Tag: writing

I woke with gerunds on my mind

May 29th, 2021

I am up early. I could not sleep in. I am on fire to write.

The cats yowl and walk on my face at 4:45am these days. They are bored and hungry. Rather than rage at them, I just get up and feed them. When I returned to bed this morning, I planned to go back to sleep. Instead, I thought about advice a peer wrote on a draft at work: “reduce gerunds.”

As a refresher, a gerund is the -ing form of a verb, and it functions as a noun. Planning. Sleeping. Writing. Revising. All words I scratched out as I wrote the first two paragraphs.

I began a book last night that I had to put down twenty pages in. It seemed every sentence included a gerund. Blaspheming. Barreling. Many sentences contained two or three. As verbs they would have jabbed. As nouns, they lost their punch. I struck words with my mental red pen as I read. Eventually I was too distracted to continue. I closed the book and went to sleep.

When I awoke, I thought about gerunds. One of my favorite parts of my job is that I work with talented people who are smart with words. Who respect words. Who love words. Since we are a distributed company, we write. We write all day long. We write in Slack. We write on internal blogs. We write in Google docs. And when we need to publish something important, we review each others’ writing.

I delight when a teammate or a peer circulates a draft for review. The review process surfaces what others see and experience when they read. “Switch these paragraphs for better flow.” “You can cut this entire section.” “Use specific examples.” “Reduce gerunds.”

The reduce gerunds one stuck with me. In part because it was a surprise. I wondered why reduce gerunds? At the time, I had never given gerunds any thought. I did not remember that advice from any of the writing books I’ve read. That’s one of the things that got me back out of bed this morning. I wanted to check The Elements of Style, On Writing Well, The Chicago Manual of Style. I didn’t find anything there.

But the advice holds. When I replace gerunds with infinitive verbs, the work becomes crisper. I still can’t articulate why, but I experience it to be true. In work communications, “I am planning to” feels soft compared with “I plan to.” Maybe because the verb “is” isn’t descriptive while “plan” is. Maybe it’s similar to the passive voice. When you say in active voice, “I made a mistake,” you take ownership, whereas the passive “mistakes were made” distances you from the mistakes. It deflects responsibility.

In personal writing, I often begin my journal entries with, “I am sitting” in whatever chair I happen to write from at that time. Why not, “I sit”? I think it might feel too direct as the writer. “I sit in the Adirondack chair in the garden” feels weird. Too immediate. It is uncomfortable in its intimacy. But that directness, that clarity, that intimacy are exactly why it’s better for the reader.

I woke early, and gerunds kept me awake. Now I sit in the chaise lounge by the living room window. I am restless to write, so I write.
What makes a work of art resonate?

May 20th, 2021

April was a good month for me for reading. I devoured two publications that experiment with form and structure: the novel Ducks, Newburyport and the online magazine Pipewrench. As I mentioned in a previous blog post, Ducks, Newburyport is a 1,000-page sentence. Pipewrench magazine is structured like a dinner party: the main essay is the guest of honor, and the companion pieces, named for the guests at the dinner party who wrote them (the Musician, the Poet, the Educator) are like conversations at the table that explore the main essay’s themes from different perspectives.

Both publications are unlike anything I’ve ever read. They take risks that in the wrong hands could crash and burn. Their creators jumped off the cliff and soared.

I recently learned that appreciation of beauty and excellence is a strength (YES! I wish I’d known 30 years ago), and when I took the VIA strengths test yesterday, I found it is my top strength. This makes me feel better about not being able to create such writerly wonders myself but instead sit back and enjoy when others do.

I also recently learned that awe and wonder boost happiness. I can confirm that this is true because after I experience the excellence of literary risk-takers like these, I am filled with joy and appreciation. I am delighted by their perfect execution even now, a month after reading them.

The reverberations I still feel after reading Ducks, Newburyport and Pipewrench make me think a lot about what makes a work, or even a simple conversation, rich and deep and fulfilling. Some writing is enjoyable and fun and makes me turn pages quickly, but I don’t feel fulfilled afterwards. The story does not stick. Some paintings are pretty to look at, but they don’t inspire me to engage with them, to think, to feel, while others captivate me and inspire me to come back to them again and again.

We use the word “deep” a lot — a deep conversation, a piece of writing that goes deep. I think a common element of things that resonate and stick are that they go deep. But what does that mean? What distinguishes shallow from deep? The answer to this question is elusive to me.

