Look at life as art. Make it beautiful.

I finally have it- the sanctuary I’ve wanted. An inspiring view from a window near my workspace; plenty of room for messy creative projects; simple, non-distracting decor; huge dry-erase posters to scrawl inspirational/motivational things to keep me going; a serene place to drink tea and ponder; a wonderful kitchen countertop to bring my laptop to; lots of supplies; and a small but effectively-placed “Rosie the Riveter” photo. It’s mine, all mine!
Now, only to dream up what will come out of this creative “kitchen” and get to work :-)

Maybe this sounds cornball, and I think I’ve already said this before… but I’ve really been trying to look at life as a big batch of Play-Do: It really is malleable, you can give it shape and form, and you can make just about anything you want to with it really. This is helpful to remember when I get stuck in routines, which has been a big source of ennui. Maybe there are limitations in life, but it is not as unyielding as I’ve made myself believe. I’ve only believed that because it seems safe to have rules and regimen. But it’s not safe to be rigid…. it’s far safer to imagine and explore the possibilities.

I sat on the floor of my apartment this morning, taking a look around at the arrangement of furniture, post-it notes on the walls, scribbled-on papers and images cut out from magazines. It was a weird out-of-body experience in which I wondered “Who does this all belong to? Who in this world finds this stuff important, and why?”

And it was profound to realize that I’d created it all… all that mundaneness made up something. Without knowing what I was doing, purely through instinct, I’d created that environment, and it had meaning.

It was good to step out of all my obsessions and weird interests for a beat and really think about what kind of person/artist I am, what my motivations are. It was like getting to know a character in my fiction.

I admit for the last couple of months I’ve lost track of where I’m going, even lost touch with who I am, and this was like waking up and finding a trail back.

listening to: “Great Waves” by Dirty Three

It’s fascinating to see how life writes its own story.

I went to my parents’ this weekend to watch old home movies (starting with 1951 onward) and was amazed at the beauty of the images (the imperfection of video technology at the time just added depth to them,) the unexpected comedies, the little scenes that caught me off guard. The little details almost missed while watching everyone mugging for the camera… And none of it planned, none of it contrived through any sense of “art” besides just capturing a moment in time.

I learned more about making a film- all of the power of subtlety, how much more beautiful truth is (even the mundane) over contrivance, by watching these movies than by anything else so far.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down […]

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

I get so caught up in my ego sometimes, and I get to thinking that being a writer means that I know more about life than others do, and that it’s my job to instruct them.

Then I come back down to earth. This morning I remembered how that thinking gets in the way of creating something. I know that, with this screenplay I’m writing, I am being instructed by it as well. I am learning its message right along with my audience. Even though I’m the writer, I’m as imperfect as they are, just as in need of messages and inspiration.

Words from Anne Lamott:
“If you are writing the clearest, truest words you can find and doing the best you can to understand and communicate, this will shine on paper like its own little lighthouse. Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.”

This is from the Writer’s Almanac, a daily email I subscribe to:

Elie Wiesel (a Buchenwald concentration camp survivor) said: “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.”

Today felt hopeless… all I could see was all the pointless little frustrations that stand in the way of seeing life for what it really is, all the commercialism, all the petty struggles in life, pretensions that we all enact and endure to get through the day and make a living.

I got home and put on my headphones (and got a little tipsy) and zoned it all out. I put on some music that I’ve listened to for the last 17 years (!)and always find something new in whenever I listen to it.
I’ve read the background of the musicians, I know their stories… all their frustration, boredom, disenchantment, disappointment… living in small towns where everyone is doomed to a life of factory work, that fear of becoming just another cog, of being relegated to living by others’ rules. Of being misunderstood. Of losing friends, losing love.. losing confidence and financial support. THey have all the same fears that I do.
And I kept asking “so, where does it come from? Where does this music come from? This is something beyond factories and drudgery and tiny towns and all these anxieties.”
I don’t know and maybe I’m not meant to know. But I do know it’s there….There is something beyond all of this, you find it somehow. Just having faith that it’s there somewhere even if you can’t see it is enough to keep you going.

I fall out of love with writing, especially fiction writing. I’ll stop with what I’m working on, transfixed on the big meaning of the work, and render myself stunned and motionless. “What’s the point” I ask. “Does this really mean anything?”

And then I go back to the little things about writing that I love. How I am basically sculpting with air. Pulling together all these formless details from the ether and bringing an actual person into being with them, and when I write how that person does any little insignificant thing like take a breath, the reader believes it.

That is what I never ceased to be amazed with. The reader believes it. What I’ve created is an actual person to them. Where’s the meaning? It’s in how the reader relates to the character, suffers and loves along with them. Yes, there is a big meaning to any work of fiction, but first there must be a person. Concentrate on this and the larger meaning usually works itself out.

I think the same about life… I do get caught up in what it all means, but it’s funny how you can blind yourself to meaning by looking for it. Just let it go, enjoy the process of finding it. It’s in the accumulation of little details.

1. I realized how every moment is like clay, it can be molded into just about anything. Or, you can just let it sit there and be a lump. I think I’ve tended to do too much of the latter lately. But it’s far more pleasing to actually do something with it, to make it represent what is important to you.

2. How every day is like a frame on a reel of film, an imprint in time. One nanosecond of a scene, but when you look back on it, did it contribute meaning to your story in the way you wanted it to?