I am a mother of a 19- year- old son whom I love fiercely. From the first moment I held him in my arms, I knew that my only job on this earth was to protect him and make sure that he grew to be the type of man that his father and I knew he could be. As he matured, I watched as society tried to set limits for him. Once in middle school, during a parent-teacher conference, the arrogant young teacher told me that she had high expectations. I had to explain to her, in no uncertain terms, that whatever her expectations were, they were no where near the ones I had for my son.
Every time he and his friends get in the car and drive away, I pray that every person who deals with them sees them as young black men with bright futures and not just some black boys in hoodies.
To some, my son, Matt is a big black man standing at 6'2" and 205 lbs, but to me he is my baby. Just, as I'm sure, Trayvon was his mother's baby.
Like many of you, when I learned the details of the Trayvon Martin case here in Sanford, literally my own backyard, my heart broke because I felt for that mother and for every black mother who has had her hopes and dreams buried along with her son's body. We love our daughters, but our sons are precious, too, because it is through them our story continues. Daughters have a way of marrying and assimilating into their husband's families, but it is our sons who continue the destiny in addition to carrying the name.
There are many places where I am supposed to be tomorrow afternoon, but I feel compelled to be in Sanford. I, along with so many other mothers, need to know why our son Trayvon Martin was brutally gunned down on his way home carrying only Skittles and an iced tea. More importantly, however, we need to know how his death is not considered a homicide in Florida.
My son Matt and I talk about everything and thankfully he feels comfortable confiding in me. When we last spoke, we discussed the Trayvon case and my son said, "Mom, isn't it funny that the black man is one of the most despised things in America, but the most often duplicated?" He went on to say that others try to imitate the way the black man walks, talks, dresses, etc. but he is still considered to be less than.
My Matt will be home from college on Spring Break next week and I will have the luxury of hugging and kissing him. A luxury that Trayvon Martin's mother will never have again. Although I will be happy to see him, it will be bittersweet because I know that he will not be able to stay in my sight forever. He will want to go and hang out with his friends dressed in jeans and his favorite hoodie. I can no longer protect him as he moves about in the world. I can only pray that he be protected.
It is not much, but it is all I have.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Only Way Out is Through
Sometimes bad things happen:
People we love get sick and die; people break the promises they’ve made to us; our dreams get deferred, and all too often people who we trust betray us.
People we love get sick and die; people break the promises they’ve made to us; our dreams get deferred, and all too often people who we trust betray us.
When we are going through these things- in the midst of our despair- the first, probably most natural reaction , is to flail. To kick our legs about wildly and to scream. To try desperately to escape the agony which surely feels like it will be the death of us.
During these times we panic and don’t take a true assessment of the situation. We go into full survival mode.
When I was a small child, my mother and I were at a wedding reception at the clubhouse of an apartment complex in Indianapolis . The other kids and I had grown bored so we decided to go outside and play by the pool. Since some of my cousins were teenagers the adults didn’t hesitate to let us smaller kids tag along as long as the big kids promised to watch us.
A group of us were running around and one of my male cousins, who was a year younger than me but much larger, thought it would be funny to push me into the pool. Either he assumed that I knew how to swim or in his immaturity he just didn’t think it all the way through.
People say that when you’re dying your life flashes before your eyes. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I do know that everything seemed to be happening in slow motion and even to this day I can vividly remember the details of those moments as if they were time-lapse photographs showing each action moment by moment.
What I remember most vividly was thrashing about desperately in a vain attempt to get my head above water. My legs, though long, were not quite long enough to reach the bottom of the pool and I kicked frantically hoping that I would be able stand on my tiptoes and crane my head up toward the blue sky. I had never thought about the air I breathed before, but as I gasped for it, I realized how beautiful it was and how much I had taken it for granted.
When one of the older cousins realized what was going on, he threw in a life preserver, but in my panic I accidently pushed it away. Had I calmed down I would have been able to hold on to the buoy and he could have dragged me over to the side of the pool. Finally my cousin tore off his suit jacket and jumped into the pool fully clothed. It was necessary for him to wrap his arm around me from the back or I would have hurt him in my attempt to save myself.
