Why I Read, Why I Write

 

 

 

Why I read and Why I Write

 

Reading is like breath to me. A necessity. A doorway.  I began reading early. As soon as the letters turned into words and stories I dove into books. The truth is, I read nearly everything, from the daily newspaper to the back of the cereal box if there isn’t something better to read. I read because I have a curious soul; I want to know, to learn, to understand. 

Through the written word I can enter a magical place, a place where I can almost transform myself into someone else; where I could see with new eyes and hear with new ears—almost. I know that I cannot truly see through others eyes because my own particular shades will color the view, however slightly. I read anyway.

I read to understand myself. And in that wordy mirror I am find new ways and angles to view my own experience.  Sometimes that experience is twisted like a fun house mirror. Sometimes I am surprised to find my reflection in a story seemingly far removed from my own.  Sometimes the writer shocks me with the realization that it indeed my own face staring back at me.

Ellie Wiesel is one such writer; the book was Night.  That book rocked me to the core. I had thought I could read about his experiences in Auschwitz without danger of seeing myself in the story. I was wrong. His writing pulled me in to the camp. It was I who lay there wishing my father would just shut up already, hating myself at the same time because my need to survive outweighed, if only for a moment, my love for my father and my humanity. Gone was the smugness and unspoken judgment of those who had perpetrated these crimes against humanity. Now I was not sure I would not have turned in my neighbor, or that I would not have been Sieg Heil-ing with the rest of the German populace. I wept.

I expect the writers I read to honor a simple contract. To be true to the story they are telling. To not rely on tricks, emotional chain pulling or a twisty ending. I expect the writer to treat the reader with respect. I do not like writers who talk down to me. I want the writer to invest the characters with a spark of life, something that makes them more than a cardboard cut-out.

There are some kinds of stories I will not read. I will not read erotica—it is boring. I once went through the supermarket and cracked open random “romance” novels and read the sex scenes; they were remarkably similar. Sex is not what interests me in romance. What interest me is everything else in the romance formula: how two different people can overcome the things that separate them and find harmony together. I will not read gratuitous violence—stories that exist only to provoke fear and dread. The real world is scary enough.

~ ~ ~

Why do I write? I have been asking this question of myself this week. Or rather, I have asked these variations: Why do I think I can write? Why do I say it I am a writer when I have not been putting in the hours of hard work to sculpt the inchoate stories that I twist and turn in my brain while I lie in bed waiting for sleep?

I went to the SCBWI Carolinas Fall Conference last weekend. My last night I sat amid a group of working writers. One of them asked me if I was not lying to myself about my intentions because my reality was that I was not putting in the time every day to write. Her words gave me pause. Why was I self-sabotaging my stated goals? Fear? Fear that I am not a skilled enough writer to accomplish my dreams? Avoidance? Laziness? I am sure there is truth in all of these reasons.

A good analogy is my garden. I have an imaginary garden—it favors the English gardens of the multitude of Merchant-Ivory and BBC productions I have watched, with flowers everywhere waiting to be cut and tastefully arranged in white ceramic vases in the sitting room. The reason why this garden remains mostly imagined? To paraphrase Lizzy Bennett it is because I have not taken the trouble to actually pull the dang weeds. It takes effort, concerted effort over time. Just like writing.   

Consider this essay my shrive, my rededication to the craft.  

Which brings me back to the question: Why do I write? I write to be heard and understood. I write to express the stories welling up inside me, words that I hope will have the power to create an empathetic response in the reader.  I write with the knowledge that the more I write the better I will hone my craft. I write not to impose my view on the reader, but to share it with the reader, leaving enough space for the reader to find an independent interpretation.  

I write to entertain, but not as an end to itself. I want there to be meat on the bones, not a club to beat readers over the head with; no preaching allowed. I want to elicit genuine emotions—no tears jerked from eyes unearned. I want my reader to leave my story feeling they have gained something from the time and energy expended reading my story. I want my stories to find as wide a readership as possible, without compromising my own voice or perspective.

This is what I expect from myself as a reader and a writer. As I continue to devour books and struggle to create my own, I will keep these words in my mind, remembering that there are no shortcuts on this path I have chosen.

 

 

 

The Wise Fool

The Wise Fool

 He, O men, is the wisest, who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing.

-Plato, The Apology

          The other day, my son Alex asked me if I knew what the word sophomore meant. I knew the common definition, but I didn’t say so, restraining the urge to launch into a scene from My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding about the Greek roots of many English words—especially neologism like sophomore (I could practically hear my father break the word down in my head.)  Instead, I asked my son what it meant. “Wise Fool,” was the answer. He thought the meaning was funny, a contradiction in terms, made funnier because he was no longer a ‘wise fool,’ having just starting his junior year.