I think one way an author creates depth is by layering. You hear about cooking, “You must season at every step!”, and this is something I think exists in art as well. A piece of writing that resonates goes deeper than just the surface layer of the story itself, and every layer is thoughtful and well-executed: characters, subject matter, word choice, themes, exploration of humanity, leaving enough out so that the reader engages to fill in the blanks. In works that reverberate, all of these layers are perfectly executed and interact with each other to provide richness and complexity. In the examples of Ducks, Newburyport and Pipewrench magazine, I mentioned structure. Until I read these I would have never said I cared about how a piece of writing is structure. And then these both did something with structure that surprised me, that I wasn’t sure how they would work, and as I read, I realized their structure played as essential a role as the plot, word choice, and characters to pull off what the creators were hoping to achieve. I’m still delighted by this.

For me, perspective also contributes to depth. Art that resonates often gives me a new perspective, a deeper look into how someone else sees and and experiences the world. Getting at the motivators of human behavior is endlessly fascinating to me, and different perspectives, when done well, show us those drivers. Seeing those drivers for behavior help us expand beyond the story and the specific characters on the page to broader humanity, giving us empathy not just for the characters on the page, but for our fellow humans.

I think a contributor to my experience of works that reverberate is that they challenge me. I don’t want to read or look at a piece of art so difficult that it blocks me from consuming it, but I do like to be challenged. With Ducks, Newburyport, the lack of terminal punctuation challenged me as a person who likes tidiness and order and a clear stopping point. With Pipewrench, reading the experiences of the grief of being Black in America challenged me as a white woman who contributes to the systems that cause that grief. Challenge breaks down barriers. It makes me see things in new ways. One of my favorite things about abstract art is that it challenges us as the viewers to interpret it our own way, to see what we will see in it. I find this exciting. It’s a way to fire new synapses, to think in new ways. Challenge allows us to constantly recreate our world-view.

I guess that’s another contributor to depth: universality. This feels cliché to even bring up because it’s in every writing book ever. But it’s true, writing that reverberates can be expanded beyond the story or the characters on the page. Well-crafted works of art make us think big thoughts about humanity and the world and the universe, about forces bigger than ourselves, about Nature, about cruelty and hope and what we can do to be better in the world.
I like the act of writing

January 16th, 2021

I joked with friends the other day that after transcribing several years worth of hand-written journals from my younger years, I now recognize it would be no great loss if they were all destroyed in a fire. There’s little of interest in them. They’re not deep, they’re not filled with big ideas or beautiful writing. They’re just me writing about whatever was on my mind that day.

I also realized that at the rate I’m transcribing, I will never digitize all of my hand-written journals. I still write longhand every day, and the amount I write each day outpaces the amount I transcribe. This doesn’t make me want to write any less, and it does not detract me from writing longhand. Especially now that I look for excuses to write just because my fountain pens are fun to write with.

And it hit me: I care less about what I produce, about the end product, than I do about the act of writing. I just like to write. It feels good. It’s satisfying. It helps me clarify thoughts, yes, and I’m sure that’s part of it. But there’s something tactile about it, too, the transformation of ephemeral thought into physical matter. That’s kind of miraculous, right?

Writing solidifies something that’s not even as material as air. Thought isn’t made of molecules. Not until you write it, or make music of it, or paint or draw or otherwise express it as something that can be seen or heard or tasted or felt. I guess writing is like any other form of creation in that way, and the creation of something from nothing is wondrous to me.

But clarifying thoughts and creating a thing of substance from insubstantial thought, those are bonus outcomes. They are not why I write. I write because it’s fun to write. Whatever else happens as a result of writing is sprinkles on top.

It feels nice to realize this, that it is the process that brings me pleasure, not the outcome. I always thought if I like to write I should have life goals like “write a book” or some other product-oriented aspiration. But then what? I’d still want to write. I’m starting to understand that my life goals are less about stuff and destinations and are more about feeling content and fulfilled and happy, and having love and purpose and meaning in my life. I don’t need to produce anything for those. I can just write, and enjoy the process, and that is enough.
Organizing ink

January 15th, 2021

As I may have mentioned before, I’m a little enamored with fountain pens right now. Some time in 2020, I realized I could purchase ink samples instead of full bottles. I’ve… accumulated a few vials of ink.

