Beyond the Formula

I haven't been posting as often lately because I've been pulling together a draft for a book based on my experiences over the past year-and-then-some (among other things). I was making backups of the postings from my old blog, and I ran across this. It was a good reminder from 2009 me to 2013 me, and I'm sharing it with you here. As proof that this sort of thing actually works, the first piece of fiction I published (in Fiction on the Web, the venerable short stories website) was born of a mental riff on "Phhhht".

Thursday, March 5, 2009
It's OK to Play
Every now and then, I get an aha! moment. Not always at the most convenient times, but worth capturing and remembering even so. I got one of those last night as I was reading myself to sleep, and it woke me up again like a persistent toddler about 5AM today. And now, here it is almost 9PM and the idea still sounds good to me, so I'm passing it along to you.

I'm in an extended conversation these days with some fairly serous, highly educated folks, who want to nurture and develop their creative talents. Some do it for their own pleasure, and some as a way of expressing their deep, important capital-T Truths to those who come after them. The pleasure folks seem happy with craft projects and dabbling and just enjoying things in general. The capital-T Truth people are a bit disdainful of the whole thing, because you see, they are past that childlike stage and they must devote their time to perfecting their art. All that inner child stuff and writing with your non-dominant hand and representing your dreams in sand trays is all right if you are a blocked artist, or a mere hobbyist, or a beginner. Once you get past that stage, there is serious business to be done.

The aha! came as I was reading David Jauss' "Alone With All That Could Happen". The third chapter -- the one that talks about rhythm and flow. He starts out talking about the writing techniques of varying one's sentence lengths and cadences to influence the pace and fluence of the story, then moves on to the pacing and flow of chapters, sections, entire books. It's the kind of stuff that makes you want to go back to that short story with the ending that doesn't quite work and diagram it to death to see what's wrong with the danged thing.

But then. Jauss starts talking about the "musical unconscious". Stories that exist in a sort of pre-verbal language before the words form around them. Writers walking around going, "aah. aah." because the story has an aah in it, but they don't know if it's a cat or a camera or a hammer. Apparently, he has some scientific studies to back this up. The mind is equipped with an inborn "assembly language" (to lapse into computer-speak), an internal operating code that requires an interface to translate it into English, or French, or Navajo. A rhythm that you recognize but can't quite articulate.

And that's why we dabble and play and indulge the goofy thoughts, odd sound effects, warped observations, Dali-esque dream sequences. These are a way of speaking with and listening to the pre-verbal utterances that come from so deep within that we aren't even aware of it most of the time. Didn't you ever wonder why your best story ideas came at the oddest times and places? Why the title of someone else's play turns into your very different novella. Why your neighbor's whiskey bottle collection in his living room window grabs you by the lapels and forces you to remember something you dreamed 3 years earlier. Why that poem or book chapter seemed to write itself, relegating you to the role of stenographer?

Haven't you ever read prose where the technique was flawless, but it seemed flat, lifeless, derivative? The author has Tolkien's technique down cold, but the writing doesn't draw you into that magical world. The whole thing has a paint-by-numbers feel to it, and you can see the bits of technique poking out like outlines on a badly doctored photograph. Like a Beatles tribute band that gets all the notes right, but doesn't make you wanna dance like John, Paul, George, and Ringo did. Skim through the editors' preferences in Writer's Market and count how many times the phrase "writing class" is used in a snarky way.

No, technique and polishing and crafting all come later. You start with the 3AM idea, the bit of a song stuck in your head, the "aah, aah", the drumming of your pencil on your desktop. You go with the goofy, the skewed, the "where am I going with this". And you let it grow unhindered until it's strong enough to withstand your pruning and trimming. Would you prune a half-inch seedling?

Yes, you can try to emulate the masters. Learn from their success. By all means. But if you don't start with your very own inspiration, anything you do will look like a knock-off. They said it first, and they said it better. You start with your own stuff, and even if what you wind up with is a little rough around the edges, it's yours. Go back and look at those masters. Didn't they speak with their own voices? Wasn't that what made them great?

