Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 6

It’s So Exciting

I’ve been crazy busy this week getting ready for the New York premiere of our new play, Wave Me Good-bye, based on my children’s book of the same name. So, since that’s all I can think about right now, I thought I’d share with you the fascinating story behind the story.

Way back in 1998, I was researching my book, Dancing in Combat Boots: and Other Stories of American Women in WWII, and reached out to the Advertising Research Foundation in New York City. The woman who answered the phone, Roslyn Arnstein, did her best to answer my specific questions. Then she said, “But if you want to hear some stories about New York during World War II, I could tell you a few things.” She started to share some memories with me about growing up as the only Jewish girl in her Bronx neighborhood, and her stories were captivating. I asked if I could conduct a formal interview with her for my book, and she agreed.

Then, as writing projects often do, the direction of my book changed, and a child’s view of the war just didn’t fit. Still, I never forgot Roslyn’s stories, and they began to stir my imagination.

At the time, I was involved in a truly amazing writers group filled with incredibly talented writers. One day, I told them I was going to write a short story entirely in dialogue, with no narrative and no exposition at all. They said it couldn’t be done. But dialogue is my strong suit and I was in the mood for a challenge.

Roslyn had briefly mentioned talking through the fence to some English kids living in an orphanage in her neighborhood. They’d been sent to America to escape the bombings in London. She even remembered the name of one of the boys, Christopher Gifford. So, my short story, As You Wave Me Good-bye, was written as a series of conversations through a fence between a Jewish girl and an orphan boy. Entirely fictitious conversations, of course, based on what I thought children of that time period might have talked and worried about and the secrets they might have shared. I loved the end result. My writer’s group was impressed that I pulled it off, but thought it too “unusual” to get published. They were right. Traditional literary magazines weren’t sure what to make of the format and structure and turned me down.

But the story had life in it yet. When I conceived of the concept of my Home-Front Heroes series of middle-grade books, I knew I wanted to include this New York story. The novel, now titled Wave Me Good-Bye, came out in 2012. It was the fourth book in the collection and was well received by parents, teachers, and children alike. It even won an award. And still the story had legs.

Fast forward to 2019. My daughter, Lydia, who had a degree in theater education, suggested we turn one of my books into a stage play, and I knew exactly which one to start with. Lydia got to work adapting Wave Me Good-Bye as a Theater for Young Audiences script. We worked on the project for months, and in the early days of the pandemic lockdown, we workshopped the script with various actor/educators via this new platform called Zoom. You can’t imagine how exciting it was to hear my characters’ voices, which had always been so strong in my head, brought to life by actors who wound up loving the script.

And that brings us to the upcoming world premiere of Wave Me Good-Bye in New York City on Oct. 7 and 8, 2023, at The Kraine Theater! My daughter is directing the play, and she and I both ran the audition process and are producing and promoting the show. I even got to zoom in for the first rehearsal, a table read, and felt that thrill, once again, of hearing my characters words in the mouths of some very talented actors. I can’t wait to see Miriam, Chris, Rachel, Ruthie and all my other literary darlings walking the stage in New York, so close to where Roslyn grew up.

It’s crazy to think that a phone conversation with a stranger twenty-five years ago sparked so many creative projects. It’s testament, really, to the power of story – any ordinary person’s story told to anyone who is willing to listen. It’s testament to the power of imagination to take a snippet of something that actually happened and give it a whole new existence. It’s testament to the belief that some artistic projects choose us and, once they get their hooks in us, never let us go. And it’s testament to how art and history bring us together.

There was a time when I thought what mattered most was the story I wanted to tell. As a writer, I’ve come to accept and cherish the belief that my words are not sacred; that every reader, through their own experience, reads my books in their own way.

And now I see that each and every time our play gets produced, it will be a new and different story. Each director, each actor, and every audience will bring their own experiences to the staging of this story and it will continue to grow and evolve. It’ll still be my words, and my daughter’s adaptation, but it will never be the same thing twice. And that’s exciting.

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What Are Your Highest Aspirations?

This past week I hosted one of my Bursts of Brilliance® Art Salons at our local museum of art. Our discussion topic for the evening centered around the fantasies that pull us into our art careers and keep us going when things get tough.

