A Strange Combination

Perfect Writer's Spouse

In many ways, the Butler is the perfect spouse for a writer.  Besides the fact that he does all the cooking, he’s also an incurable info junkie.

So imagine this.

You write realistically, value getting your facts straight.  Your next scene involves stalking someone through the streets of Paris (you live in North Yorkshire), then kidnapping and drugging the target, followed by psychologically informed torture interrogation.

Hours of research? 

Nope.  I go on writing, my needs submitted to the Butler.  Not only does he get to feed his habit, he later gets to tie me up so we can see exactly how much mobility the kidnap victim has.

The downside to the Butler as a writer’s spouse is that his professional world has a different social etiquette than mine.  Basically, he thinks writers should be treated better.

What’s bad about that?  Well, in order to survive emotionally as a writer, it’s not helpful to be told you’re a marginalised aspect of the overall process, because you can’t really opt out.  A writer will write regardless.  In fact, in my highly ill informed view, writers (and other artists) have a different way of perceiving and processing information in their environment than let’s say, someone with a  scientific approach to their world. 

A writer can say, ‘I’m mad as hell and not going to take it anymore,’ stop putting pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, but the brain’s still going to be working in the way a writer’s brain works.  End result => less emotional equilibrium than when you were a mistreated, undervalued artist.

The writing life

Those of us who continue to write and get rejected, ignored at best, publicly ridiculed at worst, who have learned to thrive on the slightest bit of encouragement . . . imagine what that says about us.  If I had a client who presented in that manner, we’d be doing some very serious self esteem work.

Here’s the thing that amazes me.  A writer must be acutely aware of her environment, the emotional interplays and sensitivities of people, yet be tough as fried horsemeat about whatever return she gets for her work. 

I think that’s the strangest combination in the world.  I’m not sure I understand it, even as I live it.  Do you have thoughts?

Identity, Transition, Fox Poo

If we’re being precise, I’ve been a trans-parent (someone with a transgender child) for over thirty years, but I didn’t know that until about twelve years ago.  The only amazing thing about my part in all this is that although I accept the concept, I still don’t understand.  I often create trans characters in my writing, but I can only write what I’ve witnessed, not what I’ve felt, experienced.

Big Nose Dog and I were taking the dull walk that day, a shorter trek squeezed in between rain showers.  The venture seemed ours alone – not even the buzzards had appeared.  While Big Nose sniffed every blade of grass in Yorkshire, I walked and waited and walked until my mind wandered to identity.

When I was in undergrad learning my developmental psychology, we were taught that identity was the task for the teen years.  If we think about ourselves as teens or about teens we know, it’s all pretty embarrassing.  You might be forgiven in feeling that adolescence should happen where there are no witnesses. 

But is that really about identity?  I don’t think so.  (And Erik Erikson rolls over in his grave.)  Teens know who they are (as much as anyone can know anything in only a dozen or so years).  They aren’t exploring identity, but how that person they know themselves to be will interface with society.  Which is why there’s so much rebellion about it. 

Anyone who’s lived through raising a toddler has witnessed their surprisingly strong personality emerge from what used to be a cute, burbling enfant.  And to be honest, when my son told me he was my son, not my daughter, I felt really stupid because it was so obvious that my child had never been a little girl.

And yet what many teens learn is how to subvert their identity in order to be accepted by the society that will sustain them for the rest of their lives.  We dole out pink passes to girls and blue to boys, put more money in military than education, reward beauty and athleticism over brains or innovation.

We all make compromises in order to get on, so why transition?  Why not just suck it up?  Transitioning isn’t an easy thing.  Not physically, psychologically, medically, socially, financially.  It can be dangerous.  It can be fatal.

So Big Nose has found something delightful to roll in, making little growly sounds of joy.  I let him, because he’s a dog, not because I appreciate smelling like fox poo.  That grey, solitary landscape around us is apt for 2014 as the Year of Rejection for my writing with the only reward, a dog who smells like shit.  For a brief moment, I think perhaps I should go back to my day job.

And then somehow all this connects me to my son, fiercely brave in his right to be.  Identity is the only thing we’re given to get through life.  A divine gift, perhaps.  Something brutally inevitable, the power of ME . . . well, a person just has to do it, don’t they?

