What does a writer do when he or she can't write? Some desire to create is there but nothing comes; distractions replace inspiration.
It happens to us all, perhaps serving as a break from too much mental activity, a needed dry spell. It is not a cause for alarm.
It has happened to me in my fiction writing in recent months: fatigue and other commitments have gotten in the way of developing several ideas I have for stories.
This week I decided to take action, and the remedy I found most useful: reading something of quality, with style. The novel I chose was the recent work of Andre Aciman, Enigma Variations.
It's too early to tell what I think of the novel, except that it is carefully crafted, full of detailed description, in this case of Italy at some time in the past; and for me, being absorbed in the author's language and dialogue is very helpful in moving out of my lethargy, not that it gives me ideas to borrow but something broader and harder to define: a sense of being connected to the world of words, a sense of borrowed confidence coming from an accomplished author.
I find myself intrigued by Aciman's exotic upbringing in Egypt, the son of Italian and Turkish Jewish parents who spoke mainly French at home, along with Arabic, Italian and Greek. What a cultivated milieu in which the young author was nourished, outlined in his memoir Out of Egypt. I envy such a cosmopolitan background, which is more important to me than his doctorate from Harvard or his teaching in New York, where he now lives, since it has produced a writer of high skill.
Reading anything of quality (I find that many things in the New Yorker give me a jump start when my energy flags) is an often overlooked necessity in the life of any writer. Two hours of reading might produce an hour or more of writing and the sense of relief that the well has not run dry.
Saturday, May 20, 2017
Friday, May 19, 2017
Nature and our health
A friend just sent me an undated article from MIND reporting on research about the impact of being in nature on our sense of well being. As a writer who has long been cooped up inside, I savor my time by the lake or ocean or just looking at trees in my neighborhood; now I understand more about why the natural world is essential for my health.
In one study, 95% of those studied said that spending time outdoor improved their mood. Presumably, this did not include dreary, rainy days. Those who were stressed, anxious or depressed felt more calm and balanced. No surprise, really, yet it is so easy for us to be tied to our technology that we forget to look beyond our narrow horizon.
Another study said that time spent in nature, or viewing nature scenes, increases our ability to pay attention. To observe the sky or water or a forest of trees is a respite from our over-active minds and refreshes us for new tasks.
I recall a quote from the writer Colette, a bit of advice to a young man: Look closely at what pleases you. Observation and the complete focus on the beauty of the natural world takes us out of ourselves and at the same time feeds the soul, which needs beauty. This type of attention is the basis of art and of a basic kind of spirituality: being fully present to the now.
Even if we live in drab cities, it is not hard to find natural beauty somewhere, perhaps in a tree, whose very stillness can, upon lengthy observation, be calming.
All of this seems especially important for writers, who often begin with observation but too often stay in their heads: nature beckons!
In one study, 95% of those studied said that spending time outdoor improved their mood. Presumably, this did not include dreary, rainy days. Those who were stressed, anxious or depressed felt more calm and balanced. No surprise, really, yet it is so easy for us to be tied to our technology that we forget to look beyond our narrow horizon.
Another study said that time spent in nature, or viewing nature scenes, increases our ability to pay attention. To observe the sky or water or a forest of trees is a respite from our over-active minds and refreshes us for new tasks.
I recall a quote from the writer Colette, a bit of advice to a young man: Look closely at what pleases you. Observation and the complete focus on the beauty of the natural world takes us out of ourselves and at the same time feeds the soul, which needs beauty. This type of attention is the basis of art and of a basic kind of spirituality: being fully present to the now.
Even if we live in drab cities, it is not hard to find natural beauty somewhere, perhaps in a tree, whose very stillness can, upon lengthy observation, be calming.
All of this seems especially important for writers, who often begin with observation but too often stay in their heads: nature beckons!
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
Is courtesy dead?
Every time I visit a medical facility and find I am treated more like a number than a person, when I notice I am not addressed by name and that the chart or electronic record seems more important than I am, I wonder if basic courtesy is dying.
How rare it is to be called "Mr. Schiffhorst" anywhere or "sir," even by servers in restaurants. Of course, you might say I have a difficult name, but when an eye technician or dermatology aide calls me nothing and says very little in what is essentially an intimate situation, I am amazed.
