Reason #14 Why Folks Don’t Write

There are many reasons folks don’t write. lack of talent isn’t one of them. The notion that writing can’t be defined is. The notion that it’s magic or elusive is bunk.

Writing is incredibly define-able. Take any story, any story at all in fiction, news, history. That story has a plot and there are only 13 plots in all literature, for all time. Every story ever told is about:

1. ambition
2. betrayal
3. catastrophe
4. death
5. hate
6. love
7. persecution
8. quest
9. rebellion
10. rivalry
11. survival
12. self-sacrifice
13. vengeance

Some stories blend more than one plot within the same story. A good example of one is Gone With The Wind. But NO story, EVER, became a story without one of these. It isn’t magic. It’s story. So, tell one.
YOU are the magical part.

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Hope Floats

Boats won’t be back to the harbors hugging Lake Michigan for a while. Chicago isn’t done with winter; or rather, winter isn’t done with Chicago. Diversey, Belmont and other harbors are deserted but not lonely. The empty slips and pokey water looks relieved, like the guest room post-guest.

I don’t miss the boats so much as I miss their names: “Fanta Sea,” “Flotation Device,” “Anything is Possible,” “Full Circle.” I imagine owners selected the just-right boat name with the care given to naming the newborn, naming the puppy. The NAME somehow IS the owner.

Based on boat names in Chicago, we’re a city of optimism and self-deprecation and a bit silly whoo-hoo! That sounds about right.

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The Good News

The good news about the bad news is that more good news than bad happens.

Tisn’t news that news delivers the bad stuff in barrages. That’s it’s job. Been that way since drum beaters alerted tribal brothers that warpainted bad guys were approaching over yonder hill. Been that way since town criers bleated around town some new tax levied by King so-and-so. Been that way since telegrams, since radio, since the Internet.

On days when the barrage gets me to thinking the world is going to hell in a handbasket, I remember news was invented to alert us to danger, not to entertain, not to enlighten, not to inspire and not to heal.

We still need each other for those things.

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Stairway to haven

An impressive number of my aunties have lived with their families in the same houses for years. Decades really. Visiting now marries space WITH time: There’s me-self of today and there is the me of yesterday tagging along, small but noisy.

I walk up the stairs of one auntie’s trilevel along with me’s of yore: tot-size hide-and-seeker; very bored and very boring 12-year-old; a just-married with a puffed up sense of being a just-married; a nap-deprived Mom with a lot less puff; and a quieter female who today is seeking quiet from the shrills of new hide and seekers also visiting. That’s alot of me’s in one place.

The stairs don’t seem different but I suppose they are. I don’t seem different but I suppose I am.

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Surprising

Some people I know react badly when surprise is bestowed upon them. This is because I am one such.

My auntie once engineered a surprise party for me on the occasion of my 16th birthday. Only someone of great courage would surprise a 16-year-old female, a breed known to all to have abandoned all tolerance for surprise no later than age 13.

Further, to orchestrate a teen female’s first COED party, a COED party at which the teen female is the reason for a COED party, is way beyond courage right into crazy-luneytune land.

I think Mom played her part in keeping the fete a surprise because she loved her sister(my auntie)and she loved me. I, however, do not deem this an excuse.

(Mom playing her part and Me playing the part of the surprise-ee that day):

MOM: Auntie M needs you to babysit.

Surprise-ee: NO!NO!NO! When?

MOM: Today. Tonight actually.

Surprise-ee: NO!NO!NO! Tonight?

MOM: Tonight. You should change clothes, too.

Surprise-ee: NO!NO!NO! Why?

MOM: She’s having business clients over. You can babysit and help serve.

Surprise-ee: NO!NO!NO!

MOM: I’ll drive you.

Surprise-ee: FINE!FINE!FINE!

MOM: Fine.

Mom drove. I clumped and grumped my put-upon self into my auntie’s house. If I knew how, I would have glared. Instead, I petrified into a salt pillar at the sight of bestest-buddies, sort-of friends and even BOYS inside. They were oddly placed about like abandoned toys and shrieking: SURPRISE!SURPRISE!SURPRISE!

Surprise-ee: NO!NO!NO!

I believe there’s a normal tendency to eschew surprise because it’s unpredictable. If it was predictable, it wouldn’t be a surprise; of course. Ah, it’s a tricky concept to describe. Of course you should have a suprise-er and a surprise-ee; yet sometimes it’s Mother nature or circumstances or your very own self that surprises you.

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Does it count?

When words are off on holiday someplace you are not, numbers can abide the time.

Here’s a few:

50
The average age of authors (1955-2004) when their novels hit #1 on New York Times bestseller list.

27
The number of publishers who rejected Dr. Seuss’s (Theodor Geisel) first book.

50
The number of pages to read before you abandon a book, any book. Then, don’t.

500
The number of words that fill one single-spaced page when you print it out.

300,400 or 500
The number of words that fill a page in a published book.