Later when I was in flight attendant school and we learned water drills. Since I worked for Eastern Airlines and was based out of Miami a possible crash in the Everglades was always a possibility. At any rate, I was instructed that in the event of an emergency landing, I was to always subdue the person first and if that didn’t work to basically put them in a headlock so they wouldn’t knock me out as I attempted to save their life.
It’s interesting how that happens in real life. When we are going through something we sometimes hurt those very people who are trying to save us. We are so desperate to get our head above water that we lash out, often striking and sometimes hurting those who love us most.
There is an expression that hurting people hurt people and it’s true. In my novel The Other Side of Through the readers see it with Edgar who is hurting from his own abusive childhood and hurts his wife Claire and later their daughter Jessie. We see it also in Claire who is trying so desperately to hold it together that she hurts Edgar, Daphne and unintentionally Jessie. And of course Jessie hurts David, Marcus and potentially Shayla should the story continue.
It seems the older I get the more the wisdom of my older relatives speaks to me. Growing up I often heard that the only way out is through. Had I not gone through the ordeal of nearly drowning I probably would never have learned to swim which would have kept me from water and prevented me from having some of the experiences I’ve had. For one I probably would have never moved to Florida-too much water-no one ever said fear was rational. I also wouldn’t have been adamant about my children learning to swim and I don’t dare think about what could have happened if they hadn’t learned at an early age.
Those first days at the YMCA learning to swim were not easy. I was afraid but I had to keep pushing.
The only way out is through because on the other side there is freedom. Not
necessarily in a physical sense, although some may infer that, and not just in a physical sense, though that’s true too.
That’s what the old woman in the woods was trying to explain to Jessie. Push, baby, push! Push even when it hurts and it seems easier just to give up because it hurts too much.
There’s a story that you may have heard before. It’s about a man who prayed to God because he wanted to be closer to Him. God spoke to the man and said “See that enormous boulder over there? I want you to push it.” The man was so excited that he had gotten a word from God that he immediately went out and began pushing. He really put his back into it and used all of his physical strength to try to move that huge boulder. Hours went by and sweat was dripping from his face. His body ached from the strain but he didn’t give up. Hours passed and then weeks. Still no progress. Before he knew it years had passed and finally after ten whole years he cried out to God: “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making me suffer Lord? For ten whole years I’ve been pushing that boulder like you told me to and it still hasn’t moved.”
The man heard a gentle voice that said “I told you to push it. I didn’t ask you to move it. Moving it is my job! But look at yourself now. Notice how beautiful your body has become. Look at how strong you are today as a result of pushing. You were so weak ten years ago but look at what you’ve now become.
Like that man, like the characters in my novel, we all face boulders in life. The boulder may be regret, fear, anger, doubt, jealousy or temptation but to get to the place where we need to be we have to push. We have to push through to the other side.
People ask me all the time what is my novel about and that’s it: I think it’s really about pushing through no matter how badly we want to give up There’s another expression that I heard the old folks use and that’s “I’m through” as they would throw their hands up in surrender. Unfortunately they were sometimes doing that in response to something outrageous I had done.
But like the man with the boulder and me in the water once we surrendered and accepted help and the reality of the situation-not as a punishment but a lesson- there is an understanding that the process of struggling is necessary to get to the product of who we are supposed to be.
It’s all necessary because the only way out is through.
Not long ago I was talking to a friend who told me about some one of the horrible things he had experienced in his life. When I asked him how he had managed to keep on going when most people would have given up because the odds were stacked against him. He said that he realized that those negative events were commas and not periods.
As a writer and a teacher of English, that really resonated in my spirit. Commas. Not periods. Commas you see are a place to pause and then you continue on with the rest of the story. In life those setbacks, those commas, are places for us to reassess what we are pushing for.
The writing process is very lonely. We writers spend hours sitting alone at a computer screen or with a pen and pad of paper pouring our souls onto the page. Never knowing if this painful work will produce something beautiful, but we keep pushing.
There are so many times when we want to give up. Nathaniel Hawthorne said easy reading is damn hard writing and anyone who claims otherwise is a liar. Writing is hardwork because it comes from a place deep inside of us. I know I agonize over every word hoping that I’m saying exactly what it is I mean to say and I grow frustrated because my medium is words. My mother is an artist and she has the luxury of choosing between oils or watercolors. I just have words and words can only do so much. But I keep pushing. Every discarded draft ultimately brought me to this place.
