Posts Tagged ‘Listening’

Joining Life

Friday, March 8th, 2013

As I have mentioned here before, my son was diagnosed with a “language delay” when he was about three. The delay was his in comprehension, meaning he did not appear to understand what was being said to him at the rate other boys and girls did. It is an unusual problem to have, and it was not until I began working with him that I saw how conversation is far more an act of listening than speaking.

This is about more than mere politeness. Almost everything we say is in some way a response to what has already been said. One does not merely speak in a thought vacuum, but joins and expands upon the thoughts already in motion. All of life is in this way a conversation, as we expand and expand and expand upon what exists.

I believe my son spent his early years as if he had stumbled into a convention of theoretical physicists. Here one has a choice: either admit you don’t understand and ask for help, or pretend as if you do and hope you are not found out. Unfortunately, much as his father would have, he opted for the second approach.

This is a lonely and terrifying way to live, as if waking up every morning to a test for which you forgot to study, and explains much of his very odd behavior in those days. Gradually, he learned to listen and the behavior began to change. It was several years after helping Sawyer that I learned to see writing as listening and not talking. It was a far friendlier way to write. Better to add your flower to the tree of life than to try to build the whole business from nothing.

9781935961994-Perfect_CS.inddWrite Within Yourself: An Author’s Companion.
A book to keep nearby whenever your writer’s spirit needs feeding.” Deb Caletti.

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Spelling Loneliness

Wednesday, December 12th, 2012

It is strange to think of now, but at the very time that as a young man I was waking up to the understanding that what I most wanted to do was write, I became aware – like a spy who has just recognized he is being tailed – of a feeling of persistent loneliness. I cannot say that one was necessarily in response to the other, though I have always felt them to be connected the way a brother and sister might respond to a parent’s drinking, with one diving for the bottle, the other The Bible.

I say strange because if one is feeling lonely, why pursue such a solitary craft? Yet to me writing remained the one pure antidote to loneliness. Not, however, in the way, say, watching television relieved those feelings of loneliness. Such distractions were little more than Novocain, the feelings waiting patiently and returning just as strong once the TV was off.

Writing answered loneliness, and perhaps precisely because I had to do it alone. Not only did I require physical isolation, but mental as well. One thought of another person and the spell of writing was ruined. But within that spell I felt the very opposite of loneliness. Within that spell, life seemed as interesting and available as the perfect lover, and loneliness seemed like nothing but a restless lie in search of an empty night to ruin.

But then I would rise from the desk and the spell would quickly fade, and in its place would be that feeling of being watched. You spot the enemy in the shadows for the first time, and there is no friend in sight. Now you tell yourself you need someone else, and so you are alone.

Remember to catch Bill every Tuesday at 2:00 PM PST/5:00 EST on his live Blogtalk Radio program Author2Author!

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The Terrible Silence

Monday, October 29th, 2012

It’s easy to forget that writing is a conversation, not a monologue. This is a simple enough mistake to make. After all, you’re the only one there. Haven’t you spent your days away from the desk swarmed by all these Other People and their incessant need to speak, their relentless will to influence the stream of thought that is a conversation? Haven’t you earned this literary spotlight, this chance to complete these thoughts as you and you alone would complete them?

Of course you have. And so there you are, alone at last at your desk, the room silent, the page blank and waiting for your words. How could this be anything but a monologue? The honest writer will admit that just because he is the only one writing does not mean he is the only one speaking. The difference is that only one of the participants in this conversation has a voice. That’s you. The other participant . . .?

You may call her your imagination if you wish. Or your muse. Or Source Energy. Or God. Or nothing at all. It doesn’t matter what you call her as long as you acknowledge that you have cleared this time and space in your life as much to hear her speak as you. She is the one who surprises you when you write. She is the one speaking when you say you are “listening to your characters.” And she is the one who whispers that new story idea while you stand idle in the shower.

So tempting when I type The End to want to take full credit for what I have written, and yet so important to remain humble at that moment. To take full credit is to mentally close the door on this muse. She is not vengeful. If I thump my chest and say, “Look what I have made!” she will not be hurt, her desire to join me in conversation will not have dimmed.

But she is obedient. If I take full credit she will understand that I wish to go it alone. And so she will become silent so that I can hear only myself. This is a terrible silence. This is the silence of madness. It is not long before in desperation I am listening for her again. How strange that when I hear her at last I feel like myself once again.

