June 2014

In SIX WORDS or fewer, write a story about an experiment. (#6words kickoff!)

Many of you answer my six word story challenge prompts on Twitter. Your creative responses have given me great pleasure. Some stories turned out shockingly insightful, others made me laugh out loud. However, I often hear from followers that you wish you could see all the responses. Let's try an experiment to make that easier.

I will post the six word challenge here on my blog. Please leave your story in the comments below. Let's see how this goes! First prompt....

 

In SIX WORDS or fewer, write a story about an experiment.

(Leave your story in the comments below.)

lies

My Daughter Lies: Karma Bites a Writer in Her Skin-Tight Dress

liesMy daughter lies in the best way possible – in her writing.

For her sixth grade language arts class, she wrote a story based on an experience from her life. She titled the story “Betrayal.” It opens with me telling her we’re going to get a new member of the family.

The early version that I helped correct varied greatly from the final draft that came home in her end-of-the-year mass of papers. When I first saw the final, I thought, Oh, she changed the title. I read on. This copy included a line that read, “My mom wore a fancy skin tight dress that looked more like a swimsuit than a dress.”

She described my car as poop-colored, wrote that it smells like left over fast food and that mysterious stains cover the upholstery.

A flash of embarrassment and anger flickered in my chest. My car doesn’t look like poop! My dresses aren’t that tight, are they? These thoughts quickly gave way to, wow, those are really good details.

The story documents the day I took her to the rescue center to get her a pet cat. You’d think I’d be the good guy in this story. No. Not so much.

She thought at first that we going to adopt a child. She writes of how all she’s ever wanted is a sister in her world of loneliness and step-brothers. When she learns that we’re just getting a cat, she feels “heartbroken and betrayed.” The grand resolution comes when she meets her cat for the first time and deems her perfect in every way.

My reaction upon finishing the story: My daughter sure is lucky she has such a dynamic mom to give her messed-up experiences to write about.

When I view myself from her eyes, I am an extraordinary creature. I move her around the world, sometimes to live, sometimes to visit. Her earliest years she bore witness to my rotating cast of loves. I wear heels and tall boots. I get my hair done. She watches me start companies, win investments in San Francisco, but spend weeks at a time in jogging pants while working on writing projects at home. Sometimes we are wealthy-ish, sometimes we haven’t a single dollar to our names. I’m a great character!

I really did leave it open to interpretation when I told her we were getting a new member of the family. I didn’t think she’d believe me and it would be funny when she learned she was finally going to get a cat. I didn’t anticipate that she’d instantly go all-in on the idea of bringing yet another kid into our cramped apartment. The day that story took place, I learned that my daughter has incredible capacity for love and generosity. She learned that her mean mom thinks it’s funny to trick her sometimes.

I do still think it’s funny. She’s so damn savvy. I have to work really hard to fool her these days.

The lines I’ve written about my own mother horrified her. For the sake of story, I limited the perspective to focus on particular aspects of personality. I chose details that reveal, that make her human, that show impact. These were not the ones she wanted to see recorded. I know a little bit better how that feels.

I do occasionally wear tight dresses. My daughter says they look more like bathing suits. Exaggeration, but oh how it improved the paragraph.

The fact that my daughter is a writer shouldn’t surprise me. Even if she never writes an another story her entire life, she’ll always be a writer. She knows how to carve a page, how to build from nothing an entire world populated with character, emotion and action. How grateful I am to be a part of the world she creates, even if I play the role of wayward mom.

crap

The Poet's Advice: Don't Write Crap

crapWhen I told my writing group that I planned to write one blog post per day in June, Kay, a poet, gave me a warning.

“Don’t write crap.”

I laughed, promised her I’d do my best. My goal was to set habit, routine. I’m a decent writer, so I figured the content would be decent.

“A little crap may creep in,” I said, “But I’ll aim a higher.”

Writing quality content every day proved to be more of a struggle than I imagined.

