A couple months ago I wrote about the TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) website (see blog 255). I called it the best website ever. Well I just watched the most amazing talk from this most amazing site. It's been a long time since I've laughed as hard and honestly, I nearly wept at the beautiful truth he was expressing - actually, I think a couple tears squeezed out past my defenses when he spoke about Gillian Lynne near the end of his talk.
Genius. Hilarious. And above all, I think he's absolutely, concretely, indisputably correct.
The guy's name is Sir Ken Robinson and while I'm as straight as Ru Paul isn't, I think I love this man.
(If the video player doesn't appear below, try this link.)
Monday, April 23, 2007
263. iSuck
Yeah, so I'm bombing big time on my new year's resolution to do some fiction writing everyday for at least thirty minutes. I think the last time I touched the journal (the wonderful MacJournal) where I'm keeping my story bits was last Tuesday.
As usual, little demons of self-doubt are to blame (that and a chronic lack of discipline, aka laziness) which is a shame because for a while, I was really getting back into the groove, coming up with some interesting seed material. But you know, in a backwards kind of way, a successful writing session where I get out some surprising, promising bits of prose can be a detriment because I want to keep working in that rich, fertile space and when I can't find it, I start to think that all I am is a monkey pounding away at the keyboard who occasionally strikes a bit of gold, but only by accident.
Here's what I mean. In that last writing session I mentioned above (the one on Tuesday), I got out some really fun, nice bits of prose. I was pleasantly surprised while rereading it on Wednesday morning. Thrilled, in fact. So that night, I sit down, ready to write and I'm stuck, not so much because I don't have anything to write about but because I want to equal what I had written the night before and when I couldn't, I just didn't write at all.
My band seems to be in a bit of the same predicament. We just finished recording a new song (it's called "With You" and you can hear it on our MySpace site). We're all really excited about this song because it's one of the few where each and every member of the band is one hundred percent behind the sound. See, the musical tastes of the band members vary widely - you'll find very little overlap in our CD collections (everything from Pantera to Iris Dement to British Sea Power). Because of this, there are some songs that appeal to certain members while others are ambivalent about them and there are other songs where the shoes are switched around. "With You" is one of those rare few where everyone is happy with the sound.
Well now we're trying to keep going with songwriting, but some are finding it difficult and I can't help but wonder if maybe we're expecting too much of ourselves too soon - that we want every song to feel as good as "With You" and when we're not getting juiced about new songs that are still in the stew, we get discouraged and frustrated. Maybe we want every song to be as strong as "With You" but the truth of the matter is that for every artist, the only way to get from zero to hit song is to wade through the swamp of mediocrity.
Anne Lamott has a great book on writing called Bird by Bird. Lamott has published six novels but is best known for her spiritual memoirs (she just published a new one called Grace Eventually). Obviously, she knows a little something about writing. Well one of the first chapters in Bird by Bird is called "Shitty First Drafts." Basically what she says is that the road to finished piece of prose runs straight through the wasteland of the shitty first draft and the only way through is to write your way through, no shortcuts, no exceptions.
I suspect that what's hindering me from writing (and perhaps my band as well, though I can only speak for my own writing) is writing something that seems to bypass the shitty first draft stage and then wanting every writing session thereafter to be just as profound and sublime. I don't like the shitty first draft and so when I have a writing session that seems to leapfrog over the shitty bit, I want every writing session to do the same.
What I need to remember is that those juicy writing sessions are the exception, not the norm. I need to remember that the only way to have more of those transcendent moments is to slog through the mediocre, the banal, the trite, and the cliched. I need to be especially on guard and disciplined after a particularly fruitful writing session. I need to remember that the muse is a fickle maiden and the only way to lure her out is to head out to the well everyday and pull that bucket up even when it keeps coming back more mud than water. And when I land a clean, clear bucket-full, I need to remember that more likely than not, the next day's draw will likely be back to miry muck. And even then I need to remember that sometimes there's a bit of gold hidden therein.
