Before I lay down some of the best articles, books, and tunes I’ve found this week, I want to ask a question:

What have you given up for Lent? Or, better yet, what have you taken up?

Folks, let’s make this an accountability pact. A pact to see these 40 days through, to arrive at Easter Sunday as changed souls. For the better.

This season I’m giving both coffee and the snooze button the coldest shoulder imaginable. This means I’ll be up and at ‘em at 5:02 AM every morning, the time I used to rise before I became too adept at justifying 10, 20, 30 more minutes. And the coffee? Just an extra measure of torture.

The truth is that these two habits directly affect my writing. The more I bat the snooze button, the less words I put down on paper that day. Without access to a coffee machine, a French Press, a local coffee shop, I spend more time complaining about creative fogginess and less time creating.

I’m trying my hand at discipline.

For 40-some days.

Now for a little weekend motivation.

ONE: The Browning Letters

Although a leftover from Valentine’s Day, the romantic correspondence between Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning deserves a second wind of attention. As the result of a digitized collaboration between Wellesley and Baylor University, the poetic couple’s 573 love letters turned available last Tuesday – in their original formats.

You can now take in the handwriting, the impassioned words, even the wax seals on the back of the envelopes, no doubt ripped open with trembling fingers and baited breath.

Gentlemen, take notice. Robert had Elizabeth at these words:

I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett…

Consider this sound wooing advice. Compliment the art, and the rest will soon be history.

TWO: “What Every Creative Needs”

This article isn’t new, so call it vintage if you must. But it’s good, so good that I couldn’t leave it from my list.

Keith Jennings makes a sound claim: intentional community challenges creatives. We need it, no doubt about it. It offers us identity, credibility, collaboration, competition, and courage.

Community gets us moving, creating, and shipping our best art into the world.

Because sometimes you can’t make it on your own.

THREE: Gilead

Marilynne Robinson wrote this Pulitzer Prize winner back in 2004, and I’ve only now gotten my hands on a copy.

Every word rings poetic and rustic and poignant as John Ames, an Iowa minister, writes a letter to his son as the hour of his own death creeps closer. The sentences unfold into honest answers, answers to our endless questioning of existence and meaning.

There’s a world of magic within these pages, the type only found within the wisdom of final moments.

FOUR: Chad Stokes’ Simmerkane II

Head on over to Noise Trade for a FREE copy of the lastest album from Chadwick Stokes, Dispatch frontman turned solo artist.

If you didn’t grow up amidst cornstalks and combines like I did, this might be lost on you: His album feels a little like going home. It has its roots in back road Americana, whispers of bare feet, banjos, and summer storms.

Here’s a sample to get you started:

“Adelaide”

What did you stumble across this week?

The Lenten season is upon us.

And chances are that you already know it, especially if you spent yesterday in wild culinary debauchery.

Today marks the 40 days of preparation before Easter Sunday, a Christian ritual leading up to Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection, undertaken by believers all across the world.

And if you take part, that means 40 days of some much-needed discipline, something to take your mind off the material comforts.

That means less chocolate, less TV, less tailgating. If you have reason to forgo the latter, I also recommend psychotherapy.

But whatever you choose to exclude from your life (or include, in some cases), this season is pregnant with meaning.

This number, this dose of 40 days, rings significant. And holy.

Consider these Biblical examples:

Noah endured 40 days and 40 nights of seasickness and zookeeper duties.

The Israelites wandered the desert for 40 years, thoroughly dusty when they finally reached the land of milk and honey.

Goliath strutted back and forth taunting the cowardice of the Israelite army for 40 days until David gathered his courage and stones and stepped forward.

Even Jesus face 40 days of hunger and temptation and steadfastness in the desert.

See? There’s something there.

This recurring number, whether in days, weeks, years, symbolizes a period of frustration. A period of hunger, temptation, fear. A period of trial.

Jesus warded off the devil. David quaked in his sandals. The Israelites feasted on manna day after day after day.

We all go through periods like this.

We work night shifts to support our craft, our families. We hold the hands of loved ones wrought with fear and addiction and sickness. We fill our lives with meaningless routines just to avoid the pangs of loneliness and dissatisfaction.

