I'm writing, but I still need to get them out onto the page. Editing can come later. And I type about 100 words per minute, so my fingers do a pretty good job of keep step with the "idea monkeys" careening through my head.

Additionally, though I'm all for editing -- that fundamental process of weeding your word-garden -- as a step in the method, I'm not a writer who does tons and tons of drafts. I constantly second-guess myself, so poring over a manuscript dozens of times does nothing but make me more and more unsure about what I've created. A psychic once told me that I must always follow my first instinct in life. To this end, my first instinct usually emerges in the first draft. Not always, but usually. Going back and changing my intention invariably damages the integrity of my writing. Proofreading, editing, doing a little more research on certain topics...all of these I can handle. Redrafting my work to the point where even I don't recognize it is not a wise path for me to follow. I'd rather be rejected for telling my truth in the first draft than be loved for feeding cowpies to the reader in the 70th.

One big thing I've noted about my writing is the tendency I have toward the autobiographical, even if what I'm writing is as far away from autobiography as one can get. When I was immersed in writing my romance novel, I noticed that aspects of both myself and others in my life were popping up in my characters. Being that a heterosexual historical romance novel is light years away from any experience I've had in my own life, this integration of real people into its story was entirely unconscious. For example, I based one of my characters on my friend Molly: her personality, physicality, and sense of humor; I even named her Molly. It wasn't until later that I fully realized this.

Employing this technique, however unconscious, can be risky. It's a sort of opening-up of our real lives and showing it to the world. The chances of getting hurt, or hurting others, are significant. To give another Erica Jong scenario, when she published "Fear of Flying", many felt the book was a thinly-veiled autobiography. Jong has neither confirmed nor denied this, though there are indeed many similarities to her own life. This opening-up caused great rifts in her family, and though the book was published 35 years ago, one of her sisters, Suzanna Daou, publicly confronted her during a lecture just a few months ago. She resented what she felt was Jong's unnecessary "exposé" of Daou's life all those years ago. "'Fear of Flying' has been a thorn in my flesh for thirty-five years," Daou commented. So you see, inserting people from your own life, or even aspects of those people, could very possibly cause some great pain. And not pain that goes away quickly. Thirty-five years is a long time to carry resentment, especially when it's targeted toward someone as vital as a sibling. But just as Daou's truth is her own, so too is Jong's. I guess the bottom line is this: write your truth, always and forever, but it's not worth risking a valued relationship. If it's someone you hate, it's a different story. Go ahead and make that mean-ass meter maid a serial killer in your novel. Unless, of course, she's your sister.

This is an observation I have to keep a close eye on in my writing. As much as I love to write, I also love the people in my life. My writing may end up in the bargain bin of Half Price Books. My loved ones, more than likely, will not.

But all of this brings me back to the theory that self-knowledge is the silent undercurrent to all writing. Examining what rules work for us, how we approach our craft, what tools we use and don't use, and the inherent risks in baring our souls, are all pathways forged in purpose of a higher goal: to make sense of our lives and, by extension, the world. In our struggle for understanding, we all have something to say that is important, powerful, and of immeasurable value to at least one reader out there. Even if that one reader is the one who wrote it.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "The reason one writes isn't the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say."

Meh (Or, Insert Clever Title Here)

In one of my favorite songs, Stevie Nicks declares, "Time makes you bolder/Even children get older/I'm getting older too". I've always loved those lines. It's only recently, though, that I've come to terms with the fact that the first four words of that verse are, in my case, just not true. I've always been under the impression -- and heard from a lot of aging folks -- that with age, comes wisdom. With the years, comes fearlessness. With growing older, comes some shred of authenticity. As I sit here tonight, admittedly not an Oldie Olsen with a walker and colostomy bag, but still old enough to not be called "young", I'm all sorts of pissed. Why, oh why, would Stevie lie to me? I'm more scared and cowardly now than I was at 18. Now I just have male pattern baldness and crow's feet on top of it.