As the collection of vials grew, they tumbled all over each other in the little wooden box I stored them in. They wouldn’t stand up or stay organized. This was super annoying. Also, I couldn’t tell what the ink would look like on paper just by holding the vial up to the light; the color of ink in liquid form does not translate to the color of ink on paper.

I researched options for storing these ink vials, and I saw several tutorials for making racks. I knew I would not do this. I’m not going to measure and drill and be precise. I want to write with ink, not learn how to woodwork. The place I buy my inks from recommends test tube racks. These would work, but I wasn’t thrilled about the way they looked. Nor did I want to order and wait for them.

Last week, I explored to see what kind of storage doo-dads might be available. Surely there was something out there. And there was! There is! I found the perfect solution: cosmetic organizers. Specifically, lipstick racks.

Ink samples in lipstick racks

I also bought white circle stickers for the cap of each vial and a box of cotton swabs. Today, on this rain-sleet-snow-y day that I took off from work, I organized my inks. Using the Q-tips, I swabbed each vial’s ink on an adhesive white dot for the cap. I also swabbed each ink in a pocket sized Leuchtturm1917 notebook, since that is my new favorite paper.

Ink swab once it’s loaded in a pen

Ink swab not loaded into a pen yet

Now I know exactly what each ink will look like when I load a pen to write in any one of my many journals — book log, garden log, well-being log, regular old daily life log. I guess I have a lot of journals.

Once I organized the inks and cleaned out my pens, I reloaded them to match the colors I see outside this time of year, including the brilliant coral of clouds at sunrise, which I saw this morning.

Colors currently in pens

Making note of which color is in which pen

Pens and inks

Now I can play in my new garden log :).
Pens, paper, and ink

October 27th, 2020

I can’t believe that in more than 35 years of journaling with pen and ink, I never used a fountain pen. For 35 years, I wrote without experiencing the fluid feel of wet ink on quality paper. I did not know the joy of the tactile differences among nibs, barrels, inks, and paper.

My husband gave me two fountain pens for Christmas in 2019 — a LAMY Safari and a Pilot Metropolitan — two models that in his research he discovered were good ~~gateway~~ entry pens into the fountain pen world.

I fell in love with them both: the LAMY Safari for its inky flow and light weight, the Pilot Metropolitan for its precision and solid heft. I found every excuse to write just so I could feel words flow through these beautiful instruments.

I used ink cartridges in the beginning; I was intimidated by bottled ink. But as I browsed for ink cartridges on the Goulet Pens site where Brian had bought my original models, I was seduced by all the inks. Pumpkin orange! Cactus fruit pink! Caribbean blue, Amazonite green, Navajo turquoise, poppy red!

My writing world exploded. I can’t believe I went so much of my life using only blue or black ink!

Now instead of two pens that are limited to the colors that ink cartridges come in, I have six pens, each with a different barrel feel or ink flow, a different weight or texture in my hand. I love the TWSBI Ecos for the flowy nibs and because I can see the ink in the clear barrel (the white one was gorgeous when it was full of Navajo turquoise ink). I love the Lamy because it sits perfectly on my fingers and it’s fast; I can write almost as fast as I think with the LAMY. The Pilots help me write neatly, and I like their superfine points. They make sharp, clean lines, and I love the heavy metallic weight of of them. They feel classy.

From left: two TWSBI Ecos, LAMY Safari, three Pilot Metropolitans

It didn’t take long after I started writing with fountain pens, and especially with different kinds of ink, to realize that paper makes a huge difference in what a pen and ink feel like. I was disappointed to discover that my previous favorite notebooks, Moleskines, are not fountain pen friendly. Ink bleeds through the paper, making the pages messy and rendering every sheet one-sided, and it doesn’t feel good to watch the ink bleed through.

I’ve since tried a few different kinds of notebook, and have yet to find the perfect one. Clairefontaine paper is buttery smooth and is wonderful for the inkier TWSBI and LAMY pens — it flows so smoothly! — and I love the large A4 paper size (~8″x12″). However, the paper is also bright white, almost too white, and the Pilot Metropolitan nibs feel scratchy on it, like they’re too sharp for the paper. Still, I love the Clairefontaine A4 notebook for journaling and prompted free-writes; one page is the perfect size for a day’s journal entry or a single 10-minute write. Plus, given the amount of paper I go through, the Clairefontaine is the more economical choice at $14 for 192 pages (7¢ per page).