In one form or another, we all face trials daily.

We face minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, even years of pain.

As creatives we wake before the sun, climb in bed long after midnight, struggle with criticism, responsibilities, dry spells. And then there are those days when we wonder if we’re even cut out to live the artistic life. We doubt our stories, our sculpting, our chords, our prints, our work that means everything to us.

It may last for weeks. You may stumble on for years.

But at the end of these times, you’ll find what you’ve been looking for. You’ll find life, love, redemption, rebirth.

In “40,” the closing song on U2′s 1983 War album, Bono sings words resounding of Psalm 40:

I waited patiently for the Lord

He inclined and heard my cry

He brought me up out of the pit

Out of the miry clay

I will sing, sing a new song

 

We will all have our moments of 40 in life, and most of us will have our moments of 40 every day.

But keep soldiering on.

You’ll be rescued but not before getting dirty, not before you feel swallowed by frustration, not before you feel helpless and fraught with anxiety.

It’s an uncomfortable prelude to your promised land.

So take heart.

It’s only a matter of time until you find footing on steady ground, until you find the salve to heal all those scratches, gashes, and scars.

And in the end, you’ll sing a new song.

Are you in the midst of 40? 

Sooner or later, you get it.

You’re walking along, seeing only the routine of each step, and suddenly, you’re struck by it.

And if it’s already happened to you, you know what I’m talking about.

That the beauty of life lives in the ordinary. The familiar.

Is it true, prince, that you once declared that “beauty would save the world?” Great Heaven! The prince says that beauty saves the world!

- Hippolyte, Dostoevsky’s The Idiot

 

A flower is nothing but a weed, a model of anthers and petals, until it’s picked by small hands and given to a mother.

A song is only a melody, catchy in its blend of voice and riffs, until it’s played on the radio and you watch as the natural rhythm of the world matches the notes beat for beat.

A heron is just an awkward bird, a wild balance of feathers and beak, until you watch it glide low over lake water, in and out of morning fog, like I watched this morning with coffee mug in hand.

They become beautiful, majestic, arresting.

The power lies in our sudden change of perception, the shift in thinking that makes these moments glisten and glow.

Because he will forever be just a boy, and she will forever be just a girl, a mastery of cells and bones and muscles like the rest of us, but then comes that rush of blood to the head. That rush of shifted perspective.

And we’re swept off our feet.

Call it divine, call it extraordinary.

This is where we find beauty, where we enter into the veiled mystery behind existence and meaning.

It’s here where artists must settle in, make their homes. This is where you must prop up the easel, sharpen the pencils, tune the guitar.

Because this is where it happens.

A baby is only a smaller, more fragile version of you and me, yet with that first glance of grainy sonogram, with that first glance of wide brown eyes, you’re a goner. And you’re forever changed.

This is the challenge.

As artists, as human beings, we need to be conscious of uncovering the extraordinary in the ordinary. We need to be sure the beauty of the moment doesn’t fade without changing us first.

Art can only change hearts if beauty first rescues the ones holding the brushes, the pens, the shutter release buttons.

Beauty can soften, tame the wildest hearts.

It can save the irredeemable.

And as we weave this heart-stilling beauty into our work, bury deep seeds of discipline and creativity and diligence into fertile furrows, something happens.

Something that will truly save this world.

Perhaps Dostoevsky intended his prince to be more than a romantic.

Perhaps he called his prince prophet.

In not much more than a month from now, we’ll officially be able to smell spring on the air.

I’m looking forward to days spent writing outside, sending emails from the porch instead of the usual desk and writing with pen and paper on blankets stretched out in the grass.

And there’s not anything more comforting than the sound of spring peepers late at night or the distant thunder of a sprawling summer storm.

While we’re still stuck inside for a bit longer, here’s some weekend inspiration to keep you motivated and diligent and sipping hot chocolate by the woodstove.

ONE: “Date a Girl Who Reads”

Just when I thought Rosemarie could not have said it any better, she added this at the end:

“Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”

My heart sounded a hearty amen at that.