I brought up this quote by Louisa May Alcott: “Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead.”

I came across that quote as a teenager and had it taped to my mirror for the next thirty years as I worked my way toward my highest aspirations as a writer.

I wonder, truthfully, if any of us would pursue a life in the arts if it weren’t for the fantasies that propel us forward. My fantasy was not uncommon for writers; I wanted to write the next Great American Novel, become a household name, maybe have a movie made from one of my books. I wasn’t willing to move to New York to make that happen, but I was willing to work extra hard and to hang in there through years of rejections. I’m pretty sure most artists would give up this crazy life much earlier were it not for our fantasies.

But at a certain point in our careers, we all let go of the fantasies. For some of us, the dream dies hard over many years. For others, it comes as a practical realization early in our journeys. For all of us, though, it’s partly in giving up the fantasies that we discover who we really are as artists.

For some people (we call them “the lucky ones”) the fantasies appear to come true. They achieve their highest aspirations – maybe fame, maybe fortune, maybe both – only to realize the fantasy wasn’t everything they dreamed of. If they can resist the trappings, they, too, begin to release the fantasies and settle into their true artist selves.

One of the artists in our discussion summed it up so beautifully. She said she wished we let new artists know early on they don’t have to be either wildly successful or a total failure; there is this whole glorious middle ground, and most of us will find our best selves there.

Long ago, I started moving away from my teenage fantasy, finding my way toward my definition of success. I reserve the right, though, to still embrace a fantasy now and then. The other day, I was listening to an NPR story about a play that had been written about a real woman and a film producer who’d seen the play and turned it into a movie. On the eve of the launch of our new play based on my book, Wave Me Good-Bye, I had the thought, “That’s gonna happen to us!”

And in that moment, my highest aspirations were right there shimmering in the sunlight and I could believe in them fully. Whether that fantasy comes true or not doesn’t really matter. Because in that moment, my energy rose, my joy soared, and anything and everything seemed possible. And that’s why fantasies will always matter, because in those rare moments when we can almost touch them, our highest aspirations become our art.

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There’s Nothing Wrong With You

I recently pointed out to my husband a problem we were having with a device and that the problem always appeared after he used it. As most people would, he insisted it couldn’t just be him. It must also happen when I used it. So, I tracked it for a few days and was able to show him it was indeed only him. A few days later, he was excited to tell me he’d figured out what he was doing to cause the problem. We were both relieved.

“So, there you go,” I wanted to say. “It’s not always that someone is assigning blame or fault when they point something out, unless we choose to take it that way. But not until we own the problem can we figure out a way to fix it.”

I’m only bringing up this example because it’s so recent. I’m as guilty as anyone of resisting hearing from my husband or children or anyone else that I’ve done something “wrong.” It’s natural for anyone to respond first with defensiveness in those situations. Think about when you were a child and your parents actually caught you in the act of some transgression and still you insisted, “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Once we get past our insecurities, though, we can often atone for our mistakes, address a problem, or change our habits.

New writers often ask me how they can develop a thick skin when it comes to critiques. When I first started writing, I took every critique from my writer’s group as a judgement on my ability. Challenges to my writing fired up my imposter syndrome and fear of failure, or they spurred my rebellious nature. Over time, I noticed something interesting . . . usually when my group pointed out something that wasn’t working in my story, it wasn’t a surprise. On some level, I already knew. Maybe I’d been a bit lazy with the research or writing and hoped it would slip past them; maybe I hadn’t taken the time to review my work carefully before submitting it; maybe I was stuck and didn’t want to admit it, so I threw something in that didn’t really fit; maybe I was holding back out of fear of “doing it wrong.”

Once I learned not to immediately jump into defending my writing – or more accurately, my worth as a writer – I was better able to really hear their suggestions and weigh honestly whether I agreed with them or not. If I did agree, I was better able to consider those suggestions with gratitude and a more open mind. Not every time, of course, I’m only human, but often enough to make me a better writer.

Many of us got a message in the early years of our lives that mistakes were something to be ashamed of. When we shouted “I didn’t do anything wrong,” we were really saying, “There’s nothing wrong with me.” As children, that almost makes sense. We’re still testing whether our parents will love us no matter what.

