creativity – Page 3 – Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow!

January 22, 2014January 27, 2014

A Tale of Two Driveways

I used to live next door to a guy who owned a snowblower the size of a French automobile. His name was Russ and he thought I was an idiot.

“Woo! Look at all the snow,” he announced to the world at large as he stepped out onto his side porch. The neighborhood was empty, save for me wielding my blue plastic shovel. Russ figured I was a better audience than nobody.

“Mike. Mike. Mike. What do you think? Ten inches? Twelve?”

“Seven, maybe,” I replied as I paced back and forth pushing my shovel. Talking about the weather was no reason to pause in my work — especially if the person I was talking to was Russ.

“Seven? No! Ten. Probably 12 or 13,” he corrected me. “Hey. Once I’m done with my snowblower, you can use it.”

I kept shoveling. “No, thanks.”

“Really?! You’re gonna break your back doing…that…when my snowblower could do your whole driveway in five minutes?”

“I like to shovel.”

Russ snorted. “Suit yourself,” he said. The tone of his “suit yourself” could only be interpreted one way: “Suit yourself, you idiot.”

Then Russ went back inside his house. He still had to throw on a light jacket to prepare for his snowblowing adventure. Sure it was 20 degrees, but there’s no need to bundle up for a job that takes only five minutes.

Although I would never have accepted anything from Russ, I was being honest with him. I enjoy shoveling. It’s quiet. Nothing is better at deadening noise than a fresh blanket of snow and, when I am out there, I hear little more than my shovel scraping along the asphalt. I’ve grown to find the sound lovely — not because it is an intrinsically appealing sound, but because I associate it with an appealing state of mind.

I also refuse the offers of well-meaning neighbors wielding leafblowers. Raking works for me in very much the same way shoveling does. Both tasks require a certain degree of focus but are freeing enough to let your mind wander or, in my case, go pleasantly, refreshingly blank.

That quiet mind, I’ve discovered, is often the lull before a creative storm; when I finish shoveling and get back to work, I am rarely more productive. My brain is rested and ready to go, my ideas flow with little effort, and my happiness is total.

On this particular snow shoveling day, however, my mind couldn’t get as blank as I would’ve liked. I was still delighted, however. For there, woefully underdressed and cursing under his breath, was Russ failing to get his snowblower started.

I couldn’t help myself.

“Want to borrow my shovel?”

“No!” Russ spat as he gave the cord its 20^th white knuckled pull.

I wanted to say “suit yourself,” but I couldn’t do it. It is such a smug and jerky phrase, isn’t it? Regardless, I entered my house with a happy heart. I had just shoveled seven or maybe 13 inches of snow. I felt useful, rested, and vaguely fit. Better yet, I could see a pot of coffee and an afternoon of inspired writing in my immediate future.

January 14, 2014January 17, 2014

Creativity and the Commuter

Last Friday I rear-ended a truck while driving to work. I wasn’t going fast or being careless, the roads were just terrible. Long sheets of ice, really. All I could do was skid and brace myself for the collision.

After the impact, we pulled over to assess the damage.

“Wow!” Truck Guy exclaimed, looking at the nose of my car, which sported a grille cracked in several places and a flapping bumper. “I didn’t think that little hit would do so much damage!”

“It didn’t,” I replied. “I did that five minutes ago when I hit a telephone pole.”

Truck Guy laughed appreciatively.

Then there was a pause.

“Wait. You serious?”

I was.

My average speed for the rest of my journey was, I think, 3 mph – because when I hit that pole at 12 mph, and then the truck at 7 mph, I was being just too dang reckless.

As I puttered along, cursing my luck all the way, I reflected on the commute I had 20 years ago. I worked in New York City. It was a much longer haul than the one I have now (two plus hours, as opposed to an-hour-and-a-half) but it was by train. And, like the road less traveled, that had made all the difference.

A train is a perfect place for reading, so I delved into books that I probably should’ve read in high school.

I read about Trees Growing in Brooklyn and fell madly in love with the bookish, myopic Francie.

I read 1984, fruitlessly hoping that Orwell put a happy ending in there somewhere.

I read Kafka who, by comparison, made Orwell look like Dale Carnegie.

I wondered why Victor Frankenstein lacked the parental love so very evident in his comedic alter ego, Victor Frahnkensteen.

A good parent. Pay attention, Mary Shelly! — Pay attention, Mary Shelly. Your Victor should’ve been like this guy.

I fantasized about being the travel companion of Mark Twain, or better still, John Steinbeck.

And I read Nectar in a Sieve, a book that should’ve been titled Just One Damn Thing After Another.

It was a great way to get to work.

But that was only the New Jersey Transit part of my journey. I stopped reading once I got to Hoboken. After I hopped onto the PATH Train, which scooted me under the Hudson River and up to 33^rd Street, I switched from reading to writing.

Back then my passion was theatre, and the PATH, with its herky-jerky motions, frequent stops, and Subway-ish vibe, seemed to be a fine place to come up with authentic dialogue.

From 33^rd Street, I walked the 10 blocks to my office, where I could reflect on what I had written and/or read.

At the time I was a graphic designer. I hated the job. A lot. I was lousy at it, too. That decadent commute, however, made it all sort of OK. No matter how badly my day went, I knew it would end with me writing on the PATH and reading on the train.

