writing Archives - Page 3 of 3 - Maggie InkMaggie Ink

Two halves of a minute

December 17, 2012

I am sitting in a lecture about sentence structure and style — how to connect fragments to gain momentum, build suspense, create meaning. This is part of my MFA program in creative writing. Twice a year, all the students and faculty gather at a resort in Rancho Mirage for intense workshops, lectures and meetings. It’s a surreal and unbelievably lovely landscape for school — swimming pools, lush citrus trees, conference rooms with silver pitchers of ice water on every table.

Here I have been writing like crazy. I am turning inward and immersing myself in my own transition. My body is longing to conceive something. A story, a book, maybe a child.

It is halfway through this lecture that my phone’s calendar sends me an alert: Today I am ovulating. For the first time in our lives, my husband and I have moved beyond the discussion phase, and we are actively trying to start a family. I downloaded an app to my phone that alerts me to my most fertile days, and today is one of them. I wonder if I am already pregnant.

One moment later I receive another notice on my phone, this one a breaking news alert: Police respond to reports of shooting at elementary school, several dead. More reports follow, and I learn the incident at a Newtown, Conn. school claims 26 victims, 20 of them children.

Two messages, both within one minute of each other. One is about life, one is about death, and the combination makes me wonder what I’m doing here. Not just in this room, but in a time and a culture with such severe juxtapositions. I wonder how a single minute is big enough to accommodate both longing for a baby and grieving lost children.

I also wonder about my husband and our decision. We want to introduce a life into this world — a world that can be tricky, senseless and often cruel. Yes, I know there is immense beauty on this earth. I’ve traveled a lot, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But I also know that there is a brutality and wildness that can never be tamed, no matter how hard we all try.

I think about the balloon release my class had when I was in the third grade. Each student wrote letters, asking for pen pals. Our teacher helped us attach our messages, wrapped in plastic, to the string. All of us stood on the playground, releasing our balloons into the great big sky all at once. As much as I wanted my balloon to find a home somewhere else and go someplace I had never been, I wanted it back as soon as it floated beyond my reach. It was too fragile, too special. And it turns out my instincts were correct — my balloon ended up tangled in some telephone wires just outside Huber Heights, Ohio.

Are my husband and I selfish to want this? How in the hell can we create something so fragile, so special only to release it into a chaotic and unstable world? What’s the sense in that? Would you let the balloon fly away if you knew it was so easy to pop?

I am sad, and I am ripe, and I don’t know if my questions have any right answers.

I text a friend, a fellow student, and say I am having trouble processing the shooting tragedy. He replies: “The world is so complicated. Dark on one side, sunlight on the other.” He attaches a funny story along with it, just something that makes him laugh. It is his birthday, and he is trying to smile even though the darkness seems overwhelming.

My friend and I attend the next lecture together. We are here, putting fragments together, trying to construct a story that makes sense.

Maggie Dreams of Writing

September 19, 2012

The other night my husband and I watched a spare and elegant documentary called “Jiro Dreams of Sushi.” It’s the story of 85-year-old Jiro Ono, owner of the Michelin 3-star restaurant Sukiyabashi Jiro in Tokyo. Although he is already considered to be one of the world’s greatest sushi chefs, Jiro wants to perfect the art form and elevate the delicacy to new heights. His quest becomes an obsession, to the point where Jiro even dreams of sushi.

Of course, the film isn’t just about the sushi. I paused the movie and asked my husband if he feels a similar obsession for his profession.

“Do you dream about teaching?” I asked.

“All the time,” he said. “Do you dream about writing?”

“I do. Scenes and characters and things I haven’t even written yet.”

“When you worked for newspapers, did you ever dream about journalism?” he said.

“Yes. But only in the nightmare way.”

And that’s right about the time I had a writing epiphany. Because when I pressed play and the film started up again, Jiro looked directly into the camera and said, “I fell in love with my work and devoted my life to it.”

Now, I’ve always heard the old cliché, “It’s not work if you love what you do.” But Jiro’s take on it is slightly different.

When Jiro says “fall in love with your work,” he isn’t talking about having a strong affection for your chosen career path. This is a matter of loyalty. It’s doing this thing for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you live. Jiro fell in love, and he made a lifetime commitment — the guy has been creating sushi since age 10, and I bet making sushi will be the last thing he ever does.

For me personally, that means putting my ass in the chair and writing, even when the mail brings me nothing but rejection letters, even when I’m scrounging for grocery money, even when I wonder why I bother. It means standing by writing’s side, even when she is a nagging whorebeast who refuses to do the dishes.

It means that I’ve already made the commitment — I quit the only career I’ve ever known; I sent myself back to school to learn more about the craft; I’m giving myself ample time and opportunity to write. Now it’s time to see it through. No more messing around. If I’m going to be putting my ass in the chair anyway, don’t I owe it to myself to be the best possible writer I can be?

Sounds so simple. But, then again, so does sushi. And Jiro’s been working on that for 75 years.

Later in the film, a Japanese food critic ticks off the five attributes that separate great chefs from average chefs. I believe these attributes could apply to anyone, no matter the field.

1. “They take their work very seriously and consistently perform at the highest level.” — Strive for excellence, which requires unyielding focus and determination. Sacrifices must be made.

2. “They aspire to improve their skills.” — There is always room to learn something about your craft. The day Jiro received an award that declared him to be a national Japanese treasure, do you know what he did? He returned to work.

3. “Cleanliness. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t feel clean, the food isn’t going to taste good.'” — Keep it simple. You want your readers/customers to focus on the thing they showed up to do — and they’re here to savor your work.

4. “They are better leaders than collaborators. They’re stubborn and insist on having it their way.” — Trust your instincts. Don’t accept substitutes for your vision.

5. “Finally, a great chef is passionate.” — Fall in love with your work every single day, all over again. Wine her, dine her and slip her the tongue. It’s your job to make this relationship work.

Writing: Going visual

June 24, 2012

I’m not procrastinating on my work, I swear.

I’ve actually been very good, writing a little over 10,000 words in the past two weeks. But sometimes, when the words get mucky and the sentences are tangled and the plot isn’t moving, it’s time for me to go visual.

And that’s where Pinterest comes in.

Some people might not see the value in rifling through photos when I need to be churning out words. But I think it gives the word section of my brain some time off and exercises the “shiny! pretty! colorful!” part instead. (Yes, that’s the scientific explanation.) It’s basic cross-training.

I also started some Pinterest boards to collect ideas for various writing projects. These act as digital vision boards. I turn to them whenever I get stuck on a character’s look, am confused about setting, need some help with location or could just use a big, beautiful shot of inspiration.

Here are some images that inspired me today. What do they do for you?