Remember to catch Bill every Tuesday at 2:00 PM PST/5:00 EST on his live Blogtalk Radio program Author2Author!

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Perfectly Incomplete

Monday, October 15th, 2012

First you are a gardener. You create within yourself an environment friendly to creation. Into this garden will come something akin to a flower. It will be different, just as every sunflower in a garden of a thousand sunflowers is different, and it will be perfect. It will be perfect exactly as a flower is perfect, which blooms within a realm where the concept of comparison simply does not exist. This is the root of its perfection.

Yet only you can perceive it. Moreover, you are used to knowing life as something you can see and touch and smell. This is where you have been taught to measure something’s value. And so you become a painter. Since no one can see this perfect flower, you will render it, translate it.

You set to work. Maybe you paint it realistically, rendering the color and petals and height precisely. Or maybe you render it impressionistically, forgoing all this detail in favor of the pursuit of the feel of the flower. No matter your approach, all your efforts seem incomplete compared to the flower itself.

And yet you love this painting all the same. You love it for how it reminds you of the flower you perceived. And sometimes another person loves it too. It is hard to know precisely why they love it, as they have not seen the original. It is then you come to understand that what you could not capture, what you felt was missing, is in fact the space that allows another person to enter your painting. In this way, what you could not render is perfect too. In this way, the perfection you sought exists not in the painting itself, but in the sharing, the moment where every creation is finished.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual and group conferencing.

Remember to catch Bill every Tuesday at 2:00 PM PST/5:00 EST on his live Blogtalk Radio program Author2Author!

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The Original Silence

Monday, July 23rd, 2012

I read an interview with the actor Anthony Hopkins this weekend in which he described teaching a class to UCLA acting students. Hopkins advised the actors and actresses to do as little as possible. He believed an actor needed to let the emotion happen as opposed to forcing it to happen by tearing up all the furniture. Try to be still, he said, and trust that the feelings are there.

How quickly advice within the arts dovetails together. I more and more feel that writing is the art of what is not said. The most delicious silence in the world is one filled with your audience’s own feelings. But how, one might ask, does a writer know when enough is enough? It’s fine not to overwrite, but who wants a dry, emotionally inscrutable story filled with chopped phrases and bare stage directions? Where is the line and how do you know when you’ve crossed it?

It is precisely because there is no line that writing is so valuable to the writer. Were I or any other writer able to define the exact perimeter of Enough, there would be no point to writing at all. That you must discover on your own where that line is drawn is the deeper reason you were led to write. Through writing you can learn the endlessly practical discipline of trust. You learn to trust because you are forever the judge and jury of all decisions in your life, and writing draws this fact into stark relief. You must trust yourself finally, or nothing will ever get written.

Strange with something so fundamental to our own well being that trust has sometimes received such a harsh review. Do not mistake trust for naiveté. One assumes an outcome before it arrives, the other assumes safety regardless of outcomes. Within that stillness Hopkins describes lays an abiding trust that all you need is present in this very moment if you listen carefully for it. And when a writer pulls back her pen she and says, “Enough,” she has granted her reader a chance to listen also, having found a silence original to her, but available to all.

Remember to catch Bill every Tuesday at 2:00 PM PST/5:00 EST on his live Blogtalk Radio program Author2Author!

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All That’s Left

Tuesday, July 17th, 2012

I was at a writer’s conference once when I overheard a woman mutter, “If I hear one more presenter say to write your book from your heart I’ll just puke.”

I could sympathize. This particular piece of advice has been so often repeated its meaning has been worn as smooth as any cliché. Plus there is something naïve and toothless about it. Publishing is a business, after all, a business all we writers want to succeed at. Is this the advice you would give to an aspiring CEO or ambitious middle manager?

The trouble is there is no avoiding the fact that to participate in this business writers must write books. And if writers must write books, from where besides the heart would these books come?

Could you write a book from your head? The brain is a deep warehouse of ideas and memories. The brain can memorize and follow rules and formulas. The brain can tell an apple from an orange. Unfortunately, the brain cannot tell us whether we should eat an apple or an orange. So many words and ideas are apples and oranges, and so much of writing is deciding between the two. To write a novel from your head is to be paralyzed with indecision.

