Sustaining Your Inner Child

“I have inflammation of the imagination.”
― Lera Auerbach, Excess of Being

Nervous energy and excitement filled the room. Kids sat at tables with their parents, siblings and family friends. They were all dressed in nice clothes, and while their parents chatted, the kids were laser-focused on reading the bright-covered books they had just received. Soon pizza was served, and everyone filled their plates with slices of pepperoni and cheese, along with rainbow-sprinkled homemade cupcakes. And then it was Showtime.

"Hi, everyone!" I exclaimed from the front of the room. "I am so pleased to welcome you to our celebration of these amazing young writers who have just been published in our new book, Dancing With The Pen II!"

Everyone applauded, the young writers blushed, and then it was time for them to strut their stuff. One by one, I called them to the front of the room to read from their pieces that were published in the book. One by one, they shyly made their way to the front of the audience, and read their pieces out loud. As they soaked in the audience's enraptured attention, each young writer seemed to visibly grow in size: postures became straighter, voices became louder and more expressive. When they finished, after the audience cheered and I presented each one with a certificate and the parents became paparazzi taking a barrage of flashing photographs, I watched as each young writer walked proudly back to their seat -- walking a little taller, with much more confidence and joy. So different from the nervous, uncertain people who had walked up to the front of the room minutes before.

That is why I work so hard to publish young writers. That is why I believe it is so crucial to help young people discover their own unique voices, and to give them avenues to share their voices with others. That is why I founded my organization Write On! For Literacy fifteen years ago, and why the work grows even more important to me with each year that passes. Because I have seen firsthand the effect that reading and writing and sharing and growing has on young people. On all of us.

In her article "When Writing is Not a Career" Linda Wilson writes:

A woman I once interviewed for an article told me that astute observers can identify a child's interests and talents as early as four years old. At four, asking people questions came naturally to her son. So she went out and bought him a toy microphone. Unleashed was a blossoming reporter, who carried his microphone with him everywhere, asking people, "What do you do?" and, "Do you have a favorite pet?" When it came time for college she offered to help pay for it, but she struck out. He wasn't interested. What he did do was put himself through broadcasting school and upon completion, got a job as a disc jockey. Later, he went on to become a popular sportscaster. He told her he loved his career so much that he wanted to be buried with his microphone (a real one this time). She concluded the interview by saying, all this because I recognized his interest early-on, and directed him toward it during his early, most informative years.

I'm not saying that all of the young people I work with will make careers as writers. (Although I am proud that many of my students and mentees have gone on to study Journalism or Creative Writing in college!) But I do hope that all of them will continue writing throughout their lives. I hope they keep writing to express their own ideas, to share their thoughts with others -- or even just to share their innermost thoughts and feelings with themselves.

Many of the young writers I am honored to work with do have dreams of forging writing careers. I hope to help them build unshakeable confidence in themselves and their unique gifts, confidence that cannot be torn down by the inevitable rejection letters and criticism and disappointments that will come along the way. With all the writers I work with, of all ages, my utmost goal as a teacher is to do for them what the best teachers in my life have down for me: to help them locate that spark of passion they feel deep inside themselves, and to fan it into a roaring flame that will never die out. As Lera Auerbach writers in Excess of Being, "You can only master something by loving it."

In truth, our pizza launch party for Dancing With The Pen II was not just a celebration of a new book being published. It was more than that: more than just a single day, a single book. It was a celebration of a love affair with writing that each of these young writers has embarked upon, and that hopefully will continue throughout their lives -- sustaining their inner children, nurturing their joy in creating, and keeping their imaginations inflamed and vibrantly alive.

None of Us Will Have Enough Time

“I need a whole other life not to let this one go to waste.” 

― Lera Auerbach, Excess of Being

                                                                  _____________

In a recent interview with the poetry magazine jubliat, poet Lynn Xu was asked, "Why do poets want to publish? What part of the process or practice is publishing?" I love her response:

I don't know. I can't speak for everyone, but I think a lot of us publish because we want to be part of the history of reading, which is often a deeply private thing. 

[...] The book is at once made (the publishing model being one example, which includes the writer) and not made (it seems, so much of its life comes from the spontaneity of discovery, which is streamlined with one's life, where you happen to be, what you are doing, thinking, feeling, etc.)... As a child, it never occurred to me that books were made. They simply existed. And they belonged to everyone, no one. Their peculiar magic was that they seemed to exist at all times. 

