Currently Reading: Inishmurray: Island Voices by Joe McGowan, Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder and The Wilder Life by Wendy McClure
Although it is illogical, I feel such guilt when I fail to blog on a regular basis. Why that is I do not know, since I am not being graded or paid to do this but I still sigh every time I realize another day has gone by without a blog post. Of course, I am having a wonderful summer, complete with cousin sleepovers, Great River Shakespeare Fest, Seinfeld marathons, and farmer's markets. It's just that I love to write here- journaling and poems are not enough. But time and life always seem to get in the way. I think my struggle lately with this blog has been trying (and failing) to remember that even a quick post about nothing is OK. For some reason, I never want to blog unless I know I have hours ahead of me to write and re-write and hem and haw and reflect and muse. Since my life does not allow that very often, my blog posts become fewer and farther between. Maybe the lesson I must learn (and SOON, since grad school is creeping ever closer), is that writing is writing, and I must not be so hard on myself to write epic essays every time I feel the urge to write.
There is SO MUCH I want to write: about how my trip to Ireland has greatly changed the way I read my Irish history books and re-read my favorite novels; about how my life has suddenly become infused with childhood memories since I started listening to Wendy McClure discuss her love of Laura while simultaneously re-reading the Little House series with my husband, who has *gasp* never read them before but is loving them as much as I hoped he would. Coupled with updates on life (I have tomatoes!) and such, I am itching to write and write and write.
It will happen. Just not today. Bear with me, friends. Today I am practicing the art of a quick blog post and to be honest, it feels pretty darn good. I'll be back soon!
Showing posts with label writing block. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing block. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
A Smattering of Unorganized Thoughts and Impressions
Currently Reading: Eden's Outcasts: The Story of Louisa May Alcott and Her Father by John Matteson
Today is one of those days where I desperately want to write but find myself with nothing to say, or at least no way of pinning it down to paper. Impressions and thoughts continuously wing through my mind and collide with each other, while I chase them around, trying to capture them and make them behave. They won't behave today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Louisa May Alcott is looking up at me as I write this, her gaze full of determination and resolution. Her picture graces the cover of the newest book I'm reading and it is sitting on the floor beside me. She stares me down, trying to communicate with eyes that are piercing and knowing, her chin firmly set. Yet she doesn't look angry. She looks like she just finished laughing and that at any moment, the solid line of her mouth will turn upwards into a grin. I think I would have liked to know her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I visited my great-aunt at the nursing home yesterday. She is sick and weak but there is nothing wrong with her mind, her memory, or her sense of humor. She had me in stitches more than once last night. Our visit stays with me because last week I read Water for Elephants, a book that I didn't particularly love but contained several scenes that were very powerful and made quite an impression. The intermittent scenes of the narrator as a 93 year old man, stuck inside a nursing home and a wasted body, but with a mind and thoughts as fresh as ever, caused me more heartache than I can even express. Sara Gruen probably never intended her readers to contemplate growing old as a result of reading her novel, but this reader did. I realized that many of the books you find on the bookstore shelf are about the struggles and triumphs of young adulthood or middle-age. Discovering our purpose, finding ourselves, finding true love, or coming to terms with our childhood are some of the major themes of most novels. Not enough books explore how to grow old, the pain and loneliness of it, the contemplation of death, the end of a life. We spend our lives striving for more- more money, more goods, more self-awareness, more happiness. But each of us will one day have to look back, not forward, and reflect on the life we have lived, not the life we want to live. It has given me much to think about this week, especially as I spent time with my beautiful, amazing aunt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wish I could stay home and read all day... my whole being wants nothing more than to delve into 1830s Massachusetts with the Alcott family. Fortunately, a long weekend awaits me; I plan on taking advantage of it. Perhaps a Little Women post will be forthcoming.
Amazing to think of what came from that mind.
Until next time...
Today is one of those days where I desperately want to write but find myself with nothing to say, or at least no way of pinning it down to paper. Impressions and thoughts continuously wing through my mind and collide with each other, while I chase them around, trying to capture them and make them behave. They won't behave today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Louisa May Alcott is looking up at me as I write this, her gaze full of determination and resolution. Her picture graces the cover of the newest book I'm reading and it is sitting on the floor beside me. She stares me down, trying to communicate with eyes that are piercing and knowing, her chin firmly set. Yet she doesn't look angry. She looks like she just finished laughing and that at any moment, the solid line of her mouth will turn upwards into a grin. I think I would have liked to know her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I visited my great-aunt at the nursing home yesterday. She is sick and weak but there is nothing wrong with her mind, her memory, or her sense of humor. She had me in stitches more than once last night. Our visit stays with me because last week I read Water for Elephants, a book that I didn't particularly love but contained several scenes that were very powerful and made quite an impression. The intermittent scenes of the narrator as a 93 year old man, stuck inside a nursing home and a wasted body, but with a mind and thoughts as fresh as ever, caused me more heartache than I can even express. Sara Gruen probably never intended her readers to contemplate growing old as a result of reading her novel, but this reader did. I realized that many of the books you find on the bookstore shelf are about the struggles and triumphs of young adulthood or middle-age. Discovering our purpose, finding ourselves, finding true love, or coming to terms with our childhood are some of the major themes of most novels. Not enough books explore how to grow old, the pain and loneliness of it, the contemplation of death, the end of a life. We spend our lives striving for more- more money, more goods, more self-awareness, more happiness. But each of us will one day have to look back, not forward, and reflect on the life we have lived, not the life we want to live. It has given me much to think about this week, especially as I spent time with my beautiful, amazing aunt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wish I could stay home and read all day... my whole being wants nothing more than to delve into 1830s Massachusetts with the Alcott family. Fortunately, a long weekend awaits me; I plan on taking advantage of it. Perhaps a Little Women post will be forthcoming.
