Claire Fullerton's Blog: A Writing Life, page 11

What Creative Side?

I have an eighteen year old niece named Sara. She is long of limb and long of hair, with angel-blue eyes so reminiscent of my brother that they haunt me. She is in her freshman year at a liberal arts college in Oregon, and I heard about her curriculum yesterday over the phone. She has yet to decide on her major and is therefore taking courses aimed at a well-rounded education: physics and math classes I can’t even pronounce; chorus; and a creative writing class to balance the score. And I, being unqualified to discuss any of her classes beyond one, grasped the subject of her creative writing class and said, “Tell me about it.” She said that after all the papers she is expected to write for her other classes, she finds it hard to employ her “creative side.” It was there I combed the hair of my advanced years and dove in with a life jacket.
I don’t think people have a creative side; I think people are creative by virtue of their existence. Writers need only do two things: open the door within, and give themselves permission to write. The way I experience it, writing is not any different than thinking. It seems to me we all have a voice that resides within like divinity’s spark, and what writers seek to do is express this in the hopes that they are understood. Nobody can tell a writer exactly how to do it, because it is a personal, individual process. In my mind, telling someone how to write is like saying, “Let me tell you about how to be you.” Mind you, people can hand you tried and true craft and form, but they are only guidelines aimed at reining in creativity and putting it in a manageable place. And because I’m convinced we all have so much spinning around internally without a rudder, it seems to me writing takes that tangled ball of yarn and gives a person the first thread to straighten it out. It charts a course for linear thinking, for organized expression, and is ultimately an outlet for individual truth.
But writers have to see themselves as creative first. They have to understand that they fundamentally are, and see it as a gift. If they do, they can take pen to paper, as it were, and let it shine.
http://www.clairefullerton.com

Southern Writer?

Recently I was called a “Southern writer,” which tickled me silly because my next novel takes place on the western coast of Ireland, and as I’ve spent the last year mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and creatively enmeshed in the magical land of my forebears, I had to take a step back and think about this classification.
I will say this: as a Southerner, I’m a dead giveaway. I speak in the regionally specific, rolling tones of what’s known as the Delta accent. All my childhood friends do, because the Delta accent is passed down generationally along with the family china; it’s a tribal source of identification, lyrically revelatory of one’s place in the world. And a Southerner is definitely tethered to a place in the world, and there are many Southern loyalists who stand fiercely beside them no matter the change of venue or the passage of years.
The fact is I grew up along the bluffs of the Mississippi River, in a town so peacock proud of its place that it gave itself the moniker “The River City” and fashioned a bridge to stretch across that legendary watercourse in the shape of the letter “M” as if staking claim of ownership in skywriting. Memphis is a city with every right to be proud of its legendary artists, yet it is its artists that extol their affiliation with the historic city. I am not perplexed by this; I think I know exactly why.
If you come from Memphis, you’re a thread in a particular fabric, and its people will never let you go. You could move to Mongolia and put down roots, but no Memphian would ever take it seriously. I happen to know this without question: although I am now long in California, I am still in the flow of a rhythm gifted to me at birth. When something of significance happens in Memphis, I am connected to a grapevine that makes its vibrant livewire straight to me. In a land where you’re indelibly one of us, what happens to one affects us all, world without end, amen.
But it’s not any different in Ireland. After spending a year there followed by subsequent visits, I started to feel I was Irish myself. I grew compatible with the region and comfortable with the Irish culture—so much so that there’s a part of myself cordoned away that sees the world through Irish eyes.
I think a writer has to be fluid with the idea of wearing different hats. I think they have to possess the ability to slide in chameleon-like to whatever grabs their fancy and immerse themselves fully until it resonates. If they do, they can get about the business of doing what they do best and put the experience into words.

