Ligonier Country Market, summer 2007

This week's In The Word Cellar column is an interlude of inspiration. I almost titled this post "Things I've Been Telling Myself (which you may or may not find useful, too)." I had intended to write about the rules of writing this week, but apparently I needed an affirmation of my creative powers instead. Writing has been slow going for the past two weeks, even downright painful at times. So here's a little shot in the arm to keep you -- and me -- going. Come back in two weeks for what I hope will become a rousing discussion on the topic of when it's okay to break the rules of grammar, sentence structure, and punctuation. Fun times!

• When you sit down to write and there are no words, listen.
• When you look at the blank page and panic, type the first ten words that come to mind, no matter what they are. Then type ten more. It might hurt, but keep typing until you find the thread of some story, even if it's not a story you knew you needed to tell.
• When you open a jumbled mess of a document to rewrite it and feel physically repulsed by what you are sure is hard core evidence of your shortcomings, breathe.
• When the call to create becomes a burden, shift your energy from a place of duty to a place of privilege. Stop saying "I have to," and start saying "I get to."
• When every single word or brush stroke or click of the shutter feels like a slow and clumsy slog through the mud, take a break. And then go back to slogging until you can find an easier way. If the way doesn't get easier, only you can really know if you're on the wrong path or if this is simply a time of learning and strengthening for you. Be honest and proceed accordingly.
• When you feel certain that your success is behind you and all future attempts will fail, try to chuckle at your own mix of pride and insecurity. And take comfort in the knowledge that other artists have this same mix inside of them, too.
• When you don't know what to create, ask yourself what you love. Then make that.
• When all of this fails, remind yourself to create out of a sense of love, not fear.
• When you feel overwhelmed and sick to your stomach with other people's smarmy inspiration, take these words (and all aphorisms) with the clichéd grain of salt. Then find your own way to keep creating. (And tell us about it in the comments.)

winery in winter, southwestern pa., december 2009 (diana+; multiple exposure)

The world has been white and grey for weeks now. I don't mind the cold. After all, I like wearing sweaters and scarves. I don't even want a purely cloudless sky, as too much sunlight sets me on edge, makes me jittery in its garish gaze. I love the look of rolling fields covered in snow blankets. Winter is not my enemy. But this winter. Oh Lord, save us from this winter. Inches and feet of snow, more in a month than in a whole normal season. Temperatures never above freezing long enough for grass or shrubbery to peek through. Fifteen-foot high mountains of dirty ice and snow taking up half a row of spots in the grocery store parking lot.

But yesterday, in an impossible moment, a bird called out the beginning of a song in the six a.m. still-dark morning. Just the four opening notes, an overture, an invocation, an invitation to spring. I was rolling over to go back to sleep, but I whistled along in my mind, raising my own silent birdsong in hope and expectation. 

I ache for spring breezes and long for flowers. I scan the colorless sky for some movement in the gauzy heavens, some whisper of blue. I take considerable comfort and joy in the birds, the darting red of cardinals, the swooping blue of jays, the velvet vests of orange upon robins. These are the only colors in this anemic landscape. The mourning doves camouflage themselves in the branches, all puffed up and plump in serene tones of tan and grey. They look so cozy in this wonderland, and for that I respect them. 

I crave clementines. I need the sweet tang of citrus. I have forsaken the comfort foods of of my youth for spicier climes. I've traded pot pie and mashed potatoes for curries and salsas. In the deep heart of this winter, the white-out hour before spring's dawn, I need zest. I need heat. My appetite has become downright tropical.