100,000
The number of words in many books.

1,000
The number of words to read for each word you write.

2,3 or 4
The number of years it takes most folks to write a book.

1
The number of novels written each by Harper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird), Margaret Mitchell (Gone With the Wind) and Boris Pasternak (Dr. Zhivago).

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Reason # 9 Why Folks Don’t Write

There are many reasons folks don’t write. Lack of talent isn’t one of them. Self indulgence is.

Self indulgence can be disguised as other things…writer’s block, lack of motivation, need to take care of other business, fear of failure. These are different nasties altogether. Self indulgence emerges from the mistaken notion that you own your thoughts and emotions and can do with them what you will.

Well, you don’t and you can’t. I don’t either. Give self indulgence a swift kick and get to it. You only hold what’s inside for a finite time and if you don’t write it, it won’t get writ.

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In the Nick of Names

I was named Michele instead of Lisa (a name Mom liked immensely) because Mom judged “Lisa Larson” put folks in a sing-songy frame of mind. “Lisa Larson,” “Lisa Larson,” does have a tweety-bird ring to it, I agree; yet I wouldn’t have minded.

Michele I was, and am; but my nickname is “Chele.” Not “Shell.” Not “Shelly.” Just “Chele.” This also came from Mom, who displayed the kind of care a Mom of one girl does when a orchestrating her girl’s future without boundaries; a future not burdened with, say, a lifetime known as “Bambi” or “Gertrude.”

Mom outlawed without mercy the idea of nicknaming me “Mickey.” I don’t know why but I defer to her judgment. “Chele” has the advantage of meaning not much at all; but those who call me “Chele” do.

I read the Greeks knew the notion of nicknames, something called “Hupokorisma” meaning “calling by an endearing name.” I read this on Wiki so I assume it’s accurate. It’s also very nice. Nicknames are ways we have to like each other.

My favorite is the Walter Matthau character Max in “Grumpier Old Men” who calls the Sophia Loren character Maria “Nag;” And Maria calls Max “Ox.” You can just tell they are crazy in love with each other.

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Elocution

It behooves us to honor elocution (a manner of speaking in public) as learning opportunities, what eloquent teachers might call teachable moments.

Lately there have been several turns of phrase by speakers of English I never heard before. This may be a rampant trend in other languages; but English is the only one I understand.

An American military spokesperson responding to inquiry of a timetable for withdrawal of United States troops from Afghanistan said the first batch of soldiers would depart later this year “AFTER THE FIGHTING SEASON.”
Who knew that war was sport, that there’s even a season for it?

Braving really really cold weather, Russian citizens gathering in Moscow’s downtown to plead for free elections were queried to explain their cause. A teacher said it was hard to teach her students to be honest in a country “SATURATED WITH DECEIT.”
Who knew we had so much in common with Russians?

China’s next president Xi Jinping is paying a visit to America, including Iowa; and there’s much ado about relations between America and China. So naturally a Chinese official spoke right up and said between our two countries, there is a “TRUST DEFICIT.”
Who knew trust was quantifiable, like Lincoln pennies? Who knew Iowa was a place to visit?

Chicago’s mayor Rahm Emanuel speaks very well in public, for somebody born in Chicago; and is making a lot of decisions lately that impact a lot of people. Not everybody wants to be impacted so some decisions irk some folks. Asked why he was making a decision recently, about what I don’t recall, he said he now has “POWER CAPITAL” and is using it.
Who knew power was a commodity you acquire and spend? Well, okay. I guess that’s nothing new.

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Sitting pretty

I set undue import on my office and what it looks like. I’ve occupied a variety of them and note now that what I thought was the finest office was, in fact, the worst.

Teaching at a parochial girls’ high school, I didn’t have an office but could habitate a lounge randomly during the school day. It was like a big shared locker where teachers plunked their flotsam and sat in comfy chairs. Mostly we stared into space, pondering what fates had landed us teaching high school girls.

In graduate school, I had an office because I had an assistantship and assistants got offices. Mine was airless and the size of a walk-in closet. I didn’t need the office but was so flattered to have one I decorated with pastel vases and a big poster featuring a pastel vase. It was the loneliest place on campus but I fussed over it.

Journalists at Chicago Tribune herded themselves around desks in a giant office space. Doors would have been rude so we didn’t have them. Personal tendencies, like singing or coughing were discouraged. I liked this arrangement. It was chummy.

As an editor at an educational think tank, I occupied a space with a window AND a door. This seemed to require gravity of manner on my part.

As a director at an educational product company, I occupied a bedroom-size space with a window AND a door AND a credenza. Here gravity reached mammoth proportion and as a result I left any creative urges at the doorway.

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