Tag Archives: author

Finding What I Need to Say

Photo by Kaitlyn Baker on Unsplash

I’m happy to be working on something that feels personally important. I think that’s really the best there is in writing, yes? Finding what I need to say, and then the way to say it. It’s so much easier than I imagined all those years ago when I started writing. And it is so much harder. Surprisingly so. I’m feeling like I’ve found a new vantage point for being a career author after this second sale–and now I can see just how long this road is. The truth is exciting and daunting. Tiring and somehow thrilling. I’ll hold on.

Cori McCarthy

Love

Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

Love, like truth and beauty, is concrete. Love is not fundamentally a sweet feeling, not, at heart, a matter of sentiment, attachment, or being “drawn toward.” Love is active, effective, a matter of making reciprocal and mutually beneficial relation with one’s friends and enemies. Love creates righteousness, or justice, here on earth… For this reason, loving involves commitment. We are not automatic lovers of self, others, world, or God. Love does not just happen. We’re not love machines, puppets on the strings of a deity called “love.” Love is a choice — not simply, or necessarily, a rational choice, but rather a willingness to be present to others without pretense or guile. Love is a conversion to humanity — a willingness to participate with others in the healing of a broken world and broken lives.

 

Isabel Carter Heyward

Write On!

Credit: Tracy Walsh | Minnesota Good Age

My daughter, Beth-Alison, posts my blogs and quotes for me, and she calls me faithfully when I’ve failed to deliver what she needs according to the schedule we have agreed upon.  An interesting reversal of roles that is, no doubt, only the beginning of a much more substantial reversal that I prefer not to spend too much time thinking about.

So I’ve just hung up from talking to her and from justifying my tardiness in giving her my first-week-of-December blog.  Of course, I explained why I was late, like a kid explaining why there simply hasn’t been time to clean her room.

My explanation?  I’m moving into the final chapters of my latest revision of Sunshine, the novel I have been slogging through for entirely too long, and I’m building momentum, and I just can’t make myself put the novel down to pick up something else.  Even when the something else has a deadline, and Sunshine doesn’t.

“But I’ll do it,” I promised.  “I’ll get it to you very soon.”

Beth-Alison was kind, understanding, but she still needs the blog.

That being the case, I’ve decided to cheat.  An article just came out in Minnesota Good Age Magazine about me, about my turning 80, and about my work.  The author of the article, Julie Kendrick, did a very nice job of interviewing and writing.  The photographer, Tracy Walsh, has given me a lot of new photos.  (Posing for photos is one of my least favorite activities, ranking close to scrubbing floors.)  So why not take advantage of their good work?

Here is the URL for the article.

http://bit.ly/2KJZ93s

Happy reading.

This Blink of Time

Today is my birthday.  My 80th, would you believe?  I add “would you believe?” because I don’t quite believe it myself.  That’s despite the fact that I’ve been trying out the number for months, mostly inside my head, sometimes out loud.  “Hey!  You’re 80!”

I’ve been saying it when I do a full Pilates hang, suspended by my ankles.

I’ve been saying it when, despite that full hang, I find myself suppressing a groan when I rise from a chair.

I’ve been saying it when I dive back into the novel I’ve been working on for too long and discover that I’m repeating myself . . . again.  Do I do that when I talk as well?

I’ve been saying it when I find the world wearying, threatening, horrifying.  “You’re 80!  Perhaps you won’t have to live into whatever is coming.”

I’ve been saying it when I gaze out at the wonder of a new day, budding trees or swirling snow, and ask how many more such gifts await me.

I never expected to be 80, though the irony is that I don’t suppose I’ve been expecting to die, either.  Does any of us truly believe that inevitable, uncompromising end will be our own?  Every life is a blink between two unknowns, and as I have never tried to imagine my whereabouts prior to my birth, I don’t attempt to fathom what lies beyond these days I have been given.  But my death grows larger in me every day.

Along with the hope that I may arrive there with some grace intact.

Eighty seems such a venerable age that I tell myself I should have some wisdom to impart on this page.  But I don’t feel wise.

I have made a lot of mistakes along the way and learned a few things in the process.  The two are not unrelated.  Mostly I learned because I made mistakes.

I married almost 60 years ago, though I had little desire for the man I decided to marry.  (I had never desired any other man, either, and was incapable in that homophobic time of understanding why.)  I thought him a fixer-upper.  I knew he wasn’t all I wanted, but I planned to bring him around.

I learned that I am the “fixer-upper.”  When I finally realized how difficult it is to grow and change myself, I understood the futility of attempting to change anyone else.  I understood, too, that no one of his gender could ever meet my needs.

Now, in our mutual age, my one-time husband and I live a great distance from one another, but we come together often on Words with Friends and on FaceTime where we rejoice in and occasionally worry about our progeny.  We each accept the other tenderly, unquestioningly.  That acceptance represents an abundance of learning on both sides.

