21 Apr 2015

I must write: when a woman finally finds her vision

Illustration Credit: Summer Pierre
Illustration Credit: Summer Pierre

Anyone moderately familiar with the rigours of composition will not need to be told the story in detail; how he wrote and it seemed good; read and it seemed vile; corrected and tore up; cut out; put in; was in ecstasy; in despair; had his good nights and bad mornings; snatched at ideas and lost them; saw his book plain before him and it vanished; acted people’s parts as he ate; mouthed them as he walked; now cried; now laughed; vacillated between this style and that; now preferred the heroic and pompous; next the plain and simple; now the vales of Tempe; then the fields of Kent or Cornwall; and could not decide whether he was the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world. –Virginia Woolf’s Orlando

When I was small I used to watch my mother knit; her thin fingers mastered the tango between two needles as they warred to create a scarf, shawl or blanket. For years I took up mimicry like a kind of cross-stitch, but I failed because the complexity of patterns and needlework subsumed me; the chink of cool metal forever eluded me. Here I was, a child composing haikus likening my mother’s voice to thunder, yet I couldn’t thread a needle. My thread always grazed the eye but never dared plunge through it. And I worried about this. A lot. If I couldn’t conjoin cheap yarn how could I possibly tell stories? How could I step into a world and inhabit it so completely? Words belong to one another, and a writer’s job is to sit amongst spools of thread and weave. Their work lies in creating tapestry, silent symphonies.

I think about the movie, Heat, specifically the “face-to-face” scene between Al Pacino and Robert De Niro.

These are two men who are what they go after. Two men who don’t know any other work than the work in which they do; their life is their work, no going back. And although the work is risky–it’s like risk versus reward, baby–the action is the juice. The work, the life, is the reward. Even in moments that feel like plague, when the ground gives way and the fall seems infinite, bottomless, we press on. We carry the weight of the dark on our backs in the journey into the light because all of it, the depth of it, the darkness of it, is worth the stretch.

We try to see in the dark; we toss up our questions and they catch in the trees. —Anne Dillard

A WRITER? Why do you want to be a writer? Writers don’t make any money, said a woman to me once. I remember the way she said writer, as if it were tinged, sullied, a word not worthy of the letters that comprise it. Maybe she thought herself as someone who could wash the stink off me, scrape away at the plaque that had begun to harvest its way into my heart. Because finance will make you clean again. This woman was a managing director at Morgan Stanley and I sat in her office discussing my resignation. I’d just been awarded admission to a fancy writing program and I was jubilant. My work until then had become a blanket intent on smothering me, and all I wanted to do was fucking breathe. For a time I relegated writing to a hobby state while I managed the serious work, my vocation, off to the side. Because I was an adult now. I had student loans now. I had an apartment now. I had a bone-crushing subway commute now. I had my mid-day Starbucks run now. I had happy hour now where everyone was on the road to ruin, night drinking until they saw black, now. I had to wake up now. I had to Monday moan now. I had to do this all over again now. I had to measure my own grave now.

The days had become repeats of themselves with minor variations.

I go through this a lot–trying to deny writing as something serious and true in favor of the work over there. And I always, invariably, come up short. I always end up working myself into a place of despair because while I’m good at what I do–marketing, projections, budgets, brand positioning and planning–it’s not the only thing I’m meant to do.

What I’m meant to do is write. Plain and simple. Although, in reality, not so plain and definitely not so simple, but give me a minute with this.

Illustration Credit: Elle Luna
Illustration Credit: Elle Luna

Over the weekend I read a book in one sitting, an exposition off of a widely-read essay, “The Crossroads of Should and Must”. I remember reading the essay with a considerable amount of interest and passing it along to my friends. I remember being inspired by Elle Luna’s words but untouched. Perhaps I wasn’t primed for confrontation because I was still sorting out the nuances of this freelance life, but now, right now, I’m ready to drive my car off the road.

