View from Above

Writing has come as a surprise creative outlet for me. Going to conferences or reading authors writing about themselves, I realize that I should have been an avid, bookworm all my life, always scribbling down stories, keeping a journal etc. I should have certain books that "saved my life." I should be someone who is meticulous about grammar and spelling--feeling outraged and bothered by the mistakes I see in print. I might even go so far as to correct people who say "good" when "well" is appropriate. I am none of these things.

I was not a great reader. I loved picture books--still love picture books--but more for the pictures. As a teen, I had trouble getting into novels. If it didn't grab me right away, I tended to put it down. I rarely finished books, even for important things like book reports. I am still an abysmal proofreader. I have only a vague idea of when to use a comma. Don't get me started on the semi colon--is it ever appropriate? I am okay with periods--most the time. My spelling is largely phonetic until Spellcheck gets a hold of my work. I don't even see mistakes in print--even when it is pointed out to me. Doesn't bother me a bit. I sometimes wistfully imagine what it must have been like to live in Chaucer's time when (it seems to me) rules of language were more malleable.

Yet I write. Am compelled to write. It is a bit crazy to face this struggle day after day. Even if I were to sell my work the only real benefit that I can expect is to be sharing it with readers. I don't expect to support myself from my labors in writing. I know enough writers, have heard enough to know that if it isn't total fantasy it is a long way off. In the mean time labor that does pay competes for my time.

I tried to quit once. It didn't work, but it had a good effect. This may sound strange but it is kind of like the guy in A Clockwork Orange after he jumps out the window. Once you have survived the worst-in his case suicide, mine quitting-nothing matters anymore. It released me from the peer pressure that publishing is the only measure of how whether what I do is worthwhile and the need to devote chunks of time selling instead of writing. Time I don't have. Did I miss the whole point of A Clockwork Orange? It's possible. I just remember him going back to his old ways after jumping out the window. I have never been able to watch that movie a second time and it was a long time ago. I apologize to all those cult fans of the movie, if I somehow took away a skewed, or trivial idea. The point is quitting freed me. Everything, all the time I eked out to write, was a gift.

Actually this blog was going to be about art not writing. Oh well. Next time. I guess I needed confess first. Though I allow myself to write I still need to justify it partly because my first impulse when I could hold a pencil was not to write a story it was to draw. That is where this was supposed to be going but I won't tax your patience.

Intimidation

She may look confident, but our dog doesn't actually play chess that well.

Happy Birthday Hugo

How did we get here?

Just doing my job.

When is enough, enough? I designed the above for a card of congratulations on the new job. Maybe it is too opaque but I find it hilarious--must me my warped sense of humor. I must admit that at times I find it hard to keep chugging along. In my work and my writing. I cannot think of the publishing thing, because I imagine publishing a book is like giving birth. It is terribly difficult to get the thing out there, but that is just the beginning and then eventually you have to let go. So I focus on the joy of escaping into a new world, on walking with my characters through the story. I have a vague idea of where I want to end up, but how I get there is uncharted. Sometimes, I end up in a new place but by then it's okay. It's like reliving life over and over in different guises. I suppose it is what actors do, except that it is on the exterior and for writers it is an interior activity.

Real Perilous Places

I guess this blog is really a diary, since no one is reading it. That's okay. There is something about putting it out there that is somehow pacifying. Especially, putting my pictures somewhere other than in stacks in the basement. Each of my drawings is a piece of me (fabulous Patricia Barber song, by the way). And I know when I die, only my children for a time might have an interest, but I know, someday down the line, they will find there way into the trash. But by scanning and posting them there is a little gallery of my own.

Anyway, why this picture, why now. I often wonder why I do these drawings, what in my personality and history brings me to this creation. I came across this little picture of Switzerland from a couple of years ago. It was a view from the train from Vevey to Geneva. Done very quickly then worked over later, part reality, part fantasy. We lived in Switzerland and have family there, so it is a place I am familiar with and it is a country full of perilous places. Fascinating little villages perched on the sides of mountains and lakes. Perhaps that somehow those landscapes soaked into my brain. I have always been fascinated by the combination of nature and architecture. When I was younger one of my favorite things to do was to design houses. My houses always had a stream going through the middle. Of course now that I am a house owner and I can appreciate things like dry basements and lack of humidity and bugs, it doesn't seem so attractive. I also always wanted to live in a haunted house, instead I write. Writing is like living in a haunted house with out the cold spots.

Why I Write

The other night there was a big shindig that I help to organize. I am not much into parties but I can understand their purpose and how others enjoy them. I always think of my daughter's (from a teacher originally) definition of introvert/extrovert. An introvert is someone who draws their energy from being alone and an extrovert draws their energy from being with other people. I am definitely an introvert and parties seem to drain me of energy. Anyway, I was glad to have some good conversations with people I hardly ever see.

The evening seemed to epitomize a problem I am having right now. People show me no respect. I am not just talking about strangers in lines at the post office, I am talking about friends, colleagues and even family. And I am not talking about compliments and deferential treatment, I am talking about common courtesy and understanding. People just chop away at my self esteem little by little or because of my various "jobs," force me to submit to others who put me down in the small and quiet ways to exult themselves.

So I now have to ask myself, "What do I do that causes this behavior?" Do I treat others without respect? Am I too passive? Do I make myself a victim? Perhaps more importantly, how can I change? These answers may come in a future blog for now I am still digesting the information.

This is why I love children's books (I include YA in that category) because as wrong as everything seems in chapter one or five, by the end, the character has worked it out, has learned, there is still hope. Of course, there are exceptions and I don't have to have a happy ending, but most books for kids end with at least hope. Okay, not Cormier's I am the Cheese.

When I write I feel like if my characters can stay true to themselves and do what they think is right, there is still hope. I can't write it any other way. It also helps me imagine what these people who attack me are thinking, why they act this way. Writing helps me understand. It doesn't make it easier to take, I still want to change something about my life right now, but for those few hours I get to order the world. I get to make problems and watch my characters save themselves. I can describe the injustice of it all in a way that exposes the ridiculousness of life, the unfairness, the stupidity. It is why I like Jane Austen, I guess. Contrary to all advice and practical judgement her heroines hold out against the pressure to do what is against their conscience.

One to escape and one take me back to reality.

I am rereading Thornyhold by Mary Stewart right now. It was recommended by Meg Cabot--not a personal friend unfortunately, it was on her website or something. Anyway, it is an old book and has the feel of a Rebecca. A gentle Gothic romance. I rarely reread books but sometimes it is nice to know where you are going and anticipate the turns.

I am also listening to Marcello in the Real World by Francisco X. Stork. I like the exploration of someone with--to simplify--Asberger's Syndrome. Unfortunately, I find it a bit predictable although I am not done so perhaps there are still some surprises ahead. I hope so. I find myself wondering about the depiction of Marcello. I know two people diagnosed with Asbergers. One that has been through some special educational instruction and one who was mainstreamed. I wish they had some of the resources that Marcello has or that their conditions were as mild as his seems to be.

I'm in the tree house.

This was done before vacation. It is interesting to me that there is a completely different feel to this perilous place than to the one I posted yesterday (done on vacation). It is a different medium of course but still this feels more Twilight Zone than Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, to me.

Inexplicable