The Forest … Or The Trees?

Barbara: I was chatting with a friend the other day—she’s one of those wellsprings of knowledge, highly intelligent, astute, straight-shooting, the kind of person I wish I could have on speed-dial for succinct answers to my ever-wondering questions. I mentioned to her that I was taking a creative writing class that was dedicated to developing our novels as a whole before we started writing the nuts and bolts, so we could have “a blueprint” first. I explained to her that I had, in fact, already written the novel, but needed an overview in order to do my next re-write. I had found that I’d come too close to my work and couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

My friend pointed out that this was common for women. Now let me stress that my friend is not the least bit sexist nor is she a random generalizer: but she had an interesting point (and she made it far more succinctly and elegantly than I will here, so bear with me!). If we look back to our tribal beginnings, men had to hone their broad awareness instincts—they had to see the whole of the forest (or plain, or savannah, or what-have-you) because that killer could come at him from any direction. He had to possess a fundamental and pervasive knowing of what was around him at all times. If not, he risked his own life and the lives and wellbeing of his tribe.

But our ancestral women-folk were back at the village, gathering. They needed to have a finely-tuned awareness of every seed, berry, fruit, and nut, in short, every vegetation food source that was hiding (but probably not about to kill her) in the thick foliage of those trees, bushes, and grasses. She had to observe details with precision and accuracy in order to feed her family a—let’s face it—balanced diet and so keep them alive.

And these two primitive conditioners are engrained into our DNA because for tens of thousands of years, they worked! We survived and developed and evolved into the fascinating and complex creatures you see before you now.

Of course, I believe that many of us have developed past this divider between the sexes (yes, there are women who have broad vision and men who are great with details). I also believe that we’re able to develop our awareness outside the primitive boxes we may naturally incline towards. But I really appreciated this a-ha moment of seeing this particular forest for its trees.

And not only was it an interesting eye-opener, or light-shiner, but, as these kinds of epiphanies often do, it suddenly empowered me. If I know my weakness—and, even better, if I can blame my weakness on genetics!—I can consciously work to improve it.

Yeah, sure, I had already signed up for that overview creative writing class, and, yes, I had already realized that for this particular project, I certainly needed to improve my ability to see the big picture. But now I know that the skills I build in reviewing and rewriting this particular project will also need to be skills I carry forward with me to all my other projects.

I aim to be a nurturer of trees, but also a Park Ranger of forests. Not just in writing, but in life.

Beyond the full outline overview, which I did both in paper Post-its and on the computer (because my handwriting is virtually illegible, even to me), I also decided to tackle a rewrite of a scene by printing out all the relevant pages, cutting out all the detritus, and then layering what was left into a general, cohesive single scene.

Deb:  I have always loved this expression as it covers so much in life. An elegant saying indeed. I think you have found the perfect balance for your book, Barbara, in this theory.

Sometimes that which is right in front of us is painful. Sometimes it’s scary and sometimes it requires us to do things we are not ready to do. I find for me, I have always been able to see the forest despite the sometimes huge growth of trees, but am often reluctant to venture in.

Life Lessons From Writing Lessons

Barbara: I am taking the most wonderful, creative and inspiring writing course right now with Michel Basilieres (writer of the magnificent Black Bird). One of the fundamental writing lessons he is teaching us, a lesson he reiterates over and over in case we forget it (because we do forget it over and over) which, in my humble opinion, also happens to be a fundamental life lesson is: no matter what you do, you are NEVER EVER “wasting your time”.

It’s a funny obstacle many writers have that if you see that something in your writing isn’t working, you have this tremendous sense of frustration and fatigue, ennui even, and usually high levels of resistance to the idea that you might need to start over again. Maybe you need to throw something away that you’ve slaved over. Or maybe you need to accept that something you’ve really attached yourself to, creatively and emotionally, just isn’t working the way you thought/hoped/imagined. The crux of this discovery, either your own for yourself or from an outside eye, is that it feels like a rejection of you and your work. You may feel stupid (how could I have missed/written that?). You may feel angry (fuck you, you don’t know what you’re talking about!). You may even feel you want to just pack it in and give up. And let me just be blunt about that: if you do actually pack it in and give up, then you didn’t care enough about that dream/idea/creation. Because, like in life, anything that really matters to you, anything that is deep and meaningful and spiritually important takes an extraordinary investment of time. Like, maybe even all the time you have…

Every writer has a point (or many points along the way) where they have to take stock and make adjustments. We all know the famous quote about writing being 10% writing and 90% re-writing. Writers often get writer’s block because they are consumed with this anxiety that if they don’t get it JUST RIGHT the first time, the work they’ve toiled over will go to scrap, so rather than do “wrong” work, they don’t do any work at all.