Even the fact that I use the word “content” reveals part of my problem.

For years, I have been a content machine. I post how-to’s. I share articles. I record tutorials. I think in terms of traffic, clicks, reach and relevance.

Fiction, or creative work of any kind, may completely lack discernible relevance. Creative work may have no goal other than to exist, resonance with another soul the only bonus.

The first two weeks weren’t too hard. I could write some cute little pieces and fill in the dry days with new summaries of old work. My posts are decent enough. Go take a look.

Then, on a Tuesday night date at a jazz club, I heard a vocalist sing a song so beautiful, so full of story and raw emotion, that it arrested me physically. I held a mouthful of wine for an entire song.  I gulped it down at the applause, just as my husband leaned in to kiss me, fearing he’d notice I’d been holding a swig of alcohol in my mouth.

Oh. That’s what art looks like.

I’m fighting my way back to art. I write my way past business and expectation, through weary and worn, shallow and slighted. There is art in me, though now years of key word excrement may coat it thoroughly.

It bothered me that I had this revelation while I was drinking. I don’t drink much anymore. Not since my mother’s intervention. However, I’m better when I’m tipsy. Honest. Accessible. Those careful bars I erect to protect myself become but gossamer threads. If you take a deep breath, puff it out in a burst of air, you’ll knock down all my defenses. And there I’ll be, unobstructed, soulful. Brilliant.

My notebook from that night is full of inky scribbles, fragments, paragraphs and single words to illuminate whole ideas or impressions. If I wish, I have a week’s worth of great content to mine from those pages.

Date night passed, fully sober, I set myself to the task of keeping the door open on my guts. Try not to lose access. I have to go deeper. I need to know what makes me this way and how I may survive myself.

My mother is an alcoholic in the early stages of recovery. Her psyche may currently lack the stability to bear the searching questions of her youngest daughter.

My grandmother doesn’t drink. Did she ever? My dear Renny, from whom I inherited my love of lists and forward motion, does her soul perch on the skin of her fingertips, or does it dwell somewhere deeper, only accessible when the mighty walls have been marinated in moist drink?

This weekend I will drive the windy, tree-lined road up to her ranch. I’ll sit her in the plastic chair in her garden, send my daughter to run wild in the woods as all good young women do, and I will demand answers.

Why am I this way? Why do I fear people? Why does my family drink?  Why did all my aunts despise my grandfather? Why does my sister resent me? What about those old stories I heard, about your husband, my wizard, your sister, a divorce and a remarriage that never happened.

Perhaps if I learn the secrets, I will be free.

 

Killing the Pirate: The Cutting Pain of Editing a Character from a Novel

This evening, I discovered the ending to the novel I’ve been working on for the past nine years. Glorious. It all makes sense now.

Of course, I also realize that I must now cut a good 20,000 words from the end of the manuscript as they really have nothing to do with the story I am trying to tell.

A beloved character will be lost completely with this dramatic, yet necessary cut. Editing this character out of my novel is like killing a love. He was a love of mine, reimagined for the pages, but real nonetheless. I never see him anymore, and likely won’t ever again. The novel gave me a way to meet him, to spend a little more time in our friendship. To feel again the way he made me feel.

Perhaps I will write him a poem instead. Or simply remember him.

Or perhaps, very sneaky, I will hide his pages somewhere on my website, like right here.

 

 

VIDEO: Crowdfunding for Authors Tutorial with Pubslush

RECORDED WEBINAR: Crowdfunding for authors

How to raise funds to publish your book led by Amanda Barbara of Pubslush

It used to be that writers publishing futures were completely controlled by the publishing house gods. You would develop your craft, write your book, send it off to an agent and pray for the best. That path to publishing remains an option. However, for those of you with the interest and energy to take your publishing fate into your own hands, crowdfunding offers an attractive alternative.

To learn more about crowdfunding, I invite you to watch the recorded webinar above. Amanda Barbara of Pubslush generously shared her crowdfunding tips with me and the Writer.ly community.