The topic of politeness came to my attention recently with a piece in the NYTimes by Molly Worthen, who writes mainly about careless emails and academic rudeness. As a college professor, she is shocked that so many students call her by her first name and/or fail to send carefully edited email messages, both signs of disrespect. All too often, she says, the informal practices of text messaging carry over into emails, which can be insulting in their lack of care: they often are unsigned and lack any sign of proofreading.
She notes that women and minorities are more and more demanding these days that students know how to address them (this used to be taken for granted). As a man, I was always Professor (or Dr.) Schiffhorst to the students at the university but didn't mind being called "Mr." Has our culture become so casual it is now disrespectful? Or is it the many students simply fail to see that their informality is insulting to professionals?
Worthen reports that students at elite schools are often worse offenders in these matters of academic protocol than those at state schools. Is that what we call entitlement? Or is it that the young, female, possible Asian or African American instructor is an object of prejudice?
Note to students and others: it is not elite to be polite, to try to use the person's last name or academic title; it is not cool to dash off a message to an instructor via email that's full of errors. It shows basic lack of the human respect that we all deserve.
How rare it is to be called "Mr. Schiffhorst" anywhere or "sir," even by servers in restaurants. Of course, you might say I have a difficult name, but when an eye technician or dermatology aide calls me nothing and says very little in what is essentially an intimate situation, I am amazed.
The topic of politeness came to my attention recently with a piece in the NYTimes by Molly Worthen, who writes mainly about careless emails and academic rudeness. As a college professor, she is shocked that so many students call her by her first name and/or fail to send carefully edited email messages, both signs of disrespect. All too often, she says, the informal practices of text messaging carry over into emails, which can be insulting in their lack of care: they often are unsigned and lack any sign of proofreading.
She notes that women and minorities are more and more demanding these days that students know how to address them (this used to be taken for granted). As a man, I was always Professor (or Dr.) Schiffhorst to the students at the university but didn't mind being called "Mr." Has our culture become so casual it is now disrespectful? Or is it the many students simply fail to see that their informality is insulting to professionals?
Worthen reports that students at elite schools are often worse offenders in these matters of academic protocol than those at state schools. Is that what we call entitlement? Or is it that the young, female, possible Asian or African American instructor is an object of prejudice?
Note to students and others: it is not elite to be polite, to try to use the person's last name or academic title; it is not cool to dash off a message to an instructor via email that's full of errors. It shows basic lack of the human respect that we all deserve.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
Why are we shy?
I have always considered myself a shy person, not as shy as many, perhaps, who cringe from social interaction or run. A friend of mine is worried about his 10-year-old son because he is too shy to speak up in class, even when he is the only one who knows the answer to the teacher's question.
In this case, the parents are both reserved, introspective so perhaps the boy's shyness is something he absorbed at home. Often it seems (to a lay outsider) that we are shamed as young children and this manifests itself as shyness around people.
In a recent article in Canada's National Post, Robert Fulford addressed the issue of shyness in discussing a book, "Shrinking Violets," by Joe Moran, whose historical and cultural research has turned up no scientific reason, given Darwin's theory of evolution, why so many millions of people are shy. He considers it a mystery. What use does it serve?
And I value mysteries--especially the often baffling and intriguing aspects of our behavior that defy expert analysis; besides, not everything in nature has a utilitarian purpose.
Fulford says some people have feelings of inadequacy that they don't acknowledge, so they experience shyness since they fear sounding stupid or looking uncool. When people claim to hate parties, what they hate is small talk with people they hardly know. They haven't mastered the art, practiced by the British Royals and other celebrities, of asking questions of the stranger in an effort to shift attention away from themselves--and to help the awed stranger relax.
Before Moran makes a phone call, he writes out what he wants to say. Or he makes notes before going to a dinner or party so he is not at a loss for words. He finds this worrisome. It seems to me that this is not some medical condition to worry about but to work on: with practice, the fear will gradually subside.
I think of my initial fear of standing before a class and lecturing, even though I had always wanted to be a teacher. I soon found ways to cope with this anxiety and have, in recent decades, come to enjoy speaking in public.
Although psychologists using the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual) classify some people as having "social anxiety disorder," I wonder how useful such labels are for most people. Recognizing the role of fear in our lives can be healthy--at least healthier than worrying about being shy.
In this case, the parents are both reserved, introspective so perhaps the boy's shyness is something he absorbed at home. Often it seems (to a lay outsider) that we are shamed as young children and this manifests itself as shyness around people.
