A Short History of Myth

The author is Karen Armstrong, former nun, historicist of religions, blower of minds.

In her book, she argues that we've lost the ability to think (if "think" is the right word) mythically. One hopeful conclusion she comes to: artists and writers can perhaps help us to return to this lost way of experiencing the world.

The surrealists worried about this loss, too (if, that is, the surrealists can be said to have "worried" about anything).

There is a nightingale in the middle of a thick wood. It sings though its throat is torn out.

No children go to that forest to play or to be menaced. They know better, or they have lost the instinct for being drawn to life-illuminating danger.

This is the nightingale's song:

I think, though I am now a bird, that I was once a child. I can't remember what I thought, when I stood on the carpet and looked around at the sea of legs belonging to adults. Even their legs were taller than I was.

I can't imagine that I went on to grow up. I can't imagine that I made decisions that affected the fate of oceans, that influenced tribal wars on the other side of the globe. I don't believe that I broke someone's heart and then lied about it.

The nightingale listens to the echo of its song coming toward it through the dusk.

Agons of Writing

Some writers suffer from a deficit of courage, often combined with a devastatingly acute ability to see flaws (in others' work, and in their own). I know many brilliant writers or would-be writers who are afraid to write because they can't bear to produce shit. That fear prevents them from starting their novel or their essay or their story or their poem. Or, if they do manage to start, the fear prevents them from finishing.

For me the problem is patience. I have learned to slog, I have learned to face the shit that comes out of me, and I know it's shit. But what I need to do now? Listen to the real beat of my real heart and let its beating carry me through. To where? No fucking clue. I hope that with patience I'll see my way through the shit and maybe glimpse where I'm going. I really hope that will happen. However, I also understand that, even with patience, I might never see a thing. The whole myth of progress, scaled down to a single human life: it may be one more pile of crap. I may never see, we all may never see.

But still I listen, and still my heart beats. So I try to keep looking. The vision directed inward somehow meeting the vision directed outward.

On Being Too Disciplined

So, a bit about me as an author. I have a literary novel called NEW LIGHT out with Black Heron Press (2006). Alan Cheuse said very nice things about it. But the press was small, publishing was on the verge of the Great Ice Age, and the fate of NEW LIGHT was similar to the fate of most literary novels published by small presses. No big deal: it got me tenure. Now I can write and read and teach. These are wonderful things and I know that I am very lucky.

But then of course, if I call myself a writer, I have to produce finished work, right? And that can be, umm, hard. When I write, I think of it as a waltz between the conscious and unconscious parts of my mind. (Yes, I believe in the unconscious. I had a prof in grad school who declared with a satisfied smile that he did not in fact believe in the unconscious. I think it was a way of being cutting-edge. It's too boring to say you don't believe in the soul nowadays. I guess not believing in the unconscious was the new thang.)

But I believe in the unconscious, and in fact, far too often I don't listen (okay, "listen") to it. Of course, one's conscious mind generally needs to lead in the writing process, or one produces gibberish. But one of my problems is actually that I can be too disciplined. At times I don't give my unconscious the reins.

This became clear to me through the work I've done on a novel I've been working on for 11 years. A BOOK OF MIRRORS has gone through two distinct incarnations and is now entering a third. That equals a hell of a lot of time. Now mind you, I've been doing other things while working on MIRRORS. I wrote a YA novel (SKYRIDER) which is now at my agent's (waiting to go under the knife for the third time). I've taught many classes in lit and creative writing, worked with lots of students, things I almost always love. And then I've gone bankrupt and tried to be supportive of my husband when his advertising job left the great state of MI and moved to Chicago. Bravely he went back to school and in 4 years got an MBA in Information Systems (which is a weird supplement to his MFA in photography). And, impressively in this economic landscape, he landed another job 14 months ago, and did well in it, though he isn't really a cubicle sort of guy. But then the company went under, and since then, no jobs on his horizon. And then we went bankrupt.

But back to A BOOK OF MIRRORS. I have a few other novels on the back burners as well, but MIRRORS keeps on demanding that I get it right. So I keep on working at getting it right. It's really hard.

But there's a bright side to all this. Over the past ten years, as my husband and I trudged along our sometimes rocky road, I've discovered I go into overdrive sometimes. I get so fixated on what I need and want to do that I don't listen to my unconscious mind. I am so hyper-disciplined in my work habits that I keep working even if something feels off. So this entry is about not being disciplined. Sometimes it's important to slow down, let the work nudge you in different directions, directions you haven't even considered. Let your mind run along different possible scenarios, let yourself be surprised. Writers always talk about the importance of discipline, but I'm here to say: I forced myself to finish MIRRORS (twice!) and neither time got it right. So now I'm not doing the forced-march thing. I'm working a lot more slowly, and wow. It's really weird. And cool. That's all I can say. These characters are suddenly having a lot more fun in their lives than they were when I was pushing them around and telling them what I thought they should do. And really, when it comes down to it, what the hell do I know?