Dear Readers, I Need You

There are many reasons to write a blog.  For instance, I have heard it is a good idea for an author to have a blog to attract fans.  Also, it is encouraging as a writer to have people who want to read one's thoughts on various subjects posted on the blog and hence perhaps even one's stories.  Yet it is not for either of these reasons that I would like to take up writing more regularly here again.

Rather it is because as an artist I must put my work somewhere that it might touch someone.  Even if only one person ever reads it and appreciates it, even if I never know that my words have touched another, I still must write.

For an artist works for others.  A writer needs readers.  Having an audience helps to draw one's work forth from the deep pit within that can be both creative and destructive.

We artists are as needy as anyone else.  We want to be loved even more than other people, if that is possible.  Yet rather than ask for that love, for we are often shy, we put ourselves into our work—no one knows how much of ourselves goes into it—and hold it out as an offering of love.  If you can just appreciate a little this work, that is enough.

So that is all I ask.  If you can appreciate my writing here, please do.

Even better than mere appreciation: if something I say sparks ideas, feel free to comment.  I would be grateful to hear your thoughts, your responses, your questions, and even your ideas for future posts.

For I have many topics I would like to address that I might not dare touch here, thinking no one would want to know my thoughts on that subject.  If I know that someone wants my words woven together as a chain for communicating some of these thoughts, I will gladly bend my will to this task.  This is for you, dear readers, few though you may be.

Garden Blemishes

Weeding strongly affects one's perspective on life it seems.  A simple task can lead to deep thought.

For, as I walked back to the house this evening, I found I could not simply walk back as one does with the purpose of arriving at the place to which he is headed.  Instead, having spent time weeding of late, I had to stop and pull each weed I saw.

I did not appreciate the flowers or bushes, nor even the light shining through the trees.  All I could see were the weeds that needed to be pulled, and in this moment of compulsiveness I stooped not necessarily to make the place more beautiful, but to fulfill a duty.  If I had wanted to make it more beautiful, I might instead have turned my gaze upon the beautiful aspects of the gardens.  I might even have changed my perspective to see the whole as beautiful even with the weeds.

Yet I missed the passing beauty of the light that will never fall exactly the same way again, of a garden that will never look the same tomorrow; I missed everything but the weeds.

This is not to say there was nothing good in my weeding.  No doubt the garden really did look better without the weeds.  Also, I found it comforting to thus make my mark upon my surroundings, to fulfill this small duty, to accomplish something that clearly needed to be done.  There is a sort of pleasure in destroying something that is not seen as good.

So the weeds lie there shriveling in the garden now for whatever that is worth...

Take this as you will, dear readers.  I doubt you will need an explanation of this parable, but if you do I will not mind providing it.

The Time Has Come

"The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:

Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--

Of cabbages--and kings--

And why the sea is boiling hot--

And whether pigs have wings.

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

That is the quotation that always comes to my mind whenever I start to say "The time has come...."  In this case, I intended to begun with that statement for the very reason that the time has indeed come for me to return to writing, both here and elsewhere.

Since I started writing seriously around the age of twelve--having wanted to be a writer since I was five or so--I have found it makes my life richer and more meaningful.  I have always had ideas crowding to mind and the itch to write.  I find that when I sit down and put words to paper to pursue the ideas floating through my mind that it makes me happier.  No doubt this is the way of a writer.

Well I have just finished approximately three years of fallow time.  It is good to be a writer again.

This time of dormancy began originally because I had decided to pursue the study of theatre.  I love theatre because it is an extension of my love of writing--a way to make all of my stories live.

I learned an incredible amount in my small drama program, not only about theatre, but about writing.  I had no idea how much I had learned until I came back to the sixth draft of my novel this spring.  I knew that my playwrighting class had taught me a lot.  That was writing, so its potential influence was obvious.  Not so obvious, however, was the effect of everything else I learned about dramatic action and objectives and the theory of theatre and so on.  All of it is combining to make this sixth draft so much stronger.

It is paradoxical that one can become a better writer by not writing.  This is not to encourage laziness or avoidance of writing.  It is true, however, that once one has spent years and years reading and writing and reading more and writing more, all that work needs time to lie dormant before it is ready to sprout forth.

