shakespearemom

I recently finished watching Penelope, and I was struck by two notions: 1) I really liked the movie, and 2) I tend to hate romantic comedies, and Penelope is precisely that, a romantic comedy. It follows the same path typical in most of them: boy meets girl, something keeps them from just coming out with it that they like each other, they both have some sort of epiphany (or at least one of them does), and after the epiphany they finally get together with a really good kiss (okay, some movies don’t have so great a kiss…Breakfast at Tiffany’s had a really good one, as did Penelope).

Now, before all of you freak out and remind me how much you liked Penelope, let me remind you that I said I enjoyed it too. I know that part of it was the fantasy of it–give me a little magic in a movie, and you usually have my attention, with only a handful of exceptions–but it was more than that. Although the movie ended romantically, it wasn’t because each person changed romantically…it was because each person–Penelope and Johnny–worked on him or herself…they grew, but not merely to grow back to each other. And he didn’t come in like the hero of an old fairy tale and save her. She saved herself, he saved himself, and when they were both whole, they found each other again.

You see, even though journalists are taught to say who, what, where, when, and how something happened, it is the HOW that is most important for me. The same events happened overall, but the WAY they happened held more meaning for me.

Similarly, a book can have interesting events, yet it is the WAY those events are narrated that is most compelling for me. HOW the story is told is by far the most important part of the story. Style is everything.

What style or method of storytelling do you find most interesting or compelling? How much do you notice it as you read?

Unlike many people I know, I am not a packrat. I’ve been known to throw out stuff I really needed, merely because the need wasn’t as strong as my own need to keep my house from being cluttered.

As you can probably imagine, based on the first sentence, I’ve been cleaning out a few things. Actually, today I spent several hours going through piles of old papers, boxes, and books. One place I cleaned was my hope chest (yes, I got a hope chest when I turned sixteen–it’s actually what I asked for, and I filled it with his and hers towels, wedding dress patterns, and other stuff, just like girls traditionally did). You see, I’ve been using my hope chest as a piano bench for several months, mainly because I bought a gorgeous antique piano through Craigslist, but it didn’t come with a piano bench. The hope chest, it turns out, is precisely the right height for the piano.

My husband wasn’t thrilled by the idea, but when I started cleaning out the hope chest so that I could store my piano music in it (instead of on the floor next to the piano), he seemed a bit more excited about my use of furniture. You see, he’s a packrat, but only with his own stuff, not mine. His stuff is treasure, mine clutter. But I love him despite all that (or perhaps because of it).

So I began going through the stuff in my hope chest, and I realized quickly that it was mainly scrapbook fodder–old certificates from as far back as 4th grade, old newspaper clippings when I won art contests or was in plays, etc. The NON-packrat in me was immediately tempted to just chuck it all, without even going through it. What good would any of this do me, I asked testily? What use was any of it?

But I resisted the urge (I actually dug a bit of it out of the trash bag, right after I’d tossed it in there), and I discovered, as I sifted through it all, that there was a use in much of it. Reliving the past, especially the past where I got good grades, tried really hard, and impressed a lot of teachers, was a big boost to my ego, especially since another task I completed today was marking off the agents who had turned me down over the last month (six in total).

I also found an even greater treasure trove: letters. I found an early, sweet letter from my best friend through ninth grade (he was really cute, too). I found an old letter from an old teacher encouraging me–and I realized again, with a shock, that this teacher was no longer alive. I found a FABULOUS letter my sister had sent our grandmother, defending me and being utterly loyal to me, despite all the horrible things our parents were saying about me. My husband is reading it as I write.

I hugged the letter to me after I read it through (yes, I really did!), and I knew that sometimes a little clutter could be a very good thing. I might have tossed a few old programs, some faded news articles, and a ton of old ribbons, but I kept every single letter. Perhaps some day my great grandchildren will read through them, and they will understand who I was just a little bit more.

Kids are funny. They can be exhausted, yet they resist going to bed with such determination that they wear out their parents by the time they fall asleep. (I speak from experience, believe me). And they seem to wake up far earlier than they should. At least, my children do. They would prefer getting up early and being cranky all day to sleeping in a few hours and being happy all day.

But someday, they too will be parents. And they will understand what being tired really means. It means they have to get up several times in the night to put somebody’s covers back on, to calm a nightmare, to get someone a glass of water, or to hush to WAILING cats out in the backyard (again, I speak from experience), and do all this while they are battling some horrible crud their own children brought home (still from experience). And they will feel fatigue like they have never felt it before.

