It’s a gorgeous fall day. I’m getting ready to go for a bike ride, followed by some writing time. Yet it feels like my inward landscape, my interior weather is at odds with the beauty of the day. My inward landscape and weather is affected by who knows how many forces, some obvious, some unwanted, some self-imposed, some hormonal, some downright mysterious and I’m thinking that right now I can’t sort out what, exactly, is making me unhappy. Because that is what I am. I am eaten with anxiety, abuzz with nervous energy, my mind whirling, distracted, bewildered, impatient, upset. On my brief run this morning, I attempted to be mindful: pay attention to the sounds around me, pay attention to what I was seeing, pay attention to smells (not good — it was garbage day). Within seconds, my mind was already flitting down dark alleyways of repetitive negative thought. I would bring it back to the streetlight shining on a pile of wet leaves, but a few steps later, my mind was gone again, chasing thoughts that feed on misery.
Why would my mind want to feed on misery? Why wouldn’t it, instead, be drawn to the sound of my feet making a rhythmic beat on the pavement? Why not sink into the sound of breath, patterning with the beat of my feet?
I have upon my back a straw. I either have to figure out how to contain it, how to compartmentalize my responsibilities so as to contain it and carry it, or the straw is going to break me.
That is what I’m thinking about today, as I prepare to climb onto my bike and pedal across town, with the hopes of finding a new scene for my book. My books needs many new scenes. That is the other news of the day, but that does not discourage me. I love these characters — why would I not want to spend more time with them?
Wish me luck, friends. So much depends upon it.
I’ve been trying to write a blog post this afternoon. But it quickly devolved into a rant. The patterns of violence and destruction bewilder and grieve me, and they seem so intractable, yet I want to stand against them. I want to write against these patterns.
The world is too much with us. The world is too much with us. The world is too much with me.
I walked to meet a friend last night, along a busy street, the moon quite large in the sky, and lovely, and my head was full of grief. My grief is not specific, nor are tears cathartic. This world. This world is too much with me.
What is my response to fear? What do I do when I’m afraid, or threatened? Do people want to own guns because they’re afraid? Is it to feel a power that is otherwise unavailable to them? Why would anyone want the power to kill? I don’t understand.
I finished a draft of my book, but I need to return to it and write more. There is more, and it’s about this subject, at least in some ways, critical ways. I know I need to write more, but I have been unable to retreat into that imaginary world yet; today has not been a terrifically productive day. A child home sick. My mind cluttered and muttering.
The world seems divided between people who believe they can keep themselves safe by force, will and wealth, and people who know there is no safety, only thoughtful measures to lower collective risks. I’m in the latter camp. I think this makes me an optimist. I sing despite knowing. I write despite knowing. I love despite knowing. Also, I pray despite knowing. I believe in those thoughtful measures. I believe something can be done—it’s not good enough to say nothing can be.
What I’m having a hard time with is forgiving. I feel so angry toward the people who peddle the guns. The people who profit from weapons of war. I feel so angry. The world is too much with me. Forgive me.
The space across the street from our house is being turned into a park. Many of my front yard photos from the past 14 years have featured this little white house, above. That’s a demolition sign tacked onto its front porch, and a metal fence erected around it. Work began last week.
As you can see, the little white house is no more. I was out of the house on the day it came down. The children had a PD day, so I left them to their own devices and exited the scene. I biked to campus and worked like a student in a library carrel, which was blissful. I do have an office, but it’s cramped, weirdly hot, and shared with four other people. The library is infinitely preferable. Anyway, when I got home, the little white house was gone. It had been standing that morning and by late afternoon was nothing but a pile of rubble with a large machine sitting atop. I must confess I was sad to have missed the excitement. I’m the classic nosy neighbour character, observing the proceedings (any proceedings, really) out of various windows and from behind the screen of lilac bushes. In my absence, none of the children watched, apparently. They just complained about the noise. Can you imagine complaining about the noise — the noise of a house getting knocked down! — and not going out to watch? Whose children are these?
Here is the lot after it got cleaned up. A dump truck was kept very busy. A few more buildings are slated to fall before the park space is completely opened up, so I will keep you posted. Our view is changing.
To get slightly philosophical, before I go pick up my eldest from his part-time job (he bikes to get there, but I don’t like him biking home after dark), I’ve been reflecting on how much dedicated effort and organization it took to clean up the rubble across the street. From one house. With at least three expert-looking people on the site and a dump truck, a large digger machine, a porta-potty and safety fencing at their disposal. And then I think about places devastated by this season’s storms, like Puerto Rico or Houston, and I can’t wrap my head around the effort it will take to clean up and rebuild.
In other news, I’m back to coaching soccer again. Tryouts for next season are already underway (believe it or not). And I’m teaching. So writing time is precious and fleeting and jammed in, but I have to tell you, it’s happening. I’m making it happen! Last night I wrote The End on a first draft — a complete first draft! I have no perspective on its objective merits at this particular moment in time, but I feel ELATED. I truly do. All day, I felt like running around yelling and screaming the news. (But I didn’t.) (I’m so low-key. I’m only telling you guys).