I hope soon--perhaps in a year or less--to have a finished draft to share with the world.  Until then, I hope to resume my random postings on here.  I hope I shall leave you, my readers, with some fruit from your time here.

Inadequacy

They say that each person has a purpose on life that no one else can fulfill—a beautiful thought that seems so perfectly clear for some. For others, darkness and uncertainty and lack of confidence overshadow that hope.

Why is there this crippling sense of inadequacy?

As one looks around, it seems that everyone else has such confidence, such certainty, such skill in achieving whatever they set out to do. It seems that others can always do it better, whatever it might be. One's own efforts seem paltry by comparison. It seems that one is doomed to failure no matter how hard his efforts, or, if not failure, at least to falling short, not merely of perfection, but falling short of what anyone else might accomplish.

Crippling I described it and truly it is. If one listens to the voice of despair, his confidence evaporates like dew beneath the burning summer sun. His voice dies in his throat. He dares not reach out to others, thinking he could never mean anything to them. So it is that he sinks into the dark hole of his own fear, hiding from terrors made by his own imagination. He dares not strive and his creative energy withers.

Someone working in film whose name I cannot recall at present once spoke of how one can create only if he is free. There is much truth to that. It is freedom that gives boundless horizons to the artist to explore, freedom that opens his mind to the possibilities in the world about him, freedom that stirs in his heart the wonder that ponders how things might be if they were other than they are.

Thus, for an artist, few things could be worse than this crippling sense of inadequacy. It not only withers anything he strives to bring to birth through his work, but also turns to dust whatever he might have dared to accomplish, annihilating any desire to reach for the sublime, hindering any bold leaps of faith that constitute the risks an artist takes when he exposes himself through his work. For, if he himself is inadequate, how could he dare to be presumptuous enough to put himself into his work? How could he believe that others could be moved through the beauty that dwells within him?

Do all experience this phenomenon of inadequacy? Perhaps it is only that they know how to handle it better—how to accept their own weakness and brokenness and reach beyond it—how to put on a bold face that defies such inner turmoil.

Or is it only the sensitive soul that finds itself crippled by this feeling of being crushed beneath the weight of its own brokenness?  Is it only he who seeks a cloak of invisibility lest others should see his inadequacy?

Perhaps someday I shall better understand what I now ponder in uncertainty.  Until then, I hope to have the courage to delve deeper in this mystery that is life in this world.

I conclude with words from Shakespeare expressing the essence of my question:

"Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win,

By fearing to attempt."

-Measure for Measure

To What Point and Purpose?

Some days you just want to give up.  It just doesn't seem worth it to keep struggling on all by your lonesome.  Do you know what I mean?

I'm sure many people feel this way on account of some legitimate castastrophe such as losing everything in a hurricane or being torn from their homes and threatened with death if they won't give up their faith.  However, I seem able to feel this way from something insignificant, such as some slight disappointment or a feeling that I am going to fail at something or simply because I want more than what I have.

Today was one of those days for me.  It started out well with one of the greatest blessings bestowed upon mankind, but for some reason after spending hours trying to get ready for my senior year as a drama major I found I really didn't care very much anymore.  If I were someone else I would just say forget it and go watch some movie or television show for the fourth or fifth time and have a grand old time.  But I can't do that.  I seem to be overly responsible or something.  So I just plowed onward until I found I felt as if I hated it all.

Then it occurred to me that I didn't have to do it.  I was the only one making myself finish my degree as a drama major.  Why didn't I just choose to do something I enjoyed more?

When I couldn't stand it anymore I went for a long bike ride, seeing how far my stubbornness and rising anger at myself and my heap of work could carry me.  I am pretty stubborn, so I know it could have carried me a good distance, but that wouldn't have been enough to take me up and down all those hills...

As I forced myself up a ridiculously-steep hill and my legs began to ache and my breath came short, I wondered why I was doing this.  It seemed like a sort of analogy for the preparation for my senior year.  I could just as easily have given up on that.  After all, I was the only reason I was physically forcing myself up the hill with the heat forcing sweat from my pores.  Why didn't I give up?

