Lately I've been neglecting my blog and I feel extremely guilty because of it. I cannot exactly pin point why I've been shortchanged on ideas but I've figured out that when I don't work on the various novellas I have started...my blog suffers as well.
Half of the reasons I come up for not working on a novella or any other writing endeavor sound like excuses, even though a handful of them probably aren't. In my first creative writing class - which was online - I saw people write that they get "crabby if I don't write for a while." I've found this to be true for me as well! I'll get into that sort of funk or snappy mood, feeling that snippet of a story or even a fresh story just waiting to be born through words and images gnawing away at me, or knocking incessantly on that door I locked them behind in the back of my mind. That's happening to me now. After going for an 1 1/2 long bike ride through Sheboygan's north side and looking at block after block of old houses I thought of a new "story thought." That was on Monday, and I still haven't gotten around to it. So needless to say it's bugging me even now. The random characters, the - of course! - beautiful old house they live in, a rough plot line, etc. A lot of times these story thoughts will simply be a few chapters, as long as the meager flame can find some suitable wood by which to feed itself I'll keep writing. Then either another idea for a story will intercept it, or I'll run out of wood and realize I'm standing in a barren forest with only stumps surrounding me. When that happens all I can do is sit back, wait for the trees to go or start walking and looking for another, more fertile forest and start chopping down some more trees.
It may seem like a haphazard way of writing, and it probably is. But it's the way my brain works. Inspiration comes in spurts, like a hose being dragged around a house. Sometimes the hose kinks and you're left with nothing but a maddeningly thin trickle. Other times you have a cascade of water, drowning you in its depths, while still other times the hose gets tangled up and you have to go back and fix it, slaving under the hot sun. I have a real problem with fixing what I've written. I would much rather just leave it the way it is. Which I realize is completely unrealistic as every author has to edit what they write, it can't be perfect the first time right? Perfection is an unattainable goal in all of our lives, yet so many of us strive for it every day in the most minutest of details.
Along those lines, my lack of wanting to edit my work isn't saying that I think it's perfect the first time. Far from it! I practice what is called "free writing" which means I basically write by stream of conscious, not rereading what I've written until maybe days later. With this type of writing the story can go all over the places. I'll be on my way with one thought when another will intercept me like a bear attacking in the woods. Often times I've satisfied with the end result, though a few of my stories have ended being total disasters, including my first stab at a novella series entitled Wide Open Spaces. I was in the process of rewriting the beginning chapters but halfway through realized there were more holes in it than a drunk man's dart board. It's frustrating because obviously I feel close to the characters and the town they live in, but I know I'll have to start from scratch...again. but if you think about it, if every one's work - both writing and otherwise - came out perfect the first time around...would that be any fun? There wouldn't be any need for advice, no one would have to challenge themselves to become a better this, a better that. Every body's work would be on the same level as everyone else's. You get the point right? As much as I would like my yearly Christmas cards to come out perfect the first time, and not have that glob of glue darkening the card stock, or that letter crooked because my hand flinched...that's what makes a homemade card so special! Just like when I find typo's in the books I read it makes me realize that humans weren't meant to be perfect, even at the professional level. Someone just needs to send a memo to my inner critic!
Well...I had intended to talk about my renewed love for photography, but obviously that didn't happen! My love of photography is just another "outlet" for my always extending cord of imagination. Think of it as that dad who has to run the chainsaw but the chord's too short. So he keeps adding extension cords on to it. Then he finds another tree, but it's too far, and then there's that tall hedge bordering the yard, that could sure use a trim...and so on, and so on. First it was writing, then it was graphic design, then it was interior design, then it was dabbling in songwriting, then it was card making, then it was drawing and now...photography!
Actually, when I said "renewed love" for photography I meant that I had a slight passion for it in high school, and I say slight because when you have a camera that takes film while everyone else is in the digital age, it's kind of hard to get into taking pictures! But now we have a digital camera and I find myself snapping pictures every time I go on a bike ride. As well as experiencing those maddening "wish I had my camera" moments. Unsurprisingly I love taking pictures of the beach, countryside, abandoned/old houses and barns, trees, flowers and my cat Ziggy. These subjects - especially old houses and the countryside - have been a major source of blood for my creative heart. Most of my stories - or should I say all? - are based in the countryside and the characters live in old houses. While photographing such things is where I feel at home, even though I've never lived in the countryside or an old house. But perhaps we don't have to experience things to feel close to them. Our imaginations can bring us to the threshold and give us a real world experience through our mind's eye, or our third eye.