My Elevator Speech

In the spirit of casting one's bread upon the waters... Here's my "elevator speech", what I'm looking for career-wise. I'm actively looking for work after my renewal year, and it always helps to let people know what you're looking for. Feel free to pass this along, even if you don't think you know anyone who could use this. You never know, after all.

Permission to Speak Freely

A few years ago, I decided to submit an entry to the Washington Post Magazine's annual short story contest. Write a story about the photograph on this week's cover, they said, and they spelled out the rules of the contest, including the maximum word count and the deadline. The photograph showed two people riding in a convertible down a highway in the vast open spaces of the American Southwest, as viewed by someone in the back seat. All right, I told myself, I know this part of the country very well, and I'm very good at writing to fit the space and meet the deadline.

And so I wrote a pretty good story about two sisters who were supportive but not close. The younger one had her head in the clouds and the older one was practical but she hadn't quite given up all her dreams. I closed with a scene of the older sister driving the younger one home in her convertible after rescuing Little Sis from a sticky situation caused by a fanciful idea running head-on into an unforgiving reality.

My story didn't even make runner-up. I was not surprised. In a metropolitan area this large, a pretty-good story has a snowball's chance in hell of making it past the slush pile. Still, I wasn't ready to give up on my pretty-good story. I gave it to my sister and my mom's friend (a retired English teacher) to read. Their response was lukewarm. "Writing little stories is such a pleasant hobby," Mom's friend said. Ouch.

You see, my characters were all bottled up inside themselves. You knew that Little Sis ached to escape the small town where she grew up and go live in the city. You knew that Big Sis gave up a glamorous life for that of a domestic goddess. But neither one of them had room to speak for themselves, and so the whole story felt as though it had been painted in shades of pastel pink and lavender and laced up in a tight corset. It was a "that's very nice, dear" type of story.

I tried again last year, juicing it up a bit for a writer's group I was in. They helpfully pointed out a few places where they didn't quite follow what was going on, a few places where things left unsaid really ought to be said. I got seriously hung up on how much to explain about the big distances and small towns in the Southwest without getting bogged down or turning it into a travelogue. I shopped my pretty-good story around to a few small literary journals, but no one wanted to publish it.

This year, I tried one more time. I signed up for a fiction workshop at the Writer's Center in Bethesda, and I decided to use this story as my project. I even volunteered to be one of the first group to have our work critiqued by the instructor and the other group members. After all, if you're in the first group, they can't compare you to the budding Faulkners and Grishams who are already 300 pages into their debut novels.

The consensus of the group? Open this story up. Waaaaay up. This is a good strong start on a much bigger story. Forget the word count, you're not in the contest any more. Let the characters talk to each other. Show us what they do, how they react. Flesh out the secondary characters. Introduce us to them one by one, and let us get acquainted with each one before you bring in another character. Show us how the characters react to how things look, sound, smell.

So I sat on the story for a couple of weeks, until I suddenly realized that I was going to have to give my revisions to the group that Saturday in preparation for a second go-round. I printed out a copy of what I had, and I began to write. And write. And write. Freed from the word-count boundaries, the story seemed to flow. The scenes in my mind appeared on the paper. I looked up between-town distances and street scenes and bus schedules on the internet. I imagined myself walking alongside the characters. Oh yes, this was much better.

During second go-round of critiquing, I got many comments on how much more developed the story was, how the imagery was coming to life, the characters were more three-dimensional. But more questions arose. Did the sisters fight? Why was Little Sister's reaction to her big letdown so muted? What happened during the all-day bus trip? The two-mile walk? Was The Guy really a cad, or just a decent guy who let a little fling get out of hand? "Let the photograph go," the instructor said. Did I really need that last bit about riding the 200 miles home in an open convertible, or was it just something I saw in the photograph?

The people in my story needed biographies. The scenery needed a set design diagram. This theme came out for several of my fellow authors' work as well. Even though the final story might be short, the author must be very clear about who the characters are, why they do what they do. And this might require writing backstories and detailed descriptions that never appear in the final version.

