The Comfort of Art II

Okay, I promised to share more from Conversations with John Gardner.  Every once in a while my own well begins to run dry and at such times I visit Gardner for help and support.  Conversations is a new book of mine, and I'm finding it very useful.  I've read Gardner's works on writing for years, but the interviews in this book really help to bring out Gardner's personal side, his humanity.

The first interview in the book was done in 1973.  Gardner was interviewed by Joe David Bellamy.

During the interview, Bellamy asked what Gardner meant when he claimed that fiction should perpetuate "positive" moral values.  (People who know Gardner, know he wrote a book called On Moral Fiction, which caused an uproar when it came out.  The book suggested that much of our modern literature had lost its way, its purpose.).  Gardner was quick to point out that he wasn't advocating that writers should be judgmental or preachy.  Gardner replied that by "positive" he meant that the author should believe in generosity and hope and truth. 

He told Bellamy:  "The ultimate moral value, the moral value I really look for beyond anything else, is to be exactly truthful--seeing things clearly, the process of art."

I like this idea that the process of art helps us to see things clearly.

He then said he believed there comes a point in a writer's life when he or she becomes able to see the world clearly enough to write about it and to express something hopeful.  He said it feels to the writer as though he or she has flown above the world and is looking down on it from a high place. 

I have had this feeling!  But only within the last five or six years have I felt it.

Gardner said that  The writer uses his or her imagination to "redeem the world."

Isn't this the most amazing statement?

In order to be thiskind of writer, Gardner said, one needs faith.  This is what he said about faith:

"Faith and despair have always been the two mighty adversaries.  You don't have to see it in the way of a Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, or any other system.  A healthy life is a life of faith; an unhealthy sick, and dangerous life is a life of unfaith. ...Faith is a physical condition, a feeling of security which enables you to think about what you're doing and yet be subconsciously alert.  Whereas unfaith, paranoia, is a total concentration which makes it impossible for your psyche and body to be alert."

Writing is an act of faith--this is what I think Gardner was saying.  Through writing, we show our ability "to be patient, to be tolerant, to try to understand and empathize."  And this, he said, is "the highest kind of imagination." 

Moreover, writing displays the author's faith, his or her faith in what holds us together, in what gives life meaning.

Then he said something that just blew me away:

"The ability to make up grand images and to thrill the reader is a nice talent, but if it doesn't include love, it's nothing--mere sounding brass."

To that I say, Amen.

I probably won't post again until I return from Big Sur.   The days will be very full.  I'll be the leader for three workshops, one on finding significance in one's writing, one on the "shadow" in writing, and one on autobiographical fiction.  I will take lots of photos and share the experience with you when I get back.

Take care of yourselves, everyone.

The Comfort of Art

Tonight, I read in Paula's journal that she was having trouble getting the old engine going on her memoir, and I was having some trouble snapping to attention on my own writing. 

So I turned again to John Gardner for inspiration.  I've written about John Gardner in this journal before.  He's the writer whose Art of Fiction was a mainstay in my college writing program.  He died in a motorcycle accident in 1982.  When you look him up on Amazon, sadly, you find that most of his fiction is out of print.  (Only Grendel continues to be read widely.)  But his books on writing continue to sell well and inspire new writers all the time. 

Tonight, I was reading Conversations with John Gardner, an excellent book edited by Allan Chavkin and published by the University Press of Mississippi.  In the introduction, I ran into a quote that reminded me of something Vicky (My Incentive) and I were discussing in an IM conversation.  Vicky and I were talking about how important books are to us, and Vicky wrote that books are important companions.  I know many of us feel the same way.  A book isn't just a way to pass time; a book can become a vehicle that transports us into a state of holiness.

What does this mean to us who want to write, then?  What is our role as artists?

In addressing the importance of writing (art), Gardner said that art was the stuff his life was made of, and that his orientation to his art was "Messianic": 

"It's made my life, and it made my life when I was a kid, when I was incapable of finding any other sustenance, any other thing to lean on, any other comfort during times of great unhappiness.  Art has filled my life with joy and I want everybody to know the kind of joy I know--that's what Messianic means."

I can remember when I first realized I wanted to be this kind of writer.  This realization drastically changed the way I wrote.  It changed what I wrote about.  It changed my purpose for writing, entirely.

There are other things I read in Conversations with John Gardner that struck me hard and gave me a  creative boost, but it is 4:30 a.m. and I'm sleepy.  But I will share them in the next day or two.

"Lisping Egos"

Cynthia recently did an excellent entry in her blog, Sorting the Pieces.    She presented the Charles Bukowski poem, "Poetry Readings."  Bukowski's poem elicited agreement in her readers about the prevalence of stale writing.  Here is a brief sampling of the poem:   

I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.
if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:
a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a dirty joke
anything
anything
but
these.  

In my response to Cynthia's entry, I pointed out that I have been as guilty as anyone of producing elaborate yet dry, stuffy writing.   

