Writing For Me

For me, writing is far more than just an instrument of communication; it goes far deeper than that. Writing is the bridge between my internal life and the outside world, both the means to an end as well as the end itself. I am not a story-teller: the only story I care to write about is my own. Thus the plot is ordinary, but my thoughts and attitudes about what exists around me can be complex, deeply-seeded, and ever-changing. And hopefully evocative to some readers to see the mundane in the light of their own inner uniqueness. All becomes so much more precious and beautiful that way.

Words are my paint, paper my canvas. Sometimes I see something so striking and appealing, or ugly and disturbing, that I simply must talk about it pen-in-hand. This I try to do in my way, using language to basically describe and clarify first, then to embellish. Not much different from the painter who builds a picture, using white and pastels to highlight and draw the eye’s attention, darker colors to subdue or convey a mood. It is all art, which seeks to affect in some way the people that can appreciate its message.

Yes, I write for a living, so my skill with words and language has also had a practical purpose. Creativity is one trait I claim, but I also crave organization, and my report and marketing writing for businesses allows me the opportunity to exercise that. Or exorcise, as I’m often like one possessed when it comes to correct grammar, spelling, and word usage. I don’t know many people who proofread their text messages before hitting “send,” but I admit I am one of them.

Organization of ideas, paragraphs, sentences, and words fulfills me the way it does when I clean out a drawer. I throw out the things that are worthless and unnecessary, and try to put the valuable items in their proper place. Writing for business is a form requiring directness, with less need for description and creative embellishment; in this respect, it can be easier to compose. On the other hand, some business writing, such as marketing communication or resumes, necessitates use of specific language to glorify the subject and persuade the reader that they need to procure it no matter the cost.

But by far the most personal and necessary use of writing in my life has been to express my mental, emotional, and spiritual condition. Perhaps it is because I’ve been doing this for so long – “journaling” since I was in my teens – that writing has become almost inseparable from who I am. There have been times, and still are, when my notebook is my always-available confidante, one that doesn’t judge what I reveal nor how I say it. Generally, the only descriptive verbiage I use in this writing is four-letter words. And lots of exclamation points.

Honestly, journaling is a spiritual experience for me, because when I’m spilling my guts on paper, I’m aware that God is reading it. (Duh! Who do I think put the feelings and expressive words there in the first place?) Although I don’t understand how this happens, I get greater acceptance of all those feelings, both difficult and joyful, after I write about them. And if God and I can stomach all that crowds my head, it becomes more likely to me that other people will not be put off by it either.

Considering all the above, writing helps me to survive on many levels – financially, artistically, emotionally, and spiritually. A means not only to survive, but to thrive and grow. Although it has its challenges and frustrations, writing gives back to me according to the effort I put into it. Like so many things in life, practice is the key.

Proven over and over to me, however, is that my life is better the more I write. Or perhaps the better my life is, the more I am writing. At this point, it doesn’t matter because it is all good. And I want to write all about it.

Say What You Mean, Mean What You Say

Most of us talk – or write – a pretty good game, but where do you stand when it comes to matching what you say with what you do? The consistency between my words and behavior, or lack thereof, has been on my mind in the aftermath of a few recent, poignant experiences where insincere talk left me disappointed, disillusioned, and dismayed.

Meaningless, feel-good words flung glibly from mouths like gunfire; noble gestures made only for show; self-interest masquerading as virtue... This confusing duplicity surrounds us everyday! Consider the chart-topping singer/songwriter who croons about love, life, and peace, then makes the news ranting at the manager of a Hollywood club who can’t accommodate him with the best table in the house. Or the best-selling author who writes about successful relationship strategies, but meanwhile has been divorced twice and is still single. More than once I have put people on pedestals because of the ideas they seem to espouse, only to feel let down when I find out how they actually lead their lives.

A few tough questions might clarify how well your actions demonstrate what you profess to others. When you tell a friend or a business acquaintance you’ll “get back to him” in a couple days, how often do you actually follow through within two days, or even within a week or two? Or after accepting an invitation for a party that’s more than a few days away, how often do you wind up as a no-show when something better comes along in the meantime? Ever promise a good friend you’ll help her with some big task she’s working on, and then somehow “forget” you ever offered? The variations on this modus operandi are endless, but they all add up to one thing: lack of consistency and follow-through.

Don’t get me wrong, I have been as guilty as anyone of these type of misdemeanors. Another word for it is lying, if I want to cut through the denial and actually call this what it is. My aim here is not to provoke guilt (well, maybe a tiny bit of guilt might be in order) or point fingers, but to raise awareness of how often and easy it becomes to say things we don’t really mean.