So perhaps we should write from our loins. Is this not, quite literally, our creative center? Have not the loins spoken to us, loudly, of preference? What book would not benefit from that carnal drive, that itch, that delicious yielding to temptation? Sex sells, and this is a business, and we want to sell. All well and good, but for all the energy the loins provide, they can still betray us, not because the loins are wicked, but because they are disconnected from life before and after The Event. The regret of a loveless, post-coital bed bears the same emptiness as a book written only from this place.

And so we are left with the heart. The heart alone knows what you prefer, from lovers to fruit, and the heart alone seems to bear no grudge if you ignore it. Strange that such a mighty and all-knowing instrument should be so forgiving. The pain we inevitably suffer from ignoring our heart, from writing from our head or our loins, is not the floods and pestilence of an angry god, but the cramps and contortions of a soul twisting itself into something it isn’t.

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The Good Doctor

Monday, July 16th, 2012

My parents divorced when I was seven, leaving me, technically, as the man of the house. By which I mean John, my younger brother, instinctively turned to me for guidance that would have otherwise been provided by our father. I think that for many years I resented this role and so was not a particularly gracious big brother. I was also fiercely competitive, and I was not going to allow John to be better than me at anything, which for a time he dutifully wasn’t. We eventually became quite close, and when I look back I believe this closeness started with the arrival of Dr. VonVickenvoctor.

Doctor, as we usually called him, was a purple muppet to which we had adhered two button eyes and a mustache made of yarn. I may have been moody and competitive, but I loved to be entertained, and one day John, age 10, sat down on the couch across from me and introduced me to Doctor.

What followed was the first of many shows. Doctor – a greedy, libidinous, self-absorbed billionaire – would tell me about the time he . . . and then the story. Doctor could travel at will through time and space, and wherever he went things always went askew. No matter, Doctor always came back for more, never changing, never learning, a purple ego muttering, “Me . . . me . . . me . . .” as he considered his next bizarre plan.

I loved him. My brother had a genius for improvisation and puppetry, and for the duration of those shows I became an eager audience, in the process handing the wheel of our friendship to my little brother. Doctor told me stories for years, and things between John and me grew steadily better.

John would go on to be an actor/writer/director, and at my wedding he gave a moving speech, during which he spoke about how I had been a kind of creative mentor to him. I have always had lots to say about writing and stories and the arts in general, and no doubt John was made to listen to much of it, but I believe in retrospect my gift to his artistic development was not my lectures and diatribes, but those puppet shows.

He must have glimpsed in entertaining me, the ferocious big brother, the power of laughter and of joy and his own capacity to harness that power. Talking is fine, but listening is always the greatest gift. Within the attentive audience’s perched silence the artist often hears his voice clearly for the first time. Your mind, after all, was given so you could talk to yourself; but your voice you were given to talk to others.

Remember to catch Bill every Tuesday at 2:00 PM PST/5:00 EST on his live Blogtalk Radio program Author2Author!

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Voice of Safety

Thursday, July 12th, 2012

My son got Fifty Shades of Grey for my wife as a joke. She didn’t open it, but I thumbed through it and was surprised that the first page I chose at random had a most graphic encounter between the heroine and her millionaire sexual overlord. As I understand it, this should not have surprised me in the least.

My mother was visiting last week and we found ourselves chatting about this very book, and arrived at much the same conclusion that my friend Laura Munson did in a recent article on the Huffington Post: women secretly long to be taken care of by a man. Or, more to the point, women secretly believe that being taken care of by a man in the chivalrous tradition would be wonderful.

This fact began to dawn on me in my late teens and early twenties when I was dating in earnest, and I was none too pleased by it. I had spent my childhood bombarded by the public fury of the women’s movement, and feeling vaguely guilty simply because I would be a grown man some day. Oh, the arguments I had in my head with those old school feminists. Oh, how glad I am now that I left those arguments in my head.

For the record, I am also glad for the women’s movement because I am lousy at chivalry. I like women as I like any friend, and chivalry seems to turn them into sexual children for which I am responsible. I am not interested in this particular responsibility, but there is one responsibility to which I remain committed: listening. I don’t know where listening lands on chivalry’s to-do list, but it ought to be on the top.

