Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
Is it strange that I want to f
Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
Is it strange that I want to fist bump Virginia Woolf whenever I read this iconic line from A Room of One's Own?
Woolf wrote this essay in October 1928 for an Oxbridge lecture on the topic of Women and Fiction. It was published a year later, as the Jazz Age came to a skidding halt and the Great Depression fell like a heavy curtain across the world's stage. But on this glorious mid-autumn day, suspended in thought, she wanders the grounds of an Oxford college that has curious rules about where women can walk and sit. Woolf contemplates what it means to be addressing women's intellectual and creative pursuits in a place that won't let her walk through gardens or enter a chapel because of her sex. She contrasts the opulent luncheon of sole "spread with a counterpane of the whitest cream" and partridge and an ethereal "pudding" she enjoys in the men's hall with the meagre dinner at a women's college later that evening.
Meanwhile the wineglasses had flushed yellow and flushed crimson; had been emptied; had been filled. And thus by degrees was lit, half-way down the spine, which is the seat of the soul, not that hard little electric light which we call brilliance, as it pops in and out upon our lips, but the more profound, subtle and subterranean glow which is the rich yellow flame of rational intercourse.
and later, a far more modest affair at the women’s college:
What force is behind that plain china off which we dined, and (here it popped out of my mouth before I could stop it) the beef, the custard and the prunes?
The difference in the meals serves as a starting metaphor for the opportunities afforded a female scholar of the literary arts. With belly sated and senses enlivened by the romance of this beautiful October day, wandering the hallowed, golden grounds of Oxford, Woolf lays out the central premise of her essay:
All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point—a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved.
She imagines Shakespeare's twin sister Judith, a woman possessing curiosity, ambition and talent at least equal to that of her celebrated brother but because of cultural and political oppression of women, her voice and eventually her life are wasted. And then Woolf goes on to show us how all women are related to Shakespeare's sister.
Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.
The central tenet of Virginia Woolf’s essay is to counter the notion that women’s writing is inferior to men’s. She offers up, in language at once accessible and divine, proof of history’s disavowal of women’s promise. What seems obvious today was radical feminist thinking at the time.
The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.
And what is to be done to right history’s wrongs?
Give her a room of her own and five hundred a year, let her speak her mind and leave out half that she now puts in, and she will write a better book one of these days.
Woolf examines the women writers who did break through, despite the walls and ceilings holding them in. I’m new enough to Woolf’s writings that I did not know she held such affection for Jane Austen. This fills me with shivery delight and makes me want to hug the world.
Here was a woman about the year 1800 writing without hate, without bitterness, without fear, without protest, without preaching. That was how Shakespeare wrote.
Here we are, ninety-five years after Virginia Woolf wrote her essay. How things have changed. How they have not.
Have you any notion of how many books are written about women in the course of one year? Have you any notion how many are written by men? Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?
I am sure, were Virginia alive today, she would be involved with , which does an annual count to tally the gender disparity in major literary publications and book reviews. Woolf imagined that in a hundred years� time, women’s writing would be on par with men’s in terms of acceptance, publication, readership, and critical review and respect. Alas, although things have improved immensely, there is still work to be done.
Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the cross-roads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here to-night, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed.
Judith Shakespeare is present among us. She may have found her way from middle-class America and Europe into universities and be earning an income and enjoying a room of her own, but she is still waiting to be lifted from poverty elsewhere, into education and independence, to use the full-throated power of her own voice.
But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.
A call to action, if ever there was one. An astonishing work of literary criticism, of feminist thought, that is as vital, powerful, and important today as it was on that golden October afternoon in 1928. I am moved beyond words.
Very lovely, like the embrace of a trusted friend. There is a lot of gentle, beginning-writer guidance and I was expecting more of a call to action, mVery lovely, like the embrace of a trusted friend. There is a lot of gentle, beginning-writer guidance and I was expecting more of a call to action, more examples of change-specific writing; perhaps less instructional and more motivational. But, there are beautiful words of encouragement and inspiration. A reference to return to when it seems change is too hard to come by. ...more
I don't quite know how to rate and review Brain Lock, but I'll give it the old college try. Please note that several f-bombs are laced throughout my rI don't quite know how to rate and review Brain Lock, but I'll give it the old college try. Please note that several f-bombs are laced throughout my review. Profanity feels really good when it comes to fighting back.