Now, to change my attitude, I might say to myself, “Well, since you’re tired, you can just hang around and not do housework today. You can write on your novel, play piano, sew, or just watch movies.” But that’s the weird thing about fatigue. It makes even enjoyable tasks burdensome. Instead of enjoying plinking on the ivories, I groan about my back hurting, and I imagine laying my head on the keys and going to sleep. Watching movies is nearly as difficult. I tend to dislike all the characters, rant at how slowly people realize what’s going on, and look at my watch to count down the minutes left in the film, according to the time listed on the back of the DVD package (yes, I really do that).

The only exceptions to the effects of fatigue are acting and writing. I am actually a better actor when I’m tired, for I tend to be more emotional when I lack sleep, and I am thus less inhibited. With writing, I do almost as well, although I simply cannot revise anything when I’m exhausted. In the past, when I’ve had insomnia, I’ve spent several hours in the weak light of morning typing away on a novel or play. It is actually easier to write at these times because my kids are not yet awake. Yet lately I have fallen asleep in the middle of writing. I wake a few minutes later to find five lines of “ffffffffffffffffffffffff” at the end of my chapter. That is my clue that I need to get up and do something else. Believe it or not, I am more likely to fall asleep writing at 3 in the afternoon than at 3 in the morning.

How does fatigue affect you? Can you write when you are utterly exhausted? Does one time of day work better than another?

One of my favorite movies is Amadeus. I’ve seen the theatrical production, too, but I admit I LOVE the movie (it combines fabulous costumes, great acting, and magnificent music, so how could it not be one of my favorites?). I believe, despite all its other qualities, what draws me into the movie so much is the character of Salieri, who is upset by his own “mediocre” talents when he compares them to Mozart’s inate musical genius.

Yet, at the end of the film (spoiler alert!) he embraces his own mediocrity, as well as the mediocrity of the world around him. He is able to deal humorously with the truth of his existence, that it isn’t as memorable and magnificent as he would have wished. He knew, even before his life was over, that he would not go down in history as one of the greatest composers who ever lived.

How many writers realize this, I wonder? I am a HUGE fan of older classics, tending to enjoy works more than 100 years old far more than works just published. Why is that? Is it because I am caught up in the past, entranced by a world that is no longer in existence? Do I wish I could dress in a corset, walk around and visit neighbors all day, holding a frilly parasol and wearing some cute hat.

Okay, so maybe a little. But I could do that if I wanted, even now. And I don’t.

It’s not the charm of an old world that draws me in. Think about this. Far more writers wrote in the past, yet very few of them wrote works truly worth immortalizing. Even Dickens, who wrote some of my favorite novels, also wrote a lot of other things which are not nearly so appealing. I have a collection of his Christmas stories, and aside from A Christmas Carol, which is still highly popular today, the other stories really aren’t that good.

In effect, most of what was written in the past was mediocre. And that is why it does not survive today. That is why some Renaissance plays are NEVER performed…they really aren’t that good.

Today’s fiction, plays, and poetry have not been through the weeding-out that time provides. I am currently reading a Newbery winner, Criss Cross, and I assume that in a hundred years its Newbery status will be the only way it survives. It simply isn’t that good. And it is only one of countless mediocre books which will disappear as time moves on. In a hundred years–in FIVE hundred years–what will have survived? I would estimate that only 10% of the recently written stuff I have read will last through the next 100 years. Perhaps less.

And more than likely, what I write will disappear with the 90%, and not survive. And, looking down from heaven, I’ll be reconciled to that in the same way Salieri was. I might, like Salieri, realize it in my own lifetime.

But that isn’t what he attempted, to be mediocre. And that won’t be what I strive for, either. Who knows? Maybe I’ll turn out to be a Mozart. Or a Shakespeare. Or a Jane Austen.

I’ll just have to see how far I can go. 

Point of view is EVERYTHING. I’ve learned this from writing, but I’m amazed by how much it works in my real life. In a novel, the entire tone of the novel–and often its underlying meaning–changes as soon as one changes who is telling the story. Each character views the story differently. Each one has different goals. The trick is finding the right character to tell it, one who can see enough of what others are doing (and feeling), yet who maintains a view of the world that readers can both relate to and empathize with.

In our real lives, though, I am astonished by the effect point of view has on my everyday life. I’ll be going through what I believe is an awful day, yet my kids are having an awesome time. They teach me to sit back, see the world from their point of view, relax a bit more, and enjoy just living (even if I don’t get everything done I wish to). Yet I can also have a FABULOUS day, but when I try to describe it to others, they sympathize with me, as if my day was awful (and perhaps it would have been, to them).