As adults, and especially as creatives, we should know by now there’s nothing wrong with us, even when we under or overprice our work, even when we bite off more than we can chew, even when we lose energy for a project that once seemed so promising, even when the rejections are rolling in, even when we feel guilty about our success. Once we own the problem, though, we can figure out how to fix it.

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Art Comes From All That We Are

Last week, I attended a fine art show featuring a curated group of talented Black artists. One of the event’s speakers, Kevin John Goff, was the nephew of famed actress Hattie McDaniel, the first Black American to win an Oscar for her role as Mammy in Gone with the Wind. As a long-time student of Classic Hollywood, I knew this was a talk I did not want to miss.

Kevin told Hattie’s story, some of which I knew, much of which I did not. Hattie was the daughter of formerly enslaved parents, her mother was a gospel singer, her father fought in the Civil War, her brother, Sam, and her sister, Etta, also worked as actors. When Gone with the Wind premiered in Atlanta in 1939, Hattie could not attend due to Georgia’s segregation laws. Kevin is working on a documentary about the life of this multi-talented performer.

As we sat in a room surrounded by gorgeous works of art, Kevin reminded us when we pay for art, especially high-priced items, we’re not just paying for the materials and time that go into the production of that art, we’re paying for the experiences of the artist.

In other words, not just anyone could create that particular work of art, only that particular artist could. He said we should not just take into consideration the artist’s learning, skills, and talent, but also their lived experiences, their family heritage, even the traumas that pass from generation to generation.

I would argue to also take into consideration their passions and interests inside and outside of their art forms. Their sense of humor, the fears that drive them, their level of sensitivity, their spiritual leanings, etc.

I started thinking about the artists I know and the ones I admire. We’ve arrived in the places we are because of everything that makes us unique. When they told us in Sunday school there is no one else on earth the same as you, I believed it. How could it not be true?

And it’s also true that what draws us to the art we purchase and love is as much about our lived, learned, and inherited experiences as it is about the art itself (unless we’re making the purchase for other motives, say, to impress).

This is what makes real art –and more specifically artists –special. What we produce, whether it’s a painting, a book, a song, or a performance, is nothing that can be replicated on an assembly line or by a computer. It’s history, genetics, circumstance, passion, skill, discernment, obsession, spirit, sensitivity, knowledge, and so much more. It’s the things for which we’ve received praise and the injustices we’ve endured, it’s the values we hold dear and the beliefs we’ve let go. It’s the artist in me responding to the artist in you. That’s the gift of art, and that’s what you’re paying for, not a product, but our unique and our shared human experiences.

And if you can’t afford to pay what the artist is asking, or you stumble across a free concert in the park, can you take a moment to appreciate all that went into that piece of art, and everything your uniqueness brings to your communion with it and, just for a moment, put that gratitude out into the world? I believe every artist and every art lover will feel it.

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I Choose To Feel It All

My friend apologized the other day for not stopping by my event that morning.

“I meant to come,” she said, “But I woke up grumpy. I know that’s not an excuse because I don’t even know why.”

“Do you need a reason?” I asked. “You woke up grumpy and you skipped something you weren’t obligated to attend anyway. It happens. No worries.”

“Thank you!” she said, and we proceeded to have a lovely chat despite her “grumpiness.”

I have friends who are going through a heavy time right now. They often stop themselves mid-sentence by saying, “That’s enough of that. I feel like I complain too much lately.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask. “You’re allowed to have a bad year.”

And I have friends who’ve been through hard times, but things are going well now. They sometimes stop themselves mid-sentence because they don’t want to tempt fate, or sound like they’re boasting, or feel like they’re “rubbing it in.”

“Sounds like things are going well right now,” I say. “You know, it’s okay to have a good year.”

Today, I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. I’m in the middle of three exciting projects, and I can’t seem to juggle the balls fast enough. They’re all good things, and they’re all of my own making, so I’m quick to blame myself for letting things get crazy again. I think of where I was a year ago while on sabbatical and chide myself for jumping too quickly back into a heavy workload.

But it’s okay to be too busy sometimes, and not busy enough other times. It’s okay for me to feel overwhelmed at this moment, just as it was okay last year for me to feel a little guilty about not doing more. Life is hard enough without beating ourselves up for feeling the way we do.