Before I could edit and craft my story, I had to let it expand to its fullest extent. Great billowing clouds of expository prose. Adjectives and adverbs. Similes and sensory input. I had to know the people and places, the sights and smells and sounds as well as I knew my own friends and the inside of my apartment. Lay it all out in all its sprawling verbosity.

And then -- craft, edit, polish, distil. How do you describe the little "tells" when people are restrained on the outside but seething inside? Can a lifted eyebrow tell a reader that my character is furious but won't admit it? A clenched jaw, a lowered voice. Eyes briefly lowering when a character is lying. Search out all the excess adjectives, adverbs, and cliches, and find a way to show instead of tell. Delete the throat-clearing setups, the fluff words, the subjunctives and participles and other various ways of tap dancing around the main point. Oddly enough, Twitter is a lovely way of stripping out the extra verbiage. 140 characters makes you say what you mean.

This would have been torture while I was still developing my characters and plot. It would have been wrong. Like trying to make topiary from a one-inch seedling. No, the plot, characters, and scenery have to be fully grown, solid and strong, then you have at it with the crafting tools.

If I'm a person who doesn't express all the colorful scenery inside of me, how can this come out in my writing? It's very scary putting it all out there like that because now you know that all those passions are in my mind. I have to speak freely about what sex feels like, what anger and betrayal feel like, what it's like to dream. To be down but not out. Some of my old wounds might begin to hurt and bleed again. But I can't talk to you through a gauze curtain. If I paint only in pastel shades, how can you know how much I care? Am I brave enough to open up and talk about these things? To add bright colors to my pale palette? I'm going to have to do this if I'm going to write fiction that's any good. Or nonfiction. I can't hold it back and still be compelling. That's going to take an awful lot of courage on my part. I hope I can do it.

Books that Matter

On the theory that a good nonfiction book needs a bibliography, here's a start on mine. These are books that have influenced and inspired me. They are the books that I will never sell at a yard sale. I don't usually read books twice, but these books are the ones I read over again, flag the pages, underline passages, and write in the margins.

Taking Creative Pursuits Seriously
The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. A twelve-step program for sidestepping creative blocks, self-censorship, and false criticism. Requires about 8 hours a week if you're going to take it seriously, and it's easier to go through the program with a weekly group to hold each other accountable. If you really engage in the chapters and exercises, you will definitely move outside your comfort zone -- and that's a good thing.

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamotte. A funny, very personal account of the writer's life. The personal anecdotes convey wise lessons in perseverance, overcoming one's inner critic, and getting your work out into the world.

The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. A writer's life is not all flashes of inspiration and muse-driven all-nighters. Writing well requires writing, rewriting, revising, revamping, and rewriting again. Every day. The payoff? The art we make is "as true to reality as it gets".

Self Discovery
Now, Discover Your Strengths by Marcus Buckingham and Donald O. Clifton. Employee performance reviews and professional development programs so often focus on helping employees address their weak points. Since nobody can excel at everything, wouldn't it be better and more satisfying to focus instead on the things that you are best at and that come most naturally to you? Team up with someone whose strengths complement yours, and now you've got a strong, motivated team.

Secrets of Six-Figure Women by Barbara Stanny. The title of this book put me off at first, but I soon got over it. Stanny is not writing exclusively about high-powered female executives. Rather, she has some very apt advice to offer women on taking our own goals seriously and presenting ourselves confidently. Earning a six-figure income was not a goal of mine when I first read this book (in fact, it seemed ridiculous), but eventually, I did clear that six-figure bar by asking for what I was worth.

What Color Is Your Parachute? by Nelson Bolles. I have an ancient, pre-Internet edition of this reliable old standby. The self-evaluation exercises are just as good now as they were then. Do you like working outdoors or indoors? With people or alone? What do you value most: security, money, recognition, adventure...? What would it be like to base your career on things that you actually enjoy doing?


How the World Works
American Mania by Peter C. Whybrow. What if an entire nation were the subject of a centuries-long genetic experiment? Whybrow posits that this is exactly what is going on in the United States. From the ancient wanderers who crossed the Bering Strait to the world citizens who maintain their tiny flats in New York City, the US has been settled and populated by the adventurous and the dissatisfied. The result is a type of collective bipolar disorder marked by euphoric highs and catastrophic crashes.