I suppose the key to happiness is creating my world into what I truly love, or looking at my world with happy eyes, enjoying it for what it is (even when it isn’t perfect or doesn’t go exactly as I’d planned). If I start to grow dissatisfied, I need to jumpstart my attitude a bit, reframing it to change my point of view. (Glass half empty becomes glass half full–or, better yet, three-quarters full). I need to do something to shift my point of view, to change my attitude, whether it be cleaning, playing piano, singing, gardening, writing, or just snuggling with my kids and reading them a few books.

Last night my husband asked me if I wanted to drive over to a vacation area today–I think it’s a lake out east somewhere, over the mountain range and into eastern Washington. It’s supposed to be beautiful, and many people who live in western Washington own time-shares out there, and it’s their favorite place in the state to vacation. Richard seemed pretty excited about going out there, and he thought it would be fun for the whole family.

I said no.

It’s not that I don’t want to see the lake. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with him, or goof around with the family. It’s not that I don’t want to be outside, or do anything fun.

But I’m tired of going places. I’m tired of traveling, of setting up tent, of being in the car, of figuring out what we’re going to eat for lunch when we aren’t at home. I’m also tired of having a pit for a house, of feeling as if my whole world at home is little more than chaos. I need my bathrooms clean, my garden weeded, my floors vacuumed, my laundry, well, laundered.

And I need to write. I need to spend the morning getting my house into shape, and spend the afternoon writing.

Maybe then I’ll want to head off to the lake. Or visit Mom for Labor Day weekend. Or go to the fair again. Or go antique shopping in Duvall or Snohomish. Maybe I’ll be ready for another adventure to Spokane, or a day trip to almost anywhere.

Then, maybe I won’t. At this point, I can’t tell.

Those of you who are following my blog know what I mean by that. I played ALL the hymns, tons of special music, even the ORGAN for church yesterday. Was I perfect? Not on your life. Was I terrific? No way! Was I great? Nope.

But I did it. I made mistakes over and over, I flubbed nearly everywhere. In some places, I was just plain AWFUL. But I did it. And everybody was happy, including me. I felt everybody pulling for me in a way I never had before, and so many of us were trying to do things we had never done before.

It was rough, and sometimes I almost broke out laughing–not crying, laughing–but it worked. And I’m doing it again this coming Sunday. This time, though, I have a trumpeter to help. He’ll play the first hymn, and we’ll play the last one together, and that leaves me only the incidental pieces and one hymn on my own.

So I’ll keep practicing, and with practice I have faith that I will continue to get better.

Just thought you all would want to know.

We all respond to stress in different ways. If you remember, I am playing piano for my church service–THIS MORNING!!!

Honestly, I am tense about it. Last night Richard asked me what he could do to make me less tense. But I was already doing it. I was CLEANING!

You see, my house has been turned upside-down for about two months now. Richard finished putting in the last of the bamboo flooring last night, but half the house has been transformed during that process. (And it does look AWESOME!) But the kids have ended up spending most of their day downstairs in the basement while all this happens. They eat there, sleep there, watch television there, paint there, play with toys there…you get what I mean. And the rooms show it.

Last night, most likely because of my own underlying tension, the pit of a basement became too much for me to take. I find it impossible to relax when my house is a mess, and my house is a PIT. So I cleaned the basement, at least to a tolerable level, last night. I vacuumed up the corners, which were filled with old tortilla chips (and ants-eeek!), cookie crumbs, legos, and countless other pieces of junk. I tossed two partial decks of cards away, along with tons of other stuff my kids are not likely to miss.

And I made a list of tasks–all cleaning–to do after church today. So when I get home I will make my bathrooms sparkling, go through several tons of paper stacks so I can toss most of the stuff, wash floors, sort toys, and otherwise make my house perfect.

And then I will RELAX!

Wish me luck!

Fear causes much of the cruelty in the world. One group fears another (or the power of another), so the two groups become enemies. I’m convinced that much of hate stems from fear as well. It leads to racial and religious prejudice, causes war and unrest, and (unfortunately) seems to feed itself and grow with little assistance .

But we are all victims of fear on a smaller, daily basis. Instead of causing us to act out aggressively, it causes us to avoid doing things. We fear what people would think, so we don’t wear a certain outfit. We fear rejection, so we never send off our writing. We fear embarrassing ourselves, so we refuse to play the piano (or sing) in public (and need I remind you that I am playing ALL the hymns this coming Sunday, after only five months of piano lessons?). Fear keeps us from taking chances.

