The other day, I unexpectedly had an hour of free time  (I know, it never happens to me either. I wish I knew what stars had aligned so I could do it again).  Of course I headed to Barnes and Noble.  I spent some time greeting old friends on the shelves, and then settled down with a hot chocolate from the cafe and a comfy chair to read my books.

I picked up two books that caught my eye:  Their Eyes Were Watching God, by Zora Neale Hurston, and On Writing Well, by William Zinsser.  I had heard of the first, and had been meaing to read it.  I hadn’t a clue about the second, but I figured any book with the words “30 Anniversay Edition” printed on the front must have staying power, and deserved a look.

I devoured Zinsser’s book in an afternoon.  I felt like he was giving me the secrets of writing, and I reveled in it.  I skipped some parts that were specific to journalism, but I paid close attention to the parts about the principles of writing.  I was struck by his discussion of clutter.

Zinsser says people always try too hard to make their sentences sound like something an educated person would write.  Most people use too many words, and most people can’t get away with it. I always knew that adverbs and adjectives were not the friend my 8th grade English teacher told me they were, but Zinsser took it beyond that.  He talked about putting brackets around his students’ clutter in papers.  Phrases like “I might add”, “It is interesting to note” “Due to the fact”  ”With the possible exception” all got cut.  ”Virtually” and “literally” are also some of his least favorite adverbs, because they are repetitive.   His description of clutter in a sentence and “journal-ese” stayed with me as I turned to Miss Hurston’s  novel.

Zora Neale Hurston does not use clutter in her writing.  Her writing is breathtaking.  Just FYI.

I was so caught up in the spirit of the novel that I actually read the afterward, something I almost never do.    Here is a sentence that appears in the 2nd paragraph:

“Virtually ignored after the early fifties, even by the Black Arts movement in the sixties, an otherwise noisy and intense spell of black image – and myth-making that rescued so many black writers from remaindered oblivion, Hurston embodied a more or less harmonious but nevertheless problematic unity of opposites.”

With Zinsser’s lessons still fresh in my mind, I laughed out loud, and read the sentence to my husband.

“Wow, that’s some serious overblown writing.  This guy is trying way too hard to sound smart.  Who IS this blow hard, anyway?”

I checked the Table of Contents.

“Have you ever heard of Henry Louis Gates, Jr?” I asked DH.

“Um, yeah.  He’s one of the nation’s leading scholars on race relations.  He teaches at Harvard.”

A bell rang in my head.

“Was he the guy who was arrested for trying to get into his own house?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

So, I guess he is pretty smart.

But I am still left scratching my head.  This guy breaks the rules for writing well, and I don’t think he does it for the sake of style.  And the result is exactly what Zinsser describes in his book—the reader loses interest because there is too much to wade through.    I’m not saying that the sentence I quoted isn’t worth decoding, or that Gates doesn’t have some insightful things to tell me about Hurston’s exceptional novel.  I’m saying that the clutter in his language bogged me down.

But who am I to argue with a scholar of his merit?

It leaves me wondering what good writing is.  I was behind Zinsser all the way, and a book like Their Eyes were Watching God is an example of something that can only be described as good writing.  But then there is all the stuff in between that sometimes seems a little harder to categorize.  I’ll admit to reading an essay that has won some award or another, and think, “Why is this considered good?”  And I don’t mean that I’m dismissing it as a piece of junk, it’s that sometimes I just can’t see it.    And I want to see it, because if I could, I know that would make me a better writer.

But I’d like to think that sometimes, it just isn’t there.

What does good writing look like to you?

I’ve had a very grumpy weekend. My husband was on call, which never does much for my mood, and I’m feeling the crunch of all the things that need to be done before school starts next week (but not the accompanying motivation to actually hit the mall and Target and Office Max). Most of all, I’ve been peevish because I know that a great party has been going on practically in my backyard, yet I’m on the other side of town, refereeing fights and going to piano recitals and folding laundry.

When we lived in Missouri and Minnesota and Texas, we’d get information about the Salt Lake Sunstone Symposium in the mail, and I’d sigh and say, “If we ever move to Utah, I’m there.” So we moved, and I came. But you probably didn’t see me (not that you were looking). Because instead of listening to speakers, attending dinners, devotionals and sing-a-longs, meeting old friends in the hallway, and singing karaoke late into the night, I got babysitters only for the two panel discussions on which I was participating, then rushed home to do the mom thing. I got enough of a glimpse of how much fun everyone else was having (through their blog posts and tweets and facebook status updates) that I’ve felt very jealous all weekend.

