On Vulnerability

I watch them as they climb on top of the washing machine to find dog bones in higher cabinets, their socks slipping and then tiny legs dangling as they throw treats to Lola. "We like you because you believe in magical things," Sophia says. I am startled by this, because these eight and five year old girls have known me for only  an hour and yet they are as candid as children can be. I had forgotten what this is like, looking into the imaginative eyes of children while they work something out in their heads. They proceed to tell me that they are story-tellers, and under-appreciated at that. Elena tells me I am like them, that they can be who they are and she knows I will be who I am, too, and that they like who I am. I begin to think how profound this conversation is and I feel accepted. They present me with a crown and I tell them we can be ruling queens together. I see their eyes widen when I pose silly for a portrait, because I play in their world. It never ceases to amaze me how genuine this world is, how children can invent games and stories, how they see the things around them come to life. I begin to remember it in slivers of crayons and glitter. I consider the ways we grow into new skin, leaving the keys to childhood behind. Sometimes the most harrowing moments are those when we discover we have become strangers to the child we were, and sincerity or candid moments grow heavy and hard to grasp. There is an opaqueness that develops over time, like old film that becomes low in color saturation and high in noise and grain. We forget how to be raw in our interactions with people. We grow isolated with our online shopping and self-check outs. We are self-conscious and demand validation in all things, and we try to impress.

It's a recycled notion. Everyone understands "childlike innocence." But watching these girls turn ideas over in their heads allowed me to see more clearly, and I feel I have scratched the surface of something monumental in my life - something buried deep below the dull, messy places of my heart. I feel as though I have discovered an old clock buried in a junk yard, one that when exposed reveals much more than it's mechanical pieces. Later on, I read a chapter in a beloved writing book about the old maxim write what you know. I am relieved as I keep reading that the author believes that while the advice has merit, it's not the whole truth. He continues on about how we must write what ignites our interests, how the fictional version of you does not have to be the whole story or any part of the story. We can observe the things outside ourselves to be story-tellers, and there is something entirely voyeuristic and thrilling about "guessing the unseen from the seen" as Henry James puts it. There is an art to taking secret peeks into the lives of others, in writing about your passions, and when presented with the question "what do you love most and what do you hate most" I am hit over the head with something quite alarming.

What I love and hate are both largely encompassed by vulnerability. It is the fuel and the block, it both paralyzes and inspires me. The books and movies and conversations I tuck away and hold dear are those that involve raw, honest, human interactions. I love to read about them and love to cherish them in my own life. Vulnerable conversations are magnetic, and I truly hunger for those moments that are redemptive or stripped of socially awkward reactions because we are in sync with some aspect of the shared human condition. At the same time, I've developed a sort of paralysis when given the opportunity to be vulnerable and often real with people (strangers) and I shy away from them, dodging conversation because, well, it's easier. I want to avoid an awkward question about my political beliefs, what I 'do,' what books I like to read, or anything that would suggest I'm an expert in my own life because, point blank? I'm afraid of what you'll think. I never believed I could be "this" sort of person. I was always that kid who didn't care what people thought about me - so unaware of any type of social ladder... but moving to a new place strips you of who you thought you were, and that is the truth. These interactions suddenly feel like an interview and my palms are sweaty. I don't trust myself, perhaps, to be interesting or passionate enough for you or your question, and even if I am, I fear you won't see it the way it needs to be seen so I better leave myself to myself. I'd also love to know you and the life stories you carry, but I'm too afraid to make you feel uncomfortable or set up any type of situation that is awkward. It's like even a hint of vulnerability demands an answer and it is too much pressure. I honestly feel like a Sims character with two large, red minus signs plastered on my head, meaning one of us made a social faux pas, and if we're ever in a coffee shop don't ask me what I'm writing about in my journal. Why do I act this way? Why do I prefer to be left alone when I truly believe real relationships are to be sought after and held close? I know the answer has to do with fear, pride, identity issues, an unhealthy idolizing of approval, and a self-consciousness I caught like the flu that is so awkward I honestly don't know what to do with it. Regardless, I am encouraged to have realized this about myself and have decided to finally take action by the obvious and truly transforming solution of prayer. I have also decided to write until this paralysis is exposed and cornered. I will talk about this with y'all some more later, but there is a plan in the mix involving letters to strangers and ending a neglect of vulnerable potential. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this, especially if you are anything like me and don't want to be an ant anymore (see clip below).


clip from the movie Waking Life

Fiction Friday: Quiet and Fight

Some fridays, Sarah at Well and Cheaply does a post called Fiction Friday. The idea is to set the timer, write a very incomplete piece of fiction usually from a few words or a prompt, and then just post it, willy nilly! This is a lot like my 750 words posts except it is entirely for pieces of fiction. I agree with Sarah that putting some extremely rough draft work out into the universe can be a liberating feeling, so I decided to do my own Fiction Friday!

Today I chose to write about the words: Quiet and Fight. Feel free to join in with this prompt or another. Posting incomplete fiction is a great exercise and helps fight against our need for perfection in writing.

