Crossroads

Do I really want to write anymore? The dust is starting to settle in our new home (oh, hey, did you know we moved? Yeah, that happened), and as I unpack the boxes of books and writing paraphernalia, I wonder if I even want to write anymore. Things have changed a lot since that first creative writing class sophomore year. My writing has grown for sure, but so have the responsibilities in my life. I have a son! He’s amazing. He takes us a ton of time and energy. How am I ever going to fit writing into an already busy schedule? Not to mention I haven’t been feeling all that creative lately either. Kind of like the well has dried up. Do I really want to keep pretending? Am I pretending, or am I just in a funk? Do I just clear it all out? Will I regret it if I do? Are these pages and pages of notes, scenes, and stories worth keeping around even if they just gather dust?

Looking at my half-finished manuscript, though, I feel like I have to keep going. I have already poured so much of my soul into it. Plus, for years I’ve been telling everyone I am going to be a writer. I think back about all the amazing opportunities fate handed to me that I squandered – all the authors, publishers, and actors that I let slip out of my life… I’m ready now, Universe, if you want to send another one of those my way. And then there is my son. I want to show him that dreams can come true. Even crazy pipe dreams. You just have to work at it (a little bit harder than I have been working).

I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet, it seems. But I need to get back to the happy place I found in writing. That part of me has atrophied over the past few years. Perhaps this is the perfect time to be at this particular crossroad. Time to hit the restart button. Version 2.0 (ha, more like 8.0, but whatever) is 98% loaded. Please do not turn off your device…

Grit

When I was studying to be a teacher, we learned a lot about lesson plans and how to create a great learning environment, but we also spent a good deal of time studying psychology. One of the things that stuck out to me was the idea of grit. Grit is an individual’s capacity to persevere when things get tough. It is an innate quality that, research suggests, is more indicative of a student’s success or failure than intelligence or other traditional indicators.

I have no grit. Or at least very little. Where some people would bear down and keep at a project or task until it is done, I get distracted at the slightest impediment or provocation. This wasn’t a problem in school because I was intelligent enough and enjoyed learning enough to stick with it. Even now, if it is something I am interested in, I can usually focus enough to complete whatever it is I am doing.

Revisions are not interesting. Revisions are not fun. To an extent, any writing past the first draft (sometimes just the outline of an idea) is a chore. It can be too much for a gritless person like me.

This is not good. This is why I have notebooks and folders full of ideas but never get around to actually writing. This is why my novel has been gathering dust, waiting for revisions, while I flit from one project to the next. This is why I might never become the published author I aspire to be.

Might never. What is it G.I. Joe says? “Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.” Something like that. I know I have no grit. I know I will always find something else to keep me away from the keyboard (except in those brilliant, manic moments of inspiration). Knowing that, how do I change it?

I haven’t figured it out yet, but I will keep trying. With posts like this and a little more self-discipline, maybe I can find my way back to the keyboard and all the stories waiting to be told. 

Write what you know

Write what you know. I heard that all the time when I started writing. I even said it a few times when I taught writing.

I have been thinking about this phrase a lot recently. What does it really mean? Does it mean I should only write stories about white females? I hope not. Looking through my works in progress, almost none of my characters are female. Some aren’t even human.

Does it mean I should limit myself to American themes and styles? Maybe. Or maybe I should just be a little more considerate when writing characters from a different background than my own. I have written several pieces in an imitation of Japanese style. To me, my Japanese inspired stories are a tribute to a culture and style that I find fascinating. Something I wanted to try and capture. To others, those pieces might seem like appropriation. That was not my intention at all, but because I am a white American is that just how the world will see it? I want to say these pieces are harmless, but I am not Japanese. I do not claim to be an expert on Japanese literature or culture, but I do my research and try to recognize the places my ignorance or bias show through. Is that enough?

In high school, I wrote a story about a young man in West Texas who cross-dressed. He was the star of the football team but liked to paint his nails and wear prom gowns. His secret came out, and in the end, he committed suicide. I had just finished reading The Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry, and I was inspired by the tragic young protagonist. I was also learning about homosexuality and other alternative lifestyle choices from a new group of friends. And, like many teenagers, I was struggling with depression. This story brought all of these pieces of my life together. Looking back, I think I poured more of my soul into that story than anything else I have written since. I was young. I didn’t know how to write without exposing myself completely.

They published it in the Lit Mag that semester. I was so proud of myself. I had been writing since I was little, but this was the first time my work had been approved by my peers. I decided then that I wanted to be a writer.

My first writing workshop in college, I volunteered to go first. I made some edits to this story. After all, it had been a few years. I had grown. I understood more about writing and myself. But it was still the same story.

I got ripped apart by one of my classmates. He was gay. He was my friend. And he had a point. My character was a hodgepodge of all the things straight high schoolers believe about homosexuality. Just because the character liked to wear dresses, it didn’t mean he was gay. I didn’t understand my character or the world he was supposed to represent. I didn’t know what I was writing.