TWO: “A Love Story (In 3 Acts)”

This piece is a brilliant reminder that if we’re currently struggling with our art, currently frustrated beyond belief and wondering whether or not to get out of bed in the morning, it’s only because we’re in the conflict stage of the creative process. As much as it hurts, we can only make it to Act III (the resolution stage) by soldiering through the murkiness with our sleeves rolled up. And perhaps our pant legs as well.

Keith’s post is a motivating one, and the U2 allusion is just icing on the cake.

THREE: “Words for My Daughter”

I had the privilege of getting to talk to Jim this week, and I couldn’t help but be impressed by his creative vision. I love talking to other creatives. I never liked the image of the artist slaving away alone off in a tower, scrawling by moonlight. I’ll take the moonlight but not the isolation.

Art needs community to thrive.

Jim’s letter to his daughter is beautiful, and I think that all of humanity longs to hear those very words, to hear those words of love, to hear that call to life. 

FOUR: Johnny Flynn

I have a bad habit of downloading music and forgetting to listen. I found this musical jewel on the American Songwriter Sessions album over at Noise Trade. [Hint: You can still download the compilation for FREE].

If I told you that I’d only listened to this song a few dozen times, I’d be lying. Because I’ve listened to it a hundred times already. In sweet repetition.

Enjoy the music, and enjoy the poetry. This fellow is a wordsmith.

“Churlish May”

FIVE: Book Recommendations

I’m in need of a new book.

I currently have my hands on Kate Morton’s The Distant Hours, and I need to buy Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. But do you have any recommendations for the next books on my list?

Have you read a good book lately?

Seen a good movie?

Written an incredible post?

Let me know about it.

We blame it on the critics, on our lack of time and our myriad of responsibilities, on the deaf ears of the muses, on Twitter, on Pinterest and all those other social distractions.

But our biggest threat isn’t external or supernatural.

In fact, it’s both intrinsically human and internal.

And it’s insecurity.

“Any fool knows that bravado is always a cover-up for insecurity. That’s the truth. And on that note, I’ll say goodnight. God love you.”

- Bobby Darin

We all have our own personal slew of insecurities that we drag along behind us, laboring our steps through life like Jacob Marley’s chains.

They appear in our most vulnerable moments, when we’re lying in bed draped in blue and lonely shadows. They appear in our moments of red-hot confidence.

And they constantly whisper in deceptively sincere tones:

“You’re no good, your art is worthless.”

“You’ll never be more than a second rate creative.”

But they don’t end with your art, they attack every aspect of your life.

“You’re much too chubby to be attractive.”

“She’ll never ever say yes to a date.”

And the tragedy is not in the lies, but the fact that we believe them. Every slanderous word, we believe them.

They seduce our hearts with silky doubts.

They keep us from beginning, from continuing, from finishing, from shipping our art, from taking life-changing risks.

When the truth is this: Our art is nothing short of masterpiece. And our lives are nothing short of beauty.

But we don’t stop the whispering insecurity as it takes root in our hearts, we gladly continue the cycle and plant those doubts in the heads of others, whether in blunt statements or spiteful subtleties.

“Well, I’ve seen better.”

“Not everyone has the genius of Nabokov.”

“Black is slimming, you know.”

“She’s way out of your league, dude.”

We don’t mean to. They escape as naturally as exhaling breaths.

And it’s because as we’re slowly being swallowed in our insecurities, we want to bring others just as low. We want to drag them down into the sticky mire.

And yet, they are only our scapegoats. We are the ones who feel less than professional. We are the ones who feel chubby. We are the ones who feel foolish approaching pretty girls and smiling at handsome boys.

We have no right to do this, to inflict this pain on our friends, our colleagues, our dear family members who will love us no matter what we say.

Can’t you see that we’re tearing each other apart?

We were never meant to exist alone, we were never meant to create all by ourselves.

And for goodness’ sake, we cannot go our whole lives without shipping our art, sending it out into the world to change minds and hearts and lives. How can our art transform the world when it goes unseen, unheard, untouched?

We need to create, and we need to encourage others to create. With abandon.