And to hear people tell me that Claire’s story, Jessie’s story, Edgar’s story, David’s story and Marcus’s story helped them push through to the other side has been worth it.
Thank you
Sunday, March 4, 2012
The Need to Disconnect In Order to Connect
When we whittle it all down to the very core of each of us, it all becomes very simple. We want to be loved. Somewhere along this path we call life we've learned to become defensive and fearful. Instead of walking with our arms reaching outward in order to embrace all that life has to offer, we fold our arms across our chests to protect where we are most vulnerable-our hearts. We've become so afraid that we no longer talk to each other. It's easier to hide behind the latest technology. We ask ourselves: How many friends do I have on Facebook? What's their status update? Who's tweeting? Who's currently trending? Because we are often too afraid to ask the hard questions about what really matters in our lives.
It's much easier to disconnect with the illusion of being connected. Human interaction is messy when we have to move from behind the gadgets and look into the eyes of another human being. it forces us to be In the moment and to focus fully on the person who is in front of us. Not only do we have to answer the questions they may ask. We also are often forced to face the questions we've been too afraid to ask ourselves: Am I happy? Is this all there is to life? Is God what I imagine? Have I found my purpose?
We are all so desperate for love that we pretend that we no longer need it. Instead we focus on things that really don't matter at all because those things are safe. There's no threat of getting hurt. We pretend that we want everything but what we most crave. We fill our days with activities to keep us busy. To fill the void of longing that exists deep within each of us. We spend our lives like runners on a treadmill. Constantly running, faster and faster, but never getting anywhere. We've mistaken movement for progress. When we exhaust ourselves and want off, the world may not understand why we would choose serenity over madness. After all, the movement and speed is exhilarating. At least that is what we tell ourselves.
But it's not just the world that pushes each of us into this hyper active mode. Often we are frantically serving God. So busy moving from this service to that meeting that we fail to hear that still, small voice that beckons us "Come away my beloved. Spend a moment with me."
The paradox of fearing what we need most -connection with another human being- keeps us disconnected. We are often so afraid of being hurt, misunderstood or rejected we don't reach out for that touch from another person. We pretend to be cool, unaffected, unfazed. When really what we want is someone to sit in silence with us holding tightly to our hand. Someone to give us a hug when nothing seems to be going our way, or someone who looks into our eye and truly sees who we are. Not who we pretend to be.
There is not one of us, no matter how tough we may act, who does not want to be loved. Of course we want to be loved by mankind, but we also want to know that there is something bigger than us that loves us in spite of our unloveliness. After all we see ourselves in the mirror everyday and we know our flaws and inadequacies. We know what's really behind the facade we put on for others. What terrifies us more than anything is the idea that we haven't fooled God and are, therefore, unlovable.
It's all just a vicious cycle really. The busier we keep ourselves the less likely we are to hear the whispering in our soul that tells us who we are and why we are. We crowd out the words of love with music (sometimes praise music), TV, anything that will fill up the silence because we are afraid of the silence. Because it is in that silence where we will get the answers to the questions we most want answered. Oh, but we are so afraid.
It's much easier to disconnect with the illusion of being connected. Human interaction is messy when we have to move from behind the gadgets and look into the eyes of another human being. it forces us to be In the moment and to focus fully on the person who is in front of us. Not only do we have to answer the questions they may ask. We also are often forced to face the questions we've been too afraid to ask ourselves: Am I happy? Is this all there is to life? Is God what I imagine? Have I found my purpose?
We are all so desperate for love that we pretend that we no longer need it. Instead we focus on things that really don't matter at all because those things are safe. There's no threat of getting hurt. We pretend that we want everything but what we most crave. We fill our days with activities to keep us busy. To fill the void of longing that exists deep within each of us. We spend our lives like runners on a treadmill. Constantly running, faster and faster, but never getting anywhere. We've mistaken movement for progress. When we exhaust ourselves and want off, the world may not understand why we would choose serenity over madness. After all, the movement and speed is exhilarating. At least that is what we tell ourselves.
But it's not just the world that pushes each of us into this hyper active mode. Often we are frantically serving God. So busy moving from this service to that meeting that we fail to hear that still, small voice that beckons us "Come away my beloved. Spend a moment with me."