Well, I'll tell you this: it wasn't for myself; it was for you, my friends or random strangers who come upon this blog.  This may sound silly unless you believe in the power of intercessory prayer, but there it is.

If I had someone with whom I could share all this I might never have broken my nearly two years of silence on this blog, but, feeling lonely, I decided to cast my words out, not knowing where they might touch.  It's not that I don't have friends—I have been extraordinarily blessed in that regard actually—but they all seem busy with their lives or something, or maybe I just don't want to risk myself in reaching out.  In any case, sometimes I am so much a writer that I just need to write something, even on the computer.

Anyway, this whole experience reminded me of how worthless life is if we live it for ourselves.  Our society tries to tell us that we should be looking out for our best interests, but if that's what we do somehow or other it seems to make us miserable.  It is those who live life for others who are truly happy.

It is a strange paradox—just like the cross.  That is what the cross was about after all: it was about Jesus Christ, the Son of God, offering up His excruciating suffering for us out of love, transforming something ugly into something beautiful because it was not for Himself; it was for us.  And we can do the same in some less dramatic fashion.

I hope you can see this as beautiful, whether or not you believe in Christ.  If you can't, I shall pray for the conversion of your heart....

"Humor is mankind's greatest blessing." -Mark Twain

I have always wished that I was funnier than I was, for as much as I have amused myself sometimes, I have also wanted to be able to amuse others equally.  Recently I have been reflecting particularly on this matter of humor as it relates to the theatre, having the opportunity to observe comedic improvisation in light of principles of acting. Through these considerations I have discovered three essential elements for this type of humor:

1. The Unexpected

The first element is a conclusion I reached long ago when my ponderings related to other matters, but I find this holds true for theatre as well.  It is the surprises that make us laugh most.  Whether that means a sudden imitation of some familiar thing, the use of a prop one had not known was there, an unanticipated change in intent, or anything else unexpected, we laugh at what we cannot see coming.

2. Conflict

This second comes directly from what makes good theatre and so applies also to improvisation.  When we see conflict on stage we begin to relate more to the characters and invest ourselves in what is happening because we want to know whether they will get what they want even if we think it is funnier if they do not get it and instead are stopped by the hilarious antics of the antagonist.  We want their commitment.  This ensures the energy level remains high, which affects the pace, which in turn determines whether we get bored and allow our attention to wander.  Hence it also includes the important aspect of timing.

3. The Instrument

This third might also be described as imitation, though it involves much more than that.  This is the reason an actor must be comfortable with himself and his body so that he can use this instrument that is himself in order to evoke laughs.  In watching the comedic improvisation show, I noticed the most humorous moments were when an actor effectively imitated some person or thing we could all recognize.  Those were the actors I wanted to watch.

Conclusion

The first and third elements can easily be funny of themselves, but it is more difficult for the second one to be, though that is basically the principle behind slapstick humor.  However, the union of these three elements is amazing.  That is what we as an audience want to see.  It is what brings our laughter almost to tears.

Post Script

I realize that it is infinitely easier to sit back in the critic's chair and comment upon a performance, far different than standing on stage oneself and being forced to think how to combine these three elements with scarcely two and a half seconds for the brain synapses to fire back and forth and create that moment of humor before the audience grows bored and lets its attention drift.  Yet I am not a hardened critic.  I only criticize so that I will be better prepared for that moment when I step on stage.  Perhaps then I too can learn to be funny.

An Actor's Discontent

"Unless you marry God, as our nuns do in Ireland, you must marry Man -- that is Me. The only third thing is to marry yourself -- yourself, yourself, yourself -- the only companion that is never satisfied -- and never satisfactory."

Michael Moon had it entirely right, I think. In particular, he understood very well what it means to spend too much time with oneself, perhaps because he was a man given to introspection, a very helpful thing that--like a good many helpful things--can become quite the opposite when taken too far.

I think Oscar Wilde would also have agreed, at least judging from an entry in The Devil's Dictionary: Alone, adj. In bad company.

