What’s in a name? Really, maybe, not very much at all.
The trouble started the way so many kinds of trouble do these days – with an Internet meme.
I logged on to my Twitter feed a few months back, bored, and noticed that something called “heelconcept” was trending.
“I dropped out of college because I knew more than my professors did.”
“I often have to explain things to others because I just grasp stuff more quickly than most people do.”
“I often read books and think to myself, ‘I could have written that.’”
Have you ever had a little cut in your mouth that you couldn’t stop chewing on?
Poking at, worrying over, jabbing and stabbing against with your tongue, endlessly, compulsively? Even though it hurt, even though you knew all that biting was only prolonging the suffering? Didn’t you feel just inexplicably, irresistibly compelled to mess with it, even if doing so kept it from healing over?
How do you swallow a buffalo?
There’s a trick to it, which I was taught some dozen years ago, deep in the jungle, at Christmas dinner, by a man who’d stolen everything from me.
And now, I’ll teach it to you.
What is a Liebster, you ask? Sort of like a Pulitzer or a Nobel? Well, yes, it is quite similar to both of those awards … Wait … Actually, it’s not at all like either of those. Not even the teeniest bit. But it’s a fun feather in the cap for any blogger, normally proffered by another blogger who has recently been similarly feted by yet another blogger, ad infinitum, sorta like that telephone game everybody played in kindergarten or those chain letters bored pre-teens used to send each other in the ‘80s before the advent of Facebook and sexting.
Overheard in Safeway, McLoughlin Boulevard
November, 2014 Around 6 p.m.
In light of the late blasts of Gwyneth Paltrow vitriol blowing around the Internet, I was intrigued to recently overhear this conversation between a well-put-together, rather Gwynethy-looking woman and her daughter in the checkout line at Safeway.
Is youth wasted on the young?
Sometime around one’s 30th birthday, to be certain, one realizes with a start the astonishing measure of self-absorption and small-mindedness that has defined one’s first decade as a card-carrying adult.
Post-adolescence is a time of vanity, ignorance, selfish pride. Of breaking hearts and being heartbroken. Of exploration, excess, and ego, and immortal pretentions.
And then, blessedly, it ends. One grows, and one reflects back with regretful aplomb. There is shame in the recognition, yes, and some measure of cold relief, too–one has, at least, improved and grown enough to recognize the degree of petulance with which one formerly moved about the world; to reject youthful notions of moral infallibility and to criticize them roundly.
Hey, writer! When was the last time you took a good look at your own hands? I mean, a really, really good long look?
Sure, they’re fluttering in and out of the periphery of vision over the course of any average day, assisting in the picking up and setting down of life’s dull and delightful objects. But, most often, their task feels secondary – to hold up for inspection the things you’ve deemed far more fascinating: smartphones, babies, books, burritos.
There’s little incentive to notice them. And this strikes me as odd. So do it now. Have a good, long gander. What do you see? Look carefully: your hands are miraculous, surprising, ordinary, and, for my money, entirely underappreciated.
You’re in good retroactive company. I’m first writing this by hand, in fact, down here in Mexico, though by the time it reaches its final destination (your eyeballs), it will most certainly have been converted into little perfect lines set neatly upon a screen somewhere or other. I am fine with that, but I’d like us to travel backwards together for a moment, so we might better appreciate the strange and wonderful deconversion that is right now taking place.
Let’s jump backwards a couple weeks, to a kayaking trip I took in the Sea of Cortez. To the moment when I rediscovered my hands.
Picture me there, wedged into my sleek, water-going canoe, still land bound, beached atop a thin spit of glittering sand in southern Baja, dodging hornets and practicing my stroke.
My tour guide, Sergio, came by and gently adjusted my wonky grip on the double-ended paddle. As he did, he pointed to the constellation of tiny white and pink scars along the topside of my right hand and joked, “You must be a boxer.”
