Satisfaction Not Guaranteed

I never know what will happen when I sit down before dawn and take up my pen. Yes, I still begin a writing project with pen and paper. Usually, the room is quiet but for ambient bird noise or the upstairs tenant doing dishes. Occasionally, I turn on classical music. Mostly though, I hear a running commentary in my head, often a scared voice telling me that this idea is weak, it won't work, people will laugh or look at me with blank faces, not understanding what I want to tell them. Then a different voice says, "Oh, go ahead. Just try it. It's not like you have to share this piece if it doesn't turn out well. After all, you have plenty of paper and a box of pens. Go on, write something." If I'm starting a short story, I often begin by describing the scene from a distance, getting my bearings in the environment, looking at what might happen in such a place. This week the place was a rented room in a tenement, similar to the historic one I once visited in New York. I wondered who would live there, what kind of people they might be. I sort of had it in mind to write a love story. Not a very romantic setting for that. But people love and hate one another in all sorts of places.

Pretty soon I heard a line of dialog from the narrator, and that was what it took. I knew he was an interesting guy and could see how he fit into that room. And how he related to his lover. I think the story works, not that any of us ever quite knows what that means, but it has stayed with me for about 36 hours now, like the memory of a good film. I still see Daniel and Ana in that place and feel their estrangement. No it's not a feel good, Cinderella story, but it does seem authentic. And for me that's what matters, that I met a couple of people with realistic strengths and weaknesses, and a hint of the impossible. No one else has seen it yet, so my satisfaction might be a form of motherly pride in another newborn, however wrinkled and innocuous. But this story would not have survived if I had listened to that doubting voice and not to the one who says, "Hey, you've done this before. Trust the process. What if . . . ?" So, I'm watching the snow blow past the window, wondering if I'll meet any interesting characters today, whether they live in New York tenements from the late 1800's or a futuristic biosphere with Pierrot paint on their faces. Some of my best friends are invisible.

A New Mission

Yesterday I met with the new manager of my local independent bookstore, and came away excited. Something I have dreamed about for years is about to be realized: a writers' haven where we can engage in real conversation and events that interest us, a welcome oasis in the sea of commercialism. We plan to have, every other Sunday, a couple of hours devoted to things we like--talking, listening, learning about writing, reading, and the books we still love despite the techno revolution that both connects and separates us. I like the computer world, but I also like people I can shake hands with, look in the eyes, hear the timber of their voices, drink tea with, let conversation flow and dance, and relax in the company of my peers.

I used to think I wanted to own a writers' B&B, still do, sort of, but in addition to being a poet, I am a practical person who knows the value of her own meager funds and the energy required to run a business. So now my business is helping Nancy K. get this store-front refuge up and going. We'll concentrate on our community, try to meet and serve those who labor at their desks in our part of Colorado, whether the world confers success on them or not. This is not about stardom, but about the joys and sorrows, the tricks and traps of the writing life and sharing them with others who are there, have been there, want to go there--here. Yes, here. And for those of you who still believe--I walked into Nancy's store in search of a particular dictionary, such a writerly thing to do. Within five minutes, we were dreaming big and recognized a common approach and a commitment to "build community among writers, readers, and book lovers." Get your calendars ready. We are off and running!

Hooray for an Audience

How can I tell you the appreciation I feel for my audience, any audience? Last evening I took to my writing group a short-short story that I was worried about because it was set in a specific era, and it featured a naive narrator, one who does not know what the audience/reader knows. How though, does one create that setting in an economical way and not leave the reader wondering what the heck is going on? First, I had to do my homework, my research, and make fairly certain that I knew what I was writing about. In this case, I had to have at least a rudimentary knowledge of both Celtic mythology and immigration into New York in the late 1800's. The mythology was interesting and somewhat familiar, as my first book of poems stems from that tradition. The immigration piece came out of my genealogy work on my own Irish ancestors. Anything can be grist for the writer, though sometimes information is more gristle than grist.

Packing all of this back story and lively characterization and dialogue into 700 words was a challenge, and I knew I did not have an objective view of it to see if I'd pulled it off. Well, I did. Mostly. Those in the group who had no background in mythology were left behind, but most of the people got it. I even saw that knowing gleam in our facilitator's eyes as she linked her mind to the story and knew what I knew, what the first-person narrator did not know, that she was talking to a god-figure who had appeared on the sidewalks of New York. What fun! There are, as I've probably said before, three high points in writing--one, when you get that tickle in the brain that says you're onto something worth writing about; two, when an audience responds the way you hope; and three, when an objective editor says yes!

Meandering toward a book

Well, finally, it looks like my new poetry book, The Great Hunger, will appear soon from Plain View Press. I'm waiting for the cover design. The galley proofs are done. These things always take longer than we anticipate, but it will be worth the wait. Although, once it's set and sold, the chance of embarrassment increases. It's too late to refine and revise; it's time to, as Valery said, abandon the poems, let them try their wings, fly out of the nest, and all those other cliched descriptions of letting go, like raising children and sending them out into the world still a little green, raw, unfinished. I'd like to think the work is as good as I can make it, but that niggling thought still pops into my head, "Oh, no! It's still not good enough." Too late, too late!

Time then to concentrate on the business end of writing--getting a list together of people who might be interested in reviewing the work (however ragged it may seem to me), another list of those who might buy the book, including book stores, and a guest list for the launch party. I have a place in mind, one I am told will be available, and a fabulous singer-song writer--Frank Gregg--who will play for the guests. I know where I'll get the big boxes of coffee and where to find a punch bowl. I'm rehearsing, sort of,  the thanks to the people who helped, my version of the Academy speech, though less glamorous. Well, knowing me and my friends, it'll be a lot less glamorous but way more fun. This is not my first book, but it's the youngest, and the baby always gets the bulk of ones attention. I just hope this kid behaves and doesn't spit up on someone's best jeans.

