Nobody Tells Beginners…

I recently came across a video by Ira Glass (this video: http://vimeo.com/24715531) and he talks briefly about what it’s like for creative types as beginners. It isn’t long, but as I sat listening to it, I realised that he was entirely correct. That feeling—that you have good taste, that you know what you’re trying to do is brilliant, but that what you’re actually seeing in front of you isn’t, well, your best work—I know that feeling. I’ve been living that feeling for the last several years as I’ve worked and sweated over my novel.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’m trying to broaden my reading horizon and discover new talent to help inspire and instruct my own writing. In that search, there have been innumerable times when I’ve set the book I was reading down, and just said, “wow”. I’m sure you’ve had that feeling too, at some point. When you read something that just hits the right spot, touches you where nothing else has before, or finally puts words to that nameless feeling you’ve been carrying around inside you for years, possibly without even knowing it. It’s times like these, when I set that book down and audibly release a profound sigh, that I realise something: My work doesn’t measure up. How can I compete with this guy, who just blew my mind? I’ve never written anything half so meaningful or true. What, in my brief years on this earth, could I possibly have experienced or come to understand that would be worth anyone’s time to read? What could I know or understand that would change someone’s life? How presumptuous of me to even try!

...been there.

Well, I don’t know. But I’ve decided that’s not going to stop me from trying. I’m sure one of my favourite authors, Hemingway, didn’t set out to try and change the world when he wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls. He just had a story, had experienced something himself when he was in Spain during the war, and decided to share it. It turned out that what he set down there was something immortal, because it was true. The people there might not have been real, the words the spoke might have been fabricated. But the experience, the feeling, the ideas were true. There are probably only a handful of people alive today who were there in Spain during that time, fighting in those mountains against the fascists. But everyone who reads that book can relate to the emotions there. And that’s what makes it timeless.

So back to the video by Ira Glass. I don’t have to write something profound. In fact, the less you are conscious of what you’re writing, the less presence you as the author have in it, the more natural and compelling it’ll probably be. I have a few notes I keep to refer to when I’m working on my book, and at the top of the page are a few quotes from some authors I hold dear. One of them is Frank Herbert, and among the several quotes of his there is this one: “Looking back on it, I realize I did the right thing instinctively. You don’t write for success. That takes part of your attention away from the writing. If you’re really doing it, that’s all you’re doing: writing.” It’s simple, to the point, and explains the reasons behind why I usually have trouble when I’m writing. I’m too involved as the author.

So when we begin, we have this period, as Mr. Glass said. This period where we don’t really like what we’re doing. We can see that it has potential, but it misses the mark. As I read and re-read my novel, I’m right there. I’m in that place. There are parts that are good. Damn good, if I’m honest. But there are other parts that are grasping, weak, and fall far short of where I intended them to land. I have to re-write those places. But you know what? That’s good. I’m glad I found them. Because when I wrote them, I thought I was nailing it, that they were really good. With the power of my future vision, I can see now that they weren’t that great. But that means I’ve grown, and that what I’m writing now is better than anything I’ve ever written before. I’m going to get through this time of doubt and misgivings, and come out the other side a better author. Right now, I’d probably just settle for “published author”, but I’ll take what I can get. They’re all stones in the path to success, so I know that eventually everything will turn out alright. As Churchill said, ”never, never, never quit.”


Another Likely Story

I don’t always choose musical titles, but when I do, I think they’re appropriate. I had the day off work yesterday so I went down to the beach to see if the water was ready for snorkelling again. It turns out it wasn’t ready. Not even close. But I went anyways. Growing up in Ohio, I had the perception of California that it was an ocean paradise, warm waters and surfers hanging ten left and right. As it happens, it is. But you must bring a wetsuit, or you will freeze.

down by the cove

I usually like to go snorkelling at the Cove in La Jolla, a small underwater preserve that has some amazing places to explore, as well as a seal colony to offer the occasional surprise swimming companion. Setting my mask and fins on the beach, I decided that instead of just jumping in right away and becoming a soprano, that I’d slowly wade in and take my time getting used to the water. After twenty minutes of gingerly creeping up through the frigid waves and trying to make my spasms look natural, three girls ran past me and dove right in, giggling and splashing. Some quick mental calculations followed this spectacle, and I decided that I was ready to go all in, or I would be forced to hand in my Man Card.

seals at the cove

I consider myself someone capable of “roughing it” without complaint. But that water was cold. I mean cold. Painfully cold, it felt like a vice grip made of ice cubes had clamped down on my head. You get used to the temperature pretty quick, but it never stops being cold, and you can never forget about it. It’s always there. But yesterday the water was incredibly clear, and as I swam through fields of swirling green seaweed and into rocky canyons on the sandy bottom, it was worth it.

Brilliant orange garabaldi and colourful little fish I can’t name darted past in silver flecks as I swam by. You can definitely see a lot floating on the surface, and there’s something serenely peaceful just floating there and rolling with the waves. But for me the best part of snorkelling is taking a huge gulp of air and diving down to the bottom, plugging your nose and blowing out to pop your ears, and swimming through the ocean carved rock channels to explore hidden places.