As usual, little demons of self-doubt are to blame (that and a chronic lack of discipline, aka laziness) which is a shame because for a while, I was really getting back into the groove, coming up with some interesting seed material. But you know, in a backwards kind of way, a successful writing session where I get out some surprising, promising bits of prose can be a detriment because I want to keep working in that rich, fertile space and when I can't find it, I start to think that all I am is a monkey pounding away at the keyboard who occasionally strikes a bit of gold, but only by accident.
Here's what I mean. In that last writing session I mentioned above (the one on Tuesday), I got out some really fun, nice bits of prose. I was pleasantly surprised while rereading it on Wednesday morning. Thrilled, in fact. So that night, I sit down, ready to write and I'm stuck, not so much because I don't have anything to write about but because I want to equal what I had written the night before and when I couldn't, I just didn't write at all.
My band seems to be in a bit of the same predicament. We just finished recording a new song (it's called "With You" and you can hear it on our MySpace site). We're all really excited about this song because it's one of the few where each and every member of the band is one hundred percent behind the sound. See, the musical tastes of the band members vary widely - you'll find very little overlap in our CD collections (everything from Pantera to Iris Dement to British Sea Power). Because of this, there are some songs that appeal to certain members while others are ambivalent about them and there are other songs where the shoes are switched around. "With You" is one of those rare few where everyone is happy with the sound.
Well now we're trying to keep going with songwriting, but some are finding it difficult and I can't help but wonder if maybe we're expecting too much of ourselves too soon - that we want every song to feel as good as "With You" and when we're not getting juiced about new songs that are still in the stew, we get discouraged and frustrated. Maybe we want every song to be as strong as "With You" but the truth of the matter is that for every artist, the only way to get from zero to hit song is to wade through the swamp of mediocrity.
Anne Lamott has a great book on writing called Bird by Bird. Lamott has published six novels but is best known for her spiritual memoirs (she just published a new one called Grace Eventually). Obviously, she knows a little something about writing. Well one of the first chapters in Bird by Bird is called "Shitty First Drafts." Basically what she says is that the road to finished piece of prose runs straight through the wasteland of the shitty first draft and the only way through is to write your way through, no shortcuts, no exceptions.
I suspect that what's hindering me from writing (and perhaps my band as well, though I can only speak for my own writing) is writing something that seems to bypass the shitty first draft stage and then wanting every writing session thereafter to be just as profound and sublime. I don't like the shitty first draft and so when I have a writing session that seems to leapfrog over the shitty bit, I want every writing session to do the same.
What I need to remember is that those juicy writing sessions are the exception, not the norm. I need to remember that the only way to have more of those transcendent moments is to slog through the mediocre, the banal, the trite, and the cliched. I need to be especially on guard and disciplined after a particularly fruitful writing session. I need to remember that the muse is a fickle maiden and the only way to lure her out is to head out to the well everyday and pull that bucket up even when it keeps coming back more mud than water. And when I land a clean, clear bucket-full, I need to remember that more likely than not, the next day's draw will likely be back to miry muck. And even then I need to remember that sometimes there's a bit of gold hidden therein.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
262. middles and endings
I've been doing reasonably well with my resolution to write more (see blog 259. I've come up with a lot of interesting beginnings, but not a lot in the way of middles or endings.
It's a strange thing, this writing business. To be honest, nine times out of ten as I'm writing, I'm riddled with self-doubt but more often than not, when I return to what I've written a few days or weeks later, I'm surprised at what I've done. This often gives me enough encouragement to continue the work but sure enough, once I've begun again, the doubts return.
It's a pretty vicious cycle. To be honest, I can see why so many writers are driven to drink. It's not easy to make that critical voice shut up. At the same time, I can see why other writers are such egomaniacs. Another way to shut that critical nerve down is to tell yourself that you're amazing, the best writer to ever put pen to page.
Me? Well, I don't drink to excess and I certainly don't have an ego (and damn proud of it). I suppose that's why the disciplined writing approach is the only sure way forward and encouraged by so many writing teachers.
I don't know. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on myself for writing so many beginnings. Maybe it'll be good to have all this seed material for when fresh ideas are nowhere to be found. Maybe that will be the time to write middles and pray for endings.
