by brenna | Dec 6, 2010 | Literary |
“For the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place” —Rilke
Rainier Maria Rilke was born in what is now Czech Republic, of humble but not impoverished beginnings. He, among other things, was a poet and philosopher, rubbing elbows, at the turn of the century, with students of the likes of Sigmund Freud, Nietsche, and Auguste Rodin. He was employed for some time by Rodin doing writing and poetry relating to the great sculptor’s works of art.
But none of these things are the reason I will be discussing Rilke on this blog for at least ten posts (though not consecutively). During the early part of the twentieth century, Rilke was sent a batch of poetry by an aspiring poet and asked to comment upon and critique them. The poet’s replies spurred a short correspondence, ten letters of which exist for us now in the published work “Letters to a Young Poet.”
In the first letter, our young poet has sent his work to Rilke for critique. The poet admonishes his young protegé, writing:
“Nothing touches a work of art so little as criticism.”
Art, in all its forms, is the product of the inner environment. I’ve often used this analogy to explain to my students that our schools place so much emphasis on the exterior environment and the measurements of them—mathematics and the sciences—and the interactive disciplines, as in the social sciences, and history. The concrete, the physical. Modern education in America places a heavy emphasis on all of the above. I know because, at least in my state, these are the only subjects measured by standardized tests. A person could be completely art illiterate—impervious to anything but the shallowest exposure to literature (as English is a tested subject), the visual arts, music, performing arts are virtually ignored.
But that is my aside, back to Rilke and his trenchant discussion of art and the criticism thereof for in this first letter I have found a key to my issues with my own art, my writing. I have failed thus far in producing a finished product because I have not heeded his above observation. “Nothing touches a work of art so little as criticism.”
He goes on to explain that true art must come from deep within.
“I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing [in which sending your work out to be criticized by others). You are looking outside and that is the thing that you should most avoid right now. No one can advice or help you…”
Many of you might not concur. And I’d agree that when a person gets stuck—on a particular scene or piece, especially—turning outwards to a sympathetic friend or nonjudgemental critique partner can be useful—even essential. I owe much of what I’ve learned about writing fiction by the trial and error method. But in looking back, that process has trod a little on my soul each time, too. Instead of working to produce a piece of art separate from myself and not trusting myself to judge what is good and real, I have, instead, developed a huge complex and become gun-shy. My work became myself—or an extension thereof—and therefore any criticism of my work would be a criticism of me.
Rilke says that instead of looking outward for praise—instead of seeking to hear what you want to hear, to dig deep into yourself instead. Seek not for outward flattery but for the feeling of accomplishment and success that comes from within. Write, create because you must. Because it’s what your blood, your veins, your heart tells you that you must do. As Rilke says:
“Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether I has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer.”
Must I write? Would I die if I was forbidden to write? I’d like to think I could find outlets that would substitute for it. To say I’d die might be overly dramatic, but I do know that when I’m not writing, when I’m not digging into myself and bringing out those things hidden deep in my heart and in my psyche—my muse, if you will—I grow depressed, grumpy, and find life much more difficult to take. Who is to say I wouldn’t die, eventually, from the deprivation of it?
Rilke, one would assume, belongs to that school of artists who feels that one must “suffer” for their art. Suffering comes in many ways. If, in fact, one is not suffering for the sake of the art, one is taking one’s own suffering, all the humiliation, the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” and using them to fuel their art. He says as much, in the very first letter:
“Write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty. Describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the things around you, the imgages from your drams and the objects that you remember. If your every day life seems poor, dome blame it; blame yourself. Admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creature there is no poverty and no poor, indifferent place.” [Emphasis added]
I’ll take these lessons and commit them to my own heart, my own soul, my own muse.
by brenna | Dec 2, 2010 | Doing the Write Thing |
“A writer is a writer because even when there is no hope… she keeps writing anyway.” –Junot Diaz
One thing I’ve noticed as I begin to associate more with other writers is that our processes tend to be wildly different. What one writer does and works so well for her may not necessarily work very well for another. It should not be cause for concern or insecurity. It should not be a superstitious profession–just because Writer A writes chronologically (in a linear fashion from scene to scene) does not mean another writer can or even should work that way. And by all means, don’t adopt a process just because you heard a published author explain this is what he does. It’s only what works for him.
The one true answer is that there IS no right way. There is no write way, either. It’s an art and everyone has their process. It would be so much easier if there was one way to write–if it were some way to fill in the blanks on another writer’s process and presto-bravo, you have a successful piece of work to publish. The process can even change drastically for the same writer from one project to the next.
Writing a novel can be every bit as much a journey as it is a destination. And exploring your process can be every bit as soul-searching as exploring yourself–your motivations, your dreams and your foibles.
All of this to discuss note-taking. I prefaced this post with the discussion of process because I have a good friend who does not take notes because she figures that if she forgets some idea that comes up, that it was probably unimportant or a bad idea anyway. For a while I considered that and purposely did not take notes, hoping it would somehow help my writing or my process.
What I discovered, instead, is that because not taking notes works for her does not necessarily mean it would work for me.
