![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The DEVIL made me do it
May. 8th, 2005 06:43 pm"The DEVIL made me do it!!!"
"The DEVIL made me buy this dress, and these ill-fitting shoes, and neglect my duties, and spend all that money and time on eBay buying art rubber stamps and old Bobby Darin LPs and Starburst pottery! The DEVIL told me to get this car and ranch and motorhome!! And not to work on my book, and to neglect my journal/weblog for a month, causing several regular correspondents (and an untold number of irregular ones) to wonder where I had got off to! When I did all that and never even got off at alL!"
"Yes . . . but, dear . . . you aren't supposed to LISTEN to the Devil. He can carry on all he pleases, but YOU are supposed to resist temptation! So you're still at fault."
"Rats."
- - -
I'm going to tell you, FOR FREE, a piece of advice that came out of a very expensive corporate job-changing seminar that the company my cousin works for sent their newly laid-off people to. (Mighty decent of them, wunnit?! 'Cause there is no such thing as outplacement in their industry. It's just slowly dying out.)
This one concept will save you lots of money and time and may well be the epiphany you need.
"If you can figure out how to turn your childhood play into a career path, you'll always be happy."
Well, OK. What did I do as a child? As a "lonely only," I was in a world of kneecaps. (On the floor, as in "Sugar and Spike" and later the imitator "Rugrats" cartoon.) Among serious adults who ignored me and told me, "Run along and play." "Why don't you play outside?" and "Go read some of your books or find something to do."
My mother was a Donna Reed/June Cleaver so far as housekeeping and cooking. She had a maid who came every weekday, and Mama worked right alongside Gertrude or Idell. They kept the house perfect, cleaning from one end to the other and then turning around and cleaning their way back. She cooked gourmet meals and threw elegant, wonderful parties for my dad's business contacts and friends. She took care of me and my grandmother and my dad. Yet she didn't get down on the floor and have a lot of time to play with me. I was isolated in many ways (the neighborhood kids were much younger and way more immature . . . and not the brightest crayons in the box, to boot), and I wasn't an athlete (so I didn't want to ride my bike aimlessly for hours, as the neighborhood boys usually did, or just go to the country club/neighborhood swimming pool all day in the summer, as most everyone else did once we were around eight years old and allowed to roam on our own.)
So . . . As a little girl I made up stories. I lived by fantasy, and my stuffed animals and dolls were my living companions. I also had an imaginary friend and occasional visits from Casper, the friendly ghost (who worked out well because no one could see him anyway.) I told long, involved stories. I usually had one best friend who was willing to go along with my imaginative play, and whenever that friend was over, we'd construct an elaborate world. Whether it was with Barbie dolls (somewhat more sophisticated play) or a teddy bears' tea party and picnic, we were immersed in story and the creation of story. Many of my friends were co-creators of these fantasy worlds. Others just went along, but were happily cooperative. Sometimes I had more than one best friend (but, oddly enough, they usually didn't get along with each other, so I'd have either one or the other over to the house at a time.)
When my mother did allow us into her world, it was for art projects and to make things. We would have several friends (daughters and sons of her friends, sometimes) over and get up to our elbows in papier-mache stuff (newspaper that you soaked in this glue material that you refrigerated for some reason . . . ack!). Making bracelets (bangles that we'd decorate with coiled string that we spray-painted or with large glued-on polished stones or just acrylic paints). Large elaborate poppies or sunflowers that stood stiffly up in the corner in an umbrella stand painted with Mod/Pop Art colors. (Mama's colors were avocado green and bright, bright oranges and rust tones.) We'd make tissue paper flowers, mosettes (pictures made with pebbles, usually with Oriental themes), faux stained glass. When my grandmother came to live with us, we often baked things in my Easy-Bake Oven (back then in the 1960s, it used a sixty-watt bulb and really cooked! Now they aren't as hot and don't do as good a job.) We also made many, many, MANY cookies and cakes in the "real" oven. My grandmother was lame from a failed hip operation, but would get around the kitchen fine with her walker and specially made metal crutches, and by holding on to the appliances. We always made very elaborate recipes.