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From a Writer's Point of View

A writer’s life is a build, a constant state of becoming that begins with the secret, intuitive assumption that one must take a leap of faith and begin. There is no there to get to, only an unquenchable need that compels and drives on with inexplicable fervor. For me, it began with keeping a journal. I was young and fearful of admitting my internal mechanisms and uncertain of who would care to hear. But I felt the need to document my life in the hope that the singular act of private articulation would reveal to me who I was in the grand scheme of my self-involved adolescence. This is the prompting that leads a writer to the table; the need to explain oneself to oneself. Keeping a journal discredits all thoughts of life’s arbitrariness and puts the pendulum of cause and effect into clear perspective. One can keep current while they create a framework, then look back years later and chart the incremental construction of their personal history.
But what happens when one evolves from journal keeping to writing as a way of life? Certainly it’s an insular existence that cannot be shared. It’s like taking that running monologue we all have in our head and laying it down on purpose for no other reason than it seems the thing to do. The form of the dissertation is entirely incidental; some writers aim to inform, and others seek to enlighten or entertain. To me, it’s all the same thing: a way of communicating, and for this to happen, it takes time. And isolation. And commitment to following through no matter the length of the project.
I’ve heard it said that writers don’t write because they want to; they write because they must. What’s imperative for writers is the ability to write then throw caution to the wind. All that’s required is to say what you have to say, and then get out of the way to make room for the possibility that the devil may care after all.

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Irish Keys

I’ve had many people ask about the picture on my author page where I’m standing against a gray stone wall on a windswept day, in the middle of an Irish field, with what are obviously the ruins of a monastery behind me. Observant people have said to themselves, “Wait, there’s a ruined monastery behind her, why is her back turned as she looks into the camera, holding a set of keys in her hand as if it were the bigger focal point?" I’m so glad to have been asked.
We kind of knew where we were heading, my friend Tama and I, and by that I mean we had a loose plan with regard to how we were going to spend the afternoon in Gort, Ireland. We’d been freewheeling across the countryside in a rented car the size of a match box with its steering wheel on the right side while we drove on the left of the two-lane road as if trying to best a test for dyslexia.
Tama is a devout Catholic who has a thing about historic churches, which is why we couldn’t have adhered to a plan had we had one. “Stop,” Tama would shout every time we spied one of the dim, ominous structures off in the distance. We’d scratch the gravel driveway and wander inside, our solitary footsteps crossing the marble floor in a tread- ye- lightly and humble yourself echo off the cavernous vaulted ceiling. We did this so many times that after a sweep inside, I’d take to wandering the halcyon graveyards to read the Irish inscriptions, while Tama would light a red votive candle and fall to her knees.
I thought I was alone in the yard when a voice came from behind me. “Have you found your way to Kilmacduagh monastery?” I turned to find a young woman taking in my outlander attire of three quarter down jacket and rubber soled shoes. “It’s just up the road there,” she said pointing, “when you go, just knock on the door of the middle house and ask Lily for the keys.”
I was standing behind Tama when she knocked on the front door of a low slung house on a sparsely populated lane. Across the lane, placid fields of damp clover shimmered in the afternoon mist as far as the eye could see. There atop, a series of interspersed ruins jutted in damp metal-gray: some without roofs, some with wrought-iron gates, and one in particular beside an impressively tall stone spire with two windows cut in vertical slashes above a narrow door raised high from the ground. Immediately the front door opened, and a pair of blue water eyes gave us the once over with an inquisitive, “Yes?”
“Are you Lily? We’re here for the keys,” Tama said. “The keys, is it? Just a moment there,” the woman said, and after closing the door, she opened it seconds later to hand us a set of long metal keys. “Just slip them through the door slot when you’re through,” she said, closing the door with a quick nod.
I can’t say there was any indication of which key went to what among the cluster of gates and doors throughout the 7th century monastery called Kilmacduagh, but we figured it out. I was so tickled over the keys that I couldn’t get over it. “Is this weird?” I said to Tama, “We could be anybody! It’s not that there’s anything anybody could steal, but that’s not the point.” I could wax rhapsody over the hours we spent unlocking gates and pushing through doors in the eerie, hallowed grounds, but that’s not my point either. My point is that’s Ireland for you: a stranger offering directions without being asked, Lily handing over the keys like an afterthought, and Tama and I trolling the grounds of sacred space when nobody else was around. But suddenly a German couple appeared as we were on our way back up the lane. They looked at us wide eyed and queried, “What is this place?”
“It’s a 7th century monastery,” I said, “here, take the keys and slip them through that door when you’re through.”
(For pictures, see https://www.facebook.com/clairefuller.... Please click “like” to stay in the loop for the March 31st release of "Dancing to an Irish Reel.)

