Writer's Block; or, doctor heal thyself

Currently, and for the past five years, I have earned a living (sort of) by teaching writing. The irony of this is not lost on those who know me because, when I was in college I was a struggling writer--I don't mean struggling writer as in a writer who is poor and trying to get published--I mean I would struggle to write my essays.  I was a bright student who had a lot to say. I could, as they say, talk a good game, but my essays were always a little disappointing. Part of my problem was that I was really good about talking about literature and ideas, so when it came time to write about it my professors (all good writers themselves) expected great things. And really, I delivered average things. But for the most part, the problem was that I didn't know how to become better.

The struggle to become a better writer was made worse for me though, in that I cared--really cared--about what my professors thought of me. The essays I was turning in were not just assignments, they were litmus tests of my abilities, a tangible measure my self-worth right there in black and white. To exacerbate the issue, I was in a field--English--that valued writing above all else. It almost didn't matter how brilliant the ideas and theories were when I shared them verbally, they were not brilliant until I could write them down. My desire to please and because I wanted to go on to graduate school, I would take critiques of my writing very seriously. When a paper came back to me with a litany of failures, I would go to the teacher's office and ask for help. The thing is though, I never really got any useful advice. I mean they would try, but in reality they would just end up diagnosing my ills without being able to offer any cures.

There were professors who were better at helping than others. There was one who was a big help, but he got a new job on the East coast and moved away. Another who likely would have been amazing, but I was intimidated enough by her to be too scared of accepting her help. Of course, in one of my many lapses of judgment the professor I chose as my mentor was particularly inept at teaching writing. He was great at other things--like being charming--things that would be of little help in my career, but writing, not so much. He was quite good at identifying errors; he would point to my flaws and say, "There is your problem." I would ask how to fix the problem, and he would just repeat that it was wrong and needed to be made better. I remember one tearful conference where he just kept repeating all the things that were wrong and I would say, Okay, but how do I DO that? Finally, he just slammed my paper down, shouting, "I don't know, you just have to figure it out!" and walked away, leaving the paper on his desk. Now, years later, I can accept that I was asking him to do something he couldn't. A pattern in our relationship that would end with a similar conversation, with much higher stakes, that would lead to him walking away from me for good.

There was a level of shame to struggling with writing that led me to believe that there was something wrong with me. I was convinced that there this was magic thing out there that some people had and some didn't: And I just didn't. Then one day I was talking to a friend who was a couple of years behind me in school. She was frustrated with her writing. She showed me her paper and told me that her teacher (my mentor) just kept telling her all the things that were wrong with her paper, but he wouldn't tell her how to fix it. I looked at her paper and I saw the errors, but for some reason I could also see what could be done to make it better. I think it was because it was a level lower than me, I was able to just *see* how to revise it. I gave her a couple of real, practical solutions for ways to rewrite the essay. The light bulb went on: There are tricks to this. A couple of days later when I saw her again, she told me that she had done what I suggested and that her paper was better! I felt so good about helping her that day, that it felt a little like I had helped a younger version of myself.

As I continued through school, I would pursue writing instruction whenever I could. Now that I teach writing for a living I have learned to separate the task of writing from the value of the ideas, and from the value of a person. I tell my students that writing is a communication tool, and it can be learned. When my students come to me and they ask me how to fix their flawed writing I have tangible practical ways to teach them. Some of these tools I learned from taking classes in teaching composition, but many of them I have developed on my own. My favorite days are those when I can hand back an essay to a student and they can see their writing has improved. It is such a rewarding feeling

It likely does not take a psychologist to know that as I teach these struggling writers, I am teaching my past self. I am erasing my own struggle one student at a time. The reality is that I am a better writer now, nearly ten years after I graduated from college, than I have ever been. In learning how to teach others, I have taught myself. Sometimes, I think about that struggling writer I had been, and I want to sit my younger self down and show her a handout on topic sentences and paragraphing. A handout that has her name on it, because she wrote it.

Money; or, freedom quantified

It seems a little silly, but I have had an epiphany about money. Mainly, that if I had a lot of it, my life would be better. I know, I know, what kind of epiphany is this? Is it really just a fancified version of common sense? Well, yes, but really, isn't that what epiphanies are? Common sense all gussied up? At its core, my epiphany is that I need money, but more than that, it is that I *have* money, I just keep spending it all. So, the plan, as it were, is to save my money. All of it. Seriously, like ALL of it. When I have enough then I can afford the freedom I crave. The freedom that I buy in tiny amounts each year. So, the plan is essentially, to buy my freedom.