I cannot honestly believe that I am writing a book by hand.
In August, I started this manuscript over from scratch, writing each new chapter by hand. Many of the chapters were originally written by hand, so for many of these pieces, I am writing them by hand more than once. That’s a lot of pages in a lot of notebooks. It is excruciatingly slow, in terms of how many words I can produce in one sitting.
And yet, I trust the process. It is like cooking from scratch. Takes a lot longer, worth the wait.
What I say to myself, when approaching a new character, a new scene, or when reworking material in a new way, is this: you have to translate it. Most of the scenes already exist in some form—I’m solidifying a plot-line that already exists. But each scene feels new, in this new iteration, and so it must, in order to be exciting. It feels like a process of translation, like I’m taking dead scenes and bringing them to life with the power of my hand, which seems to know more about life and aliveness than my brain does.
But it is so much work. It requires a patience and degree of determination that feels almost herculean, almost too much for my mind to bear. Yet I want so badly to finish this project. At this point, that is what is driving my ability to continue—the desire to finish. The desire to see this story through to its end. The desire to let these characters live, not just inside my head, but for real, on the page, accessible by the minds and imaginations of anyone else who can read.
It is such an intense struggle, it is difficult to put it into words. It is also so extremely satisfying, I would almost call it excruciatingly satisfying when I’m finished a scene and can read it, shocked and surprised by what’s been discovered. It feels like I am a conduit. It’s not that I relinquish responsibility for these characters, only that I am as surprised by their aliveness as if I were reading someone else’s work. Maybe it’s that I am transported by these characters, maybe it’s that I’m alive somewhere else and inside of someone else while I am writing these scenes—maybe that is why I feel like a conduit rather than an author. I feel like an observer. That’s what I mean when I describe my writing as translating, when I pick up the pen, open the notebook, and write a new scene—I’m translating from the back of my mind into words. The front of my mind doesn’t know what the back of my mind already knows, and so it is a surprise, even if I am making it, creating it, all of it. I am surprised by myself, by my capacity to plot, to pull together images, to thread connections like beads on a string.
I feel the same way when I am drawing, now—whenever I am lost, I tell myself to let my hand lead me, to discover what my hand wants to show me. My hand always knows. My hand always knows more than my thinking brain.
I look with surprise, admiration, even awe, and say, oh, that’s what this means, oh, that’s where I am, oh, that’s who I am right now, oh, that’s what I’m feeling, oh, that’s what I want, oh, that’s what’s hurting me, oh, that’s where the pain is, oh, that’s what’s on my mind. Oh, that’s how it all fits together.
Like Lynda Barry said, writing isn’t easy, but it can be pleasurable. Just like those runners jogging by in the middle of the day. You’d never look at them and say, oh, that looks easy. But you understand that they are getting something from their efforts, something like pleasure, or a feeling of accomplishment, or surprise, or enjoyment, or transcendence. Transcendence is both why I write and why I run. For that lovely floating feeling of being apart from it all.
And also of it all.
And also free.
I’d like to introduce you to Jammie Day, starring Cliffy!
In answer to a question I’m asked quite often, yes, I do have a new book coming out. It’s less than 800 words in length, and relies heavily on Brooke Kerrigan’s adorable illustrations, but I think you’ll find it genuinely heart-warming. My second picture book, Jammie Day, is due in stores on October 15, published by Owlkids, and it’s just received its first review. In fact, Quill & Quire has given Jammie Day a starred review.
I’m unashamed to report that the star has gone directly to my head. After reading the review, I spent an evening strutting annoyingly (endearingly?) around the house, informing my family of Jammie Day’s triumphs. “Aw, Mom, you’re so excited. You got a gold star.” Hear that being said in a teenager’s tone, and you have some idea of the supportive response I received. I’m pretty sure it’s my very first starred review ever in Q&Q, and let’s be honest, that star is for Brooke Kerrigan’s winning illustrations, but no one’s taking it away from me now.
I would like to pause here to marvel at the uplifting power of the gold star. We need to tap this power, people! I should be giving myself gold stars all day long! Gold star for holding that pike position for the last eight seconds of exercise class while dangling from TRX straps at 6:43AM! Gold star for making three sandwiches for school lunches before showering or eating breakfast! Gold star for a truly excellent nap on the couch!
Here is Jammie Day getting its very first read. It really is a wonderful book, if I’m allowed to say so. Well, no one’s stopping me, though it’s probably in poor taste. Have I mentioned that Jammie Day got a starred review in Quill & Quire??!! Insert winky-face emoji here. Totally unrelated: I’ll also be selling Jammie Day through my web site.
Now I’m off to earn gold stars for laundry, class prep, and writing another chapter in my next book (longer than 800 words, no illustrations).
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My name is Carrie Snyder. I'm mother of four, writer of fiction and non-, dreamer, contemplative, mid-life runner, coach, forever curious. I'm interested in the intersection between art and spirituality. What if the purpose of life is to seek beauty? What if everyone could make art?