Getting and Maintaining Focus

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We all have those days. The ones where our energy just seems all over the place. You sit down to write a short something or other and the next thing you know you’re making a cup of coffee or playing on Facebook. You pick up a book to read and without realizing it your mind wanders to what you might eat for dinner.

My own energy has been a little scattered this weekend: it’s picked up a bunch of signals and rather than responding methodically to each one, I’ve been haphazardly jumping from task to task. Since this is just one weekend, I let it go. And truth be told, I did get a thing or two accomplished. Still, I prefer a more focused approach, and below are a few suggestions on how to get and maintain focus.

Passion: ”Passion is the genesis of genius.” —Tony Robbins * This is really the driving force. Without passion, the task at hand will never really hold your attention. Sometimes I start a blog post and three days later I haven’t finished it because every time I sit down to write it, I get distracted. If that’s the case, I delete the post and start over. Same goes for the novel: if I start writing a scene and several days later I still haven’t finished it, it gets consigned to the dust pile. Now, I know we can’t all be passionate all the time about everything we do. But when it comes to creativity and/or lifestyle, passion is the number one fire starter; the golden ticket; the key that unlocks every door. Cultivate passion as often as possible, about as many things as you can.  

Persistance:  And remember “Genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration.”

Eliminate distractions: That’s just too obvious isn’t it? But how many of us actually take the time to eliminate our most pernicious distractions? First, identify them. I’m really, really prone to jumping onto the internet at any given moment. I finally learned just to turn my airport off while I’m writing. I encourage you to do the same, if you’re an internet junkie. There are also programs like Chrome Nanny which will block certain websites at certain times and display a clever little “Shouldn’t you be working?” message if you  attempt to distract yourself. Other distractions include: cute cats, telephone calls, small children, cocktail hour, shopping, eating, etc. If you’ve got a busy household, perhaps getting out of it and sitting at a cafe to work is the way to go. If you’ve got a partner, enlist their help for a silent hour or two. If being solo is a distraction in and of itself, get a creativity buddy to work with a few times a week (but no idle chatting, because that defeats the purpose).

Set goals: Nice, manageable, accomplishable goals. Goals like Write 500 words or Spend 1 hour drawing or Take 10 photographs. Choose goals you know you can make happen in one day. Success begets success, and if you set yourself up to succeed, you will continue to returning to the task.

Push, push: This is sort of the opposite of what I just said, but can be just as important. Create challenges for yourself. This weekend I decided to push myself out of my comfy, solitary writing zone and sign up for a writing workshop. Pushing at your edges a little bit can really stimulate focus.

Reward yourself: Eat an ice cream cone. Get a massage. Take a nap. Go for a walk. Whatever it is, just make sure you treat yourself for your hard work. All work and no play does not inspire passion. Don’t push yourself so hard that you stop enjoying whatever it is you enjoy. Focus will stick around if you use it wisely and then give it a nice rest.

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Recommended Reading: Leo Babauta’s Zen to Done

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Call for Guest Posts

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Hi.

Have you ever wanted to guest post on Life More Lived? If so, now’s your chance! I’m looking for fresh perspectives on the simple, creative life.

Some prompts: How has minimalism/simple living made an impact on your creative life? How do you create space for the life you love? What simple pleasures do you seek out? What sparks your creativity? How do you sustain your creative practice when life gets crazy? 

Some guidelines:

  • Original content only. No previously published pieces, please.
  • The questions listed above are just some basic guidelines. I’m open to different styles and approaches (how-to; first-person accounts; photo essays; etc.).
  • You may send me a full post, or you can email me with ideas for feedback. Direct all correspondence to sara.c.rauch@gmail.com
  • I reserve the right to accept and post only pieces that feel like they would be a good fit for LML.
  • I may do some light edits, but will run any changes I make by you for approval.
  • Please include a brief bio about you and a link to your site if you have one. If you have a WordPress account, include the email associated with the account so that I can add you as a guest writer.
  • Questions? Email me: sara.c.rauch@gmail.com

I look forward to reading and sharing your wisdom.

~Sara

(Please feel free to spread the word by reposting!)

On Rewriting

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“I have rewritten—often several times—every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.” —Vladimir Nabokov

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Now that I’m elbows deep in the second draft of my novel, I realize something: Writing the first draft was a piece of cake.

Rewriting is more like a bowl of oatmeal. It isn’t too bad, but it’s definitely not cake.

