Been thinking about opinions, about disagreeing, about how somewhere along the line I grew frightened of having a strong opinion for fear someone would disagree with me and then I'd feel bad. My father (and others) will be shocked to hear me say this, as in some ways I seem to have an endless supply of strong opinions, but this fear is also true about me. I still want the right answer, the A++; I want for everyone in the whole world to think I'm pretty and smart and cool. I wanna be the good kid.
Anyway, was talking to Sam about it yesterday, and today he sent me this quote by Tolstoy on how tedious he finds Shakespeare as an example of brave disagreeing. Love it, not because I agree, but because he just says it, you know? The whole world loves Shakespeare and Tolstoy says: meh. Although, I'm no Tolstoy. Can we only express opinions this bold when we're Tolstoy?
"I remember the astonishment I felt when I first read Shakespeare. I expected to receive a powerful esthetic pleasure, but having read, one after the other, works regarded as his best: "King Lear", "Romeo and Juliet", "Hamlet" and "Macbeth," not only did I feel no delight, but I felt an irresistible repulsion and tedium... Several times I read the dramas and the comedies and historical plays, and I invariably underwent the same feelings: repulsion, weariness, and bewilderment. At the present time, before writing this preface, being desirous once more to test myself, I have, as an old man of seventy-five, again read the whole of Shakespeare, including the historical plays, the "Henrys," "Troilus and Cressida," the "Tempest," "Cymbeline," and I have felt, with even greater force, the same feelings,—this time, however, not of bewilderment, but of firm, indubitable conviction that the unquestionable glory of a great genius which Shakespeare enjoys, and which compels writers of our time to imitate him and readers and spectators to discover in him non-existent merits,—thereby distorting their aesthetic and ethical understanding,—is a great evil, as is every untruth."
Tolstoy on Shakespeare. 1906.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Scripture Study at Faulkner's House
I read an interview with William Faulkner in The Paris Review this morning, and loved his response to the question of how he learned The Bible. It reminded me of my own childhood, each kid in the family having to read a verse of scripture before dinner. Faulkner seems to capture the restlessness of that part of childhood--that, and much more:
"My Great-Grandfather Murry was a kind and gentle man, to
us children anyway. ... he was simply a man of
inflexible principles. One of them was everybody, children on up
through all adults present, had to have a verse from the Bible ready
and glib at tongue-tip when we gathered at the table for breakfast
each morning; if you didn’t have your scripture verse ready, you
didn’t have any breakfast; you would be excused long enough
to leave the room and swot one up (there was a maiden aunt, a
kind of sergeant-major for this duty, who retired with the culprit
and gave him a brisk breezing which carried him over the jump
next time).
It had to be an authentic, correct verse. While we were little, it
could be the same one, once you had it down good, morning after
morning, until you got a little older and bigger, when one morning
(by this time you would be pretty glib at it, galloping through
without even listening to yourself since you were already five or ten
minutes ahead, already among the ham and steak and fried chicken
and grits and sweet potatoes and two or three kinds of hot bread)
you would suddenly find his eyes on you—very blue, very kind
and gentle, and even now not stern so much as inflexible—and
next morning you had a new verse. In a way, that was when you
discovered that your childhood was over; you had outgrown it and
entered the world."
"My Great-Grandfather Murry was a kind and gentle man, to
us children anyway. ... he was simply a man of
inflexible principles. One of them was everybody, children on up
through all adults present, had to have a verse from the Bible ready
and glib at tongue-tip when we gathered at the table for breakfast
each morning; if you didn’t have your scripture verse ready, you
didn’t have any breakfast; you would be excused long enough
to leave the room and swot one up (there was a maiden aunt, a
kind of sergeant-major for this duty, who retired with the culprit
and gave him a brisk breezing which carried him over the jump
next time).
It had to be an authentic, correct verse. While we were little, it
could be the same one, once you had it down good, morning after
morning, until you got a little older and bigger, when one morning
(by this time you would be pretty glib at it, galloping through
without even listening to yourself since you were already five or ten
minutes ahead, already among the ham and steak and fried chicken
and grits and sweet potatoes and two or three kinds of hot bread)
you would suddenly find his eyes on you—very blue, very kind
and gentle, and even now not stern so much as inflexible—and
next morning you had a new verse. In a way, that was when you
discovered that your childhood was over; you had outgrown it and
entered the world."
