Nothing is more important than reconnecting with your bliss. Nothing is as rich. Nothing is more real.
~Deepak Chopra
My favorite things about today’s quote may not be readily apparent. In fact, it took me a bit to figure it out myself. You know how when you look at a piece of art, hear a great piece of music, take a bite of a great piece of food – you know you really like it, you just having trouble putting the words to the feeling. Then I realized my appreciation is in three parts.
First, he uses the word “reconnecting.” This word is totally encouraging. It suggests that bliss separation happens. We shouldn’t feel inadequate or inept if we find ourselves in a funk. We can be encouraged that it has happened to others as it is happening to us, and we can reconnect.
Second, he calls the bliss reconnection “real” – and it is. How many of us have gone through those darker periods? We consider those to be very real. In the same truth, moments of bliss have to be real as well. However, we fail to trust the realness of the lighter moments as fear tells us they are little less that vapor and imagination, therefore they will vanish quickly so let’s not get too excited. But the bliss is real and can be believed in.
Finally, and most importantly, Chopra does not define what the bliss is. He does not tell us how our inner spirit manifests or identifies this bliss. I personally find this connection spiritually via a theology that I have faith in. But I will tell you there have been periods in my life where that connection was confused and shaky. How encouraging it is to know that bliss is not judgement or condemnation but inner strength and light – and call that what you will.
Today, I encourage us all to identify our bliss. Remember that it is real, it is yours and it is up to you to define and hold on to. We are not talking about a superficial feel good moment that comes and goes with the change of the seasons. We are talking about the inner spark of immutable light that connects our authentic selves to the rest of humanity and beyond. It is characterized by goodness, strength and possibility. It is yours, ours, for the connecting.
Scholars, educators, and (often bored) high school students continue to discuss the internal motivations and the external ramifications of Charlotte Brontë’s 1847 novel Jane Eyre ad nauseum. As a work overall and as a character in particular, critiques offer Jane Eyre as one of the forerunners into the feminist movement, resisting the suppression of the colonizers and patriarchy via asserting her own autonomy for at least herself, if not the entire female gender. While many have put forth pages of supporting ideas – the rebellion against the Reeds, the mistreatment by Brocklehurst, the refusal of Edward Rochester – a closer comparison of the novel to the argument, in particular the argument put forth by Rachel Willis in her 2018 essay “A Man is Nothing without the Spice of Devil in Him: Jane Eyre and Edward Rochester Navigate an Imperially-Inscribed Masculinity,” defeats said ideas in its contradiction. Considering the often-used and intersectional post-colonial and feminist approaches, the contradiction created leaves Jane Eyre, while still beautifully written, little more than a genre romance. By allowing the generic labeling of any male of authority as “the colonizer” or any female protagonist as a “feminist,” the actual harbingers and instigators of change lose their effectiveness amid the noise of the distracting inconsistencies.
For any dear readers out there, please stick with me. I will in no way mar the dignity of our beloved Miss Eyre. To be sure, Brontë’s work, in my opinion, deserves its place in the literary cannon. Brontë was certainly pioneering in the 19th century with her characterization of an orphaned governess who has designs for her life that do not include the pursuit of happiness through the custom of her society of the day, specifically the goal to marry well. It is true that Eyre is a different type of female protagonist. Furthermore, I do not subscribe to the common notion that romance is less than in relation to other types of genre fiction. Romance, as a literary contribution, holds as much validity in the realm of “great” reading as any other genre. That it has an expected arc –development of two main characters that revolve around the culmination of a romantic relationship – in no way excludes it from the capability of being intelligently and substantially written. To put a stronger point on it, I agree with the idea presented by Neal Wyatt and Joyce G. Saricks in their 2019 The Readers’ Advisory Guide to Genre Fictionwhen they began their discussion of the genre by emphasizing:
That Romance remains a literary punching bag does not reflect well on our cultural moment, and it is perhaps beyond the scope of this chapter to illuminate all the ways a genre largely written and read by women is still undervalued, even as it accounts for over a third of fiction sales. (215)
In fact, this one statement launches an entirely different discussion about why it is more important that Jane Eyre own the classification as romance fiction. Eyre has been pigeonholed into the role of the protofeminist. The unintended consequence of this mischaracterization is a furthering of the incorrect notion that, because it appeals to primarily women, romance fiction is not bona fide in its own right. There is quite the argument to be made that the subjugating of romance fiction is a more supportable example of abuse by the patriarchy than that attributed to Rochester. While not the scope of this particular paper, I think the ideas will show themselves. At the very least, I hope these clarifications and accolades of both Brontë and the romance genre will assure those who hold the book as beloved that my intention is to elevate both rightfully and not to tear down either unnecessarily simply for arguments sake.
