Writing Retreats and My Internal Critic

In my continuing tale of fantastic gifts from the universe, I got to go to Oregon last weekend for a writing retreat. I finished my last graduate school application on Thursday and then left Friday morning for Portland. I was happy to be done with the applications, and though rather tired, I was eager to delve back into my book project. This place in Portland was fantastic: sunshine galore, a cozy guest bedroom, a space to dance and stretch my limbs, a puppy that munched on my toes. (OK, that last feature was not entirely pleasant! But she was adorable, despite my allergies and inability to touch her!) 

Now, I have been on enough writing retreats to know that writing is hard wherever one is, and yet there is something so helpful about putting myself in a new space in order to trigger new thoughts and sensations. And yet, I inevitably spend the first 24-hours of any writing retreat battling the demons of self-doubt and loneliness and spiraling into an intense session with my Internal Critic.

But, at least I know this process now—I know that before I find that free place with words, I have to get through all my fears that arise whenever I enter creative space. My friend Nick says to "bow" to the fear. I think he is right. There is something about not resisting, but acknowledging its presence that actually helps me. Some days I even banter with it. "Well, how are you this morning, Wretched One!?! Not a surprise to see you. Perhaps if I befriend you, you will be kinder to me today...."

So, I have decided to copy an excerpt of a journal entry, written last weekend while battling my Internal Critic on my writing retreat. I think that when I say I go away for writing retreats that most people aren't quite sure what I do! Well, in addition to drinking lots of tea, obsessing over passages in my book, and reading excerpts of inspiring authors, I am simply trying to come to terms with the writing process itself. I am trying to befriend my Internal Critic. Here's what the process is like in my own head:

I am trying to be kind to myself today, because I know that in this life of writing I am struggling to find something precious: a kind of salvation; a release of control; intimacy with my unconscious; a freely moving song. But if that is the case—if so much of what writing essentially is is so different from how I live my controlled, disciplined life—no wonder I feel like I am wrestling with a juggernaut as I sit down to write. This task is hard not because I am not good with language, but because I am not yet free to access my own un-muted self. And perhaps that is why I cannot stay away from it, because within it I sense something very true of me wanting to be born again and again, released like sparks in my fingerstips.

Writing is not simply the task of putting one sentence down after another. It is the task of laying down words faster than my editor can keep up with me, until that imperceptible transition comes and I’ve found a rhythm, no Internal Critic in my consciousness. Then, I write well and only stop writing well when I realize I am doing it—kind of like when I first was learning how to ride a bike. To become conscious of the freedom is to risk slipping into the controlling anxieties that fear the wildness of fingers that speak more intuitively than the pace of the mind.

Writing for me is a maddening collection of opposites that must learn to co-exist in the work. I know that it is my obsession that make me a good writer and my obsession that makes me a poor, worried writer, spinning in circles with fears and words. It is my hard work that gives me the perseverance to keep at this, but also my hard work that stifles the play and the laziness that are so essential to the spontaneity of creation. It is my reflective, analytical mind that gives me the words to frame a way of seeing—it is also my overactive mind that keeps me from being in a moment, present to my body's knowledge and senses, which is essential for good writing. 

Ask and You Shall Receive

The Universe is clearly playing with me. In the past 2 weeks, the following things have freely come to me, which have all delighted my heart immensely:

Gerber daisies, randomly given, by the Trader Joe’s grocery man when I was purchasing bread, cheese, and pears. In an act of clairvoyance—or perhaps simple compassion—he intuited I needed vivid, fuchsia petals for my kitchen counter, so he put a free bouquet in with my groceries.

A year pass to the Seattle Art Museum to feed my creative soul from an extremely thoughtful student/friend.

Extremely inexpensive housing for 6 months! Oh my gosh. This is crazy. Someone wants to be my patron while I finish up my book. It will be hard to give up my adored, Queen Anne home…but how does one become a writer if not for the kindness of those who support her? I am so grateful.