Insecurity is an insatiable beast, ever wanting to keep those talents hidden, shuttered  and boarded over.

But please, please shrug off those lies of insecurity that weigh on your shoulders.

And please, please choke back those words of digging hurt.

Instead, share your art with us. Share your glimpses into genius, we see far too few of them in our world.

And in return, we’ll give you encouragement, we’ll give you praise, and we’ll give you constructive criticism.

Are you sick of wallowing in insecurity like me?

[WARNING: This post might get passionate.]

As artists, creatives, societal deviants of the highest order, we all want to mock this holiday, spurn the commercialized celebration of red and pink-laced love.

But as artists, creatives, societal deviants of the highest order, we need this day most of all.

Why?

Because love is art.

And the creation part is where we step in.

Where the spirit does not work with the hand there is no art.

-Leonardo da Vinci

Last week I illustrated the cyclical nature of creativity, that life must birth art before art can gift us life.

To breathe life into our art, we first need to mold it from dust, from the dust we kick up along the way in our stories.

Story must be lived out before it can be written out.

Think about it: We read novels with strong-willed, gutsy characters, men and women willing to risk everything for what they want most. Sir Lancelot. Macbeth. Jo March.

And we read biographies of flesh and blood heroes, men who charged into battle, women who marched against the grain. Bonhoeffer. Amelia Earhart. Nelson Mandela.

At the root of it all, they all fought for love.

The love of a woman, the love of a man, a child, a memory, a country, a cause.

To live a good story worthy of the fireside, we need to emulate these legendary men and women in their pursuit of love. It’s vital to our living, breathing stories, and it’s vital to the stories we pen on paper.

And artists know this. Love is at the heart of every great novel, song, portrait, riff, screenplay.

Love of her, love of him, love of God, of words, of song, of rhythm, of color, of texture.

At the root of every masterpiece lies a longing for connection. Divine connection, human connection, we all long to connect with each other.

We all long for love.

And if art is love, then as artists, it’s our job to create as much love in the world as possible, both on and off the canvas.

If you call yourself an artist, if you call yourself a writer, a singer, a drummer, a photographer, a painter, an actor, a dancer, a blogger, a cook, you have no excuse. You need to be creating love as if you’re life depended on it.

Because your art depends on it.

But somehow along the way, we’ve forgotten this.

We’ve become fixated on the image of the suffering bard, etching away with a feather quill by candlelight, cold and tormented and lonely.

So we slave away in studios and offices, allowing our personal lives to crumble, our personal relationships to disintegrate all for the sake of our art.

But as Jeff Goins said:

The pain and plight of the artistic life is too romanticized. The truth is that art and suffering are closely connected, but not dependent on each other. Art exists in spite of pain. As an artist, you should always be rebelling against injustice, always pushing back darkness.

Reject the image of the romantic poet. It’s no way to work, to create, to live.

Love is counter-intuitive. If we push love and life to the foreground, our art won’t suffer.

It will flourish.

Now begins a new generation of artists. 

Artists who live out fulfilling life stories, artists who create with maddening genius, and artists who, first and foremost, call themselves lovers.

Happy Valentine’s Day, friends.

Don’t limit your love to romance and diamond jewelry.

Humanity is in need of a radical sort of love.

]]> http://storywrought.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/all-we-need-is-love/feed/ 4 enhudson Valentine http://storywrought.wordpress.com/2012/02/10/the-best-bits-of-the-week-potsc-matthew-mayfield-storyline-conference-and-more/ http://storywrought.wordpress.com/2012/02/10/the-best-bits-of-the-week-potsc-matthew-mayfield-storyline-conference-and-more/#comments Fri, 10 Feb 2012 11:00:50 +0000 Lizzie http://storywrought.wordpress.com/?p=462 Continue reading »]]>

Friday again.

Feel free to post your best bits of the week – articles, music, movies, TV, events, poetry, prose, photography, books, even your own blog posts that I may have missed in the hustle and bustle of the American work week.

Don’t be humble, I’ll need a little inspiration for weekend projects.

