Opinions. We all have them. As bloggers we put ours out there for the public to scrutinize every day, and scrutinized they are. Some of us know more intimately than others how harshly our opinions can be crushed by a troll. But still, the strongest of us brush it off and persist.
Is it possible to write without, in some capacity, revealing an opinion? Even in fiction there must be a part of our lives, our experiences, in what we say. So we write and we hope that people out there will find something of value in what we say. If we didn’t feel passionate about what we do, or what we have to share, we wouldn’t do it, right?
After all, we could just stick to posting pictures of flowers…
The posts in the category “Yesterday’s News” reflect inspiration found in the previous day’s edition of my local newspaper. They are not a retelling of the news. This is a challenge to post a blog entry once a day, every day until Hallowe’en, and possibly beyond.
In the pursuit of changing it up once in a while, we are encouraged as writers to search for different words to say the same thing. Using the same ones over and over can distract the reader from the point we are trying to make. But at the same time, if we do a bad job of it, the wrong turn of phrase can be even worse than the repetitive one.
Take the article I found in yesterday’s paper for instance. The piece is well written; it concerns the annual recognition of immigrants, refugees and international students learning English as a Second Language. There is no credit given to the writer of the article – credit is given to the paper’s “Staff,” and I have to wonder if this is the reason why:
I don’t know about anyone else, but for me this phrase conjures up all kinds of horror.
Is it possible to take the whole “find another way to say it” process too far? Absolutely. You have to appreciate it when someone has the guts to publish it in a font four times the size of the rest of the text… but then again, whoever did, lacked the balls to put his/her name on it. I know I wouldn’t.
“Yesterday’s News” is a challenge I have set for myself to post a blog entry once a day, every day until Hallowe’en, and possibly beyond.
In the interest of trying to write at least one blog post day, I’m going to start something new. I rarely have the chance to read the papers I deliver until the next day, so I thought I’d start writing an article based on something I read in yesterday’s paper, thus the title, “Yesterday’s News.” It may not last long with Nanowrimo coming up, but I’ll give it a go.
In yesterday’s editorial section there was a piece on Thanksgiving and how we, as Canadians, should give thanks just to live here rather than a war torn country. The article mentioned people complaining about ‘first-world problems’ when there are others starving to death, homeless because of weather and ongoing battles etc. etc. It didn’t take me long to put this into the perspective of my own life.
When I tell people of my home situation (that I’m single with two handicapped kids), I almost invariably hear the same things: “And I thought I had problems!” is one of the most common. I have a hard time responding to this statement, because, I believe, it truly is all a matter of perspective. Just because I have a lot to deal with, doesn’t mean you don’t too! is what I really want to say.
I was thinking about all this this morning as I was pouring my second cup of coffee – precisely the same time I realized that the filter in the coffeemaker had collapsed and I was getting a cup full of grounds. First-world problem, I thought. See? We all have them!
Another example is this:
This is the dashboard of my 2001 Pontiac Montana. You may notice the engine light is on. The gas tank appears full, but I have to reset the tripometer every time I fill up because the gas gauge doesn’t work. I have to say though, at least it has a positive attitude.
From my perspective it is worrying to drive around with the engine light on, especially when one of my kids has an out-of-town doctor’s appointment, but I can’t afford to fix it. Case in point – the gas gauge has been acting this way for about six years. BUT, take all this from the perspective of someone without insurance, whose car is sitting in a tree after a tornado rips through, and my problems seem to hardly register.
I had a friend once, who, every time she had a bad day, would phone me up to listen to my problems, just to make her feel better. She was very upfront with the fact she was doing it, and I was happy to oblige. But it makes me wonder why we read the news from other countries. Does it make us feel better? Does it help us to be thankful for what we have in the place we live? Perhaps. But we still have to give ourselves some room to breathe. It’s okay to let first-world problems give us grief, and we shouldn’t beat ourselves up for it.
Everyone has problems. It’s all a matter of perspective.
It’s Thanksgiving here in Canada today, so I have my mother visiting for an extra day; normally she only spends Saturday night at my house. There are many changes going on with her, in her advancing age, though for an octogenarian she’s not doing too bad. Her memory is going, she has a harder time getting around, and her skin is thin, so she tends to cut herself quite easily. But the change I see in her that bothers me, personally, the most is her increase in being judgmental. It affects the way I feel I must do things, even in my own home.
