Contemplations of a control freak

 

I was talking to a writer friend the other day. We were talking about writing, as writers do. Both of us have blogs, and I happen to be painstakingly working my way through a novel that I started back in high school, if you’d believe it.

On the topic of stories, my friend mentioned that it’s a little vulnerable to write fiction, because readers might be able to discern the kinds of dreams you have by reading your words. She said that maybe fiction is a way to live vicariously through stories, and she wasn’t sure if that would be good or bad. I joked that writing is the perfect creative outlet for a control freak like me; you have all these characters who have to do whatever you want, and you can make anything turn out perfect, just the way you think it should be.

Immediately after saying it, I found myself experiencing an ethical dilemma, because I can’t not take every joke seriously (God help me, I’m becoming my dad).

In my mind I asked myself the question, is it ok for me to try and control my characters’ lives? Which is dumb, because they don’t exist except for in my mind, and they wouldn’t exist in any manner if I hadn’t dreamed them up. Fictional characters don’t have free will.

And yet… do they?

I can’t tell you exactly how I conceived of the main character of my book, but the more I think about it, it doesn’t feel like my idea. It started with an image, just a simple picture in my head of a person I might find interesting if I saw him on the street or in the desk next to me in Creative Writing class. I wrote a sketch of him for an assignment in said class, and it felt more like getting to know him than making any kind of decisions about who he was and what he wanted.

I’m definitely not saying that I received my characters from some kind of divine revelation. That would be narcissistic. And a little bit wacko. But I feel there’s something more to it, in good writing anyway (oof, now I’m presuming to say I know something about good writing). In all the good writing I’ve read, the characters feel more real than not, and in my most fruitful writing experiences, the writing of my characters’ stories is almost like reverse reading. One step at a time, one layer at a time, each character’s story unfolds. And you can’t write it down all at once. You can’t know how they’re going to change, how they might surprise you down the road. To make them fit into a small and manageable box limits the story you can help them tell.

You have to get to know them. Date them. Ask questions about their family, their childhood, their fears and their motivations. What do they want? Whom do they love? What is wrong with them? Writing is a study in psychoanalysis.

In that way it kind of feels like fictional characters do have some agency. And if I want to write something good, something interesting or relevant or meaningful, I have to be careful not to make all of my characters me, but with magical powers or bigger problems. I have to let them be themselves. Make the choices they’d make. Say the things they’d say (even if those things include expletives). I have to forget, sometimes, the story I wanted to tell, and tell the one they’re telling me instead.

In that way, writing means leaving myself behind. Maybe that’s just what this control freak needs.

A poem about anything

 

My husband and I talk a lot about poetry. What it is, what it should do, how it should feel. He’s a lyricist–a singer/songwriter, as they say–and I am very much not that. His poetry never comes without a song; I don’t think my poetry is well suited to songs, at least not the kind of songs you hear on the radio. Maybe some 19th-century art songs.

It’s interesting how, despite the different forms our respective poetry takes, Zac and I find a lot of common ground when we consider its purpose, and what makes it more or less effective. The biggest thing we disagree on is whether it’s a good stylistic move to rhyme a word with its homophone (I think it isn’t. Feel free to argue).

In one of our more recent conversations, we both lamented the tragic way poetry is handled by many grade-school teachers, who perhaps have never written a poem in their life and are now expected to impart poetry’s essence to a group of third graders. I remember growing up thinking poetry was meant to be sappy or sad, or preachy, or hilarious and rhyme-y. There was no room in my conception of poetry for subtlety, for suggestion. A poem’s purpose was to have a purpose and make it painfully obvious to the reader.

I hated that about poetry, so I never voluntarily wrote any until high school, when I read some Billy Collins and realized poetry could be meaningful and unobtrusive, and surprising and confusing. It wasn’t about controlling the reader. It was about inviting them into your train of thought and letting them get off at the station of their choice.

Zac had a similar experience. He found it frustrating that his teachers would encourage students to write “about anything,” like simply describing an object could make a poem worth reading. “No one wants to read a poem about washing the dishes,” he said.

And I thought he was right, but also wrong. What if the dishes were just the train, but poem’s destination was really something almost unrelated?

So, to Zac: here’s a poem about washing the dishes.