To be sure, Eyre is not a woman any other self-respecting woman would attempt to tear down. Brontë has created in her an admirable character. It may be tempting to regard the novel as historical fiction when a present-day reader enters its pages. This would be a mistake. Brontë penned the work in a setting that was contemporary to her own. The age difference between the author and her character is not a marked one. Therefore, Brontë is not creating a character that exists in a time period different from her own. This being true, unless a reader is disregarding the author on the whole, Eyre must be evaluated in the scope of her day since that is the period in which Brontë placed her. To this end, it is useful to consider the intersectionality of influences using the protocol as explained by Margret Andersen and Patricia Hill Collins; specifically, the social structure of Brontë, and thus Eyre, is important to consider so that Eyre’s gender, race, and class identity can be approached in its proper framework (4-5). When cogitated in this manner, it is Eyre’s social environment that must be considered before her femaleness is evaluated.
Inside this social environment, Eyre cannot develop into anything other than what the patriarchy has formed for her before her birth primarily and after the death of her parents certainly. Brontë gives us a child who sees herself as unharmonious, unloved, unwanted, and frankly stated, “a noxious thing” (226). While some feminists may have gotten their start this way, Eyre does not live in a time with that ideal. What may be more universal, and thus more plausible, is that of childhood trauma, which, if nothing else, this certainly is. What Brontë gives us is an origin story that is very close to being idyllic. Eyre is born to parents that, by all accounts, love each other and, so one could assume, would have loved her had they lived. When they die, Eyre is again offered the opportunity of childhood affection from her uncle, Mr. Reed, the brother of Eyre’s mother. Brontë makes it clear that Mr. Reed loved his niece and would, had he also lived, made every opportunity available to her as if she were his own daughter. Unfortunately, he dies as well, leaving Eyre’s care to an aunt, the widowed Mrs. Reed, coerced into a deathbed promise to take care of the young girl. This is where Eyre’s luck runs out and the patriarchy takes over. The new “man of the house” is the easily unlikable John Reed, Mrs. Reed’s only son. John Reed’s enjoyment of tormenting the young Eyre and using his position to both exert his dominance and reducing Eyre to subordinate is easily seen in his assertion to her that, “you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen’s children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama’s expense” (Brontë 141). Compounding this oppression, Mrs. Reed supported her son’s abuse as she herself was jealous of the affection her husband afforded both Eyre and her mother. This jealousy created and immediate hatred of the child, a hatred that resulted in a dampened childhood development and, as such a girl who gave no delight, not because she did not want to, but because there was no one to delight in her. Brontë ensures this conclusion is not speculation in the relationship with Helen Burns and Maria Temple. It is in these relationships that Eyre is given the opportunity to step into her own potential and find connection in acceptance. Once free to explore her own capabilities, she proves to be a person who can learn, love, and survive.
While the background may seem extensive, its establishment is required to understand the points of disagreements to the arguments presented that Brontë intended to illuminate the feminist nature of Eyre and the colonization attempts by Rochester as argued by Willis. In her essay, Willis supports the opinion that Eyre is a feminist figure and Rochester the colonizing patriarchy. While well written and agreeable on some points (with a ridiculously catchy title), on the whole the comparisons do more to dilute the discussion than advance it.
In order to establish a colonization argument, there must be both a colonized and a colonizer. Willis attempts to do this by placing Eyre as the colonized with the entire patriarchy as the colonizer – specifically, Christianity, Brocklehurst, and Rochester (248). Willis employs previous documented arguments that Brontë introduces Eyre as a body to be colonized by “feminist orientalism allow[ing] Brontë to critique patriarchal oppression in the West by displacing it onto Eastern or colonial locations” (246). This idea would be interesting except that it completely overlooks the whole of Eyre’s background and dismisses large swaths of Brontë’s story as discussed. Eyre’s original oppressors (abusers) were her family. Eyre’s original condemner was her aunt who was supported by Mr. Brocklehurst. Her nemesis was British society, not the “other” Mrs. Rochester. The oppression of Eyre was in no way meant to make her useful or exploitable; no one that Eyre had come into contact with during her childhood (who was still alive) had any use for her. The goal was to make her disappear. John Reed assaulted her whenever she was in his sight. Mrs. Reed sent her away to boarding school and lied about her death. Brocklehurst attempted to shame her into nonexistence. There was no attempt at colonization – the goal was extermination. Further, Willis’ contradicts her own position on Christianity by making it both the colonizer and the means by which she resists the alleged colonization by Rochester (248, 255). Conveniently, the supportive embodiments of Christianity – Burns and Temple – are disregarded in this conversation. Christianity, as presented by Brontë, is morally fluid; it is the behavior of those who claim it that produce effect. It is in the Christianity of Brocklehurst that Brontë offers oppression, Burns and Temple, redemption, Diana and Mary Rivers, compassion, St. John Rivers, self-promoting servitude. Each uses the platform in their own way and means. The righteousness or lack thereof is outside of the scope of this particular discussion, except to determine that as the more appropriate discussion of Christianity’s placement in Brontë’s work – not its function as colonizer.
