Holding Onto the High Moments

Posted on August 21, 2024 by dinafried

When I was a child, I wanted to be a Broadway star. I’d been on raised on musicals and nothing made me happier than singing and dancing in the living room while belting out the entire sound track of Mary Poppins or The Sound of Music. In my fantasies, I sounded fantastic, totally ready for the special day I’d be discovered and spend the rest of my life singing on stage.

Disney-Grandpa https://www.flickr.com/photos/8674970@N04/ modified by Dr. Disney Wizard https://www.flickr.com/photos/disneywizard/, CC BY-SA 3.0 US <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/us/deed.en>, via Wikimedia Commons

Sometimes I still feel this way—not as a singer, or a pianist, but in my writing, which ended up being the creative channel I pursued the most seriously. I’ll draft a poem, or a story, a blog, or an essay and say to myself, Wow, this is fantastic! This is the best thing I’ve ever written! It’s such a buoyant and exhilarating feeling, the sheer joy, the high, from having created this precious piece! And there are even times I feel a similar high when playing the piano—for a brief phrase or two, where I’m playing smoothly and I’m really down deep in expressing the music—or when I’m singing exuberantly in complicated harmony with a chorus of uplifted voices.

But, alas, the high moments fade. The next day, I look at whatever I’d written that I was so excited about and think…Hmm. I think I need to …

This isn’t a bad thing. As a professional, I know that writing needs polishing, and I actually enjoy the revision process and discovering what a piece can become. I’m sure it’s the same for musicians, artists, dancers, actors, etc. to see where they can take their art as they continually hone their skills.

As a perfectionist with a ruthless inner judge, I need to be careful not to let the high moments sink too deep and transform into the low places. We all need to find ways of holding onto that initial joy, even when those moments continue to hold some unrealistic fantasies about outcomes. Chances are this poem will never make it into Poetry, no matter what I do to it. And nope, I’m not going to be a Broadway star. But that doesn’t mean my little joyful fantasy was a bad thing, as long as I don’t fall into the either/or trap of labeling something as awful that I once thought was fabulous.

According to the Mayo Clinic, people who think positively, even when faced with obstacles, are happier and healthier. Experts suggest vigilance in converting negative self-talk to positive self-talk. So, instead of thinking about your revision as something you’ll never be able to do successfully, think of it as a positive challenge, and affirm how much you’ve already accomplished.

And next time you’re in that high moment of feeling fabulous, write down the feelings and decorate them in bold and bright colors, paste them on the wall so you can see them while you work on your revisions. Or record yourself talking about how you’re feeling when you’re in the high time. Your recording could include a little dance or a bursting into song, if you feel like it. When you get stuck, play that back.

Chances are your inner judge will not let this go without objection. Boy do you look/sound like an idiot! It might say. You were so stupid to think this was good. But just be prepared for that and mentally pack that nasty voice away. Stuff it in a box, dig a hole in the earth, then rain the dirt on top of it.

Remember, the goal isn’t necessarily to feel 100% in the high place, just to capture a spark of it, like a memory of being at the ocean. Close your eyes and listen to the waves rolling in.

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Self-Promotion and Blueberries

Posted on June 19, 2024 by dinafried

For the past several weeks I’ve been struggling to figure out how to use this blog to promote my recent podcast and radio interviews in an engaging way that will mean something to others, but I keep getting sidetracked by things I’d rather write about.

Today, instead of self-promotion, I’m feeling called to talk about blueberries.

Photo: D. Dina Friedman

Our blueberry bush is one of the earliest blooming bushes I’m aware of–most of our friends, neighbors and surrounding farms don’t have blueberries until July. Ours has typically started at the end of June, but that date has inched up over the last few years, likely due to climate change. Our harvest season is short–around 2-3 weeks–but the blueberries are the best: crisp (not mushy) juicy, and a perfect mix of tart and sweet.

We pick the blueberries every day–sometimes twice a day–to make sure to catch each of them at the perfect stage of ripeness. It’s a slow, meditative process that I totally love, though in the current heat wave we’ve only gone out in the early morning or just before sunset. It’s been taking close to an hour to get a whole pint, which makes me think of the pressure on blueberry pickers on commercial farms. Of course, with their volume, they’re likely to be less discriminating in what they pick in order to make a profit. And this makes me think of the profit-making motive in writing, the people who make their living churning out one to two formulaic novels per year, or those whom publishers have deigned as destined for celebrity status, or actual celebrities whose books sell well even if they’re badly written or dependent on the skills of a ghostwriter.