          We talked about what the Greek roots meant. Sophos meant wise; moros meant fool. Moros also happens to be the name of a minor Greek deity—the God of impending doom. Which makes sense in a weird, Henny-Penny sort of way. But back to this paradox of a word. Can a fool really be wise? Doesn’t wisdom preclude foolishness as a matter of course?

My answer – it depends.

There is a certain kind of wisdom that is foolishness.  I call it the wisdom that relies on limited knowledge to draw a far-reaching conclusion. Much like Henny-Penny, we can often mistake something as inconsequential as the falling of an acorn for disasters of Armageddon-like proportions.

There have been times in my life when I felt like the sky was falling. One particular time stands out to me. I was a sophomore in high school and I had a flare up in my rheumatoid arthritis. Both my elbows became hot and swollen, so much so that I could not touch my face. I could not brush me hair or teeth. I could barely dress myself, much less continue to play basketball on my high school team. I cried and cried—my life was over.

I was wrong. It wasn’t over; but it was going to be different. And it took some time to adjust. I had to go on a course of cortisone which had the unfortunate side effect of giving me a moon-face and making my already hairy eyebrows that much hairier. Not the look I was going for. Soon I was able to move my arms again, but my mood was still in the dumps. I remember wallowing in the hallways of school, miserable and depressed because I was focused on all the things that I lost—competitive sports, a less hairy face, any chance of getting asked out on a date. A friend noticed my despair and gave me some really helpful advice. She asked me how wallowing was helping me. And she said that although I may not be able to play volleyball and basketball anymore, I should look for things I could do with the restriction I did have.

I listened to what she said. It made a real impression on me. For the first time since I woke up with my elbows locked at forty-five degrees I stopped feeling like it was the end of the world. And I joined the speech and debate team. It is easy to look at my tenth grade self and see a fool. But I also see someone who was wise enough to listen, to learn to let go of things I could not control, and to learn to find happiness and gratitude for the opportunities I did have. I have needed to relearn this lesson many times in my life. I am still working on it.

Of course, Socrates would say we are all fools.

Our knowledge is always limited. That is one of the conditions of this life. I have recently started reading the complete works of Plato. I have only made my way through the Apology and the Crito. I freely admit my near complete ignorance on philosophy both ancient and modern. And the more I read, the more I am convinced of my ignorance. Each book or web article I read adds a tiny amount to my knowledge bank, but more often than not makes me acutely aware of how much I do not know. And yet, I am eager to learn.

The other day I subbed for a math class and whatever ability I had to work a quadratic equation has left my brain for good. When I got home I asked my husband for a refresher course. He acted like I was asking for directions on how to put on a pair of pants, as if this was something so basic as to not require explanation. My son commented he could work a quadratic equation in grade school.

It is a good thing I am comfortable playing the fool.

Wisdom, in my opinion, is not found in knowledge alone. It is found in the recognition that we are not the measure of all things. It is found in humility before God—the source of all good things. It is found in knowing God.

The apostle Paul puts it this way:

If any among you seemeth to be wise in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, He taketh the wise in their own craftiness. And again, the Lord knoweth the thoughts of the wise, that they are vain. (1 Corinthians 3:18)

Wisdom in this light becomes attainable because it is an act of faith and is found in submitting our will to God’s will.

Some people believe that belief in God is foolishness; that one might as well believe in a flying spaghetti monster in the sky as belief in God. Or that even if one grants it likely that there is some sort of creative force it is impossible for us to know its will and foolish to suppose it would see us as anything other than evolved bacteria.

My reply would only be that it is foolishness to think that we can prove God exists or does not exist. I would add that there are other ways to know besides the scientific method. That much of what we think we know, if we are absolutely honest with ourselves, is based on what we believe. Even mathematics is based on certain unprovable axioms that must be accepted in order for the rest of it to work. Isn’t that amazing?

It is through faith in God that I have experienced the divine in ways that are sacred to me. And in ways I realize that I cannot fully transmit to someone else. I can only say that through my faith I have found peace and happiness by following as best as I can the commandments of God—to develop charity, to forgive, to learn patience, self-control, integrity, to be generous.

It is through my faith in God that I am learning to let go of the things that do not matter. None of us gets out of this life alive, after all. When those terrible days come—and they will—I hope I can say with Job, “Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

In the meantime, I am content to be as wise of a fool as I can be.