The other activity (aside from school, piano, and reading reading reading) that I remember is Girl Scouts. We made things, helped other kids make things, stuck our artworks up on the wall. We did clay, glass, whatever you can possibly make. Ugly stuff, but we were proud of it.
Then I got old enough to help my grandmother sew and do her embroidery and needlepoint. I never was very good at it myself, but I could see that it was a channel for her creativity, a creative outlet that was approved by society.
She and I would save box tops and send off for all kinds of free premiums (I am sure we had everything that Cap'n Crunch ever offered, including several propeller beanies and a plastic miner's hat with a flashlight on the top that I wish I still had for going into the attic and into several of our closets, worse than Fibber McGee's.) We hoarded things like maps and government recipe booklets.
I also signed up for pen pals through a professor friend of my dad's who ran the University of Minnesota program of worldwide pen-pals. Every day I'd run to the mailbox to see who had written from Japan, Germany, or Canada (I never did get anyone steady from South America or any of the Esperanto pals, which was what our professor friend was really into--he wrote to dozens of people behind the then-Iron Curtain in Esperanto, the world language. I never did learn much of it, although he sent me several books [books that I wish I had now for sentimental reasons, but that my dumdum MAMA, happy Mother's day to you indeed, "lent" to an idiot boyfriend of mine and he promptly "lost" them, dangitall])
So ANYway (and what was I talking about again?), I have spent my ENTIRE life (some might say mis-spent) reading, writing e-mail or diaries or school papers or novels, and making up stories.
I've been told that I could probably make money writing reviews and perhaps by doing classes trying to help other people be creative. But mostly people tell me I could make money teaching math. It doesn't look good for my so-called writing career, frankly, from a practical standpoint, because I can't engage any editors or agents. I write for a generation that is long past, apparently; I wrote things that thrilled and excited my teachers and professors in years long past, and it appears that now all of my old "mentor" types have yielded their positions to young editors who were born after I graduated from high school and who don't care for my style or plots.
Whatever. I have proven that I "need" to make up stories and I "need" to play piano, because when I stopped doing those things, my blood pressure went up and I started being way more clumsy and feeling angry and confused and upset. The other day I just walked in there and PLAYED my classical repertoire and played by ear for a couple of hours, and I could feel my blood pressure going down. So although it may be a waste of time in terms of "getting this house remodeled and straightened up" or losing weight or what-have-you, I need to do these useless acts of self-expression that may or may not seem like "art" to anyone else.
Or even to me.
It's interesting that I liked playing with others only a part of the time as a child, and liked being on my own well enough, never feeling bored. When I did get a chance to be with others, I made the most of it, turning on my "cheerleader" personality and learning how to appear to be an extravert like them. The rest of the time I could just be the weird freaky INTP that I am.
My husband doesn't seem to care if I'm an INTP at home. He kind of enjoys the cheerleader act, though, as well. Often he has remarked on my ability to work a room. But the secret is that I soon run out of energy for that, and have to withdraw to my cave to recharge. And usually write down all the little things I noticed people saying and doing that would go great in my next novel, either as minor business, characterization, or part of the plot.
* * *
This quotation, seen on a rubber stamp, managed to piss me off the other day:
"Butterflies count not months but moments and yet have time enough." This little piece of idiocy masquerading as mock-philosophy was attributed to Rabindranath Tagore. HA, so, Tagore, have you ASKED a butterfly if that is enough?!?! You stupid git! If you didn't ASK, you don't KNOW!!! The butterfly has NO bloody clue that it's about to croak . . . here it is, fluttering around, and suddenly it begins to feel a little light-headed . . . decides to perch on this branch over here until the feeling passes . . . what do you THINK it would say if you asked it, "How 'bout a couple more months, heh?" What do YOU think?!?!?! *gnash*
Sure, sure. What they were trying to do is update Horace. "Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero." "Seize the day, trust as little as possible in tomorrow." (Horace) "Time passes, seize the day." Time's winged chariot is honking, getting into the fast lane as we grow older. Pay attention! Use this very moment!!!