In a recent article in Canada's National Post, Robert Fulford addressed the issue of shyness in discussing a book, "Shrinking Violets," by Joe Moran, whose historical and cultural research has turned up no scientific reason, given Darwin's theory of evolution, why so many millions of people are shy. He considers it a mystery. What use does it serve?
And I value mysteries--especially the often baffling and intriguing aspects of our behavior that defy expert analysis; besides, not everything in nature has a utilitarian purpose.
Fulford says some people have feelings of inadequacy that they don't acknowledge, so they experience shyness since they fear sounding stupid or looking uncool. When people claim to hate parties, what they hate is small talk with people they hardly know. They haven't mastered the art, practiced by the British Royals and other celebrities, of asking questions of the stranger in an effort to shift attention away from themselves--and to help the awed stranger relax.
Before Moran makes a phone call, he writes out what he wants to say. Or he makes notes before going to a dinner or party so he is not at a loss for words. He finds this worrisome. It seems to me that this is not some medical condition to worry about but to work on: with practice, the fear will gradually subside.
I think of my initial fear of standing before a class and lecturing, even though I had always wanted to be a teacher. I soon found ways to cope with this anxiety and have, in recent decades, come to enjoy speaking in public.
Although psychologists using the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual) classify some people as having "social anxiety disorder," I wonder how useful such labels are for most people. Recognizing the role of fear in our lives can be healthy--at least healthier than worrying about being shy.
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Meeting our earlier selves
One strategy I have often enjoyed to get started writing is to find an intriguing quotation and react to it. I think of many of these posts as responses to a sentence or two; they are exercises in adding to the ongoing body of inherited ideas, planting a borrowed idea and seeing how it will flourish in my own soil.
I don't see total originality as a possible goal for me as a writer because I know I am indebted to all I have read and absorbed and to which I must contribute.
Today, thanks to Maria Popova, I found an arresting statement by Joan Didion: "We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not."
She is referring, I believe, to reviewing regularly her diary or journal entries from decades past and seeing what she was then thinking.
Didion's statement raises numerous questions for me. Can we in fact connect with the people we used to be? And: How much do we really change in a decade or two?
I don't have extensive journals in the confessional sense but a literary-spiritual journal that extends from 1980 to the start of this blog, and I am often surprised what I read there. The surprises are of two kinds: pleasant and unpleasant.
On the negative side, I am easily ashamed of the style of my earlier writing or at a naïve notion that I have recorded; I tell myself that my present self would never have written that. But the positive side is seeing how much I have learned, changed and developed over the years. I have often been taken aback by a good insight I recorded in my journal, occasioned by an experience I have long forgotten.
The underlying question is: is the self I meet in earlier writing (or old photos) the same self as I am now? My body over the years, including the brain, has changed radically, so in a very real sense I can say that I am not the same person I once was.
No wonder I shun school reunions since classmates of 40 or more years ago are not the same people I remember from our school days. You might say their inner or true self (or soul) is unchanged and unchangeable, but it is unlikely for anyone at a party or reunion to see each other's souls.
So I'm not sure I agree with Didion. I rarely review my old self except in the memories that are colored by my present apprehension of them. Why should I revisit my struggles and insights of thirty years ago unless I want to remind myself of my progress since then--or the brilliance of a few of my former insights?
The main thing for me is that a quote like this becomes, for a writer, a great tool for exploring a new topic and discussing it with others. If you who are reading this have a reaction to Didion's statement, perhaps you could share it in the Comments section. Thanks.
As a writing teacher, I know how useless it is for writers to think they must develop insights or stories out of thin air; no, we are always indebted to the vast web of insights recorded by others we can build on: hence the value of reading.
I don't see total originality as a possible goal for me as a writer because I know I am indebted to all I have read and absorbed and to which I must contribute.
Today, thanks to Maria Popova, I found an arresting statement by Joan Didion: "We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not."
She is referring, I believe, to reviewing regularly her diary or journal entries from decades past and seeing what she was then thinking.
Didion's statement raises numerous questions for me. Can we in fact connect with the people we used to be? And: How much do we really change in a decade or two?
I don't have extensive journals in the confessional sense but a literary-spiritual journal that extends from 1980 to the start of this blog, and I am often surprised what I read there. The surprises are of two kinds: pleasant and unpleasant.