ONE: The “Labels Lie” Campaign

Have you come across People of the Second Chance yet? Their mission is simple, honest, mind-blowing, and raw, and it’s this: Grace is radical.

If you’re interested in overturning the misconceptions of the world, if you’re willing to strip away the labels, join the movement here and drastically alter your perspective.

TWO: Matthew Mayfield

Not too long ago, Matthew partnered with Pledge Music to take his new album from rough cuts to seamless album gems. And as if the promise of a new album wasn’t enough, you receive exclusive content and gifts for varying levels of pledge amounts. I may or may not be awaiting handwritten lyrics from the handsome fellow himself. Check out the project here, and pledge a little pocket change. Don’t make me wait too long for this album, folks.

Here are a few of my favorites, and you can judge for yourself:

1. “A Cycle” off Now You’re Free

2. “Lives Entwined” off Five Chances Remain Hers

3. “Element” off The Fire EP

And he does a killer cover of U2′s “Where the Streets Have No Name” here. And you know how I feel about those Irish boys.

THREE: “final wish . . .”

This poem needs no introduction, no endorsement from me. Just read it.

FOUR: “The Ten Best Things that Writing Gives Me”

Writer Andi Cumbo spells out only ten advantages of writing, no matter whether professional or personal. She reminds writers that the art of words is a gift, one to be embraced with excitement and fascination reserved for Christmas mornings. Because it gives us writers purpose. And above all, we need purpose.

More than anything in the world, writing gives me peace. I sincerely believe this is because I am doing what I was made to do. Nothing fills me up or settles me down . . . nothing opens me up or grounds me like writing.

 

FIVE: Storyline Conference

This year, Donald Miller’s Storyline Conference is taking on two additional locations, joining the Portland backdrop: Nashville and Santa Barbara. This two day event focuses on using the elements of story to guide you towards a meaningful life, emphasizing the role of producer rather than consumer when it comes to living.

I’m particularly interested in the Nashville location, and trying to decide whether or not I can register without sucking my bank account dry (it’s not that expensive, it’s just that I’m a freelance writer).

Anyone else thinking of registering?

I think I need to be in attendance. I cannot imagine the world of possibility that lies in overlapping story and living.

SIX: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

Having visited Savannah a couple weeks ago, I’ve gotten my hands on this nonfiction account of the city’s oddest characters. It’s been compared to Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, but I’m not yet convinced.

Have you read it yet? It’s proving a fascinating read – human eccentricity never fails to entertain.

So let’s hear your thoughts, your opinions, your best bits of the week!

Today I wrote something for the People of the Second Chance blog, revealing a bit of my heart, something I try to steer clear of on here. It’s a part of their Labels Lie campaign.

People of the Second Chance is an incredible non-profit organization advocating a higher standard of grace to be lived out every day with everyone.

We promise to tell the truth about pain, failure and loss. We will never pander to your comfort zone or support the choice to live as a victim.

We promise to offend occasionally, fail to please everyone, take risks and make mistakes.

We promise to produce passionate counterculture people growing in empathy, courage, tenacity, purpose and hope.

This is one organization worth getting involved with.

And perhaps through my confession, we’ll get to know each other a little better.

Check it out here, and let me know what you think.

There are days when I feel like I’m standing at the foot of the Tower of Babel.

I sit still and listen, nod my head in the socially accepted manner of feedback, and pretend to get it, to understand what I’m hearing.

But I, much like Chris Martin, don’t get it.

Well I feel like they’re talking in a language I don’t speak

And they’re talking it to me

In the corporate world they speak of ladders to climb and equities and liabilities. In the world of politics they drone on about votes and primaries and bi-partisan leanings. In the world of everyday living, I hear mentions of retirement savings and designer labels and the Joneses.

And I don’t get it.

I fill my world with family and friends and strangers and art and risks and God and love.

I make room in my existence for soul. And I don’t always get it right, but these are the things of the world I understand, these are the things of the world I don’t need a formula to make sense of.

Here’s the thing: If you ever want to communicate and engage in the world, if you ever want to get your message out, if you ever want to find those folks you can call your own, you need to speak in your own tongue.

ONE: What gets you up in the morning?