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I'm back from Ireland

I’m back from ten days of sheer bliss on the western coast of Ireland, and I’ll tell you why I returned to the misty, velvet shores of the area where I once spent a year: I wanted to reinvigorate my standing amongst the land and its people, and in order to do that, one has to show up in person to let the very air saturate the skin until it permeates to a cellular level and recalibrates the soul. This is how much Ireland affected me when I lived in the rural village of Inverin in the region of Connemara, yet it took a few months before I allowed myself to let go of my American frame of reference. Once I did, there was such a shift in my being that a local at the grocery store (or the shops, as they call it there) did a double take upon seeing my tranquil face and commented, “Claire, you look more Irish!” I knew just what she implied. I could already feel a newly acquired demeanor settle upon me, one that relaxed me physically and slipped me into a present tense mind frame where a type of willing acceptance of events replaced my harried propensity to manipulate my way through life. Ireland will do this to a person quickly, for it is an island with its own peculiar consciousness spawned from its cloistered history and its humble dependence upon the vagaries of the weather. I see it as an overarching attitude of rightful thinking, something which suggests there’s no point in becoming too worked up over much of anything, for change will rule the day of the best laid plans, and in the meantime, we’re all in it together, safe under the watchful eyes of God. And the Irish are a reverential people. And it’s not just God they revere. They pretty much hold all things sacred: the land, Irish history, each other. And because they comport themselves this way, they don't take themselves too seriously, which is exactly why they have the reputation of being the friendliest lot on earth.
Let me now digress by confessing I over use the expression, “I can’t tell you how much I love” this or that. The fact is, I can, and I did when it comes to the subject of Ireland. It is all in my novel, “Dancing to an Irish Reel,” which was released on March 17, 2015 by Vinspire Publishing. I do so hope you'll read it; it is literary fiction and I'm proud to share a quote from the review of author Alison Henderson: "A sensitive and lyrical tribute to the Irish culture and the wonders of falling in love."

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Dancing to an Irish Reel

I spent ten days on the west coast of Ireland last October. It was during that slip of time where the days grow dark by seven P.M. as the season inches towards winter. It was temperate weather in that tourist off-season, for Ireland is subject to the North Atlantic Drift which keeps the air on a surprising even keel save for the unpredictable episodes of rain which can appear without warning to add a hint of dramatic effect that rarely lasts long. What I like about Ireland’s west coast is that it is basically untouched, especially in the area known as the Gaeltacht, which refers to the predominately Irish speaking area of Ireland where the old ways are still kept. Once upon a time, I spent a year living in the rural region of Inverin while I worked thirteen miles down the coast in Galway. Inverin is a land separated into geometric prisms by grey-stone walls leading down to the rock encrusted shores of the Atlantic on one side of the coast road and bog-land that stretches out forever on the other. Between the time I arrived in Ireland and the time I left, I managed to ingratiate myself into the rhythm of a land that has more soul and character than any place I’d ever imagined.
So, I took the experience and wrote a novel about a single American female who leaves the record business in Los Angeles and relocates to rural Ireland where she meets an Irish traditional musician who won’t come closer nor completely go away. The novel was released on March 17, 2015 and is entitled, “Dancing to an Irish Reel.” I went out of my way not to patronize anything about Ireland, particularly its people. I wanted to refrain from bringing an American frame of reference to the book because I felt it had been done before and somehow cheated what I wanted to be the point of the story, which concerns the ambiguity of a budding love relationship with its attendant excitement, hope and doubt. On the one hand, this story could have happened anywhere (I know of very few people who haven’t been thrown into confusion as they navigate the minefield of new found attraction) but because this story takes place in Ireland, I had the opportunity to highlight a setting in possession of unfathomable beauty with a history of cultural nuances worth the singing of deep praise.
I have a curious mixture of humility and pride at the thought of sharing this novel. It may sound trite to say it’s my love letter to Ireland but in many ways, it is. When I was in Ireland, I took photographs of many of the places I put in the story so people can have a visual image while they read the book. They're available on my FB author page and Pinterest.https://www.facebook.com/clairefuller...
In writing “Dancing to an Irish Reel,” I did what all writers do: tell about how they find the world through the vehicle of one painstakingly crafted, poignant case in point.

