The Writer's Brain
So a funny thing happened on my way to Writer's Day yesterday. I didn't have one. I'll try to bottom line this so I can discuss how it relates to the writing brain. The very short version is . . . one, it's a good thing I don't have a Webcam. A Podcast. Because right now, I am ten sheets of pale and look like . . . well, I am a writer, so I am not short of both cliched and original metaphors and descriptions for what cat's drag in, etc.
See, instead of taking Dad to the doctor, we went to the E.R. And for one, LONG, grueling day, I was his advocate in the medical world. Tests, I.V.'s, morphine (and frankly, I would have paid good money had they injected that right into my arm the way the day was going, etc.). He's going to be fine. Me? I don't know. Him? He needs to LISTEN when I tell him to drink more fluids and eat. But I digress.
More bottom line? How about mid-morning, opening your writing file, closing it shut inside of five minutes, getting called away to take Dad to hospital, and on the way he makes you swear all sorts of promises about caring for your mother if something should happen to him? Like I wouldn't anyway. It was emotional, wrenching, and if you know hospitals, tiring.
So . . . I come home. Looking like the proverbial cat's bounty. And I was gone all day and evening. I have four kids. I was pounced on--fill out this form, write me a note, do this, do that. And Demon Baby? He actually came up, said, "Up." Told me he loved me and missed me, then proceeded to not let me go for two hours. Which makes writing notes, administering spelling tests, and laundry difficult. I had a proverbial monkey on my back. A Demon Baby on my back.
But here's the writer thing. You knew it was coming.
When I rise, knees hit floor. I pray. It's what I do. Then I do it all day long, I pray. I don't know if I talk to God, Buddha, the Universe, my grandma. It's a long, all-day conversation. Sometimes I just think I am talking to that higher part of me. Conversing with the me who tries to be a good person, the me who is capable to mentoring at-risk kids, and wrapping Christmas presents for low-income seniors this year. The me who is a good mother, not a tired and cranky and nauseous one. The me I aspire to be, who has goodness at heart. Who's capable of infinite patience. No matter . . . me and God, or me and this higher version of humanity, we talk. All day long.
But yesterday? It was less ongoing. It was more, "I don't want to even go there, so if you could just make this CAT scan be clear, God, that would be great." And then I internally shut up. There wasn't much point in cosmic conversation because I was too exhausted to hold up my end. It was more like, "God, just give me strength and let me know you're here once in a while. Okay?"
Until last night about 1:00 a.m. Then I prayed. I had time. I was awake. I was staring at the ceiling. I said thank you. A huge thank you. And not just because things are going to be fine. But because I was grateful that when the proverbial sh*t hits that proverbial fan, that I do feel a cosmic umbilical cord. That I do feel accompanied by grace. So I prayed.
AND THEN . . . here we go, gang. And THEN . . . once my brain was cleared of all THAT, I was free to think like a writer. And ALL THE THINGS I NOTICED were free to jam into my brain. They come as pictures and words at once. Fragments of ideas. And all of them were the things I noticed as a writer, that I am sure "regular" people don't. It's like in the Wizard of Oz. First Dorothy's world is black and white. Then it's Technicolor. I get to live on Technicolor all the time.
I noticed how when someone is old, medical personnel don't talk to them. They talk to YOU. Like the patient is a kid. I noticed that nurses have seemingly never-ending pockets, filled with syringes and tape, and scissors, and according to Dad's first nurse, her vitamins that she is always too busy on the floor to take until she remembers later. I notice that my father really IS blind. Not that I didn't notice before, but I spent 8 hours just staring at him and realizing he didn't KNOW I was staring. He has a fixed stare at something ahead of him, and his eyes are milky, kind of, and glazed, and half-shut, and he never looks at any of the medical people treating him, so they even MORE talk to me. I felt, all day, like a translater. Doctor says something, Dad says, "What?" I tell him. He tells me answer. I tell Doctor. It was like a tennis match. I noticed the CAT scan tech had the most unusual scar on his face, as if part of it had once been smashed in and then popped back out again, and it was kind of blue. I noticed that I now have to lean over the bed and touch my father so he knows I'm there. And that they can draw 15 vials of blood, and then he will ask "Did they take my blood yet?" I noticed all the machines beep like the old elevator at Gimbel's. so Dad and I had a running joke, "Lingerie, Third Floor." I noticed the curtains run on half-moon tracks. You get the idea.
