The Reason Behind the Reason

Today marks my two-year anniversary as a blogger. What a journey! This week, I’ve been thinking about the EyeJunkie adventure as it relates to my 2010 theme word, courage. Over the last few months, several friends and commenters on the site have made reference to openness and the courage required to express thoughts so transparently in this particular medium. Can you say world wide web? Emphasis on world. While I don’t necessarily see myself as courageous (hence the year-long posting pursuit), I do recognize that sharing one’s thoughts and life in any authentic way with the internet is not for the timid. It’s intimidating. It’s scary. And, yes, I think it can be a little presumptuous. I mean, what do you care, right?

I’ve actually been amazed by how much you care. By how much credence you’ve given to my sometimes haphazard thoughts. I know my own time constraints and schedule, and I’ve been amazed at how ready you’ve been to carve out however brief a space in yours for this blog. I’ve been honored by the comments–both here and on Facebook and Twitter. I’ve been inspired by how many of you have taken the time to send me a personal email about something you’ve read or seen here.

Still, courage? Contemplating whatever courage might be required to enter the blogosphere and the daunting task of interjecting my voice into the fray has me thinking about the reason I started this “thing” in the first place. And, the reason behind the reason I’ve realized since.

I had been contemplating this adventure for some time before I actually began. I’ve always enjoyed writing and journaling. This particular medium seemed (from an observer’s position) to be the perfect combination of both. I was pregnant with Baby Girl at the time and swimming in a sea of toddler antics, dirty diapers and waning second trimester stamina. I was immersed in the usual schedule of home-making and nursery preparations. I was keeping my head above water with a healthy design schedule at my day job. And, I was realizing that, for the first time in my life, I had virtually abandoned any personal creative pursuit.

For those of you who haven’t read all the fine print, my day job is with an advertising agency where I am a graphic designer. So, I use my creativity for a living. However, I’ve always somehow needed an outlet for exploring ideas in a more personal way. Whether through painting or poetry or book-making, expressing myself–usually through some combination of words and pictures–has always fueled energy and creativity in other areas of my life.

It began to dawn on me as I made it through the considerable energy drain of a third pregnancy paired with two toddlers that my children didn’t yet know that creative person, that writer, that painter, that maker of things. Somehow through complacency or busyness or sheer exhaustion, I had forsaken those pursuits. Then, I began to notice this odd on-line medium called blogging. I began to see this type of outlet as a way to incorporate those creative tendencies back into my life without the less than kid-friendly materials and space required for something like the watercolor painting or collage I was prone to. In early 2005, my parents gifted me with an exquisite little MacBook named Kermit. He opened the doors of reality on that little idea that had been germinating. I began brainstorming and making notes and sketches for how a personal blog might actually flesh out. You can read the evolution of “eyeJunkie” and the “adventures in paying attention” theme another time, but suffice it to say that one domain name, a web hosting account, and one WordPress download later, this blog was born.

“Hello, world.” That statement was enough to intimidate me for sure. It was the title of the test post WordPress Dude includes in every download of the application. It chrystalized the nature of this experiment pretty clearly–my words, my voice broadcast to the world for all manner of internet-goers to partake. Yikes.

My voice.

As I plugged along with writing and posting, EyeJunkie certainly filled the creative bill. It helped me accomplish that goal of a creative pursuit. Those readers who have been around for any length of time can attest that I’ve subjected the Junksters to all kinds of experiments and hare-brained ideas–graphics popping up here and there, series starting and fizzling, run-on sentences and fragments abounding. But, something else beyond a basic creative outlet has emerged for me in these two years.

Recently, I was writing some thoughts (something about underwear purchases or chili… don’t even ask) in an email to a friend who commented… “this sounds like an EJ post.” Wait a minute. EyeJunkie posts have a sound. That stuck. The comment made me realize the reason behind the reason that this blogging adventure matters to me. I’ve noticed a voice emerging. Mine. A consistency and willingness to speak. A thoughtful, but emphatic tone. An amalgum of emotion framed in a single sound. The sound of my own voice.

Through the months of blogging, I recognized that I had been in a period of my life for some time when I felt that my voice was being drowned out–perhaps by difficult relationships, distractions and interruptions, the absorption of care-giving and kid-loving, dailyness and just plain busyness. I found that my own voice was hushed and difficult to discern–even to myself–above (or below) the din. Through the act of writing and exposing thoughts to the world regardless of who may or may not be reading, I was finding my voice again. I realized again that I had something to say, and this venue gave me the inclination to say it. To find the courage to speak it. In my own voice.