Labels & Lent

Flight or fight.  Decisions.

Her eyes widened a fraction of a millimetre, the tiny jaw muscles tight as she calculated the distance to the door combined with her age versus  my own, her adrenaline extrapolated exponentially to my lack of anticipation, and predicted the likelihood of her escape. She thought she could make it.

You expect more than that from your GP.  Or I do.  Still.  After all these years.  Fat, dumb, happy, that’s me.  But the thing is, the Butler’s taking me to Paris for my birthday and feck me if I’m not having a good time.  And in order to do that, I need to be heavily medicated.  Which is a whole other story, but this GP looked more likely to hospitalise me than give me drugs.

So I say, ‘I used to work with children and some of them in the Asperger’s spectrum had this same inability to habituate certain sounds and vibrations.’ 

Ah, a manageable label delivered with big words.  I most likely wouldn't throttle her with the blood pressure cuff.  She gave me some beta blockers and now the world is safe again.  Everybody breathe deeply.

I don’t know if I’m on the spectrum, although if it’s a spectrum, I guess we’re all on it, but I proposed (tongue in cheek) to the Butler that people should be nicer since I have a label.  This wise ass remark made me decide that for Lent, I would be nicer to me.  No self doubt.  Just for Lent.

18 Things Creative People Do. Photo Andy Ryan

Don’t get me wrong.  Self assessment is a powerful tool.  Without it, you’re a narcissist.  Being disappointed in oneself leads to improvement.  Writers do this full time, I suspect.  It’s as I read recently, creative people ‘fail upward’.  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/03/04/creativity-habits_n_4859769.html

But self doubt can become a constant negative voice inside our heads that we accept as reality. 

Too blue.

F’rinstance, I’m knitting two cardigans for Paris.  A normal person would buy something there or if pressed, knit one.  Me, I knit two.  And during the whole operation, I critique my work.  Too bland.  Too blue.  Buttonholes not where they should be.  Meanwhile, the Butler reacts to my knitting as if I’m spinning gold from straw.  To him, it’s miraculous that I can twist a couple of sticks and out comes a cardigan.  Who cares what colour it is?

Oh.  Yeah.  Right.

A friend of mine is doing 100 Happy Days – the challenge to post a photo of a reason to be happy each day for 100 days.  That’s the ticket with this Lenten vow for me, to look at myself and what I’m doing through happy eyes, so to speak.  Not – well what can you expect from someone with a label – but, it’s good that I exist.  I, who sing badly and often dance as I’m getting out of bed, who reacts to the Butler bringing me a fox skull with a rib breaking hug.  It’s not just alright, but good that I can’t remember to dye my hair and don’t cook and periodically dig up parts of the lawn for pumpkin patches and other inexplicable endeavours.

Too bland.

Sometimes it’s difficult, not sliding into Bad Lora mode.  Sometimes I have to say, ‘It’s just for Lent.  You can rag your ass after it’s over,’ to prevent myself from jumping on some inadequacy. 

The effort is worth it, because as I search for a belief in the beauty of my lesser components, I find more reasons to be happy.  To feel lucky with the life I lead.  And I actually think I’m a nicer, better person for being treated kindly by my inner critic.  Even if it’s only for Lent.

A Small Complaint

I’m not overly fussed about etiquette.  By virtue of being an American in the UK, I’m automatically rude before I open my mouth (but then, I do have an expressive face.)  I don’t take umbrage at spelling and punctuation mistakes in social media (unless it strikes me as funny, then God help you).  My phone conversations often begin without greeting and my guests are expected to raid the fridge.

However.  I’m starting to get annoyed.

I am a person who values . . . now can you guess what a writer might value?  Her thesaurus, yes.  Any other suggestions?  A room of her own.  Okay, all Ph.D. students are prohibited from answering for a moment.  You.  Yes, you, the woman in the back who slept in her clothes and has that look of impatience on her face.  (She’s probably American.)

Communication.  Exactly.

I communicate now to the purveyors of a writer’s work.  When you solicit us.  When you head hunt a writer.  When you want us to spread the word about what you’re doing, you have entered into an etiquette contract with us.