While I’ve made it a theme of this blog to recognize and counteract perfectionism, I’m not ready to do this when it comes to blueberries. For me, they’re not a commodity; they’re a delectable treat. And while I know it’s a good idea to let go of the pinnacle of perfectionism when writing, I’m not ready to give up the joy of scaling the cliff in search of artistic excellence, even if it takes a long time and I never quite get there.

And as for the commodity thing–oh yeah, self promotion, as in throw some more mud at the walls and see what sticks–some marketing seminars I’ve been to have insisted that getting on lots of podcasts is the key to author success. While I highly doubt that, I did enjoy talking about political poetry on WMUA’s Poem Talk–both mine and this amazing poem by Jane Hirshfield. I also loved talking about perfectionism and my piano journey in this video from HerStory Circle and on Emma Lynn Dowd’s radio show (Episode 56, starting around 15 minutes in). If you feel moved to listen to any of these, enjoy!

Photo: D. Dina Friedman

If not, I hope you have a relaxing day dodging the heat, with a cold glass of something and perhaps a few fresh blueberries.

Perfectionism and the Birthday Blues

Posted on June 14, 2024 by dinafried

Yesterday was my birthday, which once again brought me right up close to the endless bumps in the winding road toward eschewing perfectionism and embracing self-acceptance.

Even though I know it isn’t productive, I can’t quite let go of my little-kid fantasy that my birthday should be a perfect day where everything I do is significant and special. And my inner kid wants this to happen spontaneously, with others taking charge of the orchestration who will magically know exactly what I want them to do. My inner kid, who still thinks I’m seven and my birthday is the most important day of the year, wants to be surrounded by celebrating family and nearby close friends, and flooded with cards or phone calls, or texts, or social media posts from people farther a-field with beautiful heart-rending messages on how much I matter. But I’m sixty years older than seven. Time to be an adult–as I’ve had to be ever since high school, when my birthday often coincided with final exams.

Adults are busy people, and I admit, I’m not someone who makes a big deal about other people’s birthdays, so it’s unreasonable and impractical to think that people should make a big deal over mine. And having taken a deep dive into my struggles with perfectionism, I can now see how all this birthday stress is just another manifestation of how easy it is to make yourself miserable by getting tangled in the morass of unrealistic expectations.

So, here’s what I’ve learned over the years:

(1) If you want something to happen, make it happen. If it involves others, ask them for what you want. I both like surprises and I like to be in control, so I’m very hard to please, but one year I asked my partner, Shel, to take me on a surprise get-away, location unknown. We ended up having a great few days in rural Quebec, with only one big snafu. Shel messed up where he booked our accommodations, so we ended up double-paying when we no-showed at the place we were supposed to be on the first night and surprising the innkeeper when we arrived at the second-night place a day early, but so what! At least they had a room for us.

(2) Make your own specialness. Ultimately, the choice on whether or not to be happy resides with me. Over the years I’ve planned a lot of birthday adventures that were solo, including a two-day silent retreat in a cabin in the woods, and several day-long jaunts to some of the beautiful and spiritually inspiring places within an hour of home. And guess what! These weren’t perfect either–but they were still wonderful, and at least I wasn’t blaming others for their inability to do the impossible and create a totally perfect day.

Yesterday, I did neither of these things. It was a scheduled day to take care of my grandson, and the adult in me said my birthday wasn’t a reason to forsake that responsibility. I wouldn’t say I had a perfect day, but I had a good day. Shel made strawberry crepes with camembert cheese for breakfast–a surprise that I didn’t need to control (LOL). And when I arrived to take care of Manu, I was greeted by his parents with a strawberry rhubarb pie. (Strawberries are an important birthday theme for me, since it’s strawberry season here in western Mass.)

Manu was delightful and we spent a lot of time listening to wolves on this great short video and doing wolf howls. For the rest of the day I ran errands and did normal stuff, which also felt good. Sometimes normal is what we need. Though it also included answering a lot of social media happy birthday posts, and speaking on the phone with a number of family members and close friends, who had taken the time to call and make me feel special. Afterwards, Shel and I went out to dinner and then to get my free birthday sundae at Herrell’s ice cream to close out a lovely day.

Yet, today, I can’t help but breathe my post-birthday sigh of relief that it’s over. Another bump navigated on this endless road. Hope the path will be easier traveling for a while.

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Diving In

Posted on June 7, 2024 by dinafried

If I’m at a beach or a lakeshore, I’m one of those people who inches my way into the water, one excruciating shock of cold at a time. But with writing, even when I have no idea what I’m going to say, I just grab my pen or my keyboard and dive in!