Bright Earth by Philip Ball. Visual artists are visionaries, but they are also creatures of their time. This history of the evolution of color in art covers pigments, dyes, and printing techniques. From ground-up rock pigments for cave paintings to color palettes for computer monitors, from a nobleman's display of wealth to an evocation of pop culture, Ball explores how color perception and use varies with culture and time.

Faster by James Gleick. Every aspect of our 21st-century society is infected with the need for speed. Channel-surfing, multitasking, stand-up meetings, and sound bites characterize an environment that stresses us out, eliminates time for thoughtful analysis, and leaves no margin for error.

Fire in the Mind by George Johnson. European-American culture is so steeped in scientific data and analytical reasoning that we often forget that there are other ways of looking at the world. Johnson, a science writer who lives in Santa Fe, NM, contrasts the core tenets of the scientists at Los Alamos National Laboratory with those of the nearby Native American and Catholic Penitente communities.

The Innovator's Dilemma by Clayton M. Christensen. Remember printed telephone directories? Film photography? The Sony Walkman? These items went from indispensable to obsolete in the blink of an eye, not because of some public campaign to abolish them, but because their replacements worked their way up from nerd's toys to market dominance.

The Rise of the Creative Class by Richard Florida. Why are some towns "cooler" than others (and I'm not talking about the weather)? Why do creative people gravitate toward certain types of workplaces? How can cities and employers attract and reward people who live by their creative wits?

The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell. Connectors, mavens, and salesmen -- each has a role in discovering a small idea and "taking it viral". Why do some ideas catch on and not others? What are the early symptoms of a big change? Fashion trends, crime waves, and "The British are coming!" all factor into this fascinating analysis.


Other Worlds
Broom of the System by David Foster Wallace. This is the first DFW book I ever read, and I was hooked. Lenore Beadsman, the only semi-sane character in this book, navigates the bizarre disappearance of her grandmother and a couple dozen fellow nursing home residents, a brother who stores drugs in drawers in his artificial leg, her pet cockatiel rising to stardom on a Christian television network, and a host of other increasingly wacky plot elements that somehow all come together at the end.

Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien. Tolkien creates an entire world, complete with centuries' worth of history, languages, and an army of characters. That he not only sustains his plot over a couple thousand pages, but immerses you entirely in his vivid landscapes and the lives of his characters is an astounding feat. Grand themes of good and evil, deep friendship, and the call of duty are woven deftly into a riveting story.

Moonheart and Spirit Walk by Charles de Lint. If I ever go missing, you might want to start looking for me in a section of Ottowa bounded by Central Park and Patterson, Clemow, and Bank Streets. I've taken up permanent residence in Tamson House or one of the myriad Otherworlds to which it serves as a portal. Don't expect me to come home.

Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. Underneath the city of London is a parallel society where Knightsbridge becomes a night's bridge that swallows the unwary in its darkness. The Angel, Islington is an actual angel. A girl name Door can walk through walls. Richard Mayhew, a humdrum citizen of London Above, comes to Door's aid and is drawn into the life of London Below as a result.

Spritual Matters
The Battle for God by Karen Armstrong. Armstrong traces the histories of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam to illustrate how believers' concept of God has shifted and changed over the centuries. This book explores how man creates God in his own image, and must re-create the image when it ceases to be useful.

The Feminine Face of God by Sherry Ruth Anderson and Patricia Hopkins. This is a compilation of the moving and heartfelt accounts of women who, faced with deeply unsatisfying beliefs and cultural practices within their original religions, went out looking for an experience of the transcendent that they could call their own.

A History of God by Karen Armstrong. In this broad survey of the clash between modernism and fundamentalism in the western world, Armstrong shows that the fundamentalist movements within Judaism, Christianity, and Islam have more in common with each other than they do with the more moderate expressions of their source religions.

