Alexandersmap

    Category: Writing

    • Beating Dragons

      ‘Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.“ — Neil Gaiman, Coraline

      We talk about evil in the world, the worst of humanity, beasts of unimaginable strength and viciousness… but most dragons aren’t out there in the world, not really. Most dragons reside within us. The beast isn’t rising up to sink our ship; it’s holding us back from setting sail. The true dragons are bad habits and that voice inside our head that tells us to snooze a bit more, for you’re too inexperienced or established or young or old to dare change things now.

      Slay these dragons.

      We often think about the gaps between our desired state and our current state as a chasm, when mostly it’s simply a gap. The business of closing gaps is as simple as establishing routines, doing the work one day to the next and moving past what we previously thought possible to discover and close another. We know this intuitively, yet we still listen to dragons. Until their fearsome voices fade into the distance as we build new gaps between who we are now and what we once were.

      Life will throw its dragons up at us, but we might prevail anyway. Simply take the next step. Like a toddler learning to walk it’s invigorating and delightful to see where our steps might carry us, one after the other. Make soup of those dragons. It turns out they taste a lot like chicken.

    • Mastering the Omission

      “Storytelling reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it.” — Hannah Arendt

      There’s an art to telling stories. You see it masterfully displayed in the work of certain authors and public speakers. Everyone knows a great story when they hear it, but many don’t understand the craft of actually creating something that becomes compelling. As a would-be writer and occasional public speaker, I chip away at storytelling with the natural hope of drawing in the reader or audience, instead of lulling them to sleep.

      Like any craft, storytelling requires apprenticeship and time. The artist grows into everything of consequence that they’ll ever create. We hone our skills, witness firsthand the impact of our work on others, and go back to the drawing board to try anew. Everything we do is a hit or a miss, and good timing is, if not everything, essential.

      I say this as a lifetime apprentice to the craft of writing. A blog is like balsa wood for the aspiring storyteller, allowing the writer to carve out a sympathetic audience. But The Thinker wasn’t carved out of balsa wood. One must eventually step out of one’s comfort zone and take more risks. A journeyman reaches mastery when they create a masterpiece. We all reach a moment when we believe that the journeyman gig isn’t nearly enough.

      Any masterpiece includes certain elements that demonstrate the fine skill of the craftsperson. In storytelling we often think about what to include, but often forget that true mastery includes omission. To draw an audience in, we must leave the space for them to fill.

      As you’re doing right now.

    • A Wisp of Smoke

      “There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.” ― Vincent van Gogh

      Wildfires are once again turning our New Hampshire skies a milky white overcast, with a burnt orange sun. This looks extraordinary at sunrise and sunset, but never natural. And yet a wildfire is a natural occurrence, I suppose, if unduly influenced by humanity. A reminder of places changing a great distance away, yet close enough to change our place too.

      How often people confuse our wisp of smoke for another fire. Though fire reveals itself in both subtle and apparent ways, we never really know what burns inside the soul of another. We often don’t know it ourselves.

      Yet writing reveals. Pages become kindling, words provoke and burst into ideas, and passion plays with the muse to light up our minds and dance across the keyboard. We place ourselves into this cauldron willingly, and forge something transcendent by consequence of the heated ritual.

      Drawn in by the slightest ember of idea, the writer coaxes it to a signal fire that others may see, if only they’ll turn their attention ever so slightly this way. Still, the beacon indicates nothing more than where we’ve been. For the artist is already gathering tinder to reveal what’s next.

    • Creating, Out of Yourself

      “Do not do what someone else could do as well as you. Do not say, do not write what someone else could say, could write as well as you. Care for nothing in yourself but what you feel exists nowhere else. And, out of yourself create, impatiently or patiently, the most irreplaceable of beings.” — André Gide

      The writing comes slowly. The writing comes effortlessly. The work has bursts of creativity mixed with repetition and familiarity. The things I’m most proud of often fall flat, the hits keep getting views and likes. So it shall be.

      We must do the work, and see where it takes us. The work took me to André Gide recently, and I’m delighted with the discovery. Another stepping-stone on the journey across the mad stream of noise and nonsense that wants to sweep us all away before we’ve done the work. When you find such solid ground in the midst of chaos you celebrate the landing. Gide reminds us not to settle, but to make something of ourselves in our time.