Sometimes, making rash and thoughtless remarks or promises to others in the moment is a convenient panacea, bridging the gap of what otherwise might be filled with awkward, uncomfortable truth. Satisfying our immediate compulsion to people-please, we move on with little or no further consideration given to what we said. Later, we conveniently avoid having to put in the effort required to follow through, all the while patting ourselves on the back for being so diplomatic and smooth in our dealings with others.

The problem is, those suave statements turn into hurtful weapons unless we use them responsibly. If you are one of those who adhere to the Golden Rule, how can you justify this form of dishonesty? Have you ever been at the receiving end of this treatment, feeling disappointed because someone didn’t keep a promise? If you have, you are likely familiar with the pain of having others plant an expectation within you, then feeling hurt and disillusioned when no action follows. Resentment naturally rears its ugly head at this point, presenting another troubling emotion we are left to handle. What a mess! And a self-serving tactic for those who speak frivolously, because the resultant pain is felt by the recipient, not by the speaker.

The worst offenders are the ones who use careless words so often, they are not even consciously aware they are doing it! It has become an ingrained and comfortable habit. I would venture to guess these same people also make promises to themselves – such as vowing to stay on a diet, exercise more, spend less money, etc. – that are revered for a short time before being forgotten or abandoned. To be honest, my experience is that the people who actually say what they mean and mean what they say are far outnumbered by those who do not. It’s sad to think that perhaps this tendency is so prevalent in society, it is no longer regarded as the victimizing behavior that it is.

To make matters worse, the payoff from saying things we don’t mean reinforces our continuing to do so. After all, as humans we know that it’s generally easier to not take responsibility. And perhaps people around us, maybe even our parents, were talkers-not-doers, so we merely modeled this trait as “normal."

Whatever the reason for it, being disingenuous is best addressed by examining ourselves, not others. It is far easier to complain about people that don’t act in accordance with their words, than to look closely at our own culpability in this regard. Obviously, becoming honest with ourselves about our own inconsistencies requires that we be willing, since facing our defects is humbling and somewhat painful. However, the aftereffect is priceless: a surge in our self-esteem, development of greater emotional maturity, and higher-quality, more honest relationships with others. A note of caution, though - the more sincere you try to be in your dealings with others, the greater will be your awareness of others who cannot or will not demonstrate this quality. You may even find yourself choosing to hang around a new group of more trustworthy friends and acquaintances.

As with any personal growth work we do, we always want to remember to praise ourselves for making attempts, and give ourselves credit for even small improvements.

As I stumble through this journey myself, falling now and again into the pit of escaping discomfort with meaningless niceties, I also learn to feel a bit more compassion for all the infuriating hypocrites I have to deal with.

Um. Guess I still have some work to do.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Charity

“Perhaps the greatest charity comes when we are kind to each other, when we don’t judge or categorize someone else, when we simply give each other the benefit of the doubt and remain quiet. Charity is accepting one’s differences, weaknesses and shortcomings; having patience with someone who has let us down; or resisting the impulse to become offended when someone doesn’t handle something the way we hoped. Charity is expecting the best of each other. None of us needs one more person bashing or pointing out where we have failed. Most of us are already well aware of the area we are weak. What each of us does need is a friend who believes in us, and believes we are doing the best we can in spite of our weakness. Whatever happened to hoping another person would succeed or achieve? Whatever happened to rooting for each other?”

~ Marvin Ashton

Friday, February 25, 2011

Writing From the Heart

A few days ago, I had the pleasure of attending a short presentation by Joan Brady, an authoress of international renown whose first book, God on a Harley, was a New York Times bestseller. Ms. Brady immediately caught my eye: an attractive woman in her late 50’s with strawberry-blond hair, wearing a top that was yellow/green bordering on neon.

Never having read anything by Ms. Brady, I sat back to listen. I had heard that God on a Harley had a spiritual theme, which intrigued me because I love to ponder this same topic in my own writing.

From the very beginning, Ms. Brady’s story was unique and captivating. But what impressed me the most was this author’s humility and authenticity. She had been a nurse for 22 years prior to embarking on her writing career, and the stories of her hospital and patient experiences were harrowing. Clearly she was no stranger to the full range of human emotions that tend to surface when people’s loved ones are sick or dying in a hospital bed. Pain, fear, anger, grief, joy, love, compassion, relief, dread – to name just a few – plus everything in between.

Experiencing life-and-death human drama nearly every day for over two decades had resulted in Ms. Brady feeling burnt-out, helpless, confused and angry at God, whose existence she questioned in light of witnessing so much suffering. Agonized by her own feelings of sadness and emptiness, she took pen to hand and began to release the pain through writing about it. Her notebook became her confidante and comfort, and in it she purged herself of all the questions she had for God about everything. And this was before she even fully believed there was a God.

