writing

The Second Third, Week 36: Cultivating Patience

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments


Well, you’re in your little room
and you’re working on something good,
but if it’s really good,
you’re gonna need a bigger room.
And when you’re in the bigger room,
you might not know what to do —
you might have to think of
how you got started
sitting in your little room.
— The White Stripes, “Little Room”

I tend to obsess a bit once I get an idea in my head. It’s frustrating at times to both Jodi and me, because I find it difficult to concentrate on other things, and the more I dwell on the object of my obsession, the less inclined I am to wait for a pay-off.

I’ve been this way forever, I think, but first recognized it clearly around 2002, when the band The White Stripes released their recording White Blod Cells. I caught them accidentally on Saturday Night Live, liked what I saw, and went to a local CD store to pick up the disk. I had heard they had release a limited edition disk with a bonus CD-DVD that included a couple extra tracks and music videos, so I figured I’d pick that version up. I guessed it would be about $15, maybe $20 with the DVD.

I got to the store over lunch, I think, after stewing all day on the prospect of new music. I didn’t have a lot of time, and the store didn’t have the limited edition with the bonus disk. Furthermore, they were asking $20 plus tax for just the regular CD. I knew I could get it cheaper at another place, but didn’t have time to run there. I wanted that disk. I needed that disk.

I bought that disk.

I loved the music, but now began to obsess over the missing bonus CD-DVD. A day or so later I passed a display in a different store: The White Stripes Limited Edition White Blood Cells CD plus bonus CD-DVD, only $17 (or something like that). My heart sank. I couldn’t justify spending money on the package just to get the bonus disk. I should’ve waited.

Some weeks (months?) later, I found the bonus disk for sale, by itself, on eBay. I bought it; with shipping it probably cost $10. $30-plus for something I could’ve had for $17 plus tax. And the bonus disk wasn’t that great.

There is a point: Now, as I’m working from home on longer writing projects and trying to finish a novel, I’m again obsessing over ideas and wanting to rush headlong toward the finish. On the University side, I’m wading through reams of detailed background material right now, and I’m not writing, even though I very much want to. I keep thinking, “I know this material!” and wanting to shove it aside and type away, but I’m forcing myself not to. The reason? I tend to write my first drafts in close to final form, so that I have a cohesive, easy-to-read whole at the end. That’s wonderful, but it makes it more difficult to revise and add material later, because it leaves few openings (and often I’m wedded to the words already on the page).

Similarly, the novel I’ve been working on for 15 years now has stagnated because when I started it, I rushed headlong forward, improvising on a very general idea of where I wanted the story to go. Now what I have are several tightly drafted sections that hint at a great story, but they need fleshing out and more direction. So at this late date, I’m finally taking a big step back and patiently sketching (with words) whose story this is, who the characters are, what they care about, what they want to achieve. I want to ditch this step and just write, because for the first time in a long time, I’m getting excited again…but I know I need to plot it out a bit more carefully if I want to make sustained progress toward a completed book. And you know what? I’m getting to know things about my characters that I hadn’t guessed before!

Fruits that are allowed to ripen are sweetest and juiciest just before they spoil. Patience and careful attention to what I’ve set out to do, I think, will be more important than ever in my Second Third if I hope to enjoy the full flavor of the things I love.

The Second Third, Week 30: Male Bonding

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

I’ve written a number of Second Third posts about the reasons I need to scale back my work hours and volunteer commitments, but this week drove it home, and gave me a new reason to seek better balance. The past few weeks have been intense at work — a number of major and important projects to bring to a close, a handful of goodbyes to colleagues leaving for new jobs in this time of transition, plus those of us accompanying my boss on his next adventure were supposed to be packing our offices for the move.

Add to that the start of soccer for two of our children, and of daily weightlifting for a third. Then layer on Albertville Friendly City Days this weekend — our KC council sponsors the softball tourney, the beer tent and the pedal-power tractor pull, and appears in the parade. (I have direct involvement with two of these events and at least some vested interest in the success of all of them.) Plus we are trying to organize the annual parish-wide weekend at Camp Lebanon and need to meet with our co-chairs. It’s no wonder I’ve come down with shingles (seriously).

