Passion as a Way of Life
Tuesday, June 29. 2010
Anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a passionate person. On the Myers-Briggs T-F axis, I'm nearly off the scale. I am very emotional, and unapologetically so. Passion rules me.
I've fought this tendency for a long time, quite unsuccessfully. So I've decided it's just who I am, and I should embrace it.
I was riding in a friend's car not long ago and we heard the song "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum on the radio. There's a line that goes, "Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all." My friend said she liked every line in the song but that one, but I said that was the one line that really spoke to me. Passion has many sides; I embrace them all. They might not all be fun at the time they're happening to me, but they all represent valuable experiences — far preferable to a life without any passion whatsoever.
In daily life, it's obvious how this attitude can get me into trouble. My heart is always on the front lines, and if I'm lucky my rational mind will come along later and pull my bacon out of the fire. I've offended people with my raw passion, with the way I react to things in the moment. I may seem moody, illogical, or unreasonable. I try to apologize later.
In writing, passion can be invaluable. But I often fear giving in to passion entirely too much. I worry about getting too "close" to what I'm writing, about losing my objectivity. I'm concerned that being too passionate about a story may affect its quality.
This very thing happened to me today. I had an idea for a story in the shower this morning, really just a theme that's close to my heart, that I'm passionate about. I soon came up with an appropriate spec-fic setting and situation that would allow me to expound this theme. With virtually no effort, I dashed off 2,200 words of a short story that will end up at about 3,000 words when I'm done; I just have one scene left to write and the story will be complete. I was able to write the story so quickly because of my passion about the subject.
I'm not ashamed to say that the story brought tears to my eyes as I wrote it. Some of the scenes, the dialogue, the situations, just seemed so real to me, so vivid, so relevant, that I became emotional as I wrote them. Reading back over the prose, my reaction was the same. "This is good stuff," I thought to myself, because it evokes such passion in me.
But maybe it sucks.
Am I too close? Time will tell; I'll submit this story to Critters in a couple of weeks, after I've had a chance to edit it a few times (and also to get my participation ratio back up to snuff). We'll see what a bunch of other random writers-to-be have to say about my passion.
I'll try to keep my heart off the front lines as I wade into their critiques. That's never pretty.
Anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a passionate person. On the Myers-Briggs T-F axis, I'm nearly off the scale. I am very emotional, and unapologetically so. Passion rules me.
I've fought this tendency for a long time, quite unsuccessfully. So I've decided it's just who I am, and I should embrace it.
I was riding in a friend's car not long ago and we heard the song "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum on the radio. There's a line that goes, "Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all." My friend said she liked every line in the song but that one, but I said that was the one line that really spoke to me. Passion has many sides; I embrace them all. They might not all be fun at the time they're happening to me, but they all represent valuable experiences — far preferable to a life without any passion whatsoever.
In daily life, it's obvious how this attitude can get me into trouble. My heart is always on the front lines, and if I'm lucky my rational mind will come along later and pull my bacon out of the fire. I've offended people with my raw passion, with the way I react to things in the moment. I may seem moody, illogical, or unreasonable. I try to apologize later.
In writing, passion can be invaluable. But I often fear giving in to passion entirely too much. I worry about getting too "close" to what I'm writing, about losing my objectivity. I'm concerned that being too passionate about a story may affect its quality.
This very thing happened to me today. I had an idea for a story in the shower this morning, really just a theme that's close to my heart, that I'm passionate about. I soon came up with an appropriate spec-fic setting and situation that would allow me to expound this theme. With virtually no effort, I dashed off 2,200 words of a short story that will end up at about 3,000 words when I'm done; I just have one scene left to write and the story will be complete. I was able to write the story so quickly because of my passion about the subject.
I'm not ashamed to say that the story brought tears to my eyes as I wrote it. Some of the scenes, the dialogue, the situations, just seemed so real to me, so vivid, so relevant, that I became emotional as I wrote them. Reading back over the prose, my reaction was the same. "This is good stuff," I thought to myself, because it evokes such passion in me.
But maybe it sucks.
Am I too close? Time will tell; I'll submit this story to Critters in a couple of weeks, after I've had a chance to edit it a few times (and also to get my participation ratio back up to snuff). We'll see what a bunch of other random writers-to-be have to say about my passion.
I'll try to keep my heart off the front lines as I wade into their critiques. That's never pretty.
I've fought this tendency for a long time, quite unsuccessfully. So I've decided it's just who I am, and I should embrace it.
