Blogs, Generally

I'm five hours away from home, groggy from a terrible cold and medicine I've taken to get me through. I have a cup of decaf for my throat which was so sore that swallowing woke me at four and wouldn't let me get back to sleep. I'm far from home, up early, and laid low by this cold, but have done my three Morning Pages and know the day will get better.

Yesterday, in Cait Flanders' newsletter, was this passage about blogs:

I've been craving stories. Journeys to follow. Even just the "boring" (NOT BORING) updates we used to share on blogs. Like what are you thinking about right now? What have you been curious enough to actually learn more about? And where are the BEGINNERS!? Where are the people who are raising their hands and saying "I have no idea what I'm doing, but here's what I'm attempting and my progress so far"? I miss those days. Blogging was actually fun, back then.

I get that. Almost all the blogs and newsletters I read are very focused and the writer is an expert (if not the expert) on that idea. This is how one builds a platform (ugh) and a following (ugh), through specific focus such as on living frugally, being much more Zen, or retiring early to name a few I have been reading. These are good for now, but I wonder if, like subscribing to Runners World, that focus wears thin. I could only subscribe to that rag for eight months before the same damn run your fastest 5K! article would make me puke.

My interests are general and so I enjoy Austin Kleon's and Alan Jacobs' writings which focus on the lives of their writers. Thoreau was focused on his living near Walden, but really it's a memoir of living. I like memoir. I like blogs that feel like listening to a friend. My friend is a photographer, but that's only a slice of what we discuss. Then there are Genesis, turntables, our shared history, the Thousand Islands, parents and wives, geology, writing, books, friends, and whatever else we think of.

Go back to the magazine comparison. I like The New Yorker and The New York Times, and I love The Sun because they talk about most everything. There are themes and a feel to each, but they range all over. That's what I like and so, this far anyway, that's what I write.

I have my own recurring themes: Morning Pages, reading, teaching, schools, running, and so on, but there isn't just one thing the blog is about.

I'm unlikely to build much of a following or platform that way, but then again, who's to say? I think of the blog like Morning Pages and I'm on the last few lines of page one of three, about to flip over to a clean, blank page two. It's early in the morning. I have only the slightest idea what I will say on pages two and no idea how the thing will end. It's a journey, an exploration, a way of learning. I'm a beginner. I'm by no means the expert, though I'm feeling more confident in my expertise about a few things and maybe they will become the focal points.

I should go. The coffee and medicine have eased some of the pain in my throat. I've done Morning Pages (about how to do Morning Pages away from home) and written this post. It's time to see what else the day has to offer and what I might want to think about next. This is just the beginning.

S & M With Facebook And Twitter

I'm too involved with social media this summer. I'm not enjoying myself as could and days are running away while I scroll through Twitter. I gave up NPR because I couldn't avoid the incessant reporting of the orange maggot, but I haven't held social media to that same standard. Instead, I'm engaging in low discourse, staying angry, and dividing myself from others. I pick at the scab til it bleeds despite good advice to the contrary. 

Photographer Chris Murray wrote the following (on Facebook):

Life often favors and rewards the brash and outspoken. When I was a geologist and started my first job (with a large corporation that shall remain nameless) I was told that being quiet and reserved wouldn’t cut it if I wanted to move up the ladder, that quality of work alone wasn’t enough. It would seem that applies to the art world as well. Rampant self-promotion and the production of trendy 500px.com style imagery is the rule for many, and it gets noticed because it often showcases outstanding natural phenomena unfolding in beautiful locations. In this age of social media and competition the quest for popularity is a goal of many. A recent issue of Shutterbug magazine trumpeted the goal of amassing a huge number of followers on Instagram. Likes and followers are not rewards worth attaining. Produce honest, quality work that is a true reflection of you as an individual and the rewards will be far greater. (emphasis mine)

The quest for popularity reminds me of high school when popularity was beyond me. I lacked the looks, likability, understanding of the rules, and daring. I abandoned that quest. Instead, I created myself as I hoped would be for the best. I got into semi-obscure music, read books, made friends that fit and challenged me, and found my way. It hasn't lead to fame or fortune, but I've found happiness and a sense of the world more in line with Chris Murray than Kylie Jenners. Thank God. 

If that wasn't convincing enough, Jaron Lanier has written Ten Arguments For Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now. It is convincing. 

I also notice that the friends I most respect use social media sparingly if at all while the friends about whom I have more doubt are on social media all the damn time. I don't like thinking about where I've been on that spectrum. 

All that and I'm not writing. 

This blog is the first I've ever paid to host and promoted with a newsletter. It's an investment in my writing. I often promote the blog on Facebook and Twitter to "drive traffic," but it doesn't do much. Still, I stick with social media believing I have to despite the lack of results. Even I hear the insanity in that. Social media doesn't grow my audience but I'm on social media to grow my audience. Ridiculous.

I also stay on social media out of fear and obligation. I fear disconnecting, missing something, living without the feed even though it mostly makes me mean. 

All of which points to the obvious solution as said so often on Twitter: Delete your account. 

I'm getting closer to that, but for now I'll try abstinence. I won't go on social media today except to winnow the list of people I follow and friend. Yet, even as I say that, I'm drawn to the feed. The habit, the addiction is strong. All the more reason. 

For now, this is goodbye to social media. Please forgive me if I unfollow or unfriend you. It's not you, it's not me, it's social media and I'm sick of the S & M of it all. 

I'm glad you read this and would love to hear from you. Drop me a line at brianfay at gmail. Nothing will go viral, but we'll at least connect. 

