Grandma Nan's
The warmth of the farmhouse banished dark thoughts and welcomed them in when they reached it. Now they sat in the kitchen on curved wooden chairs around a heavy oak table. A large bay window looking out across the back lot to more grazing sheep and a rolling corn field. Sora hummed a little tune to herself as she chased the last of her breakfast around her bowl. Somewhere behind them the comforting presence of Grandma Nan, fake or not, radiated.
It was a good idea to come here, Kerr thought, stuffed now on baked oatmeal rich with peaches, brown sugar, and cream. A second cup of fresh hot coffee sat steaming in front of him.
A switch to the back of his head from a tea towel brought him out of his thoughts, and he carefully set the front legs of his chair back on the ground as he shot a rueful half grin at Nan. Whatever her age under the iron gray curls and layers of fine crow's feet, she was rail thin and strong as a whip. Her words while gentle had been pretty lean and to the point, too. She was going to use that tongue on him now, he thought, as he watched the teasing glint in her eye shift to a quiet certainty. They were going to talk.
He didn't know how he knew this of a woman he didn't know, but he did. He felt a cold iron fist tighten in his gut.
"Sora, darling," Nan's mellow voice broke the silence, "there are kittens out on the back porch if you want to have a look."
Sora was on her feet and disappearing out the back door in a flutter of white night gown before Nan had even finished her sentence. Before he could call her back and delay the inevitable.
She didn't waste any time. "Have you figured it out yet?" she asked , sliding into a chair across from him with her own cup of coffee.
"That I'm stuck in a dream that doesn't make sense?" he tried to make light of it, to turn the impossible away, but the crack in his voice gave him away.
"Yes, and what's behind that," she waited patiently for him, as though she was only waiting for him to catch up with the plot.
"Who I am?" she prompted.
He stared into her narrow, kindly face and tried to find an answer. The certainty there... it terrified him. Ripped the icing of good food and welcoming kitchen away. He felt the void in his mind again. The giant void with the answers locked tantalizingly out of reach.
"The Institute," she prompted again.
This time the words registered, a can of memories bursting and spilling across his mind. Graduating college. Getting that government job so quickly. He had been thrilled. Had taken the job without a second thought. And then everything that came after...
Suddenly he straightened, eyes shooting to the back door. Horror dawning.
"I have to leave her here. I can't take her. I..." He didn't. He couldn't. How could he?
Warm fingers wrapped around his clenching shaking fist, "I know, dear. I know."
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
ScratchPad: Focused and Diffuse Modes- Harnessing Your Thinking for Improved Creativity and Learning (plus Update)
Update- I've been a bit MIA around these parts the last month or two. Taking Scott Dinsmore's "Start a Blog/Revive a Blog" Challenge to see if I can jump start my intentionality again. For starters here is the first part of a three post series adapted from my final project in the fascinating (and FREE!) online course I took through Coursera called "Learning How to Learn: Powerful mental tools to help you master tough subjects". A very worthwhile and useful exploration of the topic by Dr. Barbara Oakley and Dr. Terrence Sejnowski. I'd highly recommend it for anyone who likes to learn. If this is something you are interested in, there is a new class starting on October 3rd HERE.
You know how many famous writers and creatives seem to go out for long walks on a fairly regular basis? Turns out they
are taking advantage of the brain's use of diffuse thinking. Use this to your advantage as well and make your story deeper and fuller!
So what exactly is happening when they are out for a walk that gets all these advantages? Most of us think about periods of high level focus or concentration as the important bit in getting words down on paper or in learning something new. It is important. Nothing beats BIC (butt-in-chair) for getting closer to a finished piece of writing. Turns out, though, that the periods of inattention and lack of focus (when we make another cup of coffee, google random questions that happened to pop into our heads, doodle in a sketchpad, or wander around aimlessly...) are just as important. They give your brain the necessary space to making the new connections that will lead you to a better understanding of what is going on with your characters and story world, and ultimately to a better piece of writing.
So what exactly is happening when they are out for a walk that gets all these advantages? Most of us think about periods of high level focus or concentration as the important bit in getting words down on paper or in learning something new. It is important. Nothing beats BIC (butt-in-chair) for getting closer to a finished piece of writing. Turns out, though, that the periods of inattention and lack of focus (when we make another cup of coffee, google random questions that happened to pop into our heads, doodle in a sketchpad, or wander around aimlessly...) are just as important. They give your brain the necessary space to making the new connections that will lead you to a better understanding of what is going on with your characters and story world, and ultimately to a better piece of writing.
You can
think of it like having two kinds of pinball machines in your head. When you
are focused, the pins of your mind keep your attention tight and narrow,
bouncing around in only one narrow defined area. When you are involved in
activities that activate the diffuse mode of thinking, the pins are more widely
spaced, allowing you to make connections between that amazing song you heard
last week, the random radio interview with a French historian playing as you drive to the grocery , and a Pick Up
Sticks game you played as a kid. These broader context connections will add layers and depth to your writing.
