Douglas Coupland's Five Rules for Writers

These are definitely rules to live by so I copy them here to refer to again and again.

1. Stop writing to impress your Lit 400 prof. Readers can smell it from the first sentence, and the last thing your lit teacher wants to see is a successful student. It's the most jealous profession on earth.

2. Write every day. Only hacks write when the spirit moves them.

3. Finish the goddamn book. Every year I meet maybe twenty people writing novels and not one of them has ever finished one. That's three hundred novels across fifteen years. Finish the book and you're practically published already.

4. Getting published doesn't change your life. If you're writing because you think being published will change your life in some way, stop immediately, because nothing changes.

5. Do you sound like yourself? If a committee of people who know you were given a thousand samples of writing and were asked to tell which one was yours, could they do it? If not, keep working.


"Five Rules for Writers" by Douglas Coupland can be found in Writer's Gym: Exercises and Training Tips for Writers, Eliza Clark (2007).

Fear

“Have pity on those who are fearful of taking up a pen, or a paintbrush, or an instrument, or a tool because they are afraid that someone has already done so better than they could…” (Excerpt from The Pilgrimage, Paulo Coelho)

I recently read these words and I absolutely connected to them. Often this feeling of fear and inadequacy overtakes me, stopping me from pursuing any creative outlets.

I wonder when the perfectionist in me took hold and decided that I could only go after things I was ‘good’ at. I seem to have had this feeling, this issue as far back as I could remember. I never quite learned that pursuing something - anything - of joy sometimes (oftentimes!) meant falling down along the way. That there are lessons taught from ‘failure’, particularly when failures and fears are overcome through perseverance.

As a child and young teen, I used to write solely for myself and occasionally a few creative pieces needed for school. I also dabbled in the viola, photography, and filmmaking. There was a definite point, though, when I looked around at my classmates and felt that I just did not measure up. What was the point of continuing these creative pursuits if I wasn’t going to be able to make a name for myself nor make money from them? 

Only now, 20 years later, am I starting to understand that I’ve done myself a disservice. If I enjoy doing something, I should Just Do It (Nike was right after all, who knew?)! Screw what others will think and that they are better at it than I am. That’s not the point.

My soul needs art. It doesn’t judge me – it wants me to explore and grow and be free from the constraints I place on myself. In unburdening myself of this fear, I move closer to my true self by being open to the lessons I have yet to learn.

Breeze

What is it that makes a breeze so comforting?

I rest my head on my notebook and feel the breeze tickle my hair and brush my pants against my legs. I feel the heat of the sun. I notice that in the silence, I hear crickets chirp, leaves rustle, and a faint chopping sound coming from the kitchen.

I hear the breeze first before I feel it. Almost like waves of leaves swaying, deeper and further way to closer and more urgent. It's a crescendo of sound until the very moment the breeze falls on my face. Then all becomes silent for just a moment before the symphony starts again.

I take a deep, satisfying breath when the breeze reaches me. There are hundreds of scents carried on its wings that I try to identify. I only manage to capture some of them before the feeling passes: a light sweetness from the nearby flowers; freshly baked bread - it's the brown sugar and yeast I smell; earthy brown leaves that tells me fall is coming; and something else - something clean and fresh - is that the breeze/air itself?

So going back to the question of why? It's simple. In these moments I feel. There aren't the usual to-do's running around in my head. I'm here. Now. This is what the present feels like: fresh, warm, sweet.

Portrait (revisited)

Feedback Request: Is this more effective as a poem?

He stands there.
Naked.
Raw emotions
racing behind his eyes.
Anger. Fear. Relief. Sadness. Uncertainty.
Rolling past
again
and again.
Like the spinning wheel on the Price is Right,
where it will finally land, nobody knows.

This is not a game to him, though.
You can tell by
the tightness in his jaw,
the slightly bent head,
the hands that flex
open
and close.

Somehow he looks
disheveled.
Like he's been up all night
without sleep,
even though only a couple of hours have
passed.

His shirt is un-tucked,
he's got stubble along his face,
and his skin looks dull.
He seems
shorter
than his usual six feet and as though
he's lost
weight.
Is it the stoop of his shoulders that makes me think this?

He looks so
alone.
I want to be
there
for him.

I hope he lets me into his
abyss
so that I can help him
find his way
out.

He
drops
the papers
in his lap
and
shakes
his head.
Mutters to himself.
Picks up the papers and reads through them again.

His past
and
his future
are
in his hands.

Portrait

He stands there, naked. Raw emotions racing behind his eyes. Anger. Fear. Relief. Sadness. Uncertainty. Rolling past again and again. Like the spinning wheel on the Price is Right, where it will finally land, nobody knows. This is not a game to him, though. You can tell by the tightness in his jaw, the slightly bent head, the hands that flex open and close.

