Creation, Success, Failure, and Lies

My friend Danyelle Leafty wrote an incredible post about being an author and not just a writer and in it, she linked to this excellent address by Neil Gaiman, wherein he spoke to the 2012 graduating class of the University of the Arts.

It's 19:55 minutes long—and gloriously worth every second. Gaiman, a brilliant artist in his own right, talks about art: its creation and its successes and failures and lies and how to follow your dream. I can't possibly do justice to those twenty minutes, but as an artist of a sort, it speaks to me. It may just speak to you.

—L.T.

(And yes, that last line is the link to the address.)

The Things I Don't Talk About

There are plenty of things I don't talk about on my blog—despite the fact that I do talk about some pretty personal things. For instance:

I don't talk about my children, though they are the center of my world and each day is spent helping them grow into the fine young men that I know they are becoming. In spite of my sometimes negative influences, they are so kind and thoughtful. Now and then, they'll mention someone or bring something to my attention that shows me how much thinking is going on beneath their surfaces and how very loving they are. I feel so honored to have them for sons. I don't talk about them—but not because they don't mean everything to me.

I don't talk about my day-to-day. Mostly, this is because my day-to-day is pretty boring. And routine. Important routines, but still blasé. But a few of my day-to-day events have been helping my sons with a ridiculous amount of homework considering that school ends for the year in three weeks, a bit of light babysitting (which has rejuvenated my spirits), and planning for some big around-the-house projects. There's a lot of work ahead of me but I'm looking forward to it.

I don't talk about my writing, even when I talk about my writing. One reason for this is because when all I wrote on my blog was about writing, I became bored OUT OF MY MIND. I also felt like a giant fake and an impostor (because I'm certainly no expert). My blog became a chore to me instead of a place I treasured. For those of you who still hang around this place, I'm sure you've noticed this change. For some, it's not a change for the better. For others, well, I hope it is. Regardless, in this aspect, it is a good change for me and I'm happier here than I have been in over a year.

As for the other reasons I don't talk about writing, I'm not entirely sure why. I think there's a large degree of fear in it. Fear of failure. Fear of risk. Fear of appearing the fool. Fear that because I don't have the "agent," the "contract," or the "novel on the shelf" (yet) it means that I am not, in fact, a writer. Which I know is "The Great Lie" but I still buy into it. In addition, I'm not even sure what I would say about my writing. I can mention the genre, the subject, the fact that I am writing, but really, what else is there to say about it? That hasn't been better said by about 10,000 other people?

I don't talk about the doubt and the desire to give up. How there are days (or weeks) where I wonder what I've gotten myself into. How easy it is to convince myself I can't write anything worth reading. How the hard of this job looms and so too does the question, "Is it worth it?" How the loneliness of working behind the screen gets to me. How missed opportunities dog at my heels.

I don't talk about the things I'm okay with: okay with how long my journey is compared to others and okay with being in a smaller pool of writers (where I live) who write fantasy for an adult audience. I'm more than okay with the successes of others and can declare with complete honesty that I rejoice (rejoice!) with those who reach important milestones in their lives. I'm not jealous of that success and the only twinge of discomfort I feel is disappointment in myself for not having pushed myself harder than I have. But I'm learning to be okay with my mistakes and to just try harder in the future.

I don't talk about the joy of writing, of how using words to unravel the jumble in my head and heart eases things inside of me. Or how fun it is to dive into the lives of characters who are braver, snarkier, or more troubled than I am. I don't talk about a sense of accomplishment (and an occasional dose of pride) coming from creating something that didn't exist before. Neither do I often mention how exhilarating it is to feel—really feel!—the emotions of my characters when they live through the things I put them through. (Or how sometimes I feel voyeuristic when I have to write a kissing scene. Really. I'm 30. With two kids. Please tell me other people blush when they write kissy scenes.)