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Review: The Little Friend by Donna Tartt

I was late to the party on being a Donna Tartt fan, having read "The Goldfinch" first before "The Little Friend." The first thought that came to mind when I finished this book is there are those that write, and then there are those that tell the world how it is done by breaking the mold and creating from a space of their own devil-may-care, permissive making. Donna Tartt's writing is nonnegotiable; it's in a league of its own, so I'll simply stand in admiration of her deft skills and comment on what I see as her writer's personality, if you will, with regard to this book: Donna Tartt is a died-in-the-wool Southerner. It pours from the crevices of every paragraph in her literary accuracy of Southern language, nuance, priority, and characterization. I've read many a Southern writer ( and am a Southerner myself) yet can not think of anyone who delves down to the nitty-gritty in quite the same manner. It is more than her awareness of Southern parlance, what she handles adroitly is the underbelly of Southern mentality. In this book, she tap-dances on themes of denial, emotional isolation, class separation and self-righteous arrogance all through the vehicle of character. She writes through the lens of a vantage point with such a brutal glare as to make me wince, yet she is accurate. I didn't feel the warm, fuzzy comfort of beauty in this book, I felt an edgy cynicism instead and willingly accepted the tone. Tartt takes a simple premise: young Harriet Dufresne, of Alexandria, Mississippi, lives beneath the weight of the unresolved murder of her brother and seeks to find answers to a tragedy of which no one will address. That is the story in a nutshell, yet Tartt coaxes mile upon mile of humanistic fodder that goes beyond a painstaking, five-senses experience; her writing is so panoramic she holds the reader captive in describing a walk around the block. I take my hat off to Donna Tartt and will simplify by saying this: Donna Tartt is such a master storyteller, whatever she's selling, I'll buy.

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On Reviews

There’s an innocence to writing a first novel that lays behind like a good intention. It is art for arts’ sake; one is following one’s bliss, heeding an innate prompting, and rallying the troops against the voice of self-doubt which whispers “you’ve never tried your hand, there’s no reason to embark upon this unless you’re going to be brilliant.”

Yet I wrote “A Portal in Time” just the same. I felt compelled to tell a story with a little bit of magic at its center because I think there is a sense of magic to the business of life. I really do. I’ve always sensed there is a hidden reality that parallels the ordinary, and a passion of mine is exploring the subject.

When I devised “A Portal in Time,” I wanted to make a point. I wanted to write the book I’d like to find: one with beauty and fluid grace tinged with the uncanny that also possessed a question. My intention was for the reader to ask themselves what it is they believe. That is the life-force of “A Portal in Time” in its entirety. I crafted the story and sent it out into the world to find its own way, although the act has simultaneously been a tutorial in the mechanics of promotion according to the edicts of this cyberspace society.

I’ve been thoroughly gratified in the reviews of my book. Many have gathered its spirit and that was my aspiration. It is enough for me at this delicate juncture in my chosen career, and it gives me something to build upon.

But one review was scathing: the vitriol, the holier than thou slander from a complete stranger who found the book so distasteful, she never read past the first few chapters. I was momentarily taken aback until I started thinking “this review can’t be only about this book.” It was disproportionate to any literary crime I could have committed.

The review ended up being a gift. When I unfurrowed my brow, I started thinking about the courage of conviction, the willingness to follow through with an idea and not be deterred by the bad chance of a stranger’s need to hold forth in judgment (which can be more telling of the reviewer than the book reviewed.)

