I also realized that an essay of 2500 words was far too long for the art of blogging. A blog needs to be of necessary length, but what is it? Most blogs seem to be 500 words or less. A good art form.
The challenge: Can you tell a story in 500 words or less? Probably not—as I like to gab on, and I love specific, concrete details in writing—that's what sustains and slays me. Maybe 750 to 100 words is of necessary length. But does it have a beginning, middle and end or does it begin in medias res?
Blogging is a continuous, serial medium, that builds upon its own momentum, but like TV reruns, each piece should also stand on its own. Blogging also offers freedom in that it doesn't have to be a finished piece, a poem, polished to death. It can be process as well as product.
I began to see that as I wrote and revised my blog. that discrete stories buried within stories emerged. But when I lifted them out of context and created separate little blogeens—Juanita, Lloyd Bridges, Sinatra/Darrin— that they too needed revision....explanation, etc., in order to stand alone.
Then the journalist within took over. Research the facts, bring in background information to anchor the piece in time and place as well as to sustain its platform/stance. Does the timeline hold? Phew! I existed, therefore I am. Then I began to fear that with all this attempt at truth or veritas, that I was killing off the lively integrity of the original pieces. Authenticity of voice is important to me.
Why blog? Blogging offers a social distance so that I may view my writing objectively. It's bad enough that I'm dyslexic and think circuitiously, my narrative, a Celtic knot, so writing is a constant unwrapping of layers and tangents, like peeling an onion. Revision is hell. Seeing a blog published offers objectivity. How is it different than seeing your work privately published on your own desktop? Imagined audience. The pressure is on.
And then there's Authenticity: I nearly went crazy trying to authenticate my story within a story that I've since extracted from my first blog, about Lloyd Bridges because the actual events I cannot corroborate on the internet. But I do have my memories. But does it serve me or do I serve it in order to tell the story?
Which led me to ponder the concept of the art of memoir. In my modern Celtic Studies class at UC Berkekey (2002), Professor Melia had us read Frank McCourt's "Angela's Ashes." I hated it. I felt I was being manipulated but I couldn't quite put my finger on what was bothering me so....it wasn't the specific stories that disturbed me so much as the meta-language behind the stories.
He made us read every word on the cover...it was quite some time before we were able to pinpoint it. The significance of the word "Memoir." How we view ourselves within a given specific culture (Irish), against a larger culture ( Irish American), and finally, against pop culture (American). That's three mistresses to appease who are at odds with each other.
When was it written? Who is the audience? What is the slant? Point of view? What is truth?
Memoir: An account of the personal experiences of an author.
Is memoir based on fact or is it by very definition fiction posing as truth? Or is it a bit of both? As a poet and writer, I strive for truth. This is why the concept of writing novels is so alien to me, though I've certainly been encouraged to try my hand at stories. I seem to be stuck on telling the truth, no matter how imperfectly I might remember it, I continues to obsessively excavate, revise and rewrite until my head fairly hurts.
In some languages, the word poet either means liar or teller of absolute truth, In Irish and other Celtic languages, a filidhe (file), or poet, was considered to be a truth-sayer, if not a soothsayer, or seer. In the Germanic languages, especially the Scandinavian branches (and ultimately English), Poet or scop, means teller of tales (as in tall tales), or more specifically—liar, or truth-slayer. So if I write in English words with an Irish sensibility towards my art form, is it truth or lies? Yes to both. As in Memoir.
Ironic too, is the urge to write the memoir after age 50, when memory serves one less well than it once did. At 70, my aunt collapses the past into the nearest equivalent storyline. It is hard to separate her truncated timeline into sequential uniits. I am lucky in that I've been writing a daily journal since I was 30) with the exception of the past ten years—Death took a holiday) so I can go back and verify many older events. When I do, I am astounded to find my memory serves me quite well. My memory is like an elephant's. Scary.
Let's get back to point of view. It reminds me of the story of the three blind men feeling different parts of the elephant variously describing it as a rope, a tree, a wall, etc.
So much depends upon our perspective and life experience. I write the truth as I see it. I try to encompass the larger picture while remaining true to my vision. When it is at odds with others' view of truth, do I revise it or let it stand? Stet?
What if my truth is the truth? And if others' memory is flawed, then what? Or if they don't remember, does that negate my truth as if it never happened? Do I ameliorate it? Change the storyline to make it cohesive? Interesting dilemma. Luckily, I'm stubborn enough to believe in my truth and to tell it as it is, but ultimately it is still all memoir. I'll probably be constantly revising and editing these pieces until I weary of them—or until they abandon me.
Hopefully, in the process, I will learn something new, uncover a gem—the constantly evolving Lloyd Bridges piece is a case in point. When I began writing down the memoy, I had little to go on, an image or two. I wrote what I remembered and the more I wrote the more I remembeered. Fragments began to emerge and form a quilt. I discovered that I saw Lloyd Bridges in "Guys and Dolls" in Sacramento. Wow!
In my attempt to post a blog a day, I will be posting some old prose (mea culpea) as well as generating new prose to see how the old work stands up to time. To see it with a new eye, as in re: vision. The ultimate goal of this exercise it to create a body of work for my MFA thesis which is due sometime next year.
© 2007 Maureen Hurley
On Blogger since January 2007
However, I didn't begin actually blogging until August 20, 2007. My grandmother's birthday—because I had stories to tell.