I’ve always hated those signs that say, “Have a good day, or don’t. It’s your choice.” Because I’ve had good days that turn bad, and bad days that turn good, and days when I’m not even sure how I feel, like my friend. And I choose to allow those feelings whether they last for a day or a year.

This morning I felt excited about all that’s on my plate, then nauseous, then proud, then overwhelmed. That was my day. How was yours?

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Cheers to All Us Daydreamer Kids

My friend, Franklin, and I were bonding over shared memories of getting in trouble for “daydreaming” or “not paying attention” in class. He mentioned he wasn’t really daydreaming, he was processing, and that struck a chord with me. I always felt like an imposter when someone accused me of daydreaming.

The dictionary definition of daydreaming is: “a series of pleasant thoughts that distract one’s attention from the present.” No wonder that never felt right to me. In fact, I remember telling teachers many times, “I’m not daydreaming.”

What I was doing was processing. Sometimes I was thinking about what the teacher had just said, maybe trying to understand it or wondering if I agreed with her. Other times, I might have been ruminating over a quarrel with my mother that morning. Or I might have been thinking ahead to what I should wear to the party this weekend.

The word daydreaming is often associated with creativity (and creative kids, like myself). In my day, we thought daydreamers were making up stories or songs or fantasies rather than paying attention. We assumed they were living, for a few moments, in a parallel universe or seeing into the future or imagining all kinds of beautiful possibilities. And why shouldn’t we have believed that; that’s how daydreaming was, and still is, so often portrayed in most movies (and nearly all of the Saturday morning cartoons).

According to a Wikipedia article, when thoughts move to a different place while daydreaming that’s referred to as the mind wandering. Several articles suggest we all daydream quite a bit during the day, especially during mundane tasks. Most likely, I got in trouble for daydreaming when the lessons were boring to me, but it was also true, as I recall, my mind would often fixate, rather than wander, when I learned something interesting. In those cases, I needed time to process not simply what I’d just learned but why it excited me so much.

All kids daydream and all kids process, but some of us do it much more than others. A strict 6-hour school day (or 8-hour workday for that matter) doesn’t leave time for many of us to “stare into space” when sometimes that’s exactly what we need. It’s not surprising in our country, which overvalues achievement, we turn even daydreaming into an opportunity to accomplish something, like imagining something new into existence. That’s why we hang on to the illusion that most dreamy kids are destined to be artistic or innovative geniuses.

But some of us just like being in our heads. If I could figure out why my mom was so angry with me that morning, maybe I could make sure I didn’t do it again. If I put my mind to it, maybe I could come up with a new outfit using the same old clothes in my closet. If I could understand why that story in my history class made me want to cry, I could figure out how to better serve people who were suffering. And if I happened to hear a couple of lines of a new poem pop into my head, so much the better. Something to build on during that 20-minute walk home.

I learned how to function in a world that left little time for wandering minds. Even as a child, I could focus when I had to. I could accomplish many tasks in a single day. I learned to think faster, in case anyone or anything called me away from my musings.

I’m still a processor. I never did outgrow that. But there are many, many times I wish I could be a cartoon daydreamer. That looks so easy and pleasant and fun. It’s exhausting going through life with a mind that must “think it all through.”

I’m just grateful I now have people like Franklin in my life who appreciate that trait in me rather than ridicule it, who share with me their own fascinating mind wanderings, and who allow me to process many of my thoughts out loud, so I can arrive at my ah-ha moments sooner (how much more would I have learned and retained in school if I’d been allowed that space?)

In other words, I’m grateful I no longer have to “daydream” alone.

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Practical Creativity for Everyday Life and Parenting

When our kids were growing up, we never used the word “allowance” in our house. I made that decision partly because the concept of an allowance sounded to me like entitlement, on the one hand, and loss of agency on the other. If you get an allowance simply for being someone’s offspring, that sends a message of entitlement. But the word “allowance” also means the parent is allowing the child to receive a sum of money, and could at any moment decide the child was not allowed that sum. When I was a kid, the first thing my mother did to punish me for small infractions was take away my allowance.