The strongest case for colonization is made against Rochester. He alone of the Willis accused actually desires for Eyre to bend to his wants for his pleasure. But that is not the sole requirement for colonization. If ability and intention is not addressed, the purpose of colonization cannot be established. In the person of Rochester, Willis approaches him as a shallowly created character, nothing more than a white, second born son with a “tenuous,” “marginalized,” and “compromised masculinity” (249, 253, 252). To be sure, there are many a men who have fit that description who have attempted (and succeeded) colonization. In fact, a case could be made (although again, not in this paper), that is exactly the type of masculinity colonization requires. However, in the same way that Eyre’s history was disregarded in order to build a predetermined case, so too has Rochester’s. While not abused in the same sense as Eyre, Brontë ensured that Rochester’s less than supportive childhood was obvious. In the same way Willis expects the reader to look past the individual abuse laid on Eyre in favor of colonized, we are expected to ignore the individual challenges experienced by Rochester in support of his demonization as the colonizer. He was the second son to a father who had no desire to split his wealth. Rochester describes him as an “avaricious, grasping man” (Brontë 5352). About his marriage to Bertha Mason, Rochester recounts to Eyre concerning the probability of despair, “My father and my brother Rowland knew all this; but they thought only of the thirty thousand pounds, and joined in the plot against me” (Bronte 5377). Taking all things into account, could Rochester be a colonizer? I suppose if that was the answer I was looking for I could claw at it. But is it not more plausible that Edward Rochester was a broken-hearted man who was overlooked by a father he could never please, overshadowed by a brother he could never equal, married to a woman he could never hold, wanted by a society he could never honestly enter? And does this not make him more akin to a damaged love interest in a romance novel than a colonizer in a statement work? In fact, Willis herself is forced to acknowledge (so that maybe the precarious nature of her argument is overlooked) that, “A closer look at the language Brontë uses to describe Rochester reveals this positioning as both colonizer and colonized” (250). While I must concede that this approach is at least intellectually honest, I do not agree that it does enough to sway the scales away from romantic love interest to patriarchal colonizer.
“She is attempting to find a place in which she can both delight and be delighted in. This is not feminism; this is individualism. This is a beautifully written romance novel.”
April Trepagnier
As stated, it is necessary to have a colonizer if there is to be a colonized. In my estimation, Rivers is the only character that comes close to that description. As he is never mentioned in Willis’ argument, nor does he come close to achieving his pursuit of Eyre, I feel confident in relegating him to little more than a handy plot progressor – an alternate love interest that gives our independent Miss Eyre a choice in her romantic story arch. This creates a difficulty for the feminist credentials attributed to Eyre; as there is no colonizer, Eyre cannot be the victim of attempted colonization. If there is no attempted colonization, what, then, is Eyre rebelling against to assert her personhood of the female gender? Where is, as bell hooks so eloquently defined, is Eyre’s involvement in the “movement to end sexism, sexist exploitation, and oppression” (viii)? At every turn – Gateshead Hall, Thornfield, Moor House – Eyre is not fighting for the equality of humanity without the influence of gender, she is not attempting to tear down the patriarchy, she is not raging at the advancement of colonization through forced religion. She is attempting to find a place in which she can both delight and be delighted in. This is not feminism; this is individualism. This is a beautifully written romance novel.
I feel it necessary to return to my previous assertion that, as genre fiction, Jane Eyre is a lovely and substantial literary offering. Additionally, that Eyre has overcome frightening amounts of abuse and disdain with her will to be her authentic self without settling for less than she feels she deserves is remarkable, especially coming from a female author in 1847. That Eyre is not a protofeminist or Rochester a colonizer does not in any way dilute the powerful tale of perseverance, journey towards true self, and the desire for love and family against the backdrop of seemingly insurmountable challenges. I will also freely admit that it is my opinion that we are all allowed to interrupt literature in the way we feel appropriate. However, to assert that all women are feminist, and all men are patriarchal oppressors, creates the exact distraction that hooks combats:
“I tend to hear all about the evil of feminism and the bad feminists: how ‘they’ hate men; how ‘they’ want to go against nature- and god; how ‘they’ are all lesbians; how ‘they’ are taking all the jobs and making the world hard for white men, who do not stand a chance” (vii).