And yes, I will use it all someday. Some hospital scene. It's just it dawned on me at 1:00 a.m., that non-writers don't do this. Maybe non-crazy people don't do this. It wasn't like I woke up yesterday and thought, "You know, if Dad has to go to the hospital, let me take mental notes to use in a scene someday." I didn't look at myself, feel my own emotions, and think, "You know, I will draw on this well of exhaustion so the next time I have a character who's in a crisis . . ." I didn't SCRIPT him to do the whole, "Make me this promise. Make this promise right now" thing. I didn't tell myself, in some scripted sense, "Feel grateful because you HAVE a dad and he's still here and no matter how friggin' exhausted you are, you have multiple good friends, DEAR friends, whose dads died last year, or when they were kids, and they would kill to switch places with you right now." I didn't do any of that. But it's all stuff that now that the crisis is over, I think about and file away and know I will use.
It's just how writers are. Some variation on a journalist going through the detritus that is human emotion and lives. Writers pick over the garbage that it our messy existence, looking for pieces that are still good, that can be recycled. Or the stuff that's bad, but so fascinating we can use it.
So that's MY brain. How about yours? Do you ever have days where you just know--not then, maybe, but later--that you noticed what was probably invisible to everyone else?
See, instead of taking Dad to the doctor, we went to the E.R. And for one, LONG, grueling day, I was his advocate in the medical world. Tests, I.V.'s, morphine (and frankly, I would have paid good money had they injected that right into my arm the way the day was going, etc.). He's going to be fine. Me? I don't know. Him? He needs to LISTEN when I tell him to drink more fluids and eat. But I digress.
More bottom line? How about mid-morning, opening your writing file, closing it shut inside of five minutes, getting called away to take Dad to hospital, and on the way he makes you swear all sorts of promises about caring for your mother if something should happen to him? Like I wouldn't anyway. It was emotional, wrenching, and if you know hospitals, tiring.
So . . . I come home. Looking like the proverbial cat's bounty. And I was gone all day and evening. I have four kids. I was pounced on--fill out this form, write me a note, do this, do that. And Demon Baby? He actually came up, said, "Up." Told me he loved me and missed me, then proceeded to not let me go for two hours. Which makes writing notes, administering spelling tests, and laundry difficult. I had a proverbial monkey on my back. A Demon Baby on my back.
But here's the writer thing. You knew it was coming.
When I rise, knees hit floor. I pray. It's what I do. Then I do it all day long, I pray. I don't know if I talk to God, Buddha, the Universe, my grandma. It's a long, all-day conversation. Sometimes I just think I am talking to that higher part of me. Conversing with the me who tries to be a good person, the me who is capable to mentoring at-risk kids, and wrapping Christmas presents for low-income seniors this year. The me who is a good mother, not a tired and cranky and nauseous one. The me I aspire to be, who has goodness at heart. Who's capable of infinite patience. No matter . . . me and God, or me and this higher version of humanity, we talk. All day long.
But yesterday? It was less ongoing. It was more, "I don't want to even go there, so if you could just make this CAT scan be clear, God, that would be great." And then I internally shut up. There wasn't much point in cosmic conversation because I was too exhausted to hold up my end. It was more like, "God, just give me strength and let me know you're here once in a while. Okay?"
Until last night about 1:00 a.m. Then I prayed. I had time. I was awake. I was staring at the ceiling. I said thank you. A huge thank you. And not just because things are going to be fine. But because I was grateful that when the proverbial sh*t hits that proverbial fan, that I do feel a cosmic umbilical cord. That I do feel accompanied by grace. So I prayed.
AND THEN . . . here we go, gang. And THEN . . . once my brain was cleared of all THAT, I was free to think like a writer. And ALL THE THINGS I NOTICED were free to jam into my brain. They come as pictures and words at once. Fragments of ideas. And all of them were the things I noticed as a writer, that I am sure "regular" people don't. It's like in the Wizard of Oz. First Dorothy's world is black and white. Then it's Technicolor. I get to live on Technicolor all the time.