Life as a Needlepoint Project

Last night, I was chatting with a friend on Twitter, and we started talking about how to know what you really want out of life. It's an ongoing process for me. Every so often, I have to spend some serious time taking stock of where I am, getting my bearings, and figuring out what's next. I'm now in the process of transcribing my journal notes into a digital document, with the intention of combining them with my blog postings and making the whole thing into a book. I'm working on my mid-December notes right now, and I came across an extended metaphor that I thought was worth posting here. This explains my process much better than a series of tweets ever could. Or at least it explains me to myself. I hope it's helpful to someone else, but really, it's enough just to remind myself of where I've been and how I tend to navigate long ambiguous processes.

Life as Needlepoint
If I work on kits, they turn out looking really nice. Someone with a real talent for perspective, shading, and composition has produced a canvas painted in great detail, picked out just enough yarn in all the right colors. All I have to do is fill it in. I get a little impatient toward the end, filling in background and putting in the finishing details, but I stick with it until it's done. But it's still a kit.

When I design my own stuff, I get an idea in my head. Then I go online and look for someone else's images that I can combine and adapt in my own way. Drawing is not one of my more developed skills, but I can do collages. If I work from photographs, I have to simplify them down to work with the stitch-pixels of a needlepoint tapestry. I try to work with the yarn I already have, but I always wind up buying more because I need some other colors, or I run out of background yarn.

It always takes more yarn for the background than I think it will. If I have to buy more yarn mid-project, the color never quite matches. I have to be very clever to work that in in a way that doesn't just announce "I ran out of yarn." Complex backgrounds help with that, but you don't want to clutter up the design. Better to get enough yarn in the first place. Learn from experience how much you need.

PhotoShop lets me play around with the designs and colors -- much better than crayons on paper. I only have a black and white printer, though. And I just sketch my design onto the canvas in black sharpie. I suppose I should paint the colors onto the canvas in acrylic, but I'm too impatient. I just sketch the broad outlines and keep a picture handy to refer to for the details. That lets me experiment and change things on the fly, but it also means my designs are much less refined than the kits. Experience is making me a little better about putting in shading and details. I don't know if I will ever have the artistry of the kit designs. I don't know if I want that.

I look at some of my past projects, and the best ones are the simple designs. Not too jam-packed with detail. The Alphonse Mucha design was fun, but it's cluttered. The moon behind the clouds and its partner sun in a red sky over water are very appealing. Maybe my style is Art Deco or Craftsman?

I have a pencil sketch ready for a 25" x 25" canvas. A female crescent moon embracing a male sun. Two shooting stars in the corners and a starry-night background. The night sky will have to be aubergine instead of navy if I want it to go in my bedroom. Do I dare try to do realistic faces? Will it ruin the design if I try to make the colors harmonize with my green-and-brown decorating scheme? If I'm going to invest the effort, I want to know.

It seems as if all the pieces fit in better when I'm working on a kit. Everything works, it's smooth. But it's a kit. Finding kits that I haven't already done and that I want to work on is getting harder and harder. Not that many people do needlepoint. I don't want to do pictures of cute kittens or country scenes or religious platitudes.

If I want to have a design that really means something to me, I'm going to have to make it myself. I can use bits and pieces of what's already out there. I can use my experience to plan and anticipate. I can be diligent about my preparations. I can know what I'm strongest at and learn from my failed experiments. I can push the envelope a little.

The results might not be as detailed as my grand imagination. I might have to compromise to get the pieces to fit, or to have a design that integrates with my decor. I have to balance living with my constraints against having something grand enough to make me happy.

I have to try new things, supported by the old standbys. I have to have the diligence to rip out the parts that don't work, redo them, and keep moving ahead. Some of my projects wind up in a box. They didn't work, for one reason or another. Some are just abandoned sketches, some are small completed squares. One is a large canvas, eventually completed just to say that I completed it, but it no longer goes with anything. I should give that to a craft sale or something. Let it be useful for someone else. Some of my designs are good, but they don't go with my stuff. I should let those go. Maybe take photographs to remember them by.