In order to save money, you have to make money. I have a job. That is the good news. The bad news is that I am part-time and really don't make all that much money. Well, at least not for the amount of work that I do. But, again, there is good news in that I love what I do. So, that is more than many people can say. I don't make a lot of money, but I am not destitute either. I am not sure I want to talk about exact numbers here, as that doesn't seem wise. But, I am above the poverty line. So, that is good. So, I do have money coming in. I could also be doing other things to make more money (tutoring, freelance writing, editing, get another part-time job).

The second part of saving is managing how much money goes out. I don't have too many bills. I have some accrued debts. Credit cards and student loans. The credit cards need to be paid off ASAP, but the, student loans just need to be managed.  Something that I haven't really been doing. I have been sort of taking the ostrich approach and pretending like they don't really exist. Doing just enough to keep out of trouble. The reality is that I will never pay them, but still, it hurts my credit rating to ignore them. The credit card bills can be paid off in a couple of months as long as I don't charge more. That is the key right? Don't spend. Okay. So, that will be new, but I can do it. I need to buy a car, so that will add a payment, and thanks to Obamacare I need to find some sort of health insurance. What I don't have to pay right now is rent, electricity etc. Anyway, boring discussion of the minutiae of my spending aside, once all of this is managed, I figure I will have about 1000 dollars left over (most months). A little more or less in others.

To save this money will take discipline. I have already decided that the number one sacrifice in spending will be my precious vacations. I travel about four times a year. The trips range from visits to see friends, to short car trips, baseball vacations, in locations near and far, from Vegas, to NY, Europe, and more. This is the biggest budget buster, so it will have to stop. At least for now. I realize that the reason I travel so much (besides my natural wanderlust) is that I don't like my life much. I don't have my own place, so I have to share with other people. People I don't like all that much all the time. Today, my brother and his kids came over for breakfast. He comes over when he doesn't have the money or the patience or the desire to feed them. So, they were here for two hours. In that time, I cooked breakfast for 7 people, entertained a 10 year old, and a three year old, watered the garden, took care of the dogs and cats, and more. Within 20 minutes of their visit I was fantasizing about getting away.

But here is the thing. The Payoff. If I can save at least 1000 a month for three years I will have nearly 40 thousand dollars. If I can save more I could have 60 or even 80 grand. With that kind of nest egg, I can do what I want. For a very long time. This is the big picture. I hate my life. But because I don't have any money I am stuck here. So, in trying to take little escapes (travel, shopping, gambling) and other expensive coping strategies I am guaranteeing being stuck. So, small sacrifices now will payoff big later. At least that is the plan, for now. I may find myself deciding after one year, to take the money and run. But, at least if I haven't spent it already, then I can.

Return; or, writing is hard.

Writing is hard. Anyone who writes, and many who don't, know this is true. I know it is true, but I also know that it is my calling. Well, at least people keep telling me it is. When I talk about my life, my journey, my wandering through wildernesses, my struggle, people listen for a while, then they say, "You should write a book." In my dark times, and I have plenty, I imagine this is a polite way of telling me to stop talking. But, usually, I think, they mean that I have something to say. And that I should say it.

Yesterday, I was talking to a student who has returned to school because her marriage had fallen apart. Well, technically, it was torn apart and then crumbled from underneath her as her husband left her for a younger, slimmer, more successful woman. She was talking about how hard it was to get used to the idea that she just wasn't good enough, young enough, enough enough to keep a man who had committed to love her no matter what and as she spoke she was near tears. As we talked and shared our experiences she said to me, "You know, this class saved my life. Actually, you did. You should write a book, you have things to say, things that people need to hear." Ignoring her would be hard.

Yes, writing is hard. I know it's hard because not only do I dream of writing for a living, I currently teach others how to write. And they tell me, pretty much daily, that writing is hard. But, you know what? Being poor is hard. Teaching writing is hard. Having less independence than I need is hard. So, maybe, just maybe, writing isn't as hard as not writing.