Friday, June 25, 2010
Two Fantastic Essays On Body Image (by men, oddly enough)
Just read a short piece by Augusten Burroughs on his quest to have a six-pack. Oh wow it's good.
You can read it here, on some dude's blog. His pictures and commentary are sort of annoying, but it's worth it to read this, serrriously.
And another thing on exercise-culture, body image stuff, also, surprisingly by a man: Adam Gopnik's essay "The Rules of the Sport" in Paris to the Moon. I can't find a link for that one, but oh it's good. It's about living in Paris, trying to get a gym membership, and how the American sort of gym-rat thing is simply beyond the French comprehension. Those women eat pastries for breakfast, can't fathom exercising on a regular basis, and still are trim and elegant. Why wasn't I born French, again?
You can read it here, on some dude's blog. His pictures and commentary are sort of annoying, but it's worth it to read this, serrriously.
And another thing on exercise-culture, body image stuff, also, surprisingly by a man: Adam Gopnik's essay "The Rules of the Sport" in Paris to the Moon. I can't find a link for that one, but oh it's good. It's about living in Paris, trying to get a gym membership, and how the American sort of gym-rat thing is simply beyond the French comprehension. Those women eat pastries for breakfast, can't fathom exercising on a regular basis, and still are trim and elegant. Why wasn't I born French, again?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
On the Stories We Tell Ourselves
I'm working on this book every morning, getting up at 5:30 so I have time before work, missing very few days, and feeling more momentum than I ever have as "writer." I've written a lot of poems, and those are cool because you can finish one in a single morning. Sometimes I've finished eight in a single evening. And although there's revision, all of it is on a single page so it's manageable revision.
Prose is different, especially long prose, and I'm astounded by the--and there's no other word--mystery of this process. How I show up every day, put my hands to the keyboard, and, more often than not, know exactly what comes next, even when I think I don't. There are all of these little voices in my head saying "You shouldn't say THAT" and "My, that was an ugly sentence" and "WHAT is Soandso going to think?!" But I find, miraculously, if I keep going they shoosh up, and I keep going and something else arrives in my brain to put on the page. I'm not trying to say that God is telling me what to say, that I'm speaking for Him by any stretch of the imagination, but in a way, doing this every morning makes me believe in God in a way that I haven't before. My goodness, there's something out there fueling me as I try to work stuff out on the page.
But this is a strange thing, to rummage around in my past like I'm looking for a pair of shoes, looking for something that goes with something else, looking to make sense of my experience to someone that doesn't have immediate access to my brain. Or really, to my own brain. I'm probably trying to make sense of things to my own brain, since the story of how a very young girl went to Mississippi and now lives in Boston with a Sam is a story that I don't entirely understand myself.
And so today I'm thinking about the stories we tell ourselves and the way we narrate our experiences, even inside us. In a way, this sense of story is what shapes our lives. What I mean is this: Once, when I suffered a painful (if mostly mutual) breakup, I realized I was obsessively trying to land on the story I would tell myself about it. Was it: boy and girl simply not right for each other, which happens often and everything will be okay? Was it: boy a big mean jerk who never loved me anyway? Was it: Woe is me; if I could have just lost 20 pounds then he would have loved me? Was it: I never liked that guy and I'm gonna get pretty and successful and then he'll see what he missed out on? When I realized I was doing that, shuffling through stories, I worked really (really) hard to only tell myself the most useful story, the one that would help me move forward gracefully. It wasn't that the other stories weren't true. I could acknowledge that in one way or another they were probably all a little bit true. But the one I wanted to dwell on, the one I wanted to package up and store on the shelves of my brain, was the kindest one, the most generous. It took me probably a year to tell myself that story often enough that it overrided the other ones that kept presenting themselves. But I remember that one day I cried about it and knew I was crying about for the last time, that I was ready to let the story alone.
In a way, I feel like that's what I'm doing now. I'm telling myself a story. I'm trying to make it as honest as it can be, presenting as many of the scary questions as I can. And hoping that, when I'm done, I'll have made a story I want to keep, even if no one else in the whole wide world reads it. I'm trying to move forward gracefully. I'm learning something new about that story every time I put it on the page.