So next year, my husband and I have a plan. We’re going to sign up for the symposium, book a hotel downtown, find someone to keep the kids for the weekend, and tell everyone we’re going someplace sexy, like maybe Vegas or San Diego. No one will have to know that we’re only five miles away– close enough to rush home to change that exceedingly poopy diaper or drive the kids to soccer practice. Instead, we’ll be tourists in our hometown. I can’t wait.

Since I didn’t make it to much, rub it in. Tell me about all the great stuff I missed.

We’re delighted to announce that Segullah’s summer issue will arrive in mailboxes across the country this week. The topic, “Gifts of the Spirit,” was inspired by our ongoing quest to find and develop the spiritual gifts which we’ve been given. In her editorial, Allyson Smith says, “I have met many people who come by patience (or faith, or discernment, or trust) with remarkable ease. To some is given one gift, to some another. going back through the list of spiritual gifts laid out in Moroni 10, I am well aware that I did not come installed with most when I was born. But the lack of them hasn’t let me off any hooks. I may be low on original patience, but that doesn’t mean I’m not under injunction to develop some. And so it goes for us all. We start where we are, with what we have.”

The issue includes personal essays by Heather Oman, Michelle Lehnardt and Tarasine Buck, where the authors find themselves in possession of spiritual gifts they didn’t know they had until they were put to the test. I’m particularly excited about our features: an article by Barbara Bishop, who views dreams as gifts of the spirit, and an interview with Marilyn Brown, who sees her role in developing Mormon writers as her own spiritual calling. The issue features amazing art by Leslie Graff. If you haven’t subscribed yet, do it now, so you can read more great stuff like this poem by Darlene Young, which reminds us how spiritual gifts are sometimes given to the people we’d least expect to receive them, and spiritual experiences often catch us unawares:

“Shepherds”

by Darlene Young

Don’t tell me about rose-cheeked Arcadian youth
gathering daisies on a hillside
piping tunes to their cloud-fluffy sheep
under the stars.

No, these were foul-smelling, lusty
men with dirty necks, greasy hands,
snorting, arguing, joke-telling, nose-picking
men—one wearing stolen
sandals (although I admit he felt
guilty about it)—gambling on who
had the best aim as they chucked rocks
at a nearby lizard.

You talk about salt of the earth—
these men were salty, alright
downright ornery, some of them,
fighting sometimes and yelling
at their wives when they were home,
which wasn’t often.

Yeah, I’ll grant you Dan
was an innocent
and Dave had some noble moments
and none of them was really evil
but they all had dirty fingernails
of one kind or another
when the light came—

yes, it came.
But don’t take away that moment just before—
flies whining over the sheep dung
and Jake and Zeke having a
spitting contest—
that’s the key moment, you see,
in all their grimy glory;
it has to be

because the light came to me too,
Alleluia.

I spent yesterday afternoon at home with a sick kid instead of at church. She was just barely sick enough that we didn’t want to inflict her on the other kids at nursery, so I stayed home with plans to plop her in front of the television and write this blog post.

My husband pulled out of the garage with the older kids and I turned on Dora, sat down at the computer, and wracked my brain for something to write about.

Instead of writing, I spent the next four hours up in the attic, sorting through boxes, consolidating, labeling, and schlepping everything down to the garage. We’re moving in about two weeks, so right now getting my house in order consumes my thoughts.

A few hours later, I tried again. I sat down again, this time with kids running around and a basketball game blaring in the background, and the words that wouldn’t come earlier flowed easily.

It should have been easier when the house was quiet, there were no distractions, and I had plenty of time. Why didn’t it work out that way?

Similarly, last week I was working on an article for Segullah. Although I was able to start the piece without too much angst, pretty soon I wasn’t getting anywhere. Instead, I found myself staring at the computer, deadline looming closer by the second, hoping something new to read would pop up in Google Reader, that someone would comment on something I’d written at fMh (I think half of my blog posts come to me when I’m avoiding something else I should be doing), or some kind of fight would break out on the message boards I frequent. I was on the prowl for anything (anything!) that would keep me planted in my chair, ostensibly working, while my unconscious mind figured out how to unstick my conscious mind. It took three excruciating days to plunk out a 750-word article. Every night, I tried to relax and watch tv, but all I could think was that I should be writing. On the upside, I added three couches, a dining room table, and a bunch of chairs to the new house dream list while I was surfing the internet and waiting for inspiration to strike.

How do writer’s block, distractions and procrastination present for you? How do you cope? And does writing with constant internet access help you or just provide too much temptation when you’re trying to write?

The temperature is supposed to hit 90 this afternoon. In my mind, the first 90-degree day signifies the official beginning of summer, no matter what month it is. For me, an ideal summer is all about a comfortable lounge chair, a good pair of sunglasses, and a stack of books from the library taller than my youngest child.