Is transparency in this world brave? Perhaps. Is writing an authentic blog essay courageous? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve put courage into this body of nonsense as much as it’s put courage into me. Writing an EyeJunkie worthy of your attention has encouraged me to speak. In my own voice. If the question of courage is “where can I find it?”, for sure I’ve found at least a little within this cyber space. Thank you for listening to that process.

Where the Ideas Take Me

Warning: This is yet another post about writing. What is it about writers that makes them write so much about writing–analyzing their own “craft,” evaluating their own habits? I can hear the chorus of oh-good-griefs resonating through cyberspace right now. Truth be told; I don’t necessarily consider myself to be a “writer” most of the time. I’m just a girl who writes, really. I don’t know if that gets me off the hook with the “writing about writing” fiasco. But here goes.

I love to write. I really do. And, I hate to write. I really do. There’s the rub. In observing myself, I’ve realized that there’s a point (call it A) at which I’m really excited about the process. And there’s a point (call it B) at which I can’t even successfully bribe myself with chocolate to do it. Then, I get back to the place where I’m willing to write, actually put some work into it. And finally, on the really fun days, I get in that zone–the state of mind where the essays write themselves, and I’m just along for the key-tapping. I’m the same way with my design projects sometimes (the day job). I imagine the process is similar for those in other creative pursuits. And let’s face it; are there really pursuits that aren’t creative? Whether it’s writing or painting or architecture or graphic design or preschool lesson-planning or cooking or running a business or whatever, sometimes it’s hard to get from unsuccessful bribery to willingness. Much less to being along to enjoy the ride. If it lights a fire inside, it has the potential to squelch itself just as easily in my experience. And at some point, hopefully the flame just burns inspite of itself.

As you may have guessed, writing has not been coming easily these days. You can surmise that from the infrequency of my posts (if this particular essay didn’t give it away.) The breakdown in the process for me comes more from simply getting started than from the actual writing itself. Once I set about putting my fingertips to the keys, the words usually come. It’s the getting there that’s the problem. So, what stalls me between point A and point B?  Just like with many kinds of decisions or pursuits, you can take a number.

Sometimes it’s fear or insecurity. Can I really do this? Sometimes it’s lack of sincerity or commitment. Am I really willing to put the time into this? More often than not, it’s the paralysis of ideas — either too many or too little.  Maybe that one comes from the quest for perfection. Ideas in their raw form are ethereal. They’re abstract to an extent. They have the glamour of perfection without the work required for a lean, toned, well-coiffed presentation. And, bringing about that toned essay from some fleeting idea regularly brings me many a moment of insecurity, indecision and non-commitment.

I’m an idea girl. I can brainstorm with the best of them. In fact, I’m a huge proponent of that unfiltered practice. I actually spend a lot of time doing it. But, I’ve been confounded by the idea of ideas lately. So many beginnings, it’s hard to choose which one to explore to a satisfying conclusion. And, an idea is only as good as where it takes me.

I saw a comment in a Twitter chat recently. It may have been part of some targeted conversation on innovation or marketing or social media–one of those things that verify my nerd status. I can’t remember. But the thought was that ideas aren’t really the best commodity–not the best investment. It made the case that a better investment is in those who can generate ideas. The process of producing ideas has more potential for return than any one, fleeting idea. I found that to be interesting and true. To a degree. The ability to generate ideas is indeed a notable gift, but the ability to follow through on an idea is also important. To chase an idea unencumbered by precedent or constraint or forethought can be a frustrating process, but also a rewarding one. Ideas can gain a life and passion of their own. Following them can get me to surprising places.

In my efforts to get from that unsuccessful bribe I mentioned to the willingness to work at it, to chase it, I ask myself lots of questions. Do I need to put myself on a schedule? To discipline myself more? Do I need to limit my focus? Find someone to hold me accountable? Do I need to pick a singular topic? Am I committed to this? Can I do this? Regardless of the answers, I do find that when I write, writing comes. When I stop thinking about where the ideas might lead and start following their trail in actual words and sentences, they actually take me somewhere. And it’s usually a place I enjoy going.

So, why am I sharing this? At the risk of being ridiculous, I have no idea. Call it a visual aid. It was one of those ideas that I decided to pursue, committing my fingers to the trusty laptop keyboard. Did it take me somewhere valuable? You tell me. Does it feel good to bang something out without thinking about its “postability?” Yes, it does. So, the fact that I’m along for the ride accomplishes my purpose.