You'll learn:

  • What is crowdfunding is and how it can help authors?
  • How to create and conduct a successful crowdfunding campaign.
  • How to use your successful campaign for book sales and promotion.

PERSONAL NOTE - You can choose from numerous crowdfunding platforms to raise the money to publish your book. Pubslush is unique in that they are created specifically to support writers and publishing projects. Not only that, the Pubslush team have proven again and again to be the most accessible, helpful crew around.

About Amanda:
Amanda L. Barbara is the vice president of Pubslush, a global crowdfunding platform only for books. Authors can raise funds, understand their audience, and self-publish or traditionally publish their work. A philanthropist at heart, she serves on the board of directors for the Pubslush Foundation, which supports children's literacy initiatives worldwide, and is a founder and director of The Barbara Family Foundation, an organization committed to assisting charities and children in need. Amanda is an advocate for crowdfunding in the publishing world and has spoken at various conferences, such as Writer's Digest, Tools of Change, Crowdfunding East Conference, and the Digital Publishing Innovation Summit, and has served as an ambassador and speaker at CONTEC at the Frankfurt Book Fair.

 

fail_at_being_a_writer

How to Fail at Being a Writer

fail_at_being_a_writerWould you like to know how to fail at being a writer? Follow these steps exactly and failure may be yours!

First, begin with doubt. Doubt your talent, your brain, your skills, your spelling. Doubt the quality of your ideas and the worth of your stories. Doubt that you even like writing. Doubt your sincerity, doubt your ability.

Once you have a thick, sticky baseline of doubt spread wide over your mind, you are ready to begin failing at being a writer.

Next, sit at your computer and check your social media sites. Click through to Jezebel and Daily Beast. Sign an online petition about health care access for sick kids. Feel a little outrage. Think, I should write about this.

Open your preferred writing software. Sigh deeply. Go refill your coffee cup. Return to your desk. Recheck all your social media sites for new posts and interactions.

Open a file of old writing. Even through you have edited this piece at least ten times, edit it again. Tell yourself editing is writing. Sigh deeply.

Check your social media sites for new posts and interactions. Spend a minimum of thirty minutes reading celebrity gossip. Shudder with self-disgust.

Go pet the dog. Take a walk around the block to clear your mind. Notice how it's almost noon already and panic that you are wasting your chance to get writing done. Doubt that you even like writing. Doubt your sincerity, doubt your ability.

Sit in front of the computer. Decide to blog instead of working on your novel. Scan through your post ideas and reject all those you deem frivolous, likely not to appeal to a wide audience, too personal, too impersonal, too overdone, too hard to match with a catchy title. Draft a list of the top ten websites where authors can post pictures of their cats. Sigh deeply. Go refill your coffee cup.

Sit in front of the computer. Tell yourself, butt in chair. Read inspirational quotes about how writing is really all hard work. Nod in agreement. Recheck all your social media sites for new posts and interactions.

Jump when the phone rings. Realize you were so absorbed in that online article about trends in book cover designs from the seventies that you missed your daughter's pick-up time. Run out of the house, late, no real work accomplished.

Congratulations! If you made it this far, you have succeeded at failing to be a writer.

However, take this warning, this failure is not permanent. Tomorrow you wake up again. You must not give into temptation or inspiration to open that file with your novel. Failure requires commitment. You can not become complacent. Stay vigilant. Once again, you'll wake up tomorrow with every chance of success.

mortality

My Daughter's First Glimpse of Mortality: The Death of Ichi, Ni, San and Toto

My daughter was four-years-old when I wrote this essay. As I had very little experience with death in my own life, guiding her through her first glimpse of mortality proved challenging for me. I wasn't ready. Parenting proves to lean towards "making it up as I go" side of things.

mortalityDaughter wins four fish on the day we celebrate hanami on the banks of the Shukugawa. She names them Ichi, Ni, San and Toto. They do not last long.