I don't talk about the life-sustaining love I bear for my husband or how he is the only pocket of air in the world. How the moment he comes home and wraps his arms around me, I breathe for the first time during the day. Or how loving him is the most intense thing, the most important thing, and how it terrifies me to love someone this much. How vulnerable it makes me and how I know I can't—and wouldn't—change it for anything.

I don't talk about these things and I'll probably continue to not talk about them much, but I'm talking about them today.

What don't you talk about?

Until next time,

L.T.

A Vast and Perfect Love

I stole a moment yesterday. Tucked into the crook of my arm, the baby looked up at me with a bit of confusion in those coffee-cream eyes. But I stole her away and sneaked into the nursery, settled us in the sinking leather chair, and hid away from the world. She squirmed and squiggled, tired yet feeling that pinch in her tummy that kept her from comfort. So we rocked and patted and burped and soon enough, things were set to rights.

A familiar feeling rose inside of me, the urge to breathe deep of her baby-smell, to kiss her cheeks, and sing quiet lullabies. Singing doesn't come easy to me. I fight it because it isn't my strength, but tenderness overwhelmed and even if I couldn't sing to her, I hummed and held her close and whispered how beautiful and sweet she was.

We rocked in the dark, just her and me. Conversations drifted through the half-open door but we were invisible. I hummed. She settled. Now and then, a shadow passed by or someone looked around the corner but I hoarded my moment and brushed her cheek with the back of my finger. So small, but growing so fast. After a time, people said their goodbyes, but still we rocked—just her and me.

A little face peered 'round the corner, dark and sweet and sleepy-eyed. I beckoned with my free arm and she clambered up into my lap. She curled into my chest, her head against my collarbone. Her baby sister was wrapped in one arm and her in the other, and something shifted in my heart. I kissed their heads, over and over, and though I felt embarrassed by it, I let my tears slip down my cheek because I couldn't let go of either girl to bother wiping tears away.

An aching cry welled in my throat. How I had missed them! I whispered, "I love you," and a little voice whispered back, "I wuv you..." And that skewed wrongness moved and broke and my heart thumped again. 

I set the baby in her cradle and marveled at the depth of beauty in her skin. I hugged her big sister close and kissed and kissed and kissed her cheek. As my husband pulled away from their house, I waved to my little niece, and though they were turned away from us, she watched from her mother's shoulder and waved back. In that stolen moment of time, I saw them and they saw me. And it was perfect.

Dust to Dust

A gentle dust has settled here upon each surface of the room. In the dark, it's carved black, boxy gray, and wan moonlight. I should not come here, stand at the threshold, and stare into the hollowness. It doesn't change things. But still I come.

The room is filled with nameless things: prickled, hostile distances in narrow places; unfinished sentences and tapered words; yawning chasms. It is a place of undone, a place of inaction. Sometimes a place of too many actions. It brims, this room, brims and overflows and yet is so vastly empty. It offers me nothing. But still I come.

I stand in the doorway, my toe a careful line between where I am now and where I have been before. My eyes move from one thing to the next, taking in the accumulation of abandonment. It is thicker in places than others and on those surfaces, I see the reflection of things I've come back to too often. There, I can see the hasty swipe of my hand on top of a moment. The grooves of my fingers are still tracks in the dust, slowly being covered over. I stand here in the doorway, my hand a claw around the frame, and keep myself from going inside to handle things I ought to leave alone.

My thoughts beat a warning: Don't. Don't. Don't. I force myself to recall the times I have entered: how I picked up and studied and worried at those bits of time and how after I felt swollen and scraped. Memory fills up the spaces but I still manage to create pathways wide enough for me. I force myself to stay outside but I cannot keep my mind from wandering in.

I tell myself there's good in here. It's good to see it all because remembering keeps me from repeating, but in large part it isn't. And I know that. But I am drawn here time and time again. All I can do is paw through the piles and boxes and shrouded furniture, reliving every moment. And it isn't good for me at all.

I stand in the doorway to a room full of my mistakes. There are so many—old and new—and I punish myself so often by examining them. And while I will not let myself go inside, I cannot make myself go out. It is just me, my memories, and a hollow room.