To publish, maybe, is to borrow from this spontaneity of being. 

_____________

For the past few months, I've been thinking a lot about the place of publishing in our creative lives -- specifically, in my creative life. I've slowly come to realize that, without meaning to, for a long time -- since graduate school, it seems -- I've been living with this deeply held pressure to justify my creative work somehow, to make it fit into society's structure of money, business, productivity.

But art, by definition, does not fit into neat little boxes.

Maybe that is why it has been such a struggle for me at times to sit down at the computer and put in the writing time: I was trying too hard to cram my creative work into neat little boxes that could be packaged, commodified, sold. I've noticed that, for the past few years, I've muddled through long stretches of time when it feels like I am fighting my writing routine, thrashing against it, moaning to myself about how hard it is, and putting all sorts of pressure on myself. Sort of like a child who hates playing piano but his parents make him practice every day, so he practices for the exact amount of time he's supposed to -- not a minute more. In some slowly building way, writing has become something I have to do, and I lost sight of why I even want to do it in the first place.

Lynn Xu might say I lost my spontaneity of being. I lost track of that peculiar magic that links me to books, to communities, to other writers across time and space.

I found it again in the unlikeliest of places: Facebook.

_____________

I know, I know: Facebook is to a writer's productivity like sugar-and-caffeine-soaked soda is to a toddler's naptime. Not the most conducive. However, I was scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed the other day when I spotted a post by a writer acquaintance of mine. I met her at a conference years ago and, though we have not seen each other face-to-face since then, I have read and admired her work ever since. I especially remember how she treated me with such respect, even though I was the youngest faculty member by decades at this particular conference. She treated me like a peer, and I loved her for that. 

Her Facebook post was short and easy to scroll past, in the blur of cat snapshots and food snapshots and baby snapshots and election-related news articles. But something about it made me pause. What is she up to these days? I wondered, thinking perhaps this would be about a new piece being published somewhere, or one of her books winning another award. 

But no. In this post, just a few sentences long, she was saying goodbye. 

She explained that she had cancer and the tumors were steadily growing, outpacing her chemotherapy treatments, and that she was heading into hospice care soon. She stated, without a trace of self-pity, that she had enjoyed a rich and wonderful life and was grateful for all of the people and all of the love. She even apologized, writing that she knew everyone was hoping for better news.

I sat there, staring at my computer, utterly stunned and speechless and devastated.

This writer has published many beautiful and touching and important works during her time here. And yet, I am sure that she still has many more stories left inside her. Stories she won't have time to tell before her time runs out.

And in that moment, it struck me with force, like a punch in my gut: none of us will have enough time before our time runs out. 

photo credit: Dineshraj Goomany

I could live for a thousand years, and I know I would still die with stories left inside me, ideas germinating in my head, tales left to tell. 

For now, all I have is this day. This moment, here at my computer, translating the scattered thoughts in my head into words on this screen. This moment is all that I have guaranteed to me.

How valuable! How important! 

Why waste a single writing day? Why grumble and groan about how hard writing is? It doesn't matter if it's hard -- it is still a singular and precious gift. And I do not want to squander an hour that I could be writing with excuses and interruptions and chores. No longer. Not anymore.

It is a fact that I am going to die with stories left inside me. So until that comes to pass, it is my task, my journey, my calling, to let as many of the important stories out of me as possible. To share them with the world. To access the magical spontaneity of being that I am lucky to be a part of.

_____________

Lately, I have been feeling so much freer in my writing. I am trying to distance myself from publishing and worrying about readers or the future. Instead, I am sinking all of my energy into the process. For me, I am learning, the work itself is what is sustaining. The work itself is what matters. 

Rather than "clocking in" at my writing desk each day, now I sit down at my computer because I want to hang out with my characters for a bit. I want to listen to what they have to tell me, to discover what they have to share with me -- and to unpack the beatings of my own heart, too. 

I write for myself, and also for all the other writers who are no longer able to write. 

I write because I am part of a creative tradition, and that is a truly glorious gift. 

I write because these words, words that I wring out of my soul and onto the page one by one, slowly and steadily and joyfully and angrily and fiercely and rapidly and tiredly and passionately... these words are my legacy. 

Opening Your Eyes to the Newness in the Familiar

"Hey, can we go for a walk now? I'm ready!"