Ichi dies at night, just after Daughter goes to bed. I consider flushing him right then, but decide I better wait until morning so that Daughter is not startled to hear of his demise and disposal after the fact. I scoop him out of the bowl and leave him to float all night in the little pink teacup on top of the TV. Daughter wakes up late. The babysitter is already standing at our door and I have just a couple minutes before I need to rush out to work. I give Daughter the bad news and show her the fish.

She cries.

“Why did my fish die? I don’t want it to die forever!”

Real tears. My heart races as panic sets in.

“Well, we need to decide what to do. We can bury it in the park, or we can flush it so… it can go out to the ocean... to fishie heaven.”

More and more tears. Third degree breakdown. I glance again at the clock in the wall. Obviously, the funeral is not going to go smoothly in the final minute I have left before I need to leave. I wrap the teacup in plastic and place it in the refrigerator, between the daikon radish and mini-yogurt drinks.

“Sweetheart,” my voice low and calm, “when you are at school, think about how you want to say good-bye. We’ll take care of Ichi when I get home.”

After teaching my last class of the day, I skip out on my usual hour of loitering in the teacher’s lounge trying to catch a moment in the same room as crush and head straight to pick up Daughter. I wait anxiously in the entryway to see her, wondering if she’ll be tear-stained and red-faced. She looks fine.

We are standing around with all the other moms helping their kids put on shoes and sweaters when Daughter shouts, “My fish died! We’re going to flush it down the toilet!” She bounces up and down in her stocking feet.

Uh, yes, that’s right. We’ll be going now. Have a nice evening everyone.

On the walk home, Daughter starts moaning again. She is obviously sad, but also experimenting with grief. Her voice goes up and down in concentrated scales. She cries for a second, then stops mid-sigh when a thought occurs to her.

“Where does the fish go when we flush it down the toilet?” Her voice is crystal and lilting.

“I think it goes out to the ocean. To fishie heaven. She’ll be so happy there. It will be beautiful, just like in the Nemo movie.”

I want to smack myself. Did I really just compare the afterlife with a Disney movie? And I don’t even think there is a fish heaven. I promise myself not to lie to my daughter about death again. I say it twice in my head. Don’t lie about death. Don’t lie about death. Daughter resumes her dramatic murmurings.

We get home, take the fish out of the fridge and stand in front of the toilet.

“Good-bye Ichi,” I say. “You were a good fish.”

Daughter really starts to cry now, fifth degree, and I’m a little surprised by how deeply upset she seems.

She moans, “Don’t die forever!

I drop the fish into the toilet bowl and gently ask, “Do you want to be the one to flush it?”

Daughter’s crying stops in a heart beat.

She springs forward like a leopard. “Yeah!”

Whooosh, around and down Ichi goes. Daughter enthralled, hangs over the toilet with her mouth open and her eyes wide.

“He’s all gone now,” she says to me, then skips away top play with her toys.

The other fish last a few more weeks. The one black one, Toto, dies next. His funeral is a much quicker affair. Then a few days later, Ni goes bottoms up. Daughter scoops him out herself and does the flushing honors. This morning, our last survivor, San, finally gives up the good fight.

Daughter wants to get a turtle next.

Oh little turtle that we bring home, I apologize in advance.

Author note: We never did get a turtle, but we have been through a variety of small, completely un-lovable mammals. She has a cat now. We love the cat. It survived.

proper_introductions

Proper Introductions: The Evolution of a Wallflower

proper_introductionsMy twelve-year old daughter and I stood at the edge of the wedding pre-party. The crowd of barely knowns and complete unknowns jumped and seethed with motion and noise. Happy. Dancing. Talking. My daughter's eyes grew wide watching the crowd. She pulled herself straight and leaned back away from the room as though reeling from a sour scent.

"Mom, can I go run outside?"

"Uh huh," I said.

One blink of the eye and she vanished, racing around the giant estate my husband's family had rented for his sister's wedding.

