Tenacity
Some say you can’t force writing. I disagree. I think you
can force anything. It is called tenacity.
Many people use this word to describe my style. It is true
that I latch on to things/people/situations and no matter how demanding or
unrestrained they get, I do not let go, ever. This serves my writing career
well, but my motherly instinct has taken quite a beating. But with my tenacity
comes some really creative solutions to impossible problems and that has served
my story telling well. If you are constantly stepping outside your comfort
zone, you tend to find more stories (or they find you).
Example:
I do love having an empty nest after raising 8 kids, until I
am left to my own devices when dressing for a formal occasion. No matter who
you are, dressing formally requires assistance. I like to picture my handmaidens
lacing my boots and trussing my hair. But customarily it is one of my girls
checking the putty depth applied to my face and my husband hitching my zipper.
On Sunday one of my foster kids was going to be married and
I am overjoyed at how perfectly her life has turned out and adore her
betrothed. All the girls were in the wedding party so I was left alone to apply
my mask. My husband was called out of town to the land where the orange groves
roam to visit his parents, so I was unaccompanied to dress and draft my makeup.
This proved an impossible task. Unable
to zip up my dress no matter who many yoga moves I attempted, I left the house
three quartered clothed. I drove to Ross and went in to the front counter and
asked the clerk to finish zipping my dress. She was kind enough to oblige and
then even pointed out a crease in my rouge.
Upon leaving the store, a bee came at me with a full frontal
attack to my eye, thus springing my tear ducts to full waterfall mêlée. This
washed the right side of my face clean of war paint and made my eye look like Quasimoto.
I figured I would just leave it be until after the ceremony because the
likelihood of crying my entire face off wasn’t just a possibility but an
inevitability. I have been known to sob like an infant during choir recitals to
debate competitions when it is my kids on the center stage.
The wedding was beautiful, I cried like a wailing widow. After the
ceremony, I went to reapply my façade so I would not have to stand in the back
row for pictures, I discovered there were no bathrooms with mirrors and I had
no mirror in my purse. There were sani-huts, but no powder room to speak of as
the wedding was hosted at a rustic barn. This bride was one of my triumphs and
I was determined to have a picture of her and I on our wall of trophy’s at
home. I was resolute. I did what any sane person would do and asked a stranger
(from the grooms side) to apply my makeup behind the barn.
I should have looked at her maquillage skills before I
handed her my greasepaint. She did me up
like Mimmi.
When called for pictures, this was the first time my girls
noticed my face. Too kind to say anything to me for fear I had accomplished
this feat by myself, they simply sent me to the back row and gave me a stiff
drink. I got my picture and we will giggle about it for years.
Another boundless writing teacher (though sometimes X-rated)
explains this trait in his own unique way. Introducing Chuck Wendig:
“You can’t force art.”
Google that phrase, you’ll get over 20,000 hits.
Many of them seem to agree with the notion that, indeed, you
can’t force art.
Can’t do it. Can’t force art, creativity, innovation, and
invention.
To which I say a strongly-worded:
POPPYCOCK!
BALDERDASH.
HORSESHIT IN A 7-11 64 OUNCE THIRST ABORTER SODA CUP.
I’ll posit that not only can you force art, but you in
fact must force art.
Because art is not a magical power. Art is a result. It
is a consequence of our actions, and the very nature of an action is that
it is something we forced ourselves to do.
Read the rest of his rant/advice here:
Writing Exercise:
Write a story in the first person where you inordinately
stepped out of your comfort zone to accomplish something. 500 words at least.
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