My mind is constantly going and my Muse is constantly dropping bombs on me in the most inconvenient of places. For this reason, I find keeping a little notebook with me absolutely essential.
What do I write in there? Kernals of ideas for scenes, fragments of dialogue that I “hear” in my head (yes, I do have voices in there), names that I’ve come up with, sketches of floor plans or maps of small areas, snippets of research. I’ve pasted visuals and printouts in the notebook. Ideas on writing or quotes I want to remember later for inspiration. Anything I consider noteworthy. Literally noteworthy. As in worthy of my taking note of it.
I recently learned in some training for my day job that we retain 100% of what we learn/hear for the first 24 hours but without taking notes, that information drops down as far as 10% per day to end up somewhere around 2% of the original thing we want to recall at the end of the week. Revisiting notes taken during sessions is essential for learning and retention. Sessions of written reflection are particularly important for adult learners.
Since I do work full time during the day (and even some evenings), I can’t dive for my laptop every time I feel inspired. I must rely on my active imagination during times of boredom to give me the impetus for when I do have the free time to get to my work. I can sit down, page through my notes for the week and see what sparks in me the idea for a scene I need to write.
So an important lesson I’ve learned: learn from the professionals but do not attempt to emulate them. Because my friend, a successful author, does not find note-taking worthwhile for her, does not mean such is the case for me. Lesson learned. See. You can teach an old dog new tricks.
by brenna | Dec 1, 2010 | Doing the Write Thing |
This blog gets its name from the catchphrase of NaNoWriMo, “Thirty Days and Nights of Literary Abandon.”
And, for the past five years, I’ve set the majority of extra-professional life aside to participate in the phenomenon. It has, in my opinion, paid off. I am a much better writer than I was when I did not participate. I must qualify that statement by saying that I never stopped writing during the other parts of the year, either. I write year-round. I just don’t live, eat. breathe and inhale it like I do in November.
I proceed at a much more measured, leisurely pace. Normal writing process is an amble through a wooded park where I stop and admire the posies, inhale the fresh pine scent, and listen to the birds sing. November is a mad, breathless dash across a dirt track, dust crunching under my feet, heart knocking in my chest.
It makes me a better writer. I’d never ever want to show anyone else my November efforts, however. My writing during that month is, to put it nicely, a diamond in the rough.
It will take much cutting, much care, much polishing to make it something worth enjoying. But the effort has made it all possible. Without the words, without the first draft–which, for me is more of a roadmap than anything else–there is nothing to edit, shine and make pretty.
So here’s to the 50,000 words I have just written. Here’s to 50,000 more and a finished manuscript, soon. Soon. And then, here’s to the courage to attack it with the pencil, eraser, scissors (all virtual, of course), to make the necessary adjustments.
Here’s to producing a thing of beauty.
by brenna | Nov 29, 2010 | Literary |
And what, you may ask, is my opinion on this matter? Well I do have one and it is a strong one. Its author is none other than Miss Jane Austen (are you surprised?) and it is penned, in the story, by Captain Frederick Wentworth.
Before I post the text and my discussion of it here, a bit of background to the story might be necessary as the Letter (yes the uppercase L is important) is penned and delivered in one of the last chapters of the last complete book that Miss Austen scribed before her untimely death. That novel is Persuasion, which has, as I’ve grown older, supplanted Pride and Prejudice (oh the horror! supplanted?) as my favorite all-time novel. I do plan to discuss that progression of my tastes at another date. It is fresh on my mind, dear reader (notice I use the singular as I am well aware of the singularity of my readership), and will be touched, I promise you.
The set-up for the letter is as follows: Anne, daughter of a rather vain and spend-thrifty baronet was persuaded by family and close friends to jilt her fiancé, an up-and-coming naval officer of no fortune or notable family (both very important) and so, finds herself, eight years later at the beginning of the book well on her way to becoming a spinster. In the meantime, she has turned down at least one other offer of marriage (a young man who has gone on to marry her younger sister) and never forgotten Frederick Wentworth, though she had been urged to do so.
Through a bizarre coincidence (as they surely happen in almost all of good literature), due to the spend-thrifty and vain nature of her father, they must let out their estate while they “retrench” to Bath. Anne stays behind with her sister’s family at a nearby estate while the house is let out to a retired Navy Admiral, whose wife is none other than the sister of Captain Frederick Wentworth. Thus, Anne is forced back into the society of her former fiancé, who has since become extremely successful in the navy and, more importantly, extremely rich on prize money. During this period of reacquaintance, Frederick never allows Anne to forget what she has lost. He is resentful and virtually ignores her and she must stand back and watch as he woos the Musgrove sisters, sisters-in-law to her younger sister Mary.
Throughout the course of the story, other things happen and then, the entire party of people end up in Bath. The Musgrove sisters each end up engaged to other men.
And now the question hangs between Frederick and Anne: can he forgive her?
Anne is speaking to Captain Harville, a close friend of Wenthworth’s, in a salon where a few people are assembled. Harville is the brother of a young lady who has passed away, and whose fiancé is now engaged to Louisa Musgrove. The two discuss the differences in how the sexes approach love. Are men more constant or are women? Are men more passionate or are women?