Prose is different, especially long prose, and I'm astounded by the--and there's no other word--mystery of this process. How I show up every day, put my hands to the keyboard, and, more often than not, know exactly what comes next, even when I think I don't. There are all of these little voices in my head saying "You shouldn't say THAT" and "My, that was an ugly sentence" and "WHAT is Soandso going to think?!" But I find, miraculously, if I keep going they shoosh up, and I keep going and something else arrives in my brain to put on the page. I'm not trying to say that God is telling me what to say, that I'm speaking for Him by any stretch of the imagination, but in a way, doing this every morning makes me believe in God in a way that I haven't before. My goodness, there's something out there fueling me as I try to work stuff out on the page.
But this is a strange thing, to rummage around in my past like I'm looking for a pair of shoes, looking for something that goes with something else, looking to make sense of my experience to someone that doesn't have immediate access to my brain. Or really, to my own brain. I'm probably trying to make sense of things to my own brain, since the story of how a very young girl went to Mississippi and now lives in Boston with a Sam is a story that I don't entirely understand myself.
And so today I'm thinking about the stories we tell ourselves and the way we narrate our experiences, even inside us. In a way, this sense of story is what shapes our lives. What I mean is this: Once, when I suffered a painful (if mostly mutual) breakup, I realized I was obsessively trying to land on the story I would tell myself about it. Was it: boy and girl simply not right for each other, which happens often and everything will be okay? Was it: boy a big mean jerk who never loved me anyway? Was it: Woe is me; if I could have just lost 20 pounds then he would have loved me? Was it: I never liked that guy and I'm gonna get pretty and successful and then he'll see what he missed out on? When I realized I was doing that, shuffling through stories, I worked really (really) hard to only tell myself the most useful story, the one that would help me move forward gracefully. It wasn't that the other stories weren't true. I could acknowledge that in one way or another they were probably all a little bit true. But the one I wanted to dwell on, the one I wanted to package up and store on the shelves of my brain, was the kindest one, the most generous. It took me probably a year to tell myself that story often enough that it overrided the other ones that kept presenting themselves. But I remember that one day I cried about it and knew I was crying about for the last time, that I was ready to let the story alone.
In a way, I feel like that's what I'm doing now. I'm telling myself a story. I'm trying to make it as honest as it can be, presenting as many of the scary questions as I can. And hoping that, when I'm done, I'll have made a story I want to keep, even if no one else in the whole wide world reads it. I'm trying to move forward gracefully. I'm learning something new about that story every time I put it on the page.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Books are Delicious
from Charles Lamb, quoted in Patrick Madden's Quotidiana:
"I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of streets. I would set up my tabernacle here. I am content to stand still at the age to which I am arrived; I, and my friends: to be no younger, no richer, no handsomer. I do not want to be weaned by age; or drop, like mellow fruit, as they say, into the grave."
And, from Joseph Smith, quoted in Eugene England's Dialogues with Myself, which, if the introduction is any indication, is going to be incredible. I already wish they would have issued it to me at baptism.
Joseph Smith, 1844, just before his martyrdom: "By proving contraries, truth is made manifest."
Okay, and a third quote, so you can have some context for how England draws on what Joseph Smith said:
"Part of the Prophet Joseph's moral and spiritual heroism is focused for me in his growing insight (and willingness to risk all, including his life on that insight) that tragic paradox lies at the heart of things and that life and salvation, truth and progress, come only through anxiously, bravely grappling with those paradoxes, both in action and in thought."
"I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of streets. I would set up my tabernacle here. I am content to stand still at the age to which I am arrived; I, and my friends: to be no younger, no richer, no handsomer. I do not want to be weaned by age; or drop, like mellow fruit, as they say, into the grave."
And, from Joseph Smith, quoted in Eugene England's Dialogues with Myself, which, if the introduction is any indication, is going to be incredible. I already wish they would have issued it to me at baptism.
Joseph Smith, 1844, just before his martyrdom: "By proving contraries, truth is made manifest."
Okay, and a third quote, so you can have some context for how England draws on what Joseph Smith said:
"Part of the Prophet Joseph's moral and spiritual heroism is focused for me in his growing insight (and willingness to risk all, including his life on that insight) that tragic paradox lies at the heart of things and that life and salvation, truth and progress, come only through anxiously, bravely grappling with those paradoxes, both in action and in thought."
