Monday, October 26, 2009

Question of the Week: Who is YOUR worst enemy?

A wise possum once said, "We have met the enemy and he is us." (Pogo, by Walt Kelly, 1970)

What do doors have to do with enemies? Do they protect? They can be locked, they can be propped open, they can swing back and forth with no recoil. Are they barriers? Often. From what? Ourselves.

I'm talking again about the metaphorical door. In this case, the gateway or barrier to your dreams, to my dreams. Some may recall this post from October 16, where I copied a Facebook exchange opening with this question:

Carolyn Burns Bass

Carolyn Burns Bass Now that I have a door on my studio, dare I close it?
October 13 at 10:39am

Here’s what one friend replied:

Sharon Kae Reamer
Sharon Kae Reamer
Are you asking for permission? The answer is YES.


This is what my sister replied:

Robin Richardson
Robin Richardson
I double-dog-dare YOU!!!


My door is closed as I write this post. With a busy day ahead, I knew I needed the solitude from my DH in order to accomplish my goals. Before I closed the door, I let him know he was loved, that he could interrupt if necessary, and that he’d see me again today. (One of his fears is that I will disappear behind the closed door.)

A cup of coffee sits next to my computer, my dogs are curled in their places (Tank, always near my feet; Buck curled on the sofa). The window blinds are open, giving me a peek at the street outside. We had Santa Ana winds yesterday and the lawn is scattered with the debris from other people’s lives.

The debris of other people’s lives. Even as I typed that line, I realized this is what we writers crave. It’s the stuff of story. Sometimes fictionists base their tales on the debris of real people’s lives, but most of the time we draw from our imagination. Something we see takes root in our mind, it takes root and grows, and if tended, flourishes on a written page.

My mind is an unkempt garden of untended stories. That’s the truth. Story ideas have blown into my mind, rooted and dried up for lack of care. Left behind is a wretched tangle of aging stumps and shrubs choked by brittle vines. I let this happen by neglect.

Neglect happens in a writer’s life when they allow things to get in the way of their success. Every writer dreams of being published, of having his/her stories read and appreciated by the public. Success seems so far off—a place outside the door that they can glimpse out the window. Success, I’ve learned, isn’t an ultimate goal, but a process in achieving a dream. A dream must be broken down into goals. Achievable, realistic goals. For the beginning writer, or like me, the jaded writer, success is finishing something you’ve started.

In his book The War of Art, Steven Pressfield talks about the enemy of creativity. He calls it Resistance with a capital R. Resistance is a shapeshifter. It morphs into that thing that is most likely to detour your journey. Some of the most pernicious shapes of Resistance I’ve encountered include the following:

FAMILY. I allowed my children’s lives to distract me from finishing many writing ideas that rooted in my mind. I was a doting mom, but not a smothering one. I read to my kids, wrote stories about them in scrapbooks, went to concerts and sporting events, piano lessons, orthodontist appointments, all things I used to keep me from making a ritual for my own self-improvement through creative expression.

INSPIRATION may be the most fickle of the Resistances. Writing happens by sitting down and doing it, not by waiting for some metaphysical feeling to overwhelm and channel golden words through your fingers. I’ve experienced the discovery, the thrill, the passion that occurs when I’m in a productive writing zone and for years I thought it came before I sat down to write, as if the feeling of the zone was inspiration itself. Many wasted years later I realized the feeling of the zone comes from doing it. It’s like a surfer waiting for the sensation of the ride to happen while they sit on the sand watching the waves.

MONEY. Lack of it or excess of it. Lack of it often forces one into professions that suck out the creativity, while excess of it can numb the imagination. I’ve been hungry enough to hustle words for pay, but not so hungry that I’ve tended the most nutritious ideas that rooted in my brain. One of my friends has three autistic daughters and still manages to write an impressive blog and website for Autism, in addition to a memoir and a novel. (Kudos to Kim Stagliano.)

ROOM. Not having a place to write is another shape of Resistance. Virginia Woolf in her essay, “A Room of One’s Own,” claimed it took a room of one’s own (and money) to write fiction seriously. I had a room, but no door on my room, thereby giving me another excuse for Resistance to defeat me. See this post from October 15.