Amazing to think of what came from that mind.
Until next time...
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Immortal Words
Currently Reading: Princes of Ireland by Edward Rutherford (It is heavenly to read about Ireland again.)
Whew.. it feels wonderful to be blogging again. Even though it's time consuming and sometimes I can't think of what to write, the act of sitting at my desk in my pajamas, typing on my laptop while my husband tries to get the cat to stop clawing the couch is so satisfying. I always feel scholarly when I sit down to write my blog- I imagine myself back at school, cranking out history papers. Or I let my imagination wander as I create something out of nothing- I am Hermione Granger finishing an essay in the Gryffindor common room; Emily Dickinson, pacing her room in Amherst as words drop into her mind; or a monk in a scriptorium in medieval Ireland, reverently copying Scripture verses onto vellum. Ever since language was created, man (and woman) has had the need... no, the urge... to write. Like art and music, it is a great universal constant, regardless of time and place, language and culture. We breathe words and language every day- how natural that we should want to add our own words to the mix. I find it amazing how much power words have. First of all, they are immortal- one of the only things that survives when we do not. I am reminded of this every day at work when I read articles and letters by people whose bodies now rest in the earth. As I read their words... words they created... they continue to exist for a little while. It's beautiful really... and it's part of the reason I love what I do. I can learn so much from others' perspectives- from Rilke, Barbara Kingsolver, or even a letter to the editor from 1922.
I have always found that the best writers tend to be readers. Sure, it's helpful to know the definition of an adverb. Conjugating sentences can even be kind of fun (don't judge me). But learning about plot development and sentence structure and word choice in English class does nothing to create a good writer. Reading is the best way to learn how to write, just as watching someone demonstrate a skill is the best way to learn. (Try learning how to crochet from a book. It's hard.) I could preach until dawn about how reading broadens our minds, exposes us to new things, feeds our imagination, teaches us, challenges our deepest beliefs and prejudices. But there's something else that reading does. It allows us to articulate our emotions and our deepest thoughts in writing. Not all of us can publish books. Not many of us could make writing into a career. But when we write, we feed our soul for a little while. We contribute something to the world. We prove, through our own words, that we exist and we matter and we need to be heard. Because we read, we not only know how to express ourselves, but we also have a desire to.
I've discovered in the past two weeks how desperately I love writing this blog. And I will try fervently not to go this long again without sitting down to my keyboard. I have so much to write about the books I read lately, especially Sarah's Key and Lolita, as well as thoughts on libraries and the digital age that are still brewing within me. I'll be back soon. Here are some pictures that show a little glimpse of life lately....
Hobbes helping Nathan play our new Hogwarts Lego game.
Horses watching me as I drive to work. Don't worry, I stopped the car for the shot. :)
Barns are so photogenic.
Hobbes says "Good night."
Whew.. it feels wonderful to be blogging again. Even though it's time consuming and sometimes I can't think of what to write, the act of sitting at my desk in my pajamas, typing on my laptop while my husband tries to get the cat to stop clawing the couch is so satisfying. I always feel scholarly when I sit down to write my blog- I imagine myself back at school, cranking out history papers. Or I let my imagination wander as I create something out of nothing- I am Hermione Granger finishing an essay in the Gryffindor common room; Emily Dickinson, pacing her room in Amherst as words drop into her mind; or a monk in a scriptorium in medieval Ireland, reverently copying Scripture verses onto vellum. Ever since language was created, man (and woman) has had the need... no, the urge... to write. Like art and music, it is a great universal constant, regardless of time and place, language and culture. We breathe words and language every day- how natural that we should want to add our own words to the mix. I find it amazing how much power words have. First of all, they are immortal- one of the only things that survives when we do not. I am reminded of this every day at work when I read articles and letters by people whose bodies now rest in the earth. As I read their words... words they created... they continue to exist for a little while. It's beautiful really... and it's part of the reason I love what I do. I can learn so much from others' perspectives- from Rilke, Barbara Kingsolver, or even a letter to the editor from 1922.
I have always found that the best writers tend to be readers. Sure, it's helpful to know the definition of an adverb. Conjugating sentences can even be kind of fun (don't judge me). But learning about plot development and sentence structure and word choice in English class does nothing to create a good writer. Reading is the best way to learn how to write, just as watching someone demonstrate a skill is the best way to learn. (Try learning how to crochet from a book. It's hard.) I could preach until dawn about how reading broadens our minds, exposes us to new things, feeds our imagination, teaches us, challenges our deepest beliefs and prejudices. But there's something else that reading does. It allows us to articulate our emotions and our deepest thoughts in writing. Not all of us can publish books. Not many of us could make writing into a career. But when we write, we feed our soul for a little while. We contribute something to the world. We prove, through our own words, that we exist and we matter and we need to be heard. Because we read, we not only know how to express ourselves, but we also have a desire to.
I've discovered in the past two weeks how desperately I love writing this blog. And I will try fervently not to go this long again without sitting down to my keyboard. I have so much to write about the books I read lately, especially Sarah's Key and Lolita, as well as thoughts on libraries and the digital age that are still brewing within me. I'll be back soon. Here are some pictures that show a little glimpse of life lately....
Hobbes helping Nathan play our new Hogwarts Lego game.
Horses watching me as I drive to work. Don't worry, I stopped the car for the shot. :)
Barns are so photogenic.
Hobbes says "Good night."
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