I want to know as much as possible before I invest the money and effort in a large project, but I can't know everything in advance. I take my best guess on what is worth moving forward on, and I plunge in. I take stock at various points -- move ahead or drop it? Change the plan? Once I'm in it, sometimes it's worth it just to finish up for the sake of finishing up.

That kit I did of the butterfly on the parchment scroll was beautiful and complex. Lots of work, but worth finishing. Even all the detail-work. And then it sat in a box for years because I didn't know what to do with it. Finally, I said what the heck, bought a simple frame, blocked and mounted it myself, and hung it in my bedroom. And it's perfect. (OK, maybe mounted a little crooked, but that's wabi-sabi.)

My best efforts involve learning and borrowing from what others have already done or what others are better at than I am, and then customizing and re-assembling the pieces to suit the image that I have in my mind. I can play around with ideas and attempt small trial efforts that are intended only to help me think things through. Eventually, though, I have to just plunge in and begin. I have to simplify the grand mental images to fit my talents and limitations without losing the delight in making something really wonderful. The simple designs usually look the best, anyhow, and "simple" is not the same as "amateurish".

I have to make a design that fits in with the parts of my life that are already in place (the parts that I want to keep, anyhow). Inevitably, some aspects of my project don't look like I wanted them to. If it's bad enough, I have to rip that part out and do it over again. If it's good enough, I keep it and enjoy the serendipity. As much as I would like to complete my project using only the resources that I already have, it never really works out that way. I have to go out and get what I need to move ahead.

Sometimes it's worth it to persevere and just finish for the sake of finishing. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes, by the time I finish something, circumstances have changed and the finished piece no longer has a place. Sometimes, a finished project is just what I need at the time, but circumstances change and it no longer fits in. Every now and then, a finished piece that I didn't have a place for at the time re-emerges from the storage closet after many years, and it's exactly what I need right here, right now. I don't really know in advance how things will turn out. All I can do is make the best preparations I can, and then begin.

It's Not How Far You Go...

I've been taking yoga classes for just over two years now. A lot of my ideas for blog posts pop into my head during yoga class, inspired by a bit of poetry, a bend or twist that I never dreamed I could do, or just lying quietly on my mat at the end of class.

I did quite a bit of yoga back in the 1970s, and I was very proud of how flexible I was. It was all about reaching a little further, clasping my hands around the soles of my feet, getting my forehead to reach the floor, any way I could. Meditation and insight didn't factor in back then. Here it is, almost 40 years later (ack!), and I'm taking a different approach. I started classes because I had a sedentary job that left me too drained to even think about going to the gym after work. I was living pretty much completely inside my head, and I needed to get my body into the act as well. Yoga seemed like a nice, gentle way to ease back into my physicality.

Those first classes were miserable. My muscles ached, I couldn't hold the poses, I couldn't keep my hair out of my face (that's still a problem sometimes). I missed half the classes that first session because of an infection on my knee. My teacher was a patient, gentle soul -- a woman about the same age as I am, her middle-aged roundness disguising her amazing strength and flexibility. She took my classmates and me through the basic techniques slowly, thoroughly, explaining how the various parts of the body worked together and making sure that we lined everything up just so. She was always ready with a funny observation to help us smile as we held our wobbly Warrior 2 poses and teetering Tree poses.

It was humbling to start all over again like that. I couldn't bend and stretch like I used to, and it wasn't just age and inactivity. Taking the poses with strength and alignment makes for more gradual progress, but greater confidence and bigger after-class benefits in the long run. The muscles begin to develop and strengthen, not just stretch. The posture gets better, the balance is more secure. Gradually, the effects become apparent.

I'm taking two classes a week now, and the basic poses have become much easier for me. Downward Dog is a delicious stretch rather than an endurance test. My Warrior stands just a little stronger now. I remind myself of these things as I venture into more advanced poses in my Level 1-2 class. Half-handstands on the wall? One side of my mind says, "The heck you say!" while the other side says, "Well, let's try this and see what happens." Tonight, I tried my first supported half shoulder stand. Head, shoulders, and spine positioned just so on the mat, muscles engaged and pulling in the proper directions. Lift the butt off the mat and rest it on a block. One leg goes up, then the other. How about that?