In order to prepare that stack of books, I scour bestseller lists, look for editors’ picks at Amazon.com, peruse Goodreads and take my blackberry into Barnes and Noble and write down the names of all the titles that look intriguing. I used to subscribe to the New Yorker and get email updates from the New York Times book reviews, but eventually I found both of those overwhelming. I can read half a book in the time it takes me to read one of the New Yorker reviews. But my best source of books worth reading has always been my friends. So there’s where you come in: what’s the best thing you’ve read in the last six months?

Followed, quite possibly, by a smack upside my head.  Or a swift kick in the heinie.  Both of them are warranted.

Last week, at the behest of an old friend for some photos, I went through a box of high school stuff that has been sitting in my parents’ basement since, well, high school.  I was amazed at what I found, at what I had saved, and wondering how I knew I would want these things later.  I found pictures of old friends from elementary school that made me stare, letters to old friends that made me crack up, and love letters from an old boyfriend that made me blush.  And, of course, there were my journals.

I picked up one journal that spanned the summer of 1993 to the summer of 1995.  Two tumultuous years of my young adulthood, fraught with all of the expected angst of a person who is desperately trying to figure life out, to make good decisions, and navigate relationships.  And as I sat up well into the night, reading about these two years and all my forgotten drama, I just wanted to shout, “Enough already!  All this whining is giving me a headache!”

And it was whiny.  Wow was it whiny.  But apparently I knew it as whiny, and I defended it, saying that I only write when I feel whiny, because then the writing helps get the whiny out of my system, and that my life isn’t really as messed up as it seems in my journal, but I just write when I’m stressed and feel out of control, and that tends to happen when I was dating somebody, so really, my old journals sound like I’m schizophrenic and obsessed with boys.

Which, I suppose describes most teenagers.  But, I digress….

Like I said, I stayed up late into the night reading that journal. I was fascinated.  It was amazing the things I had forgotten, things I’m sure at the time I thought I would remember forever.  There were names of people I didn’t remember, couldn’t recall, people who had entered my life, influenced it, and then left.  There were events I recorded that I couldn’t remember participating in, conversations I don’t remember having.  My favorite, though, were my descriptions of relationships, and the transparencies obvious to me now that were much too opaque to me then.

Let’s just say if I had seen the movie, “He’s just not that into you”, that would have explained a lot.

Anyway, I’m wondering if other people keep journals like this, and if they mean something to you after the fact.  After my husband’s grandmother died, I had a chance to peruse some of her journals, and it was, again, fascinating to see glimpses of a woman I hardly knew.  I found myself wishing she had written more, just so I could see her life better.

However, reading it felt a little strange.  Intimate, like I was violating some part of her privacy, even though she was no longer on the earth.  I suppose all journals feel like that.

So tell me, do you keep a journal?  Why, or why not?   I know there is a lot of guilt associated with not keeping a journal–is it because a prophet told us to, and if we don’t do what the prophet tells us to do, we feel guilty?  Is journaling something that is hard for you to do, or something that is easy, natural, and, if you’re like me, necessary for your sanity?  Do you journal regularly, or sporadically, when the urge strikes?

If you do keep a journal, what kinds of things do you write about?  I know one friend who described the weather at the top of every entry in his journal.  I couldn’t ever figure out why he did that, especially since he lived in Boston at the time.  Seems to me there would be only one thing to report:

Weather=cold.

Call me crazy, but I find schizophrenic relationships much more entertaining.

If you’re not in metro DC and still want to see the documentary, follow the link above for ordering instructions.

My husband has been spending an awful lot of time lately looking at the newest version of the Kindle at Amazon.com. A few weeks ago, he made me sit through the entire promotional video. There are things I love about the Kindle– I love that it’s so light (when I go on vacation, the books I take along add substantially to the weight of my luggage. I can manage with two pairs of shoes for a week, but not two books), that users can either read or listen to the books they purchase, and that it’s virtually immediate. When I want a book I wouldn’t have to hunt it down in bookstores or wait for a week for it to arrive from an online source. But I know I’d miss the tactile quality of the book and the statement that all of my favorite books make in the bookshelves of my home.

I know that some independent Mormon journals (like Mormon Artist and Exponent II) have gone the way of the Kindle– they’re exclusively online publications. At the other end of the spectrum are the journals that have print-access only (like Irreantum). Still others (Sunstone and Dialogue) offer selected articles online at no charge (Dialogue also has an online subscription, for an additional fee), and others (Segullah) have both a print journal and a complete free online edition.