The lighting was super low, so this isn’t a great photo and the ink looks bleedier than it actually is, but this is the Clairfontaine lined paper

I alternate between the Clairfontaine A4 and the Leuchtturm1917 B5 composition notebook for journaling and prompted free writes. The pages of the Leuchtturm1917 are smaller (~7″ x 10″), but so is the line spacing — 7mm between lines instead of the 8mm of the Clairefontaine — so a single page of the Leuchtturm1917 can also hold one day’s journal entry or a single 10-minute free write.

The Leuchtturm1917 composition notebook is pricer at $24 for 121 pages (20¢ per page), but I like the Leuchtturm paper better because it’s got a tiny bit of tooth, meaning it’s not so buttery smooth. It gives me a smidge more traction when I’m writing, which means my handwriting feels more controlled. The paper is also ivory instead of bright white, which is much more soothing on my eyes, and the Pilot Metropolitans feel like they were made to go with this paper. I use a smaller journal sized A5 Leuchtturm1917 for my well-being journal that I write in every day.

Again, the lighting was terrible, and post-processing of the photo makes the ink look bleedier than it actually is. The edges are crisp in real life. This is the Leuchtturm1917 A5 dot grid notebook.

My favorite paper, though is Miliko. It feels wonderful with all of my pens, with just the right amount of smoothness and tooth, and the paper color is a soft ivory. The only problem is that the bound notebooks I like only come in the small A5 size (~5″ x 8″). I use a spiral, hard cover Miliko notebook for my book journal and a softcover notebook to savor small moments.

Miliko softcover notebook. Same disclaimer with the light; the sun was setting and the light was too low.

I currently keep four different journals — one to log books I read, one to savor small moments, one for my well-being journal, and one for my daily writes. I think the reason I keep so many is so I have multiple opportunities to play with my pens, inks, and paper. I make up excuses to write just so I can see the pretty ink flow.

Turquoise ink sampler

Warm colored inks

Teal sampler
Should a story called “Squall” include a squall?

October 17th, 2020

Last year, I stuffed my prompt box with words that would put me in the world I want to be in: on a boat in the Caribbean. I was (and still am) learning how to sail, and I filled my prompt box with sailing terms to help me inhabit that world. These are the prompts I’ve been writing from now that I started free-writing again.

The words — mooring, pelican, Force 3 wind — do pull me into the world I want to be in, and they help me envision myself there. They are daydream tools that help me manifest the future I want. And if daydreams can be called fiction, the prompts also result in me writing fiction.

When I pulled the “squall” prompt the other day, though, I thought, ugh. I don’t want to write about tension; I don’t want to write about a storm. I had just written about Tropical Storm Isaias, and I wanted calm.

I wrote “Squall” at the top of my page in turquoise ink and thought of Chekov’s gun. If you introduce a pistol in the beginning of a story, it has to go off by the end, right? If I title my story “Squall,” there should probably be a squall in it.

I’ve run into a disappointing trend when trying to learn about sailing. I learn by reading. If you want to be a sailor and you read a lot of sailing books — memoirs or novels — you will encounter a frighteningly high proportion of disasters and catastrophic weather and terrifying seas.

Because this is what is published, because this is what is available for me to read, because it is not balanced by books and stories where the sailing is smooth, I am left with the message that sailing is super scary and dangerous and risky.

Stories are built on tension and drama. The types of conflict are one of the first things you learn in a literature class: character vs. character, character vs. nature, character vs. self, character vs. society, etc. Violence and disaster are easy ways to find drama and suck readers in. Extremes rivet the audience. Nuance and subtlety are harder; finding traction in peace is not an easy thing to do, and especially not if you want to hook your audience instantly.

So we end up with the extremes, which lead us to believe the extremes are the norms. Instead of seeing peaceful protests as the norm — which, with 95% of protests being peaceful, is the reality — we see violence as the norm because that’s what the news reports. Instead of seeing calm, gorgeous days on the water as the norm, we see the rarer high seas drama.

We see the squalls.

I don’t want the squalls right now. I want the smooth sailing that I believe is and can be the norm.

When I wrote my daydream “Squall,” I decided not to put a squall in it. It’s just a peaceful happy day on the water. It’s not dramatic, there is no climax. It’s just the place I want to be.