After that 40-year hiatus, my body had almost completely forgotten those haphazard poses I did in my younger days. I had to begin again from scratch, but this time, I have the patience to build my skills bit by bit. Line things up just the right way instead of going to extremes. "It's not how far you go, it's how you go far," my teachers tell me. I practice improving my posture as I sit at my desk or wait for the train. I practice standing on one foot as I brush my teeth. I concentrate on my breathing when I'm stressed out. Instead of "doing yoga", I'm "living yoga". Or trying to, and getting progressively better at it.

That's kind of like what's happening to me after this year off. I had to break apart all the schedules and structures that had bent and twisted me into such an uncomfortable shape. I spent some time with hardly any structure at all, and then slowly put the pieces back into place. Before, I was organized, efficient, and productive -- but I was doing it in a way that eroded the very things that make me unique and creative. Now, I sometimes wonder where the day got away to, and I'm distressed by how little I've done -- until I remember that I have restored the things that keep me in proper alignment and make me strong. The yoga classes and long walks to clear my mind and keep my body healthy. The good night's sleep and nutritious food. The writer's workshop where I'm honing my skills in the company of a dozen delightful fellow writers.

Gearing myself up for the next phase of my life is not a sleek, elegant process. It's slow and stiff and wobbly. I'm staying with it, though, because I know that I will pick up momentum over time. I'm being very mindful of how I put the pieces into place, making sure that things are lined up just so. Strengthening myself in the basic things so that I can be strong and confident as I move into more adventurous things. I'm making myself schedule information interviews (which are a lot of fun once I'm actually doing them). My resume and website are up to date, and I'm pursuing job leads from various sources. I'm letting my professional network know that I'm alive and well, and back on the market. I'm less like a bullet train and more like a hiker following a badly marked trail, but I am making forward progress. And like they tell me in yoga class, "It's not how far you go, it's how you go far."

Can We Talk?

My year off is officially over. I'm still at home, but I'm actively looking for work. Maybe that will be a job in the conventional sense of the word, or maybe it will be a more creative way to bring in income. I'm not sure. I've tried telling myself that I ought to be checking the job ads more assertively, mailing brochures to potential clients, making cold calls and all. But it just doesn't feel right. I have chastised myself, telling myself to just get over my inertia and start the wheels moving again. Don't be such an introvert, I say. Which is kind of like telling myself to stop having such blue eyes or stop being so short.

I have found a much better source of motivation, though. It comes through in the morning when I am writing in my journal -- or sometimes at 3AM when I am wishing that I could get back to sleep. In the deep stillness of my room, little ideas make their way to the surface. Concrete, definite actions that I could take. Actions with energy and enthusiasm behind them. Actions based on what I do naturally, what I enjoy, what gives me satisfaction.

There's a stillness born of time away from the daily commute, the meetings and deadlines and periods of boredom interspersed with crises. In that space has come an appreciation of things that I have been doing for years, but have not integrated into the way I make my living. With that realization has come a desire to more fully integrate the marketable skills with the calling of what is most important to me.

I have come to acknowledge more fully my talent for talking about scientific and technical issues in language that is engaging and easy to understand. I might not get the story first, but I get it in context and I do my best to get it right. That's a real talent. It's much harder than summarizing one's research in the specialized language of one's own field. It goes beyond opening up a stream of data in the hopes that the more information you throw at people, the more likely they are to come around to your point of view. It's very different from "dumbing it down". Good science writing requires me to respect my reader's intelligence and convey an accurate, nuanced picture in language that is both precise and accessible.

Good science writing is an act of empathy. When I'm conducting interviews for an article, I have to do my homework ahead of time to know who it is I'm talking to and have some basic knowledge of their work. I don't want to waste this person's time asking basic questions that could be answered easily with a little online research. It's incumbent on me to know and convey to the person I'm interviewing the purpose of the article I'm writing and to ask for information that makes my article into something worth reading. I'm responsible for communicating to my source just why it is that he or she is exactly the person who can best help me learn and convey the specific information I'm going after.

