Nothing So Broken appearance

Today I'm a guest writer--which always leaves me a bit trembly and wondering, "Will they like me? Am I good enough?" This post running today, however, is different. It is for a blog series created by a dear friend and fabulous writer Alison McLennan. Alison describes her blog series as "personal stories of brokenness on the path to redemption." So when Alison approached me about writing a post, my knee-jerk response was: NOOOOOOO!!!!!! Way too personal for me. Besides, who wants to hear about a dark moment in my life? I want to spread sunshine and cheer! I want to inspire! To run through the hills singing like Maria VonTrapp!

But I said yes.

Maybe because I'm a glutton for punishment. Maybe because I am too weak to say no to a writing opportunity. But I think, more than likely, it's because there's a message the Spirit within me wants to get out. So, in fear and trembling, I wrote about my burgeoning realization of my own failings and where that has brought me as a mother and wife, as a writer and teacher--but more importantly, as a person in search of redemption.

So, dear readers, I'd love love love to see some familiar faces over on Alison's blog today (just click on the picture above and it'll connect you). Stop in. Say hi. See how fabulous Alison is. And peer through the cracks and crannies of my writing into what is, I pray, a story of hope for us all.

Have a hope-filled Wednesday!

Anna

Your Good Intentions are Irritating: a Twitter comment run amuck

This is Conner's expression of mild disdain mixed with a dash of confusion and fistful of curiosity.
(Actually, I think he thought I was hiding a  piece of ham from him.)

Last week I wrote a post lamenting my literary award deficiency. I was overwhelmed by the kind comments and warm responses I received at that post. (Thank you, by the way!) Then I received a comment on Twitter from a completely random person (who doesn't even have a face, just a logo with a fundraising slogan as their user name) that said: 

"Just being a writer is reward in itself"

I didn't know Gandhi was on Twitter. Very deep. I hit the little star "favorite" button to acknowledge the comment and moved on. However, the comment kept coming back to mind, nagging at me (obviously, or I wouldn't be blogging about it a week later.) Here's why: 

I know that writing can be used as catharsis and that alone is reward for some people. When I worked in the psychology field, we had residents keep journals, compose letters, create poetry, and use written expression to emote all the wreckage and turmoil going on inside. However, being "a writer"--at least, as far as I'm concerned--is not an open door for emoting or finding the self-satisfaction of pouring my deepest thoughts and convictions onto a page to present to the world as food for soul digestion.

I don't write simply to write. That's what journaling is for. Besides, only famous dead people have their journals published. So, since I'll never be famous enough for the jabbering I do in my leather-bound to be of interest, there's little expectation of connecting through that type of writing. Which brings me to my point: 

A writer's task is to connect. 

Without the profound and symbiotic relationship between writer and reader my role as "writer" loses all meaning. I write in the hopes that someone somewhere is intrigued enough to expose themselves to my words. I write in the hopes that through my characters and plotlines, imagery and dialogue, diction and syntax the audience will feel as though they've passed their time in good company. I write in the hopes of presenting a gleam of Truth that the audience recognizes as a certainty somewhere deep inside themselves. A reader may even find a connection to, feel an affinity for, one of my characters. By connecting to my characters the reader is connecting with me, the writer. Because I, too, love my characters--if I didn't I wouldn't be writing their stories. 

There are always pieces of myself in each character. We write what we know, yes? And we cannot know our characters truly until we know ourselves. And my self is telling me that this random Comment-Thrower on Twitter hasn't a clue what he or she is talking about. 

Mr. or Ms. Just-being-a-writer-is-reward-in-itself, while I'm sure you tweeted with the best of intentions, I'm sorry to say that you're dead wrong. If I were to adhere to your mentality, I may as well stop writing because I would produce nothing more than self-indulgent, emo rubbish. And my aim is a bit higher than that, my friend, much higher. (By the way, you may find beneficial my post on knowing when to keep silent.)

Tennyson, his Lady, and a Painter's Revolution

My favorite poem of all time is The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I first read it in high school, my senior year; when I was immature and waded in the shallow end of insight. But I knew I liked Tennyson’s poem, and I’ve always had decent instincts. It wasn’t until I got into my college lit classes that I started to drink deeper of poetry in an effort to get at its soul, the marrow of what the poet felt he must expose to the world. (And I’m finding there is only so much exposure a writer or artist can offer. Only so much light he can reflect for the sake of revelation of deeper truth. So if an artist is not careful, he may expend all his energy and only ever expose that which is superficial, fleeting. And bones with no marrow crack and crumble easily.)

