It’s amazing how easy it is to neglect these two key pieces of information in a letter or journal entry. But sharing place and time is the first step to localizing your work.
Sometimes, these two little pieces make the difference between valuable and almost worthless.
Florence, Massachusetts, U.S.A. 9:19 AM, December 7, 2013.
I just took an extraordinary professional development class with the Nova Scotia Sea School. In it, we learned some sailing. But more importantly, every day, we followed a pattern of daily life that was remarkably fulfilling.
In the morning, we jumped into the water. Everyone. Into the north Atlantic. It was better than coffee, though that was served too.
We practiced what we called the “outward turn.” A small open-deck sailing boat with ten people on it can get claustrophobic, so each day, we would take some time and turn our backs to each other and look out across the water. It was a reminder of the vast space around us, and when we turned back, we were more spacious, relaxed, refreshed.
How can you take an outward turn every day, no matter where you are? How can you regain a sense of spaciousness?
As a writer, what does the outward turn offer your writing?
Have you ever noticed that masters of their craft have a reverence for their tools?
Maybe it’s the bike mechanic who takes really good care of her bike — lubing the chain, keeping the derailer’s high-lows lined up perfectly, etc. Maybe it’s a landscaper carefully oiling the hedge trimmer before/after use, stepping away from a giant shrubbery depiction of… Winged Victory. Maybe it’s a grandfather, carefully putting back his tools in their proper, outlined places. Maybe it’s a chef, always keeping the knife sharp enough to cut portals between worlds (like Will Parry’s in The Subtle Knife).
On Wednesday, I met the cartoonist of one of my favorite comics, Zits. His primary tool was the brush. When he described the brush, I couldn’t help but think of the wand dealer in J. K. Rowling’s Diagon Alley. The brush was made from hairs of the tail of a sable living in Siberia. The sable’s adaptation to the cold winters had made the hairs strong yet flexible. The brush costs $50. It lasts, if treated well, for one month, maybe two if you stretch it. No ordinary brush.
On top of that, the cartoonist mixed his own ink, from a thick ink with a thinner one, to get the viscosity he desired.
NB: Sometimes people make the mistake in believing that good tools/gear equates with being dedicated to your craft. Not so. Just because you have the best tool doesn’t mean you’ll know how to use it to best advantage. Yet, a dedication to your craft eventually leads you to seek good tools and materials, and sometimes, as with the hairs of the brush, the stories behind them.
