The Runaway Yellow Mustang

One of the bonuses of fall (besides the obvious: spices, pumpkins, orange-yellow-rose, sweaters, scarves, etc. etc.) is that the leaves fall off the trees and you can see what’s been hidden for 7 months. This is especially fortunate for us, as we live on the 8th floor and our windows are surrounded by trees. Across the street there’s a parking lot for an apartment building, and for the first time all year we can see it.

There are a bunch of cars in the parking lot (you didn’t need me to tell you that, I’m sure). Lots of residents exercised adult sensibilities when they were purchasing their cars, and there are rows of gray and black, some silver, several white, and one or two deep maroon.

But one person—one blessed, carefree, personality filled person—has a bright yellow mustang.

 

Unfortunately for this picture, even though the leaves fell, the trees are still there.

Honestly, it stands out like a sore thumb.

But at the same time, it is refreshing, bright, and, well… Yellow. Which is the color of sunshine and bumble bees (inside the black stripes, of course) and daffodils, all wonderful things.

I continue at the risk of drawing an analogy that’s too complex or far-fetched.

It’s easy to feel like the yellow mustang in a world full of gray and silver cars. Some of what defines me is absolute: my faith, my family, my husband Curtis (he’s very wonderful), my definite introverted personality. Other parts of who I am are a choice: cheerful, buoyant, thoughtful, and careful.

The absolutes are like the parts of the car that it can’t run without—engine, axles, gears, tires (a proper mechanic could lend a lot to this analogy).

The choices are like the aesthetics: leather or upholstery, fancy chrome rims, and the paint job.

The problem with people (myself included) is that we struggle to see past the yellow paint. This in turn makes our interactions with most people about as meaningful as a drive-by speculation on the color of someone’s car. We assume that everything we see on the outside is everything they are on the inside, and go from there.

It’s not practical. It’s not relational. But it’s certainly easier.

Looking past the paint is hard—it takes work, it takes sacrifice, and it’s not always comfortable.

But it’s so worth it, because under the paint people are individual, odd, and beautiful, and so much more than just yellow, or gray.

The color is very important, but the buck shouldn’t stop there.

Seeing What You’re Headed Towards

I work in a rectangular building that was built squarely on a compass. Translation: it faces N,S,E, and W, instead of the half directions.

Yesterday at closing time, there was a grim glowering storm out of the east windows, and a dazzling, orange-yellow creamsicle sunset out of the west windows. My office-mates who sit on that side of the building had no idea that a storm was brewing, 45 feet away.

Sometimes you’re 45 feet away from something delightful. Sometimes you’re 45 feet away from the worst storm yet.

Usually you only see the one you’re headed towards.

Practice looking around you to see more than one thing.

Excitement Lives in the Young

Every week we go to youth group. We play games, have lesson and small group times, and try to help two or three dozen high-schoolers understand that they’re not alone, they’re not as awkward as they feel (and even if they are it’s totally okay—spinach gets stuck in everybody’s teeth sometimes), and not knowing what you’re going to be doing in two years isn’t the end of the world.

They’re fun, they’re kind, they’re smart. They play sports, they do drama, they read books, one of them even volunteers at a museum in her spare time. They’re learning what growing up is in a safe environment, one where they are reminded of what matters, their parents keep them safe, and they don’t have to pay their own electricity bills.

They’re excited about life, because it’s full of possibilities.

They’re excited because they’re young enough to sleep well and forget the hard things.

They’re excited because they haven’t had a job they didn’t like, a boss who was unkind, or a college roommate who doesn’t understand what being courteous is.

And they should be. Writing excitement into young people is crucial (unless you’re styling the moody artist type—that’s a whole different set of attitudes), because it’s so relevant to the young, and so refreshing for everyone else.

Learn to capture their excitement, because excitement is half of what makes life… Well, exciting.

Nuance

Nuance gives interactions depth. The change of tone, the raised eyebrow, the subtle shift in posture—all of them indicate attitude and feeling. It’s what makes story interesting, movies gripping, and real life easier to interpret. Without nuance, face to face interactions lack a certain emotion that we depend on to understand what’s really going on. Even stranger to stranger interaction has subtle nuance, whether discomfort, disinterest, or delight.