I need to scale back for my family, for the new baby, for my bride, and for my future as a writer. And now I need to do it for my health. But last night, I realized I have yet another reason. I swung by a friend’s place to discuss the fact that I probably didn’t have time to hit the shooting range with him this weekend (and to ask if his family wanted to hand out candy in the parade). He was enjoying the Twins game in his garage, sipping a Summit India Pale Ale. He offered me one, but I was too tired already and had to be up early. We talked about shooting (no), retrieving a deer stand at his brother-in-law’s this weekend (maybe), and other things we ought to get on top of this summer. I told him something I’ve said many times over the past year: “We’re overcommitted. We’ve said ‘yes’ too much.”

“I know,” he said. “You do a lot. It’s good…and it’s bad.”

“It’s bad,” I said.

“You’re needed,” he said.

I don’t know for sure what he meant: needed by the people and organizations we work with and for, or needed by our friends we don’t see. But I know how I took it.

I’ve never had a lot of close male friends, because I’m not a sports nut or a partier; I don’t tell dirty jokes or golf; I don’t build much or have a motorcycle or anything. I love being married, dig my kids, and enjoy reading, writing, music, and faith.

Only now, living in “The Bubble,” I have men around be to whom I can relate, who are walking the same road with the same end in mind. And they like to hunt and fish and enjoy a good beer (and maybe even brew one). They love their wives and balance doting and discipline with their kids. I like these guys. And they deserve more than me swinging by their garage to say I can’t go shooting this weekend.

A while back, another friend was asked by a third if he had seen me around lately. “Nah, I haven’t seen him,” he said. “He’s probably at the church. They volunteer for everything.” That’s gotta change.

The Second Third, Week 23: Be Gentle With Yourself

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

A few years back, a dear friend and former colleague of mine was going through a number of big changes and difficult transitions in her life. Everything seemed to be hitting all at once, and I could tell she was freezing up a bit. Do you know that feeling? When there seems to be so much you have to do, and so much you want to do, and so much you feel you should do…and very little overlap, so no matter what you accomplish, you feel you should’ve done more, and feel guilty for what you failed to do?

You don’t have that problem? Well, you’re blessed. Show some gratitude.

We got together, for lunch, maybe, or else I was helping her with some project, and I gave her a card that said something like, “The easiest way to move the mountain is one pebble at a time.” She read it, and saw immediately: You can only do what you can do. Baby steps. “Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself. Sufficient for a day is its own evil.” — Matthew 6:34

It wasn’t long after — a few months probably — and I was telling her how I’d promised to read more and write every night after work, but I was so tired once the kids went to bed and couldn’t stay awake and focused. “I need to get in shape so I’m not dead tired all the time,” I said, “but how can I find time and energy to exercise if I can’t stay awake to read or write?”

I told her I needed a wholesale lifestyle change. She said, “The easiest way to move the mountain is one pebble at a time.” I had forgotten that when we worked together, we took a couple of personality inventories, and were nearly identical in score and profile.

That feeling’s been creeping in again lately. I look at what needs to be done, and what I want to do, and get that knot in my guts as I gradually…grind…to…a…halt. Then I think, “That’s it. I need to change. Everything. Now.”

When I was in college, a coworker in the School of Music had the Desiderata hanging over her desk. It struck me back then as wise; today the only parts I remember are the first four lines and this one, which I refer to often: “Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.”

These Second Third posts, as a body, seem to point to things I’d like to change about me: weaknesses I’d like to overcome, or goals I’d like to achieve. I need to remember to take it easy on myself and remember what’s important. One pebble at a time — I should be well along when I reach my third Third.

The Second Third, Week 12 (Belated): Get It In Writing

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

Since high school at least — maybe even prior to that — I’ve wanted to write, if not for a living, than at least for kicks and a few extra bucks. I went to college thinking I wanted to teach biology, but a year of chemistry and lab alongside my first English class (a creative non-fiction course) tweaked my thinking. I felt like I could write, felt like I should write…and by sophomore year, I figured I would write if I could find a way to make a go of it.