I think a writer has to be prepared for both sides of the fence and to recommit to innocence—that pure space within that urges a writer to create without thought of outcome. If a writer can show up, do the work, retain the joy of the process then let go, then they can watch their reviews swim by like fish in a tank and realize they can’t please everybody.

http://www.clairefullerton.com/

In a Garden

Its been blowing incessantly, with gusty winds that have sailed through the grass and swayed through the trees for days. Its been a force to reckon with, and each step outside has been to secure something or other better left removed than at the mercy of the wind. Looking towards the ocean, I see she dons a new personality. I thought I knew all of her vagaries, yet in this wind, she is moody; she is upset; she is rocking in multicolored facets under a kaleidoscope of light, and I do not recognize her. She wears a white hat as she crests and flows and lets out an intermittent roar that draws back unto itself like the rat-a-tat-tat of firecrackers. She is matching the rhythm of the wind and doing her part to join in companionably saying we are all one; I am all one with you, and if this is the way of heaven and earth, then I will play my part in the symphony.

After two days, the wind exhausts its histrionics. It has made its point lest anybody misunderstand: build your houses as you will, secure your lands and make your plans; I will rise from any direction and swirl to remind you I have existed since the beginning, and you are all here on borrowed time.

After two days, stillness ensues so dramatic in contrast that we can take nothing for granted – not the wind, nor the water, nor the reprieve, for they lay side-to-side together saying neither of us would be one without the other.

A garden lays hillside, waking up in the early morning springtime. She boasts Rosemary, Azalea and Lavender. She looks up at the wind, appreciative that it has now become placid in synchronicity with the ocean. She remains still, save for the kinetic undercurrent that promises nubile growth. She stands erect, confident and proud, knowing she’s a magnet of attraction. She basks in the attention of bees and white butterflies, thinking some time, long ago, somebody told her that all white butterflies are really divine angels, and she knows she is well suited for her task.

In a garden, worlds collide born out of fellowship. One has to take into account history and the camaraderie of all living things. One can not be one without the other, and isn’t that a lot like us?

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For the love of a Dog

To live as a writer, one has to put their life on a certain axis demarcating the outside world from what exists internally. One has to create space, have room to breathe, set aside time to focus, and basically be given leave to confidently close the door against distractions and know that life can go on without their involvement for a spell. I’ve been incredibly lucky with the latitude to compartmentalize my life for the past few years, and had become accustom to an easy rhythm conducive to writing. My life seemed even, measured, predictable, but then BOOM, upheaval came like a wrecking ball and threw everything into turmoil.
If you’ve ever loved a dog, you’ll know immediately what I’m talking about. My family had a tag-team of two for the past ten years. Everybody knew the program around this house; we had a time and place for every gesture of the day and a telepathic understanding of who needed what from whom, as well as when. A person gets used to this kind of existence. It provides stability, certainty, constancy; it helps define one’s place in the world alongside one’s players.
Three months ago, the unforeseen happened. Humane practice gave no other choice than to put one of our dogs to sleep. It created a void so vacuous my soul hurt, and every time I looked at our remaining dog, all I could see was who was missing. After ten grief-ridden days, I told my husband he could either lock me up somewhere, or get me a puppy. I’d justified this by saying our remaining dog needed a friend. Immediately, we procured a puppy, and although everything wasn’t exactly the same, the hole in my heart started to heal. Three months later, our remaining dog had to be put to sleep. We didn’t know how sick she’d been until her malady was discovered as inoperable. It was an out-of-the-blue, make your decision now kind of a thing, and I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t see much until the shock of trauma wore off and there was I again, with one dog and compounded grief.
Yesterday, we got another puppy. I’d decided this house had been a two dog family for too long, and any variation of the theme would leave us lacking. The eleven week old puppy is now upstairs napping beside its six month old playmate, and I’ve repaired to this computer to do something that feels like a long-awaited exhale.
There’s something to be said for being conscious of the variables that bring peace of mind. I don’t think a writer can write without possessing their individual arrangement. I’m hoping I can take my finger out of the dyke and flow along easy now; now that peace of mind has entered wagging two tails.

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