I was riding in a friend's car not long ago and we heard the song "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum on the radio. There's a line that goes, "Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all." My friend said she liked every line in the song but that one, but I said that was the one line that really spoke to me. Passion has many sides; I embrace them all. They might not all be fun at the time they're happening to me, but they all represent valuable experiences — far preferable to a life without any passion whatsoever.
In daily life, it's obvious how this attitude can get me into trouble. My heart is always on the front lines, and if I'm lucky my rational mind will come along later and pull my bacon out of the fire. I've offended people with my raw passion, with the way I react to things in the moment. I may seem moody, illogical, or unreasonable. I try to apologize later.
In writing, passion can be invaluable. But I often fear giving in to passion entirely too much. I worry about getting too "close" to what I'm writing, about losing my objectivity. I'm concerned that being too passionate about a story may affect its quality.
This very thing happened to me today. I had an idea for a story in the shower this morning, really just a theme that's close to my heart, that I'm passionate about. I soon came up with an appropriate spec-fic setting and situation that would allow me to expound this theme. With virtually no effort, I dashed off 2,200 words of a short story that will end up at about 3,000 words when I'm done; I just have one scene left to write and the story will be complete. I was able to write the story so quickly because of my passion about the subject.
I'm not ashamed to say that the story brought tears to my eyes as I wrote it. Some of the scenes, the dialogue, the situations, just seemed so real to me, so vivid, so relevant, that I became emotional as I wrote them. Reading back over the prose, my reaction was the same. "This is good stuff," I thought to myself, because it evokes such passion in me.
But maybe it sucks.
Am I too close? Time will tell; I'll submit this story to Critters in a couple of weeks, after I've had a chance to edit it a few times (and also to get my participation ratio back up to snuff). We'll see what a bunch of other random writers-to-be have to say about my passion.
I'll try to keep my heart off the front lines as I wade into their critiques. That's never pretty.
Writing Where I Am
Wednesday, June 16. 2010
I wrote prose earlier this year while sitting on top of a Mayan pyramid. What an amazing experience. I made a specific trip to Coba in the Yucatan to climb the Nohoch Mul and drink in the ambience. The opening scene of BMtL has our hero standing atop this selfsame pyramid, considering where he is in his life, just as his life is abruptly turned upside down for him. I'd been up here before, but it had been seven years. I needed a recharge.
It helped. I looked out over the green canopy, watched a lone gray hawk glide across the cloudless sky, tried to ignore the radio tower piercing the timeless, idyllic scene. I thought about the spot I'd reached in the plot of my novel, and I thought about my protagonist and all he'd been through, and I thought about myself and what had led me to this point in my life, and two key paragraphs poured out of me. Happily I had brought paper along to capture them.
I needed this retreat to a place that's special to me. It unlocked something inside. But it also emphasized a recurring problem I face — I have difficulty writing where I am.
Why can't I simply be creative wherever I find myself? I shouldn't need to be surrounded by the awesomeness of ancient Mayan ruins. I shouldn't even need my computer, my chair, the beverage at my elbow to be "just so." My brain's always with me (contrary to outward indications), so I should have the ability to write at any time, in any locale, under any conditions.
As with many things, I believe it's just a matter of hunkering down and doing. If I truly want to be an author, to Get Things Done in my writing, I've got to overcome this location limitation.
Pilgrimages have their place, but I can't rely upon them daily. And daily I must write.
I wrote prose earlier this year while sitting on top of a Mayan pyramid. What an amazing experience. I made a specific trip to Coba in the Yucatan to climb the Nohoch Mul and drink in the ambience. The opening scene of BMtL has our hero standing atop this selfsame pyramid, considering where he is in his life, just as his life is abruptly turned upside down for him. I'd been up here before, but it had been seven years. I needed a recharge.
It helped. I looked out over the green canopy, watched a lone gray hawk glide across the cloudless sky, tried to ignore the radio tower piercing the timeless, idyllic scene. I thought about the spot I'd reached in the plot of my novel, and I thought about my protagonist and all he'd been through, and I thought about myself and what had led me to this point in my life, and two key paragraphs poured out of me. Happily I had brought paper along to capture them.
I needed this retreat to a place that's special to me. It unlocked something inside. But it also emphasized a recurring problem I face — I have difficulty writing where I am.
Why can't I simply be creative wherever I find myself? I shouldn't need to be surrounded by the awesomeness of ancient Mayan ruins. I shouldn't even need my computer, my chair, the beverage at my elbow to be "just so." My brain's always with me (contrary to outward indications), so I should have the ability to write at any time, in any locale, under any conditions.
As with many things, I believe it's just a matter of hunkering down and doing. If I truly want to be an author, to Get Things Done in my writing, I've got to overcome this location limitation.