Before I go any further, I want you to know that I'm aware of something important as I write this post. My fear when starting this blog was that I would eventually use it as a place to process all my "baggage": a sort of free association therapy with the world. I did not want that then, and I do not want that now. I have no intention of spewing up the dramas and messes of my life. My only aim in this post is to get some feelings out, since I feel I'm clogged with way too many right now to even see clearly. It's tremendously beneficial for me to write of my internal struggles because, as the great Joan Didion once said, "I don't think unless I'm writing." If I can touch upon some essence of my truth, and maybe yours too, then maybe this cautious soul-baring will not be in vain. I simply write what I know at this time, in the hope that maybe someone, somewhere can identify. Isn't that, when it's all said and done, the purpose of writing in the first place? To feel less alone?

The winter months have always been rough for me, and this year has been a doozy. I feel the lack of light not just in the waning days, but in the furthest reaches of my soul. Years ago, I was told I had Seasonal Affective Disorder (otherwise known by its more-than-appropriate acronym: SAD). I invested in one of those light boxes, but the damn thing is so artificial and bright that I get nauseous and have to wear my shades in front of it. I look like a gay Jack Nicholson sprawled out in my chair under the harsh lights, sunglasses intact and brutal fluorescent high-beams reverberating off my bald head; and thus blinding anyone in a six-block radius. I feel your pain, Jack.

Now I'm the first to admit that when things get rough, I make bad decisions. When I felt this disorientation setting in, way back in November, I immediately started smoking again. I tend to lose touch with all normalcy and order in the parameters of my life. Things like paying bills, cleaning the house, and even staying awake throughout the day are next to impossible for me. If I tally up all the hours I've slept this winter, you might as well just slap a green hat and tie on me and give me a sidekick named Boo Boo. Even the hours I've been awake -- or, more appropriately, have had my eyes open -- I've walked around in a perpetual fog.

Yes, I've seen doctors about this. A lot of them. I've tried everything from testosterone patches to gluten-free diets to medication changes to vitamin supplements. Nothing seems terribly effective. Last week, I even had to go to the emergency room because of some horrible, incapacitating chest pains that spread to the entire upper left side of my body, gripping me in a vise-like agony for days. Luckily, my ticker is fine: apparently, I have the heart and lungs of an athlete. Told to a smoker, this news is worthy of a Happy Dance.

The E.R.'s diagnosis? Stress.

I didn't look at my job as particularly stressful before this. I mean, I spend eight hours a day waiting for the phone to ring, reading Wikipedia, and trying to stay conscious. But in proper perspective, I can trace this to be the root of my troubles. Searching Wikipedia, attempting to keep my eyes open, hoping against hope that someone will call and order a book, is not my idea of a job. Yeah, I might be getting paid to look up useless trivia (Did you know that Tang Dynasty chancellor Cui Shi was believed to have risen to power through affairs with Shanggun Wan'er and Princess Taiping?), but this is not how I want to spend my life. There's no work to be done, we are over-staffed, under-managed, under-supplied, and in the middle of a battle of egos that is oftentimes laughable in its outrageousness.

This is never what I wanted. Instead of growing closer to who I want to be with the advancing years, I step further and further from it. Cowardice is abundant, but so is that dreaded human necessity of money. I've chosen to live in the most expensive city in America, and as a result I must settle for this unchallenging mind-paralysis. If I had my way, I'd leave tomorrow, move to the country, and write for a living, but these things are all so much easier said (dreamed) than done. I'm stuck, and I can see no way out. Saving up money to move is impossible; saving up money for any reason at all when you live in this city is impossible. Switching to yet another soulless, brainless job is daunting and unappealing. I wish I could just muster up a little bit of courage to do something, but all I really want to do is sleep.

A week from Wednesday, John and I leave for Bali for three weeks. This will no doubt be an exciting adventure, and one that I hope provides me with the time and space to just get a friggin' grip and decide where I'm headed. Hell, maybe I'll stay in Bali. That might be just the ticket. If you don't hear from me in a month or so, you can safely assume that I've become a rice farmer, toiling the days away in my lush green paddies, marveling at how close I've come to my ultimate goal of blissful, welcome obscurity.

If you'll excuse me, I must go get fitted for my conical bamboo hat. After all, if there's one thing I learned from my light box, it's that bald heads need extra protection.

Romancing the Keyboard (Or, The Art of the Bodice-Ripper)

Let me begin with a confession.

I love historical romance novels. You know the ones. They typically feature a busty dame and a muscley hero emblazoned on the cover in an embrace just short of actual schtupping. The stories are usually formulaic, and the bad guys always meet their ends badly, and the good guys always live happily ever after and have lots of good sex. That appeals to me. It always has. As if in some mythical netherworld of heaving breasts and dinner-plate pecs, the world still works: the good guys win and the bad guys lose.