Tim Marshall timmarshall, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

That’s what this week has been about, as I’ve now committed to exploring the murky idea I have for another YA novel. My goal has been to write two handwritten pages every day. I try not to edit as I go, even as shoddy writing dominates and the plot/character contradictions pile up. I even try not to read what I’ve written the day before when I begin, because I know that if I do I’m going to get bogged down in trying to revise it–and I may not even use the scenes I’m generating. I only read enough to jog my memory so I can continue to go forward.

Some people love first-draft writing because they can make up whatever they want without worrying about it. I find doing the first draft of a prose piece the hardest part of the writing process. Conjuring people and situations out of wisps of my consciousness always feels daunting, and outlines feel even harder. I need to actually write to discover what I’m going to say.

Eventually, I hope I’ll come to a point where the ideas will feel more clear and I’ll have a better sense of the characters and overall trajectory, even if I still might not know exactly how the book will end. This will be when I’ll start typing up what I have, revising as I go, but likely saving anything I’ve cut in a different file in case I want to refer to it later. Then, I’ll probably keep writing two-page segments until I get to a possible end, but likely I’ll do this on the keyboard and allow myself more leeway in polishing what I’ve written before continuing.

This won’t nearly be the end of the process.

After I’ve written my way through beginning, middle, and end, I’ll put the manuscript away for a few weeks. Then I’ll read the whole thing through with a fresher eye to get a sense of it, making notes to myself on what needs to be added, cut or changed. Then the more intensive revision will start. This is the part I like–when I finally emerge from the thick woods and can see a thin path leading me on, as long as I’m willing to chop away the overgrowth and do some bushwhacking.

Once I get that draft done, I’ll share it with my fiction-writing group (and perhaps a few other people) to get their perspective about what is working and what isn’t. Likely, their feedback will inspire me to rethink the entire novel, generating another revision, which could focus on structure, character development, plot points etc. Depending on how confident I feel about that revision, I may ask my writing group to read the book again.

And again. And so it goes.

Eventually I’ll get to a point where I’m ready for micro-editing: searching for overused words, clunky phrases, wordiness, etc. I do some of this throughout my revisions, but considering not all the prose I generate will ultimately make it into the final draft, it’s been time-efficient to save focusing on this until the end.

When the book is as good as I can get it to be, even if it isn’t perfect, I’ll test the waters by sending it out. If it’s accepted, I’ll likely have more editing to do. I’ve been lucky in that every editor I’ve worked with has helped me make a book substantially better.

And if it doesn’t get accepted for publication, I may revisit and revise from time to time, if the book still holds interest for me. Or, I might just need to be satisfied with my enjoyment of the process. And yes, I do ultimately, enjoy the process of writing long prose. Why else would I have written 11 novels and one non-fiction memoir?

Time once again to brave the cold water and dive in.

I Hear You

Posted on December 20, 2023 by dinafried

Last night, I received an amazing gift–a long email from my cousin (someone I don’t see or talk to very often) containing heartfelt and thoughtful reflections on my music memoir manuscript, Imperfect Pitch. What struck me most was that even though his experience was different from mine, being 18 years younger and on the other side of the family tree, he could resonate with the way family messages contributed to the themes of the book, particularly around perfectionism. In other words, he heard me.

And as feedback about Immigrants oozes in slowly, I feel gratified for the readers who have mentioned the ways the book has touched them. I was particularly taken with the Amazon review that referred to the book as a “journey of the heart.”

Also last night, I attended a reading around 40 minutes away at the Lava Center in Greenfield, MA to hear my friend D.K. McCutchen read from her book, Whale Road. Before she read, many poets shared work at the open mic., much of which was–by their own admission–work in progress; some of it was written that day. While my inner perfectionist-in-recovery was awed by some of this risk-taking, especially when hearing a few hesitations as people paused over scratched out words and read phrases that my inner editor was ready to cut, the point wasn’t to read “perfect work.” The point was to be heard. Many people read highly vulnerable material, that exposed them in all their rawness. And the response from the audience, as appropriate, was simply, I hear you.

This Third Tuesday reading series seems to have created a warm, accepting, enthusiastic and tight-knit community. While it’s doubtful I’ll attend regularly because of the distance, I’m glad it’s there. We all need to find “our people,” those who will honor our need to be heard.

