My students recently finished The Crucible and I’ve had Henry Miller on my mind. Turns out, so do quite a few others as some of his writing advice was featured on a Huffington Post article just a few days ago. The quote concerning his “Commandments” of writing is from his book, “Henry Miller On Writing.” I understand he came up with these while living in Paris. Good advice is good advice regardless of who gives it, when it was given or where, thus I shouldn’t be surprised at how timely his tenets are, not only as they can be applied to writing but to any other creative focus oriented endeavor:

COMMANDMENTS

1. Work on one thing at a time until finished.

2. Start no more new books, add no more new material to “Black Spring.” (My oh my; how true did I find out these two, and number 10 below, to be!)

3. Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.

4. Work according to Program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time!(-and “start at the appointed time” I would add as well.)

5. When you can’t create you can work.

6. Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.

7. Keep human! See people, go places, drink if you feel like it.

8. Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleasure only.

9. Discard the Program when you feel like it-but go back to it the next day. Concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.

10. Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.

11. Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.

Mornings: If groggy, type notes and allocate, as stimulus. If in fine fettle, write.   Afternoons: Work on section in hand, following plan of section scrupulously. No intrusions, no diversions. Write to finish one section at a time, for good and all.

Evenings: See friends. Read in cafes. Explore unfamiliar sections–on foot if wet, on bicycle if dry. Write, if in mood, but only on Minor program. Paint if empty or tired. Make Notes. Make Charts, Plans. Make corrections of MS.

Note: Allow sufficient time during daylight to make an occasional visit to museums or an occasional sketch or an occasional bike ride. Sketch in cafes and trains and streets. Cut the movies! Library references once a week.

_____

The term “Program” gave me pause. I assume it means whatever writing rhythm has been set up and works for the writer. I plan to order the book and find out for sure.

Some might blanch at number eleven, but in light of number seven, I think the message is clear—at least, that is, the message as I understand it me: edifying entertainments and worthy distractions must come second to writing. No doubt he’d have meant blogs too O_o.

I look forward to reading this book, particularly due to his “self-educated” writer’s perspective.

Originally posted in The Salamander’s Quill 1.0 now deleted.

The world of Man is an ugly thing. Beauty is illusive and fragile. We roam a desert or wild outback wherein finding beauty is akin to dowsing for water or hunting for food, a constant never ending chore. The rewards are mercurial lasting only as long as they might and never as long as we may wish. It could be argued that if we were able to access beauty on demand and keep it for as long as we wished, we would soon tire of it and it would quickly lose its savor. Put that way, it is more easy to see Man as the mercurial element in the equation rather than beauty and that we must learn once again to see properly and to seek beauty in all its forms, in places where we have gone blind. The morning cup of coffee, for example, if taken for granted, has become a given, and is stripped of a deep mysterious beauty all its own.

From the moment the grounds are scooped, measured and deftly poured into the filter, their promising aroma teasing the unstuffed nose, to the final pouring of the first mouthwatering cup even as the machine pops and gurgles its final drips, brewing coffee has a beauty that even the most jaded can appreciate if they would but pause to think on it.

During the brewing, I fill my cup with water to warm in the microwave so that little of the coffee’s heat will be stolen by cold porcelain or ceramic. I push the button for “beverage” as I want only to warm the mug not cook it until its too hot to hold.

When the brewing is over, I fill my cup carefully trying not to spill a single drop. I have yet to find a carafe that does not dribble, so I slowly pour, keeping the stream small so I can listen to its promise, to just the right spot for creamer, a spot I instinctively recognize not matter the cup: my larger weekend mug, my Gryffindor travel mug, a standard restaurant sized mug or even a painted cup and saucer from my tea-cup collection.

I am not a clouds-in-my-coffee person, so after adding creamer, I enjoy stirring and watching the creamer’s misty wisps disappear. The even tan mixture means the brew is ready to drink, a sign that in a few seconds time I will feel the first of the hot liquid on my tongue and its acidic goodness will dissolve my morning mouth and when it hits my stomach, I’ll feel that odd, giddy coating splash.

“Ahhh” or “mmmm” I’ll say and lean against the counter just like in the commercials and have another sip. Glorious. I’ll marvel at how such a simple thing can be so satisfying. I’ll consider the Japanese Tea Ceremony and wonder if this isn’t a present substitute. I’ll toy with the idea of playing hooky, dreaming of writing and sipping coffee all day.

In the end the cup will sadly be empty, a reminder that the concerns of the day are impatiently lined up for their due. No coffee is strong enough to keep them waiting too long, but fortified with just a little overlooked beauty, they aren’t as onerous as they would be without it.

Originally posted in The Salamander’s Quill 1.0 now deleted.

I woke up this morning with a headache and Shirley Temple’s voice singing “I Wanna Hippopotamus For Christmas” competing for air time in my head. Ugh! Christmas! I’m not a Grinch, by any means, but this is distinctly not my favorite time of year. I’ll skip the rant concerning commercialization, secularization or how rude folk can be in the check-out line. The thing is, for the sake of writing, I’ve just done little or no shopping and the oppressive weight of the 25th is bearing down on me like an approaching thunderhead full of lightening and rain.