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The better metaphor for rewriting is that the first draft is like a messy closet. You know, the closet where you just throw anything and everything that comes your way. The one that is full to the bursting point, threatening to explode when you open it.

The first draft is messy as all get-out, as it should be.

The second draft is all about winnowing—it’s time for simplifying and minimizing.

It’s time to start asking questions. Time to use your most discerning eye. Time to take that mess out into the light and see what suits you. There will be things you want to keep even though you know they have no place. There will be lines and words you are sentimental about—I find the most difficult parts to delete are the ones I wrote first (some of them before I even knew I was writing a novel)—and this is unsurprisingly like how difficult it is to get rid of baby shoes or the first dress you ever bought yourself that no longer fits or is in any way flattering.

Inspected closely, the items we own say a lot about us, who and what we’ve been. Sometimes, in order to grow, those old items need to go. Same thing happens during rewriting. Characters you thought were one way will shift and morph and come out in the end as something very different. In order to make it work, you might need to let go of liking a character and instead allow her to become who she is.

The items we own may give perspective into who we are, but they do not define us. And so it is with a story. Things are going to change in the story, not everything that was recorded the first time around will remain. The essential self of the story will remain. It might say That doesn’t fit me or I no longer need that but it will still be there after it’s been stripped down to its essence.

Actually, it’ll probably be better once all that extraneous stuff is gone.

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PS. I created a new author website for myself…so you can follow all the exciting news about my writing publications, should you feel so inspired.

Doubt (in which the unruly monster is not slain or even battled)

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That sneaky whisper appeared last night. I was sitting on the blue couches, surrounded by cats, with the second draft of my novel up on the computer screen, and I was about to start working on a chapter, and there was that sound. At first it was just a hum, them a rumble, then it was right up in my face and it said something like this: Do you really think anyone will ever want to read this sh*t?

While I was whispering (rather meekly) Yes, the voice was settling in next to me. It was peeking over my shoulder and snorting with laughter at my sentence structure and my plot line.

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I confess this: I listened to the voice. I considered what it had to say. And then I erased a few old paragraphs and got up to make dinner.

I confess this too: When I’m struggling with something, especially with the process of writing, I am downright grumpy. As I made dinner I got more grumpy, and when I’m grumpy, I get a touch self-righteous. It’s rather unpleasant, Sasha will attest.

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After eating, I set my bowl in the sink and I returned to my computer. I got a little grumpy and self-righteous with doubt, and then I kicked doubt out. Bye-bye.

For now.

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This doubt, the one that arises now that the first draft is fully written, is a little different than the doubt that arose while setting down the story. The old doubt didn’t have to work very hard: the project was new, it was beginning, it was fragile and tenuous the way all young things are.

This new doubt has to work a little harder, but the thing about doubt is that it’s endless. It shape-shifts and it accommodates. It’s used to getting its way, and it never hesitates to bully.  (Though sometimes it doesn’t have to, sometimes it merely shows up and makes a casual suggestion.)

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About a month ago, I went over to a friend’s house for afternoon tea and spent a good deal of time complaining about a bunch of writing things I had to do. She listened to me whine, and then she said something that really stuck: Don’t create struggle where you don’t need to. Things done with ease have a way of working themselves out. She has a point.

Since she said that, every time I feel my hackles go up I pause and let them relax. Sometimes this takes only a second and a deep breath. Other times I have to walk very far away in order to see the struggle I’m creating and/or participating in. Sometimes I walk away and I see the struggle just isn’t worth it—whatever it is will never please me no matter how much I push. Other times I see the struggle has something to teach me, and if that’s the case, I dive in.

Writing this novel is a curious experience.

I doubt. Yes, that’s quite honest. I doubt myself, and my reasons for undertaking this project. I doubt my ability, my writing style, my characters, the plot.

Each time doubt arrives, I recognize its peculiar ways. I see that it has something to show me—where a little bit of struggle might do some good, and where struggle is completely unnecessary.

Because of this, I see that doubt should not be banished, only kept at a healthy distance.

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From the archives: Dealing with Doubt

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Reading: The Cat’s Table by Michael Ondaatje

Listening to: ¿Which Side Are You On? by Ani DiFranco

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On Texture & Creativity

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I’ve been thinking about texture sort of obsessively since yesterday. And how without it the whole world would be one dimensional. Or two dimensional. Or something—something boring and flat and not-very-tactile. And how, without texture, art pretty much sucks. I googled “texture” and discovered that most uses of the term are related to art: music, visual art and painting, textiles, etc. Let’s add writing to that list, because I’m a writer, and I like texture. But what does texture look like in writing? It’s obviously a different beast than the texture of a painting or a musical composition (seen/felt and heard respectively), but how different?