I’m curious about how each publication ended up with its particular print and online presence, and whether the editorial staff of the journals feel comfortable with the access their readers have or don’t have. I know that I personally like to read the article for the first time in a print journal, but it’s much easier for me to access it again if it’s online, since I tend not to keep back issues. Has online publication of your journal helped or hurt your subscribership?

Last Monday morning, I opened the door to the pediatrician’s office and sighed. My kid was scheduled for a well visit, but every other kid in the packed room suffered from the same unspecified viral illness. Bracing myself for two inevitabilities– a long wait and sick kids two days later, I treated myself to the best reading material available, a copy of Cookie magazine well past its expiration date. I thumbed through the pages for a while, then settled on Pilar Guzman’s editorial, in which she talked about telling her mother that she and her husband were expecting their first child.  The gist of the story (I wish I’d snuck the magazine out in my purse so I could quote the editorial verbatim) is that although Guzman was in her thirties and both financially and emotionally stable, her mother wasn’t excited for her. She kept asking her if she was sure she was ready. And Guzman went on to say that she thought her mom was reacting based on her own lack of readiness when she became a mom, her own marital failures, and her own self-absorption. She said some good stuff too, and came to a positive conclusion about her mom as a grandma, but the criticism was there, in black and white.

The thing that totally caught me off guard? The picture of her mom, snuggling the now-preschool-age grandchild, smiling from the middle of the page. She must have read what her daughter had written, criticisms and all, and been okay with it. At least okay enough to have her picture published in a national magazine.

That so would not happen at my house.

The last time I wrote about my mother on a blog, I tried my best not to say anything that she’d take issue with. To cover my butt, I hacked into her Google Reader and marked the post “as read.”  But a couple of days later she found the post, and I got an angry email in my inbox. I’ve posted about her several other times, garnering either comments on the blog or tearful phone calls. Every time I mention my mom in print, I end up groveling.

But I can’t help myself. For one thing, she’s such an interesting character (is it a bad thing when you start viewing the people in your life as characters?) and for another thing, she’s such an important person in my life that I inevitably end up talking about her when I talk about myself.

So how do you balance writing about the people in your life with not alienating them? I recently read Emily January Petersen’s essay “I Love You No Matter What” in the December 2008 issue of Sunstone. She talks about coming to terms with her dad’s homosexuality, and while it’s evident that she loves her dad, her essay doesn’t shy away from the way she suffered because of his identity and his choices. She found the balance, and did it without hiding behind a pseudonym. I don’t know yet how to talk about myself and my family, and be honest, and be fair.

How do you do it? Do you write with your image of someone sitting on your shoulder, keeping you in line? How do find the courage to write the truth as you see it? The pleaser in me would so much rather be nice than be honest. And how do you deal with people being hurt by what you’ve written?

In the end, I’m just afraid of no one showing up to Sunday dinner at my house. But I guess that would be all right, because I’d probably have sick kids.

If you came into my house and started rifling through the closets and drawers, you’d quickly discern our family’s academic allegiance– we’re Cougars through and through. I was an English major in the early and mid-nineties, when there wasn’t much job security for BYU English professors. But I’m not embarrassed to say that I had a great experience at BYU. I left feeling like I had received a great education in my major and in Mormon doctrines and culture.

A year after graduation, I started school again, at a much smaller university in the midwest. I’d been used to classes ranging anywhere from 30 to 900 students, so the seminar classes with four or five shocked me (“are they going to cancel this section?,” I wondered every time I started a new semester). For the first time I understood that while BYU had been a great place for me, it might not be the perfect fit for every student.

****

It was lunchtime, and I was jonesing for a slice of pizza, a diet coke, and something good to read. I started digging through the magazine basket, and when I saw the Ensign, felt a familiar stab of guilt, ripped off the shrinkwrap, and carried it back to the kitchen. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but it was the first time I’d seriously delved into anything but the conference issue of the Ensign in a long while. Maybe I was just in a bad mood, but the articles felt stale– boring, preachy, or sensationally faith-promoting.

****

This afternoon I came across two interesting tidbits about college options for LDS students. The first, from US News, listed BYU as the second most popular college in the nation, with popularity determined by the number of accepted students who actually enroll as freshmen (77% at BYU, trailing only Harvard, with 79%). The second was the website for Nauvoo University, a Mormon-friendly private educational institution that hopes to enroll its first class this fall, with eventual plans to become an accredited four-year university. More than a decade after a new board of directors reorganized Southern Virginia University as a school catering to LDS students (maybe some of those who decided the BYU environment wasn’t right for them), it appears to be thriving.

Do you see the independent Mormon publications as the SVUs and Nauvoo Universities of the publishing world? In what ways do you see similarities and where do they differ?