craft

You are currently browsing the archive for the craft category.

3 Ways the Olympics Reminds Me of the Writing Community

August 7, 2012 in characters, craft, inspiration, mushy things, Olympics, persistence | 12 comments

This past week and a half, my world has revolved around the Olympic games. I’m not ashamed to admit that I plan my workday around beach volleyball and diving and synchronized swimming, or my nights around gymnastics finals and more beach volleyball.

Poor E has actually suggested we go out a few times in the evening, and I’ve looked at him like he’s crazy: Go to the movies? But Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh are playing tonight!

or

I’ll go as long as there’s a bar and a TV playing images of women flying through the air in questionably high-cut leotards and too much glitter on their eyelids.

I get like this every two years (thank goodness for the Winter Olympics—four years is seriously too long to wait). I can’t put my finger on exactly why I love the games so much, but in many ways, this year’s have reminded of our online writing community:

1. It’s a mile marker. Where were you when you watched the 1992 Barcelona games? The 2008 Beijing games? Because they only happen every four years, I remember each Olympics vividly; they seem to encapsulate certain eras in my life. Four years seems like a good amount of time to set a huge, life-defining goal and work towards it. Every Olympics we’re reminded of this by athletes who train tirelessly for four years only to have it pay off—or fall apart—in less than a second or with hundredths of a point. Win or lose, they inspire us to dream big, train one day at a time, and keep going even when reality brings heartbreaking disappointments.

2. It’s the stories that really get to me. Yes, I know pulling on our heartstrings is NBC’s intention, in which case I’m the easiest target ever. They understand the power of stories. They know, like all great writers know, that no one will care about a character’s journey if they don’t care about the character first. And while I have my favorite sports, I haven’t cheered louder than when I’ve cheered for an athlete who’s overcome some big struggle to win gold. I’ve gone from I couldn’t care less about the Men’s 400 m final to OMG Kirani James has to win this first gold EVER for Grenada because he has the biggest heart and he deserves this! in about three-hundredths of a second flat. Is there a medal for epic softie?

3. It’s the camaraderie that makes it all worthwhile. Yes, the athletes are competing against one another. Yes, some have been completely ungraceful when winning silver, of all things. But then you get a moment like this:

“Give me a hug, man. That was ridiculous!” — Sam Mikulak, congratulating fellow gymnasts even when he was no longer in place for a medal.

And all faith is restored in the world. That, my friends, is a beautiful heart and a pure love for the craft.

The Art of the Bound Book

July 2, 2012 in books, craft, inspiration, just for fun, Party book-nerd style | 19 comments

When we think of book fairs, we usually think of authors, of stories, of the craft of writing and the signing of books. This weekend I went to a different kind of book fair: one that celebrated the physical book itself. No surprise that it was a completely hands-on experience. Guided by several bookmakers from the Austin Book Workers, I bound my own mini book, created book art, and even set some type.

While I had a crafts day with paper and ink, my husband took pictures documenting the whole thing. (Well, not the whole thing. It was a multi-sensory experience—imagine two artists’ studios filled with that musky book scent we all love so much.)

A part of me felt guilty for folding the pages of this book, so I made sure to handle it with care. The design was a fanning of the pages into folded hearts.

The book I chose was the Magna Carta; I loved the added richness of the patterned endsheets and how the edges of the pages were pink, which seemed appropriate for the heart design.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The end result:

I think I’ll put this on my desk and use the slots to display important notes or the occasional handwritten letter I receive.

I meandered over to the letterpress area and admired a table full of moveable type.

I loved the heaviness of the moveable type. Each letter had real weight; it was cold and sunk into my palm as I held it.

I chose to typeset my name and for once was glad I had a long one…I was enjoying the experience too much to have it go by quickly.

Tom (the owner of this beautiful letterpress) built a plate from my type and slid it into the machine. I just did the easy part; I pressed down on the handle.

 

I titled this picture, “Hooray, letterpress!” Yes, I was that excited.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even though the majority of books are no longer bound by hand, getting to know the process from start to finish was a wonderful way to appreciate the craft that goes into actual books. We mostly talk about the craft of writing, but a physical book is a work of art that we hold in our hands. We hold it close to us, we smell it. We admire its cover and the feel of the paper between our fingertips. We let it take up space along the walls of our home and next to our beds at night.

So this weekend, though nobody ever said it, the questions “Will this all go away soon? What will become of printed books?” hung in the air. Of course I don’t have the answer to that. I myself have a Kindle and I could write a whole post about why I only read certain things on it (but that’s just me).