I noticed how when someone is old, medical personnel don't talk to them. They talk to YOU. Like the patient is a kid. I noticed that nurses have seemingly never-ending pockets, filled with syringes and tape, and scissors, and according to Dad's first nurse, her vitamins that she is always too busy on the floor to take until she remembers later. I notice that my father really IS blind. Not that I didn't notice before, but I spent 8 hours just staring at him and realizing he didn't KNOW I was staring. He has a fixed stare at something ahead of him, and his eyes are milky, kind of, and glazed, and half-shut, and he never looks at any of the medical people treating him, so they even MORE talk to me. I felt, all day, like a translater. Doctor says something, Dad says, "What?" I tell him. He tells me answer. I tell Doctor. It was like a tennis match. I noticed the CAT scan tech had the most unusual scar on his face, as if part of it had once been smashed in and then popped back out again, and it was kind of blue. I noticed that I now have to lean over the bed and touch my father so he knows I'm there. And that they can draw 15 vials of blood, and then he will ask "Did they take my blood yet?" I noticed all the machines beep like the old elevator at Gimbel's. so Dad and I had a running joke, "Lingerie, Third Floor." I noticed the curtains run on half-moon tracks. You get the idea.
And yes, I will use it all someday. Some hospital scene. It's just it dawned on me at 1:00 a.m., that non-writers don't do this. Maybe non-crazy people don't do this. It wasn't like I woke up yesterday and thought, "You know, if Dad has to go to the hospital, let me take mental notes to use in a scene someday." I didn't look at myself, feel my own emotions, and think, "You know, I will draw on this well of exhaustion so the next time I have a character who's in a crisis . . ." I didn't SCRIPT him to do the whole, "Make me this promise. Make this promise right now" thing. I didn't tell myself, in some scripted sense, "Feel grateful because you HAVE a dad and he's still here and no matter how friggin' exhausted you are, you have multiple good friends, DEAR friends, whose dads died last year, or when they were kids, and they would kill to switch places with you right now." I didn't do any of that. But it's all stuff that now that the crisis is over, I think about and file away and know I will use.
It's just how writers are. Some variation on a journalist going through the detritus that is human emotion and lives. Writers pick over the garbage that it our messy existence, looking for pieces that are still good, that can be recycled. Or the stuff that's bad, but so fascinating we can use it.
So that's MY brain. How about yours? Do you ever have days where you just know--not then, maybe, but later--that you noticed what was probably invisible to everyone else?
Labels: writer's brain
posted by Erica Orloff at 6:18 AM
22 Comments:
On New Year's Day, we had a barbeque.
I use a Weber kettle grill, but convert it into a smoker and use wood chunks. I was doing a brisket that day, which can require up to 7 hours of slow cooking.
It was warm out, and everybody was home, and I was sitting alone outside, by the grill. Because there were clouds in the sky, I had moved the grill under an overhang, next to a little stained-glass table, and about 15 feet away from a small shadehouse filled with blooming orchids. Thus, I could sit within arm's reach of my fire, reading a paperback and surrounded by orchids and tropical golden bamboo.
I read until a rain storm blew through. It was surprisingly heavy rain, and it came straight down. Suddenly, jets of water exploded off the roof and water sheeted off the overhang where I was sitting. But the fire and I were protected, even if chilled mist did blow through the overhang.
I closed my book and watched the rain for about 45 minutes. There was fire and water, both within a few feet, and I was absurdly grateful that the new year started with this brief window of solitude and peace and beauty and, yes, even contrast. I thought there was no place I'd rather be than watching the water bounce from my neighbor's shingles and run down the exposed roots of my orchids.
At moments like this, I always wish I could somehow capture the essence of it all and get it right, just once, on paper.
So true. And then I often find characters, even temporary ones, and situations that would shove them into that scene. Lots of scenes like that in drafts folder.
I'm sorry about your dad's medical problems, but happy to hear that he's doing better than you both had feared. It was wonderful of you to drop everything to take care of him like that.
Dear Erica,
I hope today is a better one for you and your dad.
Your excellent post is evidence that writers write even when they're not writing.
My husband loves to people watch in airports when he travels. He mentally files away what he finds interesting and useful.
Me, I thought everyone was like this until I got older and realized I was a creative case of nuts.
So sorry about your day. I hope you and your dad have a peaceful weekend.
jon:
Sounds like you got it about perfect.
E
hi booklady:
I go through likfe thinking, "OOh! I can use that."