FYI In case you haven't started blogging yourself yet, read Guy Kawasaki's The Art of Blogging. I wish I'd known about it when I started this mess. It was ultimately Guy's evangelism that got me to create this blog in 2007. Then I let it sit fallow (the proverbial blank page—I couldn't bring myself to sully the perfection of the cyberpage—until August 20, 2008. Talk about a dry period.)
Blogging is a continuous, serial medium, that builds upon its own momentum, but like TV reruns, each piece should also stand on its own. Blogging also offers freedom in that it doesn't have to be a finished piece, a poem, polished to death. It can be process as well as product.
I began to see that as I wrote and revised my blog. that discrete stories buried within stories emerged. But when I lifted them out of context and created separate little blogeens—Juanita, Lloyd Bridges, Sinatra/Darrin— that they too needed revision....explanation, etc., in order to stand alone.
Then the journalist within took over. Research the facts, bring in background information to anchor the piece in time and place as well as to sustain its platform/stance. Does the timeline hold? Phew! I existed, therefore I am. Then I began to fear that with all this attempt at truth or veritas, that I was killing off the lively integrity of the original pieces. Authenticity of voice is important to me.
Why blog? Blogging offers a social distance so that I may view my writing objectively. It's bad enough that I'm dyslexic and think circuitiously, my narrative, a Celtic knot, so writing is a constant unwrapping of layers and tangents, like peeling an onion. Revision is hell. Seeing a blog published offers objectivity. How is it different than seeing your work privately published on your own desktop? Imagined audience. The pressure is on.
And then there's Authenticity: I nearly went crazy trying to authenticate my story within a story that I've since extracted from my first blog, about Lloyd Bridges because the actual events I cannot corroborate on the internet. But I do have my memories. But does it serve me or do I serve it in order to tell the story?
Which led me to ponder the concept of the art of memoir. In my modern Celtic Studies class at UC Berkekey (2002), Professor Melia had us read Frank McCourt's "Angela's Ashes." I hated it. I felt I was being manipulated but I couldn't quite put my finger on what was bothering me so....it wasn't the specific stories that disturbed me so much as the meta-language behind the stories.
He made us read every word on the cover...it was quite some time before we were able to pinpoint it. The significance of the word "Memoir." How we view ourselves within a given specific culture (Irish), against a larger culture ( Irish American), and finally, against pop culture (American). That's three mistresses to appease who are at odds with each other.
When was it written? Who is the audience? What is the slant? Point of view? What is truth?
Memoir: An account of the personal experiences of an author.
Is memoir based on fact or is it by very definition fiction posing as truth? Or is it a bit of both? As a poet and writer, I strive for truth. This is why the concept of writing novels is so alien to me, though I've certainly been encouraged to try my hand at stories. I seem to be stuck on telling the truth, no matter how imperfectly I might remember it, I continues to obsessively excavate, revise and rewrite until my head fairly hurts.
In some languages, the word poet either means liar or teller of absolute truth, In Irish and other Celtic languages, a filidhe (file), or poet, was considered to be a truth-sayer, if not a soothsayer, or seer. In the Germanic languages, especially the Scandinavian branches (and ultimately English), Poet or scop, means teller of tales (as in tall tales), or more specifically—liar, or truth-slayer. So if I write in English words with an Irish sensibility towards my art form, is it truth or lies? Yes to both. As in Memoir.
Ironic too, is the urge to write the memoir after age 50, when memory serves one less well than it once did. At 70, my aunt collapses the past into the nearest equivalent storyline. It is hard to separate her truncated timeline into sequential uniits. I am lucky in that I've been writing a daily journal since I was 30) with the exception of the past ten years—Death took a holiday) so I can go back and verify many older events. When I do, I am astounded to find my memory serves me quite well. My memory is like an elephant's. Scary.
Let's get back to point of view. It reminds me of the story of the three blind men feeling different parts of the elephant variously describing it as a rope, a tree, a wall, etc.
So much depends upon our perspective and life experience. I write the truth as I see it. I try to encompass the larger picture while remaining true to my vision. When it is at odds with others' view of truth, do I revise it or let it stand? Stet?
What if my truth is the truth? And if others' memory is flawed, then what? Or if they don't remember, does that negate my truth as if it never happened? Do I ameliorate it? Change the storyline to make it cohesive? Interesting dilemma. Luckily, I'm stubborn enough to believe in my truth and to tell it as it is, but ultimately it is still all memoir. I'll probably be constantly revising and editing these pieces until I weary of them—or until they abandon me.
Hopefully, in the process, I will learn something new, uncover a gem—the constantly evolving Lloyd Bridges piece is a case in point. When I began writing down the memoy, I had little to go on, an image or two. I wrote what I remembered and the more I wrote the more I remembeered. Fragments began to emerge and form a quilt. I discovered that I saw Lloyd Bridges in "Guys and Dolls" in Sacramento. Wow!
In my attempt to post a blog a day, I will be posting some old prose (mea culpea) as well as generating new prose to see how the old work stands up to time. To see it with a new eye, as in re: vision. The ultimate goal of this exercise it to create a body of work for my MFA thesis which is due sometime next year.
© 2007 Maureen Hurley
On Blogger since January 2007
However, I didn't begin actually blogging until August 20, 2007. My grandmother's birthday—because I had stories to tell.
FYI In case you haven't started blogging yourself yet, read Guy Kawasaki's The Art of Blogging. I wish I'd known about it when I started this mess. It was ultimately Guy's evangelism that got me to create this blog in 2007. Then I let it sit fallow (the proverbial blank page—I couldn't bring myself to sully the perfection of the cyberpage—until August 20, 2008. Talk about a dry period.)