I don't have OCD, but a friend who knows I struggle with claustrophobia and anxiety sent it along with a strong recommendation. And I'm oh-so-glad she did.
On the surface, the treatment method for OCD outlined and explained in Brain Lock wouldn't seem to have much to do with treating phobias. Yet, what is a phobia but an obsessive, irrational fear of harmless or even unlikely circumstances? It's not even that, really. A phobia is the fear of losing control when faced with a particular circumstance.
For me, it's getting a handle on the ridiculousness of claustrophobia that interferes with my love of travel; specifically, I fucking hate to fly. And, like, I've flown all over the world, north to south, east to west. I've had jobs predicated on the ability to travel all over, frequently, by small, steel tube with no access to fresh air for hours on end. I've been claustrophobic forever, but the flight thing just keeps getting worse. I never, ever get on an elevator, but for the most part I can work around that (recent surgery, I couldn't escape the elevator, but I was on a gurney with drugs in my system. That's how I roll). It's hard, however, to get to Vietnam, Chile, Morocco or Turkey - all places I intend to get to soon - without boarding a plane. Fuck this. I'm tired of carrying the burden of my own brain around. Enough.
I love a plan. And now I have one. The first two pages of the journal I'm taking with me to France (YES! FUCK YES! I'M GETTING ON A FUCKING PLANE IN TWO WEEKS) are filled with notes from Brain Lock, including the Four Steps: RELABEL, REATTRIBUTE, REFOCUS, REVALUE.
For years, I've Refocused, without even knowing I should be. When I feel a pre-take-off or mid-flight panic attack tickling the nether reaches of my brain, I pull out my book of NY Times Sunday crossword puzzles and get to work. It's hard to panic when you are trying to think of the nine-letter name for a canonized Norwegian king. But I never knew the power of anticipating and accepting that I WILL start to panic, that every fiber in me will be screaming ICANTICANTICANTICANT as I walk down the jetway or when the flight attendants close the doors and I know I am TRAPPED FOR HOURS AND I CAN'T GET OUT. There's power in knowing that horror is going to happen. Knowledge is power, because it puts me in control.
The moment I read this thing, this thing about saying, "Oh, hey there, Brain. Yep, there you go, freaking out. What else is new? You've allowed in stupid obsessive thoughts, but sit down and STFU!" (Relabel & Reattribute) a light flickered on. No one ever told me I could say THAT to my brain. No one ever told me that the panic won't go away, but I don't have to DO anything about it. I don't have to try to stop it, I just don't have to ACT on it. I can carry on with the rest of my life (Refocus) and devalue the panic as worthless garbage (Revalue). This alone was worth the price of admission. I see other reviews suggesting that you skip right to the end of the book, where the four steps are explained in a handful of pages, but don't do that. It's really worth getting some background on OCD and relating it to your particular issues, even if it's not a disorder you possess.
The case studies I skipped, as well as chapters on relationships to other disorders and living with a loved one who has OCD. I was also a bit taken aback by the frequent references to God. I wasn't expecting that from a behavior therapist. It's fine, really. I'm not a religious person, but I do my fair share of appealing to a higher power. It just caught me off guard.
But I was glad to see the strong focus on mindfulness, the nuanced approach to medication (the goal being to alter your brain chemistry, thereby negating the need for medication), and the nods to meditation. I've found a couple of phobia-specific guided meditation practices that have been incredibly helpful and they will be loaded on my iPod, ready for action during that flight.
I know I'll be fine. I've made this flight dozens of times. It's never easy, but once, long ago, it was, so I know the power to change my brain and gain control over these false messages is completely within my grasp.
I soaked up the first half of this slim guide with frequent shouts of "Yes! THIS!" and skimmed the second half with a bit of a shrug and a *meh* Isn'tI soaked up the first half of this slim guide with frequent shouts of "Yes! THIS!" and skimmed the second half with a bit of a shrug and a *meh* Isn't it odd when that happens? It's really okay, though, since I found so very much solace, empathy, and inspiration in the parts I did absorb. Things like,
. . . Those who continue to make art are those who have learned how to continue—or more precisely, have learned how not to quit.
This is a book about making art. Ordinary art. Ordinary art means something like: all art not made by Mozart. After all, art is rarely made by Mozart-like people; essentially—statistically speaking—there aren’t any people like that. Geniuses get made once-a-century or so, yet good art gets made all the time, so to equate the making of art with the workings of genius removes this intimately human activity to a strangely unreachable and unknowable place. For all practical purposes making art can be examined in great detail without ever getting entangled in the very remote problems of genius.