Take last night for example. After the kids go to bed I must sit in the room with her while she watches TV. If I don’t, I don’t hear the end of it. If I decide to stay up, she stays up. If I go to bed, no matter how early, so does she. So last night I wanted to get some homework done for my course. I couldn’t concentrate on the story I was reading from my textbook with the TV going, so I thought I’d read in bed. With a glass of wine. I know that this is unacceptable behaviour, in her eyes, so I waited until she was brushing her teeth and I snuck upstairs with my glass of wine and my book and pretended I was going to sleep.
I’m almost 50 years old, and I’m still sneaking booze – just like when I was a teenager, except now it’s in my own house. Why don’t I just put my foot down? It’s not worth the aggravation of having to explain to her over and over that just because I have a glass of wine before bed doesn’t mean I’m an alcoholic, nor does staying up for an extra half an hour mean I’m going to be tired all day.
Just one of the many reasons my mother won’t be living with me any time soon.
A first world problem has arisen. It was bound to happen. Because I have some experience in writing short stories, I’m kinda ahead of the class. We’re learning, at the moment, terminology such as character, setting, conflict, theme, point of view, and narrative unity. Not to toot my own horn, but most of this stuff I already manage without thinking about it.
So our first major assignment is to write a first draft of a short story. We’ll be marked on the above points. Fine, no problem so far. I am, however, having a problem with the second major assignment. Why, you ask? Because we have yet to learn about ‘style.’ In the second assignment we must fix what the professor tells us we need fixing – which is the first half of the mark – but then we need to apply to our story what we have yet to learn about style and writing in our own voice. The problem is, I don’t know how to write, not using my own voice and style in the first place, so that I have something to be marked.
I’ve thought about trying to write the first draft in someone else’s style, but I know I’ll be so unhappy with it I won’t be able to hand it in.
Every once in a while I feel the need to reach out to my fellow writers, and I consider it a gift to have, here at WordPress, so many friends who are sailing along with me in this boat. Up until I began my blog, writing was a solitary endeavour if ever there was one.
So, I’m here once again to see if anyone else out there shares my experience.
Inspiration comes to me from everywhere: from an unusual sight; from people I see when I’m out; from music, art… you name it. But only once in my life have I found someone who could inspire me to write an entire novel. His face, his movements, his physique, his voice – there is nothing about him which doesn’t inspire me. And without fail, every time I see him I am compelled to write the character I have found through him.
I can’t imagine I’m the only one who has felt this seemingly unlimited amount of inspiration from a single person or thing.
So tell me. What has been your boundless inspiration in the past? What, or who, is responsible for giving you the excitement necessary to write tirelessly, and on occasion, effortlessly?
I consider myself lucky to live here in Canada; far enough away from the east coast not to experience the dreadful weather that comes off the Atlantic, and with plenty of distance between me and the west coast to worry about major earthquakes. Of course it’s nice as well that I don’t need to survive through winters with no sunlight. Such a vast country… Yet, I’ve always lived within the same 300 mile stretch of Ontario and Quebec, at varying distances from Highway 401.
I’m glad to have had the opportunity to travel a little. I realise my view of the world would be quite narrow, otherwise.
When I started writing this post, I had no idea where I was going with it. But I have a picture. This is part of the walk I take every day on my paper route:
Looking at this picture I get a profound sense of where I am, and the circumstances that brought me here. I didn’t aspire to live in this town. I was guided here by the needs of my son. I’m not sure that I will stay here – there is not much here for me that feels like home. But then, I don’t know that any place along the 300 mile stretch of land in which I’ve lived feels that way.
What is home? My extended family lives in the U.K.; there is only my immediate family here, and they have followed me everywhere I’ve chosen to settle. There are places I’m familiar with. But are they home? I hold no attachment to the places I’ve lived. Home is most definitely where my children are.
I’m blessed to have been born in Canada, and consider it a wise decision to have stayed to bear my children here. But if I did decide to leave, where ever I go will be home, as long as my family comes with me.
lindaghill.com 