07/27/2016

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We write because we must; it’s what we writers do. It’s a calling. What we write about is sometimes humorous, light, and uplifting, or sometimes serious and fraught with meaning, or some of both. We can only write from who we are– even in fiction, because that’s what we’ve been given, and so that’s what we have to give. It might not be everybody’s cup of tea.

Reading a book is a journey we take in consciousness. There have been a few books I’ve started to read and then stopped, because I realized I didn’t want to take that particular journey. Intuition, that little voice from the inside, told me there might be glimpses of truth I wasn’t ready for yet, or things that would hurt me or reopen old wounds, and so I chose not to go there. The little voice inside is always my best guide. Sometimes it says No, not now” and later it may say yes, or it may not. Everybody has that little voice. The book I’m writing now, a memoir, has some dark passages. A few old friends who started to read it, stopped when they got to the hard parts.

Of course I want everybody to love my book, but I know that not everybody will. Books that tell the truth will always be uncomfortable in places. Like life, books take some commitment, courage, and pushing on through.

This book has claimed me, it is my calling. I can see clearly now, that all the events of my life, even the worst of them, have had a purpose, and what I’ve learned from them, I have a duty to share. The time has come to do the work, and I have said yes to the calling.


06/10/2016

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I’ve been told that some of my stories are incomplete in form. They don’t have the standard type of plot-arc and resolution.  “Where are you going with these?” They say. “These are just sketches.” (Interesting– That’s what the art critics and academicians of the 1890’s said about Claude Monet, who now in countless art history books is called “the Father of Impressionism.”)

If my stories don’t fit the formula for maximum sales, and if they only offer a glimpse of a life, a sudden vivid picture, is that a bad thing? Does that make them valueless? Is there only one formula?

I was trained as a painter as my first career. I’m not painting now, but I’m still who I was; I am an artist. And if I am an artist, why would I not make pictures? To the artist, a wonderful picture is enough

The sketches and preliminary drawings by Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, and the seemingly “sketchy” spontaneous paintings of Monet, all have the freshness and magic of the captured moment. They have an uncontrived honesty and essence that the formal “finished” paintings of their era do not have. There is a feeling of movement and life-energy in these artists’ “sketches.” No one today would criticize them as being “not art.“

I think that this essence was what the Impressionists were seeking, and later the abstract action painters were also. That ineffable something, the spirit of the thing, the ghost within the image that makes the life of it visible. Not the technical aspect of it, but the spirit of it, just for an instant becoming knowable without intellect, and recognizable without name. The Thing Itself, in a glimmer of light, for an instant.

Nobody knows exactly what it means; nobody needs to. There is something innate in it that touches something in us. We don’t need to dissect it, just experience it.

You can read my chapbook: Inchworms: Essays, Sketches and Stories.
1. At my blog, Writer to Writer,  http://w2w.victoriachames.com/ Click on WORKS in the header menu.
2. You can buy the E-book at Smashwords.com/ Enter the searchword:  Inchworms.
3. And Inchworms is so available at Apple iBooks and Barnes & Noble.


05/21/2016

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I am “growing into” the idea and image of a writer’s life. This is slow and not entirely comfortable, but the discomfort and distance are gradually diminishing. When I was doing my art, young and in college, and even more so when I took it up again forty years later, everywhere I looked I saw art – compositions of line and shape and color, patterns taking form like poems of vision. Everywhere I looked, I saw art offering itself.

Now that I’ve begun to seriously write, everywhere I look I see words and stories; they form into pictures and colors and thoughts and rich feelings, manifesting in this form. But now I am making more than pictures or pieces of visual art; I am building something, or at least that’s what I’m seeking to do, or it is seeking me.

Writing this book, I’m building a dimensional structure that has volume and depth and spaces that can be inhabited or traveled through– places that someone else can journey through, not with me of course; it is too late for that, but after me.

When I read about Vincent van Gogh’s life, I could feel the deep existential loneliness of it. He was given so little, except genius. Very little skill or aptitude for navigating the physical world, but instead an astonishing soul and inner life that tortured him and demanded to be expressed.