A poetry professor, when he learned I hoped to be a writer, advised that I not major in English (Yale didn’t have journalism), insisting that those who hire writers would see someone who know composition or literature and little else. He said I should choose a major that permitted me to take a little bit of everything, so I would emerge a well-rounded thinker. I chose anthropology, focused on human evolution, and took science courses, history courses, you name it.

I graduated and began looking for work as a writer. Everyone seemed to want experience, or an English or Journalism degree. I applied for obit writer in the Rapid City Journal. No dice. I sold housewares and luggage at Younkers department store in Sioux Falls, and began to think about teaching again. We learned we were pregnant, moved to Michigan, and I took temporary work installing fixtures in a new Kaybee Toys store outside Detroit. The new manager saw potential and offered me full-time work when it opened. Instead we moved in with my folks and kept looking.

Finally I got an interview with The Pioneer, a six-day-a-week newspaper where I grew up. The editor told me later they were looking for someone with experience or a journalism major, but wanted to know what a Yale grad was doing applying to their little paper. I showed them some writing samples, and they agreed to “test” me — have me come to a city commission meeting with the editor and write a story, not for publication, of course; her story would be for paper. We went to the meeting; I wrote the story — not as fast as she would’ve liked, and I didn’t know AP Style, but the story was solid. She actually agreed to run it and pay me as a freelancer for several weeks while the reporter I was replacing wound down his remaining time at the paper.

I’ve worked as a writer ever since, which is a victory. In my time at The Pioneer, I served as a reporter, editorial writer, columnist, copy editor, night editor/paginator, weekly editor, assistant managing editor, and occasional photographer. (We all took our own photos.) After that, I went to work for Ferris State University, initially as a three-quarter-time, multi-purpose writer: alumni magazine articles, fundraising pieces, letters…until my boss decided, after a couple of rewrites by her marketing firm, that the new Ferris view book needed a different voice, relatively young but well informed. She turned the entire piece over to me, an amazing amount of unwarranted trust. It came off well, and they hired me as full-time media relations manager. From there: corporate marketing, writing sales material, direct-mail copy, and web content for FedEx, Cargill, Sherwin Williams, and RSM McGladrey. Then back to campus at the University of Minnesota, first as a “strategic writer” (a multipurpose position like my first stop at Ferris) and ever since, as presidential communications officer and speechwriter. I’ve even done a little freelancing in my free time, for neighborhood newspapers and international martial arts publications. I’m a kung fu writer!

It’s been a good career, encompassing nearly every kind of professional writing you can imagine outside of fiction and poetry. Unfortunately, there lies the problem.

You see, I’ve dabbled in poetry for years, and have more than one novel started…but as a father of four with a full-time job, I barely find time enough to spend with my wife, let alone hole up again and write fiction. In this regard, in fact, I sometimes wish I’d taken the Kaybee job: At the end of a long day writing, the last thing I want to come home to is more writing. Get up, battle traffic, write, review, revise, review, revise, battle traffic, eat, crash, repeat. My kids used to say I was a writer, until they asked me to show them something I’ve written. It wasn’t a book. They were underwhelmed.

Grrr.

In my Second Third, however, things are looking up. My infinitely patient writer friends continue to prod and cajole me. And I’ve lined up a new position, working on a few bigger publishing projects. I’m looking at a much more flexible schedule in the short term and the ability to work remotely. Less time on the road and in the office. Less time shopping content to multiple reviewers. More time to read and write — and the ability to carve out blocks of time to work on my own stuff.

Y’know how smokers are told to never quit quitting. Rest assured I’ll never stop starting — but it’s about time I finished, don’t you think?

The Second Third, Week 8: Go With My Gut

/ J. Thorp / 7 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

I had intended to do a short post this evening about acknowledging and embracing the fact that I am not a rationale/logical decision-maker, but instead am an emotional/gut-level guy. Had I gone with my original idea, this post would be just about over:

“I tend to make emotional decisions, but most of the time they turn out better than when I try to think through things methodically. This is true for everything from my days as a high-school athlete to test-taking, from interacting with family and choosing friends to hiring people (or choosing a job myself). In my Second Third, I need to acknowledge that as a strength and “go with my gut” more.