Lessons I have to learn over and over again, or, things I forget to remember:

• Everyone (even the people I admire) feels scared and inept sometimes.
• If I put an item under the broiler and then walk away to check on something else, said item will probably come out extra crispy.
• Gatwick the Catwick knows when I'm terribly upset and will assert his furry cheeks and whiskers to calm me down.
• I'm more talented and hardworking that I give myself credit for.
• Doing the dishes doesn't take as long as I think it will.
• A clean and orderly house soothes a multitude of anxious thoughts.
• "North, Miss Tessmocker" is a quote from one of the Superman movies.
• My husband knows how to juggle.
• The longer I stay home alone, the lonelier I feel and the more I want to stay home alone. The only antidote is a forced foray out into the world. (Or: It takes a lot of energy and willpower to break the spell of inertia.)
• I need some structure to feel sane.
• Nobody has all of their so-called shit together.
• The magic of writing always comes back, even after long stretches of mulish slogging through muddy words.

What do you forget to remember?

This week we kick off the first In The Word Cellar feature with a basic -- and often touchy -- question: Can creative writing be taught?

Here's my short answer: Yes.

Of course, there's also a longer answer.

I'm drawn to kitchen analogies lately, so for a minute, let's think of writing as cooking. Can cooking be taught? Of course it can. In order to cook, we need to learn about different kinds of ingredients, how they react to various cooking methods, and how their flavors interact with each other. We need to know about utensils, how to tell when produce is ripe, the best way to chop an onion. To cook, we learn how to measure things, how to read a recipe, and eventually how to improvise without one. In order to create a tasty dish, we need to understand the ingredients, the method, and the art of seasoning something just so. Yes, cooking can be taught. This isn't to say that everyone will have the same cooking style, will excel at preparing the same dishes, or will become master chefs. After all, I did say the art of seasoning. But the building blocks of cooking can be taught.

I feel the same way about writing. Yes, there is a difference between natural talent and learned skill. And yes, I believe that both exist and will impact the way we write. But we won't get very far on the page if we focus too much on innate ability and neglect the learned skills part of the picture.

What is the basis of writing? Language. That's simple, but it gets tricky. Because we use language everyday, it's easy to believe that we can automatically master the art of writing. But being an excellent writer is much more than knowing how to use words to communicate. We need to know how words interact with each other; how to structure a sentence, paragraph, and passage to create the best effect; how to use various writing techniques to create a powerful and beautiful story. Things like grammar and verb tenses matter. They matter because they help us to understand the building blocks of our craft.

Now, if all of this sounds cold and clinical to you, don't worry. I also believe that writing is an art, full of mystery, magic, and serendipity. I'm not an either-or kind of girl. I believe in both-and. Writing is both a science and an art. An excellent piece of writing is the product of learned skills and natural talent. The process of writing is something to be examined and enjoyed.

As we explore the nature of writing here In The Word Cellar, I hope you'll remember this: You can learn to be a better writer. I can't do anything about your natural level of talent, and frankly, neither can you. So why worry about it now? Besides, we're terrible judges of our own abilities. Let's focus on the parts we can control. Let's learn the techniques of good writing, and let's give ourselves over to the joy of creation. By learning about the ingredients, method, and art of writing, each of us can create something lovely.

What do you think? Do you believe creative writing can be taught? Are you ready to learn? Let us know in the comments.

**I'll be answering community questions in the coming weeks. Send your writing questions to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com with "In The Word Cellar" as the subject line.**

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Check out other articles in the series here.

Several years ago, as I found my way into this wonderful community of online dreamers, artists, activists, and big-thing-doers, two bloggers became part of my unofficial team of mentors and dream advisors. By sharing their worlds and dreams online, Jen Lemen and Andrea Scher encouraged me to look for and follow my own dreams. When they launched their first Mondo Beyondo online class last August, I was thrilled to be part of it. The course gives you access to a wide and deep community of all levels of dreamers, permission  and space to dream, and substantial resources to encourage and inspire you along the way. Plus, if you click through on the Mondo Beyondo banner above or on the button in the sidebar and register for the course, you'll be helping to support The Word Cellar, as well. The next session starts March 8, just in time for spring, the perfect time to dig into the soil of your soul and plant some dreams to grow in the coming seasons.