And so he did that – expressed his gifts into his life and his world that so tragically rejected it, and rejected him. He had a few artist friends who respected him, even though they were as puzzled by his nature as everyone else was, and a brother who was probably the only one in his life who ever loved him. All of the others living in his world, in his time, could not understand or accept either his mind or his art. Now the whole world does, and his paintings that were all unsold in his lifetime, now are sold and resold and resold for hundreds of millions of dollars.

“It’s just as well,” my grandmother would say (who was very wise). He couldn’t have handled the strain, the challenges, and the emotions of success or fame; he could barely handle (and some would say not) the small solitary life he had, in the physical world, because his soul’s life was so immense.

He was never comfortable in his body or in his identity as an artist. I am not yet comfortable with the identity of “writer” as a life purpose, but I recognize that it has claimed me. I know my soul is in on this, and resistance will ultimately be futile and only waste time. And so, for better or for worse, I surrender.


05/20/2016

more I see

This morning the sky is blue, but winds are heaving massive branches of the big oak tree, swaying them up and down, side to side in waves. A storm is coming.

I love to sit at the window with my morning coffee and my thoughts. It has been almost 5 years since I retired from the hospital Emergency Room where I worked for two decades, and yet it’s still an incredible luxury not to have to drag myself out of bed at 5:30 in the morning, throw myself together, and rush to work before 7 a.m. then work at high intensity and high-speed all day and come home both wired and dog-tired. My first action was always to kick off my shoes at the door and collapse into this same chair by the window to wait for my racing pulse to slow down, as I watched the twilight falling. On the days I worked at the hospital, I never saw the morning. On the days I didn’t work, I slept late, till 9 o’clock, and still missed the early light, so lovely, so gentle, and so quiet.

I’m writing the chapters about ER now. There are so many stories, and each one has its own message. The more I write, the more clearly I can see myself and the people who have walked part of the path of my life with me, or simply passed through the periphery of it. And the more I see, the more compassion I feel, for all of us.


05/06/2012

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by Victoria Chames, ©2011, reprinted by permission from the Blog: http://MoreAboutThis.wordpress.com
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You can’t write poetry on purpose. You can write verse, but that’s not poetry. Poetry when it’s real, is a thing that happens to you like love. You can’t make it happen, and you can’t stop it from happening. When it happens to you, it’s a gift, and you can either accept it or refuse it and walk away empty.

There are “forms” of poetry, like haiku, the sonnet, the epic poem, the quatrain, etc. People have tried to tame poetry and catch it in various kinds of boxes. It is less alive though, in captivity. It likes to have room to dance naked under the moon.

Poetry isn’t always beautiful and delicate, and it doesn’t have to be about love — just about Life. Life with a capital L. Poetry can be gentle or wild. When Carl Sandburg wrote about Chicago, literary critics were first shocked and offended. His poetry wasn’t about shepherd-boys and maidens on idyllic hillsides of wildflowers. It was about the meatpacking factories and iron foundries and train yards. It was exploding with Life.

No true poet makes poetry. It’s not a talent like a skill or craft, (though that could help.) When it comes, if it comes, it comes as a sudden gift, like a fluttering rush of startled birds taking flight. You can only catch a glimpse of it, and write down what ever you can capture of it. If you’re good with words, you might hone them a bit to better catch the picture of that moment, so somebody else might see it more clearly.

Poetry should create a real image in the mind of the reader or hearer. If there is no picture, that’s not poetry. It should bleed the feeling from the heart of the writer to the heart of the reader. If you read it and you don’t feel anything different, that’s not poetry.

The main thing about poetry you can always recognize it by is this: It’s always true. It’s not made up, and it doesn’t apologize for its honesty.

Poetry should capture something, and hold it, so it can be seen again, or felt again, by more than one human being. There must be something in it that is at the same time uniquely personal, and yet deeply recognizable by another human being who does not know the poet at all, and yet knows the feeling by heart.


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