I’m good at compartmentalizing things, brilliant even. When I resigned from my last job I talked a lot about having room for all my children to play in the proverbial sandbox, that none of them would be considered changelings. That I could practice my writing in one space, my affection for food in another, and finally, the marketing–the bill-paying stuff–in another silo, far over there. Never once did I consider how I could merge the three. How I could seamlessly move from one state of play to another and even imbue my life with play! IMAGINE THAT! Never did I think that three simple children could morph into one complex child.

Never did I realize that I’m now in the midst of my own needlework.

Over the past few months I’ve been thinking about my life. That might sound dramatic and it probably is, but when you’re inching your way toward 40 and you’re still in student loan and credit card debt maybe it’s a good idea to take a step back and take stock. I did the 8,760 hour mind map. I read a slew of books. I got angry all over again about shit blogger books getting published while I’m told my strange, beautiful writing will never find a large home (fuck this and the horse you rode in on). I thought about my move to California and the role a foreign place would have in the grand scheme of things (more alone time, more space and less distractions). And after all this noise and mess and thinking (all that yarn!) I asked myself a really simple question:

What brings me joy?

I started to look at everything I did over the course of the day and I realized that my joy lies in writing. Whether I’m working on a brand voice guide or a blog post or a short story, the art of weaving words together challenges and excites me. The art of reading and constantly absorbing information so that I can keep the knife sharp as it were, feels like home.

Writing is home to me.

It’s taken me 39 years of denial to admit that I have to put writing front and center. I have to design a career, a life, around my ability to take up wordsmithing like cross stitch. And I’ve finally landed on an idea that I’ve been sharing with friends over the past few weeks–a consultancy focused on storytelling.

Now, this isn’t about creating content or some other bullshit reductive term that looks fancy on LinkedIN or gets you penning articles for trade publications–as you know I don’t care about exposure or popularity. By default, I’m unpopular and far from mass market. What I’m talking about is the ability to hire me (and down the road, others) to help you create a world or tell stories. From product naming to brand architecture to helping you write your book, I want to be able to practice what I love, what I must do, EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Will I fail? Probably. Will I get to connect with talented artists? Absolutely. Will I get better at what I do? You better believe it. Will it take the sting and weight off of having difficulty publishing my own experimental fiction? For the love of god, yes. Will I freak out? Probably once a day, on a good day.

But it’s like risk versus reward, baby.

Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision. ― Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

I’ll unveil the official name + all the fireworks in the coming weeks, but for now know that I’ve set down my brush, as Lily Briscoe once did.

Know that I’ve found my vision.

17 Comments

  1. I write with my eyes half-closed, write whatever comes to my mind at the spur of a moment, never have to think too hard. A poem within five minutes. An article a bit longer but never takes me hours or days.
    But I do not know at all how to take it seriously, how to sell myself, no idea about the intricacies of books, e-books, publishing. Will never know. Hence I’ll keep writing as I do. For myself. Happy with myself and my words….

    Posted on 4.21.15 · Reply to comment
    • I would posit that seriousness is not just about selling, it’s about the priority and provenance you place on your work.

      Posted on 4.21.15 · Reply to comment
  2. SD Gates wrote:

    How exciting!!! I love your writing style. It’s beautiful!!!

    Posted on 4.21.15 · Reply to comment
  3. egeedee wrote:

    I’m so happy for you, Felicia. I read your blogs through my email every single time one comes through and I believe so deeply that you have many, many books in you just waiting to be born. I am so proud of you for realising it. Coincidentally, I was standing in a book shop last Monday waiting to go get Sara and Hugh Forte’s new book signed (at a completely different store) and I saw Elle Luna’s work staring right at me. I read the whole thing standing up and I had never felt my dreams so vividly as I did in that moment. All the things I could be finally felt possible. Now I could be wrong but I’m willing to risk it. This is a sign. This is definitely a sign.

    Posted on 4.21.15 · Reply to comment
  4. glenda1203 wrote:

    You write beautifully. Keep writing and sharing!

