Francisco's Journal an author discusses the art of writing

February 18, 2009

The Writer as Carpenter

Filed under: Craftsmanship,memories,Writing — Francisco Stork @ 4:33 am

Craftsmanship is the how of writing. It is the part of writing that can be practiced and learned. The writer is artist, true. He or she possesses the artistic impulse. But the writer must also be a craftsman. She must know how to measure the wood and how to cut it and where it can be nailed and how to make a house or a cabinet by following rules that will provide for the cabinet to open and the house to stay up. I like talking about craftsmanship because it tends to deflate our highfalutin notions of what writing is all about. The less highfalutin your notions about writing and about yourself the more and the better you will write. Think of yourself, if you must think of yourself at all, as a person learning a trade. If you are starting out, you are an apprentice. If you have been doing it for a while, you are an experienced craftsman who must challenge herself with every task and still learning. But here is the key point I want to make. In the eyes of God, I don’t think that being a writer is any more special, any better than being a carpenter. In the eyes of God, writing a book and building a table are equally good. What counts is the care and the love and patience that went into the making. What counts is the talents that are expressed in the creation. It’s good now and then to try to see the way God would see.

I am not a good carpenter. When I was in first grade in Mexico, I was so bad when it came to doing crafts, that the teacher would let me tell the class stories whenever the class worked on a project I would sit on a stool in the front of the class and make up a story on-the-go as the class made wooden clowns that you could roll on the ground with a long wooden stick. I’m not sure any of my classmates were envious of me up there, but I was envious of them. Now I think that my classmates and I were just using a different medium. Be a carpenter of words.

November 6, 2008

Unknown Seeds

Filed under: memories,Upcoming Work,Writing — Francisco Stork @ 8:46 pm

One of the questions that I am asked by people who have read the “advanced review copies” of Marcelo in the Real World is what inspired me to write about a young man like Marcelo. I am not sure that we are ever able to accurately pinpoint the origins of an idea. We carry a seed within us. It came to us when we were a child perhaps. Then one day something happens and the seed presents itself to our consciousness and we water it with attention and we make it grow. When I was a boy growing up in Mexico, I would buy every Sunday a comic book called “Vidas Ilustres” or “Illustrious Lives”. The comic book presented each week the life of a different saint. I collected hundreds of these and the lives of saints filled me with visions of heroism and sacrifice. Was this the seed that forty-five years later turned into the story of a pure, saint-like young man who spends his time reading the holy books? During my senior year at Spring Hill College I lived in a L’Arche community, a Christian community where people with developmental disabilities and “normal” staff lived together with as few barriers between them as possible. Was this the seed that thirty-eight years later turned into the story of a young man diagnosed as having Asperger’s Syndrome? I can try to answer as best I can what inspired me to write Marcelo in the Real World – but my answer in the end will be a guess. The wind blows where it wills. We carry within us seeds placed there by the life we lead. And then one day the seeds present themselves to us gently or forcefully and will us to make them grow with life.

April 28, 2008

Rain

Filed under: memories — Francisco Stork @ 6:44 pm

The rain on this April evening reminds of my grandfather’s house in Tampico, Mexico, where I grew up. It is the sound of the rain on the roof of the house. The soft light of the lamp falling on the book. Mostly I think the memories come from the combination of sound and warmth. In my grandfather’s house, la casa de mi abuelito, the roof was made of tin and so the rain made sounds that, depending on the force of the rain, resembled anything from dozen ballerinas tip toeing to a million marbles dropping out of a big bag in the sky. Even as a six-year-old, I liked the rain. I liked it when it rained so hard that the noise absorbed all my thoughts and there was this delicious mixture of fear and safety. Inevitably, during those hard rain storms, the lights would go out. Then, the kerosene lamps were lit and there was complete immersion in all the senses: the sound of the rain, the smell of kerosene, the shadows cast by the flickering flames. If it was too early to go to sleep, then we would all sit in the living room, listening, maybe saying a word here and there. A word or two now and then was all that was needed.

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