The paradox of fearing what we need most -connection with another human being- keeps us disconnected. We are often so afraid of being hurt, misunderstood or rejected we don't reach out for that touch from another person. We pretend to be cool, unaffected, unfazed. When really what we want is someone to sit in silence with us holding tightly to our hand. Someone to give us a hug when nothing seems to be going our way, or someone who looks into our eye and truly sees who we are. Not who we pretend to be.
There is not one of us, no matter how tough we may act, who does not want to be loved. Of course we want to be loved by mankind, but we also want to know that there is something bigger than us that loves us in spite of our unloveliness. After all we see ourselves in the mirror everyday and we know our flaws and inadequacies. We know what's really behind the facade we put on for others. What terrifies us more than anything is the idea that we haven't fooled God and are, therefore, unlovable.
It's all just a vicious cycle really. The busier we keep ourselves the less likely we are to hear the whispering in our soul that tells us who we are and why we are. We crowd out the words of love with music (sometimes praise music), TV, anything that will fill up the silence because we are afraid of the silence. Because it is in that silence where we will get the answers to the questions we most want answered. Oh, but we are so afraid.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Sometimes There Are No Second Chances: Trying to Make Sense of Whitney Houston's Death
This weekend I traveled to New York for a belated 16th birthday present to my daughter, Lyndsay. Since we were meeting up with friends, it was more convenient to fly into and out of the Newark airport and take the shuttle to and from the city and it was not lost on me that I was in Whitney Houston's hometown. On our return trip we spent hours in the airport due to a maintenance delay and by the time we arrived in Orlando hours after we were supposed to, I was tired, hungry and ready to go to bed.
Lyndsay is a practical joker, and she had spent the weekend doing and saying things that I knew were not true in order to get a reaction out of me. So I thought she was at it again when she looked up from her cell phone and said, “Mom, Whitney Houston' s dead!” It wasn’t until I turned on the radio in my car that I realized the horrible truth because the station was playing one Whitney hit after another.
I sat in the car in disbelief not wanting to believe that she was gone. As I listened to the musical tribute, I realized that, like Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston’s music has been a soundtrack to my life. It was her music that was playing in the background as Mia, my best friend in high school, and I got dressed to go out for the night. And it was Whitney Houston's voice that sang me to sleep the night my first grown up love broke my heart and I realized he was not who he said he was. There's no arguing that her voice was perfect and she was more talented than any of the singers that came before, or even after her, but it was her ability to put into melody exactly what I was feeling that made me believe that I knew her and that she, somehow, was there for all of my triumphs and disappointments.
I was working in the mall at Camelot Records the first time I heard her voice, but that wasn't when I began loving her. It was when I saw her on the cover of Seventeen Magazine that I realized that she was something special. All through my teenage years I read Seventeen Magazine but I never saw myself reflected on the cover until that day. Seeing her face made me feel that I was possible.
I got busy with life and forgot about Whitney until I saw her on the big screen as Savannah in Waiting to Exhale. Watching Whitney's character and her three girlfriends experience life's highs and lows was transformational. I can't even put it into words what it meant to me.
Several years ago my step-daughter Tai and Lyndsay would watch Whitney and Bobby's show and talk about all of the crazy things that would happen on each episode, but I refused to watch. I just could not stand to see her in any light other than a flattering one. There were times when I heard her singing on television programs when I knew that she didn't sound as good as she used to, but I refused to accept it. I thought that she would be restored to her former glory. I thought she was going to get a second chance, but I guess sometimes in life there just aren't any second chances. Maybe that's what makes me so sad about her death. After all she wasn't a family member or a friend. I didn't know the intimate details of her life and I never saw her in person. She was just a celebrity on a stage and on TV. A beautiful woman on the pages of my favorite magazines, but I was rooting for her all along. I wanted Whitney to have a testimony. I honestly thought she was going to make a comeback.
Whitney Houston was my Phoenix. I thought she would rise from the ashes of her life. I feel sad and cheated because it wasn't supposed to end like this. Where is the happy ending?