      The work deserves our best, because it represents our best in our moment. Should it fall flat in its time or become a surprise hit matters little, save a bit of ego stroke. Work that matters doesn’t fly on the wings of a clever hashtag or marketing campaign. That may matter to a publisher or salesperson or PR firm. What matters in the creative process is how it resonates within us. And where it takes us.

      If we’re lucky, maybe it carries us to places we haven’t been before. To something unexpected and delightful in ourselves. Should be keep at it just a little bit longer.

    • Time in Orange

      The early morning is my game: fresh ideas, new hope, quiet time with the reset before the madness begins. All the petty frustrations of yesterday punted abruptly to a previous version of me, not today’s me. No, not yet.

      A rising waning crescent moon, just a sliver, dances with Venus, also rising, calling for attention herself. Behind me, Jupiter, god of the sky, living up to his nickname as he brightly dominates the western sky, not conceding any royal status as the sky brightens ever so timidly around him. A satellite glides quickly past, just below the king, brash in its intrusive busyness. “A little decorum, please?”, I think to myself, quietly admiring the boldness of technological advancement in the face of custom. Jupiter, playing the long game, remains stoic and proud, despite the affront.

      I return to yesterday, thinking today might be better. It ought to be better, with a bit more effort, a bit more applied acting the part, and maybe, like that satellite, a bit more intrusive busyness. But there I go again, dwelling on the past, cheating the present. This rusty, orange, glowing, hopeful present. It demands more from me. It deserves more from me.

      I dreamed of a TSA agent who wouldn’t set me free. I’m not someone who remembers dreams, but this one woke me at just the right moment, freshly minted in my brain as it was, that it stayed with me through the ritual of orange. I think of it still, that maddening limbo. And it made me think of fresh starts with a sprinkling of boldness.

      Time in Orange

    • Every Single Day

      “If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”― Ray Bradbury

      I went for a long walk late in the day yesterday, dodging raindrops, a rarity this summer, to power through nine muggy miles (14.5 km). The mileage wasn’t a surprise, for it was agreed upon before the walk began. The trick in longer walks is to set your expectations and pace, and naturally, to wear good shoes. The rest is just putting one foot in front of the other and observing the world as it comes to you.

      The similarities with writing, or any other mission you decide to show up for every single day, are within reach if one should be inclined to harvest them. We establish our routines, dance with the muse one idea at a time and let it run through us to become something tangible. When it’s finished we share a sense of accomplishment and loss all at once, linger for a beat and shift our mind to what comes next.

      Life is a series of days, repeated one after the other, optimized by expectations and pace. We do with them what we will. And then? We move on to whatever comes next. Yet we always return, don’t we, to the things that matter most to us?

      It would be bold to expect another 20,000 days in my own lifetime. That would make me a very old blogger indeed. But I do have this one, and maybe tomorrow, or maybe not. So I work to make this blog post count for something, maybe stand up as that final post should it be that. Of course, every sentence can’t end in an exclamation point, we’d be seen as more insane than most think of writers as already, but we can’t put our best into everything we do in the moment… just in case.

      Hope to see you tomorrow. 😉

    • Becoming That Shape

      “The ability to fantasize is the ability to grow. [For] boys and girls… the most important time of their day, or especially at night before going to sleep, is dreaming themselves into becoming something, or being something. Into being something. So when you’re a child you begin to dream yourself into a shape, and then you run into the future and try to become that shape. When I was 10, 11, 12 I began to dream of becoming a writer, and the rest of my life has been the real task of shaping myself to that boyhood thing. So fantasizing has been very creative.” – Ray Bradbury, from Day at Night Interview, with thanks to The Marginarian for showing the way.

      It’s easy to spot potential in others, when you pay attention to such things. A nephew with a knack for brilliant cooking, a niece with an eye for brilliant photography, a friend with the aptitude and attitude for finish carpentry, a son or daughter with the unique combination of empathy and talent that they bring to the world. When you look for the spark in others, often it’s easy to see. And sometimes it’s barely detectible, needing space and air to spark into something more substantial. We, witnesses to the fire burning inside others, either feed the spark or snuff it out. Which will we offer in the moment?

      And what are we with ourselves? Are we stoking our own dreams or snuffing them out? We ought to be arsonists with our spark, stoking our dreams and lighting the way for others. For in those moments alone with a dream, when we see so clearly what we might become, we discover our anima. In Latin anima refers to “a current of air, wind, air, breath, the vital principle, life, soul” (wiki). There’s magic in air as we dance with that vital principle, for there we form our (dare I say it) life’s purpose. For us humans trying to reach our potential, the question or what animates us ought to be front and center in our journey to becoming what we might be.