I already know to do that. It's tough enough for me. Don't talk to me about those poor little butterflies.
"The DEVIL made me buy this dress, and these ill-fitting shoes, and neglect my duties, and spend all that money and time on eBay buying art rubber stamps and old Bobby Darin LPs and Starburst pottery! The DEVIL told me to get this car and ranch and motorhome!! And not to work on my book, and to neglect my journal/weblog for a month, causing several regular correspondents (and an untold number of irregular ones) to wonder where I had got off to! When I did all that and never even got off at alL!"
"Yes . . . but, dear . . . you aren't supposed to LISTEN to the Devil. He can carry on all he pleases, but YOU are supposed to resist temptation! So you're still at fault."
"Rats."
I'm going to tell you, FOR FREE, a piece of advice that came out of a very expensive corporate job-changing seminar that the company my cousin works for sent their newly laid-off people to. (Mighty decent of them, wunnit?! 'Cause there is no such thing as outplacement in their industry. It's just slowly dying out.)
This one concept will save you lots of money and time and may well be the epiphany you need.
Well, OK. What did I do as a child? As a "lonely only," I was in a world of kneecaps. (On the floor, as in "Sugar and Spike" and later the imitator "Rugrats" cartoon.) Among serious adults who ignored me and told me, "Run along and play." "Why don't you play outside?" and "Go read some of your books or find something to do."
My mother was a Donna Reed/June Cleaver so far as housekeeping and cooking. She had a maid who came every weekday, and Mama worked right alongside Gertrude or Idell. They kept the house perfect, cleaning from one end to the other and then turning around and cleaning their way back. She cooked gourmet meals and threw elegant, wonderful parties for my dad's business contacts and friends. She took care of me and my grandmother and my dad. Yet she didn't get down on the floor and have a lot of time to play with me. I was isolated in many ways (the neighborhood kids were much younger and way more immature . . . and not the brightest crayons in the box, to boot), and I wasn't an athlete (so I didn't want to ride my bike aimlessly for hours, as the neighborhood boys usually did, or just go to the country club/neighborhood swimming pool all day in the summer, as most everyone else did once we were around eight years old and allowed to roam on our own.)
So . . . As a little girl I made up stories. I lived by fantasy, and my stuffed animals and dolls were my living companions. I also had an imaginary friend and occasional visits from Casper, the friendly ghost (who worked out well because no one could see him anyway.) I told long, involved stories. I usually had one best friend who was willing to go along with my imaginative play, and whenever that friend was over, we'd construct an elaborate world. Whether it was with Barbie dolls (somewhat more sophisticated play) or a teddy bears' tea party and picnic, we were immersed in story and the creation of story. Many of my friends were co-creators of these fantasy worlds. Others just went along, but were happily cooperative. Sometimes I had more than one best friend (but, oddly enough, they usually didn't get along with each other, so I'd have either one or the other over to the house at a time.)
When my mother did allow us into her world, it was for art projects and to make things. We would have several friends (daughters and sons of her friends, sometimes) over and get up to our elbows in papier-mache stuff (newspaper that you soaked in this glue material that you refrigerated for some reason . . . ack!). Making bracelets (bangles that we'd decorate with coiled string that we spray-painted or with large glued-on polished stones or just acrylic paints). Large elaborate poppies or sunflowers that stood stiffly up in the corner in an umbrella stand painted with Mod/Pop Art colors. (Mama's colors were avocado green and bright, bright oranges and rust tones.) We'd make tissue paper flowers, mosettes (pictures made with pebbles, usually with Oriental themes), faux stained glass. When my grandmother came to live with us, we often baked things in my Easy-Bake Oven (back then in the 1960s, it used a sixty-watt bulb and really cooked! Now they aren't as hot and don't do as good a job.) We also made many, many, MANY cookies and cakes in the "real" oven. My grandmother was lame from a failed hip operation, but would get around the kitchen fine with her walker and specially made metal crutches, and by holding on to the appliances. We always made very elaborate recipes.