Vision, Uncertainty, and Knowledge of Materials are inevitabilities that all artists must acknowledge and learn from: vision is always ahead of execution, knowledge of materials is your contact with reality, and uncertainty is a virtue.
Making art is dangerous and revealing. Making art precipitates self-doubt, stirring deep waters that lay between what you know you should be, and what you fear you might be. For many people, that alone is enough to prevent their ever getting started at all -- and for those who do, trouble isn't long in coming. Doubts, in fact, soon rise in swarms:
"I am not an artist -- I am a phony. I have nothing worth saying. I'm not sure what I'm doing. Other people are better than I am. I'm only a [student/physicist/mother/whatever]. I've never had a real exhibit. No one understands my work. No one likes my work. I'm no good.
Yet viewed objectively, these fears obviously have less to do with art than they do with the artist. And even less to do with the individual artworks. After all, in making art you bring your highest skills to bear upon the materials and ideas you most care about. Art is a high calling -- fears are coincidental.
Making art now means working in the face of uncertainty; it means living with doubt and contradiction, doing something no one much cares whether you do, and for which there may be neither audience nor reward.
Art is like beginning a sentence before you know its ending.
The truly special moments in art making lie in those moments when concept is converted to reality.
My fellow residents of the Pacific Northwest: Be afraid. Be very afraid. There is a ticking time bomb beneath our feet. It could detonate tonight or iMy fellow residents of the Pacific Northwest: Be afraid. Be very afraid. There is a ticking time bomb beneath our feet. It could detonate tonight or in one hundred years. Who knows? There are smart geologists working hard to answer that question, but prediction science is a lot of tilting at windmills.
Still, this is fascinating stuff. Jerry Thompson takes us on an armchair tour through seismic activity of the ring of fire, starting with Mexico City in 1985, a jump back to Alaska, 1964 and on through the recent double tragedies of earthquake and tsunami in Japan, 2011. He drills down from the massive Ring of Fire to focus on the Cascadia Subduction zone that runs from Vancouver Island to Northern California, how it was discovered, and what can happen when It decides to cut loose with The Big One.
There is a baffling absence of maps. I live here, so I know the Northwest references, but what about everyone else? Not to mention the many sites outside the PNW: Central and South America, the South Pacific, Alaska, Japan, Southeast Asia...inexcusable not to show the plate and subduction zone formations, either.
I live on a peninsula that juts into the Puget Sound on one end, the Strait of Juan de Fuca on the other, bordered on a third side by two bays. Water in three directions. We'd be pretty well screwed if it weren't for the fact that higher ground is to our southwest: the Olympic Mountains. Our beaches sport tsunami sirens, the country roads have tsunami evacuation notices--every Tuesday morning at 10 a.m. downtown life is interrupted briefly by the chilling sound of the siren drill. Good thing I do hill repeats on my bike. When the rumbling starts, I'll shove the cat in her carrier, get on my bike and start peddling, uphill....more
Beautifully presented and comprehensive, this is an excellent resource that combines the history of Eastern meditation techniques with practical instrBeautifully presented and comprehensive, this is an excellent resource that combines the history of Eastern meditation techniques with practical instruction. ...more
Although a great believer in Dr. Seligman's work, the positive psychology movement, and the important work being done at the Positive Psychology CenteAlthough a great believer in Dr. Seligman's work, the positive psychology movement, and the important work being done at the Positive Psychology Center at the University of Pennsylvania, I would not recommend this book to someone not already familiar with PP or Seligman. It's oddly structured and rambling--more an overview of Seligman's career and the development of positive psychology, with heaps of footnotes--than a enlightening look at the practical application of positive psychology in every day life. ...more
Once upon a time there was a woman who dreaded the staff meeting roundtable, when each person had to share what was good or bad or on their professionOnce upon a time there was a woman who dreaded the staff meeting roundtable, when each person had to share what was good or bad or on their professional plate that week or in their personal life. All five, nine, fifteen pairs of eyes would be upon her as she forced her voice to carry down the table, knocking off as few words as she could to express, “Everything’s great!� before turning her flushed face to the colleague beside her. This same woman could take the stage before an audience in the hundreds at a conference and deliver a speech with poise, loving every moment she was in the spotlight.