Now the situation is reversed. I have a job I enjoy very much – one that allows me to stretch myself intellectually and creatively – but my day is book-ended by a hellish commute. To get to work I drive on both the Garden State Parkway and the New Jersey Turnpike. And then I motor down the side streets of hick towns – places where salt truck drivers are not considered Essential Personnel.

By the time I come home, I am exhausted and crabby and uneager to write and read. “I wrote and read during my entire workday,” I tell myself. “Isn’t that enough?”

At this point I would love to write: “Well, no, it is NOT enough! Despite how tired and crabby I am, I continue to write and read! I am a writer and a reader! Writers and readers must always write and read!”

But I can’t, because, well, sometimes after getting home from work, I choose to sit on my butt and reach for a second glass of wine. One such day was Fender Bender Friday.

I think that’s OK.

My point is, don’t beat yourself up if you decide to get out that corkscrew once in a while. Your mind is not always going to be in the right place. Your schedule is not always going to be kind. We can’t all spend several hours a day on trains. If you truly love writing, you will find and make the time to write. The time might not be every single day, but the time will reveal itself.

As for me, I soon made up for my lazy Friday. I got in a whole lot of writing time the other day. I worked for hours and hours without a break. I was sitting in a molded plastic chair waiting for the nice man to replace my bumper.

June 2, 2013

Waffles With Writers: Tara Lazar

Welcome to the second installment of my interview show, Waffles with Writers! Every month I chat with a working writer over a nice, waffle-centric meal.

Today’s brunch companion is Tara Lazar, whose first book, The Monstore, hits stores this week. Two other titles are hot on its heels: I Thought This Was a Bear Book (Aladdin, 2014) and Little Red Gliding Hood (Random House, 2015). If that wasn’t enough, this September her essay “Grow Up. Be Serious. Oh, Nevermind!” will be published in the YA anthology Break These Rules (Chicago Review Press).

Long story short, Tara is busy.

***

Mike: Good morning, Tara! The waffles are just about ready and– Um…I know I’m serving breakfast food, but I didn’t expect you to arrive wearing jammies. Do you find that jammies work well with your writing lifestyle?

Tara: Of course! All my life I wanted a job that required me to work in jammies. Since the Macy’s mannequin and midnight boogeyman assassin positions were already filled, being a children’s author was the next best thing.

Congrats on your first book, The Monstore, by the way! I’ve always liked monsters. If you could customize your very own monster, what would be some of his main attributes?

I think I will borrow a monsterly attribute dreamed up by a student from Mrs. Mozer’s second grade class: a monster that shoots cupcakes out of its foot.

Why its foot?

Well, it’s better than from the mouth, I say. That would be an ABC Cupcake (Already Been Chewed).

Seriously, how cool is this Monstore illustration?

In addition to your writing skills, you are also an accomplished figure skater. If you were to compete at the 2016 Winter Olympics, which 1980s pop ballad would you choose to accompany your routine?

“Rio” by Duran Duran. Because she “dances on the sand,” so it would be a hot, beachy number. If you haven’t noticed, ice arenas are really, really cold.

You recently introduced your daughter to a number of episodes from The Brady Bunch – and shame on you. Is there anything about that show that could help a writer improve his craft?

You can often learn by non-example. The Brady Bunch writers came right out with the lesson, smacking you the way Alice whacked that award-winning sculpture of Mr. Brady’s head.

Mike Brady would tell his kids the lesson with a stern yet loving stare, or the kids would repeat the lessons aloud for themselves (and the audience). When Jan campaigned for most popular girl, she made many promises but didn’t keep them. Her entire family admonished her for not making good on her promises, but she ignored them. At the end of the show, Jan finally learns her lesson and reads a speech apologizing for her selfish ways. Instead of showing that Jan was sorry, the writers told everyone she was sorry. I guess they only had 22 minutes and had to tie things up neatly with a bow. I say leave neat bows for gifts, not stories. Nothing ends on that perfect a note.

Have you ever discovered a good nugget of writing on The Brady Bunch?

How about “Oh, my nose!”?

In addition to the children’s book thing, you and I have something in common: we both headed up public relations departments. Let’s see if you still have the old magic: You work for BP. In 100 words or less, please put a positive spin on a two million-gallon oil spill off the coast of Atlantic City.

Come on down the shore! Just bring a bottle of balsamic and there’s free salad dressing for all! Bon appetite!

Yep. You’ve still got it. You once mentioned that you collect junk for inspiration. What is the junkiest thing that has ever inspired you?

Junkiest thing that ever inspired me has to be a piece of shriveled pepperoni.

What did it inspire?

A pizza story, silly! What else?

What is the junkiest thing you own that you hoped would provide inspiration, but hasn’t?

A chipped, miniature ceramic kitten with a ball of blue and red string. I thought it was really cute and would make a good writing mascot, but I’m perplexed because I don’t even like cats and I have no intention of writing a cat manuscript. Yes, we writers can be strange.

Well, thank you so much for stopping by, Tara! It was a pleasure. Would you like to grab a piece of junk from my house as a souvenir?

May I have that rusty bicycle wheel in your garage? With writing, you gotta just keep rolling on…