Writing is strange. There's a lot of faith involved, at least with the way that I write. I never know where a story will end up. I often don't even know what it's about. I just start out with a line or the vaguest notion of an idea. Starting with so little, it's an act of blind faith, believing that a story can be coaxed out of these humble beginnings. It involves a lot of waiting and listening. It involves a lot of trust.
What am I listening for? What am I trusting in? That's hard to describe. Maybe I should talk about the opposite, what it feels like when I'm in the zone.
There are rare moments when the stars align, when the juices are flowing and words are falling from the sky. In times like these, it's like I can't keep up. It's almost like the story is telling itself to me and I just have to get out of the way and try not to interrupt the flow by worrying about spelling or style. It's like each sentence is a key that unlocks the next idea and what I find when the doors fling open is a surprise that makes up the next sentence which, in turn, becomes another key and so on.
Times like that are few and very far between but that's what I listen for, that's what I'm trusting - that the hard headed, inspiration-be-damned-I'mgoing-to-write-anyway approach will wake the muse, draw her out from wherever she hides and that she will sing me a story, toss it into the air like weightless confetti and all I have to do is puck the words out of the sky like so many golden apples.
She hasn't been singing lately but she's been teasing me with hints and beginnings, seeds and clues, fits and starts. It's like I've been given a brief snippet of a melody and I'm trying to place the tune but no matter how hard I wrack my brain, I can't hear the complete song.
But I take what I can get. And I listen. And I trust.
It's a strange thing, this writing business. To be honest, nine times out of ten as I'm writing, I'm riddled with self-doubt but more often than not, when I return to what I've written a few days or weeks later, I'm surprised at what I've done. This often gives me enough encouragement to continue the work but sure enough, once I've begun again, the doubts return.
It's a pretty vicious cycle. To be honest, I can see why so many writers are driven to drink. It's not easy to make that critical voice shut up. At the same time, I can see why other writers are such egomaniacs. Another way to shut that critical nerve down is to tell yourself that you're amazing, the best writer to ever put pen to page.
Me? Well, I don't drink to excess and I certainly don't have an ego (and damn proud of it). I suppose that's why the disciplined writing approach is the only sure way forward and encouraged by so many writing teachers.
I don't know. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on myself for writing so many beginnings. Maybe it'll be good to have all this seed material for when fresh ideas are nowhere to be found. Maybe that will be the time to write middles and pray for endings.
Writing is strange. There's a lot of faith involved, at least with the way that I write. I never know where a story will end up. I often don't even know what it's about. I just start out with a line or the vaguest notion of an idea. Starting with so little, it's an act of blind faith, believing that a story can be coaxed out of these humble beginnings. It involves a lot of waiting and listening. It involves a lot of trust.
What am I listening for? What am I trusting in? That's hard to describe. Maybe I should talk about the opposite, what it feels like when I'm in the zone.
There are rare moments when the stars align, when the juices are flowing and words are falling from the sky. In times like these, it's like I can't keep up. It's almost like the story is telling itself to me and I just have to get out of the way and try not to interrupt the flow by worrying about spelling or style. It's like each sentence is a key that unlocks the next idea and what I find when the doors fling open is a surprise that makes up the next sentence which, in turn, becomes another key and so on.
Times like that are few and very far between but that's what I listen for, that's what I'm trusting - that the hard headed, inspiration-be-damned-I'mgoing-to-write-anyway approach will wake the muse, draw her out from wherever she hides and that she will sing me a story, toss it into the air like weightless confetti and all I have to do is puck the words out of the sky like so many golden apples.
She hasn't been singing lately but she's been teasing me with hints and beginnings, seeds and clues, fits and starts. It's like I've been given a brief snippet of a melody and I'm trying to place the tune but no matter how hard I wrack my brain, I can't hear the complete song.
But I take what I can get. And I listen. And I trust.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
261. free as a bird
First things first.
This is an entry about a "date" I had with Quest Girl (see blog 240 and blog 249 for the backstory). Technically, it wasn't a date. We were just hanging out but for the sake of simplicity, I'm going to refer to it as a date (because typing out "date" is shorter than "hanging out" and easier to deal with grammatically).