Fortunately for Ms. Brady and for millions of people who have read her books, somewhere along this journey she did begin to believe in a loving and protecting God. And frequently, when faith and hope emerge from ashes, life-changing choices and miracles start to occur. Turning her back on her long-term, financially-stable nursing position, Ms. Brady packed up all her belongings and drove to the west coast to pursue a writing career. With limited money and no clear plan for her new life, Ms. Brady traveled across the country and wound up renting a small apartment in San Diego. At this point, she had penned the manuscript of God on a Harley several years earlier. However, after submitting it to numerous publishers over a period of six years, she had received only rejection letters.

Ms. Brady was nearly destitute and doomed to be evicted from her apartment when God on a Harley was finally accepted by an agent, resulting ultimately in a $250,000 advance from a large publishing house. This was the start of Joan’s successful career as an author. In addition to having several books published in the United States, she has a huge readership internationally, particularly in Spain.

In spite of her obvious prestige as a best-selling author, however, Joan Brady is a self-professed “Jersey girl,” and I could tell that she says what she means and means what she says. Direct, honest, and self-effacing, Ms. Brady impressed me by relating to all the aspiring authors in the room, including me, letting us know that she has and still does experience the ups and downs of the publishing business. What a relief to know that even a highly-regarded author still struggles at times with writing, just like me.

It is not surprising that God on a Harley, which I am now halfway through reading, conveys the simple and timeless truths that we all forget in this world of money, power, and prestige. Namely, the beauty and significance of each person as a gifted and capable individual, worthy of self-respect and respect from others. Granted, I am not done reading the book, but I suspect the main character will learn how to see herself in a loving light, the same light in which God sees us.

Ms. Brady’s talk revealed something of her personality and attitudes, and I found them fully consistent with someone evolved enough to compose a book dealing with the spiritual. Put another way, she seems like a genuinely loving person. Ms. Brady shared with us that she writes from her heart, and I will remember that piece of wisdom forever, I hope. To me, that is when we are doing our very best writing, when the words come from our heart and soul. This is expressing something of God to others, I believe, and what could be better than writing for such a purpose?

I thank Joan Brady for being harmonious in her beliefs, attitudes, actions, and words. It is rare to meet someone with the love, maturity - and in Ms. Brady’s case, imagination and talent – to pull this off.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Happy, Happy Flowers!

I pass this bush almost every day while taking my dog Oscar for his walk. The plant gets happier and happier - more little flowers popping out each day like miniature smiles. For months, these pink bits of perfection have continued to cover the feathery branches. It makes me wonder: when will it rest, when will it be done? The way I get swept up in its beauty, I secretly hope never.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Big Sister, Little Mother

What the world would have us believe about childhood is usually at complete odds with the real experience of our early years within the family unit. Unfortunately, we have no perspective on this until we’re older and most likely struggling to resolve problematic personal issues by looking back on those days.

Like all infants, my universe was the people in my immediate family. They were everyone and everything. Their faces, smiling or angry; their words, gentle or shrill – what does a child have except instinct to guide him or her to sources of comfort and security in those preverbal years? So it must have been instinct that drew me like a magnet to my big sister. I was completely taken with her, probably way before the time my mind was even capable of storing memories.

With a delightfully round face and enormous brown eyes, my big sister was gentle and harmless. But best of all, she had endless time for me! Time to talk to me, play secret hiding games with me, giggle about mean grown-ups and strange kids with me, watch TV with me, and fight with me.  She was inseparable from my world as I knew it, and from me. 

Honestly, one of the things I liked most about my sister was her size. Despite being two years older, she was still shorter and smaller-boned than me. We would spread our hands and fingers apart, then bring them together - hers against mine. Always my fingers were longer, and my hand entirely eclipsed hers. I felt bigger and stronger than she, able to dominate if it came down to fisticuffs. And with my wild and tempestuous nature, it did indeed come down to that often enough. Being physically superior to my sister gave me a sense of having some power. (It seems to me that survival within a family is sometimes no different than in the jungle, where the brawnier animals secure their position over those more frail.)

Big sister – I needed her gentleness even while sometimes taking advantage of it, a dependency that helped and hurt. But allow me to endure, she did… We gave each other comfort on those nights when we lay only a few feet apart on our twin beds, listening with fear and anguish to our parents’ yelling voices. Mercifully and reliably, she was by my side when we found out that our beloved kitten had been killed by a fan-belt blade while trying to keep warm on the engine of a neighbor’s car. And hers the first face offering consolation and the possibility of redemption when my butt was sore from a spanking and my spirit bruised from shame.