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Witness to the Impulse
I don't know if you had a chance to read my post on Segullah, but it turned out to be sort of an interesting experience for me. Overall, I've been overwhelmed by the warm response. People said the kindest things about my writing, the thoughts about my marriage, etc. Maybe it's just because it's all about, well, me, but the comment section of that post seems pretty fascinating; it's perhaps a better read than the post itself. (And if you've ever wanted to hear me talk sort of frankly about why I decided to marry Sam, I respond to a few comments with something along those lines.) So aside from those nice nice comments from people, there were also a few comments I expected, which were some people disturbed I had chosen to marry outside the church. Like I said, I expected those comments, and when the first one came in, I wasn't as bothered as I expected to be. A few folks ralied to my defense, and I felt like I knew what to say, and I felt sort of like, "Whew, crisis averted."
But then another comment came in, this one shorter, more pointed. I'm tempted to copy and paste it here, but instead I'll summarize that it said my guest post was so sad because according to my own beliefs, my beautiful marriage won't last. Let me say first that I don't agree, that this isn't my belief, that I've had some precious spiritual confirmation that my marriage won't be torn away from me on the other side (and I don't even think that's exact doctrine anyway, but okay). This in no way diminishes how wonderful and important temple marriage is, but, well, see, here I go defending myself again. This is hard to explain. But the point is, the comment upset me. Even thinking about it now makes me want to tear my hair and spit nails. And not because I think this person is right, but that the response itself, the fact that it's possible, terrifies me.
You see, I'm writing a book. I don't know if I've said that so clearly here, but I am. And it's precisely about this, about dating and deciding to marry Sam. I mean, it's about other stuff, too, but it's about that. A love story. A coming of age love story, is what I'll say when I try to sell it. And the thing that trips me up when I try to write it, the thing that utterly paralyzes me, the thing that can stall me for several weeks of wordlessness, is responses like that one, or even the thought of potential responses like that one. I tried to patiently explain to this person where I was coming from, but he/she just responded again today making it pretty clear that they didn't get it, didn't see what I meant, and maybe didn't want to. Oh gosh, now I'm just worried you're reading this post and agreeing with this person, which you totally can; it's completely legal to agree with this person, just don't tell me about it, okay? I can't take it. And the point of this post isn't whether or not I agree, it's what happened after; it's about writing. Moving on.
So I read this person's comment right as I was leaving my office, and I was just devastated. I walked along Arlington St towards the T, feeling like I would weep, feeling vulnerable and terrified. And it occured to me, wait, I CHOSE this; I submitted my post. No one made me talk about this very personal aspect of my life. And then it occured to, yeah, wait, I don't have to. I don't HAVE to do this. I don't HAVE to write this book, or if I do, I don't have to try and publish it. This is MY business, no one else's, and maybe it's just not worth it to be that vulnerable.
Pause. Rewind to several months ago to when I had a similar thought. Sam and I were driving around town, and it was raining, and we were talking about Sam's book. This was back in the dark dark days of my last job, and I hadn't managed to write anything in months and months. I was listening to Sam talk about his book, telling him what I think, and he was finding my opinion useful and the thought came into my head, "Huh. Maybe the point of me going to school wasn't to be a writer myself. Maybe I went to school so I could be useful to Sam. Maybe he's the writer and I'm the writer-helper." Immediately, with barely a beat to consider this possibility, I burst into tears. Poor Sam, driving along thinking we're having this intellectual conversation, and all the sudden my own brain makes me sob. I took my reaction to be a no: I ain't the writer-helper. I mean, I am, but I'm also meant to write. To write my own stuff. It's in me, somewhere, even if I couldn't find it at the moment.
Fast-forward back to last week, walking to the T, thinking that maybe I didn't have to write my book. Same response as in the car. I mean, I didn't burst into tears, but the deepest, deeepest part of me knew that I actually didn't have a choice. This is my JOB. God gave me my experiences and the ability to write about them because He wanted me to tell about them, and choosing not to do so in order to protect myself from idiot opinions was beyond unacceptable. It simply wouldn't do.
This is a long post, and maybe you don't care, but for me, this is the story of me turning into a writer. Not just someone who writes, but someone who MUST write, for whom it's an obligation, a spiritual and intellectual obligation. I don't know what will happen with it; I'm not saying I'll get wildly successful with it. That voice that compels me doesn't say anything about success. It just says I have to make this thing exist that doesn't exist now.