Nuance differs from person to person, but some things are universal. Do you look up to the sun with your eyes closed when you go outside? Are you constantly picking at things with your fingers? Do you lean in when you’re listening, cross your arms when you’re upset, yawn when you’re bored? Subtleties help us process interactions—without them we can’t tell what the other person is thinking, unless they come straight out and say it. Was he leaning out because he wasn’t listening? Why didn’t she nod? What is all the yawning about?

In the same way, writing nuance into your story clues your readers into what’s really going on, and triggers the imagination to help tell the story and fill in the tiny missing pieces. Without nuance tips, we won’t know the tone of the story.

How do you write nuance into a story?

#) Understand what nuance is. You can’t write it unless you understand it. Fortunately, it’s an easy thing to learn. Eighty-five percent of social interactions that you witness are full of nuance—and once you start looking for it, it’s everywhere.

#) Read for it. Find popular writers (both current and classic) and read their work. Do they use nuance well? Poorly? At all?

#) Practice. This is the dead horse that I’ll flog forever, when it comes to writing. The only way to get better is to practice, even when you don’t feel like it, even when you have nothing to say. Look at the objects on your desk and write a story about them having a conversation. If your desk is empty use your shoes. If you’re not wearing shoes, write it about the wall and the paint. If you write in a gazebo, maybe you’re in a public park and there will be people walking by… You get the picture.

Nuance is invaluable to writers. Perfect the art.

Scribbled Insights

I have a lot of scraps of paper taped up around my desk, full of scribbled insights. I’ve gathered them through the months, and put them up to remind myself of the things that are important in life: making wise choices, loving people, living for God.

One of them says, “Our default assumption is that people who choose their words carefully are quite smart.”

It needs no explanation, and lines up with a proverb.

“Better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

Also self-explanatory.

When you’re in a creating position, think carefully about what you say and make. It pays off in the long run.

How to Be a Better Storyteller

A bad storyteller could tell a crowd the most exciting news piece of the year (the breaking of a 108 ‘curse,’ for instance), and put his audience to sleep. A good storyteller could talk about a trip to buy a package of napkins, and hold his audience’s rapt attention.

It isn’t the story that makes the story good, worth reading, interesting; it’s the storyteller. When he starts to tell a story, he resumes the responsibility to guide, to entertain, to make the audience feel like they didn’t waste their time.

In light of that responsibility, how do you become a better storyteller?

#) Practice. It’s the number one advice for getting better at everything. You don’t get better unless you try. Trying takes time. Practice telling your story—develop your craft. Try different words different places, use bold expressions, make dramatic story-telling moves that you’re scared of. Tell your story in the mirror. Tell it to your mom (and then someone who loves you a little less, for more critical feedback), tell it in the dark, tell it to the flock of birds at the pond. The more you do it, the better you’ll be.

#) Watch/read/listen to other people. It’s hard to develop a craft well in complete solitude. The lucky thing about developing your art is that sharing is allowed. If someone else does something that you admire, that’s completely brilliant, try it. Tweak it, change it, make it yours, but don’t be afraid to grow by imitation. Other people come up with amazing strategies. Using them isn’t wrong—it’s like adding a tool to your tool-chest.

#) Say what matters. In this busy, flustered, over-worked and under-rested society, people only want to listen to things that matter to them. If they don’t see any reason to listen to what you’re saying, they won’t listen. Think about what people want to hear, think about what matters to them. They want to hear virtue, kindness, human triumph through herculean struggle. They want to hear stories that make them cry, or roar with laughter, stories that end with a warm feeling all over, or the bright resolve to be a change in the world, to make a difference.

#) Pay attention to your audience. If they’re not paying attention, or you’re not getting any feedback, if 7 of the 12 people are sleeping, maybe it’s time to reconsider how you’re telling your story, and change things up.

Being a storyteller is a privilege; being a good storyteller is a gift. Appreciate the privilege and the gift, and do your best to be better. The world could use more of those people (us).

Make it Short

A long piece of writing is not automatically good, and a short piece isn’t inevitably bad. It’s about the preparation and the content. Instead of spending hours writing a lot, think careful about what you’re writing. Practice writing less, better.

See Seth Godin’s blog for today.

Why We Need Writing

Yesterday was fall (the season is currently fall, but yesterday was especially fall-ey). It was brisk and overcast, and the leaves looked like a screensaver on a loop—they just kept falling. The wind smelled like the forecasted rain, as we drove across a half dozen Chicago neighborhoods during rush hour.