That I am an introvert is not news to me. I can’t recall when I first took the Myers-Briggs personality type test, but I should have INFJ tattooed on my forehead, for the results never waver. And at some point, I got the message that being an introvert doesn't mean I'm shy, for I am not; it doesn't mean I'm not a risk-taker, for I am, or that I don’t form deep personal attachments, for I have many. What it does mean, among many things, is that socializing wears me out. I abhor chitchat, loud people, group projects and “going out.� It means I love to lose myself in solitary endeavors. It means I love process, not reward.
It means I’d rather just sit and listen. And when I have something to say, please be patient. I’m not a fast talker, I pause a lot, searching for just the right word. And even then you’ll probably have to strain to hear me. Unless I’ve thoroughly rehearsed my responses, I’ll never deliver my thoughts with articulate confidence.
There are parts of Susan Cain’s Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking that made me laugh, even as tears stung my eyes. Knowing that I prefer to be alone—that I have little tolerance for casual social situations—never released me from feeling that I needed to overcome my social awkwardness and impatience, my thin skin and tendency to fret about the future and things beyond my control. I thought these were faults, not characteristics of a personality type shared by millions, most of us existing in contemplative, considerate silence.
Through research, anecdotal interviews and personal experiences, Cain explores the ways introverted personalities manifest themselves in the workplace and personal relationships. The section on “highly-sensitive� people struck home.
The highly sensitive tend to be philosophical or spiritual in their orientation, rather than materialistic or hedonistic. They dislike small talk. They often describe themselves as creative or intuitive. They love music, nature, art, physical beauty. They feel exceptionally strong emotions—sometimes acute bouts of joy, but also sorrow, melancholy, and fear. They are highly empathetic…with thinner boundaries separating them from other people’s emotions and from the tragedies and cruelties of the world
Yes, please. Reading this, I realized one of the reasons I tend to shut myself off and away is because I am overwhelmed by my own helplessness to change the world. I take things so personally and feel them so deeply that I become frozen in place, not knowing how to translate feeling into action.
When Cain discusses her professional epiphany, I had another laugh/cry moment. Hers was realizing that she was never cut out to be a corporate lawyer; mine, a university and corporate administrator. There are many aspects of our professions in which we excelled, rising quickly through the ranks. But neither of us is cut out for committee work, for schmoozing and glad-handing, for blowing our own horn—all required in legal circles, ivory towers and boardrooms. I loved the one-on-one time I spent counseling students, building relationships with individual faculty, developing administrative processes and procedures, doing research and yes, presenting at conferences and leading workshops, for which I rehearsed and prepared weeks in advance.
But I knew I’d never rise to the ranks of the one in charge; I simply wasn’t built for the social demands and networking required of a Director. So, for fifteen years I left job after job just at the pinnacle of power and success—always the Bridesmaid, never the Bride. I never really knew why, except that something was inherently wrong with me.
At last, I accept nothing is wrong with me; denying myself the opportunity to advance was recognition that moving up meant moving into roles for which I was constitutionally not suited.
Now I am a writer. And a happy little clam. I work to create niches of social balance to avoid complete isolation—I belong to a book club, a writer’s group, I volunteer, meet friends for coffee. Social media is a great release for me, because I only talk when I want to, I have all the time in the world to construct my thoughts (which I can edit later!) and no one is looking at me as I speak. Quiet has given me permission not to regard my limited in-person social circle as evidence of a failure of personality, but as respect given to my true nature: “Love is essential: gregariousness is optional.�
In some ways, working through the theories and examples in this book is exhausting and dispiriting—if I’d had a better understanding of how I function best, would I have made different choices? Yet, the most important choices I’ve made—excelling at and loving parts of my profession that I’m built for and not being swayed by extrinsic rewards to pursue paths for which I am not; the dogged determination that puts me in front of a keyboard every day with few indications that I will be able to make a living doing what I love—I’ve stuck to my temperament. My life’s path hasn’t been without its stumbles, but even without knowing quite what makes me tick, I've been true to my nature. This is Cain’s consistent and loudest message, delivered with the gentle power of an introvert.