In any case, sometimes one tires so much of being with the unsatisfactory and unsatisfied--and sometimes downright unpleasant--companion that is oneself that he wishes for nothing but to be rid of him. No doubt he would divorce him if he could. However, so far as I know, one cannot yet do this, though I have read that it is possible to marry oneself (which seems to me a matter of the greatest ludicrousness).

The next best thing, naturally, is to be someone else.

Now this thought may cause laughter, as if I were joking, but I assure any lingering readers that I am quite serious. Perhaps I can ask you this question: have you ever longed with an insatiable desire to be someone else?

Now of course there may be various reasons one wishes to be someone else. Envy for instance is a very compelling reason--even if there is little reason to its madness.

However, my thought allies itself more firmly with another consideration: the life of an actor. For, after all, that is just his business: to spend his life being someone else. Of course the paradox of this is that in some sense he is never more himself than when he is someone else. As soon as he accepts the bounds of the character he is to play, suddenly he becomes free to be whatever he will within that framework, no longer imprisoned by his own thoughts and needs and desires, nor by what he "should" do, and most of all no longer shackled by that incapacitating consideration of what he wants himself to be. This becoming of someone one else then is how he learns who he truly is, or at the very least--if he will remain blind to it--he reveals to others the depths of his soul.

I cannot help but wonder whether that desire for acting--one might say even the vocation to this great art--comes from that need to be someone other than oneself. And that in turn raises another question: are we only actors because of the restlessness of our nature and our discontent with what we are--in short because we cannot bear to be ourselves?

Anticipation

"Did the mail come yet?"

"Did I get a rejection?"

Such have been my questions each day—whether spoken aloud or not, and in varied forms of expression—ever since October 28th, the day on which I could begin to expect an answer on the latest submission of my novel (and also, coincidentally, the feast of St. Simon and of St. Jude, who is the patron saint of the impossible, but I digress). I daresay I shall continue in such manner until December 28th, a significant date almost solely because it means I may then query concerning my novel; or resubmit, assuming my submission was not received. But hopefully by that time I shall not have waited six months in vain.

Four and a half months seems a long time indeed to wait and already I begin to grow impatient. A quick acceptance would of course be the best, but I have remarked before that a quick rejection is next best. When the time draws out, I begin to wonder: have they not had time to read my submission yet? Have they looked at it and are considering it? Or did they even receive it?

For the moment my future as an author hangs still in the balance.

Writing and Not Writing

I always thought it would be good to have a job in which I might exercise my writing skills, but it never occurred to me to consider the drawbacks: namely that I would have less time and energy for the writing I actually wanted to do. One can only spend so much time writing after all. At least this is true if one does not mean to seal himself off from the world as a recluse, never seeing any face other than his own and that only if he were by chance to possess a mirror.

It is writing such as this that suffers most: that which seems least rewarding, as I cast my words out into the vast void of the internet, never knowing whom they might touch.

Stories still creep and crawl in the background, waiting under the damp earth for the spring water to coax them forth into life. That moment draws near with the dawn of National Novel Writing Month, that gloriously crazy month of November. Already the seed bursts with the first touch of water, waiting for the first day of the month to begin its hard struggle upward.

The Creative Crisis

"Let me explain. I have reached what we in a world somewhat different from your own simple round of duties, describe as the creative crisis. It may be described as the crisis at which you want to create something and can't. In most distinguished artists it lasts for a lifetime. It is then called the artistic temperament." -the Poet, "The Surprise" by G. K. Chesterton

This artistic temperament has often manifested itself in the artist as a struggle with depression. I have often wondered why it is that great artists wrestle with such darkness, and in pondering this question, I have reached one thought that I believe sheds light upon the answer.

In creating a work of art—whether it be a painting of the meeting of dear friends, or a poem that speaks of love's pain, or a novel that traces an epic journey, or a play that explores the nature of surprise, or any other form of art—the artist pours forth more of himself than anyone can ever understand who is not an artist. In any other vocation where one is called to give of himself, he receives some return. For instance, a woman who enters a religious order and devotes her life to serving the poor as a sister sees that through her efforts they receive the care they need and the love for which they have longed, and that is fulfillment enough for her. But the artist sees no such reward. It is true that on occasion he may see the popularity of his works or hear some acclaim for his work, but the majority of his time is spent striving away in solitude to create something beautiful, not for himself, but for others, not knowing whether it will ever be cared for, or appreciated, or even whether he shall be able to communicate the brilliant vision at which he aims in his dark labors. This is a task too great for man. Is it any wonder then that the artist should battle so against despondency?