Damn, I thought, there goes my plus one.

Today, my husbands beautiful sister marries. This marriage brings together a Persian family and Indian family. Both the bride and groom are of the first generation born in America. Both are doctors. The celebrations started months ago, on the east coast, where the Indian contingent threw a lavish party complete with bright costumes and choreographed dance routines.

Last night we experienced the rehearsal dinner, hosted by the Persian side. Today begins with a Catholic ceremony at a church, followed by a Persian ceremony at a waterside resort, followed by an after-party that from all rumors will likely surpass that of the grammys.

Epic. Excellent. Extraordinary. But back to my problem. Me, bewildered, at the edge of crowd of barely-knowns.

Through the glass on the expansive front doors, I could see my daughter scaling the neighbor's fence to drop down and disappear into a field thick with scotch broom. Lucky kid.

While my husband and I have been together over six years, it was just recently that we decided to tie the matrimonial knot. Even more recently came his family's acceptance of my place in his life. Ours is a second marriage. Divorce does not play well with families from the old country. The beginning of our relationship a nano second after his first marriage ended did not start us off on a good foot with his parents. Rule breakers may be fed to the exclusion dogs.

Standing there, watching grandmas and aunts and uncles merge and separate and mingle and mix, I took deep breaths.

These are good people, I told myself. Give them the chance they never gave you. My husband locked eyes with me, sending me a helpless, sympathetic smile from his position at the sound board where he had been roped on arrival into playing DJ. Whatever happened, I was going to have to face it alone.

And then it began, the first pulling on my hand.

"Oh hello! You must be Ali's wife. I am his mother's best friend from Texas. I heard so much about you."

Another gentle pull, "Oo la la, look at Ali's wife. So beautiful! Would you like wine, my dear?"

Directed by a bevy of manicured hands, I made my rounds and introductions. Relatives flown in from California, from Texas, from Iran, from New York, from India. I dined on a plate loaded half with ghormeh sabzi and half with curry. I danced with the ladies in pastel suits, flicking wrists and twisting hips. I even sat for a few minutes with my husband's father, on the balcony, trying not to push too hard in a friendly argument that raced from immigration, to Iran, to privilege, to gay rights, to my husband's exercise habits.

By the end of the night, even my wild daughter had worked herself into the crowd. Her party clothes hung damp from her dashes through the landscaping sprinklers. Small sticks and organic bits and pieces stuck her hair. She laughed with the ladies, eating the endless stream of treats pushed into her hands. She enchanted two younger girls who followed her around as though her adoring minions. Only after exhaustion caught up with her did she pull out her book and settle into a forgotten nook.

By the time pans of pie and baklava replaced the platters of meat and rice, and the music evolved from bouncy, upbeat Persian pop to even bouncier, louder, more upbeat Persian pop, I could mangle at least eight new names with ease and work my shoulders on the dance floor as though I'd been doing it since I was knee-high. Best yet, I learned I could confidently interject myself into any family cluster with the utterance of the one phrase sure to win me favor.

"Hello. I'm Ali's wife."

I figure it will only be a matter of time before I may simply introduce myself as Kelsye.

Eleven Secrets to Building a Better Writing Group

11_secrets_better_writing_groupWhat do Chuck Palahniuk, Ursula Le Guin and Louisa May Alcott have in common? They all belong (or belonged) to writing groups.

Writing may be a solitary pursuit, but the solidarity of writing in the company of other writers may drive and focus your effort. A reliable, anticipatory audience makes for a great motivator. It may be that the only people who read your recent words are the five with which you meet weekly, but those eyes may be all the reward you need.

Once you’ve refined your craft and gotten that book deal or independently published, these will be the same people who make sure your first book signing isn’t a ghost town. These are the folks that can tell you that selling 500 books really is quite an accomplishment. They’ll be the ones to tell you how you really sounded when you start your NPR interviews. At the very least, they will write beside you and walk with you on your author journey.