It’s one thing, though, to admit you are afraid. Another matter to figure out why. You can say, “I’m afraid to be in a play. I might forget my lines.” But it isn’t forgetting your lines that you fear. It’s something else. Are you afraid your mother will be in the audience, and she’ll be justified in thinking you should never have tried out when she sees you forget your lines? Do you fear that the whole show will fall as a result, and you will have let everyone down?

If you are afraid of showing people your writing, you might say, “What if it stinks? What if they tell me it isn’t any good?” But is that your fear, or do you fear that you are out of touch with the world, or think more of yourself than you really are? Will the opinions of others be so different from your own that you realize you are deluded about your talent?

If you fear even telling people what you want to do with your life, are you afraid they will say, “Oh, you shouldn’t do that,” or “That’s irresponsible,” or “You can’t make any money doing that”? Do you feel guilty spending time on something when everyone else thinks you should be doing something more responsible/lucrative/unchallenging?

And what will everyone do with my kids? Encourage them to take chances, try new things, push themselves farther than they think they can go? Or will they caution them, limit them, nudge them away from challenges and frustrations? When my son is frustrated, I encourage him to calm down and try harder. My daughter is learning from the Olympics that, though no one is perfect, they are all trying. If someone falls off the balance beam, she sees them get right back up on it and finish their routine. And that is teaching her to keep going, to resist the urge to give up when something isn’t easy. She knows that I will love her no matter what, whether she is successful or not at what she tries. I will be proud of her just for trying.

I suppose what I’m getting at is that most fear–at least in my opinion–stems from our fear of what others will think. Maybe that’s why I’m willing to try the whole piano thing. Nobody at church is saying I’ll fail. Nobody wants me to. In fact, they REALLY want me to do it. They will all be pulling for me on Sunday. And they may wince when I play the wrong note (notice I say “when” and not “if”–I’m not deluded, you know), but after it’s all over, they will come up, pat me on the back, and say I was great. And I’ll be grateful for that, even if I know I wasn’t great at all.

But I won’t be afraid. I have nothing to fear.

Taoism teaches of the flow, of the natural movement of life, and what I’ve read of it suggests that living becomes easier the more we flow with the natural movement, and becomes more difficult the more we resist it and try to move in some other direction (or keep things static).

I cannot say I am a Taoist, but this idea works for me, for I sense in my life a destined direction. When I work in the proper direction, my everyday life seems to flow, with only minor kinks here and there, minor frustrations. Yet when I move off and push myself too hard to do stuff that really doesn’t suit me (to earn more money, to feel busier, or for whatever reason) I find myself more uncomfortable, stressed, and unhappy.

The problem is, sometimes it takes months for the effects of my resistance to show up. All I know is that I don’t feel so great. I get some vague impression that something isn’t right. Only after months of suffering do I realize what the cause of it is, drop the resistance, and instantly feel better.

It makes me think about my kids (and other people, who were once children, too). I see so many people pushing others around. Parents tell their kids what activities they can and cannot pursue. People have told me to abandon writing, teaching, art, etc. I hear comments made about three-year-olds, about what they will and won’t be “when they grow up.” Yet the truth of it is that no one but one person can feel the flow within his own life. No one but I knows what flows within and around me. My own husband, who loves me dearly (even if he doesn’t understand me), doesn’t know my flow, as much as he would like to. I am with my children every day, but at this point, I don’t have a CLUE what they will be when they grow up. Brandon could be a symphony conductor, a gymnast, a monster truck driver, or a dentist. Crystal could be an artist, musician, swimmer, or veterinarian. I can’t even safely claim Crystal won’t become a monster truck driver.

But if I place limitations on my kids–parents call them “expectations,” though I think they do so erroneously–it will be harder for my children to follow their individual paths. It might take them years to find their contentment, or they might live entirely unhappy lives, continually trying to move in a direction that moves against who they really are.

I need to make sure I let go of my kids, let them follow their own flow in this world, not dictate what that flow “should” be. Richard lets me go (though sometimes he wants to rein me in a bit more), and I let him. Perhaps that is why we are both happy together. And our flows move around each other, venture off a bit, and come back safely, time and time again.

I wonder where my flow will take me next. I hope I am brave enough to follow it. I hope my children follow theirs, too.

Are you following yours?