And yet, this task too great for man, is also our common vocation: to give and not to count the cost, even as did our Saviour who died upon the cross. As Christians we are called to deny ourselves, to take up our crosses, and follow Him. This is the path of the artist. So perhaps in a sense we are all called to be artists.

Those, however, who tread that self-giving path—the artist's road—must struggle more forcefully with that deep need to be heard, to be recognized, to be loved.

This is at odds with the way our modern society treats art. When art is regarded as a commercial venture and the artist is valued only insofar as he can produce revenue, it undermines the selfless nature of his vocation. I cannot help but wonder if in the days of old when the troubadours wandered about for the sake of their art, they were happier. I rather fancy that if artists did not need to be so concerned with earning money from their art but instead gave it freely, that they would be happier; and even perhaps that all would be happier then. Perhaps it is a vision too great for this world, but great vision must ever strive for the highest beauty.

What path is left then for the true artist who heeds not the wages of his trade, but creates for love alone?

Aware of his own brokenness, he must either throw himself upon the mercy of the world in all humility, willing to give until it hurts and embrace that pain out of love for his work and for those whose hearts he hopes to touch. Or else, faced with too great a sacrifice, he must withdraw in black bitterness as a recluse.

For the artist's path is the life of a servant. Thus, for the sake of his art, he must become as the least of all, not merely giving his life in service those around him, but pouring out all that he has and is to serve the whole world.

"We are actors, you and I."

To play a part and play it well is a task so inherently satisfying and fulfilling that the two hours of glory can make all the days of stress and rehearsals and the months of preparation worth it. I wonder sometimes how that can be. What is it that makes the dramatic arts so compelling that the actor will give up so much of himself, sacrificing so much time and effort—perhaps until his entire soul cries out in agony that this is too much—in order to produce a single performance? It is a strange thing: this way of the actor.

There are others who have put this far better than I and I daresay my thoughts have been much affected by what I have heard or read, even if I cannot credit all. At least I can say that my thoughts come partly from Kevin O'Brien of Theater of the Word, and partly perhaps from G.K. Chesterton, and partly too from J.R.R. Tolkien, and many others of which I may not even be aware.

It is in a sense an act of creation—or a participation in creation, what Tolkien called subcreation—or what one might call the incarnational aspect. For we actors embody what is beyond ourselves.

That I think is the thought—out of all the many thoughts surrounding this subject—that I would center upon. When an actor stands up to play his part, there may come a time when he realizes that what he is attempting to do is something so great that his ability may not match his vision, and he knows that he may well fail. That possibility of failure broods within, creating a vacuum of emptiness in which he might turn away or embrace its pain—like Christ in the garden—surrendering himself to a greater will than his own.

It is that risk that has often brought such great victories. One may speak of it as genius, or skill, but when cast in the brilliant light of faith, it is the witness of faith: an act of trust.

That risk brings a strange awareness: a feeling that at any moment we might fall. This feeling of discomfort is one from which every man in his right mind would wish to flee at once by instinct, and it is only the rational mind that restrains him. One might say that this is a necessary part of acting. I would have to add that it is a necessary part of life. For this is where humility comes in. It is pride that would have us do nothing except that which we knew we could do perfectly, relying only upon our own strength; humility is willing to take the risks, and to submit all to a greater good.

For we act not for ourselves only. If we did we should soon lose all desire for it. We cannot help it—whether we know it or not—that this embrasure of the life of an actor is for God inasmuch as whatever we do for the least of His brethren we do for Him. For an actor cannot escape that his life is one of service. No matter how much he may gain from it in fame or money or glory or pleasure, he cannot escape the fact that he acts for others to see, that he may communicate to them some beauty, some truth.