For all you writers out there, here’s the best news: every single word you write—whether it “survives” or does not—gives you something enormous: it might teach you about the craft, it might open up a story path you hadn’t considered and will still use, it might produce a sentence or a character or an idea that would never otherwise have been born. Nothing you create when you sit down to create is useless.

And, as I considered the truth of this lesson, the importance of it, I realized all of life is like this. We all have experiences and moments that we kind of chuck into the garbage after they’re done (well, that’s over, thank god), and then we find ourselves facing the same kind of experience or moment over and over and we sigh and wail and throw up our hands (no, not that again!). But every one of our dreary life experiences also carries the seeds of life lessons embedded within. And, I think, if we pay attention and reflect, we can certainly find the creative genius in those challenges, and that the residual effect is specifically valuable and true to us.

There is no waste of time in the mountains of balled up, cast-off pages landing in the trash, and there is no waste of time in the things we do that don’t end up so pretty and perfect. We are all… wait for it … you know it’s coming … works in progress.

Deb: I LOVE THIS POST! All the stuff I know but needed to be reminded of. Barb, you and I know firsthand how this is. We have written and rewritten our scripts over and over and then over again. We always had the same can-do spirt about it, I think, based on this philosophy. But as Barb knows I am trying to write this kid's book that has been in my head forever and I NEEDED this lovely and positive reminder. Thanks, Barb. Thanks, Barb’s teacher!

Agree To Agree

Deb: Barb and I, upon the founding of this blog, claimed in our tagline that we were different women, with different husbands and different opinions. We are different women with different husbands, to be sure. We have never crossed that line. Although those of you who are in the know are aware that during a ski trip some years back, I did accidentally fondle Barb’s husband Phil with both my husband and all our children looking on. Desirous of my plan to be a stealth fondler, I acted in haste and paid the price. For those of you not in the know, lest I seem like a middle-aged Angelina, I thought the area I was tapping into belonged to my own legal husband. Thank heaven the kids were old enough to laugh with us!

Riffing off Phil’s crotch (thank you Phil), and back to Barb and I, we have lately begun to question the validity of our tagline. The area we have clearly failed at, the area in which we have let you down, dear readers, is the claim that we have “different opinions”. Because we mostly don’t. And we don’t “don’t” on purpose. We simply put our opinions out there and, as it turns out, most of the time, we agree ... with each other anyway. We sure didn’t plan it that way, but as it turns out ... we agree. After two-and-a-half years blogging, this is becoming painfully clear. Or in this case, happily clear. We are not good cop bad cop, nor are we Betty and Veronica. We are kind of two sides of the same coin. Actually we are not really two sides. We are both crammed into “heads”, leaving the blog without a “tails”.  A great example of this is that Barbara thought it was hilarious that I mistook her husband for mine on that fateful grabby ski trip. See? We cannot not agree!

So here’s the question. Why? What is it? We come from different backgrounds and have a big gap in age. Born 9 years and one day apart. But we are sister thinkers. Sister feelers. Fellow Cancerians.  We are not alike in outward personality at all. But wow, we are SO alike in our deep chocolaty centres.

Before writing this post, I went through our relationship in my mind, fast forwarding and rewinding, and what I found was that we have indeed disagreed in the course of our friendship. The reason it doesn’t stand out as disagreement is that it is dealt with so swiftly and fairly that it evaporates almost immediately. Both of us have been on the receiving end of disrespect in our individual work environments in the past.  Both of us are people-pleasing, non-confrontational gals. So when we do disagree about a thought or a direction, we really truly go as far as we can to see the other person’s point of view. We agreed at the beginning of our working relationship that we would always go a mile in each direction of two ideas until we came to the outcome of each. Then we would examine them equally and let the winning idea present itself on merit. And it always has. Every time we have done that exercise we have both jumped on the winning idea no matter which of us was the instigator. I think that’s how we treat our friendship too. We are always there to bail the other out no matter what. We never seek to blame, as we are too busy seeking solutions. Are we lucky? Yes, we are. But, like our marriages, we work at it. Because the friendship is worth it.

