...and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Everyone who ever took a high school biology class, or for that matter, perhaps simply a walk in the woods, has pondered this question at some point. In fact, I can remember having a number of philosophical debates on the subject, back when I was young enough to actually have the time or inclination for such conversations.
In fact, in the midst of one such conversation, I can also recall a friend of mine throwing her hands up in the air, and saying, "of course it makes a sound! Because there's always someone there! How else would you know it fell?" At which point another friend smiled smugly and added, "ah, someone may have been there, but in order to hear it, they also had to be listening."
It struck me the other day that this is also very true of being a writer...or the attempt to be recognized as such, I suppose; the analogy being, of course, that you (the writer) are the tree and the sound of you falling over is the novel, story, poem, etc. that you have written. And by extension, does it actually exist if no one reads it...i.e., if no one experiences it; if no one, philosophically speaking, is listening.
Among other shocking discoveries I have made in the course of my brief literary journey is that the majority of acquaintances I understood to be readers (listeners, if you will, to keep with the analogy, that is), actually aren't. This is not to say they don't read anything at all, but that they follow a rather narrow path of selection when they do. I confess, of course, that I am much the same, in that I have my favorite authors...Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, Lisa Genova, John Grisham, etc....but I also pride myself on being able to try someone new and different once in a while; i.e., as in take the road not taken, as Robert Frost so blithely insisted we do.
Granted, it's not always a successful path, at least as far as reading goes. Just as when one sets out on an unknown hiking trail, you never know how many obstacles there might be, or how steep or difficult the trail might become before you reach the end. On the other hand, if you don't make the trek, you might possibly never experience something truly special. Thus it is with reading; and I have now learned it may also be with writing, except as a writer, you are the trail they may or may not be willing to take, even if they are your friends and relatives, who you always thought trusted your judgment.
Okay, my first book was not that great. I mean, I actually thought it was a good story with great characters, but it definitely needed some more careful editing in terms of style and presentation. Eventually, I did so and put out a second edition. The first edition sold better than anything I've written since; the second new and improved one, hardly at all. And with my subsequent novels, the response also dwindled. This is because at first, everyone was startled to hear I'd actually written a novel, and did so perhaps out of sheer curiosity (and even hopefully, supportiveness). But then, because the first one had flaws, no one went back to read more of what I wrote after that. Meanwhile, the next five books became progressing better works, and it's frustrating that few have dared to try more...to continue on the trail, as it were, despite minor obstacles.
Returning to the aforementioned tree in the forest, this might be kind of like coming to a tree after it had already fallen and was lying there, beginning to decompose. In other words, the dramatic sound of it falling was past, so it now is largely ignored, when in truth, the next stage of its development (when perhaps small animals begin to inhabit its remains, or wildflowers and moss grow from its fallen trunk) is perhaps more fascinating or beautiful than the original tree was to begin with.
Okay, I admit it, it's a stretch. But if you write, you probably get it. You are on the road to that beautiful, unexpected view, or wildflower meadow or striking waterfall...or even to the perfect sound of a tree crashing to the forest floor, but everyone else decided to turn back...or worse yet, they stopped listening. After all, with so many trees falling out there, who really has the time?
Friday 24 January 2020
Thursday 9 January 2020
A Tisket, A Tasket
Okay, I admit it, I'm one of those people who loves Christmas letters...and Christmas cards with pictures. I don't know if it's because I love reading and writing, or if I simply need to get a life. Whatever the reason, I honestly look forward to getting these communications every year, despite all the jokes about "brag letters" and "is that really the best picture you have?" type comments. I even like getting these from my kids...what does that tell you, right? It isn't that my kids don't tell me about their lives, I just like getting the official version that everyone else hears as well.
I also have to confess that I write my own Christmas letter every year, send pictures of my family, and then feel the necessity to add personal notes to each one, just so no one feels they are less important to me. It's not that my life is so exciting and I think everyone I know is dying to hear about it; it's more like if I know I'm going to write these letters every year, I subconsciously find myself putting additional energy into making my life more interesting.
Truthfully, though, this process can be a less than rewarding experience. My husband and I send out 40 some Christmas cards every year in three basic groupings: family (both of us have rather small ones), local friends and neighbors, and old friends we rarely see, but that we want to remind of our existence. The latter two categories occasionally overlap. Here are the categories we receive cards from: family, local friends and neighbors (many who, having heard from us, feel guilty and dig out and send one of the generic cards they've collected over the years), and old friends who, when reminded of our existence, also want to remind us of theirs.
Okay, these communications are all nice in their own way; regardless of my minor bouts of cynicism, I do feel that the intent behind sending them is genuine, and in a world where being "so busy" has become a badge of honor rather than a complaint, I have to appreciate the time and effort it took for those I know and love to celebrate the season in this way. Plus, it's just simply nice to get something in the mail besides offers to have my hearing tested "absolutely free of charge," invitations to retirement seminars, and weekly communication from the Pella Replacement Windows rep.