For all the editors who ask us to write something for your publication, the polite thing is to email a response when we ask for clarification or parameters, or to put forward topic suggestions.  The organisers who want your production reviewed, please say yes or no when we ask for an interview rather than pretend we didn’t.  The directors who want your play featured, please keep us in the loop when you change the rehearsal venue or time or both.  The groups who charge double digits for your competitions, announce your short list, because the losers financed that shindig. 

 

Life can be rough enough without breaching etiquette.  In the bigger scheme of things, of war and poverty, abuse and bigotry, this is a small complaint.  But the way we treat each other in the mundane exchanges can sometimes make or break us. 

Being a writer does not mean I’m a voice activated word generator.  If you want me to write for you, communicate with me.  The rude American thanks you.

Wee, Teeny Bravery

My current soon-to-be-turfed work has multiple perspectives, so it’s no surprise I’ve been thinking a lot about the writer’s voice. 

One of my characters is Irish.  Predictably, I’ve given him my husband’s speech pattern.  It’s like putting on the Butler’s still warm jacket.  More than that, it’s practicing a skill I don’t do naturally (speak Hiberno-English), a wonderfully engrossing challenge. 

Another character is American, from a region near my own.  I sit back in his verbal rocking chair and become Uncle Remus.  Here is where, in the guise of a gay male military surgeon, I speak openly about dark things.  I am a brave sheep in wolf’s clothing.  My bravery comes from no one knowing what is true and what is not. 

This isn’t real bravery, no powerful earth woman standing with her arm raised, calling down the power of the Furies.  It’s wee, teeny bravery.  But, the only reason this wee teeny bravery exists is because someone asked me to write about myself.  And I did.  And I got a surprise.  The surprise was that I wasn’t brave at all, so wee, teeny bravery is a step forward.

http://booksbywomen.org/a-purple-crayon/

About this character actor I admire.  (Come, come.  The Appalachian mind must travel in curves, never straight lines.)  There’s a British actor who transforms himself so completely for his roles – voice, appearance, walk – part of my enjoyment is to see if he’s in there under the wigs and makeup.  However, when I’ve seen him as a narrator in documentaries, he comes across as uncomfortable in his own skin, as if he doesn’t know who he is without a role.  It’s amazing (and painful) to watch. 

He’s a good actor, you say?  He is.  Then what’s the problem?

For the incurably introverted (myself, perhaps?), the role or the character’s voice protects the interior world, the place where creativity comes from.  Why mess with that?  No great moral reason, I can see.  I just like a challenge, because by stretching my skill past what comes naturally to me, I improve that skill.  Except the times when I fail hilariously, of course.

In this first wee, teeny bravery, I’ve learned something.  First, I’ve learned to honour my own experiences.  I am the only person who’s had them.  We all share certain experiences, this is true, but I had those experiences in my body with my emotions reacting to and my thoughts being shaped by them.  Therefore, my experience is unique.

The next thing I’ve learned is that there’s liberation to this bravery.  It’s like being forced to use your right hand when you’re a natural southpaw, then picking up the pen in your left hand.  That’s more than being a better writer; for me, when I’m writing as the gay male military surgeon, I feel like I’ve moved close to my reader and quietly shared a very good secret.  I feel closer to you.

And so far when I spread my unique experience on the table, the people who see my wares go, wow . . .  I mean honestly, when I see your wares, I go, wow . . . what made me think you wouldn’t do the same?  That wow moment is a gift.  My experiences are a gift to you.  If someone doesn’t graciously accept them – and that’s bound to happen – that doesn’t have to be about either of us.  It just is.

The biggest thing I’ve taken from this is that the act of being asked to speak is THE most important thing that can happen to a writer.  We pitch and we submit and we work in our closets in the hope that someone will notice our incurably introverted selves.  It all changes when someone says to me, will you write . . .

It’s one thing we have no control over.  I would love to say, Will you write, and validate your wares, but me asking you to write is one step away from Granny doing it. 

Qaisra Shahraz (The Holy Woman, Revolt, Typhoon) recently suggested that writers participate in virtual writing communities, not just through RTs and shares, but with our comments.  Give our voices to other writers to let them know their work is being read.    

It’s great advice and I pass it on to you.  Will you write, will you comment, will you speak to other writers?  I request 140 characters of your wares.  Will you write . . .