WRITING BLUES

I’m sitting here in my study wanting to write…something - anything…but there is nothing I can find to hold my interest.  The writing gurus say one should be disciplined and write every day, even when the spirit is not there.  That is easy to say, but much harder to do.  Perhaps I’m spoiled, used to impromptu writing, where the subject grabs me and the words come tumbling out with little forethought; this has happened repeatedly, and I love it.  The only real work I have to do is the re-write. It is much more fun than sitting at the keyboard, wracking my brain for something of interest.  Besides, I write for my pleasure and enjoyment, so why should I burden myself with the rigid discipline of a professional writer?

On the other hand, even though I’m writing for personal pleasure, I want to write well, and that requires commitment and effort..  Looking at it that way, the discipline to daily writing takes on a different meaning.  It is impossible not to compare my writing experience with my art.  They both require the discipline of practice in order to achieve a degree of competence.  I read somewhere that to learn how to paint, one must paint, and to learn how to write, one must read.  That made sense to me and I began reading memoirs, essays, and other works of non-fiction by accomplished writers.  Time will tell if it has been an effective exercise.

Here is an idea;  I should keep a list of subjects I might want to write about, then periodically select one and simply begin writing, exploring the first thoughts that come to mind and letting them lead the way, with no pressure to complete a “finished” narrative.

Well I’ll be…I’ve just written 290 words about not having anything to write about.

WHY?

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 Why do I make art?  Why do I write?  I suppose I could ask, why do I do anything I do?  I am willing to try answering the first two queries, but the last one is too overwhelming for me.  Then again, it may be foolishness to think I can answer the others. 

I have struggled with these questions for years, hoping to understand what compels me to do this work.   I did not choose art; it chose me.  Art reached into my almost perfect world, placed its hand upon my shoulders, and against all odds pulled me into its breast.  Tenacious and unyielding, it would not loosen its grip, determined to overcome all obstacles I placed before it.  The desire to be an artist and live an artist’s life inserted it self into the fabric of my thoughts, overwhelming everything else.  Eventually it transformed from something I wanted to do to something I had to do.

Almost 35 years later, I’m still doing the work, which now includes writing as well as painting and drawing.  I have learned how to explain why I paint the way I do, and how I choose my subjects, but why I paint at all remains a mystery.  At least it did until last year, in the fall of 2013 when I wrote the following in my journal:

“Why it has taken me this long – 74 years – to see myself so clearly is beyond comprehension.  While most of my “ah ha moments” occur in the proximity of my morning shower, I can’t recall when this one poked me in the head; it happened about a week ago.

I cannot let things simply “be”.  I have this unrelenting need to act on things, to make them more than an experience or knowledge.

Ideas, thoughts, or feelings must be put into words, spoken, written, or both, and more often than not, they must be shared, quietly and personally through conversation, or publicly through writing (blogs, facebook, etc.).

In my encounters with the world around me the same phenomenon occurs.  When a particular scene, natural or manmade, inspires me, I am driven to re-create it on paper or canvas, directly or via a photograph.  Living with the experience and memory is not enough for me.  I have to make it into “ something” that I can see on demand, and, as is usually the case, share with others.”

For the lack of a better term, I think of this as “materialization”, an act of expression as well as recording.  I am archiving the moment, the vision, the emotion, the revelation, so that it can be revisited as well as shared.  Something in this act of “materializing” provides the validation of the experience that I seem to need.

It happened it Boston in 1976 just as it is happening as I write these words.

SOME NOTES ON WRITING

WHAT TO WRITE

I’m sitting here in my study wanting to write…something - anything…but there is nothing I can find to hold my interest.  The writing gurus say one should be disciplined and write every day, even when the spirit is not there.  That is easy to say, but much harder to do.  Perhaps I’m spoiled, used to impromptu writing, where the subject grabs me and the words come tumbling out with little forethought; this has happened repeatedly, and I love it.  The only real work I have to do is the re-write. It is much more fun than sitting at the keyboard, wracking my brain for something of interest.  Besides, I write for my pleasure and enjoyment, so why should I burden myself with the rigid discipline of a professional writer?

On the other hand, even though I’m writing for personal pleasure, I want to write well, and that requires commitment and effort..  Looking at it that way, the discipline to daily writing takes on a different meaning.

Well I’ll be…I’ve just written 170 words about not having anything to write about.  

WRITING BLUES   Four months later

I seem to be tied to the same chair I was four months ago…unable to write.  Well, not exactly unable to write, but unable to get inspired to write.  I can’t settle on a topic or subject, and nothing is presenting itself to me; there have been no gifts from that place called the unconscious.  So I am resorting to writing about not being able to write, hoping that this will enable me to write about something by shaking loose the muses from wherever they may be

Perhaps a short retreat somewhere will help, but where?   I know...Tuscany!

