essay Archives – Page 7 of 8

Philosophy Class Refresher Course

Constance July 13, 2019 July 13, 2019 Essay

What is it in human makeup that makes us go looking for the answer we want? When did confirmation bias become the norm, rather than something to guard against? Despite my best intentions, I find myself reading Amazon reviews and if I’m iffy on a purchase I read the 3-star reviews and talk myself into not buying the book or dog toy or widget. Is it a symptom of not wanting to spend the money? Or something more insidious?

I really don’t want to turn in my philosophy degree over this so my promise to myself is that I will try to be less judgmental. I will try not to pre-interpret or favor the information that I want to see. I don’t expect this to be easy. As we grow older bias seems to calcify. You know the answer to calcification, clean liberally with vinegar. I can be both liberal, and vinegary. Accepting and rejecting. I just need to temper things with a spoonful of sugary substance. Like tolerance for other viewpoints.

Back in the Stone Age when I was a philosophy major, I thrived on different ideas and contrasting viewpoints. I devoured books on subjects I knew nothing about. My philosophy professor would whap me on the head with a rolled up thesis if he knew I wasn’t giving things a fair chance to state their case.

I’ve given up on reading the news for the most part. It is so polarized; it’s easy to fall into old patterns of reading only journalists whose viewpoints I agree with. I think it has to do with our society’s sports complex. We must be winners or associate with winners at all times, or there is doubt about our alpha status. (Man/Womanhood?) My side always has winning arguments. Or so it seems.

What do you do when faced with confirmation bias? I’m open to alternatives or ideas. My natural tendency is to burrow into my introvert cave and not come out to play but the way things are going these days, it seems cowardly not to have an opinion, express it, and back it up with facts. Even in the face of hostility. Can I do it?

Can you?

On Berating My Obstinacy and Resolving to Try Something Different

Constance March 30, 2019 March 30, 2019 Essay / Writing

I reread my last blog post and thought, man, what mule-headed stubbornness. Is that really me? Turns out it is. So my goal the past few weeks was to do some research into what I disdain in writing advice, and find a way to give it a try. I researched some authors I like, that offer classes and books on the very things I don’t like to do. I read through every page of their website, read their philosophies, and picked one I thought I would be able to work with.

Cautiously optimistic, I bought a writing e-book by the author and dug in. Right in the first chapter I ran up against my prejudice. It had exercises. Exercises that were intended to make me do things. I think exercises are useless, I should be using my limited writing time to work on my novel. Write, write, write, right?

Turns out there is a reason for these exercises. To make my pea brain stretch, and think beyond my novel to the future. Where I want to be instead of where I am, and drill down to what my novel is about. When did I get so prejudiced against homework? I was a book and art nerd in high school, doing my homework and even extras for the sheer joy of learning. When did I lose that?

Turns out it wasn’t lost, just buried deep beneath a layer of inexperience and attitude. In trying so hard to convince myself I could do this, I convinced myself I knew HOW to do this. One of these things is not like the other.

So I cautiously printed out the exercise pages from the pdf, and began to read the damn directions. I did the exercises. In order. (A first.) I actually got excited to write a scene to the specified criteria. (Of course I had to stop in the middle to research exactly what shade of brown I needed to describe. For the record, it was Raw Umber.) I was pretty happy with the scene I wrote. So happy I’m thinking it needs to go in the novel and I know just where to put it.

You’ll be pleased to know, I’m 2/3 less stubborn about writing advice than when I started. There’s some things I still have a difficult time believing is going to help. But I won’t discard the advice, until I give it a try or two. What works might not be readily apparent at first impatient glance. If it still doesn’t work for me, why then I’ll fold the exercise into an origami mule, and place it by my computer as a reminder.

Sometimes you just have to slap your own hand, loosen the reins, and gallop wildly forward, careening over half-baked, rainbow hued obstacles until you crash through the brick wall.

Or is that just me?

Reading, an Opinionated Overview

Constance January 11, 2019 January 11, 2019 Essay

I remember the first book I took out of the not picture books side of the library. Not the title, but the fact it was a real book with more words than pictures. It was about a dog. When I held it in my hand, I was awed at the idea of whole different worlds were now available to me. I just had to pick them out. For an introverted child, that was heaven.

