Where does my inspiration to write from? Where does any inspiration--to talk and to share and to analyze--come from, for that matter?
For me, inspiration to write comes from my recent findings: books, poems, magazines, movies, TV shows, songs. It's a line that stands out. A line I want to share with a friend or a sentence, piece of wisdom, I can't get out of my head. Like a gnat in a web, it sticks.
You know that moment when you hear a song or a line of lyric or instrumental portion of a song and it hits your heart and for a moment, your heart beats a little stronger because its understood, finally? I love that. When such a moment happens, I immediately text message or call my friend Rachel and say to her, "Rach, [fill in the space] is singing my life." Diana Ross, Coldplay, Van Morrison, James Taylor, Stevie Wonder, the Goo Goo Dolls, Hootie and the Blowfish, the Kooks, Kings of Leon, Led Zeppelin, Guster, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Nelly, Kayne West, Eve 6, Eric Hutchinson, Blues Traveler: they've all song my life to me, some more frequently than others. Their lyrics and tone of voice, their inflection and instrumental work inspire me. Their words reverberate inside my head. I quote them to friends.
This is where my inspiration comes from: more than anything else, music is my muse. I invoke it like Homer: "Sing to me, oh Muse..." I need music. I need those moments when an artist sings my life. I need those favorite moments in a song. I need those drums to come in during the instrumental part of "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by the Rolling Stones. I need that pound of the drum like the pounding of my own heart or the pen in my hand or friends across the table from me.
It's most often the smallest findings, maybe the ones that only I notice, that spark inspiration. And then I share them.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
"thought made visible"
Thought, in its very nature, is personal. More so, thought is, in many ways, who we are: what we do, what we decide, what we say and how we say it; all are rooted in thought. But thought makes its home in the mind, plants itself there.
This is fairly obvious, of course. But perhaps, less apparent is the idea that writing is "thought made visible." And perhaps, since thought is so personal and writing is making the personal, public, this makes us reluctant to share our writing. Perhaps, this is why when we write a draft to an essay or a rough sketch, first wisps of a poem, that we hold on to it, sensitive to the comments of others, to their scrutinizing eyes.Writing can therefore be the uprooting of those thoughts buried deep in the mind, and replanting them on the blank page. Writing exposes those inner desires, inner dialogues, opinions, to the world and its judgement.
Take this blog, for example. I always publish a post and then scan it, wondering is my grammar correct? did I write enough? or too much? I consider what you, the reader will think: will you agree?
Of course, writing does not need to be the violent image of uprooting involuntarily; it can be quite cathartic, as well. R.D. Walshe writes about "learning potentials" of writing: "writing as the great collector of ideas" and "writing as the great clarifier of thinking." The latter of the two describes my experience with journaling. Until I write, and see myself and my ideas on paper, they are oftentimes a bundle of thoughts in a knot in my head. Writing loosens the knot, until each idea or emotion is separated. Only then do I truly understand what I'm thinking or feeling, and only then can I begin to explain that to someone else.
Though it may be scary, and I believe we, as teachers need to be sensitive to that when workshopping in class or grading a paper, writing allows us to know ourselves more completely. And really, only then, begin to explain ourselves to others.
This is fairly obvious, of course. But perhaps, less apparent is the idea that writing is "thought made visible." And perhaps, since thought is so personal and writing is making the personal, public, this makes us reluctant to share our writing. Perhaps, this is why when we write a draft to an essay or a rough sketch, first wisps of a poem, that we hold on to it, sensitive to the comments of others, to their scrutinizing eyes.Writing can therefore be the uprooting of those thoughts buried deep in the mind, and replanting them on the blank page. Writing exposes those inner desires, inner dialogues, opinions, to the world and its judgement.
Take this blog, for example. I always publish a post and then scan it, wondering is my grammar correct? did I write enough? or too much? I consider what you, the reader will think: will you agree?
Of course, writing does not need to be the violent image of uprooting involuntarily; it can be quite cathartic, as well. R.D. Walshe writes about "learning potentials" of writing: "writing as the great collector of ideas" and "writing as the great clarifier of thinking." The latter of the two describes my experience with journaling. Until I write, and see myself and my ideas on paper, they are oftentimes a bundle of thoughts in a knot in my head. Writing loosens the knot, until each idea or emotion is separated. Only then do I truly understand what I'm thinking or feeling, and only then can I begin to explain that to someone else.
Though it may be scary, and I believe we, as teachers need to be sensitive to that when workshopping in class or grading a paper, writing allows us to know ourselves more completely. And really, only then, begin to explain ourselves to others.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
"the bigger the issue, the smaller you write"
When it comes to writing, trusting the reader is my biggest weakness. I want to explain and explain, and oh, did I mention this for the third time? Do you get it? Really? Okay. Let's move on.
I've taken a couple creative writing classes in high school and here, at the UI, the creative writing capital of the country, if not the world. I've sketched out characters and plots and settings on loose leaf papers that only get crumpled and dirty at the bottom of my backpack. Yet one common feature of all those lines of script, besides their destiny, is the markings in the margins, whisked across the page in red: "too repetitive" "trust your reader." Yet, I truly did not conceptualize this notion until Ralph Fletcher quoted his instructor Richard Price in his book What A Writer Needs, "The bigger the issue, the smaller you write" (49).
As it turns out, I need to let the details do the work; like an impressionist painting, the reader can create the full picture from the details. I will never forget my creative writing teacher's comments to a three-section poem I wrote a couple years ago. I repeated the metaphor one too many times in the first section, the rhyme was forced in the second section, but the third section had something quite unique: a secret. I ended the poem, mostly because I was tired of writing, with a thought I carried with me through Germany and into Austria. I hadn't intended to write the line, it merely found its way onto the page. Accident. However, my instructor read the line and in her response, told me "readers love those little glimpses into the writer's thoughts."
She's right.
The secrets, the connections, the leaps across synapses is the joy of reading. Why would I want to deny my reader of that "aha!" moment?
Trust the reader: my new mantra as a writer.
I've taken a couple creative writing classes in high school and here, at the UI, the creative writing capital of the country, if not the world. I've sketched out characters and plots and settings on loose leaf papers that only get crumpled and dirty at the bottom of my backpack. Yet one common feature of all those lines of script, besides their destiny, is the markings in the margins, whisked across the page in red: "too repetitive" "trust your reader." Yet, I truly did not conceptualize this notion until Ralph Fletcher quoted his instructor Richard Price in his book What A Writer Needs, "The bigger the issue, the smaller you write" (49).
As it turns out, I need to let the details do the work; like an impressionist painting, the reader can create the full picture from the details. I will never forget my creative writing teacher's comments to a three-section poem I wrote a couple years ago. I repeated the metaphor one too many times in the first section, the rhyme was forced in the second section, but the third section had something quite unique: a secret. I ended the poem, mostly because I was tired of writing, with a thought I carried with me through Germany and into Austria. I hadn't intended to write the line, it merely found its way onto the page. Accident. However, my instructor read the line and in her response, told me "readers love those little glimpses into the writer's thoughts."
She's right.
The secrets, the connections, the leaps across synapses is the joy of reading. Why would I want to deny my reader of that "aha!" moment?
Trust the reader: my new mantra as a writer.
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