Since I desire to capture the same passions I love to write and draw about with my camera, I consider the camera to be my third eye. Its lens is drawn to what my own eyes are, and desires to capture it just as I see it, with brilliance and a million words. For instance, whenever a flower opens around my house I am always hunting for that perfect angle, that perfect way to capture its beauty and delicate lines. Flowers are such a simple way to express one's creativity and love of color and plants. I'm habitually drawn to all red flowers - since it's my favorite color - but I enjoy a labyrinth of other colors.
My cousin Kelly, whom I have recently reconnected with via Facebook, is a huge part of the inspiration behind my renewed passion for photography. She posts many pictures that she takes as well, and upon viewing all of them made me realize that I wanted to do the same thing! So around I go snapping pictures, posting them on my Facebook profile and enjoying the comments I receive. But I feel limited by what I can photograph, for a lot of reasons.
Number one being, while I am in the process of taking said pictures I worry what others think of me. An unnecessary worry I know, and I shouldn't' care what others think but...these statements don't help me any. I worry anyhow! Also, when visiting my great aunt in Daggett, Michigan I am limited from photographing the myriad abandoned farms/old houses around her own farm because I can't drive I know neither my parents nor my brother would care to bring me. Whenever I see an abandoned house or barn on the way to her rural farm I feel a swell of excitement within me. There is something so beautiful about a weathered house or a sway-roofed barn. It speaks of time's surreptitious yet blatant spell on abandoned buildings, it speaks of the hardships of country life and the sacrifices we must all make. It speaks of the cycle of life, and how just like its human inhabitants, so must a house or entire farm die as well. While riding back to her farm with my aunt she pointed out several houses alongside the highway. One had gotten struck by lightning and since abandoned, another one's owner had recently died and would soon be abandoned...and on goes the story.
There's also the abandoned house alongside the gravel driveway leading to the horse rescue farm I volunteer at in Reedsville. The owner, Mary Ellen, told me it's been abandoned for twenty-plus years, and due to last winter's heavy snowfall is more caved in that usual. Even though it is nothing more but a skeletal frame of grayed slats and hollow window frames like the charred remains of a burnt car twisted in wreckage, it's still sad to see it falling down. Mary Ellen told me it once had beautiful woodwork. If I look hard enough through the trees I can see the outline of where the staircase met the wall. My imagination stirs to life and I picture a sweeping balustrade meeting you at the door, a sinuous newel post commanding your attention, golden light from an antique hurricane lamp reflecting softly off of it's rich, deep cherry wood.
I always manage to work old houses into everything don't I? But such is the case when I so invariably find them a part of my every day life, whether it be in a drawing, my imagination, a story thought, or a picture I took on impulse. A couple of weeks ago I visited my great aunt's farm with my parents and while they talked I went around snapping pictures of the barn and surrounding landscape. I received many good comments, and it makes me itch more than ever to get back out there and take some more. Such a case leads me to wonder where I could have a career in photography. I subscribe to Country magazine and often marvel at the stunning pictures of countryside life and landscapes. I've always thought being a traveling photographer would be one of the best jobs a person could have.
So then, as I've told my parents in an off-hand matter, perhaps I could make a career out of traveling through the countryside photographing the sweeping fields and plains, capturing a swaying barn roof or bleached moonlight fingering the hollowed sockets where windows once stood in an abandoned house. I've realized that all of the possible career choices I've conjured up have no guarantee of "secure income." But that's fine with me! I would rather face financial instability and be pursuing my passion one photograph or word at a time rather than be marooned inside a tumultuous sea of beeping phones, utilitarian carpet and cubicle walls and air conditioned rooms all day. The corporate and office world isn't for me. Every time I find myself in the countryside I know it's where I belong. And one day I'll find myself there, and I'll never leave.
At the college I'll be attending in the fall, I have to select a minor in which I want to study. I've been toying with the idea of photography, and maybe, just maybe this time I'll make it a reality. In the past - with 4-H for example - I've wanted to pursue it but have been held back because of the lack of money. It's not like I'm much better off this time around - only slightly! - but unlike last time, I have more of a passion for it, and realize the potential photography holds for me. Whatever my creative endeavors turn out to be, I know I can't abandoned them all, as haphazard as they may be. Think of each of them as clothes hanging out on a line. Each article of clothing is as valuable as the next, but the line is sagging and you know if you don't take a few pieces off they'll all fall into that persistent mud puddle in the yard below. So you choose carefully, perhaps having to make some small sacrifices and realize you can't turn your full attention to all of them at once. Once those few pieces are off you know you've made the right decision, and while some of your passions may not be on the line anymore, you know they won't fall into that muddy puddle of neglect but be treasured just like the rest of them.