A Manifesto for Introverts (from Quiet) 1. There’s a word for “people who are in their heads too much�: Thinkers. 2. Solitude is a catalyst for innovation. 3. The next generation of quiet kids can and must be raised to know their own strengths. 4. Sometimes it helps to be a pretend extrovert. There will always be time to be quiet later. 5. But in the long run, staying true to your temperament is key to finding work you love and work that matters. 6. One genuine new relationship is worth a fistful of business cards. 7. It’s OK to cross the street to avoid making small talk. 8. “Quiet leadership� is not an oxymoron. 9. Love is essential; gregariousness is optional. 10. “In a gentle way, you can shake the world.� � Mahatma Ghandi
I heard Scott Stossel interviewed on WHYY's Fresh Air with Terry Gross in early January (here, have a listen: andI heard Scott Stossel interviewed on WHYY's Fresh Air with Terry Gross in early January (here, have a listen: and I immediately put My Age of Anxiety on reserve at the library. This calm, articulate, engaging writer touched my heart. So much so that I had an anxiety attack while walking and listening to the Fresh Air podcast.
Reading this book led me to the beginning of a few more. I had to set the book aside, get out of bed on a few occasions, and work my head around my body to halt the descent into full-blown, heart-screaming, throat-closing panic. Great. Now I can add to the litany of triggers that just READING about anxiety makes me terribly anxious.
But it also really pissed me off. And anger is good. I like being angry. I don't like being anxious.
It's hard, but not impossible, for me to review this remarkable memoir separate from the kaleidoscope of my own experiences with depression and anxiety. Forgive me if my first reaction is, "Thank GOD I'm not Scott Stossel. I LOVE CHEESE!!!" I found much to ease my mind (e.g. being able to give a clinical name to the difficulty I've had swallowing since anxiety attacks started a year ago--disphagia--naming something helps take away its mystery and power; knowing that the dissonance of being an outwardly calm, easy-going person who suffers from crippling anxiety is very common). And Stossel is so brutally, beautifully honest, it's impossible not to be in awe of his ability to thrive and succeed despite his Augean stable of anxieties.
But man, so much of this book really upset me. No, it wasn't the graphic descriptions of his emetophobia (fear of vomiting), nor the painfully tiny font in the innumerable footnotes. It wasn't even the disquieting sense that Scott Stossel might not really want to resolve his anxieties. For they make up the only Scott Stossel he's ever known. His anxieties define him. He addresses this paradox quite openly, but so little of his narrative offers hope for healing and resolution that it left me feeling quite sad. Until I realized that this was his journey. Not mine.
What really got to me can be summed up in one word: Drugs. I do not question the biological and genetic components of depression and anxiety. Stossel does an outstanding job of illuminating the strengths and weaknesses of these links and how they connect with the factors of a child's culture and an adult's environment. I do not question the role psychiatric drugs can play in alleviating the devastating effects of mental illness. But again, I had to put down my kaleidoscope and allow Stossel to tell his story, without letting it define mine. My Age of Anxiety is one big book report combined with a show-and-tell on psychopharmacology. Most upsetting are the details of Stossel's routine before a public speaking event. The combination of drugs and alcohol is bewildering. Awful. The behavior of an addict. I had to set the book aside.
The ending chapters on Resolution and Resilience are the shortest of all. Resilience merits a brief mention as an "emerging" area of research, which is so unfortunate. Dr. Martin Seligman has been conducting research into developing resilience as a means to treat and resolve anxiety and depression for more than twenty years and currently heads the Positive Psychology Center at the University of Pennsylvania. There is valuable empirical research available on the power of positive psychology interventions.
Scott Stossel has been treated for profound anxiety since childhood. He has been in therapy and on some form of medication for over thirty-five years. He bares his soul and his brain in this book, to the service of all who suffer from or who love someone with anxiety and depression. I'm grateful that I am not Scott Stossel--my small posse of trouble looks like a box of chocolate cupcakes with pink cream frosting compared to his gallon of cod liver oil. I'm also grateful he risked everything to write and speak about his journey. His research is priceless, his story unique, his voice incomparable. And it made me more determined than ever to pursue a path to healing and peace of mind that doesn't have side effects. ...more
If you're going to read a book about Plot and Structure, entitled, helpfully Plot and Structure, don't be shocked when the author spends most of his tIf you're going to read a book about Plot and Structure, entitled, helpfully Plot and Structure, don't be shocked when the author spends most of his time discussing Plot and Structure. It may surprise you to learn that most commercial fiction is written to a tried-and-true formula that sells a shocking number of badly-written books. If you read a lot of commercial (I.e. genre) fiction, you should know this. If you don't you should know this. Either way it's terribly depressing, but James Scott Bell is so irrepressibly cheerful that by page 59, you are ready to become the next Dean Kontz, whom Bell loves and cites frequently.
