Tag Archives: writing

on writing, rewriting, & taking notes

Small Times Life

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Indira Ganesan, Tulip with Effect, 2012

One of the pleasures in small time life, as well as living in a small town, is locating a local florist.  I’m lucky because our florists are both sophisticated and kind.  If on a winter day I wander in, and all that is on my mind are tulips, I’ll get tulips and boxwood, which I hurry home to place in a vase.

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Indira Ganesan, Simple Black and White, 2012

Later, I take iphotos.  A friend of mine, a photographer, uses a Leica, because she finds in it the beauty I find in an Olivetti.  She also uses her Leica to take photographs, whereas I merely admire old typewriters.

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Indira Ganesan, Tulips & Jasmine, 2012

I’ve rearranged my work space, hoping in the process to find a writing process that will stick.  I have a prized office, but I am going to make it into a library and meditation space.  I’ve moved my desk upstairs, where my perspective has more depth.  I know I am trying to recreate a design that took me two years to achieve in Boulder, where I rearranged furniture constantly in order to let the novel write itself.  It is an exercise in futility, but I think it has some purpose.  I need time to sit comfortably–indeed, find my comfortable seat.  One has to trust the environment implicitly to get to work.  Moving is arduous.  One feels guilty in leaving behind friends, one wonders why it was even necessary, why the hand was forced for economics, and then one wonders what it is one is trying to achieve.  Some can write anywhere, and so one feels guilty that one is squandering a space of time.  Then one looks up, sees the time, and gets to work.  The  flowers are essential, crucial.  Our lives are delicate and strong.  I don’t know how to end this piece without acknowledging the terrible loss suffered by parents and family and friends in Connecticut today.  I don’t know how we bring ourselves to this moment.

I advocate for banning guns.

An argument from Bill Moyers: http://billmoyers.com/segment/bill-moyers-essay-living-under-the-gun/

December’s Start

Victorian, circa 1870

Victorian, circa 1870 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A cup of hope.  I drank a cup of coffee given by a friend the other day and it was delicious.  I who am so picky about the beans, the origin, the roasting times, a perfectionism that might have  likely led to my toothache, which happily, is receding, found it delicious without knowing anything about it except its name, “hair of dog.”

One more month in this year.  The darkening days that will soon turn light again, the host of holidays approaching, and cards to be written.  And posted.  Last fall I sat down meaning to send change of address cards to all my friends, but only got as far as “K.”

Let me bend with grace and reason, then, and pen some cards and notes of thanks, as we near the end of this year to soon begin another.

Once a Day

The Metropolitan Museum of Art – Wooden Writing Tablets.

Last month, I took an on-line course taught by  Cynthia Morris, called the Fall Writing Fling.  Each day we received a prompt and photo in the mail, along with a “writual blessing.”  All we had to do was write for at least fifteen minutes each day for the month.

Happily, I completed all thirty-one days.  It wasn’t always easy, and there were days I fitted it in late at night, and even while visiting family.  But I love structure, and I love the “follow through.” This was, for me, the checking in with everyone else in the group by posting comments.  It was really what I looked forward to, a completion of the creative act of writing.  That’s what Pat Schneider of Writing Alone & With Others would say.  She believes that the actual writing is only part of the writing task; the sharing of the writing, and receiving a response completes the process.  In Cynthia’s class, no one read each other’s work,only post three words to describe the process that day, along with comments on the work.  I liked reflecting on whatever it was I wrote, without sharing it.

I found that by the third week, it became a habit, and by the fourth week, I really enjoyed it.  It ceased being a task.

A friend wondered what I did with the exercises.  I said I threw them away, that they were like practicing scales, but later I realized that I did go back to a couple for insights into the story I was working on.

Practice makes the difference.

Does anyone else keep a regular morning pages sort of practice?  What are the effects in your life?  Leave a comment!