When my kids were little, they were expected to help around the house. When they were pre-teens, though, we offered them the opportunity to earn a “paycheck” in exchange for doing regular chores. The paycheck was determined based on age and the difficulty of chores, etc. There were rules attached to the paycheck, of course:

–       They had to complete all chores by Sunday night of each week or apply for an extension if, for example, they were gone to a tournament for the weekend. And their dad and I were free to inspect their work before paychecks were distributed.

–       They could collect their paychecks as early as Sunday night, if all their chores were done, or as late as Wednesday night. If they forgot to ask for their paycheck by Wednesday night, they forfeited the money. After all, I told them, when they grew up, it would be their job to make sure they were paid by their employers and paid in full. There were only a few times one of my kids forgot to ask for their paycheck, and they were quite sorry they did!

–       If my kids thought they deserved a raise in their paycheck, they had to come to us to negotiate. They could argue, for example, that their chores had gotten harder, or they had taken on new chores (like mowing the lawn), or their expenses had gone up with age. If they argued their case well, they got the raise.

–       If they needed extra money, they could also do “bonus chores.” Sometimes we offered those up, “Anyone want to wipe out the refrigerator or clean under the sink?” other times they came to us with a suggestion for a chore they could do for extra money. They each also had opportunities to help me with my business for payment, if they had time.

–       When they got old enough to drive, we made an agreement; we would pay for their gas and insurance but they had to agree to drive their younger siblings to school or activities or run errands for us without complaint. You might think the youngest got off easy. Not so. She didn’t have to run younger siblings around, but with the older two out of the house, she wound up running more errands for me than they had. We never abused our power. They could plead for a reprieve if they were having a crazy busy week at work or school. But we never waffled on the “no complaints” rule.

–       My kids were also required to donate at least $50 a year of their own money to charity. They could choose the charity, and they could give more if they wanted to. This was nonnegotiable.

My children are grown now, and they are each very different in how they spend and save money, but they all grew up knowing how to manage their money well, pay their bills on time, and appreciate their paychecks. And they all learned to be proud of the work they do.

So why am I telling you this in a blog about creativity? I guess it’s an argument in favor of practical creativity in our everyday lives. If there’s something about the status quo that doesn’t sit right with you, question it. Trust your instincts and your insights, and be willing to do things differently than the way you were raised, differently than your friends, differently than tradition or societal pressures dictate. You know your kids. You know your business. You know your art. Make it work for you.

Get creative. Someday, hopefully, your kids will thank you (to your face, anyway).

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Are You Growing Wiser Or Just Older?

I was chatting with some friends the other day, and someone said something about how people get wiser as they get older.

“Not necessarily.” I said. “You have to choose to get wiser.”

They asked me to elaborate, so here’s what I mean . . .  Unlike knowledge, which can be accumulated deliberately and systematically, wisdom comes from growth.

Wisdom comes when we decide to:

–       Learn from our mistakes rather than repeat them.

–       Acknowledge our feelings and then examine them.

–       Accept criticism when it bears a hint of truth.

–       Challenge our own longstanding beliefs.

–       Open ourselves to new people and experiences.

–       Find balance between serving ourselves and serving others.

–       Choose to re-examine our pasts and stay open to potential futures.

–       Become willing to share our wisdom not out of ego but for the good of others.

We’ve all known plenty of seniors who are stuck in their old ways and old patterns of thinking. They have chosen not to grow wise because acquiring wisdom requires hard work. It requires self-examination, empathy, and compassion. It forces us out of our comfort zones. It challenges our abilities. It asks us to face hard truths about ourselves and those we love. It requires us to take responsibility for the harm we’ve done, and to commit ourselves daily to doing better.

And growing “older and wiser” can be confusing at times because wisdom does not mean “knowing better” than younger people. It’s not about telling them what to do, it’s about helping them acquire wisdom on their own, which means sometimes holding our tongues and, other times, being willing to live our truths even if that means putting a wedge between us and them. It means taking a chance to be truly honest when young people ask us to be, and to simultaneously stay open to the possibility the advice we are giving, especially when it wasn’t sought, may be wrong.

In other words, being wise doesn’t always make us right.

It’s tricky.

The way I see it, there are plenty of seniors who have grown old without ever growing much wiser, and plenty of young people who are growing wiser by the day.