Though my reading is typically on the "serious" side, ever since I was 12 years old I've peppered my Proust and Nabokov with a hearty helping of spitfire heroines, rakish men donning barrel chests, and misty scenes of Medieval castles, Regency England, the Old West, or the antebellum South. It's just plain fun to choose a book to read not based on the quality of the writing, or the author's previous work, or the accolades of the story...but based upon how hot the guy on the cover is. In what I can speculate is only an attempt to further titillate the straight women and gay men of the world, I've noticed that many romance novel covers now leave the heroine off completely. They just sport an oily, sexy image of the hero, usually in period-garb, with a decent amount of chest exposed and a bulging crotch not achieved through the use of a codpiece, thank you very much. There were no small penises in Regency England.

A few months ago, I came across a downright brilliant website. It's called Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books. The two women who write this romance novel-driven blog are fierce. Intelligent, warm, insightful, and laugh-till-your-panties-are-wet hilarious. I don't know if men qualify, but I like to think of myself as an honorary Smart Bitch Who Loves Trashy Books.

Given my self-proclaimed Smart Bitch status, I've decided to write an historical romance novel. I've flirted with this idea for years, but it's never really come to fruition until now. Honestly, what propelled it to actually happen were the staggering statistics I read on romance novels:

• Romance novels generated 1.37 BILLION dollars in sales in 2006.
• Nearly 6400 romance novels were released in 2006.
• Of all the readers around the globe, one in five read romance novels.
• One out of every two paperback fiction novels sold is a romance novel. That's 50%, folks!
• Those who read romance novels have 70% more sex than those who don't.
• Those who read romance novels have 70% more sex than those who don't. (I just felt that bore repeating.)
  

These numbers called forth a romantic hetero love story I've been developing in the furthest recesses of my brain for the last five or six years. At last, a few weeks ago, I sat down and put this tale to paper, and I gotta tell you, it's a lot of fun -- and a hell of a lot harder than I thought it would be.

It's given me a newfound respect for both the genre in general and the romance novelist in particular. It is tremendously challenging to write these stories. Believability isn't so much as important as creating a natural progression to the unfolding of the story's dynamics. Love is capricious and can come about in a variety of ways, but stretching those ways to encompass 400 pages is a challenge. Sub-plots and sub-genres within the novel are key to making the story work and further solidifying the total rightness of the hero and heroine's love.

Also surprising to me was the amount of research required to write one of these novels. I mean, you can't just say, "She whisked the eggs in the bowl." You have to know very key things. Like when was the whisk invented? Did it exist in 1802? Was it used in the part of the world where the story takes place? What did it look like? Was it different from the whisks we use today? You see the hardship here. These ladies have to do their homework before writing even the most trivial detail. And I've found a lot of historical romances to be infinitely detailed, down to the smallest points worthy of note, and this, I'm learning, requires a major degree of scholarship and study.

I realize I face a major obstacle should I ever decide to try to publish this manuscript: I have a penis. Men don't write romance novels. This makes sense, of course, because what woman wants to pick up a female-centric love story written by a man? There have been, however, men who have published romances under female pseudonyms (the late Tom Huff, a.k.a. Jennifer Wilde, wrote some of my favorite historical romances), so this is the path that I too am going to have to take. Deciding on a female pen name is difficult, as I don't want to sound like a porn star, but I also don't want it to be a forgettable and commonplace moniker. Email me your suggestions, I'm open to anything flowery and saucy, but not slutty or cheap. Despite what you may have heard.

Undertaking this book has been, above all else, challenges aside, a lot of fun. I find myself thinking of these characters all day long, brimming with excitement to get home and continue their story. And it's just wickedly delightful to write love scenes. Love scenes, too, pose their own set of unexpected challenges, because where else in literature can you use words like "elongated hardness", "pink bud of pleasure", or "hard rosy aureole" with a straight face?

All this begs the question, How does one write a love scene and still respect their computer in the morning? Should I buy my keyboard flowers? Or should I ignore it for the day, despite its repeated voicemails on my cell phone? Or maybe I should get it something practical, like one of those aerosol cans with the long red straw that blows air between the keys?

Damn, that sounds kind of sexy.