Half of the reasons I come up for not working on a novella or any other writing endeavor sound like excuses, even though a handful of them probably aren't. In my first creative writing class - which was online - I saw people write that they get "crabby if I don't write for a while." I've found this to be true for me as well! I'll get into that sort of funk or snappy mood, feeling that snippet of a story or even a fresh story just waiting to be born through words and images gnawing away at me, or knocking incessantly on that door I locked them behind in the back of my mind. That's happening to me now. After going for an 1 1/2 long bike ride through Sheboygan's north side and looking at block after block of old houses I thought of a new "story thought." That was on Monday, and I still haven't gotten around to it. So needless to say it's bugging me even now. The random characters, the - of course! - beautiful old house they live in, a rough plot line, etc. A lot of times these story thoughts will simply be a few chapters, as long as the meager flame can find some suitable wood by which to feed itself I'll keep writing. Then either another idea for a story will intercept it, or I'll run out of wood and realize I'm standing in a barren forest with only stumps surrounding me. When that happens all I can do is sit back, wait for the trees to go or start walking and looking for another, more fertile forest and start chopping down some more trees.
It may seem like a haphazard way of writing, and it probably is. But it's the way my brain works. Inspiration comes in spurts, like a hose being dragged around a house. Sometimes the hose kinks and you're left with nothing but a maddeningly thin trickle. Other times you have a cascade of water, drowning you in its depths, while still other times the hose gets tangled up and you have to go back and fix it, slaving under the hot sun. I have a real problem with fixing what I've written. I would much rather just leave it the way it is. Which I realize is completely unrealistic as every author has to edit what they write, it can't be perfect the first time right? Perfection is an unattainable goal in all of our lives, yet so many of us strive for it every day in the most minutest of details.
Along those lines, my lack of wanting to edit my work isn't saying that I think it's perfect the first time. Far from it! I practice what is called "free writing" which means I basically write by stream of conscious, not rereading what I've written until maybe days later. With this type of writing the story can go all over the places. I'll be on my way with one thought when another will intercept me like a bear attacking in the woods. Often times I've satisfied with the end result, though a few of my stories have ended being total disasters, including my first stab at a novella series entitled Wide Open Spaces. I was in the process of rewriting the beginning chapters but halfway through realized there were more holes in it than a drunk man's dart board. It's frustrating because obviously I feel close to the characters and the town they live in, but I know I'll have to start from scratch...again. but if you think about it, if every one's work - both writing and otherwise - came out perfect the first time around...would that be any fun? There wouldn't be any need for advice, no one would have to challenge themselves to become a better this, a better that. Every body's work would be on the same level as everyone else's. You get the point right? As much as I would like my yearly Christmas cards to come out perfect the first time, and not have that glob of glue darkening the card stock, or that letter crooked because my hand flinched...that's what makes a homemade card so special! Just like when I find typo's in the books I read it makes me realize that humans weren't meant to be perfect, even at the professional level. Someone just needs to send a memo to my inner critic!
Well...I had intended to talk about my renewed love for photography, but obviously that didn't happen! My love of photography is just another "outlet" for my always extending cord of imagination. Think of it as that dad who has to run the chainsaw but the chord's too short. So he keeps adding extension cords on to it. Then he finds another tree, but it's too far, and then there's that tall hedge bordering the yard, that could sure use a trim...and so on, and so on. First it was writing, then it was graphic design, then it was interior design, then it was dabbling in songwriting, then it was card making, then it was drawing and now...photography!
Actually, when I said "renewed love" for photography I meant that I had a slight passion for it in high school, and I say slight because when you have a camera that takes film while everyone else is in the digital age, it's kind of hard to get into taking pictures! But now we have a digital camera and I find myself snapping pictures every time I go on a bike ride. As well as experiencing those maddening "wish I had my camera" moments. Unsurprisingly I love taking pictures of the beach, countryside, abandoned/old houses and barns, trees, flowers and my cat Ziggy. These subjects - especially old houses and the countryside - have been a major source of blood for my creative heart. Most of my stories - or should I say all? - are based in the countryside and the characters live in old houses. While photographing such things is where I feel at home, even though I've never lived in the countryside or an old house. But perhaps we don't have to experience things to feel close to them. Our imaginations can bring us to the threshold and give us a real world experience through our mind's eye, or our third eye.
Since I desire to capture the same passions I love to write and draw about with my camera, I consider the camera to be my third eye. Its lens is drawn to what my own eyes are, and desires to capture it just as I see it, with brilliance and a million words. For instance, whenever a flower opens around my house I am always hunting for that perfect angle, that perfect way to capture its beauty and delicate lines. Flowers are such a simple way to express one's creativity and love of color and plants. I'm habitually drawn to all red flowers - since it's my favorite color - but I enjoy a labyrinth of other colors.