I still don’t believe that write what you know means you should only write about people like yourself. That would make for a lot of really boring stories. However, there are certain things you can’t write about unless you experience them or really do your research. If I were to rewrite that story today, I would make sure I knew as much as I could about the thoughts, emotions, and experiences of young gay men. It wouldn’t be first-hand information, but I could still know enough to write about it with authority.

Because I do believe there is something that we all know well enough to write. We all know how to be human. We just might have to dig a little deeper to know about a human that is different from us. But isn’t that what writing is all about? Helping us see the world through different eyes. Understand someone else’s story. I know what love feels like. I know about pain, fear, confusion, hope, and joy. My experience might be slightly different than the situation my characters find themselves in, but in the end, I am just a human writing about being human.

So write what you know, but don’t be afraid if you don’t know it yet. You can’t wait for someone else to tell your stories for you. Just do your research. And don’t stop writing.

Coincidence

“There’s no such thing as coincidence.” I think it was Sherlock Holmes that said that, but I could be wrong. Regardless, I like mysteries, crime shows, and the like, and most of them an idea like this one at one point or another. To be fair, when you are talking about murder, there might not be such a thing as coincidence. But in real life, I feel like coincidences are everywhere!

You just read a book and next thing you know it comes up in casual conversation with a friend. A news article mentions an economic theory you were just studying. Little moments like this that make you feel like everything is connected. For the paranoid sort, maybe it is proof you are in the Matrix. For the rest of us, it is just those little things that make us go “huh, what a small world.” I love these moments. They can be so bizarre and random yet so poignant at the same time. For me, they often touch on unspoken fears or feelings that I haven’t been able to fully articulate yet. They can be the moments that make me think about the larger things at work that my tiny human brain can’t comprehend. Sometimes they are just funny or interesting. The point is they happen all the time.

But when they happen in literature… For some reason, while I am all for coincidences in my real life, I get irked when they happen in literature or other media. It seems lazy or contrived. I find myself disenchanted or worse, angry at the writer.

Why? Why am I so willing to accept coincidence in my real life but not in my fiction? Not that there is an easy answer, but I think part of it is how Americans are taught to appreciate stories. Everything is so linear for us. We don’t like cliff hangers or loopholes. We like neat, tight, cause and effect plots. The random monkey wrench of fate is too much for us. To some extent we will accept coincidence in our stories, how else would anything ever happen, but when the plot hinges on such a coincidence, we feel cheated. This might have something to do with our cultural need to control destiny. I have never encountered a culture so obsessed with the idea of freedom and free will. But that is a blog for another occasion.

Other cultures don’t seem to have this same hang-up. I have talked before about how Japanese literature could sometimes drive me nuts with this sort of thing. It seems others aren’t as bothered by coincidence or the strange workings of fate. Many of the stories I have read or watched from other cultures are filled with these coincidences. Hell, even Shakespeare has more people in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong) time than I would ever accept from a contemporary American story. No one seems to mind.

Is it just me?  

Nonfiction

When we talk about reading, it seems we almost always mean fiction. At least, I do. I talk about all the books I have or all the ones I have read – almost all fiction. This seems to be the default genre when people talk about reading, writing, or anything to do with books.

Sometimes, I think we forget that there is a whole lot more out there when it comes to the written word. I know I am totally guilty of passing over biographies, essays, journalism, and other nonfiction without a second thought. The thing is, though, when I do pick up a well-written piece of nonfiction, it acts on my soul the same way that a novel or short story does. So why don’t I see it as an equal?

Partly, I think it is training. The nonfiction I read in school was abysmal. Textbooks are not written to be enjoyed. Their writers probably don’t even enjoy them. Other than that, it was Newsweek for Kids or similar magazines. History, Math, and Science classes didn’t emphasize reading for pleasure. It was more just get the information and get on with it. Not to say my teachers didn’t want to share a killer biography about their favorite mathematician or a page-turner about some important historical event, but with so much to cram into our distracted brains, there wasn’t much time for extra reading.

That was one aspect of the Common Core Curriculum that intrigued me when I was studying for my Masters in Education. Common Core encouraged critical reading in subjects other than English. The program had a whole host of problems, to be sure, but that one stuck with me.

Now that I am an adult and get to pick what I read, I am still drawn to fiction. However, I have come to appreciate a well-written piece of nonfiction. The key word there is well-written. Just like a bad novel, a bad historical account can be downright painful to read. But a well-written piece of nonfiction – be it a cookbook, academic thesis, travel adventure, whatever – has the potential to be just as life changing as any classic literary work. These gems can be hard to find, but so is a good novel, if you think about it.

I guess what I am trying to say is that we shouldn’t think of nonfiction as a dirty word. It isn’t inherently dry or boring. It isn’t aiming to suck the fun out of reading. It’s not all written like a textbook. It just depends on the individual book. So maybe next time you visit your local library or bookstore, wander through the nonfiction section. See if anything catches your eye. You might be surprised.

Back to School

The kids in my local school district went back to school today. And while I am content to be out of the classroom for a little while, I can't help but be excited for them. Especially since I caught up with one of their English teachers at the library recently and had a great conversation about reading.