One of my major bugaboos has always been the desire to be taken seriously.  So when I took my first creative writing class way back in 1981, a 300-level workshop, I set out to write a masterpiece.  And I was sure I'd accomplished this goal when my first story came up for workshop, for my classmates praised me up and down.   

However, after class my teacher asked to speak to me.  Much to my horror, he revealed to me that my classmates had been wrong about my story.  He told me my writing was terrible, that the language was inflated  and that the story lacked heart.   

Indeed, my story would have fit Bukowski's description perfectly, for it was the product of a "lisping ego."  

When I wrote my second story, I  sent my family out of the house and sat looking at my Smith Carona typewriter humming on the Formica tabletop a long time before I began typing.  Five hours later, I felt I'd produced the most dreadful story in the world.  I'd put words on the page without giving any thought to symbolism or grand themes.  My story was too simple to ever be thought of seriously, I thought.  

However, on the day my story was supposed to be workshopped, the teacher, who had seriously burned his foot that very morning, told us he was in a lot of pain would have to dismiss us.    But before we left, he told me he admired my story and looked forward to workshopping it.  I felt my jaw drop and thought he must be mad.   

As it turned out, this second story, while it had its fair share of flaws, was a very good story.   I'd gotten it down in a rush, before I'd had time to think about it too much and ruin it with intellectual gobbledygook.  

As the years went on, I had my ups and downs with writing, mostly downs.  It took me years to crawl out of my dismal hole of self-doubt.   But eventually I came to believe a few things about writing that have carried me forward.  

*  We should write toward simplicity.  

*  If you don't know what your poem, story, memoir, or novel means, you can't expect your reader to know either. 

*  Fearlessness is the furnace of desire, and without fearlessness, writing is cold and dead.  

It would be terrible to think Charles Bukowski would rather experience anything (even an elephant's fart in a circus tent), rather than read something I had written.  I love Bukowski's poems; they continue to teach me about simplicity;  the power of honesty;  fearlessness.  This tough, gristled man eschewed sentimentality in favor of brutal honesty, and I love his work for this very reason.  

Whenever I feel my work is coming from a "lisping ego," I stop what I'm doing.  Writing that comes from my ego lacks guts.   It may be pretty, it may be slick, it may be praised by people who read it.  Indeed, it may even get published. 

But it is dead in all the ways that matter to me and so it is useless to me.  As useless as all the "anything[s]" in Bukowski's poem, "Poetry Readings."

Just For Fun

I found this quiz on Christina's (Journey With MS) site.  You can take the quiz by going here:  Birth Order Predictor

The quiz was correct.  It said I was likely the third child.  I was the third and youngest child.  The following description sounds very much like me:

***You Are Likely a Third Born***  
At your darkest moments, you feel vulnerable.
At work and school, you do best when you're comparing things.
When you love someone, you tend to like to please them.   In friendship, you are loyal to one person.
Your ideal careers are: sales, police officer, newspaper reporter, inventor, poet, and animal trainer.
You will leave your mark on the world with inventions, poetry, and inspiration.

Paula Lambert-Author

 

Some of you may remember me mentioning my friend Paula.  She's the one who went to the Tom Jones concert, inspiring my entry which was an imagining of several of my online friends going to a Tom Jones concert with me.

Paula has started a blog called Paula Lambert-Author. 

Because I know she won't brag on herself, I'll tell you  that she won a $5,000 grant from the Ohio Arts Council for a memoir she is writing.  I have read pieces of this memoir and the writing is incredible. 

Paula is also a graduate of the same MFA program that Beth and I graduated from (Bowling Green State University, where I now teach).  She's a published author and a serious author. 

She and I are both big fans of Jung. 

She is also one of the kindest and most genuine people I have ever known, and just thinking about her makes me feel a rightness about the world.

I'm sure she is going to have many insights about the writer's life to share with us.

Welcome to the world of blogging, Paula! 

I'm excited about the online writing community that is being built.  May we all grow, be filled with wonder, and have publishing success.  

Tag, You're It

 

Sweet Lily of  This Drama I Call Life tagged me to share my lists of "seven things."

I would like to tag Vicky of My Incentive, Steven of LA Journal, and Beth of Beth's Front Porch (I know, Beth, no promises!)  Hope you will all play along--after all, if I'm willing to embarrass myself this way, why shouldn't you be?