When I was in my early teens I kept a diary. I poured my heart into it; sharing all my secrets, dream, and adolescents fears. One day, I found out a family member had read it. Not only had they read it, but some of the things I had written about were against our family's rules and I was punished. In my mind, I wasn't punished for sneaking out of the house and attending a junior high dance. I wasn't punished for slow dancing to Journey with that boy--the one that I would have risked more than being grounded for the precious few minutes spent in his arms--no, to me, I was punished for writing. And so, I stopped keeping a journal. But, I couldn't stop writing. I would write stories and secrets on scraps of paper then destroy them.

Life is hard. It is the lesson we all learn. It is repeated by children and adults this idea that life is hard. So, if life is hard, then writing about life just might be the most difficult task imaginable. But, again, for me, silence is harder. I try. I try to not write, but life is hard and I need to have a way to deal with the difficulties of life, and  more specifically, the difficulties of my life. So, not writing makes my life harder.

So, here I am. Full circle. Writing again, because it's hard, but because it's harder not to.

stumbling blocks; or, what to do when everything is hard

Computers hate me. No, really, they do. In my life I have six computers. Seven if you count the dead laptop I left in a closet in Chico, but I don't know if it is still there, so we won't count that one. I have two laptops and four desktops. Only one of them is technically mine, but I use the others. None of them works the way I need it it too. Most have one capability but not another; and some just refuse to play along.

One computer does not get internet or have a printer, one gets internet and has a virus so very little can be done (this one is my roomates, not mine), one cannot print, and another doesn't have Word on it. Sigh. The worst one is my work computer. Sometimes it allows me to log on and sometimes it doesn't. 

Okay, Kat, so why all the whining? What is your point. The computers are just an example of how the little things wear a person down. How do you ever get going when it feels like the smallest things are a huge hassle?

I see London, I see France; or, priming the pump

I have always wanted to be a rich aunt who is a benefactoress. As a child, I read stories about young girls who are pulled out of their families and sent off to live with the rich dowager aunt. I identified with the aunt, even as a child. One of the biggest frustrations for me as I struggle with money is that I can't do things for other people, but I still believe that someday I will be in position to do so. I have dreamed of paying for my neice(s) to go to Europe since I was 16-years old.

Ever since my niece, Kaya, was born a little over nine years ago I have been plying her with stories of travel. I sent her postcards of exotic places long before she was cognizant, much less literate. She has gifts and postcards from the UK, Europe, Boston, New York, Austin and others with fantastic tales of all the fun I am having that date back to times when we were still counting her age in months. She fetishizes the Eiffel Tower and Big Ben in a way that makes me proud, and I know it is only a matter of time before she begins to want to see them for herself.

When Kaya and I go on the internet I take the time to show her distant lands and all the joys of travel. She is an anxious shy little thing and is timid about everyday activities. She will not talk to strangers, and most social situations can send her into small panic attacks. I like the idea of showing her that her world is so much bigger than she can imagine because I know that seeing herself as a part of something so grand, and so vast, may just make talking to the grocery clerk seem a bit easier. At least that is the theory. As a result of my efforts, she has a pretty good handle on geography, world landmarks, and folklore; at least a good handle for a nine-year old American girl.

She and I were in World Market (of course) the other day and among the items she picked out as possible Christmas presents were an Eiffel Tower snowglobe, a Big Ben paper weight, and a wall-map of the world. I said to her as we talked about her choices, "Wow, you seem to really like those landmarks. Maybe I will take you with me the next time I go to Europe." You would have to know her to understand exactly how that statement both thrilled and terrified her at the same time. She looked at me with her eyes huge with excitement, "I don't think my parents would let me do that." And I thought, well, that isn't a no now is it?

lucky; or, the literary critic in me needs this to mean something

In my last post, I wrote about the film Buck. I did so for more than one reason. The first is because I like opportunities to talk about our personal responsibility to be kind to one another. It is a lost art, kindness. The second is because of what happened after the movie.

As I was saying, we watched a film about horses and kindness. I enjoyed the film and walked out of class satisfied that the documentary was a good one and that it would lend itself to some good conversations for the rest of the term. I got into my car backed out and drove about three feet and then I saw something in the road that made me stop. In the road before me was a rusted horseshoe.

Weird right? This was about 5 minutes after the movie. I was moved by the experience. I mean, it has to mean something. Doesn't it? I brought the shoe to class on Wednesday and told them about it. I used it to teach a lesson on argument. I asked them to listen to a story, to briefly summarize it and to create a thesis statement of the story.  I shared the story, and the students immediately asked me if it was true. I swore that it was. We talked about their summaries and thesis statements, but they wanted to talk about what it meant, or could mean, so we created this list.