When you do the first focused round of writing (or learning), the brain
lays down tracks for the new material, but it often doesn’t make
sense of it in a meaningful way until it begins to make connections with other things in
your mind and memory. You also need time for the new tracks to solidify. Writing a little every day gives your brain that time and makes a tighter, better "wall" for you to sit on. Then when you step away for those periods of diffuse thinking, you allow time for the subconscious brain to step away
from the new material, turn it over, and then come to new conclusions and
connections about it. It cements things and firms them up. Binge writing on the other hand (of which I am VERY guilty) gives you a potentially more crumbly wall without all those connections and hardened cement framework.
So what does all this new research actually mean in getting better writing done?
1. Plan focused times to sit down and do your writing. Set a timer and actually be there at the
page for that period of time.
2. When the timer goes, step away and do something completely different for a bit--listen to
music, draw, go for a walk, … It should feel like a reward.
3. Then come back and focus for another stint!
4. Follow it up with reward--diffuse mode thinking take two.
5. Show up again tomorrow. (This is the tough one for me.)
The length of time you set the timer for will be individual and dependent on the day. Maybe the writing is difficult and you only feel up to committing to a Flylady Fifteen (You can do anything for fifteen minutes!) rather than a Pomodoro Twenty-Five or an Amy Alkon Sixty (from her interview in the above mentioned MOOC). Experiment. Find the amount of time that is optimal for you.
If you give this a try, let me know how it works for you! Best of luck in your writing and your learning.
Monday, August 11, 2014
The Silent Room: Part 22
Grenfelder
The walking went on and on once he finally hauled himself to his feet and resumed his steady march. Eventually, his eyes began to play tricks. The mirage of a farmhouse surrounded by fresh green grass beckoned. In the landscape of nothingness, something. He turned his steps away from the invisible wall.
He refused to wonder if he had been wrong to choose the farmhouse out of all the broad dusty landscape. The napkin would be here. It had to be. He refused to think about how much searching he still had to do.
By the time he got to the farmhouse, he was beyond the end of his reserves. Thick layers of dust crusted over him, sticking to the sweat- drying, cracking, chafing. The heat had sapped away any last energy hours ago. He was lightheaded with fatigue and hunger. Only sheer force of will put one agonizing foot in front of the other.
When he at last reached the bright green circle amid all the blowing dust bowl of fields, he fell headlong onto the grass. The damp blades of new grass pressed cool into his sun-crisped cheek. He lay there for a long time. He may even have passed out for awhile. Afterwards, when he thought about it, he was never sure. He only knew that eventually he found his way to his knees to drag his body forward toward the steps.
As he clawed his way up the porch, he saw a picnic basket sitting there. Peaking out the top was a blue gingham napkin.
The end. The last thing. He let out a sigh just short of a huff of relief as he settled onto the top step. Knees pulled up, his back leaned against the porch post, he just let himself stare.
The end. But... was he ready for the next thing? What would be the next thing? What...
He forced his thoughts to a stop. He had left all those questions and their circling gamble of answers hours ago in the dusty fields. He didn't care anymore what the wrong or right or possible answer was. He would pick up the napkin, and it would be what it would be. He had left hope on a beach not that long ago. Now wasn't time to be picking it up again.
A bottle of lemonade sat next to the basket. Condensation glittered on the glass. He reached first for that. Felt the impossibly cold bottle solid under his hand. Popping the cap off the top, he drank it long and slow, with his head tipped back. Letting it side down his throat, gulp after gulp, until it was gone.
Once it was empty, he set it firmly on the porch beside him. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Moment of truth. "Let's do this thing," he mumbled to the crowding air.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head against his left fist, and in one smooth motion reached forward to grab the napkin. His hand closed over the napkin.
Water, cold and thick, closed over his head.
The walking went on and on once he finally hauled himself to his feet and resumed his steady march. Eventually, his eyes began to play tricks. The mirage of a farmhouse surrounded by fresh green grass beckoned. In the landscape of nothingness, something. He turned his steps away from the invisible wall.
He refused to wonder if he had been wrong to choose the farmhouse out of all the broad dusty landscape. The napkin would be here. It had to be. He refused to think about how much searching he still had to do.
As he clawed his way up the porch, he saw a picnic basket sitting there. Peaking out the top was a blue gingham napkin.
The end. The last thing. He let out a sigh just short of a huff of relief as he settled onto the top step. Knees pulled up, his back leaned against the porch post, he just let himself stare.
The end. But... was he ready for the next thing? What would be the next thing? What...
He forced his thoughts to a stop. He had left all those questions and their circling gamble of answers hours ago in the dusty fields. He didn't care anymore what the wrong or right or possible answer was. He would pick up the napkin, and it would be what it would be. He had left hope on a beach not that long ago. Now wasn't time to be picking it up again.