2 free, yummy dinners already this week. (Sushi last night—thanks Tara and Daniel—and now homemade soup from my friend Phil who says he wants to cook for a “starving artist." Well, how nice.)

A random check in the mail from a beloved one who decided to “tithe” part of a gift to me.

And now, as I write this very blog, if you can believe it, the barista here has just offered me a free cup of coffee. (I mean, I had planned to pay for it...but I don't want to disrupt the generosity of the universe.)

Why this flood of gifts? I LOVE it. These little and large encouragements help me to keep writing..trusting that the Universe is conspiring with me as I risk the direction of my dreams. (Do you know that line in the Alchemist? You should go read it if you don't. Really, go find that book.) Trying to write has been harder than I ever could have imagined, but there is this sovereign, crazy, blessed journey to the whole thing.

7 Things I Loved About Christmas

1. Nostalgic sledding at Manito Park on midnight of Christmas Eve. The snow was perfectly magical and the sky was glowing with the reflected lights of the city.  It was like being a little kid again, except Laura's parents spiked our thermos of hot cocoa with peppermint Schnapps.

2. Christmas Eve service before the sledding. Little kids dressed up. Babies sleeping in their parents' arms. Remembering Incarnation.

3. Going downtown to my favorite bookstore—Auntie's—and seeing 4 people I knew. I still like small towns. I like that each face might be a familiar one. And I love that Spokane still supports a locally owned bookstore. 

4. Having a very large family that is totally crazy but still loves to be together. Seeing my cousins all grown up. Doing our yearly family bowling "tournament." Laughing. Debating politics. Trying not to talk too much about politics. Realizing I am lucky to have this family.

5. Getting cozy gifts: slippers, hot pink and striped flannel pajamas, gift-cards for massages! Hooray. I feel spoiled. (And I want to wear my new slippers everywhere. My feet are so happy in them.)

6. Amazing food: crab manicotti, baklava, yummy drinks sprinkled with candy cane pieces, my sister's homemade bread and soup. Having my mom make me turkey bacon and eggs every morning. Just like when I used to come home from college. Rolling out of bed to a hot breakfast is such a treat. 

7. Flying back into Seattle and still getting excited when I see the lights of the city. Remembering where I was last year... curious what this next year will hold for this wandering, wondering heart.

Mrs. Soderberg and 7-Million Dollar Frustrations

Mrs. Soderberg was simply not a very nice person. I wish I could say this all more kindly, but the truth must be told.

This ever-memorable and very mean woman was my 7th grade Language Arts teacher, and she would roam the aisles of her class, moving amongst our desks and looking over our shoulders as we labored to diagram sentence after sentence under her cruel gaze.

Rumor has it that Mrs. Soderberg was a beauty queen in her youth. I don't like beauty competitions of any sort, and I certainly don't think her crown was beneficial to her life as a whole. Once its luster faded, she turned to torturing 13-year-old boys and girls and making sure they felt very stupid if they forgot what a predicate nominative was (and oh dear...I believe I just typed a misplaced modifier at the beginning of this sentence). Her technique—hovering over frightened pubescents— was how she retained her power. I have never felt even a scintilla of appreciation for Mrs. Soderberg.

Until now.

I came across this sentence tonight:

“I had great faith that, you know, perhaps when that voter entered that voting booth and closed that curtain that what would kick in for them was, perhaps, a bold step that would have to be taken in casting a vote for us, but having to put a lot of faith in that commitment we tried to articulate that we were the true change agent that would progress this nation.”

Now, it is not so much the sentence that bothers me (though it is certainly a conundrum to diagram), but what really bothers me is that the owner of the wretched sentence is reported to be on the verge of a 7-million dollar book deal.

If you have been following the happenings at publishing houses this week, you would know that there have been terrible cuts and layoffs. Times are tough. Many very good writers have very little shot at getting book deals for a very long time. Books are not recession proof and the production of art suffers in difficult economic times.

However, the owner of that aforementioned sentence will have her book deal.