 



One thing I love about going home for the holidays to visit my parents is that it feels, in a way, like I get to briefly remove myself from time. Many things about my usual routine are shaken up in the best way possible. Instead of feeling pressured by my typical to-do list and errands, I woke up in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by cozy and comforting knick-knacks. Instead of driving around town to tutor students in the afternoons, I lounged on the couch with a thick novel, chatted with my parents, and visited my grandfather who lives down the street. I helped my mother cook dinner, played board games with my brother, went out to the downtown Irish pub with my dad, and met up with old friends at the local coffee shop we used to frequent in high school. I spent time reflecting on the year that had passed, and dreaming about the year to come.

Perhaps my favorite “vacation routine” when I am home visiting my parents is taking our boxer dog Murray for his morning and evening walks around the neighborhood. Every day we would walk the same loop, yet every day I would notice new, startling details:

• A small bird strutting jauntily across the street, like a band leader in a parade.
• Sprinklers watering a front yard of dead grass.
• A toddler shrieking with glee, running in circles in a driveway as her mother watched with a tired smile, raising a hand to us in greeting as we walked by.
• Bushes laden with bright red berries.
• A father and son playing catch in the park.

So many rich and beautiful details that it would be so easy to miss, if you were not paying attention and looking for them. And indeed, we would pass many other morning walkers on their phones or listening to music, rushing ahead with a glazed look in their eyes.

Meanwhile, every single day, Murray exuberantly sniffed at plants and lampposts and studied the sidewalk like it was a brand-new territory to explore -- even though it was the exact same path he had taken the day before, and the month before that, and the year before that. Perhaps he is on to what it means to be a writer: mining the same inner territory, day after day after day, for new sparks of joy and wonder.

Now, when I feel creatively blocked or when I am out of ideas or when the writing just doesn't seem to be going anywhere fruitful, I think of Murray's excited daily exploration. He is a reminder for me that being a writer is not so much about coming up with some totally new, never-before-seen-or-done IDEA. Rather, I like to follow acclaimed author Pam Houston's advice (from a wonderful talk I was fortunate to attend at a writers conference) and think of myself more as an observer, seeking out the extraordinary in the ordinary.

 

As Lera Auerbach writes in her wise, magical book of aphorisms and musings Excess of Being: "These thoughts have occurred to many people and for a very long time. I just happened to write them down."

Here's to a sparkling new year filled with open eyes, even -- perhaps most importantly -- in our familiar, everyday surroundings and routines. Here's to being world-class observers. Here's to writing it down.

And, Murray would like to add: here's to lots and lots and walks.

All tuckered out after a long walk.

What a Hay-Bale Labyrinth Taught Me About Writing

Shortly before Halloween, my boyfriend and I went to Arata Pumpkin Farm in Half Moon Bay, California, to pick out our pumpkins. Arata’s is a famous autumn spot in the Bay Area, and not just for pumpkin selection -- every year, they build a maze attraction out of hay bales. This year, the design was a labyrinth. Believe me, folks, this was not a kiddie maze. This thing was enormous!

Still, before we ventured inside, I was not too concerned. “I bet this will take us half an hour, tops,” I remember thinking as I watched an exuberant group of pre-teen girls run out of the maze’s exit, cheering their success for all to hear.

Not only did the hay-bale labyrinth take us much longer to complete than I expected (and there were moments of despair when I thought we might never make it out!) the experience also illuminated a great deal of truth about being a writer.

Here are the lessons I learned:

1. Often, the best way to start is simply to plunge in. The entrance to the labyrinth is intimidating: a huge minotaur greets you with his battle ax at the ready. Starting a writing project can be similarly daunting. Whether you are preparing to write a short story, essay or poem, or preparing to tackle a longer work like a novel, play or memoir, the blank page can be frightening.

The best strategy I have found is to simply begin. Push past the self-doubt and let your fingers scurry across your computer keys; pick an opening in the maze, scurry past the imposing minotaur, and off you go!

2. There is no map. Before entering the maze, we climbed a staircase outside the entrance to look out over the entire labyrinth, hoping to get an advantage -- to plan our route. But the vantage point was not much help. We could not memorize the proper route to take, and although we could make a general plan, we had to dive in and discover through trial-and-error how to make it through to the end of the labyrinth.

The same is true for writing, or any creative pursuit. You can plan up to a point, but then you must dive in and try it out for yourself. There is no map you are given; you must create the map yourself.

3. Discouragement is not only normal, it is inevitable. There were times when it seemed like we were just wandering in fruitless loops through the maze, retracing our steps over and over again, and discovering a new path through the intricate labyrinth felt impossibly out of reach. I wondered if we would ever find our way out!

