Of Audiences and Straddling Worlds

Lately, I've been feeling like a straddler of multiple worlds. As a commuter, I have three worlds that I am forced to shift gears between multiple times each day: my home world, my internship/career world, and my college world. Each is so completely different it can be disorienting. At each, there are different expectations of me, different ways I am treated, different ways I relate to people, different clothes I wear, etc. I wonder which one I really am sometimes: college student, career woman, or Reid kid. I've been feeling that way with writing lately too, especially as I look ahead to graduation when I will need to carve my own path in the writing world. I want to write from the depths of who I am: my voice, my passions, my interests, my confusions, my experiences. But I also deeply want to impact an audience, to move, challenge, and inspire them. And these two don't always line up: being true to myself and my deep convictions while at the same time writing to my audience's deepest needs and desires. Here is one specific example. At Northwestern, I have mostly moved among two Christian sub-groups: those who think and communicate about God in a theological, philosophical way and those who think and communicate about God in a creative, expressive way. I really love and value both, and I am firmly convinced that they are not opposing but complementary, that they both need each other. I have been deeply impacted by the writings of theologians AND Christian artists. And I most desire to write in a way that incorporates both sides of the Christian-writing spectrum. The trouble is, neither of these groups seems to like the other. In fact, most are very antagonistic towards the other group and their type of writing. And then you have those more mainline Christians, which is the group I grew up in, who don't really like either: they see theologians as elitist and Christian artists as superfluous or worldly. There are practical issues involved in reconciling/incorporating both into my writing, but I think the deepest hurdle I'm facing now is fear. I'm afraid of being judged. I'm afraid of my writing being ineffective because it is too quickly labelled by one side or the other and tossed aside. I'm afraid of not being considered a good Christian writer. And I'm tired of defending both sides of this division, both sides of my writing and communication, to the other. Tying this into my Capstone readings, one author I've been reading lately is Mary Karr. At a time when I'm struggling to find an authentic voice, I so admire how raw her writing is, the courage that her writing exhibits. She writes about her experiences in a brutally honest way, expressing Christian truths in a way that I'm sure would be considered offensive in the more conservative Christian camps, not to mention leaving her vulnerable. At the same time, she's also not afraid to include explicitly biblical things. In "Disgraceland," she even tackles the topic of conversion, incorporating some strong biblical/theological elements like Christ, Communion, Satan, and Eden. Those who would applaud at her more rugged portrayals and fearless critiques of Christian culture would probably bristle at the mention of Christ and conversion. This isn't a vague spirituality that anyone can subscribe to. So, that's where I'm at. Can you relate to my feelings of being split between cultures? Do you ever feel afraid of your audiences? If so, how do you work to overcome that fear?

What I Hate, I Do

When I realized I’d have to read modern poetry for this class, I had no idea where to begin. To me, the genre consists of bewildered, existentialist writings with odd punctuation and pretentious phrases. Granted, I haven’t read much poetry but my sympathies lie more with the narratives of the Illiad or Inferno, or the dazzling wit of G.K. Chesterton, with statements such as “For the front of the cover shows somebody shot/And the back of the cover will tell you the plot.” Few modern poets attempt either category.

One poet I have read and enjoyed for this class is Elizabeth Bishop. Her poem “One Art” struck me as straightforward yet challenging, beginning with the opening line, The art of losing isn't hard to master.  She presents a thought about everyday life in such a way as to make readers consider the implications. What does it mean to lose things? Is it painful because we aren't used to it, or because it happens too often?  Besides the nature of losing things, the poem also made me think about the purpose of poetry.

In oral cultures, poetry was a way to tell a story. But as writing became more common, poetry gained new applications—to present a situation, to explore feelings, to play with words.  Today, poetry seems to focus primarily on the second of those three uses. Maybe that’s one reason I have no taste for it. The poetry I like to read presents images, whether caricatures or detailed portraits, stripped of superfluous details.  While they may take unusual angles, they still attempt to present a discernible reality.

I have noticed this intention in my own writing as well. In my poem for Advanced Writer’s Workshop, I tried to show brief portraits of individuals in a famished city.  My previous poem for this class took a more impressionistic approach, trying to get inside the mind of a grieving man. My next poem, however, seems determined to plunge into existentialism. Maybe it’s the opening line—“Tonight I am homesick, but not for home,”—or just the tendency of poetry to flounder towards abstract, but I think I’ll see where it goes.

Do any of you have certain aspects or styles you don’t like to read, but seem to creep into your writing anyway? What do you do when that happens?

Writing over the top

So, I am not a normal writer. Inevitably it seems like my stuff is ten steps over the line. This has been a real problem for me, especially in academia; it always feels like my pieces just can't find any traction. Every now and then I am able to buckle down, grind out the alien quality inherent in my writing, and find the kernel of personal perspective that gives my writing merit. But this is rare, it's so much easier, so much safer, to simply write the abstract art. Everything I sit down to write seems to come out horribly skewed, and only by the process of rewriting, and rewriting, can I untwist it enough for it to reflect anything of the reader.

I think this is one of the reasons why I wrote my last short story the way I did, off the wall and with an emotional narrator. It gave me an outlet for the chaos of my voice. It let me write something totally off the wall and hope that my own natural tinted world-view would enhance, rather than detract from the piece. The problem that I encounter is this, without thinking about it, I failed to realize that that is what I always do. I always try to harness my strangeness, and it always turns out poorly.

