Writing Salon Mistress Muses

Dear Alice Munro

Last night after midnight, I finally managed to stay awake long enough to finish reading one short story by Alice Munro. The story was called Chance, and it was in her book of short stories called Runaway. Her story, which was character driven, pulled me along as deftly as a magnet pulls a metal filing.

What was going to happen to shy and romantically inexperienced Juliet when she went to visit the man she'd met on the train? They had spent only a few hours on the train together. He was, essentially, a stranger. It had been six months since the train encounter when she received a short letter from him, a letter that said little more than "I've thought of you often." He had sent it to the school where she taught, because he hadn't known her address and, in fact, could not even remember her last name.

Nothing boded well for Juliet. The trip seemed destined to end badly, somehow. But how? I was reminded of myself at age 21, the same as as Juliet. I had all but forgotten how it feels to be 21, to be so on the verge of. . . almost everything!

Where was Alice Munro taking Juliet? Where was she taking ME? And why?

Reading that story made me want to write again. I'd also forgotten how reading can inspire me as a writer. It doesn't even have to be a whole book. My time for reading is limited, and squeezing in a short story is about the best I can do right now. But oh, what a relief from the torture of TV. A torture I impose on myself far too often. What an idiot I am! Television has gotten so BAD. The reality shows are hideous. Moronic. They certainly don't inspire me to write.

Dear dear Alice Munro. Thank you.

My tip for today (obvious but can never be said enough to an American): Read more good literature. It will inspire you and perhaps even teach you a thing or two about how to improve your own work. Turn off the TV. Turn off the iPod. Turn off the cell phone. Turn off the radio. Turn off the computer. Pick up the book. Open the book. Read.

Rivers & Tides

Ever seen the documentary, Rivers & Tides? I caught part of it on TV a couple of years ago, but last night I watched the whole thing from start to finish. Even though I was sleepy when I started watching  — which isn't the greatest state to be in when trying to focus your attention on such a slow-paced film— I still thought it was a fascinating story about one man's journey as an artist — his reflections on his creative process, his views of nature, of time. . . and more.

This man, Andy Goldsworthy, is a sculptor whose studio is "nature itself." In the documentary, he sculpts creations of ice and stone on a beach in Nova Scotia, weaves rivers of sheep's wool across barren pastures in Scotland, spins webs of twigs into the branches of trees. Every piece of work he creates is fleeting. Rivers, tides and wind wash them away, blow them over, or wear them down. Often they have vanished within minutes or hours.

What I realized midway through the film was that much of what he has to say about his process of sculpting could easily be applied to the process of writing.

This documentary came out in 2001; if you missed it, I suggest you check it out. It's a thought-provoking portrait of a gently quirky, highly articulate and original artist-philosopher whose dedication and determination to find meaning from his work/art is inspirational.

Here's a link to a well-written review on it that I just found.