WORK. Professions other than fulltime writer are another face of Resistance. When one is busy making bread for the family, it’s hard to tend the garden of creativity. Although my DH provides well for our family, my workaholic nature has drawn me into a business that is enjoyable enough that I’m not pining to quit, yet demanding enough time that I can’t devote myself to fulltime writing.

The list goes on. Sharon’s response to my query about closing my door pushed a button that revealed the Generalissimo of Resistance in my life: Permission. All of the excuses named above are minor troops in the war against my art. I can give my excuses names, like those listed above, but it all boils down to this: I am my own worst enemy. The writers I know who have been published, who continue to be published, don’t let the above list of enemies trample through their creative garden. Like Pressfield says in The War of Art, the professional sits down to write. Every day. It’s a ritual. It’s a practice. It’s becomes a way of life.

Reflecting back on the words of Pogo the wise, I’ve met the enemy, and she is me. I could go on about reasons why I don’t give myself permission to succeed. I have enough self-sludge to fill a tanker. I took Robin’s dare; gave myself permission to close the door. I wrote this. Now I’m moving on to another writing project near to the center of my purpose. More about that another time.

Who is YOUR worst enemy?

Monday, October 19, 2009

Question of the Week: What doors have opened or closed in your life?

Drawing from the Facebook Exchange in last week's post:

Carolyn Burns Bass

Carolyn Burns BassNow that I have a door on my studio, dare I close it?
October 13 at 10:39am


Paula Hughes
Paula Hughes
that depends on whether you're on the inside or the outside.
October 13 at 11:59am

If you’re on the outside of the door, does that make you an outsider? I’ve learned through the years that most people feel like an outsider at some time in his or her life. It begins early, this feeling of alienation. It’s rare that a person can point to a single incident that closed the door to a place of desire or belonging. Some people block—whether practiced or unconsciously—disturbing or hurtful experiences. Not me. Although I have difficulty remembering what happened yesterday, I can remember events from the past with vivid detail.

I’m standing in a circle of girls. Denise Messenger (not her real name) is holding court during lunch break at De Anza Junior High. Denise is tall and shapely, with none of the awkward angles and stuttered gestures so prevalent among girls of this age. She has long, straight hair; smooth, creamy skin, and perfect teeth. Beside me is Rena Floyd, my best friend and savior from obscurity. Even though Rena is one of the most popular girls of the seventh grade, we wouldn’t be standing in this circle of perfection if she were not going out with Denise’s brother, Dickie.

The conversation is about clothes and what looks good on whom. Typical feline gossip. These were the early 1970s, when girls were required to wear dresses to school. Those who remember the 1970s will also recall the era of the micro-mini skirt. Even though we were required to wear dresses or skirts, there was no skirt length measurement in the policy.

Rena’s wearing one of the adorable dresses she made herself. Her mother works in the fabric department at White Front department store and gets cut-rate prices on all of the hip patterns and cool fabrics. She has a terrific eye for color and texture harmony and her creations could pass for designer knock-offs. Her peasant dress with its cinched waist and blousy top accentuates her budding figure in all the right places.

Denise is wearing a body-hugging knit top that enhances her shapely bosom, along with a hip-hugging mini-skirt cut half-way between her knee and hip. Both Rena and Denise, in fact all of the other girls in the circle, are wearing panty hose in the color “cinnamon,” and nearly identical Thom McAnn shoes with high, flared heels.

Everyone except for me. I am a 4'9" gnome next to willowy Denise Messenger. I’m wearing one of my sister’s old hand-me-downs, which was a hand-me-down from my cousin Pam. It’s been washed so many times the color resembles nothing red, run with everything gray. I call the color “dreg.” It hangs just over my knee in what my stepfather calls a “respectable” length. My shoes are black, low-heeled slip-ons from the children’s department at Kmart, not Thom McAnn at the Montclair Plaza. Even though I could wear a size four in women’s, my mother wouldn’t buy me higher heels because she said I was too small for them. And in these shoes are not legs frosted with cinnamon pantyhose, but cable knit knee-high socks. My mother’s rule was no pantyhose until the age of 14.

Back to the circle of girls. Denise is pontificating about what she calls “feminine” and points to Rena as an example of seventh grade fashion divinity. “Like her.” Then her eyes narrow on me. “Not her.” My cheeks begin burning and I drop my gaze to the ground. “Where did you get those glasses, anyway?” she asks, pointing to my cat’s eye glasses that went out of style about five years ago.