The other thing I did not tell you about Mrs. Soderberg is that rumor has it she passed away 5-years ago, which honestly makes me sad. However, I am not above praying that her ghost will forever haunt Ms. Sarah Palin and force her to diagram her own damn sentences. That is the only justice I can think of—the only fitting retribution.

(I told you this post wouldn't be terribly kind. And I didn't even get into Joe the Plumber's book deal. Sigh. If you want to read more lament on this matter, go to the New York Times.)

Final Look at Boston!

I am back in Seattle! Missing Boston, but happy to be back in another city that I find so charming. Seattle is dressed up in yellows this week...the view from my apartment is fantastic.






Here are a few pics from Boston: me kissing Thoreau at Walden pond, a few photos taken from the Old North Bridge (where the Revolutionary War started), and me touching the journal of Alice Paul (if you are a woman voting on Tuesday, you can thank her for the 19th amendment).

Boston Update #4

Boston continues to be inspirational to me. I have had mini-revolutions in my mind and heart…new ways of seeing and understanding my book. I am, however, somewhat overwhelmed by how to translate my new ways of seeing into the book itself.

I was at an eccentric museum the other day and was so drawn to this small awkward sketch of a dancer on the wall. She was not perfect. But she took my gaze and invited me to see something, though I was not sure what I was being invited to see.

The curator there had already sort of befriended me. He was a kind, bearded old man with a passion for art and a thick accent. He saw me looking at the sketch. I asked him to tell me its story. He asked me if I had noticed the French writing at the top of the sketch…I hadn’t. He explained it translated, “Sorry for the imperfections…I had to draw her with my left hand.”

The artist of the sketch is Degas, the famous French impressionist. The curator explained to me that he drew the picture for a dear friend of his, but because Degas would spend sometimes 20 hours a day painting with his right hand, he was injured and had to sketch this one with his left.

So that explained the awkwardness. But it also explained to me why I was intrigued; why I found it so beautiful.

I am not comparing myself to genius…but I do feel like the act of translating my heart into words on a page is like trying to draw with my left hand. (And I can’t even draw with my right hand.) Words are so difficult, “a raid on the inarticulate” as Eliot says.

But, I love that awkward dancer, because I am reminded again that it is not perfection that is always the most compelling. Something important is worth doing, even if you cannot do it perfectly. The more I think on, dwell in, reflect, love (and yes hate!) my book project, and the more I see so much more about the topic I am writing on…the more my mind and heart expand…but can I communicate what I am seeing? Can I paint an impressionist painting with words…and can what is true and good overcome my awkwardness as a writer?

Boston Update #3

OK, people, sorry no pictures for you, but here's a quick update.

My day started at 12:30 a.m. with pandemonium outside my window, thanks to a fabulous come from behind win by the Boston Red Sox. I was wanting to be sleeping, but I can totally appreciate such fanfare!

I spent my morning writing, and I discovered that not even getting out of bed, but just rolling over and grabbing my computer and starting right away before I am very awake actually makes for some good "rough drafting." I am learning that I write best very late at night and just after waking in the morning. I guess I write best when I am hovering between consciousness and dreamland. I think that the more awake I am, the more my internal editor gets hyper-vigilant. But when I am relaxed, the words flow.

I am at almost 45,000 words! This is exciting.

I then spent the afternoon walking around Harvard Square again and trying to track down how to get medicine I left in Seattle transferred to a pharmacy in Boston. That took hours to make happen...and I was feeling sick and frustrated. But, it is finally taken care of. It is good for me to know that I feel crappy when I don't take my medication, because then I can't be in denial that I need it! Hooray for living in a place with access to medical care.

After that fiasco, I worked some more, not on my book, but on that 100-women event happening in Seattle that I am helping to plan. See my other blog for more of that project. I am so excited about it, and so thrilled to get to work with some pretty amazing women who are all planning the event together. Yah for organizing! Now we are starting to spread word to other women in other cities, so that on Nov. 1, just days before the election, women will be gathering together, watching Iron Jawed Angels, and remembering to vote on election day! If you want to come to the event in Seattle, we still have a few tickets left. (You can find out how to register by going to my other blog.)