That was just my PSA for people who have read this and are dismayed to find that authors write to a formula, or that Bell spends most of his time focused on commercial fiction, where Plot and Structure are the Alpha and Omega.
Me, personally, I don't read much commercial fiction because so much of the writing is crap and I hate formulaic plots. BUT I still want good STORY. I want to be taken to new places emotionally, metaphorically, intellectually. I want to be changed and challenged. As a writer, I want to offer that to my readers. And frankly, I want to write books that are commercially appealing, but intellectually satisfying. I don't want to change anybody's world, but I wouldn't mind changing their weekend.
So, I'm glad for James Scott Bell's book. There is heaps of practical, checklist type information here. Not about writing but about process. A way to get back on track when you get bogged down by your own passion and brilliant ideas. Much of this is Fiction 101, but it never hurts to get back to the basics when you are breathless with possibility....more
I didn’t want to read your book. I don’t read advice columns as a matter of principle. Needy people, foolish people frustrate me. To read Dear Sugar,
I didn’t want to read your book. I don’t read advice columns as a matter of principle. Needy people, foolish people frustrate me. To read an entire book of advice column Q&A seemed about as necessary as professional football, with the same end result for this reader as for those players: heads bashing into unmovable objects.
But my book club selected it. Duty calls.
A bunch of shit happened in the three days I took to read your book. Like, universe is speaking to me shit.
The First Day (Parts I & II): On this achingly bright morning I was securing a hank of hair in a little clip when I noticed gray hairs. Now, my first gray hair appeared in 1999 when we bought our first house and I’ve had a few more here and there over the years, but they’ve always been curiosities, anomalies. This morning, however, my hair was streaked in silvery white strands. I’m crazy-nearsighted and in the months I’ve become a full-time writer, I have little reason to examine my face in the mirror; I think I last wore mascara in October. So maybe that gray has been there for a long time and it took the rays of sunshine through the skylight at just the right time to expose my new middle-aged reality.
I checked the next morning at the same time, with the same intense sun pouring through the skylight. Yep. Still there. But the hair isn’t gray. The strands are silvery white against my natural auburn. They are beautiful. I can’t fathom trying to cover them up with chemicals.
I won’t complain that people often assume I’m several years younger than I am, but along with that assumption comes the presumption that I haven’t lived, haven’t experienced, don’t quite know or get or “Just wait until you’re my age …� This beautiful hair says “Yeah, baby. I’m forty-fucking-five. I’ve lived it. I get it. I’m older than you know.�
I almost stopped reading after How Do You Get Unstuck—only the second Dear Sugar� about the woman suffering after her miscarriage and you sharing the horror stories of the young women you’d encountered as a youth advocate. It was all too raw for me. It hit too close to home. But I kept going and a few dozen pages later, you rewarded me with Write Like a Motherfucker, a statement I printed in Sharpie on a Post-It and pinned to my bulletin board.
Dudes in the Woods gave me a different way to think about friendship and I realized I needed to share a piece of knowledge about someone with a mutual friend—that it wasn’t gossip, but a search for the best way to help. Turns out that mutual friend was suffering, too, and now we’re able to move forward together. The Woman Hanging on the End of the Line slapped me in the face with the force of my own bitterness and rage at a few individuals who wronged and betrayed my husband and me and the price I’ve paid for that rage. I’m not sure I’m ready to let it go just yet, but now I accept that I have a choice.
The Second Day (Part III and IV): I went to coffee with a new writer friend (three lovely words, don’t you think?). We shared our writing journeys. I explained I’d wanted to be a writer my entire life, but I quit writing at ten, when my parents split, and didn’t resume until I was 41, after I lost my first pregnancy. And finally found the courage to begin my novel days after losing my second, when I was 43. Those are the facts.