Fifty-four years ago, I gave birth to a son, a child so longed for that my desire for him, my need to mother him, lived in my bones.  And from the time he was very small, he defeated me every step of the way.  Lovingly.  Masterfully.

When Peter died at the age of 42 of a disease that robbed him of control of his body and of his intelligence and finally of his sanity, too, I learned, at last, that he had always been the only son he could be.

I learned, too, that the love that lived between us was enough.

I started my life trying to fit in, seeking approval.  And I learned that I don’t fit in and that approval has very limited value.  I’m not made for the kind of coupling society demands.  The activities so many care about don’t appeal to me.  And my mind, while possessing a certain uniqueness, lacks some very basic skills.

Maybe no one ever fits in, truly.  Maybe we each feel in some way alienated and alone.  And maybe we all have to learn, as I am finally beginning to learn, that it is enough to be who we are given to be.

Who am I?  All my life that question has puzzled me.  I have no answer.  None.  I don’t even know what might make an answer possible.

But as I move into this end time, I am beginning to understand something else.  I am a human becoming.  I am a verb, an action, not a noun.  I am not, will never be, a static thing that can be labeled and explained.  Even to myself.

I am a human in process, making mistakes—oh, so many mistakes—and learning and moving on.  And learning again.

And while I’m learning, I rejoice in the love that happens along the way.

Finally it is only the love that gives this blink of time purpose and meaning and even holiness.

Writers Helping Writers

Photo by Cristian Newman on UnsplashLoon Song

It’s lonely and isolating work, this writing business.  Usually we manufacture ideas in our heads with little input—or even interest—from others.  We sit, day after day, poking at a keyboard, making words appear, weighing them, revising them, weighing them again.

Wondering if we’re coming anywhere near the dream we began with.

We do all this alone in a room, alone inside our own heads.

And then we gather the manuscript we’ve produced and send it into the world to be judged.

And wait.

And wait.

Too often to hear, “No.”  “No.”  “No.”  “No.”

No exclamation point on the “No,” even.  Just a solid, flat, impenetrable “No.”  The editor either wants what we offer or she doesn’t.  Discussion isn’t invited.  Even worse, often these days the “no” comes in the form of silence.

Once more we weigh this piece we’ve created out of our very bone and sinew, perhaps revise again, send it out again.

And wait.

Again.

Is it any wonder that writers need other writers.

Partly just to share our joys, our frustrations.  But also for a reality check.  Another writer can provide the objectivity that is impossible for us, alone in a room in front of a screen that gives back our words so impartially.

Another writer can even help us shape our work into something that is more likely to receive a “yes” out there in the world.  But there are some things we have to keep in mind when we ask one another for help.

First, we need to be clear what we are asking for.  If we know what our concerns are—too long? the reader’s attention caught fast enough?  characters believable?—asking questions up front can be useful.

(Careful with that one, though.  Some questions are best left until after a first reading so they don’t prejudice the reader into seeing a problem just because we asked.)

Sometimes we get back a response that is completely unexpected.  When that happens to me, that surprising comment often gets put aside.  But then I go on to find another reader or two.  When I hear that unexpected reaction a second time, I’m ready and on board.

(My agent recently suggested a change in a novel he was about to send out that felt difficult and unnecessary to me.  I said, “No.”  Now the same suggestion has come from the editor, and I am, of course, instantly on board . . . and grateful to have heard it from my agent first.)

Second, consider the source.  This is the kind of situation where writers’ critique groups are useful.  We learn whose comments we most value by hearing them addressed to others’ manuscripts, because we are objective about others’ work.  Then when the time comes for our own work to be discussed, we know who to listen to most deeply.

(And while other writers can usually give us the best value as critics, in my early writing years, I knew few—in the beginning no—other writers.  But I still found discerning readers whose perspective I trusted.)

Finally, before we ask anyone to critique a manuscript, we need to examine our own hearts.  Are we truly open to doing further work on this piece?  Or are we at the point that all we want to hear is praise?

(There is nothing wrong with wanting appreciation for our work.  We all need praise at every stage, of course, but sometimes we are still looking for guidance to dig back into a manuscript and sometimes we are ready to let it fly.  When we reach that stage, the best we can do is to let our manuscript try its way in the world.  If it doesn’t make it out there, we can we always return to our writer friends for another dose of reality.)

And if you’re reading this and feeling “Oh, I wish I had more of a community of writers around me,” here’s an idea.  LoonSong, the small-community writers’ retreat that will be meeting in northern Minnesota from September 6th through the 10th, still has openings.  And this year you can even opt to come a day early for extra writing and conversation time.  I’ll be there.

Check it out at www.loonsong.org.

LoonSong

The best way I know to find those special soulmate writers who can forever afterwards be accessed through the internet is gatherings such as LoonSong.

And the best way I know to have a successful career is to open ourselves up to informed feedback . . . and to informed support.