I have been reading Aimee Bender's Willful Children. I picked this book because Bender's story Fruit and Words, was the inspiration for last week's piece.  But as I read this book, I can't help but feel like a have missed the point somewhere along my own journey. As if I was the hero, who had acquired the magic sword, but who had failed to grow in his quest to attain it. And, when the time comes to slay the dragon, the hero flees because he lacks the requisite courage.

That is me. I have come so far, writing story after story, but often without refining them, building up the emotional fortitude to shove each scene against the grinding stone. To rewrite five or ten times, until the piece, the soul of the piece, sparkles for all to see. In light of this, I am very glad that I gave myself a faster schedule, a schedule with three drafts inherent. Maybe I will be able to grit my teeth and take the rubble I have presented, and where the rock away to reveal gems within (if there are any gems to find.)

Either way, I guess I have found out the schedule won't do it for me. I have to find the desire, the pride, that will propel to put every effort, and most joy, into the writing process. Bender's stories are masterful, they are precise. Every nonsense perfectly positioned at the edge or core of the story. It inspires me.

I suppose that the main questions I would ask my peers are these: How do you fight the instinct to wait for 'inspiration' (it is the worst trap I know)?  What makes the writing process the most fun for you? Do the stories you write ever entrance you?

truth and emotion

Getting back on my feet again after the past 7 months has not been easy. Part of me wonders if that's natural for a writer, to go so long and then stumble when you begin again. Part of me is scared it's not and that maybe I should re-think my major. But then again, we all deal with those wayward doubts at times, and the best advice I've gotten is to tackle them to the ground and, well, keep writing.

Many people have expressed curiosity at what I learned in Italy and how I am going to incorporate that and everything else European into my writing. The truth is that I have no idea – to both of the above. What I learned is really a bunch fuzzy fragments of life lessons floating about in my mind, and the life that I experienced overseas isn't something you can put in a box, much less on paper.

 But when I look at all the baggage I have now (don't worry, the literal stuff is unpacked and the rest is on it's way), I realize that I picked up a lot of emotions over there. Maybe I already had them, maybe they were stored up. I think they're piling up now at the doorway to my writer's mind because I felt so alone while over there. Thus, I did a lot of thinking. So when I'm trying, now, to write down stories, memories, thoughts, questions, and ideas, it's all getting bogged down with whatever mood I am currently in.

 Amidst all this, I am reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I'm not sure if I either never finished it or don't remember much from the two years that have passed since, but I do remember loving it. Right away she brings up this idea that I can't get over: “good writing is about telling the truth. We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are.” This kind of reassured me that my wanting to communicate the truth of who I am is okay, it's natural. It's human, and about being a human writer.

 But now I have a lot of questions, and whichever one you have thoughts about, I would love to hear your answer: How do you keep working on one piece and keep the same theme and ideas while experiencing drastically different moods while writing it? How do you avoid sentimentality in your writing? How can I write what means a lot to me without compromising the truth because of writing fears?

 I guess I am just trying to get immerse myself in the writer's mindset once again.

Here Goes Nothin'

...And we're off!

I'm still wrapping my mind around the fact that this is my last semester, that I've finally reached the pinnacle that once seemed so high and mighty: senior capstone. Were we really freshmen once, looking up to the capstone students like well-equipped warriors off to fight some bloody battle? Ah, the good ol' days. The blissful innocence.

Well, we've hit the ground running, and I suppose there's no looking back now. I just hope we won't be killing each other (or ourselves) before this is all over. (Ha ha, just kidding.) Anyway, I guess this is where I start talking about what I've been reading and working on (I'm still trying to gather my bearings about all this).

For my portfolio, I'll be doing two personal essays and two poems. Since my first project is an essay, I've been reading (big shocker!) some personal essays. I picked up Patricia Hampl's I Could Tell You Stories, a collection of autobiographical essays relating to the idea of memory, because I recalled reading a few of her essays in Autobiographical Writing. I remember loving both her use of language and her advice/commentary on memoir - a genre that I'm becoming more and more fascinated with but which I still don't fully understand. So, Hampl will probably be my memoir mentor for a little while here.

So far, I love this book. Hampl weaves her personal experiences into reflections on reading and the nature of memory. I like this approach because it blends the realms of reading and writing and adds a universal applicability to the specific stories of her personal life. As she says in her preface, "writers write about writing and about books not because, like us, books turn to dust, but because, like us, they are born of flesh, and you can feel the blood beat along their pulse" (12). I saw this exemplified in her essay "The Mayflower Moment: Reading Whitman During the Vietnam War," in which she intersperses her reactions to Walt Whitman's poetry with her grappling with individual and national identity as a young adult living during the divisive time of the Vietnam War.

I could definitely learn from Hampl's style because my personal essays tend to really emphasize the personal, and I need to learn how to incorporate universal themes and outside sources into my writing so that I can invite others into my experience. I don't want my essays (at least this first one) to be quite as expository as some of Hampl's seem to be, but I really love her ability to zoom in and out, to ground the reader in concrete detail about her past in one sentence and to explain some general truth in the next. I also appreciate her ability to interact with a text without sounding too scholarly or intellectual - she brings a realness to reading that I love.

Well, that's all for now, folks. I'm excited to start this journey with you all!