Time. The would-be writer’s bane. Either I feel I don’t have enough of it or I feel I’m using it unwisely. For a brief month or more this summer I felt I was in the groove and making the most of it. In reality I may simply have been surfing on all the “free-er” time I had due to vacation. During the work-year, which as of next Thursday at 15:00 will be half over, it is much more problematic.

Nearly all the books on craft I have read, Schmidt, Monteleone, Sellers, Bates, King and Bickham, make it clear that writing is both hard work and time consuming. To get it done, one must dedicate time and energy with discipline and devotion. I am fortunate that of the six sections of English I teach, two of them are honors classes. I am constantly telling them, “Successful honors students are driven to excel, dedicated to their education above all else and are disciplined enough to see ‘it’ to the end. It you don’t have what it takes, step down.”  I realize that every time I say this, I am actually talking to myself: “Successful writers are driven to write, dedicated to their craft above all else and are disciplined enough to see their manuscript through to its fullest potential. If you don’t have it, move on.”

After the NaNoWriMo I feel I have been less than focused and no where as driven, dedicated or disciplined as I should be. My 04:00 writing sessions are lethargic and not producing the successes they did this summer. Time seems to be at issue, but it’s not really ‘time’ per se, so much as it is the demands on that time placing pressure on my productivity and satisfaction. Now, this is a scary thing to admit as it begs the question: if I can’t make time for everything, what will I give up to release some of that anxious pressure in my chest and that sense of impending doom so as to give my writing time room to produce (because I sure as hell, ain’t given up my writing)?

I don’t know.

I presently have five time-competing secular interests and demands that are not seasonal like Christmas shopping, which, regardless of its presently un-done state, will be done by the 25th: family, school, bagpiping, HOL, blogging and Oblivion. In some ways I’m glad, very glad, these are the things that I’ve got threatening me with torrential downpours as they happen to be clearly identified. I would hate to wander around in my head cluelessly looking for the source of my distraction.

Family. This is, of course, a no-brainer. Can’t live without ‘em; can’t kill ‘em and while I wish they were a little more interested in what I’m writing, I am thankful they appreciate what I’m doing enough to give me room to write. I see rainbows, bless ‘em.

School. Of all the demands, this storm cloud is the one I resent the most. I could go on nauseatingly about the state of education. I’m not going to. Suffice to say, that this used to be the thing by which I defined myself: Andre’ the high school English teacher. Federal, state, regional and local politicians and administrators, however, chasing the super-student on the “road to no where” have robbed me of the joy of teaching. From bell to bell when I’m with my kids, I still love what I do, but during the down time when politically driven bullshit resumes its regularly scheduled programming, I hate the career and dream of writing for a living. It gets eleven hours of my day for only seven and half hours of pay and there it is.

Bagpiping. Another no-brainer. It is who I am. My Gaelic heritage, of which I am fiercely proud, calls with all the power of the North Sea. I could no more give up piping than I could writing. In my heart I have been able to convince it to take a back seat to writing, but when the page refuses to give up its secrets, I turn to piobaireachd, play Cumha Mairi Nighean Alasdair Ruaigh or Struan Robertson’s Salute and the world rights itself. I will not attempt to explain how deeply impacting that moment is when the drones and chanter reeds vibrate sympathetically enveloping me in a warm cocoon of sound that can lead me to “…converse with old folks of old affairs.” Suffice to say it would be no more possible to give this up than it would family or to stop working all together.

HOL. Hogwarts Online. So demanding. So satisfying. So amazing. This online simulation is a complex interest to describe. More than Harry Potter, as a teacher, I fell  in love with the idea of a Wizarding school. How cool would it be to attend or teach at such a place? HOL is that option. With joy and surprise I found it directly feeding the writing animal inside me and I have written more short stories and poems as a result of HOL homework assignments and projects than I ever have. Some resulted in Rowlings fan-fiction, I am decidedly unashamed to admit, but more were original works inspired by classes in fairy tales and folk lore. I really don’t want to give that creative stimulation up. Unfortunately, I also worked my way into the lower echelons of HOL administration. As with all positions of responsibility in such a situation, it is time-consuming to create entertainment for others. I struggle with pressure issues there and have not been as present as a Prefect should. It’s not fair to my HOL friends or my writing. It is the single most pressing thought on my mind, one I will admit to avoiding dealing with.

Blogging. Well. I’d like to blog every other day but that rarely happens. In a way, it has taken the place of journaling and though I may not be as ‘all-reveling’ in it, blogging, especially “The Salamander’s Quill,” is the conduit, tiny though it is, I use to inject myself into the writing world from my lonely desk top. It takes care of itself though and is easy neglected for the sake of a manuscript page without the crack of guilty thunder the others above do.

Oblivion. I want to kill the kid who gifted me the game for Christmas. I’ve spent too much time playing just the “…next quest.” I am thirsty to RPG and this is the next convenient thing to it. I think, however, that it is also the most easily marginalized pursuit conflicting with my writing. Problem: it’s fun. Damnit.

And let’s not even mention the upcoming season premiers of Merlin and Camelot. I hope they suck and I won’t want to watch them.

HOL admin and Oblivion? How badly do I want to write? How driven, dedicated and disciplined am I? I need to find out. Now. Before the rains come; I’ve got Christmas shopping to do.

Originally posted in The Salamander’s Quill 1.0 now deleted.