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Goodbye Granddaddy: In memory of Joe R. Dixon March 1, 1922-January 21, 2012
Yesterday my grandfather died and although I am sad because I will no longer hear his voice again or be able to spend time with him, I am grateful for every moment that we shared and all of the lessons he taught me. I have written previously about the role he played in my life, but there are not enough words to express what he meant to me. Although grandfathers are important, he was much more than that to me. From my birth, he was my father figure. He provided for me, loved me unconditionally, taught me right from wrong, and lay the foundation for my belief in Christ.
When he was alive, he liked to tell the story of the time he stopped by my new pre-school to make sure I was getting along okay in this foreign environment. The story goes that I was kicking dirt on the playground until I saw him standing at the fence looking at me. I immediately began crying and throwing a temper tantrum until he had to sign me out of school and take me with him. What's funny about this story is that he wanted to take me with him and secretly hoped that I wouldn't be happy there. The story continues that for the rest of the day Granddaddy and I went to the mall and ate soft serve ice cream and people watched (as we often did) until it was time to go home for dinner.
I guess the reason this story is so special for me is because I've always known that he was standing "over there" watching me live my life, but the minute I needed him he would be there to make things right again. There's also another story that doesn't involve me directly, but involves my aunt who is just a few years older than I am. She had been bused to an all white elementary school and on the first day of class she recalls looking out the window at my granddaddy who was following closely behind the school bus in his pick-up truck. Only later did we learn that my grandfather had a shot gun on the seat next to him and he had been ready to use and suffer the consequences had anyone tried to cause harm to one of his baby girls.
That was my grandfather, the protector and the provider. He made sure that his family had food and shelter and plenty of love. His generosity extended beyond his immediate family as well. If he knew or even suspected that you had a need, he would take care of it without expecting anything in return.
Not only did my grandfather give material things, but he also shared the most important gift of all. A gift that would last for all of eternity. There was not one conversation that I can recall ever having with my grandfather where he did not share Jesus. Regardless of the topic of conversation, Granddaddy would find a way to share the message of Jesus's love, grace, and mercy. Once when he was here in Florida and had to be hospitalized, he shared a room with an elderly white man who was a retired college administrator. After my grandfather was released, I received a phone call from this man to find out how my grandfather was doing. Before the man hung up the phone, he told me that my grandfather had reminded him about Jesus and what eternity with Him would be like. I don't know if this man knew Jesus before or if he is even living now, but I do know that my grandfather made an impact on him and could possibly have changed the rest of his life. These men were from two walks of life and they easily could have ignored each other as they lay in their hospital beds. They were both born during a Jim Crow America, one was highly educated while the other was not. One used his brain to provide for his family and the other his back, but they used love and Jesus as a common denominator to build a friendship.
My grandfather knew no strangers and he loved everyone he met.
He loved his country and served during World War II. He fought for a country that did not regard him as a man. He held his shoulders back and his chin up and demanded not to be any body's "boy" or "nigger." He was not political, but he followed current events and could weigh in on what was happening around the world. On election day when Barrack Obama's name was on the ballot, my grandfather stood up from his wheel chair and marked his ballot. When he was asked why he didn't want to be in the chair, he said "I want to stand as a black man to cast my vote for another black man."
My grandfather was my hero. Yes, he had clay feet and he made mistakes in life, as we all do, but he taught me about God's grace and mercy and my grandfather always did right by me. I will miss my grandfather for the rest of my life here on earth, but I know that he is in the next life waiting for me with a soft serve ice cream cone in hand.
When he was alive, he liked to tell the story of the time he stopped by my new pre-school to make sure I was getting along okay in this foreign environment. The story goes that I was kicking dirt on the playground until I saw him standing at the fence looking at me. I immediately began crying and throwing a temper tantrum until he had to sign me out of school and take me with him. What's funny about this story is that he wanted to take me with him and secretly hoped that I wouldn't be happy there. The story continues that for the rest of the day Granddaddy and I went to the mall and ate soft serve ice cream and people watched (as we often did) until it was time to go home for dinner.
I guess the reason this story is so special for me is because I've always known that he was standing "over there" watching me live my life, but the minute I needed him he would be there to make things right again. There's also another story that doesn't involve me directly, but involves my aunt who is just a few years older than I am. She had been bused to an all white elementary school and on the first day of class she recalls looking out the window at my granddaddy who was following closely behind the school bus in his pick-up truck. Only later did we learn that my grandfather had a shot gun on the seat next to him and he had been ready to use and suffer the consequences had anyone tried to cause harm to one of his baby girls.