 One:  Things I plan to do before I die

1.  Read Moby Dick all the way through.

2.  Win a major book award.

3.  Pay off my house.

4.  Walk the entire towpath trail from the rail bridge to the dam and back, 16 miles.

5.  Make a documentary.

6.  Get back to painting and drawing.

7.  Eat some "real" Mexican food.

Two:  Things I can't do

1.  Sing.

2.  Directionally challenged, I cannot read a map worth beans.  Nor can I find my way from here to there to anywhere.

3.  Do a push up.

4.  Ride fast rides at an amusement park.

5.  Lie without feeling really guilty

6.  Wear high heels.

7.  Go an entire day without reading anything.

Three:  Things I can do

1.  Pick up objects with my toes, like pencils, pens, and clothespins, and even light clothes.

2.   Open those plastic bags in the produce section of grocery stores.  (Just call me sticky-fingers).

3.  Spell correctly most of the time.

4.  Eat really, really hot, spicy food.

5.  Make a "meal" out of almost anything left in the refrigerator or cupboards.

6.  Whistle out of the side of my mouth.

7.  Weave on a floor loom.

Four:  Things that attract me to the opposite sex

I must say, chivalry is not dead; therefore I am attracted to the seven virtues of knights.  I look for these traits in male and female alike:

1.  Courage
 Courage of the heart necessary to undertake tasks which are difficult, tedious or unglamorous, and to graciously accept the sacrifices involved.

2.  Justice

3.  Mercy

4.  Generosity
Sharing material things and also time, attention, wisdom and energy.

5.  Faith
Faithfulness to promises, no matter how big or small. 

6.  Nobility
Doing the right thing, even in trying circumstances. 

7.  Hope
A safety net in times of tragedy.

Five:  Things I say most often

1.  Okay

2.  Really?

3.  I don't know, maybe.

4.  I love you.

5.  Where's all my little babies?  (Calling my cats)

6.  Gracious sakes!

7.  Keep your mind and your options open. (to my students and my children)

Six:  Celebrity crushes

Oh--do I really have to tell?

1.  When I was in my teens, I had a crush on Peter Duel, who starred in Alias Smith and Jones.

2.  I always fall in love with Gregory Peck when I see him in To Kill a Mockingbird--there's chivalry!

3.  I fell in love with Charles Kurault whenever he talked about art and nature on Sunday Morning.

4.  I thought Brad Pitt was really something in Thelma and Louise. 

5.  I fell in love with Johnny Depp in What's Eating Gilbert Grape.

6.  James Spader, who plays Alan Shore on Boston Legal  has enough darkness, gentleness, and gruesome wit to keep me interested.  (Well, I have to balance out the light of Atticus Finch somehow!)

7.  Cat Stevens

AWARE!

I've not posted for a few days because I've been trying to process what has happened in the American South as a result of Katrina.  I needed to process that event through the prism of other things I've been thinking about the last few days.

I've long wanted to do an entry on the importance of being AWARE when we write.  The recent hurricane has given us all a lesson in awareness.  Certainly, many who were in the hurricane's path--before and after--felt America had no awareness of them.  Was the president aware of the misery of the people when he gazed down at them from Air Force One?  Was he aware when he hugged the two little girls who said they'd lost everything in the storm? 

My friend Beth recently did a wonderful entry on awareness.  In her entry Just a Vignette, she writes of stopping to help a young university student in need, a blind student whose awareness  surpassed that of his sighted counterparts. 

There is also a wonderful Sufi story about awareness that I'd like to share now:

Junaid had a young dervish he loved very much, and his older dervishes became jealous.  They couldn't understand what Junaid saw in the young man.  One day, Junaid told all his dervishes to buy a chicken in the marketplace and then kill the chicken.  However, they had to kill the chicken when no one could see them.  They were to return by sundown at the latest.

One by one the dervishes returned to Junaid, each with a slaughtered chicken under his arm.  Finally, when the sun went down, the young dervish returned, with a live chicken still squawking and struggling.  The older dervishes all laughed and whispered among themselves that the young man couldn't even carry out Junaid's orders!

Junaid asked each of the dervishes to describe how they carried out his instructions.  The first man said he had gone out and purchased the chicken, then returned home, locked the door, closed the curtains over all the windows, and then killed the chicken.  The second man said he returned home with his chicken, locked his door and pulled the curtains, and then he took the chicken into a dark closet and slaughtered it in there.  The third man also took his chicken into the closet, but he blindfolded himself, so he himself would not see the slaughtering.  Another man went into a dark, deserted area of the forest to sacrifice his chicken.  Another went into a pitch black cave.

Finally, it was the young man's turn.  He hung his head, embarrassed that he couldn't follow Junaid's instructions.  "I brought the chicken into my house, but everywhere in the house there was a presence.  I went into the most deserted parts of the forest, but the presence was still with me.  Even in the darkest caves, the presence was still there. 

There was no place I could go where I was not seen.

I interpret the presence in this story as awareness.  It's a reciprocal act, I think:  we are aware of "something" and "something" is aware of us.  This reciprocity is something Beth gets across so well when she describes the young blind student putting his hand on her shoulder.  It's the reciprocity of feeling and awareness that the president couldn't feel until, perhaps, he spoke with those two little girls and embraced them.  It's the reciprocity only the youngest dervish felt when he couldn't kill the chicken.

I think that, for many of us, real writing can't take place until we feel this kind of presence, this kind of awareness.  And it's an amazing experience.  I know that without this awareness, my writing is glib, boring, and dead.

I'm not sure how much sense this entry makes.  I only know I had to somehow knit all these thoughts together because they are important to me.