At yet another writing event I attended this past week, a round table discussion by Straw Dog Writers Guild entitled Your Writing Practice: Pitfalls and Solutions, facilitated by two faves in my writing community, Michael Favala Goldman and Lindsay Rockwell, many writers who were there talked about community as one of their biggest needs. And as some attendants lamented about losing their “inner oomph,” others discussed how community is one of the best cures for getting that inner oomph back–someone (or someones) who can say I hear you, and who will give you encouragement to share your work with others, even when it’s not (yet) perfect.

Poem Wrestling

Posted on November 30, 2023 by dinafried

Today I completed Poem #30 for the 30 Poems in November fundraiser for the Center for New Americans–a day ahead of schedule, Whew!

Since tomorrow is still November, I may attempt a final poem. Usually, I like to write a cento (a collage poem using lines from other poems) from all the poems offered as prompts over the month. That will enable me to drop a poem that’s not working when I compile my collection of 30, kind of like having the option to eliminate the lowest grade on a series of quizzes!

Of course, at this point, many of these baby poem-drafts aren’t working too well, and getting rid of only one won’t solve that problem. That’s where poem-wrestling comes in. My December writing focus will be on honing these poems into a shape I can share with those who donated to the fundraiser without being too embarrassed about them, even though most of them will still be far from my perfectionist standards.

But perhaps, part of this practice is also about being more comfortable showing my flaws in public–as I did, last weekend when I was asked to be part of the rotation of family musicians and play five minutes of background music on the piano for the appetizer hour of my nephew’s wedding celebration. I NEVER play the piano in front of other people, as those who are familiar my journey back to claiming my piano-playing past (which I wrote about in my not-yet-published memoir, Imperfect Pitch) already know. But I said yes, because I’m loyal to my family and my brother assured me no one would be listening. So, here I was, first on the list of the family players approaching the ivory among the (thank heavens) rising din of chatter. I pretended I was alone and played the pieces I’d prepared, even adding a little klezmer-inspired tune I’d composed on the spot the day before when humming to my grandchild to get him to take a nap.

I actually had fun, because I really was able to play as if I were alone in the room. And I think that’s what I’m going to have to do as I wrestle these 30 poems–pretend I’m alone in the room and see where they want to go without thinking too much about the added pressure of having to share them.

What will poem wrestling entail? Many things, but briefly–zeroing in on what the poem is really about and then thinking about whether each image builds on that or feels like a random aside. Also, looking closely at language and form: how do the words sound on the page. I play a lot with rhythm and repetition of sound patterns. I also look for places I can improve enjambments or use space more strategically.

And because I’m a perfectionist, I’m often writing 3 or 4 or 5 versions of each poem, then letting a version sit for a couple of days before reviewing it. Sometimes I’m so bemused by what I’ve done as in that funny Christine Lavin song, What Was I Thinking, I go back to an earlier version.

And as the days of December wane and my deadline for sending the poems to donors looms, like the cat hesitating at the open door, (an image in the poem I wrote today) I’ll just have to go bravely into the headwind.

Accepting the Hard Stuff

Posted on October 3, 2023 by dinafried

I’ve been in Florida for the past few days visiting my 92-year-old father-in-law, who was been plagued by dementia. Despite the warm, sunny weather and proximity to the beach, this is never a trip I look forward to–even as I’m touched by N.’s stretches of cogent lucidity between the storms of anger and confusion, where he talks poignantly about how sad he is that his life has changed so much. As someone who valued his independence above all else, as he continues to point out when asked to look back on some of the happier times in his life, having to succumb to 24-hour care and supervision often makes him feel that his life isn’t worth living any more.

But I know I need to accept things, he says to me over dinner. And enjoy what I can, like this food. And be happy that I can stay in my apartment, and that I have a wonderful family. I know I need to be grateful for all of that.

It’s an easy adage to repeat. But much harder for anyone–those with dementia and those without–to implement. How do we truly reach a place of gratitude and acceptance of whatever happens to befall us? Especially, when we can’t change the situation, but even when we think we can?

I recognize the extreme privilege I’ve had in my life up until now of not having dementia or some other life-changing debilitating disease. And yet, as both a continually aspiring and a recovering perfectionist, I find myself constantly navigating the question of when I should push myself to do something better than I’m currently able, and when I should accept the status quo. Especially in my creative pursuits. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about learning Kol Nidre on the piano, and trying to accept that I would likely never play it at the level I wanted to. And in writing, as well, while I’m generally pleased with many of the things I’ve written, it’s hard to stop berating myself for not writing as well as ____________ (hundreds of names could fill in that blank) or not having accomplished as much in my writing career as more recognized writers.