 

WRITING ON THE EDGE

I have had a long-standing fascination with the fountain pen.  When I first began to experience those teasing thoughts about art replacing medicine a Parker 45 pen was my constant companion, plying its trade in both my sketchbook and my journal.  Over the years I have acquired a modest collection of pens; with the exception of those gifted to me by my dear wife, each of my pens have cost less then $100.00.  I say this because serious collectors will pay thousands of dollars for a pen.  Currently I have about two-dozen working fountain pens.

Parker 45

I recently logged on to eBay to see what was available under “writing instruments”, and was amazed at the selection of pens available.  What really caught my eye was a fountain pen from China for $8.00 with no shipping charges.  My experience with pens has taught me that an $8.00 pen will probably provide $8.00 worth of performance, but I was intrigued, and was willing to pay $8.00 to satisfy my curiosity.  I placed the order (it was a “Buy It Now” offer) and about a week later my Hero arrived, Hero being the name of the pen.

Hero

It was small, very light, and had a fine nib that produced an even, crisp line.  I was surprised and delighted with my $8.00 treasure.  But the joy was short lived; about 2 weeks later I dropped the pen and damaged the nib beyond repair.  To ease my grief I returned to eBay and ordered another pen from China, this one for $12.00, with no shipping costs.  And once again I was the owner of a wonderful writing instrument with the brand name, Hu.

Mr. Hu

You can probably guess what comes next.  I’m back on eBay looking to make another China connection, and feeling a little flushed, I spend $39.00 for a very elegant looking Janhaio that writes like a jewel. 

Janhaio

I am now thinking very highly of myself, and am allowed to do so for a few weeks before the fountain pen gods intervene to take me down a few pegs.  Writing in my journal with my new best pen, the dreaded fear of all who write with fountain pens, especially pens under $100.00, becomes a reality as the Janhaio suddenly deposits a blob of ink on the paper.  I quickly continue writing on a piece of test paper and find that the ink leak occurs only after I’ve bee writing for several minutes, and then it writes normally until it happens again.  And thus we arrive at the title of this narrative.

Being a tiger, I am, at times, fearless and willing to face certain risks to pursue the work I am called to do on my own terms.   I have chosen to use the Janhaio in my journal, judging the safe time I have, and stopping before the leak occurs.  This challenge adds an entirely new dimension to journal writing.

WORK THAT CALLS

My entire life has been defined by my work.  From my school days, working on our farm, and in the local pharmacy, through college and medical training, to my careers in medicine and art, I have defined myself, to a great extent, by the work I do.

I consider my very fortunate to have had a sense of “calling” regarding medicine, and later, art.  I have always felt that this was the work that I was intended to do, and thus they have provided un-ending meaning and purpose to my life.  They chose me; I did not choose them.

Medicine and art have allowed me to be who I am, without the need to conform to the standards or requirements of the “work place”.  They have given me the opportunity to express myself to others, in a manner of my own choosing, whether it be through a bedside visit or a painting, calling on the gifts that have bee granted me.  Both, over the course of my lifetime have enabled me to exercise both sides of my brain, in medicine and in art.

Medicine was never a technological exercise or a business enterprise for me.  It was always about people, serving them and being present to them in all circumstances.  It was a privilege I will always be most grateful for.

I left medicine ten years ago, and since then art has been my life’s work, even as it has continued to evolve, surviving the periodic crisis of confidence and self doubt.  In recent years, new work has begun to emerge, in some ways bridging the gap between art and medicine…writing.

I have been writing for myself for years, in my journal and in letters to my children and friends, but it began to assume a larger role when I started my blog five years ago.  My “style” has always been the short, personal essay, in which I can share my reflections on current issues, write about my art, and share memories of my past. Or to explore almost anything that I find interesting.

I don’t know if my writing will ever be anything more than it is now.  But I intend to pay very close attention to it, and listen carefully…just in case it calls.

If it doesn't?    There is always food and wine!

PAINTING AND WRITING

These comments are the result of a query by a blogger friend (Tom Riley) whose primary craft involves writing.

There are many similarities between these two art forms that include:

Composition - Both require a cohesive composition. In a painting it is the spatial relationships between the shapes, values, and colors to bring the viewers eye to the intended subject. In writing it is the logical organization and progression of the ideas, the story line, or the argument that the writer intends to present to the reader.

Clarity - In neither endeavor should the subject be obscured and the viewer/reader distracted by superfluous clutter...unnecessary lines and words that reveal more about the artist than the subject.

A guiding principle should be...Less is More!

As an artist I have done numerous quick, on the spot sketches and have learned that they are a one time only phenomenon. A good sketch can never be completely reproduced.

Similarly, when I am mentally composing a narrative, if I do not get it down on paper at the time I find it very difficult to recapture the original words and composition.

Addendum:
I appreciate the comments on my blog even though I cannot respond to all of them. Also, I will be out of town for the next week and don't know if I will be able to maintain the discipline of a daily post...but will certainly try!