Now the reason for this short disclaimer is because there's an outside chance that QG has read, reads, or might read this blog so I want to dot the I's and cross the T's, so to speak.
As for the date itself, I have good news, bad news (sort of), and great news, each of which I'll get to in turn.
First the good news.
I finally worked up the stones to ask her out. Here's a brief account of how it went down. I've been attending what my church refers to as a C-Group (basically a Bible study). Well as it turns out (not entirely by coincidence), I go to the same CG that QG attends (but that's not the only reason I chose that one). Well a couple weeks ago, after the formal part of the study was over, everybody was hanging out, chilling and shooting the breeze. Somehow it worked out that QG and I end up chatting and it was cool. Questions went back and forth and it was fun.
Now all the time we're chatting, I'm thinking that this is the perfect (I mean, tailor made perfect) chance for me to ask her out. I keep telling myself that this is the opportunity I've been waiting for, that it would be so easy, that all I have to do is ask, but every time it's my turn in the conversation to ask a question, I ask about something random like "how long have you worked at the tea shop" or "what's your ethnicity" or "so, do you come here often?" I ask all kinds of questions except for the one I really want to ask.
Well finally she has to go talk to someone else before they leave and so we say, bye, nice to talk to you and go our separate ways.
As you might imagine, all through the drive home I was beating myself up, kicking myself HARD. I couldn't believe myself, how lame, how useless, how stupid and weak I was. There's a Weezer song that's particularly apropos:
What's the deal with my brain
Why am I so obviously insane
In a perfect situation
I let love down the drain
There's the pitch, slow and straight
All I have to do is swing and I'm a hero
But I'm a zero
I almost felt too ashamed to pray but it was all I could do to keep myself from driving into oncoming traffic. But it was hard because I'd been praying for just the kind of opportunity I had that night but I failed, floundered, flunked (and some other words that start with "f"). I felt as if I had let God down again. But I did pray, first for God to forgive me for being such a spineless wuss, then for me to forgive myself for being a spineless wuss, and finally for the backbone to move beyond being a spineless wuss. It was a pretty tortured prayer session for most of the drive home.
And then.
And then it was as if a switch was flipped and everything turned around. Before I realized it had happened, I went from torturous self-immolation to joyous celebration. It hit me that she had sort of come up and talked to me that night and during the course of the conversation, it seemed as if she was asking more than her fair share of questions. In addition, she had mentioned things she'd remembered I'd said in previous weeks at the Bible study. I realized that despite my utter failure at asking her out that night, that I still had a chance - a good chance, in fact.
It's a good thing my roommates weren't home when I got back because I probably would have freaked them out with my fists-in-the-air, end zone victory dance around our living room. I made a stupid spectacle of myself because I felt as if I'd just won the lottery. Not only did I have more than all the encouragement I needed to ask QG out the next time I saw her, I also felt the glow of answered prayer. I mean what else could have brought about such a 180 degree change in attitude?
Well that Sunday rolls around and I've got the butterflies churning inside but I'm determined not to let them stop me. Service ends and I'm talking with a friend when I see her walking out the door. I don't think I properly ended my conversation with whomever I was talking to because I set out after her. We chitted and chatted to the parking lot and as she made for her car, I almost wussed out again but I MADE myself ask her if she wanted to go hangout sometime. She said she didn't want to date but if it was just hanging out then she'd be up for that.
I got her number, we said goodbye, and I walked back to my own car feeling as if I'd swum the Gibraltar Strait, run with the bulls in Pamplona, and scaled Everest. I felt like a bad ass. A couple days later I give her a call and we decided to see a movie, The Namesake starring Kal Penn (Kumar, from the movie Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle).
Okay, so that's the good news. The bad news is. . .
I thought the movie was okay, but it tried to cram too much into too small a space. But that's not the bad news. QG and I grab a bite to eat afterwards (well, I ate, she had already eaten) and we get to talk some more and that was nice. I walk her back to her car and I casually ask if she'd like to get together again sometime. She very nicely, very politely declines, suggesting we just see each other at CG and at church.