Back when I wrote poems, there was a lot of color in my poetry. Color is important to my world, and I’m likely to notice the color of everything. (If you need proof, you can ask Sasha about how many disagreements we’ve had about what color something is—I’m pretty sure normal people don’t have these arguments.) And color can be part of texture, but texture is also something else, something more nuanced.

Now, if I can’t articulate what texture in writing looks like, how am I supposed to create it? I’m especially thinking of this because as I rework the novel, I’m discovering more and more layers: I’ll be reworking a scene and suddenly a past encounter rises out of nowhere. Or I’ll be cataloging a character’s mental instability and next thing I know I’m detailing the aging Victorian houses of Northampton. These things in and of themselves are texture: a sort-of papier-mâché of overlapping stories, memories, moments, places visited, people encountered, etc., until all those things create a three-dimensional character.

That we live in a world (our brains) where each thing/memory/emotion/what-have-you is connected to something else, however tenuously or directly, is something I think about all the time. Life is intricate, life is textured. How to portray that on the page without bogging a story down? The answer might be found in fabric (and that’s the answer to why I’ve been so obsessed with it lately).

Something else about me: I used to be a sewer (the proper word for this is seamstress, but I don’t think I ever reached that skill level). In a pinch, I could make you a dress, or a bag, a set of curtains, a duvet cover. When I first started sewing, I didn’t understand about the grain of the fabric: how to work with the nature of the fabric to make things flow. I feel this way now about my characters: that I must understand their grain in order to have them operate naturally on the page.

We are inundated with fabric choices. From the simplest cotton to the fanciest cashmere, from thin, supple nylon to indestructible polyester. We’ve got 300-thread count sheets and raw silk and tulle and satin, we’ve got heavy canvas work pants and dainty lace undergarments. Creating all these different fabrics is probably far more complicated than what I’m about to distill here (but then, so is writing a novel and creating characters), but here are a few ideas on how texture can be created/used within written works.

~Thread/yarn. Thread is actually a product of spinning another unrefined product (wool, cotton) into long, connected strings. Thread can be strong or delicate, rough or smooth, elastic or rigid. It’s what holds cloth together. And so, the thread of a character does the same. What holds a character or a story together? Like sewing, in writing you don’t want excess thread. You don’t want endless messy loops that just look bad and lead nowhere. Striking this balance—enough but not too much—is one of the most valuable lessons a writer can learn.

~Weave. I’m very drawn to lace. I’m also drawn to open-weave sweaters constructed from fancy yarns. I’ve noticed Sasha likes plain fabrics: cotton and denim and closed-weave sweaters. This simple observation says things about us: I’m prone to embellishment, I like complexity (despite the simple living thing). Sasha’s a little more straightforward than I am. Characters and plots are woven too (since “Let me spin you a yarn” is slang for telling stories, this doesn’t come as much of a surprise). Some plots are complex, some are simple. Some characters are as intricate as fine lace, others as plain as a white cotton t-shirt. Within the structure of a story, it helps if the “weaves” of your characters complement one another, even if the fit is dissonant. You can play with this just like you would a wardrobe: wool and silk? lace and corduroy? cotton on cotton? There are endless combinations.

~Patterns & color. This is one of my favorites. Each character is its own pattern, and that pattern is laid over the pattern of the plot (so make sure you’re not pairing polka dots with stripes unless you really mean it). I’m also a synesthete, so every character I create has a specific color that I associate with them. Like with weave, these colors & patterns have to interact with one another: some blend, some contrast, some match perfectly, some look downright awful together. When I study fabric, and when I study humans, I notice how true this is. Some work together and some don’t. Either way, whatever you’re trying to portray—keep pattern and color in mind.

~Feel. This is absolutely the most nebulous, but I couldn’t not include it. And it’s kind of an end product (though it certainly helps to have an idea of what you want it to be throughout the process). How something feels is unendingly important—in the clothes you wear, the life you live, and the art you create. Art (in my opinion, not everyone will agree) should always evoke a feeling, and as the creator of the art, you should know what that feeling is/will be. How? Training. A discerning eye. The trusted opinions of a few good friends. And more—it’s in your gut, so trust it.