What I did realize is that those of us who prefer paper books aren’t just sentimental and old-fashioned. It’s about much more than emotions; it’s about feeling an experience as completely as possible with touch, smell, and sight.

What Writers Can Learn From Mad Men & Their Dirty Little Words

May 16, 2012 in craft, fiction, inspiration, Mad Men, risk-taking, Television, writing | 13 comments

This post was five seasons in the making, fermenting over the years as I’ve watched AMC’s Mad Men and been left speechless, over and over, by how well-written it is.

A warning: although I’m a couple episodes behind this season, this post may contain spoilers for those of you who haven’t caught up yet, either.

But there’s a moment in a recent episode of Mad Men that I just have to write about. Not just because the writing’s perfect, but because it shows what makes great writing. It’s all in the choices we make. The writers could’ve chosen to go one way. They went another. And that (as Robert Frost would say) has made all the difference.

To set it up, Sally, Don Draper’s pre-teen daughter, is tagging along to a gala in which her father is receiving an award. Don’s partner, Roger Sterling, is going solo, so he takes it upon himself to be Sally’s date. It’s adorable, and innocent, and throughout the night as Roger teases her about how she’s had too many “drinks,” how she needs to help him remember people’s names,  and how pretty she looks, it’s clear that Sally’s enjoying it. What little girl doesn’t want this kind of attention? She’s at that age where she’s anxious to be a woman, but too young to truly understand everything that comes along with it. She basks in the illusion of being the apple of Roger’s eye.

But of course there are other women at this party, and one in particular who clearly has her eyes on Roger. They drink, they flirt, they end up sneaking away to an empty room, where conveniently enough, there is a lone chair for Roger to sit back on and enjoy as the woman pleasures him. Poor Sally wanders off and catches them, then quietly sneaks away undetected and dumbfounded.

That evening, while everyone’s asleep, she calls a friend, her one true confidant. Since she’s staying with her dad in Manhattan, her friend asks how the city is. Sally answers with only one word.

“Dirty,” she says. And the episode ends there.

Most shows would’ve had that conversation play out very differently. They would’ve had Sally tell her friend about what she saw, and how it made her feel. But in one word the writers of Mad Men not only got it across, but they kept me thinking about it after the show was over. Days and weeks later.

Because they chose not to tell us everything, they left me with so much to think about. I admire this kind of writing because these choices aren’t easy to make. We wonder if we’re giving the reader (or viewer) enough when we go the subtle route. We worry that they’ll draw the wrong conclusion. If we don’t draw them a map, will they get to where we want them to go? But if we do, won’t it be a boring, unpredictable journey for them?

Great writing is carefully crafted to leave just the right amount of hints. But even then, not everyone will interpret them the same way. That’s part of the beauty of writing and being read: the work is a breathing thing, it’ll take on a life of its own (many lives) depending on who’s reading.

As writers we can only control how the story’s told, not how it’s read. We have to make a choice to focus on what we can control: the writing (always the writing).

The Difference Between Recording and Remembering

January 19, 2012 in craft, Home, honesty, memory, writing | 28 comments

I have this tiny red digital voice recorder that I rarely travel without. Blame it on the journalist in me (and also the fact that I work freelance). You just never know when a moment worth recording is going to pop up, or a random, can’t-turn-it-down assignment will fall into your inbox.

So while I spent three weeks in Miami over the holidays, my recorder came with me almost everywhere. I’ve never really had to use it; most of the time I forget it’s there. But on one of the last days of my visit I sat down with my grandmother (my Nonna, as we call her, which is Italian for grandmother) and we got to talking.

It was a spontaneous talk that traveled to the past, to the days when she was a teenager and met my grandfather, to the details of what bus she rode that day, which girlfriends she was with as they went to the beach, what she whispered to them the first time she locked eyes with him. She told me about the first time they finally spoke, days later, and I remember thinking how romantic it must’ve been, to live in a time when even teenagers saying hello at a beach used their first and last names for introductions.

I’d never heard this story before, so I sat there and soaked it in. I asked questions, hoping she’d get into more detail, and by the middle of the conversation Nonna pretty much took the reins. We weren’t just talking anymore; she was telling me the story of her life.

For a moment, as this dawned on me, I thought about running to my purse real quick to get my recorder. I wanted to capture every word, the way her voice changed pitch and became more youthful at times, how it slowed down to follow her gaze in other moments when history became difficult to recall. I wanted to, years from now, replay her giggles (there were so many) and picture how she smiled so wide that her eyes closed up and her shoulders shook.