On the negative side, I am easily ashamed of the style of my earlier writing or at a naïve notion that I have recorded; I tell myself that my present self would never have written that. But the positive side is seeing how much I have learned, changed and developed over the years. I have often been taken aback by a good insight I recorded in my journal, occasioned by an experience I have long forgotten.
The underlying question is: is the self I meet in earlier writing (or old photos) the same self as I am now? My body over the years, including the brain, has changed radically, so in a very real sense I can say that I am not the same person I once was.
No wonder I shun school reunions since classmates of 40 or more years ago are not the same people I remember from our school days. You might say their inner or true self (or soul) is unchanged and unchangeable, but it is unlikely for anyone at a party or reunion to see each other's souls.
So I'm not sure I agree with Didion. I rarely review my old self except in the memories that are colored by my present apprehension of them. Why should I revisit my struggles and insights of thirty years ago unless I want to remind myself of my progress since then--or the brilliance of a few of my former insights?
The main thing for me is that a quote like this becomes, for a writer, a great tool for exploring a new topic and discussing it with others. If you who are reading this have a reaction to Didion's statement, perhaps you could share it in the Comments section. Thanks.
As a writing teacher, I know how useless it is for writers to think they must develop insights or stories out of thin air; no, we are always indebted to the vast web of insights recorded by others we can build on: hence the value of reading.
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Lit Again
---------------------
LIT AGAIN
by Judith Minear
by Judith Minear
"Nothing moves me more-"
The note card had two elephants facing each other playfully. On
the back was the name of an animal rights organization. Inside:
pure gold.
English literature in high school has the potential to inflame
young minds with the ability to find meaning in symbol. In the hands of an
inspired teacher the flame can last a lifetime.
Browsing thru the Facebook site for my suburban Chicago high
school, I grew restless with the announcements of reunions and deaths that had
nothing to do with the class of '64. Boomers as a rule like to be
connected almost as much as they crave recognition. I own these traits, perhaps
I should not project them.
To the faceless unknowns on the high school Facebook group I
inquired, "Does anyone know the whereabouts of Joyce M or Dona K in
the class of '64?" Since they were both cheerleaders I expected some name
recognition. Joyce's niece responded and made the connection.
An exchange of emails, photos and eventually phone numbers. Joyce
looked much as I remembered her. While I hadn't actually given her much thought
over the past 53 years, she thought of me every time she drove past my old
house to see her now 97-year-old mother.
As we caught up we had no trouble filling in the missing years,
including marriages as well as divorces and who was still around the
neighborhood. To prove we hadn't lost our memories we supplied details of
slumber parties and dances held in a repurposed building named the 'Morgue'.
Then we struck pay dirt. Our English lit teacher was Mr Mabie.
Mr Mabie was a most unconventional English teacher. Collegiate
studies were more his level of expertise, but he was stuck this year with naive
high school students. That didn't stop him from showing us how to unpack a
symbol. He demonstrated how the river is actually a character in 'Huck Finn'.
He took us into the aims and imaginations of authors and helped us flush out
some of the common themes of great literature. We read and memorized poetry.
"I read the entire summer reading list," Joyce recalled.
We agreed out of our four years this teacher had made a lifelong impact.
A quick internet search. There he was in California at 87 years of
age. His address for the taking. I wrote him a note to tell him that Joyce and
I were singing his praises. I reminded him of his novel approach to discipline
for the always unruly student: he would simply point to the door and say,"
Out!" I mentioned I had a rough
first draft of a memoir. I thanked him for opening my eyes to words, symbols,
meaning and my lifelong love of learning.
One week later the elephants, known for their long memory, arrived
from California. The message on the card
was terse but powerful.
"Nothing moves me more nor gives me greater pleasure than to
learn that I've had a positive influence in the lives of my students. Thank you, Jack."
Thursday, April 20, 2017
The Vatican and World War II
Do you ever wish you could interview a well-known author or performer and get to know him or her? Often I think of this after reading an obituary of a distinguished life. I am not thinking of popular celebrities but notable people I might have liked who made a difference in the world.
One such person is Sir D'Arcy Osborne, British diplomat in Rome, where he lived and died. He wasn't famous but he lived a fascinating life and seems to have had the best of both worlds: a life in Italy, which he loved, and an aristocratic English background, which meant he had money to hire servants and help refugees during the Second World War.