It is a sign that I am doing something right.


It is a sign I am lucky and should go to Las Vegas and gamble all
my savings.

It is a message that I should take something from the movie learn from it.

It is nothing, and the shoe has been laying there for weeks, but I only noticed it because I had just watched a film about horses.

It is fate. Destiny.

It is a coincidence.

It is a conspiracy, someone put that there because they knew I was going to watch that film.

It is something very important.

It is nothing.

We discussed the possible meanings. A student added, "It is God." Which I wrote on the board, but would not allow the students to use in the argument exercise (yes, sometimes my ideology does seep into the classroom in interesting ways). The most intriguing side effect of this conversation was that as my classroom became a battle over the theory of fate and nothingness, the students began to invest themselves in the documentary. Students began to believe that the movie and the shoe and this conversation was important. They tuned in, there was that "click" that teachers wait for, and they connected.

For me, I need it to mean something. If not just because I want to feel lucky, or a part of some larger universe, but because if this were a novel it would mean everything. What do you think?

                    

Buck: or, a lesson in love and kindness

On Monday, we watched the documentary film Buck in my class. The film is about a man, named Buck of course, who is a horse whisperer. He was the inspiration for the 1998 movie The Horse Whisperer starring Robert Redford. Buck was a decent film, not the best documentary I have ever seen, but it seemed to hold my student's attention which is saying something. The core message of the film is what makes it worth seeing.

The movie is about Buck Brannaman's life as a horse trainer. But really it is about how being a loving person is better than being a jerk. That is an oversimplification, but essentially it is the message at the core of the film. Brannaman's father was a horribly abusive man who beat Buck and his brother unmercifully. Finally, they were removed from the home and put into foster care. Now, many years later, Buck trains horses. He is using the lessons he learned from his own terrible past to teach the horse community that using brutal training methods is ruining their horses, and maybe themselves, and teaching the horses to be afraid. He, and the film, makes explicit connections between his own childhood, the horse training, and parenting.

The film moves back and forth between stories about Buck's childhood, clips of his training clinics, and itneractions between Buck and his teenaged daughter. His history of abuse was so bad that a childhood friend, a man in his 50's, breaks down and weeps while talking about it.  It is a touching and salient moment in the narrative when Buck points out that his daughter is just like him; and he is a little sad about the fact if he had been raised in love he would be as amazing as his daughter. Yes, I cried. It is clear that Buck grieves for his lost childhood, but also that he understands that he has to choose how to repudiate that history each day. He has to remind himself that he is kind, that the world is kind.

The big dramatic moment comes when a woman brings in a "demon colt" for training. Throughout the movie we see Buck gentle horse after horse. He begins with a frightened bucking animal and ends up with a pet following after him like the most loyal of dogs. It is amazing each time. But, back to the demon colt. The colt was orphaned and may have even suffered brain damage from a lock of oxygen, so the colt has had a tough beginning. But, the real damage, we are reminded again and again, was done by the trainer. She raised him with a pack of stud horses and let him remain a stud as well. Through her coddling of this horse she has allowed him to be spoiled and wild: She unintentionally trained him to be "a predator."  The horse is so viscious that he attacks one of Buck's colleagues with pure malice. It is clear that this horse is not protecting himself, but is instead intending mayhem. The trainer is so badly injured he requires several stitches to his forehead. They decide to put the horse down.

It is an emotial moment when they decide to give up on this horse and sentence him to death. As the demon colt is being taken back onto the truck the owner tries to force him and is yelling at him and yanking the horse around. Buck, who clearly dislikes this treatment, and has already told this woman that she needs to get help for her own problems, firmly tells the woman to step away from the horse. When he takes over he gently and calmly works with the horse until he dociley walks into the truck on his own. In that moment, you can see the difference the film is talking about. You can see that if that horse had been raised by another, gentler hand his life would be different.

The next day, at the training, a couple of people ask Buck to talk about the demon colt. They want explanations, and he gives them. He simply says, "The horse was failed by his owner, yes he was disabled, but that is not what made him what he is." A woman--who had been crying the day before as they loaded the colt--asked him about his kindness in loading this doomed animal onto the truck. He said, "Just because we have decided to put the colt down doesn't mean he deserves to be treated unkindly."

It is such a simple message really, but one that needs to be repeated. And repreated. Kindness matters. Kindness is a choice. So, please choose to be kind.