But what does all this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Since, after all, this is a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing). Actually, I think the reason I like getting Christmas letters so much is that it indicates the fine art of letter writing is not totally lost...and thus perhaps, neither is the art of writing itself (and by extension, reading, which is the one thing writers most hope for and cherish).
Despite the fact that I have been informed by their parents that my grandchildren prefer texts and/or very brief emails from me (as opposed to the longer newsy emails I persist in sending them in an effort to be more a part of their lives), I still find written communication rewarding. Unlike conversation, it can be revised, edited, and rephrased many times before the recipient actually hears it. This eliminates all the "I should have said" or "I wish I had just said" moments we are all the least proud of. And, at least as far as email goes, you have a copy of what you wrote, and should your recipient lose, delete, or interpret what you said inaccurately, you can always set the record straight.
I suppose writers feel this way in general about their work and this could be why we all try so hard to be published and, of course, widely read and appreciated. In other words, we are trying to be part of our readers' lives in some meaningful way, and at the same time we are sharing something about ourselves. Perhaps that's what makes the whole process so frustrating at times; i.e., here we are putting ourselves out there in the best way we know how, seeking to personally communicate, but often we can't get someone to read what we write and thus hear what we have to say; get to know who we really are, in other words.
My grandmother always used to recite silly nursery rhymes to me when I was a kid, even when I used to think I was way too old to be hearing them; but nowadays I realize that these little poems and songs were actually rather philosophic, as well as quite often applicable in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to writing, for example, I remember how sad I was to hear about that girl who put the "letter to her love" in a "green and yellow basket" but then "lost it" on her way to delivering it.
Of course, the older and more cynical I became (no doubt in my teenage years), I began to think this was more upsetting to the girl who lost the letter than the intended recipient. He, of course, never read the letter so had no idea what the girl thought and felt, nor with how much love it was written.
I also have to confess that I write my own Christmas letter every year, send pictures of my family, and then feel the necessity to add personal notes to each one, just so no one feels they are less important to me. It's not that my life is so exciting and I think everyone I know is dying to hear about it; it's more like if I know I'm going to write these letters every year, I subconsciously find myself putting additional energy into making my life more interesting.
Truthfully, though, this process can be a less than rewarding experience. My husband and I send out 40 some Christmas cards every year in three basic groupings: family (both of us have rather small ones), local friends and neighbors, and old friends we rarely see, but that we want to remind of our existence. The latter two categories occasionally overlap. Here are the categories we receive cards from: family, local friends and neighbors (many who, having heard from us, feel guilty and dig out and send one of the generic cards they've collected over the years), and old friends who, when reminded of our existence, also want to remind us of theirs.
Okay, these communications are all nice in their own way; regardless of my minor bouts of cynicism, I do feel that the intent behind sending them is genuine, and in a world where being "so busy" has become a badge of honor rather than a complaint, I have to appreciate the time and effort it took for those I know and love to celebrate the season in this way. Plus, it's just simply nice to get something in the mail besides offers to have my hearing tested "absolutely free of charge," invitations to retirement seminars, and weekly communication from the Pella Replacement Windows rep.
But what does all this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Since, after all, this is a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing). Actually, I think the reason I like getting Christmas letters so much is that it indicates the fine art of letter writing is not totally lost...and thus perhaps, neither is the art of writing itself (and by extension, reading, which is the one thing writers most hope for and cherish).
Despite the fact that I have been informed by their parents that my grandchildren prefer texts and/or very brief emails from me (as opposed to the longer newsy emails I persist in sending them in an effort to be more a part of their lives), I still find written communication rewarding. Unlike conversation, it can be revised, edited, and rephrased many times before the recipient actually hears it. This eliminates all the "I should have said" or "I wish I had just said" moments we are all the least proud of. And, at least as far as email goes, you have a copy of what you wrote, and should your recipient lose, delete, or interpret what you said inaccurately, you can always set the record straight.
I suppose writers feel this way in general about their work and this could be why we all try so hard to be published and, of course, widely read and appreciated. In other words, we are trying to be part of our readers' lives in some meaningful way, and at the same time we are sharing something about ourselves. Perhaps that's what makes the whole process so frustrating at times; i.e., here we are putting ourselves out there in the best way we know how, seeking to personally communicate, but often we can't get someone to read what we write and thus hear what we have to say; get to know who we really are, in other words.
My grandmother always used to recite silly nursery rhymes to me when I was a kid, even when I used to think I was way too old to be hearing them; but nowadays I realize that these little poems and songs were actually rather philosophic, as well as quite often applicable in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to writing, for example, I remember how sad I was to hear about that girl who put the "letter to her love" in a "green and yellow basket" but then "lost it" on her way to delivering it.
Of course, the older and more cynical I became (no doubt in my teenage years), I began to think this was more upsetting to the girl who lost the letter than the intended recipient. He, of course, never read the letter so had no idea what the girl thought and felt, nor with how much love it was written.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)