I think I read every book in the children’s section by a certain young age, and with the blessings of the children’s librarian, moved downstairs to the young adult and adult books. It helped that I went to the library with my mother every Friday afternoon after I got home from school, and took out 10 books, the library limit. Afterwards, we would go out to dinner at some cheap diner and talk, while in the back of my mind I would savor the idea of all those new adventures waiting.

Savoring is what reading is all about to me. Eyeball the cover, crack open the book, read the title page and its reverse (because I’m weird that way), ponder the dedications. Who were all these people? Writers had help? A deep breath before the rollercoaster like plunge into the story. Once in a while I was fooled by a prologue. I didn’t develop an overwhelming hatred of them, more a resignation and impatience. I wanted the main story, and I wanted it right now! Good thing I’m not a mystery reader, right?

It wasn’t until high school that I learned the joys of non-fiction. Histories, biographies, how things work books. Books about other countries. It all fascinated me even as I worked my way through the fiction on World War II, dipping into histories as seemed appropriate. Then on to the Vietnam War. I grew out of war stories into philosophy. My favorite art teacher, knowing my rabid reading habits, gave me a worn copy of Jean Paul Sartre’s Being and Nothingness. He said, “We’ll discuss it when you finish”. Talk about being thrown into the deep end. Then came another philosophy book. And another. Lots of discussion. Thanks to him, I dual majored in philosophy in college. The places reading takes you shouldn’t be underestimated.

I still have diverse interests and read voraciously. There is so much I want to know. I’m grateful for my e-reader. Yes, it’s nice to have a real book to hold, and I like my non-fiction to be a physical book, but as many novels as I go through in a month, my house would be an episode of Hoarders with books. I’ve also noticed as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to a realization. I don’t have to finish a book. I can close it and walk away. Or throw it at the wall and not read another word. I couldn’t do that as a child. I felt obligated to read every word of the book until the end. Even if I hated it.

As my eyesight gets worse, I like e-readers more. I’m learning to like audiobooks. I use them to drive the long distances across Wyoming, but I notice I tend to grab books I’ve already read to listen to. Kind of like a reread, a comfort? Audio books don’t distract me from driving, like they do for some people. I remember getting to my destination one time, and sitting in the car for another thirty minutes, just to hear the end of the book. Isn’t that what it’s all about? The magic, the need to hear the end, but not wanting the book to end? The same with a series. I’m down to the last two books in an author’s series right now, and I’ve put off reading them. I don’t want my trip into her world to end. Eventually, I’ll dive in and read them. Then start looking for another series to turn my obsession on.

I want adventure, I want knowledge, and I want a peek into someone else’s life. I want to experience the pleasures without the physical pains. I want to sink into a book like it’s a bathtub full of exotic water, slip down to my nose and luxuriate. I want to transform, transcend, traverse. I want to pick up my first chapter book and start reading all over again.

Where does reading take you?

Insulated Writing

Constance November 10, 2018 November 10, 2018 Essay / Writing

There is another side to being a writer that seldom gets talked about. Writing as a form of insulation. Mass shootings, government in a death spiral, racism run amok. All these things make keeping a clear head for writing your novel difficult, even when you attempt to avoid the news, as I do. But the churning is insipid, creeping in through waiting room television, the radio in stores, from coworkers and strangers in line at the grocery.

What’s a writer to do?

Plunge into the world of your novel and don’t come up for air. Insulate yourself from the outside world by concentrating on your world and characters. (Although if you are writing something political and contemporary, you’re pretty much screwed. Sorry. )

I safely insulated myself in the head of my protagonist, concentrating on what drove her and her various predicaments. All well and good, until I found out my insulation wasn’t air tight. Or world tight. News from the outside crept into my character, until there were a few dark turns and talks I never intended. It leaves you wondering, did that really come from me? Should I be keeping my characters in cotton wool? Why won’t the world leave me the hell alone, can’t it see I’m busy creating?

I didn’t want the outside world influencing my story. I want a blanket fort, with me inside, typing away. I want to be oblivious, so caught up in my fantasy world that coming back to reality would be a shock. I want to live elsewhere. Or elsewhen.

It doesn’t work that way. The world doesn’t care what I want. It insists I be more aware, open my eyes, look around, and oh, yeah, I need to tear away that insulation. Let some dirt in on my pristine novel. It will be better for it. And for me. I acquiesce, and throw my blanket fort back on the bed.

Bring it world. My protagonist has magic. And so do I.