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Texture & the Minimalist Closet

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It ‘s been a while since I talked about clothes and the minimalist closet, hasn’t it? Mostly I haven’t been thinking too much about clothes (having other more pressing matters on my mind), but yesterday I was wearing a pair of beloved purple corduroys and had what felt like an important fashion realization: I like texture.

Why is this important to my minimalist closet?

It’s important because for a while I didn’t realize how much I value texture. I focused (as any minimalist might) on specific items, and the number of specific items, and often, the color of items. I never gave texture much thought.

Recently, when I was going through my I-don’t-want-to-have-a-minimalist-closet phase, I acquired some new clothes, and again later, around the my birthday, I acquired a few more items. Some of them were purely practical: new jeans to replace worn out ones, a t-shirt bought to support a good cause. I also bought a new sweater dress, which is not very practical—I’m not really the dress-wearing type—but it looked good and it felt amazing. When I wear it, I feel like I’m walking on air.

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In all my desire to be minimalist, I disconnected with this very important element of clothing: that it can and should be practical, comfortable, and beautiful. All of those things combined make the perfect piece. A truly minimalist closet contains only what you love to wear, what you feel good in, and what suits your lifestyle. For a while I thought that my perfect closet was a streamlined black affair, but on closer look, I realize that’s not only impractical, but it’s also not me. I’ll take my purple corduroys and knubby grey wool sweater and striped cotton dresses and silk scarves and green cashmere turtleneck any day. I’ll take layers and complimentary colors and a dash of mismatch over a perfectly put-together outfit without a second thought.

 A minimalist closet can look a lot of different ways. Perhaps all black is your style. Perhaps you’ve narrowed things down to a few perennially matching colors. Perhaps you don’t care about texture, or perhaps you’re lucky enough to live in a warm climate and layering has never even crossed your mind. But maybe you’re like me, and you want to strike the balance between practical and beautiful, comfortable and attractive. I’m here to tell you it can be done, with a little patience and a good eye.

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PS. These photos are of older pieces that I no longer own: aqua blue raw silk and peach chiffon didn’t make the cut early on—not because I didn’t adore the way they looked, but because I’d never once worn them. It’s good to be able to distinguish between what appeals, and what is actually a functioning part of one’s wardrobe.

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Clearing a Path

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Some days I feel stuck. For some reason, this especially happens when I carve out a day all to myself. (Is it strange that I’m more likely to sit down to work when I have a lot of other stuff going on? I suppose not, and I think the reason for this is resistance—not the capital Resistance that Steven Pressfield talks about in The War of Art—but the resistance of daily life that provides friction and also inspiration. (Ok, this isn’t always the case, sometimes I really do need a lot quiet and nothing to do some writing.))

I’m coming to see a little bit of resistance as a good thing, because it gives you something to go up against. A perfect blank slate of a day sounds amazing in theory, but in reality, it can be rather boring and stultifying.

To strike the perfect balance between daily life and life as an artist, it helps to clear a path. This path will run directly or haphazardly through your normal life and routine. It might be an hour before work, it might be two hours after dinner, it might be both of those. It might be closing the door to your bedroom and holing up with a notebook and pen, it might be shooing your partner out of the kitchen and settling in at the dining table. It might be a weekend afternoon at a coffee shop, or people watching on a park bench while you jot down notes. It might be on your bus/train ride (one of the best places to sneak in art).

Whatever it is, clearing a path means making the time, and setting the intention, to do it. The more time I spend creating, the more I see the idea of a solitary room and endless time as detrimental. Art arises from life, and life requires participation (if a=b and b=c, then a=c, oui?). Art cannot be created in a perfect vacuum, and while I won’t deny the need for solitude and/or time set aside in order to create, I think clearing a path, however wide or skinny you deem necessary, through the excitement and mess of your day to day is a far more realistic way to creativity.

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Reading: Wild Sister Magazine: Issue #7

Impermanence

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Like all humans, I have attachments—more or less than anyone else, I’m not sure.

We (me, you, everyone else) attach to people, emotions, physical objects, memories, ideas. For instance, I’m attached to my cats, I’m attached to my old journals (both the physical aspect and the memory aspect). I’m attached to a certain coffee mug I prefer to drink out of, and also a certain way in which I like the mugs to be arranged in the cabinet. I’m attached to Sasha and my family; I’m attached to the idea of myself as a writer. I’m not upset by or resistant to these attachments—they exist and I’m okay with them.