That's the bad news but here's the great news.
The amazing, almost too good to be true fact is that I was absolutely, one hundred one percent fine with that. And it may sound strange but I was nearly giddy with delight - not because she said no but because I was okay with her saying no. Driving home, I felt ten feet tall, strong as a herd of wild elephants, and able to leap tall buildings using nothing but my little toe. I felt free as a bird.
See, one of the things that used to cripple me when asking girls out was the fear of rejection. Now unless they're a player of the highest order, every guy feels some ounce of fear when asking someone out. In my case, it used to be a ton of fear because I had a fragile self esteem so when I got turned down, I would crumble into a pathetic puddle of self loathing. When this happened, it would take a while to get back to feeling anything like normal. Of course I hated feeling like that so instead of risking rejection, I accepted the lonely despair of singleness because that felt like bliss in comparison.
So when QG turned me down and I realized that I didn't disintegrate, I discovered that I had become a stronger person. I was no longer the fragile glass man like Samuel L. Jackson's character in the movie Unbreakable or the lonely painter in the movie Amelie, I was Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything, able to ask out the most beautiful girl at school despite the odds against him (because one of the reasons I wanted to ask QG out was because I thought she was prettiest by far at the church).
I don't know if I'm getting across the magnitude of this attitudinal change and how liberating this is for me. Imagine a hydrophobic swimming in the ocean, imagine an agoraphobic going to the mall. This approaches blind man seeing, lame man walking levels. Again, I feel free as a bird - a large bird able to fly intercontinental distances. Maybe even an alien space bird, able to traverse the galaxy.
No, things didn't work out as hoped but that doesn't matter. I've discovered a newfound resiliency. i've learned that I CAN ask out the prettiest girl and that she'll say yes and that even if it never goes beyond the first date, I will survive, as long as I know how to love I know I'll stay alive. I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give and I'll survive.
I will survive!
This is an entry about a "date" I had with Quest Girl (see blog 240 and blog 249 for the backstory). Technically, it wasn't a date. We were just hanging out but for the sake of simplicity, I'm going to refer to it as a date (because typing out "date" is shorter than "hanging out" and easier to deal with grammatically).
Now the reason for this short disclaimer is because there's an outside chance that QG has read, reads, or might read this blog so I want to dot the I's and cross the T's, so to speak.
As for the date itself, I have good news, bad news (sort of), and great news, each of which I'll get to in turn.
First the good news.
I finally worked up the stones to ask her out. Here's a brief account of how it went down. I've been attending what my church refers to as a C-Group (basically a Bible study). Well as it turns out (not entirely by coincidence), I go to the same CG that QG attends (but that's not the only reason I chose that one). Well a couple weeks ago, after the formal part of the study was over, everybody was hanging out, chilling and shooting the breeze. Somehow it worked out that QG and I end up chatting and it was cool. Questions went back and forth and it was fun.
Now all the time we're chatting, I'm thinking that this is the perfect (I mean, tailor made perfect) chance for me to ask her out. I keep telling myself that this is the opportunity I've been waiting for, that it would be so easy, that all I have to do is ask, but every time it's my turn in the conversation to ask a question, I ask about something random like "how long have you worked at the tea shop" or "what's your ethnicity" or "so, do you come here often?" I ask all kinds of questions except for the one I really want to ask.
Well finally she has to go talk to someone else before they leave and so we say, bye, nice to talk to you and go our separate ways.
As you might imagine, all through the drive home I was beating myself up, kicking myself HARD. I couldn't believe myself, how lame, how useless, how stupid and weak I was. There's a Weezer song that's particularly apropos:
What's the deal with my brain
Why am I so obviously insane
In a perfect situation
I let love down the drain
There's the pitch, slow and straight
All I have to do is swing and I'm a hero
But I'm a zero
I almost felt too ashamed to pray but it was all I could do to keep myself from driving into oncoming traffic. But it was hard because I'd been praying for just the kind of opportunity I had that night but I failed, floundered, flunked (and some other words that start with "f"). I felt as if I had let God down again. But I did pray, first for God to forgive me for being such a spineless wuss, then for me to forgive myself for being a spineless wuss, and finally for the backbone to move beyond being a spineless wuss. It was a pretty tortured prayer session for most of the drive home.