A great many writing groups exist. I guarantee writers regularly meet somewhere close to you. Check meetup.com, look at the flyers in your local libraries and writerly cafes. If you can’t find one that’s right for you, start one yourself! That’s what I did with my group, the Seattle Daylight Writers. Five years later, we’re still going strong!

Here are my eleven secrets to building a better writing group.

1.)  Pick a day, time and frequency that works for you.

This may seem like a no-brainer, but it is actually very easy to acquiesce to scheduling times that don’t really work with your schedule in order to please the vocal folks that aim for their own convenience. You are the leader and organizer. If the time is difficult for you, you may be able to make it at first, then will struggle, then will skip. Without a consistent leader, the group will falter, weaken and disband. This time won’t work for some people. That’s okay. They can start another group at a time that works for them.

2.)  Be consistent.

Once you find a time to meet that works for you, stick to it. The more regular and reliable you are, the more likely your group will go the distance. There will always be weeks some writers will miss. Or there will be the first timer and will take a couple months of canceling before getting the courage to make their first appearance. If you are always there, Fridays at eleven at Caffe Vita on Pike, writers will find their way to you, or back to you, eventually.

3.)  Respect every writer.

All writers are equal. Every moment of a writer’s journey is valid and worthy, from those just starting and struggling with basic clarity, to those churning out best-selling literary prose on a daily basis. We were all beginners once.

4.)  Decide what you really want out of your group.

Not every writing group is the same. My group gathers to communally ignore each other for 45-minutes of feverous writing. If so moved, we follow this writing period by reading out loud what we just wrote. Perhaps you’re looking for deep critique and your group will share pages beforehand and exchange comments when you meet. Still other groups meet to share prompts, exercises and writing games. Make it whatever you want. There will be other writers seeking the same thing.

5.)  Create an online page.

Your group’s webpage will allow you to schedule sessions, provide information and manage and attract members. I love using meetup.com for my writing group. I never advertised. I simply put it up on Meetup and the writers found me. You could also use a Facebook page, a Google+ group, or a custom site.

6.)  Personally welcome every person that comes.

With as little as a nod and a “hello”, you can make each writer feel welcomed and at ease in your group. It’s amazing how many people feel great trepidation and insecurity to say they are a “Writer” or to do anything that may bring their writing to light or fear of being rejected by “real” writers. A simple, “Hello. I’m glad you came,” can go a long way to transforming a nervous newbie to an impassioned participant.

7.)  Location. Location. Location.

Setting has a tremendous impact on the tone of your writing group. Busy, loud coffee shops may be excellent for inspired writing sessions, but terrible for structured conversations. Quiet libraries work well for editing sessions and one-on-one critiques. Private homes are great for groups of people that already know each other, but uncomfortable for strangers.

8.)  Consider parking and transportation ease.

Things like free parking and bus accessibility can be the deciding factor people for many people if they want to make the trek out to writing group today or not. Groups meeting in urban areas may want to share the best parking strategies, or post which bus routes run close by.

9.) Enlist as many co-organizers as possible.

Your instincts may tell you to protect your precious group by keeping control close and limited to your own whims. However, this is the quickest way to kill a group. Imagine that your writing group will last years and years. One day, eventually, you will go on vacation, or suffer an illness, or perhaps even fall out of your writing groove for a bit. With co-organizers, you don't need to worry about the group dying off during your absence. Plus, the more ownership members have, the better the quality of the group.

I should note here that for my own group I retain sole control over finances and the ability to charge dues. I have not passed that on to any one else. However, I have many co-organizers that host more events. Our group meets three times a week, but I only can make it to one.

10.) Set the tone, diffuse, feel free to boot.

You have the power to set the tone of your group. Whether you would like a group heavy on criticism or instead focused on positive encouragement, your words and actions provide the model for other members. Feel free to speak to any writer who damages the experiences of others. (Preferably in private.) It's very rare, but I have even banished a few people from our group. I welcome all kind of crazy, warmly. Our group is the people's group and open to all, regardless of writing ability, psychosis or quirks. The only time I booted people has been when their crazy interferes with other member's ability to have a positive experience.