If the struggle to educate those who do not understand or have never been exposed to the ideology of patriarchal tyranny, class subjugation, or racial oppression is made more difficult because of (probably) well-meaning attempts to point it out even when maybe it is not there, then we would be more responsible as humans to put the betterment of humanity ahead of our individuality of interpretation. As with the fable of the little boy who cried wolf, the real danger that actually does exist will be unheeded, unrecognized, unthwarted due to the conditioning and desensitization that occurs – if everything is a wolf, then nothing is.
As an aside before I close, here is one more interesting observation that again, while not in the scope of this paper, lends a bit of color to my disagreement. For an essay written to defend the decolonization and celebrate the feminism of one independent Miss Jane Eyre, that Willis consistently refers to Edward as “Rochester” and Eyre as “Jane” really takes the cake.
Being in control of your life and having realistic expectations about your day-to-day challenges are the keys to stress management, which is perhaps the most important ingredient to living a happy, healthy and rewarding life.
~Marilu Henner
I just accomplished the rarely achieved and the utterly unexpected – I slept for nearly 12 hours. I walked in the door last night, kissed the family and laid down on the bed. That was it until coffee time. I felt pretty good and profusely thanked my dear husband who, with four children, had to have worked very hard to leave me uninterrupted. His response, “No worries baby, you must have really needed it.”
Needed it maybe, but probably not deserved. I have been really slack lately on listening to my body and managing my health. Stress is a natural occurrence in life. I do not find it evil or good. As far as I am concerned, stress is amoral. It just is. My ability to name it, handle it and work with it is where the opportunity lives.
It has been overly easy with the hustle and bustle of summer, the desire to perform professionally, the interest in moving my writing forward and the ever ball of excitement that is my home to throw up my hands and say, “well, it’s just not going to happen.” It is exceptionally simple to say, time, money, opportunity, resources are limited, therefore, I get a pass in paying attention to the habits and techniques that not only balance my stress but allow me to be an overall healthier person.
I hear an abundance of excuses, how about you? Now admittedly, some of our excuses are legitimate. The last thing I want is for you to think that I am coming from a standpoint that says you fail if you can’t figure it all out. I certainly am not. I could not, at this time, spend hours a day in the gym, hire a personal trainer or spring on my children a whole new dinner menu. I don’t expect most folks could.
But, I can stop talking about what I can’t do in this area and start focusing on what I can. Seems to me to be a far more positive, if not productive, means of confronting the challenge and communicating with myself.
Today, I encourage you to name that thing that you know would benefit you in some way – health, stress, finances – whatever. If you are anything like me, you have already considered all the “can’t” reasons. Try for a moment to find the baby steps. Redefine the win. Where are the small, doable “cans”? This morning, it has become clearly obvious to me that this is one thing I must do. I can’t think of many days where a 12 hour sleep cycle will support my schedule. And the husband, as gracious as he was, shouldn’t have to either. Racking the body and the mind until it collapses into a coma is not the smartest way to handle life – and we all know how much we love the smarter way!
You can package gratitude with insight and proceed accordingly
– Ruthie Parmett
Proceed accordingly. Those two words seem so simple. Maybe to some they are. For me, it is a constant battle as I often get hung up on both points. Proceed. Accordingly.
Let’s have the dictionary define some terms, shall we? Dr. Rago, my Literary Theory professor, would say, “No we shall not.” She would say that I needed to tell you what the terms mean for myself. I would absolutely agree with her. Except, I am not always sure what I think those words mean, so I fall back on established semantics.
Track with me for just a bit. I’ve jumped ahead and I know a little bit about where this is going. It’s a weird ride, but, hey, it’s how my brain works.
Proceed – begin or continue a course of action
Accordingly – in a way that is appropriate to the particular circumstances
Appropriate – suitable or proper in the circumstances
Suitable – right or appropriate for a particular person, purpose, or situation
Proper – of the required type; suitable or appropriate
Now that the definition of two words has moved us into the definition of several words, a problem presents itself; there are repeating words. These words, with the exception of “proceed,” are used to define each other. How much help is that?
Why do I need help to begin with? Look, I have not been shy in this space about my struggles with fear. Interestingly, the topic has come up in other spaces lately and the general consensus is my propensity to be fearful is a surprise to a good many people. I appreciate that. It means that I am doing better. My issue at the moment is that I do not feel like I am getting better. The chasm between those two things is formidable.
Make no mistake; I am proud of doing. I know the work it took, and continues to take, to get here. But I am ready. I am ready for the getting. I am ready to move past the “fake it til you make” idea. I never really liked it to begin with, but life goes on and I have to be here for it. You do what you have to do to not waste any more time. I assure you I have wasted my fair share. I. Am. Ready. For. The. Getting.