Pilgrimages have their place, but I can't rely upon them daily. And daily I must write.
It helped. I looked out over the green canopy, watched a lone gray hawk glide across the cloudless sky, tried to ignore the radio tower piercing the timeless, idyllic scene. I thought about the spot I'd reached in the plot of my novel, and I thought about my protagonist and all he'd been through, and I thought about myself and what had led me to this point in my life, and two key paragraphs poured out of me. Happily I had brought paper along to capture them.
I needed this retreat to a place that's special to me. It unlocked something inside. But it also emphasized a recurring problem I face — I have difficulty writing where I am.
Why can't I simply be creative wherever I find myself? I shouldn't need to be surrounded by the awesomeness of ancient Mayan ruins. I shouldn't even need my computer, my chair, the beverage at my elbow to be "just so." My brain's always with me (contrary to outward indications), so I should have the ability to write at any time, in any locale, under any conditions.
As with many things, I believe it's just a matter of hunkering down and doing. If I truly want to be an author, to Get Things Done in my writing, I've got to overcome this location limitation.
Pilgrimages have their place, but I can't rely upon them daily. And daily I must write.
There's a Reason...Right?
Tuesday, June 15. 2010
One of my favorite themes to explore in my writing is that of free will vs. predestination. How much of one's life is not only outside one's own control, but actually in the control of an outside agency? Are we as individuals able to make choices, or is every crossroads in one's existence merely a foregone conclusion, inevitable in light of what has gone before?
I've had a real roller coaster ride so far this year. Many opportunities have been placed before me, and never being one to turn away from possibilities, I tend to explore them all to at least some extent. I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, that chance is not a factor in my life. So now I look back over the first half of the year and wonder how I'm supposed to grow based on what I've experienced...particularly since I've written perhaps a thousand words of prose in six months, and I've maintained this writing blog almost not at all.
I trust that I'm learning something, I just don't know what it is yet.
One thing I have learned, once again, is that I have to make time to write — words won't just happen. I started doing that again about a week ago, and now I'm getting ready to shop a short story for the first time in quite awhile. My life goal for the rest of this year is to get really serious about writing. Of course, I have two other unrelated life goals, and the key will be to divide my time appropriately between them.
And by the end of the year, maybe I'll have some inkling as to the reason behind some of my recent experiences. Perhaps it's just to give me a larger palette from which to paint with words. If so, I can accept that...it's more than reason enough.
One of my favorite themes to explore in my writing is that of free will vs. predestination. How much of one's life is not only outside one's own control, but actually in the control of an outside agency? Are we as individuals able to make choices, or is every crossroads in one's existence merely a foregone conclusion, inevitable in light of what has gone before?
I've had a real roller coaster ride so far this year. Many opportunities have been placed before me, and never being one to turn away from possibilities, I tend to explore them all to at least some extent. I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, that chance is not a factor in my life. So now I look back over the first half of the year and wonder how I'm supposed to grow based on what I've experienced...particularly since I've written perhaps a thousand words of prose in six months, and I've maintained this writing blog almost not at all.
I trust that I'm learning something, I just don't know what it is yet.
One thing I have learned, once again, is that I have to make time to write — words won't just happen. I started doing that again about a week ago, and now I'm getting ready to shop a short story for the first time in quite awhile. My life goal for the rest of this year is to get really serious about writing. Of course, I have two other unrelated life goals, and the key will be to divide my time appropriately between them.
And by the end of the year, maybe I'll have some inkling as to the reason behind some of my recent experiences. Perhaps it's just to give me a larger palette from which to paint with words. If so, I can accept that...it's more than reason enough.
I've had a real roller coaster ride so far this year. Many opportunities have been placed before me, and never being one to turn away from possibilities, I tend to explore them all to at least some extent. I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, that chance is not a factor in my life. So now I look back over the first half of the year and wonder how I'm supposed to grow based on what I've experienced...particularly since I've written perhaps a thousand words of prose in six months, and I've maintained this writing blog almost not at all.
I trust that I'm learning something, I just don't know what it is yet.
One thing I have learned, once again, is that I have to make time to write — words won't just happen. I started doing that again about a week ago, and now I'm getting ready to shop a short story for the first time in quite awhile. My life goal for the rest of this year is to get really serious about writing. Of course, I have two other unrelated life goals, and the key will be to divide my time appropriately between them.
And by the end of the year, maybe I'll have some inkling as to the reason behind some of my recent experiences. Perhaps it's just to give me a larger palette from which to paint with words. If so, I can accept that...it's more than reason enough.
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