What we act may have profound influence upon us, as it did for Saint Genesius, bringing about his conversion to Christianity. And it is he whom I quoted as he spoke in the play "The Comedian" for the title of this post. Although I take this quote slightly out of context, I think it rings true: we are all actors, you and I. Even if we were never to set foot on a stage, everything we do is an act, and therefore because we act, we are actors.

Of Friendship

The topic of friends and the nature of friendship is one that has often occupied by mind, a fact exacerbated perhaps by facebook, which will call the faintest acquantaince a "friend". It is a subject that I think is much in many people's minds, though perhaps not in the same excruciating (pun intended) detail as in mine own, and because of that I would like to share some thoughts, though for a scanty readership.

What comes first to mind is a quote that a friend reminded me was from The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis:

In each of my friends there is something that only some other friend can fully bring out. By myself I am not large enough to call the whole man into activity; I want other lights than my own to show all his facets. Now that Charles is dead, I shall never again see Ronald's reaction to a specifically Caroline joke. Far from having more of Ronald, having him 'to myself' now that Charles is away, I have less of Ronald. Hence true Friendship is the least jealous of loves. Two friends delight to be joined by a third, and three by a fourth, if only the newcomer is qualified to become a real friend. They can then say, as the blessed souls say in Dante, 'Here comes one who will augment our loves.'

That is something that resonates very deeply with me. For I have been privileged to know a great many wonderful people and can only marvel at each and every one. Some I have known more deeply and for those I am most grateful. I cannot help but have a sort of regret for those I have not known so well, even though I know that as a finite being I cannot know everyone fully, and that this is natural. Some perhaps have wanted to know me better and I have been too busy to take the time to allow them to, or to let my walls be broken down enough that they may see who I truly am. There are others whom I would have liked to know better, but seemed to prefer the company of others. The web of friendships is truly a strange thing.

I remember as a child I used to be so frustrated with those who only wanted to sit around and talk, and was determined that when I became an adult I would never be that way—or, similarly, that I would never grow up, if that was what it meant to be grown up. Yet I have come now to appreciate conversation. For this is how we reach out to others: how we bridge that gap between us. And often, as a dear friend of mine once said, it is an act of rescue.

I tend to prefer one-on-one conversations because that is when I get to know people best: because that is when they are most willing to be themselves. That is where their beauty truly shines forth.

If people are willing to be themselves in a group of people, they must be willing to be seen without all their defences of pride built up, and few are that humble. I know I certainly am not. There is still a beauty to the interactions between friends illustrated by the quote I began by referencing, but there is another side as well, a side that applies to the complete opposite: the relations of one friend to another.

There is something so fascinating to me in the fact that on any important subject I may talk to countless people and the conversation will never turn out the same way, not only because of all the possible tangents, but because people are so different. Even those who hold the same belief look at it from wholly different angles. This is why we can learn so much from each other. It is also why suicide is such a tragedy. For if we lose anyone, we lose all we might have learned from him. So too why it hurts us so much to lose a friend, even if we should have countless others, for we know that no one can ever replace that one. Even so much as a lost conversation burns with the pain that only can the knowledge of a treasure forever lost.

Gem of a Thousand Facets

Sometimes I wonder at what I write here, casting out where any may read it, but it occurred to me that the reason I dare to write about almost anything is because what is most precious to me remains hidden in the depths of my heart even as I attempt to write about it. For, in truth, I can never write fully about any experience. Anything I have done I can look at in a thousand different ways and all of those ways are equally necessary in order to understand the reality of it. When I write of something it is merely to take one facet, revealing the barest glimpse of that gem.

Like with any item of art or beauty, though, the purpose of that gem is only made manifest in terms of the one who beholds it. Similarly, words cast into purposed form stand to draw forth thoughts, which cause one to probe ever deeper into things, and to look at life anew, with that wonder spoken of both by Chesterton and by Blessed Pope John Paul II.

To think, to speak, to question and to comment: these are the things that encourage the revealing of further facets. Yes, this is an appeal of sorts cast out into the void of unknowing where readers may or may not drift, for I have reached the point at which, when I am writing for others besides myself, I want to know that I am actually writing for others besides myself, in order to continue doing so, and perhaps to return to writing more often. The future of the gem may well be in your hands....