Most interesting fact: he lived in Vatican City for more than four years during the war, along with his butler, a female typist, his dog, and several Italian servants. How they all fit into the small suite provided at the Santa Marta residence (precursor to where Pope Francis now lives) is a minor mystery.
What he thought of Pope Pius XII, often a subject of controversy, is, of course, among the main things I would ask Osborne. According to a fascinating book I have just read, "Britain and the Vatican during the Second World War," by Owen Chadwick, Osborne generally admired Pius and defended him as humane and generous when the attacks were launched in the Sixties claiming that the pope was guilty of unpardonable silence during the Holocaust.
Even though he helped rescue as many as 800,000 Jews (according to an Israeli historian), Pius XII is often blamed for being too reserved in his language and failing to prevent the massacre of Jews. What's interesting is the British role in supporting Pius, hoping he would initially keep Italy out of the war, then relying on his neutrality and great diplomatic discretion to be a broker for peace.
Chadwick's book, drawing on Osborne's diary and some of his dispatches to London, reveal much about this fair-minded Protestant diplomat and polished gentleman at the heart of the Catholic world at an impossibly tense time, when Rome was surrounded by Fascists and Nazis and the very existence of the Vatican was threatened.
I can't and won't go into defending or criticizing Pius XII. I will only say that Chadwick's account of Osborne's dealing with the leaders of Britain and the Vatican reads like a thriller. Consider the Vatican's role, with Osborne involved, in a top-secret plot to assassinate Hitler. Although a recent book (by Mark Riebling) claims that Pius XII was himself involved in this plot and authorized it, thus helping to explain his silence after the war, it seems more likely that the Pope was not involved; but Osborne, the Brits, and some German Catholic resistance activists were.
I found this 1988 book in researching an upcoming talk on the papacy during these tragic war years, and I was pleasantly surprised to learn about Osborne, his diary, and his eyewitness view of one of the great dramas of the past century. Osborne was not a hero but he was a man of quiet courage who did his best in the midst of the horrors of war.
One such person is Sir D'Arcy Osborne, British diplomat in Rome, where he lived and died. He wasn't famous but he lived a fascinating life and seems to have had the best of both worlds: a life in Italy, which he loved, and an aristocratic English background, which meant he had money to hire servants and help refugees during the Second World War.
Most interesting fact: he lived in Vatican City for more than four years during the war, along with his butler, a female typist, his dog, and several Italian servants. How they all fit into the small suite provided at the Santa Marta residence (precursor to where Pope Francis now lives) is a minor mystery.
What he thought of Pope Pius XII, often a subject of controversy, is, of course, among the main things I would ask Osborne. According to a fascinating book I have just read, "Britain and the Vatican during the Second World War," by Owen Chadwick, Osborne generally admired Pius and defended him as humane and generous when the attacks were launched in the Sixties claiming that the pope was guilty of unpardonable silence during the Holocaust.
Even though he helped rescue as many as 800,000 Jews (according to an Israeli historian), Pius XII is often blamed for being too reserved in his language and failing to prevent the massacre of Jews. What's interesting is the British role in supporting Pius, hoping he would initially keep Italy out of the war, then relying on his neutrality and great diplomatic discretion to be a broker for peace.
Chadwick's book, drawing on Osborne's diary and some of his dispatches to London, reveal much about this fair-minded Protestant diplomat and polished gentleman at the heart of the Catholic world at an impossibly tense time, when Rome was surrounded by Fascists and Nazis and the very existence of the Vatican was threatened.
I can't and won't go into defending or criticizing Pius XII. I will only say that Chadwick's account of Osborne's dealing with the leaders of Britain and the Vatican reads like a thriller. Consider the Vatican's role, with Osborne involved, in a top-secret plot to assassinate Hitler. Although a recent book (by Mark Riebling) claims that Pius XII was himself involved in this plot and authorized it, thus helping to explain his silence after the war, it seems more likely that the Pope was not involved; but Osborne, the Brits, and some German Catholic resistance activists were.
I found this 1988 book in researching an upcoming talk on the papacy during these tragic war years, and I was pleasantly surprised to learn about Osborne, his diary, and his eyewitness view of one of the great dramas of the past century. Osborne was not a hero but he was a man of quiet courage who did his best in the midst of the horrors of war.
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