And then.
And then it was as if a switch was flipped and everything turned around. Before I realized it had happened, I went from torturous self-immolation to joyous celebration. It hit me that she had sort of come up and talked to me that night and during the course of the conversation, it seemed as if she was asking more than her fair share of questions. In addition, she had mentioned things she'd remembered I'd said in previous weeks at the Bible study. I realized that despite my utter failure at asking her out that night, that I still had a chance - a good chance, in fact.
It's a good thing my roommates weren't home when I got back because I probably would have freaked them out with my fists-in-the-air, end zone victory dance around our living room. I made a stupid spectacle of myself because I felt as if I'd just won the lottery. Not only did I have more than all the encouragement I needed to ask QG out the next time I saw her, I also felt the glow of answered prayer. I mean what else could have brought about such a 180 degree change in attitude?
Well that Sunday rolls around and I've got the butterflies churning inside but I'm determined not to let them stop me. Service ends and I'm talking with a friend when I see her walking out the door. I don't think I properly ended my conversation with whomever I was talking to because I set out after her. We chitted and chatted to the parking lot and as she made for her car, I almost wussed out again but I MADE myself ask her if she wanted to go hangout sometime. She said she didn't want to date but if it was just hanging out then she'd be up for that.
I got her number, we said goodbye, and I walked back to my own car feeling as if I'd swum the Gibraltar Strait, run with the bulls in Pamplona, and scaled Everest. I felt like a bad ass. A couple days later I give her a call and we decided to see a movie, The Namesake starring Kal Penn (Kumar, from the movie Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle).
Okay, so that's the good news. The bad news is. . .
I thought the movie was okay, but it tried to cram too much into too small a space. But that's not the bad news. QG and I grab a bite to eat afterwards (well, I ate, she had already eaten) and we get to talk some more and that was nice. I walk her back to her car and I casually ask if she'd like to get together again sometime. She very nicely, very politely declines, suggesting we just see each other at CG and at church.
That's the bad news but here's the great news.
The amazing, almost too good to be true fact is that I was absolutely, one hundred one percent fine with that. And it may sound strange but I was nearly giddy with delight - not because she said no but because I was okay with her saying no. Driving home, I felt ten feet tall, strong as a herd of wild elephants, and able to leap tall buildings using nothing but my little toe. I felt free as a bird.
See, one of the things that used to cripple me when asking girls out was the fear of rejection. Now unless they're a player of the highest order, every guy feels some ounce of fear when asking someone out. In my case, it used to be a ton of fear because I had a fragile self esteem so when I got turned down, I would crumble into a pathetic puddle of self loathing. When this happened, it would take a while to get back to feeling anything like normal. Of course I hated feeling like that so instead of risking rejection, I accepted the lonely despair of singleness because that felt like bliss in comparison.
So when QG turned me down and I realized that I didn't disintegrate, I discovered that I had become a stronger person. I was no longer the fragile glass man like Samuel L. Jackson's character in the movie Unbreakable or the lonely painter in the movie Amelie, I was Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything, able to ask out the most beautiful girl at school despite the odds against him (because one of the reasons I wanted to ask QG out was because I thought she was prettiest by far at the church).
I don't know if I'm getting across the magnitude of this attitudinal change and how liberating this is for me. Imagine a hydrophobic swimming in the ocean, imagine an agoraphobic going to the mall. This approaches blind man seeing, lame man walking levels. Again, I feel free as a bird - a large bird able to fly intercontinental distances. Maybe even an alien space bird, able to traverse the galaxy.
No, things didn't work out as hoped but that doesn't matter. I've discovered a newfound resiliency. i've learned that I CAN ask out the prettiest girl and that she'll say yes and that even if it never goes beyond the first date, I will survive, as long as I know how to love I know I'll stay alive. I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give and I'll survive.
I will survive!
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