Who Listens to Poets?

Poets have long been a tiny part of our national life, no matter how we wish it to be otherwise, or tell each other how important it is. On the other hand, American poetry is booming in its own twisted way. Rap, cowboy poetry, slams, workshops, readings, and graduate programs abound. We have hundreds of on-line and print publications to keep up with. (Wow, I just ended that sentence with two prepositions, and I'm proud of it.) If you want a visual of that list, go to www.clmp.org and look at their member list. CLMP stands for Council of Literary Magazines and Presses. In my own corner of the world I can attend four poetry readings a month, most of them small but fervent. I found four huge shelves of poetry books at my almost-local B&N this week, so many that I had to make choices about how to spend my book allowance. Yup, it's a good time to be an American poet. We are free to write sonnets or free verse, language poems or narratives, short, long, serious or light. I can go dizzy just thinking about the many sizes of poetry.

And if I'm dizzy, what happens to the newcomers? Where can a newly outed poet go for solace in this chaos? I think they go to friends, or they make friends with other poets, maybe those who have been around a while. They listen and talk, they scribble and erase, type and delete. They experiment. Experimentation is at the heart of American poetry. Since Walt Whitman and the Belle of Amherst broke the tight-fitting rules, we have each been allowed to choose our mentors and our heroes. If I tried to list the poets I hold in esteem, we'd never reach the end. An important factor in establishing such a list is, obviously, reading and listening to other poets, lots of them, to see what's available and what appeals to me. It means that I finally had the courage to face a mic and listen for whatever response I could get from a handful of people kind enough to listen to me. This dialog doesn't end. It's a life sentence with complicated cell mates and complex phrasing. Come on in, the water's fine.

Busy, Busy!

So much going on that I am, at times, befuddled. I have too many sticky notes on my desktop, too many projects that are not related to creative work, and too many domestic projects, not the least is planning for another move at the end of April. And April is poetry month! Being my own boss is lovely, giving me the option to schedule life with more flexibility than I've had in the past when students and/or patients required me to keep appointments and schedules. But the world runs on schedule, whether the trains do or not. (If you don't get that allusion, go to Wikepedia and look up Mussolini.) However, I do not get bored with such a list of things to attend to: civic responsibilities, teaching classes, taking part in poetry readings, editing contributions soon to be aired by The Cafe Review, and writing! I am still working my way through a pile of culled poems and finding what's worth saving, reworking, revising. This is deep work, challenging myself to see why a poem failed originally. Often it was laziness, haste, cowardice, little things like that. What I saw today when I dug deeper, was a pose that hid the anger over being "uncool" but loving my own life.

Here's this morning's revision, first the early version, then the latest:

Tired of Good Behavior

I want to throw away

this nodding smile,

this commerce and 

swap meet of courtesy 

for once. Be a punk.

Stop matching my socks.

Bras could go.

Tidy files could go,

rules and schedules.

Bag the day book.

Punks take pain

and ride it--

nose rings and tattoos.

Tear their clothes,

mix drab fabric.

Don't smile

or mind their mothers.

They break

windows and bones.

They don't shop around

because you can't save

what you don't have.

I'm a quarter punk now,

ready to take on

the constant chaos

that frees us.

The Uncool

How do you do? I have holes

in my earlobes, none in my tongue.

My jeans are intact. They fit at the hip.

I'm not even one quarter punk,

but descend from a tailored tribe.

We match our socks and

do not love pain, not even our own.

The family crest flaunts

a black day book on a white field.

We shop around, atavars

of the gatherers we were. We purr,

swap smile for smile, trade hello

and how-are-you, dare to open

fists and doors. We vote. We don't

enlist in the army of chaos.

We have evolved beyond the age of

mutilation. It's not all about God,

but where you left your keys,

where you left your kids and not

dragging dead bodies through dark halls.

We are the diurnal middle class.

Discovery and Poetry

For several weeks now I have been cleaning out my poetry notebook and deciding which pieces are worth revision and which ones need to be tossed, maybe gleaning a line or two to store in the journal. Throwing away poems used to feel like treason; how could I just crumple a poem that had tickled my brain and grown from a little phrase into a living piece of art? Easily when I gained enough perspective to recognize the difference between art and artifact. Artifact as in static, noise, unimportant background that masks the real message. My friend Merrell used to tell me there was a difference between a clever poem and a good poem. And he had the guts to say that to my face when I lost my edge, not an unusual event. I still take his advice, although we have not talked in years. As I ripen, I am more willing to see that some poems just don't have the guts to say what they mean. I have learned to question the cute, easy, superficial lines and images that might entertain me, but that teach me nothing. They are all pose, not poetry. There's no discovery there.

Often, the urge to make a poem comes from that ticklish phrase or image that snags my attention, and I get caught in it. So caught that I forget to take a risk, look deeper at why that particular bit of language or sensory input tugs on my sleeve and pesters me to come out and play. Impish or angelic, these sniggles want my full attention; they want to show me something I didn't know, or remind me of something I know but don't want to think about. Cleverness can be a good thing, if it leads to real insight, like an attractive sign leading to an overlook where we can see for miles. Often those miles are really years, and the view is of ourselves or those we love or thought we loved. Then, and only then, is a real poem on the page. Joseph Campbell, the great mythologist, described the hero's journey as dark, lonely, risky, and fruitful. We can all be poet-heroes if we dare.