And that’s the message I took Ruthie, my beloved therapist, this week. We had an exceptionally hard session last week. It was bitter, and sad, and hard. It broke me in a way that I can’t (and won’t try to) describe. It was needed, it was necessary, and it was unwelcomed. I went to sleep last Wednesday achingly sad. I woke up last Thursday pissed off.
You see, I have no idea where all of this comes from. I have no clue, no wound, no instance, no tangible thing that I can point to and hang the “this is why I am this way” flag. And because there is no thing, there is no monster to defeat, no amends to make, no forgiveness to offer, no responsibility to take – there’s nothing. Oh sure, there’s theory, possibility, and perhaps. But you can’t hang this kind of thing on a maybe. So here I am, sure that I am worthy of every good thing, but I don’t feel that I am worthy. And I don’t know why, and I can’t ever remember not feeling this way, and it’s been 40ish years, and I am smarter than this, I am more capable than this, yet here we are.
And I am pissed.
I am so angry that I almost canceled this week’s session. I am not pissed with Ruthie. She’s one of the biggest reasons I have gotten as far as I have. But I had a dinner party scheduled for Wednesday night and if there was going to be a repeat of last week right before that, I was not interested. But running from that kind of thing never works. I knew if I did that, I would just spend the rest of the day feeling like a coward. I decided to take my chances with Ruthie.
“I almost cancelled today. I don’t know that I want to do this. I am pissed off and I have people coming over and I am not having another week like last week. I am over it. I am thankful that I am functional, I am. But I am ready to be fixed.”
Ruthie doesn’t even bother to explain the obvious; I am not broken. We have been together long enough to where we both know that’s not what I mean.
“I know we don’t use checkboxes, but you have got to give me something. I know we have been doing triage and I’m a little all over the place, and we’ve never really worked like this before, but I need something different.”
Let me take this opportunity to tell you my therapist has one of the smuggest grins on the planet. I love it when it appears because I know she is fixing to pull out some real next level genius therapist shit.
The next 55 minutes are magical. We have plans, we have purpose, I’m taking notes, I can literally see the steps in my brain. Connections of years of trying to move through, understand, prioritize, evaluate, triage, function, start to come together in a glorious way.
I am filled with gratitude.
It is then I am reminded of something she said the week before.
“I can’t get myself together. I am so overwhelmingly sad. What am I supposed to do with all this? I know we had to get here, but now I don’t know where to go next.”
“Your sad because it is sad. It’s devastatingly sad. But now you have it, and you can grieve it.”
“But there is no ‘it.’ There is only all this.”
“Except you have more and you can find what serves you and let go of what doesn’t. You have it in you to package gratitude with insight and proceed accordingly.”
What she meant was that my trauma is unfortunate and in the past; we can’t change it. But we can find the moments in and/or around the trauma(s) to be grateful using the insight in ourselves. It is in that gratitude that we find our way out of the hurt and into the healing.
I still don’t know what “proceed accordingly” means. But I am working super hard on the former. I have complete confidence that the latter will come. When coaching me in my abysmal pool game, Daddy always tells me, “Take the easy shots first. The hard ones will come.”
I love book clubs. There is something about surrounding yourself with folks who have the same passion as you – especially when the field is so broad (i.e. books) that you never ever run out of things to talk about and the opinions are never the same.
I have found Goodreads to be one of the best resources for all thing book opinion related. It contains sufficient general book information (publication date, length, genre), great synopses, and reviews aplenty. I have to admit I have not given this site the attention it deserves. Changing that is a goal. If you are active there, let’s be friends https://www.goodreads.com/lionsbride
From Goodreads: This is the story of how a haughty former sorority girl went from having a household income of almost a quarter-million dollars to being evicted from a ghetto apartment… It’s a modern Greek tragedy, as defined by Roger Dunkle in The Classical Origins of Western Culture: a story in which “the central character, called a tragic protagonist or hero, suffers some serious misfortune which is not accidental and therefore meaningless, but is significant in that the misfortune is logically connected.”
In other words? The bitch had it coming.
The bitch is Lancaster herself. I was in.
There’s quite the divide between readers of this book. Lancaster is self reportedly obnoxious, rude, self-absorbed, petty, materialistic, and privileged. The messes that she gets into are nearly all directly related to her tone-deaf walk through her Prada life. There are readers who can’t stomach her for all these reasons.