In her luminous book of aphorisms Excess of Being from Arch Street Press, artist Lera Auerbach muses:
"An artist's
entrance
to eternity
requires a fee
in disappointment."

Yes, we all inevitably face disappointment, rejection, confusion, and discouragement. That is a part of life. But only by persevering through the maze can we attain new successes and joyful discoveries!

 

4. Feeling challenged is a good sign because it means you are pushing yourself to grow. I had never attempted to make my way through a labyrinth before, so the whole experience was new to me. This made it more difficult, because not only did I not know what to expect, I did not know what to look for. Nor did I have the experience to trust in myself and my knowledge. All the same, undertaking this new challenge pushed me to go with my instincts. It made me grow.

The same is true for writing. It would be easy to write the same stories over and over again. Growing as an artist means trying new things and risking failure. As Lera Auerbach writes:
"I love
what I do
but it's not mutual."

It might not always feel like our art "loves us back" but often that feeling is simply growing pains!

5. Struggle makes the elation of success that much sweeter. When we finally made it out of the hay-bale maze, I felt full-to-bursting with pride. Because the challenge was so difficult, when we finally succeeded, it meant so much. If we had flown through the maze without a hitch in ten minutes, the thrill of success would have been minimal.

The same is true for writing. This is something I must remind myself over and over again, every time I face discouragement or rejection. For example, there is a wonderful literary magazine I have admired and submitted my work to for years. Years! And I received nothing but rejection letters. Still, I kept submitting. Last week, I received an acceptance letter from them! I started crying, I was so overjoyed. The success was made sweeter because of the years of struggle.

 

"Being passionate about your work is 80% of success, but that passion must be sustained over a lifetime. Otherwise it's just an infatuation." - Lera Auerbach, Excess of Being

Our Collective Humanity in the Individual Details of Our Lives

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email from a friend. We email back and forth frequently, to stay in touch and up-to-date on each other’s lives. This friend was trekking through a problem at work, and wrote a very insightful explanation of the issue: what he was struggling with, why this was difficult for him, and the potential solutions he planned to employ.

In my email response, I mentioned how impressed I was with the way he put his feelings and motives into words. I think many people would be able to relate to this, I wrote.

I was surprised when he dismissed my compliment. Oh, he replied, it wasn’t meant for other people. I was just writing about myself. He seemed to think that, because he was telling a story about his own life, his thoughts, feelings, ideas and insights would not be resonant or relatable for other people.

To me, this could not be further from the truth! Details from our own individual lives are, I believe, where we find our collective humanity. However, I think many, many of us fall into the same trap of self-dismissal as my friend did, at one time or another.

As a fiction writer, I have learned a counterintuitive principle: if you want readers to care about your characters, you might think to make your characters “everyone”—more vague, and less clearly defined, so that everyone can relate to them. But instead, the exact opposite holds true. The more detailed you are about specific, unique experiences, the more readers see themselves reflected in your characters. It is the stories that connect us; stories that make us care. As Joseph Campbell writes in his book The Power of Myth, stories have the unique purpose of passing down myths through the generations. There are common themes found in stories, from all societies, races, religions, time periods—threads that link us together as human beings.
 
In Lera Auerbach’s luminous book Excess of Being, published by Arch Street Press, this idea of details connecting us and getting to the heart of our common humanity is illuminated beautifully through her finely wrought prose. A Russian-American artist, this is Auerbach's first book in English, and she uses aphorisms to tell her story and examine her life. I found myself wanting to underline nearly every line on each page; this is a book bursting at the seams with honest beauty and wisdom. I found hope even in Auerbach's moments of darkness and irony, because I saw myself and my own experiences--my doubts, my fears, my frustrations--reflected in hers.

Not a single word is wasted. This is a book that begs to be read slowly, savored, and read again.

Here are some of my favorite aphorisms from Excess of Being:

"If you have a flaw -- make it part of your legacy."

"Music happens within. A performer allows others to hear what is already sounding."

"Finally
I listen to the other silence--
the one that wells up
from within.
Finally, I'm listening."

Back to my friend. Oh, he had written, it wasn’t meant for other people. I was just writing about myself.

I replied to him that writing about yourself, and for yourself, is the best kind of writing. Writing about something that matters to you or helps you in some way ensures that it will matter to someone else and help someone else.