So, wisdom isn’t something that’s ever fully achieved, and it’s not something automatic that comes with age, it’s something we have to choose to seek every single day.

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Matchup: Mind Vs. Heart (Revisited)

This post originally ran April 30, 2022

I raised my kids to follow their hearts; to trust their intuition. I truly believe our gut responses are often the best. So why is it so hard sometimes to just “go with the gut”? Why do our minds feel the need to try to override our intuition?

So many times, I get an immediate hit about the right direction to take. Then my overprotective, overcautious, overly critical mind has to have its say. It presents alternatives to my decision, it cautions me I might be making a mistake, it reminds me that people might not understand or approve, or that I might be judged and found wanting.

Well-intentioned though it may be, when my mind is convinced it’s right, it is downright forceful in its insistence that I listen to it and not my heart, which it sees as weak or flighty or unrealistically optimistic.

If I continue to come back to the wisdom of my gut, my mind shoots its most deadly arrows; guilt trips, manipulations, and self-criticism.

In the end, it breaks down and pleads for me to listen. “No good will come of this,” it says. “You’ll be sorry. Please do as I say.”

And all the while, my heart is still. It’s calm and relaxed. It invites me into the center of peace. It tickles me with promises of joy. It doesn’t pressure or judge. It just says, “Follow me and I’ll take care of you. But if you don’t, I’ll love you anyway.”

Far too often, I’ve listened to my mind. I’ve grown weary, though, lately of always being “in my head.” Today, I’m following my heart. Sorry, mind. You lost this round. Deal with it!

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Won’t You Come Home, If Only For a Day?

A year ago, my husband and I were visiting our daughter, and the three of us made a quick trip to the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum in Walnut Grove, Minnesota. My daughter may have read one or two of the Little House books as a child, but didn’t have much association with the author, so she found it amusing when my husband and I vocalized our excitement as we drove over Plum Creek.

At the museum, Roger and I rushed through to the exhibits about the Little House on the Prairie TV series. We gawked at the prop fiddle that Pa played on the show, lingered in front of the photo displays, stood transfixed watching a scene play out on the TV in the corner, the scene where Pa has to complete his job of moving heavy sacks of seeds despite his broken ribs.

We recognized, of course, thanks to the bemused look on my daughter’s face, how incredibly corny that scene was (what with the overacting and the swelling dramatic music) but Roger and I didn’t care. We were back in our living rooms in the 1970s, lying next to our siblings on our respective green and gold carpets arguing over who had to get up and turn up the volume.

When I was a kid, they used to take my elementary class to the nearby “old folks’ home” to sing for them songs like Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please . . . Come Home? and My Blue Heaven. I’d watch as the residents’ faces lit up, and I could almost see them disappear into the past. Those songs were like a time machine. I think that’s partly why I became so interested in the study of history; I wanted to time travel, too.

And now the things we loved as young people are sitting in museums collecting dust, and our children simply find them (and us) comical. The movies we loved are outdated, the clothes we wore are now costumes, the slang we used is suddenly laughable. Children today find it fascinating that I grew up in a house without a single computer, or smart phone, or microwave. They’ve never heard of Johnny Carson, or Linda Ronstadt, or Walter Cronkite. Their world bears very little resemblance to the one in which I was raised.

I know it’s always been that way and always will be. I know there are inside jokes that will only mean something to people of a certain generation, and beloved items that will never make it into the museums, and collective memories that will simply fade away when we do, rather than standing the test of time. And that’s okay. It’s as it should be.

But it was generous of my daughter to permit us to bring her on a journey to the days of our childhoods, fleeting though they were. It was kind of her to listen with genuine interest when I told her how every member of my family cried during the episode where Mary lost her eyesight, or when my husband, who never remember names, pointed out the main characters in a cast photo by their onscreen names.

It’s true that not everything that matters to us matters to everyone.

It’s also true that some of the things that matter to us won’t matter for long.

And we can’t expect the things that mattered to us to matter to the young people today.

There are days when knowing all of that brings on the melancholy. That’s just part of being human.

But there are also days when remembering is enough.

I’m grateful to my daughter for gifting us the space that day to just remember.

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