were you to go beyond
the boundaries
of your own mind
there would be no ties
no cords to pull you down
there would be no chains
to rope in your wishes
the numbing beauty of
booze-induced amnesia
would be uncalled for
an excess
a waste
cross limits in audacious trust
unchain the liberating force
of your own mind
to open new doors
let transformational
neurophysics happen
reshape your molecules
into a whirl of dust
for your new breath to blow
and scatter
Mina Witteman – author | editor | teacher of creative writing
After days of solid writing and going deep, I needed a break. From writing. From the story. From solitude. So I decided to hop on the ferry and meet with my friend Donna Weidner across the Bay in Tiburon.
Donna, also a writer, and I had a long and thought-provoking talk about life and about writing and what it does to you if the story is close to home and chafes your soul. Like this one, which is my story and at the same time not my story.
One of the things I had to decide was between a happy, or at least a hopeful, ending and a sad ending. I knew already it had to be the latter. It is a sad story and like real-life sad stories sometimes there is just one outcome and it’s not what everyone hoped for. This story won’t ring true if I would knit it into a happy ending.
That doesn’t bode well for my protagonist and the reason I was hesitant to embrace a sad ending is that I have come to like my protagonist. A lot. She’s messed up but there’s a reason for her being messed up. She tries hard to figure a way out but life hasn’t (ahum, I haven’t…) given her much leeway. But also because this story is so close to me.
Having said that, I realize there is a third possibility. An open ending… Let the reader decide. I love open endings and a lot of my stories end that way. Why? I hated it, still hate it, when I’d reach the final page of a book, always unwilling to let go of the story. My remedy was to stop reading a few pages before the end, which, to me, meant that I could dwell in that story’s world forever. An open ending…
Decisions. Decisions. And this time it’s even harder to decide, because the story is so personal. Thankfully, I know what my still absent muse would order me to do: work that fine-tuning control knob between craftsman and participant. Be in touch with both and then choose the exact knife edge between them…
I will just do that.
Not an exact knife edge but still a clear cut
Tagged: Donna Weidner, open ending, Protagonist, writing, YA
I went out to look for lonely places for a lonely protagonist. I did that on a day that I felt pretty lonely myself, being in a foreign city with even my muse going AWOL on me. Loneliness is often perceived as a negative emotion but I think it can be a great creative boost too. You just have to find the break in the clouds. In this case my loneliness made sure I would pick up on all the right vibes.
Evelyn, who works at the café where I’m writing this book, had pointed me towards The Wave Organ, a curious installation at the end of a jetty in the Marina district. The installation consists of 25 organ pipes made of PVC and concrete. The pipes are located at various elevations, allowing for the rise and fall of the tides. The lapping of waves against the pipe ends and the movement of water in and out the pipes create subtle but haunting sounds.
Evelyn had told me at night kids hang out at The Wave Organ, so I went and had a look. Not at night but being an expert at imagining the dark, I immediately sensed the site’s potential. It’s a great find and the perfect location for the book’s ending, when my protagonist will have plunged herself into the deepest darkest hole ever.
I was particularly happy when I found out that the jetty itself was constructed with carved granite and marble taken from a demolished cemetery. I haven’t sensed any ghost activity yet, but I bet my protagonist will when she finds herself there.
Alone.
At night.
The high tide closing in on her.
The Wave Organ – San Francisco
Tagged: ghosts, Marina, San Francisco, The Wave Organ
Shakespeare wormed his way into my manuscript.
I already had a connection with the Bard and chances that he would knock on my novel’s door were big, if only because one of my main sparring partners for this project is the playwright George Isherwood, who wrote Shakespeare’s Greatest Hits back in the 70s, and recently the one-man version of Othello and the hilarious one-man-and-a-rope version of King Lear, which I saw in tryout before I left for San Francisco.
The knock came and there he was. The Bard. With Hamlet in his hand, no less. Or rather, Ophelia. Of course we all know about Ophelia’s fate. Not pretty. Not pretty at all and when she slipped into the novel, my initial thought was: couldn’t you’ve dealt me a more uplifting character? Like one of the gravediggers?
I knew the answer even before the thought popped up. It’s a dark book I’m writing. It needs its tragic characters. Ophelia is a tragic character par excellence. Besides, between the two of us, George is the funny one. By far.
Enter Ophelia. A good thing.
It was a busy day. I not only had the Bard knocking on my door, my muse showed up as well. He wasn’t his perky self, so most of the thinking had to be done by me, but that’s fine. A good thing too, though, that he manifested just as I struggled with some matters of life and death. Death, mainly. My protagonist’s death (yup, that’s where Ophelia comes in…).
Now, before I gone on, I have to confess that I talk out loud to my muse. I’m okay with that. As a writer I’m entitled to some crazy stuff. Right?
It’s a thinking thing, this talking to my muse, and it works surprisingly well. I love to sort out my thoughts by verbalizing them and the muse loves to hear me thinking.
How I know? He’s my creation, my work of art. I love dominating my creations. They do as I tell them – well, not always, but most of the time. So, I verbalize, he listens, and I get the Aha-Erlebnis.
Like today. Total Aha-Erlebnis. I adore my muse. Honestly. I do. Very much.
Ophelia at the beach – Sheer Madness
Tagged: Aha-Erlebnis, George Isherwood, Hamlet, muse, Ophelia, Othello, San Francisco, Shakespeare
Last year has been a bit of a self-inflicted overload, work-wise, and after summer I realized that I had no brain space or energy left for what I love doing most: writing.