The other activity (aside from school, piano, and reading reading reading) that I remember is Girl Scouts. We made things, helped other kids make things, stuck our artworks up on the wall. We did clay, glass, whatever you can possibly make. Ugly stuff, but we were proud of it.
Then I got old enough to help my grandmother sew and do her embroidery and needlepoint. I never was very good at it myself, but I could see that it was a channel for her creativity, a creative outlet that was approved by society.
She and I would save box tops and send off for all kinds of free premiums (I am sure we had everything that Cap'n Crunch ever offered, including several propeller beanies and a plastic miner's hat with a flashlight on the top that I wish I still had for going into the attic and into several of our closets, worse than Fibber McGee's.) We hoarded things like maps and government recipe booklets.
I also signed up for pen pals through a professor friend of my dad's who ran the University of Minnesota program of worldwide pen-pals. Every day I'd run to the mailbox to see who had written from Japan, Germany, or Canada (I never did get anyone steady from South America or any of the Esperanto pals, which was what our professor friend was really into--he wrote to dozens of people behind the then-Iron Curtain in Esperanto, the world language. I never did learn much of it, although he sent me several books [books that I wish I had now for sentimental reasons, but that my dumdum MAMA, happy Mother's day to you indeed, "lent" to an idiot boyfriend of mine and he promptly "lost" them, dangitall])
So ANYway (and what was I talking about again?), I have spent my ENTIRE life (some might say mis-spent) reading, writing e-mail or diaries or school papers or novels, and making up stories.
I've been told that I could probably make money writing reviews and perhaps by doing classes trying to help other people be creative. But mostly people tell me I could make money teaching math. It doesn't look good for my so-called writing career, frankly, from a practical standpoint, because I can't engage any editors or agents. I write for a generation that is long past, apparently; I wrote things that thrilled and excited my teachers and professors in years long past, and it appears that now all of my old "mentor" types have yielded their positions to young editors who were born after I graduated from high school and who don't care for my style or plots.
Whatever. I have proven that I "need" to make up stories and I "need" to play piano, because when I stopped doing those things, my blood pressure went up and I started being way more clumsy and feeling angry and confused and upset. The other day I just walked in there and PLAYED my classical repertoire and played by ear for a couple of hours, and I could feel my blood pressure going down. So although it may be a waste of time in terms of "getting this house remodeled and straightened up" or losing weight or what-have-you, I need to do these useless acts of self-expression that may or may not seem like "art" to anyone else.
Or even to me.
It's interesting that I liked playing with others only a part of the time as a child, and liked being on my own well enough, never feeling bored. When I did get a chance to be with others, I made the most of it, turning on my "cheerleader" personality and learning how to appear to be an extravert like them. The rest of the time I could just be the weird freaky INTP that I am.
My husband doesn't seem to care if I'm an INTP at home. He kind of enjoys the cheerleader act, though, as well. Often he has remarked on my ability to work a room. But the secret is that I soon run out of energy for that, and have to withdraw to my cave to recharge. And usually write down all the little things I noticed people saying and doing that would go great in my next novel, either as minor business, characterization, or part of the plot.
This quotation, seen on a rubber stamp, managed to piss me off the other day:
"Butterflies count not months but moments and yet have time enough." This little piece of idiocy masquerading as mock-philosophy was attributed to Rabindranath Tagore. HA, so, Tagore, have you ASKED a butterfly if that is enough?!?! You stupid git! If you didn't ASK, you don't KNOW!!! The butterfly has NO bloody clue that it's about to croak . . . here it is, fluttering around, and suddenly it begins to feel a little light-headed . . . decides to perch on this branch over here until the feeling passes . . . what do you THINK it would say if you asked it, "How 'bout a couple more months, heh?" What do YOU think?!?!?! *gnash*
Sure, sure. What they were trying to do is update Horace. "Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero." "Seize the day, trust as little as possible in tomorrow." (Horace) "Time passes, seize the day." Time's winged chariot is honking, getting into the fast lane as we grow older. Pay attention! Use this very moment!!!
I already know to do that. It's tough enough for me. Don't talk to me about those poor little butterflies.