Minimalism has lessened some attachments, mostly those related to physical objects. I’m now probably more attached to empty space (the irony of this is not lost on me). But I also think a lot more about impermanence than I used to—how quickly things, ideas, emotions, people pass in and out of our lives. Maybe this is because 2011 was a year of many significant losses, maybe it’s because I’m getting more and more used to letting things go. Whatever it is, impermanence is lodged in my consciousness.

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The photo above was taken recently of the arm of one of our loveseats. This couch has been with me for almost 6 years. It was given to me by my mother, who bought it at an auction for $30. Recently the cats have taken to using it as one of their scratching posts. Those of you who own cats know that once a cat  begins clawing something, there is no saving it. This loveseat doesn’t stand a chance: it’s got 4 sets of claws on it pretty much daily.

The reason I bring this up is not because I seek to dissuade potential cat owners from owning cats, or to cast my own in a bad light. I bring it up because I think cats have a very healthy sense of impermanence. The couch does not hold any significance to them, nor do they have any emotional or mental reason to preserve it. It exists, and it satisfies a desire, and that’s really it. When this couch is eventually removed, they’ll move on to some other innocent piece of furniture, and they won’t pine over the couch that once was.

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I wonder if, in order to accept the fact of impermanence, one has to separate it from the idea of loss. That everything around us, including ourselves, is impermanent is pretty terrifying. That nothing exists forever. Even saying those four words is scary.

But, is there a sense of freedom in it too? That change is constant, that stagnancy is a mere figment of our imaginations, that attachment is an illusion. That we are truly free to inhabit the world as it moves from one moment to the next, and the only thing holding us back is our fear of impermanence.

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Reading this week: You Have Seven Messages by Stewart Lewis

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In the Winter Sun

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I struggle with winter.

Each year I forget, until January is upon us, how very, very difficult I find these cold, short days. I’ve spent many years in New England: I was born here and have made my home here for the last 6 years. And yet, I am never quite prepared for this season.

It is a season of its own peculiar beauty, more fleeting, more sharp, more demanding than the other seasons.

And things are shifting, beneath this pale winter sun. Winter is a slow season: a time of little growth & little color.

This does not mean no growth or no color. It’s just more subtle.

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In the news today: I finished the first draft of my novel. Actually, this happened yesterday. I’ve been sitting with it over the last 24 hours, wondering if I should feel something more than I do. More excitement? More sense of accomplishment? I don’t know. What it does feel is normal.

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As hard as winter is for me, I recognize its place. Without it, the other 3 seasons would seem far less amazing. The strength of winter comes from what is stored deep below the surface, and now is the time to delve in and access it.

I am not always successful, though I am now old enough and smart enough to try.

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My own tips from last winter, on how to survive winter.

Now reading: The Dovekeepers by Alice Hoffman.

How I Make a Mess

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On of the things I discovered when I was recently forced to temporarily go analog is how fun (and important) it is to make a mess while creating. While the little snapshot above probably doesn’t look too messy, it most certainly doesn’t look minimalist either. (I mean, what self-respecting minimalist owns 5 writing utensils?)

Since I usually write in Word documents—organized into folders depending on size of project, nature of project, and how close to completion said project is, these notebooks, pens & pencils, and scribbled on paper (there’s even an index card in there) represent a messiness I don’t often delve into.

But, as I discovered, it’s so much fun! It’s great to scribble out bad writing rather than just highlight and delete. It’s great to bracket and doodle and circle and draw long arrows to indicate text movement. It’s also really satisfying to spread multiple drafts across the floor and see how I got from point A to point Z.

To say I’m good at being organized would be something of an understatement. I have a system for most everything in my life—from my checkbook to my closet to beneath the bathroom sink to the pantry and more. While I’ve harnessed this organizational tendency into a productive writing routine, I know all too well that left unchecked, organization can look more like “the editor” than it does “the creator.” And even though I know I’ll stick to my one big Word document until the first draft of the novel is finished, I’m really starting to look forward to the day that all 300+ pages are printed out and ready to be “messed” with. (In the meantime, I’ll be scribbling over newer and smaller pieces to keep the creativity flowing.)

I’m curious about my readers’ habits: are you a mess-maker or an organizer when it comes to creativity? Depending on where you fall on the spectrum, what do you do to access the other side?

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This week I’m reading: But This Is Different by Mary Walker Baron.