As I sit on the beach, I try to practice some of the meditation techniques I’ve learned from the app I’ve been using this past year. Label the breaths: in/out, try to match them up with the waves. I get distracted easily. There’s a radio playing. A helicopter overhead. And I’m still on edge from just having to tell N. at least five times–or seven–or ten–what the plan is for the next day. He’ll have lunch with his aide at the senior center, as usual. We’ll come over after he gets back–in the afternoon, and take him back to our place and make him dinner.

He frowns. I need to go to the senior center.

I tell him one more time that we’ll see him after the senior center.

The lady (his aide) will be lonely if I leave, he protests.

I’m sure she understands that it’s important for you to spend time with your family.

I keep trying to understand things, he tells me. And when I ask someone to explain it to me, I can tell that they think I’m a pain in the ass, but I’m just trying to understand.

You’ve always been very persistent, I tell him, remembering the hours and hours he put in every day, writing down steps, studying videos, when learning to ballroom dance. It’s both a strength you have, but now it’s also a curse, because there are some things your brain can’t process. Please trust us and don’t worry so much about tomorrow. The day will work out.

But he doesn’t let go of the worry. And why should he, just because I tell him to? Cultivating faith that things will work out is a hard habit for those of us who’ve spent our lives priding ourselves on our own agency in making things happen.

I get up from the beach. No way I’m going to get anywhere near a state of inner peace tonight. Yet, I make sure to express gratitude for the sloshy sound of the waves and their dependable rhythms as the world just keeps doing its thing–with us, or without us.

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Confronting Perfectionism–at the Literal Grassroots

Posted on July 31, 2023 by dinafried

T minus 48 hours until I leave for a three-week trip to Japan, and what am I doing? Pulling grass clumps out of the gravel driveway.

During the past several years, I let the driveway and the connecting brick walkway to the side entrance of my house go to pot–or more literally go to grass. Because keeping it weed-free was like the Mickey Mouse scene in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. There was simply no way to keep up.

So last fall I paid a landscaper a lot of money to re-gravel the driveway and literally unearth the brick walkway, which had become completely covered with sod. And I thought that would be it. But, silly me–the grass and assorted plants underneath the gravel and between the squares of brick had other ideas.

Since I’m opposed to Round-Up and any other earth-toxic remedies, Google gave me two choices: weed by hand or treat the area with a solution of white vinegar and dish soap. This means I have spent many hours this summer in the hot sun pulling clumps of grass out of the driveway, since that method was listed as more effective, saving the vinegar/soap solution only for the stubborn pieces that refused to budge. I’ve discovered that while vinegar kills some of the grass, it doesn’t necessarily penetrate down to the root system, or kill all of it, so I have to keep respraying. And for every tuft of grass I pull out, I can be assured that the next week–or maybe even the next day–there’ll be more green blades sprouting nearby. Aargh! Mickey, I feel you!

Usually I just focus on the most offending area for ten or fifteen minutes, which makes the task manageable, figuring I can keep things under control in piecemeal fashion without letting the obsession take over my life. But today, knowing that the grass was going to get a free pass for three weeks, I spent two hours at the call of my perfectionist demons. Am I really a bad person if the grass takes over? I tried to talk back to them as I heaved out another recalcitrant hump of crabgrass and shook out the large pieces of gravel that stuck to its needy roots.

Of course, I’m not a bad person, even if I return to find my walkway a snarling mess. Nevertheless, I felt deluged with shame last year when I had to admit defeat with the driveway and call for professional help–the same kind of shame I felt when I first returned to playing the piano and couldn’t get through any of the pieces I wanted to play without a million mistakes. But somewhere in the past three years with piano, in addition to acquiring more dexterity through frequent practicing, I’ve learned to laugh when I mess up, then patiently go over the tricky passages. And then, even if I still can’t play the hard parts perfectly, I tell myself I’ve done well enough for today. And that playing the piece still brought me joy. Like my flower garden, which is NEVER weed-free, but still a pleasing, cultivated chaos.

(Especially now that my walkway is clear!!)

And like all that practicing, which HAS made the hard parts easier, I’m also celebrating all the weeding I HAVE done since the beginning of the year. And I’ve got this YUGE weed pile to prove it! LOL!

And I got a blog post out of this morning’s ordeal. Considering that Substack is adding to my perfectionist anxiety by sending me nudges to blog once a week, I’m happy to have one more item crossed off my checklist. Now, on to packing. I’m looking forward to blogging next time from Japan–where I’m sure the flowers will be perfect!

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