listen to me

It was not in my nature to be an assertive person. I was used to looking to others for guidance, for influence, sometimes for the most basic cues of life. And yet writing stories is one of the most assertive things a person can do. Fiction is an act of willfulness, a deliberate effort to reconceive, to rearrange, to reconstitute nothing short of reality itself. Even among the most reluctant and doubtful of writers, this willfulness must emerge. Being a writer means taking the leap from listening to saying, “Listen to me.”

-Jhumpa Lahiri, in Trading Stories, published on The New Yorker website; bold mine

(And of the bolded sections I'd argue the same is true for any act of creating...)

post-it quotes: the primary benefit

"The primary benefit of practicing any art, whether well or badly, is that it enables one's soul to grow." - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (I forget where I found this one...)

I know a lot of people say that life is about the journey, but I am a results kind of gal. Give me a Saturday and I'll make a list of errands and chores to check off -- and if I'm not careful, the checking off will be one of the most enjoyable part of my day.

This is one reason why practicing creativity is good for me. Though I still love to get to a finished product, creating is so engaging that I usually experience something good from the process. Eating is fun, but so it chopping vegetables and maneuvering through a new recipe. I'm experimenting with water color, and while my results aren't museum-worthy, there are so many ways to play with the paint and paper that I can sometimes get over the crappy results. (Sometimes.)

My results-orientation can take hold and give me a good shake at work, accusing me, "who are you if they don't end up using the proposal or your copy is revised into something completely different or ... " Certainly not a writer, is the implication. Legitimate writing is required if I'm call myself a writer with any credibility. At work, being creative and playing with words can be overlooked or even become a chore unless I choose to remember this wise advice -- that the real reason I write or do anything creative is to grow.

Here's a quick list of ways I know I grow through creating:

• I grow to be more like my Creator.
• I grow in courage when I face an empty page and attempt to fill it. (Check out this recent post by my friend on this subject.)
• I grow louder in voice as I learn to express my unique perspective and my stories.
• I grow in self-awareness and in my understanding of the world around me when I describe what I see and feel.
• I grow in love for people around me when I express my feelings for them through creating for them.

What are your blocks to creating, "whether well or badly"? How do you see yourself growing when you move past these blocks? I'd love to hear!

******

Post-it quotes is a series. Each post features a new quote that's made it's way to a post-it note on my computer at work, combining two of my loves -- wise words and post-it notes -- with my desire to stay focused and develop excellence at my work and craft.

part of a procession

The jacaranda tree at Arlington Gardens, Pasadena

For three weeks in May, the jacaranda trees push their purple petals out and display them for all to see. On streets they line, it's like a parade, except they are the ones watching as you drive by, and they throw out their petaled-confetti like an invitation to drive a little slower. This celebration is short, like a last hurrah before the sun bears down and scorches all that tries to live in cooler months, and no longer part of a procession, we drive fast just to get to where we are going.

it's where i live

“It’s where I live. I mean, I’m not someone who flies into a place and then leaves it again. I actually live in these areas… And so it’s a different kind of experience.” - Lourdes Garcia Navarro, NPR reporter

Growing up, I attended a Mennonite church in a rural area outside of Philadelphia. Every Palm Sunday and summer, a group of children and a few adults from a Mennonite church in the city would visit us. This group of mostly African American kids was accompanied by Ms. Darlene, the children’s minister at that church. Ms. Darlene was a short, white woman who always dressed in a long, modest skirt, a loose blouse, and white tennis shoes. Her hair was pinned up in the same loose bun with messy tendrils hanging down — a suggestion of her simplicity, not stylishness. She had a strong voice with which she made Bible stories jump off felt boards and into real life, and her singing was loud and sure. The church was located in a poor, mostly minority neighborhood, and that’s where she made her home even though it was dangerous, especially for someone who stuck out like she did. She once told a story about being attacked by men who attempted to rape her. When she prayed, they stopped.

Ms. Darlene was my unnamed inspiration, I think, when at the end of high school I decided I would be a social worker. My college application process was shaped by the goal: I applied to colleges only in Pennsylvania so that I could practice social work and possibly get a Master’s Degree under the state’s accreditation. And I wanted no debt — social workers don’t make much money — so I chose a public university. Throughout my studies, I imagined myself a scruffy, white single woman (because that’s who social workers are, right?) living in the inner city, seeing lives transformed, though by what, I’m not sure I knew at the time.

After college, I began seeing how difficult social work was for me. Being with people required a lot of energy, and even more so when those people are messy and needy. I was often overwhelmed by situations I encountered and felt helpless and angry most of the time, though I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) have articulated that then. And I need concrete signs of progress or completion to feel accomplished, which come infrequently when working with people.

What’s more, other, more pressing dreams were rising to the surface, and the life I’d assumed I’d live as a social worker wasn’t matching up to these. I wanted to be married, that’s for sure, and the messy bun and sneakers with a skirt aren’t exactly my style. And then there was writing, which I liked to enjoy from a distance but was too afraid to think I could do it, too.

And even if I could write, what about racial reconciliation and being cross-cultural and God’s love for the poor — all the values I’d spent my college and post-college years championing and (gasp) basing my relationship with God on? Who was I without these things? I couldn't imagine how writing could give them as central a place as I'd been taught to believe they should have.

Thankfully, I am on my way to understanding that being a social worker isn’t the only way to love God or help people. The decision to write has been largely based on gut instinct, following joy, and asking God about my desires. Giving myself to it, I’ve found a path waiting for me where, along the way, I am being offered things I’d given up, like a way to help people, extend relationship and explore the meaning of their experiences.

Many journalists and writers have chosen the profession because they feel compelled to find meaning and dignity in human experiences. This compulsion leads to where few others are going. And it leads to connections with people whose voices we need to hear.

If you’re still with me, here’s where the real treat comes in. On my drive to work I listened to this short interview with a journalist who covers news in the Middle East. It’s a short interview, so I encourage you to give a listen. I love her approach to journalism (as well as her obvious passion for it). My favorite parts are where she talks about going where others aren't going because that's where the story is, and about making her home where she is reporting. To me, her choice is an expression of her deep value for relationships with people and for giving words to their stories.

I'd love to hear your thoughts about the interview, calling, or any other ideas this brings to you.

moving

What strikes me is how physical the act of writing is, or ought to be. For me, writing isn't just sitting at a desk and willing words to flow in some grace-filled order. To get my thoughts, ideas, words moving, I often need to move myself.

Some other writers do the same. They run. Drive. Take a bath. Clean.

And something I love about how these writers express what inspires them is that they believe in the truth of metaphor. Driving on a highway, for example, is a moving picture of progessing past hindrances -- and not just a picture, it actually has the power to take us forward past creative roadblocks in some real, internal way if we let it.

What about you? What physical acts flow into some sort of creative manifestation -- especially when you're feeling stuck?

i desire to be rewritten

"I think in terms of revision because I have been revised. As a Christian, I feel that I have started over and over, continuing one development after another. After reading scripture, or hearing a sermon, I have made adjustments in my attitudes and behavior. I see new ways of doing things I had not thought of before, or new ways of thinking I had not realized. I desire to be rewritten, so to speak. Don't leave me as I am has been a way of opening prayer."

-Diane Glancy in a chapter on revision in A Syllable of Water, edited by Emilie Griffin (bold emphasis mine)

guest post: a runner and her body

My sister writes on her blog about running, water and raising kids, among other things. Her writing is insightful, inviting and always interesting! (With that mix of topics, how couldn't it be?)

Last week she asked if I would contribute a story I'd told her to a post she was writing about runners and body image. If you're interested in reading her thoughts and my story, you can find them here.