The end. (Not much of a post.)

However, near the end of the work day today, I experienced a prime example of why “going with the gut” can be problematic even if it tends to work…and why I tend to be apologetic about it. It involved a collaborator and dear friend of mine, who may well read this post, but to whom I will only refer as “my collaborator” or “she.” If she chooses to reveal herself, that is her choice!

Last week I worked on a draft of a document that will be public in the next couple weeks, but that requires sign-off from a number of people. It is generally easier to get that sign-off if the version you share with the various “powers-that-be” is as well-thought-out and polished as you can get it. Unfortunately, I am also an instinctive writer, so I can always use help ensuring a piece is, in fact, as well-thought-out as I feel it is. That’s where my collaborator quite often comes in.

Last week she suggested some very concrete changes to the opening of the document. I read her changes, then stewed on them a bit. I could see what she was doing, and I thought I understood why, but they didn’t feel right to me.

Late this afternoon I began revising the document based on feedback from my collaborator and another colleague. I was working from an old draft because I hadn’t figured out what to do with the opening yet, but I wasn’t planning to use my collaborator’s changes verbatim.

Just then, in she walked.

She could see what I was working on, and she could see it was the old version. She asked me if I was working from an old version. I said yes, and mumbled something about trying to incorporate other feedback. (Technically true.) We went back and forth a moment, and she left.

The truth is, in that moment I couldn’t tell her why I wasn’t using her changes. Not specifically. So I punted: a low, wobbly, short kick to boot. Embarrassing.

I worked on it. I reworked the beginning, trying to weave in the optimism and opportunity she had added, but in a way I thought suited the piece better. I could’ve sent it to the next level of review at that point, but it still wasn’t ready, and I knew it — I just didn’t know why.

I was running out of daylight and up against a deadline. This collaborator of mine is one-of-kind, a person whose perspective (both on work and life in general) has been invaluable over the past few years. So I took the new draft, with my revised beginning, to her.

As soon as she saw it, I could tell she didn’t like my opening. She started to ask me about it, and I started to cobble together an explanation of what I was trying to do. She asked what was wrong with her suggested changes, and I tried to cobble together an explanation of why I wasn’t sold her approach. Both bits of cobbling were poorly done; she explained what she didn’t like about my latest version, and ultimately I acknowledged that she was right: she had explained logically what I couldn’t put my finger on — the reason I hadn’t simply sent my version of the document up the chain of command already.

“But I’m still not sold on your wording,” I said.

We talked a bit more, not completely comfortably…and as is typical between the two of us, she said something that sparked an idea, a solution to the opening that bubbled up in both of us at almost the same moment. She voiced the idea and even jotted some notes, then I ran from the room to try to put it to words.

My collaborator read the rest of the document, then came to my office with only a few minor changes to the rest of it. I asked her to read the new opening, which I had just finished. She did.

“Yes!” she said.

“We got it!” I said.

We laughed a moment about our back-and-forth earlier.

“We don’t exactly meet in the middle,” I said. “It’s more like this…” and I spread my hands wide, then brought them up, up, and together, like an A-frame or a high peak.

She laughed. “We take it to a higher place…I like that!”

“And it’s uphill for both of us,” I added.

“And it’s harder if we’re carrying baggage,” she said.

She’s right, of course. She generally is. But the thing is, that’s how my mind works. I know if something feels right or wrong, and I like something or I don’t, well before I can explain why. It’s a weakness in some ways, because I can’t defend or explain myself very well in a collaborative working environment. It’s why I hate meetings in which people attempt to write by committee, and why I almost always volunteer to be the one to “consolidate the feedback” and revise a document.

In my Second Half, I need to figure out how to explain this as a strength. But how do you think my collaborator will respond if I don’t accept her changes and instead say, “They don’t seem right to me — I don’t why — I just know we can do better…”?