That was my grandfather, the protector and the provider. He made sure that his family had food and shelter and plenty of love. His generosity extended beyond his immediate family as well. If he knew or even suspected that you had a need, he would take care of it without expecting anything in return.
Not only did my grandfather give material things, but he also shared the most important gift of all. A gift that would last for all of eternity. There was not one conversation that I can recall ever having with my grandfather where he did not share Jesus. Regardless of the topic of conversation, Granddaddy would find a way to share the message of Jesus's love, grace, and mercy. Once when he was here in Florida and had to be hospitalized, he shared a room with an elderly white man who was a retired college administrator. After my grandfather was released, I received a phone call from this man to find out how my grandfather was doing. Before the man hung up the phone, he told me that my grandfather had reminded him about Jesus and what eternity with Him would be like. I don't know if this man knew Jesus before or if he is even living now, but I do know that my grandfather made an impact on him and could possibly have changed the rest of his life. These men were from two walks of life and they easily could have ignored each other as they lay in their hospital beds. They were both born during a Jim Crow America, one was highly educated while the other was not. One used his brain to provide for his family and the other his back, but they used love and Jesus as a common denominator to build a friendship.
My grandfather knew no strangers and he loved everyone he met.
He loved his country and served during World War II. He fought for a country that did not regard him as a man. He held his shoulders back and his chin up and demanded not to be any body's "boy" or "nigger." He was not political, but he followed current events and could weigh in on what was happening around the world. On election day when Barrack Obama's name was on the ballot, my grandfather stood up from his wheel chair and marked his ballot. When he was asked why he didn't want to be in the chair, he said "I want to stand as a black man to cast my vote for another black man."
My grandfather was my hero. Yes, he had clay feet and he made mistakes in life, as we all do, but he taught me about God's grace and mercy and my grandfather always did right by me. I will miss my grandfather for the rest of my life here on earth, but I know that he is in the next life waiting for me with a soft serve ice cream cone in hand.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Why I Write
Today in class I told students that I would answer any question they posed to me. I instructed them to write their question on a piece of scrap paper and then fold it in half before handing it in anonymously. During the last few moments of class, I read through each of the questions and gave an immediate response without filtering my answer or trying to project a professional image. Of course many of the questions were related to the course: How do I get an A? or related to something that I had stated prevously.
However, some of the questions were personal: What's your favorite color? (Green) and Which writer do you most admire? (Toni Morrison). There was one question, though, that really made me stop and think and that question was Why do you write? Yes, it would have been easy to give a quick response but this question, in my opinion, deserved reflection, so here is my answer:
I write because I understand the power of a single voice. I have witnessed how people have tried to silence me and others with their good (and sometimes not so good) intentions. I have heard comments like: Don't question or Good girls don't talk about that! yet I still had questions and there were things I wanted to talk about and I knew that I wasn't alone, so I wrote to ask the questions that I needed answers to and to begin the dialogue that I needed so deperately to be a part of.
A good story can be a catalyst for personal or societal change. There were times when I finished reading a poem, short story, novel or play and it made me have a better understanding of something or of myself and made me want to change. I write thinking that maybe there will be one idea in my writing that will make a reader think differently about something or feel affirmed about something else.
Years ago when I was a student, I actually believed it when my teachers told me that the pen was mightier than the sword and that words are indeed powerful. I had the audacity to think that I could make a small ripple in our world by sharing my ideas in writing.
As a child I wrote because there were things happening in my world that I couldn't explain, so I put pen to paper and poured out my heart. For years I kept diaries and then journals and I hid them away so that no one would know what I was thinking deep down inside. As I got older, I realized that I had the right to feel anyway that I wanted to feel and if someone didn't agree with me it didn't mean that I was necessarily the one who was wrong.
Even now I sometimes write to process my emotions because they are too strong and too powerful to express in words because when I speak the words may come tumbling out of my mouth without my having an opportunity to revise or amend. When I write my feelings down, I can read over what I've written and decide if I need to add or delete any part of my message. Maybe it's a cowards way out, but I've seen how harmful unwieldy words can be. People have always said that sticks and stones can break bones but words can never hurt, but they lied because words have the power to kill. A word said carelessly can kill a dream, a spirit or a relationship.