      In our brief dance with light and air, we must build our beacon in earnest. Shaping ourselves into whatever we believe possible shouldn’t be the stuff of childhood fantasy, it can be our lifetime pursuit. For dreams ought to be stoked, if only to see how brightly that spark might burn.

    • Staying Alive Between the Covers

      “A library is a good place to go when you feel unhappy, for there, in a book, you may find encouragement and comfort. A library is a good place to go when you feel bewildered or undecided, for there, in a book, you may have your question answered. Books are good company, in sad times and happy times, for books are people – people who have managed to stay alive by hiding between the covers of a book.” ― E.B. White

      Someone recently asked me why I write a blog every day. Surely there are other things I could do with the time. But other than exercise and sleep I can’t think of anything done regularly that improves you more than consistently putting yourself out there in the world. Writing forces contemplation, feeds both the stack of books and the small and large experiences consumed to be shared, and maybe in some small way make the writer alive for the reader, whether you’re reading this today or 50 years from today.

      Lately I’ve felt a sense of loss when I finish a blog post. It’s a tangible shift from my work to my past work as I click publish. It’s similar to the feeling of putting a letter in the mailbox once felt, before email and text made letter-writing feel less… self-gratifying. When you click send on an email or text the response back is close to immediate. There’s a high in surfing this wave of electronic banter that the sender experiences in real time. I suppose a blog also offers likes and views and subscribers that may feed that sensation. But getting back to the point, dropping that letter in the mail was consequential: “I’ve created this, for you, and now I’m releasing it.”

      Don’t you miss crafting such letters and dropping it in the mail with all your hopes and dreams sailing away on the wings of a postage stamp? Don’t you miss the experience of receiving a letter from a thoughtful friend, full of introspection and insight? Maybe we ought to write more letters, I don’t know, but we certainly should be writing more. Writing offers a chance to fly into the future for the author, and a time machine back to our present for the reader. It’s our moment with the infinite, even as we realize the fragility of the exchange.

    • Reaching Enough

      About suffering they were never wrong,
      The old Masters: how well they understood
      Its human position: how it takes place
      While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
      How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
      For the miraculous birth, there always must be
      Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
      On a pond at the edge of the wood:
      They never forgot
      That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
      Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
      Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
      Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
      In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
      Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
      Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
      But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
      As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
      Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
      Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
      Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
      — W. H. Auden, Musee des Beaux Arts

      The big things happen around us, things that are planet-changing, culture-changing, life-changing, yet most people go about their business in the most human of ways—intently focused on themselves. Walk into any scene playing out around us and chances are the actors are engaged in the mundane while largely ignoring the monumental. Wars, political scandals, climate change, images from deep space…. all are monumental but don’t quite make the cut when compared to that itchy nose or debate over what’s for dinner or who is taking the recycling out.

      It’s this we must understand in our attempts to influence and cajole the apathetic. It’s not about us, it always must be about them. To inspire, stir or instigate the story necessarily must reach into the souls of each member of the audience. Storytelling, selling, pandering for votes—each is a form of engaging the audience and making them feel the story is all about them. For even if it feels like it’s about something much larger, it never really is. It’s always been, and forever will be, how might I stir something in you?

      And even then, someone else will be walking past oblivious to the two of us. No matter, for we can’t reach everyone. We just have to reach enough.

    • A Garden Monk Sips Coffee

      A monk sips morning tea,
      it’s quiet,
      the chrysanthemum’s flowering.
      — Matsuo Bashō

      The mornings are chilly again, and unlike Bashō’s poem, full of the sounds of squirrels gathering food and bickering about who gets what. The water is warmer than the air, for the sun is reluctant to stick around so long nowadays. The seasons are flipping, just as surely as the hickory nuts are falling.

      I think about the fall cleanup and shudder. Is it the chill in the air or the thought of forced labor to come? We dream of autumn for all its beauty, for the crisp air and the scent of fallen leaves. We forget about the work. We pay penance for the pleasure.

      I promised myself I’d drink more tea this summer. I planned to use more of the mint spilling out of its terra cotta pot in an attempt to displace the basil in the neighboring pot. Yet the drink of choice is most often coffee. Does coffee nullify my monk inclinations, or does the ritual matter more? Ask the flowers—for they’ve quietly observed all summer.

      For all the changes, some things remain the same.