A bottle of lemonade sat next to the basket. Condensation glittered on the glass. He reached first for that. Felt the impossibly cold bottle solid under his hand. Popping the cap off the top, he drank it long and slow, with his head tipped back. Letting it side down his throat, gulp after gulp, until it was gone.
Once it was empty, he set it firmly on the porch beside him. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Moment of truth. "Let's do this thing," he mumbled to the crowding air.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head against his left fist, and in one smooth motion reached forward to grab the napkin. His hand closed over the napkin.
Water, cold and thick, closed over his head.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Scratchpad: Creativity in 3D
Scratchpad is the new catch title for my creative process, reflection posts.
Do you allow creativity to take up its necessary amount of space in your life?
This question came up when I was meeting with a couple of writer/artist friends last week to talk life and creativity and synchronicity. (We have begun working our way through Julia Cameron's The Artist Way book, some of us for the second time .) It started with a conversation about body image and how our cultural definitions of beauty and body often come from flat two dimensional images (photos) while we actually live in 3D or three dimensions. We take up space. We are in the world. We are objects to act and react against, a presence that requires others to coordinate around. Just as we must coordinate around them. We are beautiful and flawed. We take up space.
Which brought us to the question of creativity in our lives. Do we think of our creativity as the 3D thing it is? Or does our fear of it and our desire to "control" it lead us to try and smash it into a 2D flat space within our lives? Do we scrunch it up into tiny disconnected pieces at the tired corners of our lives, keeping it root bound? And are we frustrated and discouraged that our attempts at executing our artistic work feel stilted, unoriginal, and uninspired? What if we instead allowed it to be the breathing, fluid, bulky, 3D presence that it is. Would that allow it and us to flourish more fully? Would that make our work more enjoyable and effective?
We often hear that creativity and inspiration and process are different for each of us. That it is something we will discover as we go about doing our work. One writer Jane Vandenburgh in her book Architecture of a Novel even goes so far as to argue that each individual work (novel) has its own rules and shape and way of coming into being that we cannot know ahead of time. We can only discover it bit by bit as we work our way through. The process of that discovery takes up space and requires a willingness to experiment and make a mess. Have we given ourselves that space? And have we been gentle and kind and forgiving of our stumbles and mistakes when we do? How would our creativity and our productivity be different if we took intentional time to nurture it and cultivate it and allow it to come to life in its own particular 3D shape?
What about you? How have you given space to creativity in your life lately? How have you watered it and allowed it to come to life?
Best wishes in your creative endeavors this week!
On a side note, if you are a writer and interested in "puttering away" more at craft this month, consider joining Gabriela Periera's 29 Day Conquer the Craft Challenge. (HERE)
Do you allow creativity to take up its necessary amount of space in your life?
This question came up when I was meeting with a couple of writer/artist friends last week to talk life and creativity and synchronicity. (We have begun working our way through Julia Cameron's The Artist Way book, some of us for the second time .) It started with a conversation about body image and how our cultural definitions of beauty and body often come from flat two dimensional images (photos) while we actually live in 3D or three dimensions. We take up space. We are in the world. We are objects to act and react against, a presence that requires others to coordinate around. Just as we must coordinate around them. We are beautiful and flawed. We take up space.
Which brought us to the question of creativity in our lives. Do we think of our creativity as the 3D thing it is? Or does our fear of it and our desire to "control" it lead us to try and smash it into a 2D flat space within our lives? Do we scrunch it up into tiny disconnected pieces at the tired corners of our lives, keeping it root bound? And are we frustrated and discouraged that our attempts at executing our artistic work feel stilted, unoriginal, and uninspired? What if we instead allowed it to be the breathing, fluid, bulky, 3D presence that it is. Would that allow it and us to flourish more fully? Would that make our work more enjoyable and effective?
We often hear that creativity and inspiration and process are different for each of us. That it is something we will discover as we go about doing our work. One writer Jane Vandenburgh in her book Architecture of a Novel even goes so far as to argue that each individual work (novel) has its own rules and shape and way of coming into being that we cannot know ahead of time. We can only discover it bit by bit as we work our way through. The process of that discovery takes up space and requires a willingness to experiment and make a mess. Have we given ourselves that space? And have we been gentle and kind and forgiving of our stumbles and mistakes when we do? How would our creativity and our productivity be different if we took intentional time to nurture it and cultivate it and allow it to come to life in its own particular 3D shape?
What about you? How have you given space to creativity in your life lately? How have you watered it and allowed it to come to life?
Best wishes in your creative endeavors this week!
On a side note, if you are a writer and interested in "puttering away" more at craft this month, consider joining Gabriela Periera's 29 Day Conquer the Craft Challenge. (HERE)
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