She was quiet on the porch. The kind of quiet that comes after a series of sobs and eyes too tired to keep going. I didn’t feel like I could say anything, you know, since she was so quiet. It felt like an intrusion to even be sitting there with her, and I kept wiggling because it was awkward to be vulnerable like that, to let her know that I was there if she wanted to talk and that I was sorry. I don’t think I could have said anything any way, it would have sounded stupid. What could I say to relate to her? She was off the rail. A different boy every Friday night and empty bottles behind her bed – of course I knew the truth. But in the end, I was the geeky sister. I was the quiet one who got good grades and always made mom and dad happy. I made sure my room was clean and everything else about my life was made up, too. Why would she think I would care? What could I say to help, anyway? I wanted to tell her that she was the pretty one. I wanted to tell her, “don’t be upset, you could have everything you ever wanted! I’m stuck here because I’m good at math and I have braces on my already-too-big-for-my-mouth-teeth and I’ll never be able to throw my head back and laugh the way you do. You have it all, don’t you see? Who cares about the fight you’re having with dad?” But I knew it wouldn’t help. Somehow, looking at her with her short skirt and the folded hands on her lap, I knew she wasn’t who she wanted to be. I was embarrassed. I wanted to get up and leave, run away, scream, or do something.  I was embarrassed because even though she hated who she was, I envied her.

750 Words: Week 3

I was mad at you, so I washed the dishes. It was too late to wash them, and the room was dark and cold, but I had to clean because it was all a mess. I scrubbed the salad bowl and the frying pan until I saw a little scratch forming, silver in the light, like an airplane slicing through the deep blue, leaving its mark. I scrubbed each spoon until it squeaked and I brushed my dirty thumb over it again until it was time for another good washing. I stacked the dishes high, desperately trying to give each plate room to dry and breathe but there wasn't any room, so I dried them and put them away. The kitchen was spotless when I was done and you were still silent in the dark of our bedroom. It wasn't until I started to scrub the bathtub that I heard your voice, startling me even though it was small. You always break the silence. Even when I am neurotic and cleaning - everything my fault - you always call me back to bed. 

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I am trying to get in the habit of writing more fiction when I can, especially young adult fiction. In order to improve our writing, we have to practice the kind of writing we want to write. My morning pages function as a great push to write fiction -- detached fiction. The idea is to set the timer for just a few minutes and post a very incomplete, rough draft piece of fiction. Try experimenting with all different kinds of writing in your morning pages, I truly believe it gets the creative juices flowing.

Cassie buried her thumb in her fingers, a habit that linked her to her father. He was a writer who wrote methodically by resting his left wrist bare on the table. He held his thumb tucked under folded fingers, occasionally squeezing tightly so that his veins and hand resembled a clenched fist. Cassie, like her father, was always told she looked angry.

“How did you expect me to react to this?” She said.

“Not like this, Cassie,” her mother said. Her voice was quiet and even. A lump was forming in Cassie’s throat.

“You promised. You promised I could finish out the school year with my friends. Dad doesn't even know their names, you know that right?”

“It’s not up to me, honey. I tried to--”

“Forget it. Seriously, just drop it. I’m sure Karl has already.” Cassie knew the knife she was holding in her words now. She didn't care. She wanted it to hurt.

“Karl has nothing to do with this. Your father is the one who insisted. You’re going to have to cooperate and that’s all there is to it. It’s only for one year, and then you can move back with--”

“--with you and your new family?” Cassie’s voice was growing wild and hysterical now, but her eyes were still and focused on her mother’s new diamond ring. It seemed out of place on her bony finger. Her mother looked at the floor and tightened her lips. Cassie knew that she was wounded, but she didn't apologize. All she cared about now were her friends – her real family, and Karl could go to hell. She thought about him and his step-daughter and how they both smelled like stale food and cigarettes. She thought about his lifeless eyes as he watched another episode of Ice Road Truckers in the dark, his pasty skin illumined by the television. Karl is a loser.

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"Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. Clutter is wonderfully fertile ground -- you can still discover new treasures under all those piles, clean things up, edit things out, fix things, get a grip. Tidiness suggests that something is as good as it's going to get. Tidiness makes me think of held breath of suspended animation, while writing needs to breathe and move." -- Anne Lamott

As writers, we have to push past the fear of perfectionism and just write. If we want to become better writers, we must practice writing the kind of fiction or nonfiction we want to write. The idea behind 750 words comes from a book called The Artist's Way and the use of morning pages. Morning pages are stream of consciousness writing to exercise creativity and teach you to get in the habit of writing at least three pages a day.The idea is to clear your mind, allowing for a free flow of ideas for the rest of the day and to free yourself from getting stuck on editing or anything else that may stifle creativity.This writing is a great tool against writer's block, but I struggle with writing a quick draft and clicking publish. That's why every Wednesday, I post at least one (part or whole) of my 750 word writing exercises from my week. I am currently using writing prompts from Natalie Goldberg's book, Old Friend from Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir. I would love for you to join me! Feel free to grab the image below and post a link of your own 750 word exercise posts in the comments. Click here to see all 750 word posts.

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