When the Teacher Says Anything can be a Poem
This is a poem just for you
and you already know what it’s about.
No need for any long-winded effusions,
any grotesquely determined imagery
strung heavily with pearls of soap
and perfumed with lemon verbena,
or whatever that smell is.
You don’t need words to tell you what to smell,
or how to feel the bristles scraping,
an extension of your water-spritzed hand,
its length providing some protection
from day-old crusts of egg,
a smear of peanut butter on a knife,
the gristle of bacon seared onto a pan,
so salty the air can still taste it.
The act itself is enough,
mundane repetitions soaked into your shirt.
You’ll do this a million times, probably,
every time, water erasing the memory
washing it down the drain with all the other
unremarkable leftovers of life.
It’s as though
these plates have never been used.

How to do nothing (purposefully)

Relaxation.

It’s kind of a dirty word for a lot of us, right? As a recovering (or maybe just ruminating) perfectionist, I know that for me, it has always been hard to relax. I want to be writing and creating and producing–not lazing!

But we can’t always be working–even working on things we’re passionate about. And actually, the need to be constantly working is what leads to the most burnout and–ironically–procrastination. If you’re too busy trying to do everything at once, and determined to make it perfect the first time, it ends up becoming scary and stressful, rather than exciting, to start any new projects. Crippling perfectionism, I like to call it.

I think writers are, in some ways, more susceptible to this than many others–the art we create is incredibly vulnerable, and it’s easy to get into a habit of criticizing ourselves to make sure that others can’t do it first. But! Self-criticism is the bane of morale, so relaxation is necessary to the writing process.

Sometimes that means literally doing nothing, or bingeing a TV show, or eating some comfort food, or going on vacation and cutting yourself off from everything to do with work.

A lot of the time, though–and I would argue, more of the time–those things just aren’t really an option, or they’re not the healthiest way to relax. You don’t want the majority of your rest time to just be spent deflecting or ignoring your stress–you want your rest to be restful, and that means energizing, inspiring, and joy-giving. Rest should serve the purpose of filling you up.

If you have any trouble imagining what that looks like, here are a few tips that have helped me recharge and re-motivate:

Let the creativity of others feed your own.

This one is really simple, but easy to forget–all our ideas come from somewhere, and as creators we need to replenish our supply of inspiration continuously if anything we create can be meaningful and fresh to us. So if you’re a storyteller, you need to enjoy stories told by others. Let them point you to new ideas, new perspectives.

Spend time in nature.

Besides all the scientific health benefits of vitamin D and exercise, there’s a spirituality to the outdoors that humans connect to innately. You don’t have to be a mountain biker or a squirrel whisperer. Just the simple fact of being out in the air, among other living, growing things, is rejuvenating and uplifting.

God created the world; He takes pleasure in His creation, and we should too. And who knows what adventures you may have when you do!

Invest in meaningful relationships.

Sometimes, especially during times of stress, people seem like a lot of work–but with the right ones, we can leave a conversation or a meal or a trip to the mall feeling so much lighter than before. A good friend should build you up, point you to the truth, and give you hope, and we should endeavor to do those things for the ones we love in turn.

Don’t procrastinate your friends and family and spouse. Intentionally support and energize each other.

Lean in to the quiet.

For some this might take the more structured form of meditation, but for me it just means, go to a place you feel safe–and just breathe. Let your mind wander; don’t try to direct or control it. A lot of times, when I’m feeling burned out, my reflex is to avoid being inside my head by distracting myself with any kind of entertainment–which leads, ultimately, to deeper exhaustion. Taking a pause amid all that, just to let your brain be silent, can be healing.

Find a purposeful, creative, pressure-free hobby.

For me, it’s cooking.

I love food. Love it. And it’s so wonderfully encouraging–exciting, even–to create something delicious and different with the resources I have, to share with people I love.

And guess what? No one is telling me to do it, or what I should be doing differently, or that I’ll never make it as a restaurant chef–and even if they did, I’d be (mostly) immune to their criticism. Because cooking, for me, isn’t like writing; I don’t do it with the intent of reaching an audience. I just love food, and I cook because it gives me joy, and the fact that others can appreciate what I produce is simply a bonus.

So find something you can do, just for you.

Moral of the story: you have to feed your creative side, not just whip it into shape. Be like the sword of Godric Gryffindor and “imbibe that which strengthens you.”