My cousin Kelly, whom I have recently reconnected with via Facebook, is a huge part of the inspiration behind my renewed passion for photography. She posts many pictures that she takes as well, and upon viewing all of them made me realize that I wanted to do the same thing! So around I go snapping pictures, posting them on my Facebook profile and enjoying the comments I receive. But I feel limited by what I can photograph, for a lot of reasons.
Number one being, while I am in the process of taking said pictures I worry what others think of me. An unnecessary worry I know, and I shouldn't' care what others think but...these statements don't help me any. I worry anyhow! Also, when visiting my great aunt in Daggett, Michigan I am limited from photographing the myriad abandoned farms/old houses around her own farm because I can't drive I know neither my parents nor my brother would care to bring me. Whenever I see an abandoned house or barn on the way to her rural farm I feel a swell of excitement within me. There is something so beautiful about a weathered house or a sway-roofed barn. It speaks of time's surreptitious yet blatant spell on abandoned buildings, it speaks of the hardships of country life and the sacrifices we must all make. It speaks of the cycle of life, and how just like its human inhabitants, so must a house or entire farm die as well. While riding back to her farm with my aunt she pointed out several houses alongside the highway. One had gotten struck by lightning and since abandoned, another one's owner had recently died and would soon be abandoned...and on goes the story.
There's also the abandoned house alongside the gravel driveway leading to the horse rescue farm I volunteer at in Reedsville. The owner, Mary Ellen, told me it's been abandoned for twenty-plus years, and due to last winter's heavy snowfall is more caved in that usual. Even though it is nothing more but a skeletal frame of grayed slats and hollow window frames like the charred remains of a burnt car twisted in wreckage, it's still sad to see it falling down. Mary Ellen told me it once had beautiful woodwork. If I look hard enough through the trees I can see the outline of where the staircase met the wall. My imagination stirs to life and I picture a sweeping balustrade meeting you at the door, a sinuous newel post commanding your attention, golden light from an antique hurricane lamp reflecting softly off of it's rich, deep cherry wood.
I always manage to work old houses into everything don't I? But such is the case when I so invariably find them a part of my every day life, whether it be in a drawing, my imagination, a story thought, or a picture I took on impulse. A couple of weeks ago I visited my great aunt's farm with my parents and while they talked I went around snapping pictures of the barn and surrounding landscape. I received many good comments, and it makes me itch more than ever to get back out there and take some more. Such a case leads me to wonder where I could have a career in photography. I subscribe to Country magazine and often marvel at the stunning pictures of countryside life and landscapes. I've always thought being a traveling photographer would be one of the best jobs a person could have.
So then, as I've told my parents in an off-hand matter, perhaps I could make a career out of traveling through the countryside photographing the sweeping fields and plains, capturing a swaying barn roof or bleached moonlight fingering the hollowed sockets where windows once stood in an abandoned house. I've realized that all of the possible career choices I've conjured up have no guarantee of "secure income." But that's fine with me! I would rather face financial instability and be pursuing my passion one photograph or word at a time rather than be marooned inside a tumultuous sea of beeping phones, utilitarian carpet and cubicle walls and air conditioned rooms all day. The corporate and office world isn't for me. Every time I find myself in the countryside I know it's where I belong. And one day I'll find myself there, and I'll never leave.
At the college I'll be attending in the fall, I have to select a minor in which I want to study. I've been toying with the idea of photography, and maybe, just maybe this time I'll make it a reality. In the past - with 4-H for example - I've wanted to pursue it but have been held back because of the lack of money. It's not like I'm much better off this time around - only slightly! - but unlike last time, I have more of a passion for it, and realize the potential photography holds for me. Whatever my creative endeavors turn out to be, I know I can't abandoned them all, as haphazard as they may be. Think of each of them as clothes hanging out on a line. Each article of clothing is as valuable as the next, but the line is sagging and you know if you don't take a few pieces off they'll all fall into that persistent mud puddle in the yard below. So you choose carefully, perhaps having to make some small sacrifices and realize you can't turn your full attention to all of them at once. Once those few pieces are off you know you've made the right decision, and while some of your passions may not be on the line anymore, you know they won't fall into that muddy puddle of neglect but be treasured just like the rest of them.
The image of the tiger lily above is a picture I took in my backyard. :)
ReplyDeleteyou have tiger lilies in your backyard! that's so cool!
ReplyDeletethere are flowers in my backyard too, but I can't remember the names of some of them! ^^'