EyeJunkie writing lesson of the week: Ideas are like topics of conversation, BlowPop flavors and underwear… when in doubt, just pick one and go with it.

Tues Twenty 030210: Books Redux

I’ve been thinking about books a lot lately. I just finished reading Just Kids by Patti Smith, a memoir of her life and friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe. What is it about books, whether mysteries or memoirs or monographs, that have such power to move me? Just Kids was at times poignant, at times an exercise in frustration, at times an obscure literary lesson and at times a huge 60s and 70s cocktail party. But, at the end, when the final scenes for Patti and Robert were played out before his death, I was moved to tears. It was such an unavoidable description of the realities of goodbye and hello and time spent and time lost and unexpected outcomes and enduring soul kinship. And, since I’m writing this to the backdrop of Little Drummer Boy and Baby Girl giggling and playing together, I’m realizing it was also a story of life lived and how it moves on. Quite a range of thinking from just 279 pages.

I’m not sure I have ever in my life been able to read words on a page without thinking about them. Yes, I sometimes realize at bedtime that I’ve reached the end of my 647th encounter with Corduroy or Harry the Dirty Dog or The Tale of Peter Rabbit without remembering the actual act of speaking the words. But, the first time I read them I thought about them. The first time I read them I engaged in some strange process of extracting personal reactions or obscure life lessons. Many of the books my children read are copies I had as a child myself. I’m sure my first time reading them as a parent produced different thoughts than my times reading them as a youngster. That’s just how it goes.

I’m in the midst of deciding on the next book to read and culling down a list of possibilities gleaned from way too much time spent with NPR email alerts and the New York Times Book Review. I don’t know why I always get indecisive with this process. It’s not like I can’t put a book down and pick up another one at my leisure. Sometimes the decision represents some tantalizing combination of being afraid a book won’t live up to its billing and of being afraid it will so surpass its billing that it will haunt me for months or years. Perhaps I’m overthinking. While I decide and reign myself in, I thought I’d offer up a Tuesday Twenty list of books I’d be delighted to RE-read. I just read an interview in the LA Times with John McPhee, the author and long-time columnist for The New Yorker. The article was about his upcoming book of personal essays (just another addition to the list of reading possibilities *sigh*), and in it, he offered some sage insight about being a reader, despite his ample experience being the writer in the equation. He observed that “the creative person in this process is the reader, by a long shot. The writer supplies three or four words, but the reader makes the picture.” These books have afforded me the opportunity to paint a unique picture on one or more occasions in my reading. And, I’m convinced another reading would give me an entirely new view. The power of a good book.

1. The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
Some folks tire of the intricate detail found in Edith Wharton’s work, but I really enjoy the description of New York society during the turn of the 20th Century. It’s a toss-up between this more popular novel and The House of Mirth. Both have such a wrenching view of women living outside the constraints of the trappings of that society.

2. Emma by Jane Austen
Fills my latent romantic tendencies. Downright funny at times, and there’s a happy ending!

3. Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons
The most poignant part in the first reading: Ellen thinks her last name is Foster because people always refer to her as “that Foster child.” Hers is a story of triumph and Kaye Gibbons’ Southern stream of consciousness is remarkable, if you like that sort of thing. I’d read any of her books again. Seriously.

4. Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier
Vermeer. Enough said. But, the fictional tale surrounding the moments captured in one of his most astounding works is bittersweet, eloquent and artistic.

5. Lucy Gayheart by Willa Cather
Years later, I’m still thinking about the bittersweet end of this beautiful novel about a woman who wants so much more than what the culture she lives in is willing to give her.

6. A Woman of Independent Means by Elizabeth Forsythe Bailey
Told entirely in letters, this story of a woman’s powerful spirit made me want to go out and buy stationery. The lost art of letters never looked so attractive.

7. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
I can’t tell you how many times I read this as a child. It still stirs me, both from the family story, the independence of “Jo” and my own memories of reading it.

8. 31 Hours by Masha Hamilton
Published just last year, I’m astounded by the restraint in this book, by the new perspective on terrorism, by the mother’s heart described, by the uncommon experiences found in the common subway.

9. Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder
Laura Ingalls was my best friend in elementary school. It would be good to see her again.