11.) Show up.

Remember what I said about consistency? I mean it. You are the heart beat of the group you start. If you skip too many times, it will die.

I love all the people that come to my writing group, whether I know them or not. The camaraderie can't be beat. You're all invited to try out my group if you're in Seattle. If you are in another city, perhaps leave a comment letting us know if you are looking for a group, or if you have one to recommend.

bookshelf_porn

Bookshelf Porn: Three Books That Ruined My Ability to Hold A "Real" Job

bookshelf_pornYou may read thousands of books in your lifetime, but there will always be those few special ones that impact your mortal trajectory in major ways. Books inspire us, show us glimpses of the kind of lives we want to live, of the kind of people we want to be. For those of us who discover the nature of our souls vary greatly from the people that surround us in real life, books can show us understanding, give us a familiar home.

Three books in particular influenced my awareness of myself as an artist and thinker in the world. Without these books, I may possibly have believed the story I was told as a child. The story about how a life of purpose means a life of work at a desk, preferably on computers, 8-5, government-based all the better.

photo 1Enter Frederick by Leo Lionni. The particular copy you see in the picture hiding behind my Royal I picked up in Japan. However, I first read this book when I was very young.

This slim children's book tells the story of a little mouse with an artistic soul. While the other mice labor for winter stores, they deride Frederick for sitting and daydreaming. Frederick does not budge. He states his purpose, he is collecting colors, sensations. When winter comes, he freely eats of the food the other mice collected. What a lout!

But then the food runs out, and winter's coldest nights fall over the mice. Now Frederick's work may be appreciated. He tells the suffering mice stories of summer, of plenty, of warmth and sunshine. The little mice feel comforted. They gain peace, joy even, and the strength and perseverance to survive to springtime.

Collecting food is valuable work. Building computer programs is valuable work, so is teaching and business and labor. So also is art, and writing. The way that I work may look very different from the way much of the modern world works, but it is still work.

You know, I did find a life of purpose at a desk, on a computer. My mom was right about that.

photo 3Next is Irving Stone's imagined biography of Vincent Van Gogh, Lust for Life. Van Gogh was one of my early obsessions. The Starry Night, Irises, Cafe  Terrace at Night, The Yellow House... I can go on and on. I studied these paintings for hours, captivated by the color, by the audacity of the thick strokes of paint.

Many people have told me this biography is far from fact, and there are better ones about Van Gogh out there, but this is the one that I read when I was thirteen. This book revealed to me that an artist I considered a master actually toiled his entire life to build his craft. It wasn't as if he picked up a brush and BAMN a masterpiece happened.

Van Gogh lived unapologetically off the support for his brother, doing the work that made him happy. Ultimately, his work impacted millions of people, but he never knew that. He just knew that painting called to him, so paint he did. Van Gogh was poor. He received almost no external validation. My own art is certainly no better than Van Gogh's, so how may I be discouraged if money and recognition do not come easy to me?

photo 2And finally I offer you Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. Despite the great teachings of the books above, I often find myself caught in corporate clutches, or confused about the importance of things like money and titles. When I find myself stressed to the point of nightly glasses of wine, or when the greatest anxiety I have in my day revolves around A-Thing-That-I-Want-Really-Bad-But-Can't-Actually-Afford, it's time to reread Siddhartha.

I discovered Siddhartha in my twenties, when I was living in Japan. The sweeping view of a life spent began in anxious unease, but ended in sublime peace pours a calm into my spirit that lasts for weeks. Of course, it also entirely kills my productivity for a few weeks, so I must be careful of when I choose to read it. I'm the girl who gets things done. A little anxiety helps me along.

These books have properly ruined my ability to hold a "regular" job or find satisfaction in a daily grind. For that, I am eternally grateful.