Have you ever thought about how much you actually read in a day? Signs, news, social media? We actually read an incredible amount every day. We just don't always realize it. Or, we don't really count it as reading.

When I was teaching, I always had kids tell me they hated reading. But that wasn't true. They just hadn't found what they enjoyed reading yet. Novels aren't for everyone. Sadly, over the years reading in school has become very limited. English class will expose you to fiction (short and long), poetry, and some drama. You might read some non-fiction in other classes, but text books weren't written with reading enjoyment in mind. Electives might give a few more reading options, especially if you study something journalism related. But for the most part, reading in school offers kids a very narrow selection of all the wonderful types of writing out there.

So when kids told me they hated reading, I knew that wasn't the whole truth. They just hadn't found the things they liked to read.

When I talked to the local English teacher, she had come to the same conclusion. And I think it is a conclusion that a lot of teachers are making. Reading isn't just novels. It isn't just textbooks. Reading can be blogs, magazines, instructional manuals. It can be pretty much anything really. It might take a little creativity on the teacher's part, but every child can become a reader. We just have to help them find what it is they like to read and then let at it.

To all the students starting school today, I hope this year you find what you like to read. To all the teachers, I hope you can find a way to support every students' reading choices. It might take some flexibility, but it will be worth it in the end. Reading opens up doors to education, employment, and a better life. It doesn't matter if it is Moby Dick or Popular Mechanics.

Literary Diversity

I have always been a voracious reader. However, I only recently realized I was not a very diverse reader.

Growing up, my mom was an avid reader. She would take my sister and me to the library almost as much as she went herself. We would go home with our canvas bags full of as many books as they would let us check out at one time (on all three of our accounts). It was a lot of books.

As we got older and graduated to chapter books, the sacks got slightly lighter.

My sister decided reading wasn’t really for her. She wouldn’t rediscover her passion for it until she was swept up in the Harry Potter series in high school.

I continued to read but found myself in kind of a literary gray area. The books for my age group were too easy. I have several librarian friends now, but as a kid, I was on my own to figure out what I like to read. I wasn’t very successful. Instead, when I wasn’t reading for school, I turned to the books my mom was reading.

She liked murder mysteries. Now, I am not hating on genre fiction. I enjoyed her books.  But the thing with genre fiction is it isn’t very diverse. Scan the shelves of any genre fiction section, and you will notice that most of the authors are pretty similar.

And what I was getting from school wasn’t much better. We read a lot of what would be considered classics, but even the contemporary stuff was pretty White European. Sure, senior year there was a splash of Russian and African literature, but for the most part, the books I read growing up were white, white, white.

I specifically remember disliking Crime and Punishment. Something about it was off. Also, I couldn’t pronounce all the names, and I got a lot of the characters confused. It would be several more years before I could really understand why, though.

College wasn’t much better. Despite being a lit major, assigned reading was still almost entirely written by white European authors. I did sign up for a Native American Lit class, but it was canceled before semester started and I ended up in Contemporary Irish Lit instead. I graduated with  B.A. in English and Creative Writing, but still no reading diversity.

In the end, it took moving half way across the world to open up my reading horizons. When I moved to Japan, one of the first things I did was start reading their literature. I read classics like The Tale of Genji and The Pillow Book. I also fell in love with some of their contemporary writers. Kafka on the Shore has become one of my all-time favorite books, though I can’t say I love all of Murakami’s works. But it wasn’t just Japanese Literature. I would haunt the foreign language section of my local used book store grabbing any title that piqued my interest. I read a surprising amount of Spanish Literature while I was in Japan. Apparently, Gabriel Garcia Marquez is quite popular in the Land of the Rising Sun.

The more I read from other cultures, the more I realized how much our writing style and preference is based on culture. At first, the Spanish and Japanese books frustrated me. Their stories didn’t follow the rules I was used to – the rules I had been taught, the rules I tried to apply to my own writing. Their stories meandered, fell off, picked back up, and sometimes just ended. I still get angry when I think of the ending of Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart.

But over time, I came to appreciate the differences. I came to realize that, depending on the values and history of your culture, there can be many ways to tell the same story. The goal of every author is the same, but how they get there is shaped by the writing styles of their culture.

Sadly, now that I am back in the U.S. my reading diversity has shrunk slightly. My job writing English lessons online has cluttered my desk with more White European classics than I had on my bookshelf in Japan. However, I am still trying to make time to read things from other cultures. Crime and Punishment has moved from a dusty bookshelf to the bottom of my to read pile, just under my new translation of The Tale of Genji.

Reading is important, but diverse reading might be even more so. For me, foreign literature gave me a way to understand the nuances of a culture that wasn’t my own. It also caused me to examine what the stories I grew up reading said about the values of my White European culture. As a writer, it has opened my eyes to a whole new world of literary elements and styles. Stories don’t have to follow the rules I spent most of my life learning. Personally, I like it better if they do, but not every story has to be told the same way. A frightening and thrilling idea for any writer. Or reader.