It’s true that I’ve been hard on my hands: a lifetime of immodest tree climbing, reckless vegetable chopping, and bare-bones travel in bug-infested climes has marked them up and good.
I’m no prizefighter, but because I earn my (modest) living as a writer, my hands are, in a sense, also my fortune, my indispensable weapons, shepherding my thoughts from head to screen or paper day in and day out, to varying degrees of success and financial recompense.
Funny, then, how rarely I think about them. I never even really noticed all the scars I’d accumulated until Sergio pointed them out to me that balmy day in Mexico. How could someone who writes for a living spend so little time thinking about or even looking at her hands?
I suspected immediately that technology was to blame. Because I like blaming things on technology, but also because of the inclinations inherent to my own writerly process. I love to journal and sketch, but I do my serious writing almost exclusively on the computer. And I’m just old enough to recognize the novelty of this fact: I was born in 1981, to a father who worked at a supercomputer company and dug new gadgets, and I can still recall the day he brought home our very first Apple Macintosh computer. It was 1984. Reagan was about to be reelected president. I was three years old. I stood in our foyer, rapt, watching Dad struggle to haul the large white box with the stylized apple on the side of it in through the garage door, his face alight. My sisters and I crawled all over that magical white box like overgrown ants, feelers up, sensing that something special was about to happen to us. And it did.
I’ve done my best thinking with the help of a keyboard screen pretty much ever since. It feels like a superpower, hooking my brain up to a keyboard and letting the mushy contents pour incongruously forth. The fact that my penmanship is completely atrocious is rendered, suddenly, irrelevant. My hands can track time with the speed of thought. I am superhuman!
In some sense, Microsoft Word is probably deeply responsible for the contours of my creative process when it comes to writing. It has calibrated my brain to think in cuttable and pasteable chunks, and to create in a dump, arrange, dump, arrange methodology.
It works well. I prefer to think in chunks, because this approach seems to mimic the organic processes of idea generation, which also happens in non-linear bits and blurbs. As I rearrange, I make new connections and clarify my conceptions. It feels so easy. So right.
One strange consequence of my exclusive allegiance to the medium, though, is that when I’m writing, I rarely, rarely look at my hands. I look, instead at a screen, on which my words appear as if by magic. Oh, the hands keep on at their important work outside that visual frame. But they are often tapping away in obscurity, for all intents and purposes, invisible. I was trained this way. I can still recall the typing lessons I took in fourth grade, when Mrs. Hobizal placed pieces of white computer paper over our hands, thereby forcing us to hammer out strings of practice text without looking down:
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
We went at it, again and again, for weeks and weeks, until we were a veritable menagerie of pint-sized transcribers, our small hands pounding furiously away at the sticky beige keys. And it worked. By college, I could type 80 words a minute.
But, surely, something organic and analogous became lost along the way, didn’t it?
Let’s reverse course, again, forward from the fourth grade computer lab and back to the recent past, to Mexico, and to what happened just a few days after the kayaking trip, at the start of the portion of my trip that I’d intended to use as a writing retreat. Tragedy! The cord for my MacBook began to fray, right at the joint that connected it to the surge protector, over the course of two equatorial days. I tried to press the wires back together, to jiggle and rig the thing into submission, but all I got in response was a few nefarious sparks, a weird burny smell, and a mild zap to the thumb. The thing was dead. And, as a result, my MacBook was out of commission. My plans were dashed.
I’d time-traveled, backwards, unwillingly. Pen and paper were my only available recourse. But I never work with pen and paper! It hardly seemed even worth trying. It just wasn’t even the way I thought anymore.
I pouted furiously for a day or so, then I grew interminably bored and reluctantly took up my travel journal. And I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. I wrote till my phalanges were sore, and then I wrote some more. Little mini-essays, lists of ideas and future goals, meditations on regrets, all summoned forth in my sloppy, singular chicken scrawl, dozens of pages replete with arrows and strikethroughs and little barely legible addendums crowding the margins out of existence. It was painful, but also sort of enlightening.