We pulled up to a red light in our big fifteen-seater van full of college students. Because we sit higher than everyone else, even in the middle lane there was a clear view of the Boost Mobile store on the corner, and the blow-up, one of those tall stick men that waves his arms back and forth and flops both ways.  While we were sitting at the light, a big guy (lots of ice cream kind of big, not lots of weight lifting) wearing a black shirt came out of the store. The shirt had printed on it the words “man of the hour.” He slowly bent over and picked up the electrical cord at a joint between the black cord of the blow up guy and the orange extension cord. In his hand he had a piece of duct tape. It was about a foot long, and he was trying to put on the joint, probably to keep the joint dry in the coming rain. The wind was blowing it around and he kept trying to straighten it with his already full hand.He frowned and chewed his bottom lip.

Then the light turned green, and I couldn’t watch the end of the story.

This is why we need writing. Writing is like the Instagram of the literate world. Writing is how you record the stories that you see all around you every day. The beautiful seconds, things both poignant and gentle, the moments that bring tears to your eyes and you’re not sure why.

A picture says a thousand words. But a thousand words can tell a story that brings delight to your heart, or puts a knot in your throat, or fills you with resolve to do bigger and better things.

And we need those emotions. We need writing.

A Case for Sunday Dinner

Every week, my grandma hosts Sunday lunch (dinner, not supper). All the aunts and uncles and cousins are there, and Grandma makes a pot roast or chicken, with all the fixings, plenty of them.The scent drifts down the hallway to the garage, and in the kitchen the smell mingles with hustle and bustle. Someone is always talking, there’s food set out on the kitchen table ready for the dining room, and small grandchildren run about with toys in hand. The kitchen is the hub, the boys lay around in the living room, and Grandpa dozes on the couch waiting for lunch. A granddaughter bangs keys on the piano; none related, no melody. Just glee.

When dinner is steaming on the long seasonal tablecloth in the dining room, grandma calls everyone in. Each sits in his or her own chair, the same for years. After Grandpa prays, dishes fly. Within twenty minutes everyone is done eating, the little ones are roaming, and the boys are asking for dessert. Grandma always has it, plenty for everyone.

It is the quintessential Sunday dinner; hubbub, food, community, generations, noise and confusion. It is tradition, Sunday Dinner—but no one is there for the food. If it was, everyone would make their own meal and stay home. It’s for the experience. The togetherness, community, hubbub, and all the week’s fresh talk.

Grandma changes the food week by week. If she didn’t, after weeks of the same meal (even though no one really comes for the food), everyone would be sick of it. Sunday dinner isn’t about the food—but it does matter.

Technically, writing isn’t about the fixings—but the fixings do matter.

If Grandma had everyone over and said there was no meal prepared, the mood would turn sour fast (behind the polite “Oh-it-doesn’t-matter”s. Even if something isn’t actually necessary, we notice (and experience varying levels of displeasure) when it’s missing.

You can write a story without creativity; it’s the bare bones and basics of what happened, like a bullet point list. Or, you can write a story with all the excellence of careful craftsmanship. The details of the story won’t change—but the reader’s enjoyment will be far greater.

Everyone wants to read a well written story, even and balanced. The details without the colors are monotonous; the colors without the details are frivolous.

Write colors into your details, like a good Sunday Dinner. Your readers will thank you.

 

What colors do you write with?

Making it Matter—P6

6 Steps to creating something that matters:

Find other people who care about the same things, and work with them: 

Nothing fuels synergy like a common passion. Working with someone who loves the same thing as you not only gives energy, but also fuels creativity. There are twice as many ideas, twice as much excitement, twice the brain power to catch errors and mistakes. Usually the creator has blind spots—working on something long and hard takes concentration and effort, and by the time you’ve completed a project, you’ve made it as perfect as you can. Someone else who comes along can spot a problem from a mile away, and if you’re humble and willing to accept correction, they can help brainstorm a solution.

Sometimes it’s hard to work with people who are just like you; they might remind you of yourself, and it’s not always pleasant to be confronted with all of your qualities (both positive and negative) mirrored in another. But the extra vantage point and different maturity levels are indispensable. You may feel like you’re alone in your passion—but you’d be surprised how many people care about the same things, if you just look for them.

There are several benefits to creating together. We can create more, faster. We don’t burn out from isolation. We think of different ideas, bigger ideas, ideas that one person can’t do alone but two can do together.

Create together. Though it may be scary, it’s worth it.