I kept wanting to get my recorder, but I never did. The moment never felt right. You can’t just push a pause button on life and expect it to go on interrupted. Disrupting the natural flow of the conversation for the sake of capturing it wasn’t nearly worth it. I told myself that I would write everything down later in as much detail as possible.

But we had plans that evening, and the next day was a rush of getting our luggage together and saying our goodbyes as we prepared to go back home. Once in Austin, with more time on my hands, I was shocked to realize I wasn’t ready to write it all down yet. It took me two more days. When I finally opened my journal to record my memories of our conversation, eight pages came out, cramping my hands.

I started how she started. I still remembered her exact words. But the more I wrote the more I realized I wasn’t just writing her history; I was writing about the experience of having it passed down to me. Her story became intertwined with mine, in the way family histories often do; her expressions became filtered through my perception of them.

My retelling wasn’t perfect, but in its own way it was. It occurred to me that the reason I waited so long to write it down was that I had to process it. A tape recorder or a camera might have captured the moment more accurately, but I wanted to write about it truthfully. That’s the job of the writer, isn’t it? Of fiction. We observe life but we do it a disservice by simply regurgitating the cold facts. Bringing something to life on the page is a craft, a careful process that pulls from every little piece of us. In sharing stories we share parts of ourselves, even if the story is about someone else entirely.

It’s like the quote in one of my favorite books, The Book of Embraces, says:

Recordar: To remember, from the Latin re-cordis, to pass back through the heart.

 

Creative Commons License photo credit: Denzil~

 

The Thin Line Between Writing Style & Writing Habits

November 10, 2011 in craft, fiction, honesty, language, style, voice, writing | 21 comments

I don’t exactly consider myself an expert on fashion style. I try my best, but sometimes an outfit works and sometimes it feels uninspired. When I can’t figure out what to wear I fall back on the ever-reliable jeans, white t-shirt, and cute accessories combo. But lately I’ve been thinking a lot about style, not just in fashion but in writing.

Low-Res is ♥I have a friend who, no matter what she wears, makes it look like the most chic ensemble ever. She mixes and matches items I would never dream of combining and pulls them off flawlessly. It’s a beautiful thing. Okay, yeah…sometimes I find myself envying her and wondering why I can’t make a parka seem glamorous. But for the most part I admire her vision, creativity, and the fearlessness that comes with pairing a $200 skirt with a $4 top found at a thrift store. Her style is hers alone. It can’t be cloned (trust me, I’ve tried).

It’s the same way with writers. The best writers have so much style you could probably pick up on it just by reading their grocery lists. Sometimes it’s in the form of a metaphor so surprisingly  true, you wonder why you never thought of it. Other times it’s just the rhythm of the language, a cadence so unique to them it’s like recognizing their footsteps from down the hall. You start picking up on a writer’s voice, their underlying cynism or wit, maybe their continuous exploration of a theme that, even when they’re writing about completely different situations, creeps into their words.

True style is difficult to pinpoint. You don’t know exactly why you recognize it. You just know it’s there because it’s powerful and awe-inspiring.

On the flip side of that, we have habits. Like style, habits can be unique to a person. They can become someone’s trademark. They can even be endearing for a while (someone who always answers a question with a question when they’re nervous, or a writer who makes the second person POV sing, stripping it of all its awkwardness) until they become overused and flat-out annoying. Habits are easily cloned and repeated; they’re clutches we can’t help but fall back on when we’re challenged. What’s worse is we hardly ever recognize them, or when we do, we mistake them for style.

Me wearing a white t-shirt with jeans and a funky purse anytime I want to look casual but put-together? That’s not style. If I wore that outfit every single day I can assure you the novelty would wear off. That’s why writers have to be aware of their habits. Make sure that that one thing you do really, really well doesn’t become the only thing you do, or the thing you do too much of, or the thing that eventually becomes so predictable it’s distracting to the reader. Don’t expect to catch all these habits yourself, either. Have your writing group read your work. Have an editor take a look (waves hello!).

And once they’ve pointed out your recurring ticks, don’t just eliminate them; think about why they’re there in the first place. Challenge yourself to come up with new ways to achieve the effect you’re going for. Go crazy and experiment. Read a ton and write a ton. Eventually you’ll find something other than habits creeping into your writing— something you can’t put your finger on but your readers recognize as your style. Then (and this is so important) don’t be satisfied that you’ve found it. Embrace it, keep writing and let it evolve over time.

Be honest, now: Do you know what your style is? Do you know what your habits are? 