After about six minutes I’d had about as much of the freezing water as I could handle, and was trying to talk myself into staying longer, when I peeked around a coral ledge about fifteen feet down and came face to face with a little octopus! He was hiding in a patch of red seaweed and I’m not sure which of us was more surprised. I’ve probably gone snorkelling in the Cove two or three dozen times since I moved here, and spent many afternoons looking for new diving grounds. But I’d never seen an octopus! It was amazing to see him just sitting there in the kelp. When he spotted me he shrunk back and turned a deeper red, curling his little tentacles up around him, watching me warily. I went back up for air and dove down to see him five or six more times, but I don’t think he was as amused by this encounter and so he crawled into a dark crevice in the rocks. Octopus, the celebrities of the reef.

I was thrilled! I couldn’t believe I’d found a real octopus! I decided I’d do the snorkelling equivalent of a victory lap and swam out a bit farther. As I was diving down to the bottom, lo and behold, what did I see? Another octopus! I was dumbstruck. This was a little purple fellow, clinging to a bit of exposed rock on the bottom. When I came closer he leapt up and spurted away, tentacles trailing gracefully behind him, into a thick clump of seaweed. I was ecstatic, I didn’t think I’d ever get that lucky again, but to see two octopus in as many minutes?

I powered back to the shore wishing I had someone to share my discoveries with, but it’s difficult to share that you’ve just seen two marine cephalopod mollusks with strangers.

So I’m sharing it with you! Next time, and from now on, I’m bringing an underwater camera. It’s a beautiful place to visit, and definitely worth recording. However, until the water warms up or I get my hands on a wetsuit, I don’t think I’ll be testing my manliness anytime before June. But what a rush. There’s nothing quite like the flush of excitement that comes with finding something beautiful and wondrous in nature. When we have the power to build skyscrapers that soar into the cloudy heavens, land on another planet, and share information instantaneously with someone on the other side of the world, chancing upon one of nature’s random little wonders can be breathtaking.

Have Farm, Will Wander

I have a very diverse background as far as places I’ve lived. I think I mentioned this once before, so I won’t go back into it. Suffice it to say, I was raised in a small farming community in southern California near the Mexican border. If you didn’t farm, you sold farming equipment. It was kind of a nice place to grow up, but didn’t really lend itself to a broader world perspective.

Coming back to live there after I’d been around the world a few times seemed like quite a step backwards. I got out as soon as I could and moved to San Diego where I’m living now, and haven’t really looked back since. I’ve only been here a few months, but already the change has been dramatic—being next to the ocean does wonders for the soul.

down on the farm

Horsey had to work for her treat

Yet my family still lives down in the desert, so about once a month I head down to visit them. I usually only stay for the afternoon and then head back, having my fill of small town life for the month. Don’t get me wrong though, it’s nice to live in a place where your neighbours are separated from you by several fields, and you still know all of them by name. I drove down with Mary yesterday and went for my routine walk down the ditch bank beside the canal out back behind my grandparent’s house.

The sun was low in the sky over the mountains and the sheep in the next field were kicking up dirt. In the haze it looked like mist, and you could see their little black shadows jumping up and down as they ran. Our neighbour keeps farm animals in a big corral behind his house, and when I was younger they used to have a little brown filly I named Lucy, and in the mornings before the sun came up I would go for walks to see her and pick the grass that grew outside her pen, just beyond her reach.That was probably five or six years ago. Well, the man has kept his horses and though I don’t go for walks down his way very often, I was very happy to see that he had added a few new young horses to his herd.

evening field

The wheat field next to the horse corral.

They were all mares and one young filly, pictured above. Yet now they were accompanied by an army of curious goats, who crowded around the fence to see who we were. I couldn’t resist the urge and gathered up thick handfuls of long green grass. The filly approached me, curious, and was rewarded with a mouthful of  luxuriant grass, which she gobbled down happily.

After that I made her work for it, and would keep it just out of her reach so that I could scratch her neck and ears. The goats were eager to get in on some of that action and tried to snatch strands of grass from her mouth, catching the clumps that fell. Goats are tenacious animals, if you’ve never been around them. Even though the horse kept her head well above them, the goats managed to get a pretty decent share of the bounty. After that I patted her down and washed my hands in the nearby canal. The field crickets chirped as the sun finally set, and we walked home with a warm westerly breeze in the air. I don’t miss living there, and given the chance I would stay here without hesitation. The summers there are unbearably hot, and there is absolutely nothing to do. Nothing.

San Diego is a much happier, healthier place for me to live. But I won’t deny for a moment that I do love the country, and that I often miss the tranquillity there.  It’s easy for a writer to appreciate the kind of rustic beauty found in endless acres of farmland that rolls out like carpet towards the distant purple mountains. I may not be a rough farmhand like my father and grandfather were, but I definitely feel a sense of balance in being close to the earth and seeing green things planted and growing out from neat black rows of tilled soil.

I used to go for long runs in the country, with no one to disturb me but the wind in the old cedar trees. You can’t do that here. There are intersections and traffic and people, buildings and cars and roads and everyone is going somewhere and has something to do, and aren’t really fussed if you’d rather they weren’t there. Maybe there are places to live at times in your life. It’s often said that change is what makes life interesting. So perhaps at this time in my life, I need to live in a city, and do what city folk do. Then, when the time is right, who knows? Perhaps there will be a house in the country where I can walk beside a burbling canal in the evening and play with horses.