Frederick Wentworth sits nearby, silent, seemingly not listening as he writes an order for picture framing. Anne and Harville make an interesting study of the differences, ultimately agreeing to disagree. Anne underlines the constancy of a woman’s love, that though a man may love stronger, a woman’s love will endure. That women love longest “when existence or when hope is gone.”
Soon after the captains leave on their errand, Anne discovers a Letter. It has been penned to her by Captain Wentworth, who had listened to every word of her conversation with Harville and, as evidenced, was moved by it.
Thus, here be the Letter:
I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in
F. W.
And so, gentlemen of the readership (or likely, gentleman–or underage kid that got here by googling “good love letters to plagiarize”), here is the most knee-melting, the most heart-piercing, the most swoon-worthy love letter in all literature. Penned by a man to a woman, but ultimately, by a spinster author of middle age. Who lived 200 years ago. She can still teach us all a thing or two about love.
The bald-faced raw emotions expressed here, especially by a man who has shown little indication of these things to Anne throughout the story. In fact, his actions demonstrate quite the opposite but for the little things that Anne grasps onto during their association together. Yes he ignores her completely as the group strolls through the countryside, but he immediately implores his sister, driving by in a carriage, to give her (and only her) a ride as she is having difficulty. He praises her quick-thinking and capability in a tough situation even while he has spent an entire outing to Lyme wooing Louisa Musgrove and agonizing over her accident. These small things Anne clings to and they give her hope, even when “all hope is gone.”
But Wentworth has never stopped loving her. And in this Letter, he pours out his emotions, “half-agony, half-hope.” He speaks of the heart (his) that she “almost broke eight years and a half ago.” His soul is pierced. He is overpowered and fervent. And these emotions he expresses wholly and unabashedly to the woman he loves.
He also lays bare his heart to her. “I offer you my heart… I have loved none but you.” He is “undeviating” in his feelings and has loved her the entire time though she heartlessly spurned him.
He praises her, “too good, too excellent creature” in possession of “such precious feelings.” And in lines closely associated, admits his faults, “Unjust I may have been. Weak and resentful, I have been.” But despite all this. He is never inconstant.
And lastly, he singles her out as the object of his heart’s desire and happiness: “You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes?”
There you go, ladies and gentlemen.
How to Pen the Ultimate Swoon-Worthy Love Letter 101
by Miss Jane Austen.
1. Bare your emotions
2. Pour out your heart
3. Praise the object of your affections
4. Admit your own faults and your regret for them
5. Single out the oject of your desire and tell him/her your plans for the future and their irreplaceable part in those plans (in the most non-creepy and non-stalkery way, of course. Sure he followed her to Bath but he was ready to leave again when he thought she got engaged to her cousin. So he wasn’t going to push the matter until he heard her speak about the constancy of her love even though she had lost hope.)
Best of luck to you in writing your own.
by brenna | Nov 23, 2010 | Doing the Write Thing |
There have been many things said about National Novel Writing Month. Mostly good but some bad (the most ludicrous of which, in my opinion: that people should be concentrating more on reading rather than writing. That there are already enough writers out there to satisfy the demand for the “dwindling number of readers.” This argument is mind-bogglingly simplistic and precludes the assertion that most writers are avid readers to begin with, otherwise they would take up some other hobby, like fishing or golf. And even then, those people would likely read copious amounts about fishing and golf. It also excludes the notion that the act of creative writing, in and of itself, is a worthy endeavor, even if publication is never pursued).
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned from the November crush, and likely the most obvious one, is to force my creativity to the point where it comes out onto the keyboard whether awful or not. NaNoWriMo is the equivalent of a writer’s marathon and sometimes it really feels like it. Whatever comes out on the page during the month of November pretty much stays on the page until its time for revisions and editing.
It is easier to edit words that already exist–even to the extent of completely re-writing them, then it is to pull words wholecloth out of thin air. The hard part is getting them down, committing your ideas to paper, even tapping into that Muse that is your unconscious thought (though I like to personify mine and I’ll touch on that in a later post. It really helps, though, to think of your muse as a person or animal).
So write or die… write as much as you can, as fast as you can, for as long as you can. If I could carry this pattern out to the rest of the year I’d be in great shape. For all my previous efforts and for what is in the future, I know that even the process of writing, even if it doesn’t amount to anything tangible now, will make me the better writer in the end.
I hope to be done with my first draft of Violette by the end of December, barring serious holiday intrusion. January and onward will be for revisions, edits, and creation of the second draft. Then, crits with partners (hopefully if I can find some reliable ones who are on the same wavelength as myself), and beta-reaers (again, if I can find any willing). The third draft (and onward) will depend on the general reader reaction and my own gut feelings.
I suspect there will be changes, though. My characters are already hinting at it to me. The more I look and question, the more I uncover hidden motives, past traumas and secret ambitions. Sneaky characters. I had a feeling they were going to do that.
Well, after November, I guess we’ll have words! (the spoken kind, at the top of the voice, and, hopefully more of the written kind as well).
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