You succeeded in making me cry with Beauty and the Beast and laugh out loud with The Known Unknowns: “I’d rather be sodomized by a plastic lawn flamingo than vote for a Republican…� Can I use that? I’ll credit you, of course! But it was A Glorious Something Else I’ll carry with me: “…boundaries have nothing to do with whether you love someone or not. They are not judgments, punishments, or betrayals. They are a purely peaceable thing: the basic principles you identify for yourself that define the behaviors that you will tolerate from others, as well the as the responses you will have to those behaviors.�
Day Three (Part V): I finished your book this morning. Of course you would end with a letter from a reader who wondered what your now-forty-something self would tell your twenty-something self that made me cry. I closed your book and cried loud, cathartic sobs. My twenty-something self had already found an amazing guy and was deep into a rewarding career, so it’s not like I could relate to your encounters with the Ecstasy-dropping gay couple or your heroin addiction or failed first marriage. But there are other pains, other regrets, other mistakes, betrayalsabandonmentslosseshates for which I cried. It was a collective of tears for the stories I’d read and the empathy I’d felt.
Moments later I learned a friend’s marriage is ending, with a bitter custody battle underway. Reading her words, I became my ten-year-old self, caught between two bitter, angry, vengeful people who had a choice. And didn’t choose me. Didn’t choose what was best for me. They chose hate and recrimination instead of cooperation and love. I wrote to my friend with that little girl’s soul, hoping she would make the right choice for her young son. And then I went for a run.
I ran in the same aching light that three days before had revealed the undeniable proof: my body is fading from the solid brilliance of youth to silvery, tenuous old age. I ran straight into the epiphany that I stopped writing when the child I’d been was abandoned and her world fell apart and didn’t begin again until I accepted the loss of my own children and let go the hope of being a mother. I knew these as facts—I had relayed them to my new friend two days before—but I hadn’t felt the facts as emotions until that moment, in the 16° wind chill and determined sunlight. I had to stop running. I was laughing and crying so hard, I couldn’t breathe.
Dear Sugar, I'm ETAing to let you know that one of my brothers called me a few days after I posted this review to my blog. He said he'd learned more about me from reading my review than he'd ever known. But isn't that why you published this collection? To learn about yourself? Good on you. I reckon it worked.
A lovely, quiet and reassuring collection of essays by the editor-in-chief of Author magazine. I have dog-eared many pages, planning to return to BillA lovely, quiet and reassuring collection of essays by the editor-in-chief of Author magazine. I have dog-eared many pages, planning to return to Bill's wise and gentle words in the dark hours, when I most need courage to continue.
If you have the opportunity to hear Bill live, grab it. He's a fantastic, engaging and hilarious public speaker. Inspiring and pragmatic--not an easy combination to sustain.
So do not think about writing beautifully, think only about writing clearly and about what you care the most. Let the words take the shape of whatever your clarity demands, and then let it go.
Acceptance is an understanding that to create, no matter what you wan, you must begin by working with what you have, with where you are. Everyone is an artists, and our materials are all about us. To use them, you must see them, and to see them, you must accept that they exist.
A fresh take on the art and craft of telling a good story. There is nothing new here, but it reinforces good practice and presents it in an engaging, A fresh take on the art and craft of telling a good story. There is nothing new here, but it reinforces good practice and presents it in an engaging, action-oriented way. The science aspect is overblown-a gimmick that makes for a good tagline-but it doesn't get in the way of excellent advice. The Checklists at the end of each chapter are worth the price of admission.
There were elements, positions and opinions that made me twitch. At times I felt like I was reading the Starbucks business plan - no matter where you are, Seattle, Shanghai, Salamanca, the store, the coffee and the service will be exactly the same -just stick to the blueprint for guaranteed success. Although I applaud Starbucks for its acumen, the coffee is unpalatable. And so it is with good story.
Still, I wouldn't hesitate to recommend this. My copy is dog-eared and highlighted. I am finishing the first draft of an exuberantly commercial novel and I look forward to checking my work against Lisa Cron's checklists.
In the end, however, there is only this:
The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you’re allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it’s definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it Âhonestly, and tell it as best you can. I’m not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.
Neil Gaiman
Well, there are these two essential rules to writing that must be obeyed:
1) Butt in Chair. 2) Write Words.
If you have a stand-up desk like I do, then it's really simple: "Write Words." ...more
Lovely, earnest, peaceful. Excellent reading guide in Appendix I. I've been flirting with meditation as a way to address anxiety and claustrophobia - Lovely, earnest, peaceful. Excellent reading guide in Appendix I. I've been flirting with meditation as a way to address anxiety and claustrophobia - I hadn't considered how it may benefit me as a writer. I loved her exploration of Hemingway's value as a writer. It seems fashionable nowadays to diss his writing. More's the pity. Don't look for any great revelations here-this isn't a writing how-to. It's a meditation on the writing life. ...more
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