There's a passage in Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet that I've always liked, and always wanted to identify with, but never really felt. And now I do. And it's both lovely and terrifying. I'll post the quote here.
"You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple 'I must,' then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse."
--Ranier Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, letter 1
But then another comment came in, this one shorter, more pointed. I'm tempted to copy and paste it here, but instead I'll summarize that it said my guest post was so sad because according to my own beliefs, my beautiful marriage won't last. Let me say first that I don't agree, that this isn't my belief, that I've had some precious spiritual confirmation that my marriage won't be torn away from me on the other side (and I don't even think that's exact doctrine anyway, but okay). This in no way diminishes how wonderful and important temple marriage is, but, well, see, here I go defending myself again. This is hard to explain. But the point is, the comment upset me. Even thinking about it now makes me want to tear my hair and spit nails. And not because I think this person is right, but that the response itself, the fact that it's possible, terrifies me.
You see, I'm writing a book. I don't know if I've said that so clearly here, but I am. And it's precisely about this, about dating and deciding to marry Sam. I mean, it's about other stuff, too, but it's about that. A love story. A coming of age love story, is what I'll say when I try to sell it. And the thing that trips me up when I try to write it, the thing that utterly paralyzes me, the thing that can stall me for several weeks of wordlessness, is responses like that one, or even the thought of potential responses like that one. I tried to patiently explain to this person where I was coming from, but he/she just responded again today making it pretty clear that they didn't get it, didn't see what I meant, and maybe didn't want to. Oh gosh, now I'm just worried you're reading this post and agreeing with this person, which you totally can; it's completely legal to agree with this person, just don't tell me about it, okay? I can't take it. And the point of this post isn't whether or not I agree, it's what happened after; it's about writing. Moving on.
So I read this person's comment right as I was leaving my office, and I was just devastated. I walked along Arlington St towards the T, feeling like I would weep, feeling vulnerable and terrified. And it occured to me, wait, I CHOSE this; I submitted my post. No one made me talk about this very personal aspect of my life. And then it occured to, yeah, wait, I don't have to. I don't HAVE to do this. I don't HAVE to write this book, or if I do, I don't have to try and publish it. This is MY business, no one else's, and maybe it's just not worth it to be that vulnerable.
Pause. Rewind to several months ago to when I had a similar thought. Sam and I were driving around town, and it was raining, and we were talking about Sam's book. This was back in the dark dark days of my last job, and I hadn't managed to write anything in months and months. I was listening to Sam talk about his book, telling him what I think, and he was finding my opinion useful and the thought came into my head, "Huh. Maybe the point of me going to school wasn't to be a writer myself. Maybe I went to school so I could be useful to Sam. Maybe he's the writer and I'm the writer-helper." Immediately, with barely a beat to consider this possibility, I burst into tears. Poor Sam, driving along thinking we're having this intellectual conversation, and all the sudden my own brain makes me sob. I took my reaction to be a no: I ain't the writer-helper. I mean, I am, but I'm also meant to write. To write my own stuff. It's in me, somewhere, even if I couldn't find it at the moment.
Fast-forward back to last week, walking to the T, thinking that maybe I didn't have to write my book. Same response as in the car. I mean, I didn't burst into tears, but the deepest, deeepest part of me knew that I actually didn't have a choice. This is my JOB. God gave me my experiences and the ability to write about them because He wanted me to tell about them, and choosing not to do so in order to protect myself from idiot opinions was beyond unacceptable. It simply wouldn't do.
This is a long post, and maybe you don't care, but for me, this is the story of me turning into a writer. Not just someone who writes, but someone who MUST write, for whom it's an obligation, a spiritual and intellectual obligation. I don't know what will happen with it; I'm not saying I'll get wildly successful with it. That voice that compels me doesn't say anything about success. It just says I have to make this thing exist that doesn't exist now.
There's a passage in Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet that I've always liked, and always wanted to identify with, but never really felt. And now I do. And it's both lovely and terrifying. I'll post the quote here.
"You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple 'I must,' then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse."
--Ranier Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, letter 1
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Shared Interests
I'm reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Eating Animals.
It would appear that Tadzio the cat is also reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Eating Animals.
(We both think it's dang good, thus far.)
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