Here are some things I would like to disagree with Barb on. I would like to disagree if she didn’t want to travel with me. I would love to disagree if she didn’t want to write with me. I would like to disagree if she ever says we should stop being friends.

So we agree to agree. But you can feel free to agree to agree, or agree to disagree, or just disagree. I’m fine with that. Apparently, we both are.  And for our part, maybe once a month we should get all in each other’s faces. Hmmmm ... no, we’d just end up crying! Or maybe we should change our tagline because we are clearly not living up to our claim:

“different ages, different husbands, different underwear”

Can’t argue that!

Barbara: Oh, Deb, I am so so glad you finally addressed this little conundrum of ours. And, man, do I LOVE the way you’ve addressed it. Every thought, every discovery, every observation you’ve made here mirrors my own feelings (what I mean by that is: I hadn’t yet fully formulated all these thoughts, discoveries and observations, but I WISH I had, and IF I had, I’d only dare hope to express them as adorably and wonderfully as you). Okay, I’m agreeing with her (aka: openly loving her) again, aren’t I?

I have to emphasize Deb’s point that when we started blogging we really truly imagined we would disagree more—not for the sake of it, but by virtue of the fact that we were—on paper—quite different. And also for the sake of really showing the “two sides of the coin” thing. Looking back, I find it hilarious that we (pretty much) always agree. I love the way you’ve expressed the “why” of it here, Deb, and I (quite naturally!) agree with all your points. The double irony is that we’ve gathered an amazing group of like-minded souls here that often (but not always) agree too!

I do think it makes TMA a lovely, welcoming place. BUT I’d also like to reiterate that we are always open to differing opinions, especially because we talk here about the things that affect us and, by doing so in an open and vulnerable way, we also get to revel in the tweaks and shifts that inevitably come from getting a kaleidoscope of different reactions from all of you.

As much as I am definitely a “people-pleaser”, one of the best lessons I’ve learned from this experience is how to own my own opinions, even if they’re different—and, yes, even if they’re the same. For me, not worrying about pleasing people all the time (because I now truly understand that I can’t) and seeing my true heart for what it is has been a HUGE personal development. Would it be easier if everyone, including you, Deb, always agreed with me? Sure. But I still love that even the same opinions have different variations, and even the different opinions that are expressed here are done so with loving care and compassion. It has—believe it or not—made me less fearful and more patient with the many utterly different opinions out there and everywhere.

As for your new tagline, Deb—yup, our underwear is definitely, always, and 100% different!

When Words Are The Sticks And Stones

Barbara: Remember on Tuesday when we asked what we would say to our 12-year-old selves if we could (and, wow, thank you for one of my favourite comments sections ever!)? Well, it got me thinking about something that someone actually did say to me in those vulnerable growing-up years, something which changed my life. And not for the better.

The reason I want to share this with you now is that it was certainly a turning point moment in my life, but also, more importantly, because I am finally and utterly over it.

Okay, so the words…

I got hooked on writing when I was pretty young. I mean, I loved to perform and direct and had huge plans for local theatre shows or fairs that my friends would help me organize for weeks and which then kinda fizzled out (I guess follow-through was not my strongest suit back then). But, more than that, my precious secret was that I was actually a writer. Scribbling first draft work into a notepad and then meticulously transcribing the story through my little portable typewriter. I amused myself by calling the typed version of my work my “copyright” (copy/write… get it??? Unfortunately, when my parents patronized me with delighted laughter about this malapropism—like I didn’t know what I was saying!—man, was I pissed. And embarrassed.) My coup was when I wrote a 60page novel at 13. No matter that it was a blatant rip-off of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, it was my own beautiful creation.

Barbara at 10

Two years later, I had high hopes for my English class. We were finally attempting creative writing and I was sure I was a shoe-in to ace it. I would finally bring my little secret to the light. I would be recognized. I would be renowned.