Even after I gave in a few days later and trekked to the next town over to purchase a brand new, exorbitantly priced MacBook cord, I kept on taking up the notebook. And I kept on thinking about these hands of mine.
I concede, now, the sloppy, organic (that word AGAIN!) elegance of working by hand. To watch as ones fingers grip a pen and litter words across the blank page is its own kind of magic. As with a computer, I am focused largely on the words, but I’m looking at the magical hand, too, with its 27 fragile bones, its meaty, quivering tendons, its constellations of scars and freckles and moles.
I take up a pen, and I am, suddenly, intimately connected to the process of creation; I require no intermediary or intercessor, no translator. This feels a lot like what the Zen Buddhists call Direct Transmission – unfettered experience of truth – and I am doing it all by myself.
No doubt, writing by hand is a messy, sloppy affair. There is no “delete” key. Only strikes through and exings out. When I create work by hand, I toss out behind me a trail of inky breadcrumbs that I can follow backwards, later, to the sources of my inspiration. I can backpedal. I can examine my process and trace my patterns of thought as they spread and blossom outward like cracks upon the sugar-spun winter ice.
I can give abandoned metaphors their due elegy by permitting them to live, forever, at the scattershot outer reaches of each page on first, second, third drafts. I can scribble and scratch and forgive myself the false starts and niggling imperfections without needing to erase them from existence forever.
Writing by hand asks us to acknowledge and examine process in some rather profound ways. We cannot hide from the imperfection of our iteration, our half-formed ideas, our vague and later-junked conceptions.
A printed page is a pretty thing to behold, no doubt. Crisp, clean, with no mumbly half-thoughts congregating in the corners, no run-on sentences clobbering up the atmosphere, no spontaneous reworkings sprawling themselves immodestly across the mid-sections of our gathered thoughts. No rouge modifiers, ever late to the party and flanking themselves willy-nilly across the words and lines.
For any writer, the computer is a magical instrument. It keeps our hands free of callouses and ink stains, pliant and unsullied as a baby’s rear end. It eases the path, it keeps the shoulders and neck from cramping themselves into an upside down question mark. It abides ceaseless reworking. It lets us organize our work in non-linear and unconventional ways if we please.
But it also erases the vital understory of How We Got Here. And that, too, is a tale worthy of the telling, don’t you think?
So I challenge you, dear writer, to challenge yourself – and to think more deeply about your own writing process – by changing up your own preferred medium once in awhile.
You’ll hate it. And for that reason, you’ll love it.
Kirk: “Well, there it is. War. We didn’t want it, but we’ve got it.”
Spock: “Curious how often you humans manage to obtain that which you do not want.”
– Stark Trek, “Errand of Mercy,” aired March 23, 1967
I have to confess something. I have no idea who in the hell you are.
At least some of the time, anyway.
Dear Type As:
I know you’re really busy making the world a better place and all, but can we talk for a just minute about Type A people?
Actually, I want to talk, too, about Type B and Type C and Type D personalities, but I figured you might lose interest if I opened this letter by saying that I wanted to talk about those other kinds of people. After all, both of us knows that a sustained interest in the eccentricities of the planet’s quieter folks isn’t always one of your strongest suits. But I’m not trying to pick on your orderly and outgoing tribe. I know you can’t always help it.
Do you ever fantasize about your own personal Path Not Taken?
I don’t mean the path that would have led you to a better-paying career, or a nicer partner, or a different, cooler city to live in. That’s boring. Everybody fantasizes about those things, for obvious reasons.
Hey, you! Humanoid American of non-specified ethnicity or gender born between the years of 1980 and 1985!
Are you suffering from a low-grade case of of pre-midlife malaise? Are you currently jobless, newly dumped, or suffering a case of the existential snifflies? Are you beginning to suspect that maybe you’ve totally flunked your own life?
IT MIGHT NOT BE YOUR FAULT!