Creative Doubt

My friend is a fine art photographer of the natural world, leading classes, publishing, writing about photography, and whatever the hell else photographers do. I'm a words guy and my photos on this blog show I've not developed much skill in composition or technique. He's the images person, but I like when he goes into words and talks about being. Today, he posted about doubt:

Much is written about how for the artist the creative process is more important than the product. Specifically, for the landscape photographer the experience of being in the natural world and exploring one’s relationship with nature matters more than the resulting images. I agree with this. However, as someone seeking to further establish myself as a full-time nature/landscape photographer I have always found it difficult not to feel that results are the priority. I feel a pressure (imaginary or otherwise) to produce a consistent stream of high quality images. To that end I admit to willingly enduring less than Zen-like experiences to “get the shot” at times. And if an outing results in no images I often feel frustrated, regardless of how beautiful the morning or location may have been.

That I experience such feelings despite knowing better leads me to wonder, do the acknowledged preeminent photographers really have it all figured out? Are they able to always live their creative lives according to these ideals? Do they not have moments where they succumb to their self-doubts and insecurities? Do they not sometimes sacrifice their ideals to get the shot? I am left to ponder such things because personal self-doubt and questioning are topics about which they rarely seem to write. Why is that? Are they afraid admitting such vulnerabilities would weaken their standing as master instructors and mentors? I for one would find it refreshing and encouraging to know that they suffer similar doubts and frustrations from time to time. It would make them seem more relatable and honest. 

I've written about the process of writing and where it can take us, but I haven't talked as much about product because I make my daily bread from teaching rather than writing. Also, I've been known to fear my product. This site meant to push me to create and publish more product, but weeks of regular production are followed by weeks of writing almost nothing. Such as this week. Each time I write, it's all drivel. Chris feels frustrated after an outing with no good images; I tear up pages and wonder where my talent has gone.  

Chris knows that preeminent photographers don't have it all figured out. He wants them to talk about their doubts. When I write about writing, I can come off as a know it all. I'm tearing up pages this week and haven't published anything. I'd feel worse, but J.K. Rowling, who is better at writing thing than I ever hope to be, tweeted the following today: 

If she struggles, then I bet all my money the rest of us do too and anyone who says otherwise is lying more than the president. 

What do I do when it's going nowhere, when doubt overwhelms, when I feel too vulnerable to put down the next word? That's easy; write the next word and the next until the pages get better. While acknowledging that I'm producing steaming piles, I tell myself I know how to do this and it will come back to me. Chris, I'm sure, shoots more photos until he finds himself again. 

Creativity is tough because there are so many incentives to stop. It's good to enjoy this work we do while acknowledging that it often leaves us feeling like a sixth-grader sitting alone at lunch looking down at the Spam on white bread with Miracle Whip that we've just noticed has a touch of mold.

This week has been Spam and mold sandwiches on my computer screen, coming out of my typewriter, and somehow worming out the end of my pen. I've felt lousy and hungry for something good which just won't come. Still, I keep going. I mean, what the hell else am I going to do? What else could be this good? 

Extra Ordinary

Yesterday I had an idea for a short essay about school. I scratched a note on a post-it and went back to teaching. At lunch, I took fifteen minutes to knock out a rough 850-word draft, then began editing and revising down toward 600. Halfway through, I was called to a meeting which lasted an hour. Back from that, I picked up where I had left off and made it through to the end. I read it through again and posted 560 words to the world. 

No big deal. I write like this all the time. It's the most ordinary of things. 

Last night, I was at a party where one of the hosts played electric guitar in a four-piece band. They played a tight instrumental rendition of Steely Dan's "Peg" which I love. I watched him as the song wound toward the solo and wondered how he would handle something Becker and Fagen tried with dozens of guitar players. He hit the first note and moved into a solo that nodded at the recorded version but which he made his own. 

I love watching musicians perform and studied him. It seemed extraordinary to me, as musical performance often does, but when we talked about it, he shrugged like he had just written a short essay and posted it to his blog. No big deal. He does this all the time. 

Earlier that day I tweeted that "I can't be the only one who has this feeling that anything I'm able to do can't possibly be extraordinary." I was thinking then about my writing. I could have written it of my friend's work with the guitar. So many things are extraordinary until we do them. 

One thing that remains extraordinary for me is the prose poem. I wrote one this week, February Fifth, and it surprises me. It began with a line in my head and the approaching anniversary of my dad's unexpected death. "It always snows on the fifth of February even when it doesn't." That stuck with me for a day before I typed it and let the other words come through me. I revised the hell out of it and posted it, waiting for reactions. There weren't many.

My wife says that it's tough to know what to say about poetry. At first this wasn't enough for me. Then I thought of my friend Chris's photography. 

Chris began as a nature/landscape photographer. (Actually, he began as a fertilized egg, but I'll skip ahead.) He has moved on to fine art photography. He'll forgive me for saying that he produces fewer pretty pictures and iconic shots of obvious majesty. He's onto something far less ordinary, a world in which he largely has to decide what is good because fewer people can follow him there. A shot of pine needles on snow confuses many because it is extraordinary. 

I say that word in exploded fashion: extra ordinary. Out of and beyond the ordinary. 

There is something to be said for going beyond what we are used to, for reaching toward the extraordinary. There is a lot to be said too for the things that we have made ordinary: my friend on guitar, Chris creating photographs, me writing essays. Taking on the extraordinary and coming to feel them as natural doesn't diminish them, but it does leave me wanting to reach beyond. I love writing essays such as this and enjoy the comfort with which I can compose and polish them. I also love reaching for something more even when I don't yet know what it is.

I came into this not knowing what I wanted to say. I come to the end not knowing much more of what it's all about, but feeling sure that this is the way to go, the ideas to ponder. I'm creating something. What it is, I don't know. And that, in and of itself, feels extraordinary.