But the teacher had other ideas in mind. She took it upon herself to stand in front of the class one day and list all the people she believed to have genuine talent. As she pronounced the names, I nodded in recognition—yes, she was a great storyteller; yes, he had such a way with words—and waited with bated breath for my own name to be called. But she continued with her list, her eyes scanning the classroom, several times holding on me and then passing on, announcing on and on, name after name, until the names began to lose value—what? him??? He doesn’t know a simile from a metaphor!—until she was finished and ready to direct our attention to other English matters.

But wait! It doesn’t end there. As hurt and humiliated as I was (why are we humiliated by omissions that no one else would even notice?), I swallowed past it and carried on. Until a few days later, this same teacher called me into her office and told me—unbidden, mind—in a calm, clear voice that she understood that when she’d made her “talented writers” pronouncement, she’d noticed that I might have hoped that my own name would be called, but that she was sorry she just couldn’t do it. My memory after that is a blur: I think I nodded and kind of wandered out into the hall, trying desperately to hold it together.

I’m pretty sure, in the end, I kicked some creative writing butt in that class, earning high marks on all my pieces. But I let those strangely pointed words become the mantra to which I pursued (or didn’t) all my writing in all the years after that. I let those words sit on my shoulder and become my cross for so many years that it finally had no other choice but to decay and disintegrate. It wasn’t until the cross was gone that I realized that it was gone.

(I will also allow that years and years of writing practice—and now blogging—has helped to erase the onus.)

And I know we will all be outraged at this teacher’s cruelty (or at least that is the most common response when I share this story—which isn’t often), and we will wag our fingers at her casual damage, and we will pat my back (appreciated but truly not necessary) and comfort me. But I wanted to share this with you because I think, in many ways and in ongoing ways, we are always talking to our 12-year-old selves. Or at least we are trying to. And we ARE changing our personal histories by listening to our older, more mature selves and … well, getting over it.

Revenge is a dish best … left in the kitchen.

Deb: Barb, this is so poignant. I agree that we are always talking to our 12-year-old selves and I love this story. I certainly don’t love it for the pain it caused you, but rather for the lesson it taught you. You did it. You kept doing it!!! Do you know how many people would have never put pen to paper again? In this instance, you do not need to go back and talk to your 12-year-old self. Your 12-year-old self got it, I think. It just took some years of maturing to set it in stone. Well done. You should lay your head on the pillow and say Mrs. (insert teachers name), today I am a writer.

Deb In Someone Else’s Autobiography

Barbara: I didn’t know what little tidbit I would share with you for today’s post, but then it occurred to me that in real life lately I keep talking about this book I’m reading, and then it occurred to me that the book is what I ought to deem worthy for today’s chat (*says in a haughty voice*).

The book is Too Close to the Falls and is an autobiography by a now-Canadian writer/psychologist, Catherine Gildiner, depicting her childhood years in Lewiston, NY. I’m reading it for my amazing Book Club—and I won’t lie: I wasn’t terribly excited to read another this-is-my-real-life-in-chapter-form (with all-the-chapters-taking-place-between-years-4-and-10, no less!!). But it was Book Club, so I waded gamely into the fray.

And, lo, I met this charming, irascible, feisty little kid who had any number of unusual encounters in early 50’s America. She stood up for herself and for every other decent human being in her life. And I just couldn’t shake the impression that I was meeting young Deb in full regalia.

Now I know this isn’t Deb’s story, but one of the things I’ve most loved about this blog is meeting that child of Deb’s yore—the one in the stories she shares with us sometimes. I’ve been surprised and delighted by insights into Deb’s young life—those childhood experiences that full-grown friends often don’t share with each other (we have so many other things to talk about, right?). And so I’ve been even more delighted and excited to read this adorable book.

And as I am reading, I’m also getting that certain feeling that, by odd osmosis, I’m getting to know and love our darling Deb even more. This is what they mean when they call someone “spirited”. It’s the best of all things human and humane. Thanks, Catherine Gildiner. And, of course, thanks my dear Deb.

Deb: I am going to use my Chapters Christmas gift cards and go get this book ASAP. In the meantime I am going to love you for thinking of my life when you read this book. Sweet sweet sweetness. I can’t wait. Remind me to blog about the time I thought my childhood life was in a Penguin book. I have been searching for that book ever since. It is fascinating!