A door closed, but another door began to open that day. Denise was right in the exterior assessment of my physical appearance. I was bumbley, bland and blind. The heels wouldn’t have anointed me with grace, the cinnamon pantyhose wouldn’t have spiced up my personality, and a sparkling pair of wire-framed glasses wouldn’t have improved my vision. The door that began creaking open that day took several years to widen enough for me to walk through.

The first thing I glimpsed in the crack of that door was freedom to develop my own style despite the trends and fads. In high school I was making some babysitting money and could buy my own clothes. I sewed dozens of cute little tops and wore them with Levi 501s, flip-flops, moccasins, or “earth shoes.” By college, I was back into dresses, mostly sundresses I made with bright, light-weight fabrics and platform sandals. Career days found me back in high heels, stilettos paired with skirts and blazers. Eventually I understood and was able to share with my daughter that it’s not what you wear that defines you, it’s what you project from the inside. I tried to teach my daughter to stand up to queen bees like Denise, and applauded when she did. These days I lounge around in my PJs while I write each morning, then transition into comfy clothes that serve the task at hand.

It wasn’t until I’d walked completely through that door and looked back that I realized the most important truth from that day. No one is dealt a perfect hand in the game of life. Not Denise Messenger, not Rena Floyd. Some people may begin with better hands leading to more choices, while others begin with a great hand and make disastrous choices. I was dealt a crappy hand, but I had all five cards and the freedom to play them well. I’ve won a few and lost a few, but it’s my game. I have no idea how Denise Messenger played her cards, but I know Rena Floyd Hutchins has a lively hand. She’s still stitching lovely designs in her own embroidery business, has been married for 29 years to the same man, has four grown and married (or nearly so) kids and several grandchildren.

A final glimpse back to that awkward moment in junior high shows me how some people become who they are because of where they’ve been, while others, like me, become who they are in spite of where they’ve been.

What events or experiences have opened or closed doors in your life and how did they contribute to who you are today?

Friday, October 16, 2009

A Short Exchange About Doors

Facebook may be passé in ten years (maybe less), but for now it's a virtual pub for the global village. While contemplating my recent fixation on doors, I posted a question in my Facebook status and received this lively exchange:
Catherine DiCairano
Tue at 10:51am
Ej Knapp
Ej Knapp
Better not, you might get trapped in there.
Tue at 11:04am
Sharon Kae Reamer
Sharon Kae Reamer
Are you asking for permission? The answer is YES.
Tue at 11:17am
Audrey Cole
Audrey Cole
I have found that a bad attitude works just as well as a closed door. :-)
Tue at 11:31am ·
Paula Hughes
Paula Hughes
that depends on whether you're on the inside or the outside.
Tue at 11:59am ·
Robin Richardson
Robin Richardson
I double-dog-dare YOU!!!
Tue at 12:02pm
Carolyn Burns Bass
Carolyn Burns Bass
I'm working on a blog post about my door. You know Virginia Woolf's famous essay, A Room of One's Own? I've had the room, but it didn't have a door. It was a thoroughfare from one side of the house to the other. The door is so tempting.
Tue at 12:16pm
Mary Compo Cabral
Mary Compo Cabral
Close it now! Close if fast before you lose your resolve.
Tue at 5:37pm
Pamela Marshall
Pamela Marshall
But is it really about closing it or having the choice to .... if you so chose?
Tue at 9:00pm
Richard Cooper
Richard Cooper
Don't open it until you've had a satisfactory number of words produced each day.
Tue at 10:02pm

Each person contributed a valid point to this little exchange about doors. We'll explore these points and others here in Ovations over the next few weeks.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

A Door of My Own

I’ve observed a fly trapped inside the open-slat mini-blinds of my window now for hours. It flies up and down, walks across, buzzes crazily, flies forward and smacks into a blind, returns to the window pane. How like us, trapped between two worlds, not perceiving the doors open to us. The world outside the glass, the world on the other side of the door. We see out the glass to another world, yet the world to which we have access is a route to the other world. We must go through the route available to get to the place we see outside the window. The world is there. It’s available for us to enjoy. Getting there is the adventure.