10. The Lively Art of Writing by Lucille Vaughan Payne
This little book was my 9th grade English textbook. Thank you, Mrs. Armstrong. I still use the principles today. And, I still choose when to lovingly ignore them.

11. Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino
I read this book way back in college, and I think explored the evolution of cities in a project centered on it. It is an amazing glimpse of the fragmented sociology of kingdoms told by a fictional Marco Polo. The young European explorer offers Kublai Khan, the aging asian emperor, tales of the cities throughout his empire. As it turns out, the stories all describe the same city — a lesson in points of view.

12. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
No elaboration required.

13. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt
An unforgettable non-fiction account of one reporter’s indoctrination into all things Southern and a beautiful and quirky account of the mystery and crazy culture of Savanah, GA. Best tombstone epitaph: a bench at the grave of Conrad Aiken is inscribed with “cosmos mariner, destination unknown.”

14. Night by Elie Wiesel
You may have seen the account of my first reading of this memoir. I still shrink back from the book, but crave the undeniable reality check on human nature it offers.

15. Creating a Beautiful Life by Alexandra Stoddard
Every time I look at this book, I’m encouraged to pay attention to the little things and value beauty in my life. Beauty, as I behold it, is important and it’s not that hard to achieve.

16. On the Occasion of My Last Afternoon by Kaye Gibbons
A very moving tale of a woman during the Civil War era. In my first reading, I was compelled to record Emma Garnett’s thoughts on seeing the jarring, but numbing realities of that war through photos, and how it would have been more powerful in paintings…

“If Monet or Manet or Toulouse-Lautrec had performed the scenes of battle, I might have been urged toward emotion, for the horror would have quivered on the surface of the page and beckoned my mind to follow attendant sensations deeper and deeper to the core, down into the true, wasted, stupid, futile blasphemy of that conflict.”

17. The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis
An example of C.S. Lewis’ creativity and a treatise on the nature of evil told from the perspective of a young devil in training.

18. The Divine Romance by Gene Edwards
A beautiful telling of the story of God–his creation, his work, his redemption–expressed as a love story. The very first page describes two essentials of God’s existence in the pre-dawn of creation. God was alone. And, God was love. A profound paradox of coexistence for both God and man — the lover without the loved.

18. My Mississippi by Willie Morris
Who can escape the words of Willie Morris. His thoughts about his (and my) home state are moving, steeped in memory and the fervor of the unique life here. His essay is accompanied by a collection of photos of the state taken by his son.

20. The Shipping News by Annie Proulx
The first descriptive word that came to mind when I read this book originally was “ethereal.” Its descriptions of characters and of the Newfoundland area were beautiful. The journey of a man coming to grips with his own history and finally learning to love was like a deep breath.

#300: The Story of Us

I’ve been thinking about stories. Every night I read them. Bug and Little Drummer Boy have their distinctive routines for getting in bed–their own special bed buddies, their own words they need to say to Mommy, their own way of wearing a blanket–and they always involve stories. Stories read and stories told. They would probably both read for hours or until their little eyelids gave way, but as the adult in the process, I usually set a few parameters. Bug reads two in the rocking chair by his bed and then gets in the crib for a backrub and a song. LDB reads one or two in the big red chair and then one in his bed before a backrub and a song. Mommy carries the veto power over whether we read short or long stories–and how many of their own stories they can tell–depending on how much time we have. I must admit that the system is a little fluid.

It’s funny reading stories with my children. Baby Girl’s version is a quick rampage through her little bookshelf. Every now and then she brings one to the window seat to discuss in her special Baby Girl language, but quickly tires of the details. Bug has finally moved past the rampage process and prefers to be in total control of the story experience, pointing out which words to read on each page. It makes for a disfunctional tale, but he seems to like it. Little Drummer Boy often ponders each page, asking questions and drawing conclusions about the characters at every turn. I’m always amazed at how they each become a part of every story they “read.” Each story is a story of us or of their day at school or of their favorite toy of the moment.

Me? I find myself focused at the beginning and end of the story, daydreaming through the pages. I coerce them into choosing a book to start. I rush them through closing the book and climbing in bed. In between, I often realize I’ve been thinking of something altogether different as I recite the words I’ve come to memorize.

I’ve been reminded over the past few weeks of the sheer generosity and courage found in telling stories–the stories at the heart of people. And, sadly, how quick I am to daydream through the pages, focused on the easier to mark signposts of start and finish, and assuming everything else in between. It’s so easy to impatiently want to skip to the end rather than endure the personal commitment of absorbing that daily, hard-revealed narrative. I’ve been amazed and grateful for the unselfish generosity of spirit revealed in the single pages of an individual’s story that has been freely laid open. And how much that generosity opens me to experience that story as my own–the story of us, not them.