If it’s the alarm, the corporate job, the need to make breakfast for the kids, investigate your motivations. You may discover that you speak in the language of family, security, discipline.

TWO: What makes you bang the tabletop?

If it’s injustice [in any of its many forms], human sex-trafficking, unclean drinking water in third world countries, lean into that voice. Goodness knows this world needs that voice of yours.

THREE: How would you spend your last day on earth?

With all this recent talk of Armageddon, ask yourself this question: Would you spend your last day with family, with friends, allowing the small worries of the world to fade away? Speak in that language of love and priority.

That’s your tongue.

Don’t censor your words, don’t emulate other voices, don’t lower your tone. Don’t speak in SEO terms just to boost site traffic and boast expertise. Speak of what you know, of what you find significant. Even if it’s only home gardening and furniture upholstery, the smallest things can be revolutionary if told within the sincerest of voices.

But don’t think that your social circle will expand overnight or your blog suddenly attract the attention of big name publishers and leaders.

You will be misunderstood.

You’ll be overlooked.

You’ll be cast aside.

But sooner or later, you’ll discover a community of people speaking a language you can understand – a dialect of your native tongue.

Hold out for that. You don’t need to reach the masses in a beguiling tongue that isn’t your own, you need only stop censoring the actual you.

As I write this, I’m tucked into the corner of a coffeehouse, elbows on the table, sleeves pulled up, my right shoulder gently grazing a display of cakes, white icing piped along in rows.

And my eyes fall on everything but the page.

To my right sits an older couple, noses deep within papers, magazines and newspapers spread over the booth. She with The Washington Post, he with The Wall Street Journal. In all the clutter, I see their fingers laced across the table, their eyes steady on periodicals held up with free hands.

In front sits a mother and daughter. They spill coffee into saucers and smile and speak like friends who never see enough of each other. Crinkling skin around the eyes, exaggerated hand gestures. Through the fog of blues progressions sifting down from overhead speakers, I hear their voices play up and down the major scale.

To the left sits a man on the sofa, his hands jerking back and forth between his phone and mug, his eyes on the door. I imagine his eyes seeking out a tall girl, eyes done up, dark hair sleek down her back, smiling widely enough to make his hands shake when he holds them out to her.

He stands and walks to the door, the sound of bells falling in layers like confetti. But he looks as if he’s won nothing.

For the first time I see a second cup of coffee by his phone, by his empty cup.

He walks back to the sofa – alone.

Twenty minutes later, he walks back to the door – alone. But only after tipping the untouched coffee, now cold, into the trash.

And as the bells jingle again, I’m instantly aware that I’m also alone, however willingly so.

When it comes to art, it’s easy to drown in your own ambitions.

Even when the paid projects sit finished and the invoices have been cast far and wide, we keep on working. Working at those self-imposed projects, staying determined in our art, our discipline.

Don’t get me wrong, this is a thing of beauty.

Art keeps us breathing, keeps us chasing meaning in our lives that without, we’d be little more than moving machines, parts without souls.

But there’s this concept called balance, a word too heavy to grasp in our greedy, impatient fingers, a word that gives itself over only after years of failure and growth.

We need balance in our little worlds.

We need to temper our ambitions with heady doses of love, life, and the present moment.

Not the past where we remember our beginnings: awkward sentences, smudges of paint, thumbs covering the lens.

And not the future where we see ourselves with publications and book spines stamped with our surnames and thicker wallets.

If we only look back and forward, we become slaves to our artistic ambitions, unaware of the beauty around us to be enjoyed in the present.

Coffeehouses savor of honey to creative types. Think of cafe tables all over the world that could boast of Hemingway’s elbows, Isben’s papers and pen, Dostoevsky’s coffee rings.

They provide spaces of creativity amidst hustle and bustle, fooling us into feeling part of the scene while we sit against the backdrop.

We watch and file away images, but we rarely step into the spotlight.

Over time, these places become reminders of loneliness, surrounding us with laughing mouths and brushing knees.

Good.

Because we need to remember that this great creative process is cyclical.

Life gives birth to art.

And then, and only then, will art give us life.