Doors have been on my mind for the last few months. It began when my firstborn and only daughter accepted an offer to attend a five-year Master’s to PhD program at George Washington University. Elisabeth lived on campus during the four years of her undergrad studies at a university only a half-hour from our home. We saw her frequently and she slept in the bedroom she’d decorated and redecorated since she was six years old. When she packed up her belongings for the move to D.C., she pulled every poster, photo, sticker and cartoon from the walls and stripped the shelves of books, knickknacks, and picture frames. What she didn’t want to take to her new life, she donated to a local thrift shop. The only things she left in the room were bare furniture and a few stains on the carpet.

My preoccupation with doors actually began in 1993 when we moved into this house. We fell in love with the huge room addition that the original owners used as a family room and a game room, plus the house had a bonus room that had been a third-car garage option. My studio would be in the bonus room, a spacious retreat with a large picture window facing the street. The room had a lovely, natural wood, French-paned door.

Many people have real estate horror stories and here’s ours. During the time we made the offer on the house to when the escrow closed for final sale, the original owners took weekends away at the Colorado River and left their male Rottweiler closed in the bonus room with water and food. It doesn’t take a lot to imagine what a Rottweiler trapped in a room for two days can do to the walls and carpet. The stench was unbelievable. After dragging out the carpet, we bleached and deodorized the cement slab. The cedar wainscoting, stained and reeking from the male dog leg-lift, came down to reveal even the drywall had seeped up the stinking slime and had to be replaced. The room would simply not be ready for human occupancy by the time we moved in. Hence, my studio—computer, drafting table, bookshelves and cabinets—was set-up in the game room that faced the family room.

This turned out to be the ideal setting for a work at home mom. With a four-year-old boy and six-year-old girl that needed watched and guided, I found the situation contributed to my productivity and kept them occupied. They had their play area and craft table just over the oak railing from my studio, and the TV was right there. That’s right. The TV. The one-eyed babysitter and great distractor of multiple generations.

In all fairness, my studio really did have doors. A set of French doors separated it from the dining room. It was a large area where the original owners had a pool table and juke box. Yet, my studio was separated from the family room by a low, oak railing. A sliding glass door led to the backyard from the family room and a door on the opposite wall of the family room led to the garage. Even if I closed the French doors, someone would inevitably need something from the family room or access to the garage. My studio was open to a thoroughfare from one side of the house to the other.

In those days BassMan had regular work hours. He left the house at 6:30 a.m., returned around 5 p.m. When both of the children were in school fulltime, I worked without interruption most of the day. Summers were a bit of a challenge, but we set schedules around my work and the kids’ activities and playtime. I had several graphic design clients during this time, one of which drew me into the travel industry. Most of my writing then was for regional publications; food and family topics generated from my center of purpose. I had started and stopped several novels during this time, allowing the busyness of the house around me to distract from my concentration.

BassMan’s schedule changed in 2000. He moved to the evening crime-time shift: 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. I no longer had the seclusion of time during the day. My adaptation came by putting the kids on the school bus at 7:15 a.m., then writing like a woman afraid she’d run out of words until BassMan awoke around 9:30. Two hours of silence every morning were enough for me to write my first novel in nine months.

Now that Elisabeth has her own apartment across the continent, we’ve shuffled rooms. The object was to put me and all of my mess in the bonus room as originally planned. After it was thoroughly cleansed, BassMan had set-up camp in the bonus room. He refreshed Elisabeth’s former bedroom and moved over his desk and Marine Corps memorabilia. I began a renovation of the bonus room that was only supposed to be a coat of paint, but you know how redecorating often turns into a story of its own. Last weekend I moved into my studio and for a day it was spotless. The desk and credenza gleamed, the bookshelves didn’t sag. Life comes with stuff. Stuff needs a place. Places fill up with the stuff of life. It’s already happening in my new studio.

So you see, I really have nothing to complain about. I’ve had the room which Virginia Woolf said was so necessary for a woman who wanted to write fiction. BassMan pulls in a good salary and my side work has evolved into a profitable meeting and travel consultancy. What I’ve craved is a door to close for creative privacy. As I write this, it occurs to me: What purpose will the door serve? To shield me from household distractions, or a barrier that traps me inside?