Creative Commons License photo credit: mayrodrigo

I Once Shot a…

September 13, 2011 in craft, photography, risk-taking | 27 comments

I once shot a self-portrait for my high school photography class that I thought would be very artsy. My hair was wet because I’d just showered, and the long black tendrils looked like they were crawling over my shoulder like vines. I set up my tripod and took a shot of myself slouching, capturing just my chin and upper body.

A few days later I was walking around the park and took a shot of actual vines. I had the brilliant idea that I would do a double exposure in the darkroom. The actual vines over the figurative vines…it would be genius, I tell you. Genius!

I spent hours in the darkroom trying to get it just right. This was always my favorite part of the process. While you waited for the image to manifest in the fluids, there was always hope. You hoped that the image developing would match the one in your mind. You even dared to hope that it would exceed your imagination.

When the photo finally developed, I stepped out of the darkroom, the paper still dripping, to get a better look.

It was crap. Really, it was way too ambitious for my skills at the time. The blacks were a dull gray, the vines didn’t blend together like I hoped they would, the model looked bored and like she needed a nap.

So I trashed it. I literally put it in the trash and went back to the darkroom, determined to move on to more traditional photos. When I came out, my photography teacher had salvaged the photo and set it to dry. She called me over and said, “This isn’t very good, but I think you can still do something with it. Have you thought about painting it?”

Up until that point, I’d painted very few photos. My feelings were that if you wanted something in color, shoot in color. If you wanted it in black and white, shoot in black and white. But the more I thought of it, the more it made sense for this picture. I’d been trying to do something a little on the surreal side , so why not straddle the possibilities between colors?

The result was an image beyond any I’d envisioned. I went for the blues and the greens, giving my self-portrait an underwater look. I titled it Mermaid (even dotted the i with a heart; I was still in high school, after all), mounted it and turned it in to be graded. The next week, my teacher told me it’d won Best In Show in a county-wide photo competition. I didn’t even know she’d entered me.

I don't know if the image still holds up (it's been ten years) but I do love what it stands for.

Things I learned in photography that year, aside from the ability to see the world a little differently?

Take risks and don’t give up when they’re not going as expected. They wouldn’t be risks if they were predictable. Keep going past your comfort zone and let the risks surprise you.

P.S. Thanks to Emily Suess for the “not your typical writing prompt” that inspired this post. It’s part of the Writer’s Week writing contest she’s holding on her blog, and I’ve donated a critique of a query letter + first 30 pages a manuscript as part of the first place prize. Interested in entering? Learn more about the contest here or learn more about my writing critiques here.

When’s the last time your work surprised you?

Stitch by Stitch: What My Mother’s Sewing Taught Me About Patience

August 9, 2011 in craft, inspiration, revision, writing | 16 comments

 

Oldies but GoodiesWhen I was little, my mother sewed clothes for my sister and me. Lately, I’ve been reminiscing about my favorite pieces—there was the multi-colored checkered blazer she made me when I was six, which I wore with black stirrup pants and a black hat; the brown, spaghetti-strapped gown I wore to my first quince; and a jean backpack, followed by one with a floral print, which I used my fifth and sixth grade years.

Sewing was one of my mother’s hobbies, but it was also something she did out of love and necessity. My sister and I, like any little girls, always wanted the latest fashions. Sometimes we’d go to the mall and take our pick. Other times, in her discreet way that I only notice now in hindsight, my mother would study the dress or shirt that we’d singled out, glance at the tag and say, “I can make this for you.”

I realize now that this was my mother’s way of not saying no. It was a gift and a lesson. Her sewing said to us, Here. You can have anything you want if you have patience and you’re willing to work for it. 

The process was the same for each piece. It started with a trip to Joann Fabrics, where we searched for a sewing pattern that most closely matched the design I wanted, followed by a search for the perfect cloth. Here the choices seemed endless. I’d caress the fabrics as I walked down the aisle, taking in the different colors and textures, and though each held a promise and a possibility I knew I had to pick just one. When a cloth caught my eye and held it, when I could picture it not as a rag but as a finished product, that’s how I knew it was for me.

Once home, we prepped. It was my job to cut the sewing pattern along the lines assigned to my size. I still remember the soft crinkling sound it made as I stretched it out on the floor. The patterns were made out of a special type of tissue paper that was as thin and delicate as a strip of skin that peels off your shoulder on a summer’s day. You barely needed scissors for it; it felt like I was cutting through air. Read the rest of this entry »

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...

Tags: ,