 

Mostly, though, we played and teased and made endless entertainment from nothing at all. Boring car rides were perfect for tickling and poking and uncontrollable laughter. In our bedroom, a cast of stuffed animals had names and lives of their own as they talked to each other in the voices we gave them. At the beach, adrift a few feet offshore in our “floatie,” I was “Cap-i-tan” and she was “Mate-y” as we adventured on the high seas. And how can I forget our “foot wars” as we watched television on our parents’ big bed – lying flat with the bottoms of our feet joined in the air, each of us pushing against the other with our backs arching up off the mattress?

In the later years, we would lay side-by-side on her double bed listening to “Mystery Theater” on the radio; in the darkness we talked and giggled about boys we liked, grievances with petty girlfriends, and the illusiveness of belonging to the “in” crowd at school. It was a routine I grew familiar with, until it was over forever. 

Inevitable it was that my sister - my closest confidante, partner in fun and crime – would grow past me and dive fully into fascination with her peer group. To compete was impossible, and slowly, painfully, I became aware that I was nothing more than an inconvenience to her. She drifted away and was absent from my life in what seemed like seconds. Probably this was normal and natural, of course; she was older than me. But its suddenness was acute, magnified by a tragic absence of anyone else in my life to fill the gap. Outside the family I was shy, introverted, and unable to make friends easily. How I wished for just a small portion of my big sister’s poise and social skills! Feeling abandoned, alone, and inferior, I was paralyzed with fear and choked by grief that I could not even identify.

With no wisdom or experience to draw on, I began a decades-long detour of trying to imitate what I believed to be my big sister’s superior qualities and ideals. Looking back, I suppose this made sense at the time. After all, she had done a better job of winning my parents’ and others’ approval than I ever had. My sister, therefore, became the model of whom I should be; her life the template of what my own life should look like. With my faulty illusions in complete control, I strove to fit myself into someone else’s formula for living. 

The next 30 years - though rich and fulfilling in many areas - were marked by my harsh and unrelenting self-judgment, countless disappointments and unmet expectations, and an abundance of negative drama. Inside me was an enduring undercurrent of unhappiness. It all finally culminated in the deterioration of my marriage, after 17 years together and having three children with the person I had chosen for a husband.

The wonderful thing about crises, however, is that they can result in positive, fundamental changes in a person, depending on how the individual responds to them. In my case, I finally became humble enough to be teachable. And did I ever have a lot to learn about loving myself! The lessons continue today, and I keep paying attention because they are directly related to my peace and happiness, not to mention my continued survival. Thank God.

My big sister – I love her still and more than ever! But the way I love her today doesn’t compel her to be my mother or my perfect-life model anymore. Bless her for being that when I needed it. In a very real way, I owe her my existence. Our childhood bond gave me joy that I could remember in later, sorrowful times.  It was my sister who taught me that love could be simple, could be full of freedom and laughter.

I’m grateful to God and my big sister for these early lessons in love, which I suspect are most easily grasped by a child anyway.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Sidewalk Hearts

I started seeing the sidewalk hearts a few years ago. Hearts splattered there in motor oil, tar, in bird droppings, paint, mud, or water - the media of urban outdoor art. These “accidents” of debris, not formed by any human artist, lay there awaiting my acknowledgment as I jogged over the familiar sidewalks, driveways, and parking lots on my route. Unmistakable, though…hearts.

Probably I would not have noticed them if I didn’t keep my head down while I jog, but that is what I do – run along with eyes lowered while considering my life, my challenges, my issues. And blessed coincidence, there they are! Those happy little symbols of love. There to remind me that although I have my difficulties, I also have love - the love of a Master Artist who paints a picture of the world and my place in it. The picture I see can seem thrown together with grime and grease and garbage, but sometimes perfectly fashioned of dew-covered flower petals and young leaves.

My running time is solitary – I prefer it that way. But the hearts remind me that I am never really alone, that I am protected and loved every moment.

And now I look for the hearts when I run. I know they’ll be there. Those tiny signatures of God help me stay strong as the miles grow behind me, and long roads lay before me.

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About Me

Christine

Christine E. Miller, M.S. has been a professional writer for over 16 years, during which time her expertise has evolved from composing marketing and business copy to writing articles/blogs and creative non-fiction. Combining her marketing experience and writing talent, she also assists new authors in publishing their work by researching and composing effective and compelling Book Proposals to sell their non-fiction book or book idea to literary agents/publishers. In addition, Christine enjoys working with authors on ghostwriting and copyediting projects. To learn more and see some of her writing, check out www.tellmewhatyouwanttosay.com.

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