Somehow he looks disheveled. Like he's been up all night without sleep, even though only a couple of hours have passed. His shirt is un-tucked, he's got stubble along his face, and his skin looks dull. He seems shorter than his usual six feet and as though he's lost weight. Is it the stoop of his shoulders that makes me think this?

He looks so alone. I want to be there for him. I hope he lets me into his abyss so that I can help him find his way out. He drops the papers in his lap and shakes his head. Mutters to himself. Picks up the papers and reads through them again. His past and his future are in his hands.

Terminated

I really feel for him. It can't be easy to be 'let go' or as his company says 'terminated.' Like death. He mourns yet is relieved. He's unsure yet hopeful. I think of it as a rebirth - he shouldn't have been in that toxic environment anyway. I honestly don't know how he lasted as long as he did. How did he endure the silence, the glares, the mocking tones, the dismissive comments? I hurt for him. Now I feel free and I can only hope he will soon feel that way too.

I worry about him. I need to be strong for him and positive and understand - not my strong suits most days. But now I know he needs me to be that for him. So I step up. He has a tendency to let these things bother him to the core. Shakes his confidence and his positive outlook. In those times, it's like he has no self-esteem. That's when I hug him tight, whisper "I love you", kiss his neck, crack a lame joke to try to make him smile, and say "you are talented and caring and you deserve better. We will be okay. You will be okay."

He keeps holding off telling his parents. Worried they will worry. I tell him that these are the things they want to know...he doesn't need to protect them...they will want to support him. I wonder if the real reason he doesn't want to tell them is that he's ashamed and doesn't want to be a loser in their eyes. No matter what I tell him, though, he can't shake that feeling. He hasn't said it out loud but we've been together for so long (14 years, wow!) that I see it in the hunch of his shoulders and the bare pain deep in his eyes. He doesn't yet understand there's nothing to be ashamed of. We just all want to show him love and strength and support so he gets through this unscathed.

It's his company that should be ashamed! What pricks. What assholes! That whole culture is so evil, so insidious, like cancer. It might not show up right away with any obvious signs, but it does it's damage day after day, where finally the body breaks down and shouts at you that something is wrong. I felt this for him, felt the cancer pounding on the door. It was just a matter of time.

In truth, though, I am ecstatic for him and for us. They are now essentially paying him to look for a new job. In the end, we have the last laugh. You bastards!

Travel

I'm sitting on a blue camping chair out on my front driveway, a promise to my husband to keep him company while he sands and scrapes and fills and paints and sands and paints again in order to get our behemoth of an SUV sold. Normally I'm shut up inside my house as he works, utterly uninterested in what he's doing. What do I know about cars anyway? But today is different. No, it's not our anniversary nor a birthday. I suppose it's something more than that or less than that depending on how you look at it. It's part of a realization that's been awakened in me. There's a reason I feel disconnected and alone and distant. I'm the reason. If I want love and friendship, well, I need to give it. I need to show up and experience the day. So that's what I'm doing here. Now.

Blue Rodeo is playing in the background and so is the breeze, a motorcycle, an airplane, a sander. The sun listens in, I can feel it's company on the back of my neck. This writing class I'm taking...I think is helping to open something up inside me. Awareness? I think so. Slowly.

I read Iver's thoughts on travel and I think, wow, he gets it! He captured the 'why' of my obsession and longing for travel - the 'why' I could never quite articulate. It's true, I travel to lose myself AND to find myself. I think it's also to find purpose in my life. Being part of the godless minority, I struggle to find meaning and purpose in my here and my then. When I travel I catch glimpses of it: time stands still, possibilities are endless, the air smells new, the earth feels connected, new buildings mixed with the old, art mixed with architecture, cobblestones with concrete. Our past, our present, our future all intersect.

Normally I get lost in the details of the day: get up, pee, shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, drive to work, grab a coffee, log in to my computer, check email, work and more work, take the GoBus home, throw my keys on the table, make dinner, watch tv. It's all routine with not much change in between.

When I travel, though, the day is my own. I can wake up when I want and then wander and explore all day long. I like to feel the location and the newness deep in my bones. I envy writers who can take that feeling and put it to paper. I wonder if in taking this class I can somehow learn to do that too. I wonder, is it a learned craft? Do I have a shot at it? Or, is it one of those 'you either have it or you don't' type of gifts?

Iver also writes that we travel to "open our hearts and eyes and learn more about the world." I wonder why I want to learn so much about the world. Why we *should* all want to learn about it. I think it's to expose our global humanity. To break down the 'them versus us' barriers. To understand the shared experience.