What's In a Name

       When I was thinking of names for my still minty-fresh blog, the first idea that sprung into my head was Homo Lone. I have to confess this title made me giggle and also think very highly of my wit for a moment. And at first ponder, it even seemed possibly appropriate. Firstly, because I am a “homo” and secondly, because I spend many hours alone at home, writing, creating, and otherwise despairing, while my long-suffering and ever patient wife is out enriching young minds and ensuring that the legacy of this great nation shall not be wanting in scientific understanding.  Homo Lone then, would be the homage to the writer’s lonely call out into the wilderness of the ethers, the solitary endeavor that is crafting works of hopeful brilliance and seminal importance. But after more than a millisecond of consideration, I realized the obvious shortcomings of this title.

            1: I am clearly not alone (see ever patient wife*, above) though I possibly––nay probably––run the risk of reverting to one sooner rather than later if I keep on about it+ ad nauseum.

            2: Likewise, though it may be hacked out in solitude, writing is definitely not a sport best done in isolation or if otherwise disconnected from the world. When I crawl upstairs to shut myself up in my office to pull up the white screen of a new word page, I might wish stories and ideas could just pop up all fully formed and fragrant like I don’t know, mushrooms in a wood or the STUPID FUCKING PERSISTANT VERIZON SALESMAN RINGING MY DOORBELL RIGHT NOWƒ, but that is just not how a good story germinates. It grows from a nugget of conversation with my wife or my friends, or as an inspired riff on another work of art be it a piece of writing, or a painting or from music or from something I have witnessed while out on a walk with my dog, or from my life experience or from any countless number of sources, but it never comes (and this has been a hard lesson for me to learn) from simply nothing. Good writers are good literary citizens and good literary citizens have a duty to be connected to their world.

            But the actual act of writing is something I most often do when I am alone. And it is often daunting. I can feel like standing on the edge of something unknown and uncertain. It is not a path but a vague hope, a feeling without form that gnaws in my gut and pushes me forward when I tell myself there is no rational reason to continue. This leads me to a valuable lesson I picked up at the AWP conference this year.

         Question (I'm paraphrasing): When you have writers block/reach an impasse with your writing/have gone fetal in despair/are beating your head against a wall and wondering why on earth you ever thought you had anything decent or insightful to say ever ever ever, what should you do to get over it?

           Answer: Lower your fucking standards and keep on writing∆

That advice, cute as it is, is huge. It doesn’t just grant permission to be flawed, it acknowledges that any finished work is inevitably going to be the triumph of imperfect accomplishment against idealized potential. Because that’s just the way it is. So lower your fucking standards and keep on writing. It is profound for its simplicity. Because what do you call a writer who doesn’t write?  This phrase has already become my mantra. It gives me the boost I need to keep on trying despite being imperfect. It gives me permission to keep on trying because I am imperfect.  It tells me to continue holding onto hope, even as the very act of writing undermines, erodes, and washes away the perfect banks of unlimited possibility.

            One of my favorite books ever is The Great Gatsby. For several years it was probably my top favorite, and on some days, it still is. What resonated with me most and filled me with a most delicious aching in my soul was Gatsby's desperate, obsessive desire to hold onto the hope of possibility. I think it’s something any dreamer might recognize in herself. When I am deep in the thrall of writing, I feel like Gatsby, standing on his dock, looking out across the harbor at Daisy Buchanan’s green light, believing in that dream. Holding onto that hope. I write because I am a dreamer. Writing lets me ground my dreams but lose myself. I'm calling my blog Green Light because I am giving myself permission and impetus to let go. To not be perfect. But to write.

Green means life, vitality, potential. 

Green means proceed ahead.

Green means go.

Ready?

Go.

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* Also Dearly beloved.  Gina is a rock star life partner. Pretty much the best that I know of.

+ Though Hank Green is married, let’s just say I’m still relieved Missoula is far away from here…

ƒ Seriously, you turn off your lights, you lock your door, you let your dog bark her head off, but they’ll hunker for a legit stakeout until they think you might cave. But I will defend my home against an invasion of cable television! 

∆ <needs source> If I can find the telephone book they handed us at AWP, I could remember who said that.   Molly Peacock put it slightly differently: keep your standards high, but lower your expectations.