I am the other reader. I think it is because I am also a writer. As a writer, I can’t imagine the head voices Lancaster had to quiet to get so real about herself. She pulls no punches – even though the heavy bag is her own flawed self. She is raw, authentic, open, honest. And she does so without being overindulgent, whiny, or pitiful. She isn’t looking for a pass or sympathy – she is looking for honestly and connection. I respect the shit outta that.
If you are looking to be pissed off at an overprivileged white lady, Lancaster makes it super easy to get what you want. However, I think you’d be missing the point. Lancaster (in an attempt to not give away the whole story) writes about her previous self with the advantage of her growing self. What results is a cheeky offering of her journey with an obvious understanding of how ridiculous her behavior was.
I enjoyed reading the funny way in which Lancaster offered up the previous version of herself in such a way that showed both unconditional self-love and a desire to be a better person. There may be better goals, but, in my opinion, this one is pretty damn solid.
The highest courage is to dare to appear to be what one is. ~ John Lancaster Spaulding
Transparency. In today’s world, this item is becoming more and more important. With the soaring popularity of Web 2.0 interactions such as Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn, it is possible for people to become whom ever they choose – and we would be none the wiser.
It can be tempting to assume a persona that is not truly our own. Many times, we feel under equipped, over shadowed, and unappreciated. In order to move around these feelings, our voice becomes inauthentic.
However, this manner of practice seldom works and never lasts long. The good news is, you don’t need it all. Your family, friends, associates, and clients deal with you because they trust and depend on you. This is a huge responsibility and requires dedication and hard work. Don’t make it harder by attempting to upkeep a façade.
The uniqueness of ourselves is the thing that makes us wonderful. The display of that is a step on the road to greatness!
I have never seen the movie Capote. I suppose I should. Honestly, I had never heard of Truman Capote until the movie came out in 2005. Now my children are reading In Cold Blood as part of their high school curriculum. Perhaps the difference is the time. In the late 80’s, early 90’s when I went through high school myself, maybe enough time had not passed for the 1966 novel to be considered worthy. Perhaps that it failed to win the Pulitzer where it’s contemporary To Kill a Mockingbird did and, was required reading when I was in high school.
(As an aside and interesting coincidence – I learned that Capote and Harper Lee were best friends. Moreover, Lee went to Holcomb with Capote to help him research the Cutter murders. But I get ahead of myself.)
Anywho. Once In Cold Blood found its way on to my children’s high school reading list, it, as many of those titles do, found its way onto my TBR. YA is not my favorite genre. It is tough sometimes to get interested in what the kids are reading. Therefore, when their reading lists for their various English classes come out, I try to make sure I read those with them.
In Cold Blood took me two children to get through.
Three years ago the book popped on a reading list. Capote had been the subject of a movie. The book was a true crime story. The first kid to read it seemed fairly interested. I ordered my own copy, placed it in the spot of honor by the bubbles for the tub, poured a glass of wine, and sunk deep into the hot water.
I made it through roughly 50 pages. I wouldn’t pick it back up again until this year when it ended up on another kid’s reading list.
“Mom, you’ve read that one, right?” Yeah, no. I started it, but I just couldn’t get through it. I found the beginning boring. It was lyrically written, which I enjoy, but repetitive and indulgent. I found myself unsure about what to say; my kid had to read it and I did not want to be discouraging.
But I did want to be honest. Now that I have a few college English classes under my belt, I have a different view on required reading, open response discussion, and academia in general. If my kid didn’t like the book, I wanted her to feel free to express that so she can move on to the more important point – being able to explain her opinion on the work. If she did, I wanted her to feel free to disagree with me – and again, move on to the more important point.
“I started it, but honestly, I didn’t get through much of it.”
“Really? I mean, I know you don’t like all that violence and stuff,” (she was there through the Hunger Games debacle) “but I didn’t think this one was all that bad.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But it wasn’t that. I just found the beginning kind of boring.”
“Oh. Yeah. I get that. I felt the same way. But it gets better. You should try again.”
So, I tried again – eventually. Her class was finished with both the reading and the discussion by the time I got around to it. But whatever, I got around to it.
Now I can say that I have read it, as much good as that does. I think it was worth the read, but I am confused why high school students are required to read it.
Quick synopsis – The entire Cutter family is murdered. Their small town is shocked as that kind of thing never happens there and definitely not to such a good, prominent family. The murders are Richard “Dick” Hickock and Perry Smith. This is not a spoiler by the way; it is obvious from the very beginning as suspense is not an intended characteristic of the book. The book covers the crime, the investigation, and the trial with personal epithets filled in along the way.
The book is billed as a nonfiction work. I think that is a stretch. While I am certain it is mostly true and have little to go on except how I felt reading it, I find it impossible to believe the insights expressed by Capote are knowable to him. I think the book is more accurately described as semi-nonfiction, or semi-fiction. Either way, I think the difference between the expectation and what I got altered the reading for me. Instead of being able to either enjoy the story on its writing merits, or enjoy the story based on its informative value, I was able to neither as I felt forced back and forth between the two.