This post is #300 in this little EyeJunkie storytelling experiment. The experiment represents the day to day pages of eighteen months and counting. It’s a humbling experience to see some of the connections that have been made through simple reading and writing, well-chosen and haphazard words. The stories start living. They breathe with the life of hardships and friendships and love and connections and disappointments and so many other things.

As I’ve been thinking through the direction of future posts, I’ve started to realize that stories need a storyteller so that those tales–of children and parents, hungry and thirsty, free and chained, crooked and straight–become the story of us. Not me. Not them. I want to be sure my attention in this endeavor is refocused on that generous act. I’ll try my best.

Searching My Junkie Soul

I received a great compliment this week. At least EyeJunkie did. Super Facebook Guy struck again and delivered a request by an old friend from my Architecture school days. Not unlike catching up in person, Facebook befriending often involves a series of messages or wall posts aimed at determining “where have you been, what have you done and are you still the same as the last time I saw you?” In this case, that was almost 20 years ago. Naturally, the virtual conversation involved our families, our work, where old mutual acquaintances are and in this case, a quick browse of EyeJunkie.com.

After a look through the blog, my re-aquaintance wrote a lovely email to let me know he enjoyed it. His words spoke to some soul searching I’ve been doing about the direction of my writing…

“It really crackles with life.”

Wow! Now that’s high praise. Over the last few months I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the best ways to spend my writing time and what I really want EyeJunkie to be. As I shared with you recently, with three preschoolers to chase, free time is a coveted commodity around the Junkie parts. Since some of that time is devoted to writing, I want to make it count. I want the energy and time I devote to this creative pursuit to result in something that fulfills me. So, I’ve been determining the directions in which I’d like to focus.

One of the continual questions I explore in my thinking about EyeJunkie is its theme–namely whether it needs one that is more specifically defined. When I read other blogs out there, I find they are often centered around a specific topic, whether it’s parenting, spiritual pursuits, good design, marketing, politics–all themes I enjoy. But, I really don’t want the creative limitations of focusing on just one of those ideas. When I read the stories of successful blogs, I wonder if it’s even possible to honor my readers, to give them something worth a regular invasion of their collective cyber space without developing a consistent theme.

I do lots of brainstorming about countless ideas for both work and writing, and my notes on this blog center around finding my true heart for the character of the body of work. There is one thing I know for sure. I certainly won’t honor my readers and provide a worthy outlet for their attention if this endeavor isn’t authentic. If it isn’t authentic to me and where I am, the writing will be without passion. When I write notes to qualify EyeJunkie, these are the words that repeatedly find their way to the page:

beautiful, honest, creative, fresh

I want EyeJunkie to reflect life. To hear a first impression that the presentation “crackles with life” was a well-needed moment of affirmation and an encouragement to pursue it in all its rich pageant. Above all, I want this blog to reflect life. It most readily falls into the “personal blog” genre, the hallmark of which is that it’s about MY life. But, in reality, my life isn’t all that different from a thousand lives. Yes, my family is one of individuals, my interests are mine, my juggles and struggles have unique details. But, the greater issues are shared by most people and families. My pursuit is to make my moments count, even if only by living each one completely regardless of its mundane or profound characteristics. To that end, I simply cannot sustain a thematic approach–at least not with authentic passion. Life isn’t always thematic. Life is interrupted. Life is multifaceted. Life is overlapping. It isn’t easily compartmentalized. BUT, life has goals. It has values and overarching commitments and priorities that are applicable to and reflected in all its interruptions and facets.

For EyeJunkie, one of those goals is an uncontrived pursuit of paying attention. Highlights from my belief that there isn’t much that’s incidental, not much that’s insignificant. The powerful and profound can be found in almost everything, and joy and contentment are soon to follow from a life lived with intention.

It would be tempting to cater my thoughts and themes to what readers might expect, to let that be the driving force. But realistically, I don’t thing that would lead to much satisfaction for me as a writer. And, I don’t think it would generate much of the quality that’s worthy of your attention either. I hope you’ll stay with me as I explore some of my brainstormed ideas over the next few months, and I hope you’ll find some of your own life in the haphazard “crackling” glimpses of mine.

[A special thank you to M.F. for your generous observations.]