I have to use my skills in asking questions to encourage my sources to talk about the most interesting, relevant, or important parts of their work. I have to listen carefully to what my sources are telling me. I can't assume that I know in advance what they are going to say. I can't shape their answers into what I think they should have said. I can't be reluctant to ask for clarification -- even if I think I understand what they meant to say. This requires a certain humility on my part -- a willingness to relinquish any concept of myself as an expert and to let my sources speak for themselves. My expertise comes in organizing and conveying the voices of all my sources as accurately and understandably as possible.

Empathy requires me to know something about the audience I'm writing for. What this audience is most interested in might not be the same thing that most interests my sources. Depending on the type of article I'm writing, I might have to spend some time educating my audience, but I can't be overly didactic without losing their attention. Everyone is busy these days, and a multitude of information sources compete for my reader's attention. I have to make it worth my reader's time to read my writing. I have to show my readers something new or present a different point of view on something familiar. Some part of what I say has to be relevant to the world they inhabit.

I have to be trustworthy. If I come across as selling a particular point of view or advocating for a particular cause, I might capture the attention of those who already agree with me. But I will lose those readers who disagree with me -- the very readers who might have an "aha!" moment or engage others in a constructive dialogue after having read my article. On the other hand, false balance is just as misleading as blind advocacy. On some issues (climate change is one notable example), the scientific consensus is so strong that giving equal weight to a small opposing minority is a distortion of the facts.

Trustworthiness also requires clarity. "Baffle them with bullshit" is not an acceptable approach here. Few intelligent readers come away convinced that because an issue is presented in dense technical prose, it must be important and correct. On the other hand, talking down to one's readers, using lazy metaphors, or affecting a false hipness only makes the writer look incompetent. The goal is to convey a message and convey it well.

Conveying a message also requires an understanding that we are not completely rational beings. Two reasonably sane, intelligent, well-intentioned people can look at the same set of facts and draw very different conclusions. We all operate within our own social, historical, and experiential frameworks, and we interpret what we see accordingly. A good writer must provide enough context and perspective to inform, but not overwhelm, her readers.

Our emotions affect how we react to information, whether or not we are aware of it. Thus, humor, diplomacy, and yes, empathy are far more than ways to "spice up" an article. They are necessary elements in connecting with one's audience and opening a space for dialogue -- or perhaps drawing the lines for battle.

The work I enjoy best draws on all these skills, but some of my previous jobs have required a "just-the-facts" approach. For some purposes, that's enough. An activity report for a government agency is not the right place to hone one's skills in humorous narrative nonfiction. But since I have all of these skills, it's up to me to find an outlet for them. Leave the cut-and-dried work to those who excel at it.

Lately, I've been exploring social media (FaceBook, Twitter, and the like) as a means of staying in touch with the people I've met through my travels, career, and various stages of my life. This has evolved into a means of conversing with people whom I have never met face-to-face, but with whom I share common interests and affinities. I'm exploring the nuances of brief written communications and asking myself how well it is possible to know another person through electronic interaction alone. Electronic communities are changing the way we understand friendship and the way information (or misinformation) spreads.

Increasingly, interest groups, businesses, and other organizations use these channels to shape what we think and how we talk to each other in ways that go far beyond the pop-up ads and "you might be interested in..." suggestions. Skilled communicators realize that this is where their audience is, and they seek out the people they want to reach in this way. Perhaps the entire message can be conveyed right there on the spot. Perhaps a brief note on Twitter alerts readers to a more detailed account elsewhere. Perhaps flinging an idea into the fray sparks a conversation or elicits a wealth of crowd-sourced information, an exchange of diverse points of view. In any case, it's a matter of going out and engaging in dialogue with readers where they are rather than passively waiting in the backwaters of the information stream.

If this is so interesting to me in my personal interactions, why not investigate ways to build this into my profession as a science writer? After all, one of the reasons I took 2012 as a year off was to discover ways of integrating the various values and interests I have into a means of supporting myself while contributing something worthwhile to the world.