So I write to find the truth in a situation and sometimes I write just to find my truth.
It may sound dramatic, but I write to stay alive. If I did not have a way to express what I was feeling or to question those things I had doubts about, I would die. Perhaps not a physical death, but a slow draining of my creative life force. I feel like I would become just a shell of who I was created to be.
Not all of my writing is public, nor should it be. A great deal of my writing is between the pages of my journal and there are other things that I've written that I may share with readers in time, but I don't write to get published. I write to somehow make it right.
However, some of the questions were personal: What's your favorite color? (Green) and Which writer do you most admire? (Toni Morrison). There was one question, though, that really made me stop and think and that question was Why do you write? Yes, it would have been easy to give a quick response but this question, in my opinion, deserved reflection, so here is my answer:
I write because I understand the power of a single voice. I have witnessed how people have tried to silence me and others with their good (and sometimes not so good) intentions. I have heard comments like: Don't question or Good girls don't talk about that! yet I still had questions and there were things I wanted to talk about and I knew that I wasn't alone, so I wrote to ask the questions that I needed answers to and to begin the dialogue that I needed so deperately to be a part of.
A good story can be a catalyst for personal or societal change. There were times when I finished reading a poem, short story, novel or play and it made me have a better understanding of something or of myself and made me want to change. I write thinking that maybe there will be one idea in my writing that will make a reader think differently about something or feel affirmed about something else.
Years ago when I was a student, I actually believed it when my teachers told me that the pen was mightier than the sword and that words are indeed powerful. I had the audacity to think that I could make a small ripple in our world by sharing my ideas in writing.
As a child I wrote because there were things happening in my world that I couldn't explain, so I put pen to paper and poured out my heart. For years I kept diaries and then journals and I hid them away so that no one would know what I was thinking deep down inside. As I got older, I realized that I had the right to feel anyway that I wanted to feel and if someone didn't agree with me it didn't mean that I was necessarily the one who was wrong.
Even now I sometimes write to process my emotions because they are too strong and too powerful to express in words because when I speak the words may come tumbling out of my mouth without my having an opportunity to revise or amend. When I write my feelings down, I can read over what I've written and decide if I need to add or delete any part of my message. Maybe it's a cowards way out, but I've seen how harmful unwieldy words can be. People have always said that sticks and stones can break bones but words can never hurt, but they lied because words have the power to kill. A word said carelessly can kill a dream, a spirit or a relationship.
So I write to find the truth in a situation and sometimes I write just to find my truth.
It may sound dramatic, but I write to stay alive. If I did not have a way to express what I was feeling or to question those things I had doubts about, I would die. Perhaps not a physical death, but a slow draining of my creative life force. I feel like I would become just a shell of who I was created to be.
Not all of my writing is public, nor should it be. A great deal of my writing is between the pages of my journal and there are other things that I've written that I may share with readers in time, but I don't write to get published. I write to somehow make it right.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Finding the Emotional Truth
I have received so many emails, text messages and Facebook posts from readers who've said that the reason they connected with The Other Side of Through was because it was so real. At first I wasn't sure what was meant by these comments and then I realized that what was being said is that the novel openly discusses topics that many find taboo, such as infidelity, abuse, unforgiveness and church hurt. Those readers who know me personally seemed to be surprised that I spoke with such candor about things that I wouldn't necessarily discuss in everyday conversation.
Although I am not timid or bashful by any means, I am somewhat reserved and am definitely a private person, so people, especially students, were very surprised when they read my novel because they couldn't believe Dr. Thompson wrote THAT!!! Many people want to assume that Jessie is my alter ego or that I am dissatisfied with my own life and marriage, but that's not true. What is true is the lesson that I try to teach all of my students when we discuss writing fiction: Find the Emotional Truth.
I've always felt that writer Anais Nin was on the right track when she said that "the role of the writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." What I mean is that the best writing, at least to me, is writing that says what we are all feeling, but may be unable or unwilling to say.