    Posted on 4.21.15 · Reply to comment
  5. Felicia,
    I’m glad you decided to bite the bullet and found somewhere to be. I also wish you the utmost luck and above all, happiness, now that you have found your vision. I’m glad that you’ve now bitten the quill. 😉 What you said about merging all of your unique children together really resonated with me, and I will be chewing on that for some time. Please keep us updated!
    Celena

    Posted on 4.21.15 · Reply to comment
  6. fazianai wrote:

    This was so inspiring to read! Looking forward to reading more about your journey

    Posted on 4.21.15 · Reply to comment
  7. Theodora wrote:

    Yes! I love this.

    Posted on 4.21.15 · Reply to comment
  8. i needed to read something like this today 🙂

    Posted on 4.21.15 · Reply to comment
  9. Laurel wrote:

    BRILLIANT! There can never be overuse of this word here! I’m sharing (with all credit of course:)

    Posted on 4.22.15 · Reply to comment
  10. jeanne229 wrote:

    Your posts are like great feasts, each paragraph offering up an even richer array of tastes and textures and impressions. And, having only recently begun to follow you, your honesty both staggers and inspires me. I suspect one big difference between you and many writers is that you threw off the yoke early enough to save yourself; you escaped the insidiously seductive draw of money and prestige and, most damnably, the little voice inside that said, “Yes, but look how good you are at this job!” “It’s taken me 39 years of denial to admit that I have to put writing front and center.” I am copying this on a banner and stitching it across my heart. Thank you. Your writing gets down to the bone.

    Posted on 4.23.15 · Reply to comment
  11. jeanne229 wrote:

    Oh and my god, a consultancy focused on storytelling! I don’t believe in fate but finding you at this time seems at least a very felicitious serendipity… your website is already one I see as a model for combining authentic/personal/creative/thrilling writing with practical wordsmithing. Looking forward to seeing where you go with this.

    Posted on 4.23.15 · Reply to comment
  12. This is so wonderful. And I wouldn’t be so convinced you’ll fail! You’ve been hugely successful in the corporate environment, there’s nothing that says this mini agency of word artisans won’t be too!

    Posted on 4.23.15 · Reply to comment
  13. Thank you, all! Your comments and support mean the world to me. xo

    Posted on 4.24.15 · Reply to comment
  14. Thrilled! I’m just so thrilled for you, Felicia! You’re a brave woman, and I don’t say that just because you’re striking out on this new adventure, but because you’ve realized what you need and are owning it and bound and determined to make it happen. Yes that is some bravery and I can’t wait to see what you create. Congrats

    Posted on 5.2.15 · Reply to comment

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I’ve always been more of a kicker than a kisser.
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This isn’t yoga to me, it’s showing off. Truly skilled practitioners settle into their breath because that is the most difficult thing one can do. That is the union: stillness and movement coalescing, folding in on itself like a note held too long, sorting itself out. When I started my practice in 2002 I was driven by ego; I regarded the asanas as a succession of poses I could master. Little did I realize that holding a Warrior pose would reduce me to a shaking mess. How could I know that my physical impairment — a shattered collarbone that never healed, only prevented one arm from growing, so I was left with one arm markedly longer than the other — would make many poses anatomically impossible?
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I hadn’t prepared myself for how my practice has shifted in the years since I’d left it. I practiced for 7 years, daily. I stopped and every attempt to start again has been a challenge.
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I’ve been in LA for nearly 3 years and I’ve finally returned to that mat. My body has changed. My ability to do certain poses has changed and I remind myself that I can’t compare my advanced before with this new after.
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I found a studio that’s a lot like the one I used to love, and my teacher told me that my practice is in me. The precision and attention are there, but the strength and prowess aren’t. I’m reminded of the meaning of yoga: union, and how my practice is a union of all my selves. The woman I used to be and the woman now. And the work is seeing the beauty between the two.

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