The older I get and the better I become at listening the more I understand that I would like to be better at it still. Listening is humanity’s starting point. I love words, and I love to use them, but talking without listening is a form of insanity. It is no surprise that a number of the women I have interviewed say that writing has taught them they have a voice. These women did not hear that voice in the words they chose for the page. They heard this voice by listening to that which speaks to us when we write. No prince’s arms will ever hold you as gently and kindly as that voice, which guides us forever toward the safety that is life.

Remember to catch Bill every Tuesday at 2:00 PM PST/5:00 EST on his live Blogtalk Radio program Author2Author!

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The Garden

Friday, June 29th, 2012

I used to imagine myself as something as a carpenter when I wrote. I think this can be attributed to an overly-literal reading of a passage from Hemingway’s A Movable Feast where the author recounts coming to the understanding that he never wanted to describe but rather to make (with words). I thought this was an accurate and useful distinction, and when in a rendering jam I would try to remember Hemingway’s wise perspective.

I have since replaced make with translate and the carpenter profession for gardener. I don’t think I can make anything. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to make a story any more than I know how to make a flower. What I do know how to do is to tend an environment in which creation is possible. Just as a gardener plants and waters and shades his garden so that creation might flourish, so too I attempt to create an inviting environment within me through which creation can pass.

And when this creative energy accepts my invitation, I attempt to translate it as faithfully as possible. This translation is my real job, the most active part of this agreement. The environment to which the invitation has been made, meanwhile, must be all stillness. The only movement allowed within this space is that of the creative energy. Any movement I introduce would disrupt the creation, as I might mistake it for what is authentic and translate what is merely my own invention as opposed to what was invited.

Given this, I suppose you could say I am not creative in the literal sense. This is a pill most writers and artists are unwilling to swallow, but I will swallow it all the same in the name of sanity. Since I do not know how to make a story, since I do not know in the factual sense why a story works but rather only that it works when I see it working, it is best to be honest. If you found a gardener in his garden trying to assemble a rose from the dirt, you would shake your head and call the padded wagon. Writers can go mad far easier, mistaking what grows from the garden within them for themselves.

Remember to catch Bill every Tuesday at 2:00 PM PST/5:00 EST on his live Blogtalk Radio program Author2Author!

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Open Ended

Friday, February 10th, 2012

This afternoon I was watching an episode Spectacle, Elvis Costello’s excellent interview/music program. Costello was interviewing one of my old R&R heroes, Lou Reed. Reed is a rather literary guy.  He explained in his interview that he wanted to bring the subject matter and sensibilities of the Beat Poets to popular music, and I suppose he did.

He doesn’t rewrite, however. Lyrics come to him in one shot and if he tries to go back and improve on what came initially, he feels he will only ruin it. What’s more, he writes in bursts. There will be long stretches where nothing is coming, and, as he eloquently explained, during those fallow periods he could no more build a car than write a song – he doesn’t know how.

Costello asked if he was ever troubled during such stretches, and Reed confessed that yes, it wasn’t always easy. At this point in the interview, Reed looked heavenward and said, “You know, it’s like—is that it?  Is that all I’m getting?”

Costello asked. “Is that where you think it comes from?”

“I don’t know,” said Reed. “But it certainly doesn’t come from me. I just have to get out of the way.  You know, I don’t want to sound too new age or woo-woo, but that’s how it is.”

And I thought, “Too late.  And by the way, so what?”

At some point, like it or not, every artist of every stripe—if he’s honest—winds up sounding like a mystic when discussing his work. This can be unsettling for some, as many artists – particularly writers, for some reason – want to be taken seriously, and it is very easy to disregard mystical-sounding talk as so much mumbo-jumbo. And yet there we are, talking about letting something through that is not us, coming from somewhere beyond us.

It’s all right. Let it be mystical. There isn’t one writer I’ve interviewed – from literary to romance – who hasn’t admitted that the real joy of writing are the surprises, the characters who did what they wanted to do, the phrase that arrived fully formed in the imagination as if discovered under a rock. How is it we’re surprised if we’re the ones in charge? Why, if humans can’t tickle themselves, can they make themselves laugh or cry by what they write?

No—don’t answer that question. Let the answer remain as open as your heart must stay to hear the answer the question you ask every time you sit down to write.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual and group conferencing.

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