Thanks for your kind thoughts.
E
tena:
Hadn't thought of it quite like that--I would have been more succinct and less rambling, had I. But yes, we're always writing. Even when we're not. Even when we think that we're not noticing.
E
heather:
Thanks!
Creative case of nuts. Yup. :-) Me, too.
E
Erica, thank God your father is better. I hope he listens to you now.
I notice things all the time -- I absorb them. And unlike your dad, I LISTEN. I love dialogue and often copy down comments that I think my characters can use.
I tend to notice wacky little anecdotes and how I'm going to fit them into a story later. Every weird story a friend tells me about someone they know goes into the idea book. I've been playing around with a rough draft for something new (even though I need another rough draft like I need a hole in my head) and I find I'm slipping more of this stuff in, because it just adds more texture.
Hey, ladies ... (cue Beastie Boys), I have a question for y'all.
I've been thinking about this all morning, actually, ever since I first read Erica's post and commented. I noted that my first inspiration was, um, devoid of people, that I draw inspiration from the natural world. Erica, meanwhile, draws her inspiration from the people around her.
I'm thinking about gender differences in the "writer's brain." I don't want to open a can of worms I can't close, but really, what are the differences in the ways men and women approach writing? (We certainly don't approach life the same way.) Are men more event-driven, less into emoting? Are women more character driven, more in tune with emotional/personal developments? Are men less dialogue heavy, more action-oriented? And how do these differences translate into the books we read, by the authors we enjoy?
Beautiful post, Erica. I'm always writing like that too, and I'm not sure whether non-writers do or not. Probably should ask someone. And all those moments with your dad came from a place of deep emotion. That's how you'll translate those scenes on paper. It's a beautiful way to write. And I love your Universe moments. So true.
Jon,
I think in general there are definitely tendencies toward certain things, natural inclinations. Its not that I think one gender is "better" than the other at any given thing just more natural at it in general and there are always exceptions. (Like there are women construction workers, but most of us...equality or not...just plain don't want to shovel in the dirt unless we're gardening.)
Women tend to be more emotionally in tune, but I've met a lot of emotionally sensitive men as well. Rather than gender, I think perhaps that the culture may play a large role. In the US at least, men are raised to behave and think a certain way and women are raised to behave and think a certain way. I'm not sure how much of it is nature and how much of it is nurture though.
Men also, in general in this culture aren't nurtured to be artists. A man that wants to be an artist has to go against the grain a bit.
Your post speaks to what I'm going through right now, as I try to help a close dear friend navigate dark waters.
And with the exhaustion and helplessness, the scared and the awful of the situation unfolding, I still see the details that someday I will write.
But right now, I think "God, just let us get through this day."
Glad to hear your dad is okay.
Hi Edie:
I don't know. May have to go stay with him in Florida a bit. We'll see. He's still under the weather and is supposed to travel this week.
Anyway, yes, absorb them--all the time.
E
Zoe:
Yes, this post was serious, but trust me, I use the absurd!
E
Jon:
I am sure there are gender-busting writers who don't fall along those lines. I look at myself how I go through life. I am decisive. I LOATHE shopping. I am as assertive as most "typical" men. I am the bread winner. I have alot of roles and reactions that are very traditionally "male."
On the flip side, motherhood especially, and my view of life spiritual, seems to make me a very porous person in that I feel so in tune to people, love people and dialogue and am very emotional in many ways.
I don't know if there's a decisive way one gender or the other. I know most romance writers ARE women. But . . . there are women who write thrillers.
It will be interesting to see what others think.
E
ladonna:
My parents are everything to me, along with my kids.
E
j.k.:
You describe it exactly. You're just "getting through" but you know you are absorbing it all, that you're changed by the evnt and then it will get into the writing.
E
Oh, Erica, goodness! You are having one heck of a winter. I'm still praying for lots of health for you guys!
Wow, powerful stuff. You connected some poignant dots in this post.
I like what Mr. Gruffydd said about prayer in "How Green Was My Valley:"
Prayer is only another name for good, clean, direct thinking. When you pray, think. Think well what you're saying. Make your thoughts into things that are solid. In that way, your prayer will have strength, and that strength will become a part of you, body, mind, and spirit.
stephen:
You made me cry.
One of my favorites. Movie was powerful too.
E
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