When we begin to identify the emotional truth of a situation, we learn that everyone basically feels the same emotions, but may have different life experiences that trigger them; therefore, it's important that as writers we learn to really feel those emotions so that we can describe them to ourselves and to others. I tell my writing students that it really doesn't matter whether or not they have ever experienced what it is they are writing about. What is important is that they find the emotion that is true for that situation and write from that perspective. For example, a writer could be working on a story about a man who has recently become a widower. This character may have lost his wife suddenly and is now having to readjust to being alone. It doesn't matter if the writer has ever actually had the experience and it doesn't even matter if the writer is male or married. What does matter is that the writer has felt whatever the core emotions are and in this case it's probably fear and regret.
In my writing workshop I would encourage my students to journal about what it feels like to be afraid. Afraid that no one will ever love them again or that the love they've experienced once in life may be all there is and that they will never get a second chance at happiness. Then I would ask them to journal about not being able to say goodbye to a loved one and what that would feel like. I would encourage them to remember a time when they didn't get a chance to say goodbye and what they wished they could have said. Next, I would probably ask them to reflect on losing pet or a loved one and then we would take all of those raw emotions and project them onto our character, the widower.
If you are thinking about writing seriously, then that's what I encourage you to do this week. Take a moment to think about the emotions you've experienced in life: love, anger, betrayal, faith, joy-whatever comes to mind. Spend some time writing about these emotions without censoring yourself. Be completely honest without fear of what others would think or say about what you are feeling. Just write what YOU feel, not what others told you you should be feeling.The second part of this exercise is to apply it to your genre. So if you're writing poetry use the words that really capture the essence of that feeling. If you're writing a memoir, then use description so your readers feel those emotions, and if you are writing fiction apply those feelings to the character you've created.
Let me know what you think after you've tried this writing task and please keep those questions coming.
Happy Writing!
Michelle Donice
Although I am not timid or bashful by any means, I am somewhat reserved and am definitely a private person, so people, especially students, were very surprised when they read my novel because they couldn't believe Dr. Thompson wrote THAT!!! Many people want to assume that Jessie is my alter ego or that I am dissatisfied with my own life and marriage, but that's not true. What is true is the lesson that I try to teach all of my students when we discuss writing fiction: Find the Emotional Truth.
I've always felt that writer Anais Nin was on the right track when she said that "the role of the writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." What I mean is that the best writing, at least to me, is writing that says what we are all feeling, but may be unable or unwilling to say.
When we begin to identify the emotional truth of a situation, we learn that everyone basically feels the same emotions, but may have different life experiences that trigger them; therefore, it's important that as writers we learn to really feel those emotions so that we can describe them to ourselves and to others. I tell my writing students that it really doesn't matter whether or not they have ever experienced what it is they are writing about. What is important is that they find the emotion that is true for that situation and write from that perspective. For example, a writer could be working on a story about a man who has recently become a widower. This character may have lost his wife suddenly and is now having to readjust to being alone. It doesn't matter if the writer has ever actually had the experience and it doesn't even matter if the writer is male or married. What does matter is that the writer has felt whatever the core emotions are and in this case it's probably fear and regret.
In my writing workshop I would encourage my students to journal about what it feels like to be afraid. Afraid that no one will ever love them again or that the love they've experienced once in life may be all there is and that they will never get a second chance at happiness. Then I would ask them to journal about not being able to say goodbye to a loved one and what that would feel like. I would encourage them to remember a time when they didn't get a chance to say goodbye and what they wished they could have said. Next, I would probably ask them to reflect on losing pet or a loved one and then we would take all of those raw emotions and project them onto our character, the widower.
If you are thinking about writing seriously, then that's what I encourage you to do this week. Take a moment to think about the emotions you've experienced in life: love, anger, betrayal, faith, joy-whatever comes to mind. Spend some time writing about these emotions without censoring yourself. Be completely honest without fear of what others would think or say about what you are feeling. Just write what YOU feel, not what others told you you should be feeling.The second part of this exercise is to apply it to your genre. So if you're writing poetry use the words that really capture the essence of that feeling. If you're writing a memoir, then use description so your readers feel those emotions, and if you are writing fiction apply those feelings to the character you've created.
Let me know what you think after you've tried this writing task and please keep those questions coming.
Happy Writing!
Michelle Donice
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