My blog’s title, The Silent Isle, is taken from Tennyson’s Lady for several reasons. First, Tennyson offered an honest glimpse into the conflict of the artist—whether to enter into the world he is working to capture in his art or to hold back so as not to alter (and possibly diminish) that world he would recreate. (Also, one of my very first blog post EVER discusses this conundrum.)

Sitting down today to write this post, I am reminded of the little factoid I learned while visiting Claude Monet’s house last summer. The year 1840 was a watershed year for painters because…oil paint was finally put into tubes! I had never considered this as a revolution before, but it makes sense! The artist is now freed from his studio to go out and capture first-hand his object of study. However, it also occurs to me that these painters now face the same as Tennyson’s weaving lady. Now that they are entering into the world they wish to capture, will they alter it with their presence? Will it be the same world once they have entered it? Only the artist can answer that question—only he can decide whether the cost of entering is worth its rewards.

This is a photo I took while overlooking Monet's pond in Giverny--his inspiration for his famous "Waterlilies".

The other reason I borrowed The Silent Isle from Tennyson is because of the idea of silence. It is a commodity. Even now, as I write, I hear traffic outside and a home improvement show jabbering in the next room. Few places exist where silence is given free rein. (yes, it is "rein", not "reign".) So much so that often we aren’t even aware of the noise. It has become a tacit influence on our everyday existence. Yet, the more I understand of what I’m called to do as a writer and artist the more I need that silence in order to wrestle with and understand the core or essence of what I’m trying to say—the marrow of my words. That is why this blog has become so important for me. It offers me a small slice of silence where I can grapple and then compose my grapplings into a modicum of coherence and, hopefully, truth.

So, without further ado, I offer you Tennyson’s The Lady of Shalott. Happy National Poetry Month! (I highly recommend that you read the whole way to the end....)

So I LOVE this painting by Donato Giancola, mostly because it has Lancelot actually "interacting" with
the dead lady rather than just standing over her, clucking his tongue, and saying, "Too bad. She was pretty."
However, I'm not sure I like the pained look of the center guy at the top pulling her out of the water.
Dude, there's 1 of her and there's 4 of you. She's not that heavy.

PART I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

     To many-tower'd Camelot;                        5

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

     The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,                      10

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro' the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

     Flowing down to Camelot.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers,           15

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

     The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,

Slide the heavy barges trail'd                          20

By slow horses; and unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd

     Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

Or at the casement seen her stand?                 25

Or is she known in all the land,

     The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song that echoes cheerly                      30

From the river winding clearly,

     Down to tower'd Camelot:

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers “’Tis the fairy                  35

     Lady of Shalott."

PART II

There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colors gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay                            40

    To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,

     The Lady of Shalott.                                  45

And moving thro' a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

     Winding down to Camelot:                       50

There the river eddy whirls.

And there the surly village-churls

And the red cloaks of market girls,

     Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,               55

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad

     Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue              60

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

     The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,                65

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

     And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;               70

"I am half sick of shadows," said

     The Lady of Shalott.

PART III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling through the leaves,     75

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

     Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,                  80

     Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily                           85

     As he rode down to Camelot:

And from his blazoned baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

     Beside remote Shalott.                               90

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

    As he rode down to Camelot.                     95

As often through the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

     Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;        100

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

     As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river                   105

He flashed into the crystal mirror,

"Tirra lirra," by the river

     Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro' the room,             110

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

     She looked down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror cracked from side to side;             115

"The curse is come upon me," cried

     The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,   120

Heavily the low sky raining

     Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And round about the prow she wrote              125

    The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse

Like some bold seër in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance—

With a glassy countenance                              130

     Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

     The Lady of Shalott.                                  135

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right—

The leaves upon her falling light—

Thro' the noises of the night

     She floated down to Camelot:                   140

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

     The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy                         145

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darkened wholly,

    Turned to tower'd Camelot.

For ere she reach'd upon the tide                    150

first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

    The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,                            155

A gleaming shape she floated by,

Dead-pale between the houses high,

      Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,              160

And round the prow they read her name,

    The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;                       165

And they cross'd themselves for fear,

     All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, "She has a lovely face;

God in His mercy lend her grace,                   170

    The Lady of Shalott."

If you actually read the whole way to the end--FANTASTIC! I am so proud! You will also be the first to know that the next post will be from my very first guest blogger for the "Had I But Known" series! Look for it on Monday. Very excited!!

Also, you may have noticed that I now have my very own, shiny and new domain name: annaurquhart.com. Yay!

Top Image from the 2009 short film: The Lady of Shalott.