There are more sinister undertones that I won’t get into in case you haven’t read it, except to say this: It is weird reading a supposed nonfiction work written by an author who seems to be affecting the story along the way in order to facilitate the story he wants to write instead of writing the story that is.
I understand that I am probably in the minority here. The book repeatedly receives high marks and glowing reviews. Honestly, I get it. Capote is a gifted writer and storyteller. This one just wasn’t for me.
Many of life’s failures are experienced by people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up. ~Thomas Edison (1847-1931)
A Bit of Encouragement…
I currently have Conway Twitty’s Hello Darlin’ playing in my head right now. It has been a long time. And it is nice to see you.
I struggled with putting TAT on hold nearly 2 years ago. It is something that I love to do. Graciously, those whose inbox receive it seem to enjoy it as well.
In all honesty, I struggled with bringing it back. You may have noticed a bit of that in the email you received a few days ago. I was completely prepared to give TAT a complete overhaul – even down to when it was sent out.
The response was fairly overwhelming. So, as you can see, aside from the face lift, TAT is still pretty much the same. And I am filled with gratitude.
Ideas like “failure” and “give up” are pretty interesting to noodle over.
In July, I DNF’d (did not finish) a race. You can read more about that here
I did give up. And, while I justified it in the physical, it was my spirit that failed.
During that same race there were others who wanted to give up as they were physically shot. But their spirit held on and they finished. My spirit is pretty strong too…I was pretty close to finishing…until I just quit.
I learned a lot from them and about myself. I like to think that if I learn anything then the failure has been redeemed. The only true failure is quitting, giving up, and refusing to glean any lesson from it.
Success is also an idea that has to be addressed on a regular basis as there is no dictionary passage that does it justice. What success is, what it looks like, not only differs from person to person, but across situation, point in time, and perspective. Understanding its dynamic nature cannot be overlooked.
For me, “success” is nearly synonymous with “purpose”. My purpose in my runs is to be better than I was before. Therefore, even when I don’t perform as well I can, the purpose is still achieved and there is the success.
Today I want you to recognize purpose in the things that are important to you but currently feel unproductive, hard, or just no longer viable. If they are truly purposeless, then let them go (heck, maybe you just need a break!) But give the ideas of success, failure, and giving up some real consideration. It is very possible that we really are just that close.
This persona thing is harder than one might think; at least it is for me. I have been writing what I want to write, on my own schedule, from my vantage point, for so long that it is a struggle to do anything else. When we first received the journal assignment, there was a distinction made between a writing journal and a diary. Now obviously I know the difference, but that doesn’t always mean that I insist on the difference. You know, the whole “every square is a rectangle but not every rectangle is a square” thing. That is this.
In an effort to expand outside of what I “normally” do, I have been making a concerted effort to play with different voices. While role play can be uncomfortable, it is more so when you know it is going to be outed in public. I know there are always parts of me in the words I place on the page. I can only assume others know that as well. The apprehension comes in when you try to guess how much of yourself will people assign to person and how much persona. After they decide that, what assumptions, judgments, innuendos will they create? What whispers, side eyes, pearl clutches will they read? It is enough to make you throw the whole keyboard away.
Right up until you don’t. Right up until you find the courage to just say “fuck it” (told you it’s a tactic I employ pretty often) and you just decide you are going to create the thing you want to create in this moment and, if met with ridiculousness, well then, let’s all get ridiculous.
There was a little of this when I decided “Black Barrel” was something I could turn in. I wanted it to be sexy, but I was a teeny bit afraid to write sexy. I mean how much is too much? How much is too little? Where is the Goldilocks of sexy for a writer who is not really versed at it? I dunno so I just went with it.
Interesting fact: The more often you do the scary, the less scary it becomes. I had the same type pause with this next assignment. I really enjoyed doing it. The process was a lot of fun. And, it was one of those creations that guided itself. I can assure you that I had no intention of writing about the aging challenges of women. None. But there it was. And I kinda liked it. But it needed a title. “Menopausal Momentum” was the very first thing that came to my mind. Like really fast. But I threw it out damn near as quick. There was just something too raw, too close, too intimate. I tried a few different things that were so inferior that I can’t even remember what they were now. So, I did it again. “Fuck it,” throw the title on it, turn it in before you can think about it anymore.
And it works. At least I think it does.
Creative Writing Exercise #3 – Voice
Pick a song on your iPod, phone, or a playlist at random and let it influence you as you quickly write a first draft of a poem.
