Catching Butterflies

By Ellen Blum Barish
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For the past thirty years, I have earned a living, and even a few awards, as a writer and editor.

But in middle school, around the time that achievement tests became the standard by which writing and reading skills were determined, my scores led my teachers and parents to conclude that I was struggling with reading and writing. This led to a meeting with my parents that led to many long hours in a windowless closet of a room at school with a reading and writing tutor.

As a teenager, there was already plenty to be embarrassed about, but I remember being really mortified about having to be tutored because I thought of myself as a smart girl.

Luckily that feeling didn’t last beyond my first session. My tutor turned out to be an amiable, patient woman named Mrs. Stoner. (To my GFS friends, this is Caroline’s mother!) She taught me to identify the way I absorbed information, how to squeeze it out and organize it into words. But perhaps even more poignantly for the career that was to come, was how she guided me in honoring my individual learning process.

Funny how life works. I never set out to teach or coach writing. I was never a stellar student. The opportunities came, ironically, from two teacher/mentors. My deep appreciation goes to Hyma Levin for seeing the teacher in me and to Abe Peck for thinking I could coach.  I’ve been teaching and coaching writing for a decade now but only recently did I recognize that my approach – my teacherly soul – is based on what these gifted educators gave to me. Find your own process first and work the details around that.

Over the past 10 years, I’ve witnessed numerous approaches in my students. Each writer, or person with a writing task, takes unique steps toward her goal. But I’ve noticed that there are patterns. I’ve grouped and listed them here. I’m very process oriented so I’d love to hear yours, or if you think I’ve missed any. Feel free to comment below or drop me a line to let me know at ellen@ellenblumbarish.com.

Catching butterflies. Writing is like a net that catches the words – like butterflies –  as it moves through the air.

Empty glass. When this writer gets really quiet, words fill the space.

Gold mining. The writer moves her hands and fingers and the letters and words materialize and she goes back and searches for the gems.

Architectural blueprint. He prepares an outline like a foundation and adds the words as if they are the bricks or stucco.

Labor and delivery. This writer scrunches up and pushes, like she is delivering a baby.

Scratch and erase. The writers writes, then reads what he wrote and revises. He writes some more, reads that and revises. Sentence by sentence or graf by graf.

Altered state writing: She drinks (or eats). Then writes. Then she stops, drinks or eats some more, and writes. And on it goes.

Photo of butterflies taken at Ellwood Butterfly Grove in Santa Barbara, California by Ellen Blum Barish 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What We Keep

By Ellen Blum Barish
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Earlier this week, I wrote about burning my journals in a what I’ll call a ‘letting go’ ceremony and I received a wide array of responses.

A friend shared that when she told a group of writers that she let go of hers, there was a collective gasp.

Another tells me he understands, but wonders where I found the strength.

Another writes that she is inspired to let go of hers, but that she would keep the one where she meets and falls in love with her husband.

Tears streamed down my daughter’s face when she heard about it. She just couldn’t understand why I would do such a thing.

I spent the week reflecting on these reactions. It seems to me that some of my reasons for letting my diaries go are uniquely connected to writing personal narrative which is process-centered. Present tense oriented. Personal.

But there were other reasons and these were connected to what we keep and why. I found it an interesting exercise to think about what we hang onto and what we easily let go.

(For my writing students in search of a prompt, I urge you to try this one.)

It’s for the following reasons that I was moved to make such a permanent act:

They served their purpose and were taking up physical space in my home and psychic space in my life.

I’m not that girl anymore. (Thank you, Leslie, for the words.)

So much of the content was sullen, whiny or dull and it didn’t feel like good emotional feng shui to have that around.

They were locking me into one storyline.

Like paint palettes or mounds of clay, they weren’t fully formed. The pieces that came out of these found their way into finished work.

And finally, through this ritual, I’ve become aware that:

I’m more interested in writing words that remain true, that stand the test of time; the words that I will, consciously, leave behind.

Photo by Ellen Blum Barish.

 

 

 

 

Ashes to Ashes

By Ellen Blum Barish
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I’ve written in one journal or another for 40 years. Here’s a picture of them. You can see my very first one, a paisley print on the far left tucking out from beneath a dark blue leather journal. Fourth from the top. Amazing that before they were colorful, bound or wire-ringed books, they were trees.

But last week, with a very full glass of wine that I filled twice, I went through my journals, reading some passages, skimming others. And then, I thanked each one, ripped out the pages, built a fire and fed the pages into it.

Here’s what it looked like in its early stages:

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The fire burned for four hours as it consumed rants, to do lists, plans for the future, vents, wishes, dreams, annoyances, story ideas, rage, gratitude, doubt, praise, doubt, uncertainty, fear, doubt, whining, joy, relief, and more doubt. Me, usually with a pen, working things out. To get to here.

You can see it burn here:

I couldn’t let go of them all. I saved both of my pregnancy journals for my daughters. And I couldn’t let go of my first one from 1973.

I also kept the covers. I have an art project in mind.

But I wanted to remember the burning. So I can remember the mix of  emotions I felt as I watched: light, strong and giddy.

In the morning, in addition to my memory and the images I’ve shared with you, this is what remained. I’m going to take the ashes and bury them in the earth where they began so another 13-year old girl will have paper on which to practice her writing and work things out.

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Your Voice, When No One is Listening

By Ellen Blum Barish
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“At its core, writing is about cutting beneath every social expectation to get to the voice you have when no one is listening. It’s about finding something true, the voice that lies beneath all words. But the paradox of writing is that everyone at her desk finds that the stunning passage written in the morning seems flat three hours later, and by the time it’s rewritten, the original version will look dazzling again. Our moods, our beings are as changeable as the sky (long hours at any writing project teach us), so we can no longer trust any one voice as definitive or lasting”

Pico Iyer, from his New York Times Book Review essay, “Voices Inside Their Heads,” April 14, 2013

 

The Light in the Letters

By Ellen Blum Barish
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Picture 6Over the past week or so, I’ve been reading –  and rereading –  The Book of Letters by Lawrence Kushner. Drawing on Talmudic commentary, Hasidic folk tales and insights from the Kabbalah, Kushner explores the meaning and metaphor of the Hebrew letters in this exquisitely calligraphed book.

He writes that the letters exist independently of ink, paper and even, words. That they have been around since before the creation of the world and are linked with the creative process. That each letter has it own shape and sound, waiting to be heard and gazed upon. That when Moses shattered the first set of tablets at Mount Sinai, the letters ascended to “the One who gave them,” like vessels carrying light and wisdom.

The idea that letters could be, in and of themselves, holy, has really stuck with me. I’ve been  thinking a lot lately about how many letters are needed to make words that build the sentences we send into the Twitter-sphere and blogosphere. I find myself wondering if it’s possible to overproduce them. Or if overusing them diminishes their potency. Or if we should be thinking about them like we do our limited natural resources like water, trees and clean air.

Are we closing in on too many words and not enough meaning?

I have no answers, but I wanted to pose the questions to my fellow writers. I want to find a way to infuse our writing, and our writing practices, with more thoughtfulness and, perhaps, reserve. So we focus more on finding just the right words to express exactly what we mean.