Spurred on by my best friend Sieneke, I mapped out jobs, tasks, responsibilities, assignments, school visits, teaching gigs, mentoring projects and whatnot. On my page – or my three pages – appeared a staggering number of commitments. No wonder my brain refused to engage in new writing projects. It had already way too much to process.
I knew that if I wanted to go back to writing I had to whip my stubborn self into change. Luckily, it turns out I can be pretty persuasive with the whip. I shelved all my commitments until further notice, and asked my author friend and acupuncturist Sandra to stick her needles in me to restore my energy levels.
It worked. Slowly but surely my brain opened up and the writing juices started flowing again. I finished the revision of Boreas and the Thousand Islands (Boreas en de duizend eilanden), the second book in my Dutch middle grade adventure series about 12-year-old Boreas who circumnavigates the world with his parents, and started planning the third book.
There was also this Young Adult story that kept me awake at night, pressing me to put it on paper. It’s a story that has me go back to the darker times of my life. A story that challenges me and my courage. It’s this story that brought me to San Francisco and I am glad I answered its call. It’s not an easy one to write but being here creates not only a physical but also enough mental distance between the story and my personal memories to pull it off. I still have to go deep. I still have to be courageous. But I know I can do this.
And when it does graze my soul, I think of the first painting I ever bought, a painting I fell in love with the moment I laid eyes on it. It had me written all over it, in its colors, its composition, its intention. When the artist told me the painting’s title all I could do was smile and nod. Of course. I bought the painting and that title has been my motto ever since:
LOOKING FOR TARZAN INSIDE MYSELF
‘Looking for Tarzan Inside Myself’ by Els Wiegel (not a good pic but it’s all I have here)
The other day, EcoSalon, a blog I follow, reposted an article by fellow writer and friend Scott Adelson, titled ‘Making Space for Your Inner Homebody‘ in which Scott makes a case for respecting your Inner Homebody as “the great indoors–and staying home, in particular—gets a bad rap”. In his article, Scott invites the reader “…to stop and look around, and pay some attention to your quarters.” because “…exploring your space can be a limitless source of creative and emotional inspiration…”.
My space, my current home, is a café in North Beach, where I’ve taken up temporary residence to write a novel. After five days, no after the first day already, it feels like home, which is good because I’m an indoors kinda gal. There’s not much that I have gathered here:
- My backpack which fits my laptop and all my notebooks perfectly, bought in Nevada when I was on my way to a writing retreat where I met my agent;
- My folder with clippings, printed with Chagall’s ‘Bay of Angels’ bought at the Chagall museum in Nice where I spent hours and hours wandering through this tiny museum soaking up all his colors, his light and his shadows over and over again;
- My Moleskine Woodstock notebook from the ABC Bookstore in Amsterdam, which I bought knowing I would need it one day for the project that was closest to my heart;
- The Burning Man survival guide 2015, given to me by an awesome friend and avid Burner.
It’s all I need to finish this book that makes me reach deep inside and scare my soul like no book has done before.
That and a gallon of tea and the sweet and dedicated care of the café’s staff, among who my fave waitress Evelyn, who just got her degree in creative writing and who leaves me in peace when I sit hunkered down over my laptop and happily engages in a conversation about writing and stories when I need a breather. It turns out we share a fondness for Lydia Davis’ flash fiction (Listen to this total fun podcast in which Michael Silverblatt interviews Lydia Davis for KCRW’s Bookworm).
It’s home for now and it caters to my Inner Homebody as it should: it’s a great source of creative and emotional inspiration.
The muse didn’t show up. I realized halfway through the day that he wasn’t going to brighten my day with his pretty self and feed me some solid inspiration. Luckily, the writing still soared from his last visit and when that wore off, I did what writers do: I hunkered down at my laptop and wrote some more. Word after word after word, until I finished the scene I wanted to get on paper. It took some convincing and a lot of tea, but it worked. Like it always works when the muse doesn’t show his face.
After I was satisfied with what I had written, I went out – and right at that moment the sun chased the rain – to meet with fellow author Jim Averbeck (Read his books! They’re awesome!). We talked about books and projects and publishing, and about the days that we want to give up this whole writing business and the days that we know we can’t stop because this is what we have to do. It was wonderful and encouraging, particularly when we realized that we were both working on a project that is close to our hearts.
It’s not an automatic thing, this writing business. There’s a few vital concepts I always need to remind myself of when the muse fails me:
- My muse is an inspirational beast and he feeds me well when he’s around, but he doesn’t own me. I am the writer and I decide what to write and what not, when to write and when not. Read Screw the Muse if you want to know what I mean.
- Scrivener is not my boss. It doesn’t pay me a bonus when I reach my word count target or punish me with a malus when I don’t. It just recalculates like a GPS recalculates your route when you take a wrong turn. Without questions. Without scolding. Without repercussions. You open your project the next day et voilá: new numbers (this is where my subconscious interrupts: who again fed Scrivener that overall word count and deadline? Oh, yeah. Me…).
- It’s a DRAFT! It does not have to be perfect the first time round. This is a particularly challenging concept to grasp for the hardcore perfectionist that is me. But I know there will be numerous, if not countless, revision rounds where at least half of what I write will end up in the bin. So: It’s a DRAFT! Stop thinking and bloody WRITE!
Oh, and on my way back to the hotel I decided that I won’t leave San Francisco until I’ve finished this manuscript. I will stay put and not break the flow.
One Word From Sophia by Jim Averbeck and Yasmeen Ismail. Atheneum Books for Young Readers, Hardcover, ISBN 9781481405140.
Tagged: A Word from Sophia, Jim Averbeck, San Francisco, Scrivener
Mina Witteman 