Menopausal Momentum
Momentum moves
Saving grace
Sitting still
Headspace
I open my silent mouth
A mermaid song
Drowned in crashing despair
Tides of wasted potential
Wrong place, wrong time
Sound wave hits my ear
Confused light at my eye
Misstep. Again
There was a time
When I could be considered
Considerable.
Today I am considerate
Time made change of my dime
Inflation devalues the stock
Thought I was broke in the beginning
Different hole, different depths
Angry isn’t the word
Rage radiates into the frizz
Hair pulled out
Shedding the gray
Salt burns eyes
Creates questions in stone
Melts into watered down comfort
Things best done alone
Soft petals recall spring.
I remember.
I knew how to be lonely then.
Winter makes me hard
Fur lined coat
Feel good fake warmth
Move through the fantasy
Until momentum returns
Creative nonfiction has always been my primary lane. I say primary because I have, on occasion, done different things. I won my first writing competition in the 5th grade. It was a Red Ribbon Week essay detailing my amazing 10-year-old insight into the dangers of illicit drugs and my philosophy on how to avoid them. It was revolutionary for its time. Really.
Not surprisingly, my hormones turned me to poetry. I still have stacks of yellowed typewriter paper (because that’s how old I am) that I have attempted to go through to see if there is anything salvable. I can’t do it. It is just that bad. Of course, I have only tried to do it sober, so maybe I am gonna need a little help. Really, it’s horrible and there’s a lot of it.
Poetry, with the exception of this small little tryst in my teenaged years, has never been my thing. I don’t read it (which is probably why I couldn’t write it), and I’ve never really “gotten” it. I had the good fortune last semester to have an amazing professor for American Lit. Dr. Town did two things that, although I didn’t know it then, has set me up to be a better writer and a more interested reader of poetry:
She was okay with the fact that I didn’t like it. She just needed me to engage with it enough to ask an intelligent question.
She didn’t insist that poems meant anything in particular. We were free and encouraged to find our own meaning in them provided we could provide intelligent support for our interpretation.
Once the class was over, I still wasn’t a poetry fan, but I wasn’t an eye roller anymore either. That’s definite progress.
Good thing too. Although our first writing assignment lent itself easily to prose, that’s the last time we have seen that style in class. Poetry is first, then fiction, then creative nonfiction. This means, as one would expect, I have read more poetry than I would have opted for myself, and I have to write it. And by “write it” I mean I have to turn it in with the knowledge that it may very well end up projected to the whiteboard in the front of the class.
Great.
Fortunately, Dr. Morris is a poet. This has been immeasurably helpful for a few reasons:
He is super passionate – I mean like really passionate – about it and that makes it far more interesting than it typically would have been.
Remember the “freedom to play, to suck, to expand, to nurture one small idea into something readable”? He employs that belief in poetry too.
And probably most importantly (to me at least) is that he taught me how to read poetry.
Ok, that last one may seem like a silly no brainer. I have a pretty extensive vocabulary. I know how to read. It is one of my favorite things to do. Reading poetry is easy – it’s the understanding that is hard.
Except when you are reading it wrong. I thought for my whole reading life that you just read it. Start at the front of the line, go to the end of the line, stop, go to the next line, rinse, and repeat. I had NO IDEA what a caesura or an enjambment was. I didn’t know that you read to punctuation not necessarily to the line’s end. I did not know that poetry readings weren’t just some weird beatnik thing, that it actually did need to be heard out loud, that sound is inseparable from the meaning. It all kind of came together and created an epiphany when I read W.H. Auden’s quote, “Poetry is memorable speech.”
I am not ready to create “memorable speech” yet. But I am far more open to reading it now. I am creating assignment speech. I offer my first assignment to you just the way I turned it in.
Write a poem (minimum fourteen lines) about your surroundings. You can write in first person (“I am sitting at my desk, which is littered with papers and old coffee cups.”), or write in third person, simply describing what you see (“The room is bleak and empty except for one old wooden chair.”). Challenge yourself to use descriptive language to set the scene. Rather than saying, “The light is shining through the window,” you might say, “The morning sun is streaming through the window, spotlighting a million dancing dust particles and creating mottled shadows on my desk.”
You want to write intriguing descriptions that invite the reader into the setting so they can “see, hear, smell, taste, feel” what you observe.
Black Barrel
Oaky smoke
Cherry chill
In my chest
Burns it still
Honey warm
Invites me in
Fills my cup
Described as sin
Buttery smooth
Leaves lips wet
Entwined like strangers
Or lovers just met
Dew drips
Sweat slides
Whispered secrets
To glass confides
Fingerprints
Destructive heat
Tucked away
Till next we meet
