Tell Them...

I’ve completed the workshop I was taking. Turned in the last poem. A poem completely different from most of my other poems, but I like it and the possibilities that’s forming a waterspout in my head, as a result.

The workshop not only improved my writing, but got my writer’s juices flowing. I love the feel of stretching my skills and ideas and feelings. That’s probably the best thing about a workshop or class and a bonus aside from the learning.

More than anything I needed to give myself this gift of this class. It took me long enough, too. I think I’ll gift myself more often, too.

I have found that writers have a truck full of self-doubt. Understandable, too when so often the work is rejected or never seen by anyone besides family or friends who would never hurt your feelings.

You ask yourself if you can call yourself a writer if you haven’t sold anything or at least been published? Are you wasting time? All these thoughts are what I think help cause writer’s block.
Writer’s block is spirit block. Your spirit. You see day go by without feedback, another piece rejected, doubt in your skill. You wonder if you should try to write. Who will read you? Who wants to? You sink into depression and then, you can’t write.

Writing is a job where no one is waiting for your work and nobody cares if you don’t do it, but you.

Don’t allow those thoughts in. Fight them—each and every one with everything you got. Observe, believe, feel and keep your mind on your work. Don’t give your fears fuel by spending time on them. Don’t give your self-doubt listening time. Just keep typing.

Type anything. Type in your journal. Type about why you write, what’s important about it to you. Type something you’ve written before. Write another writer to encourage them. Tell them how terrible it was when the words were stuck in your head and you couldn’t get them down. How you felt a little crazy and a lot sad. Write to them telling them how you didn’t know what you would do if you couldn’t write and that all that really mattered was the writing, not the publishing or selling.

Tell them that even if what you want to say doesn’t end up on the page, that’s what rewriting is for and rewriting is what writing is really about. Tell them that interruptions and distractions will always be there, so you must just learned to write amongst them. Tell them writers must and should persist. Tell them all writers (even Steven King) have had doubts, but he writes on despite…Tell them that writers write in spite of all that. Tell them… like I’m doing now

Change

Don’t they say the only thing you can count on is change? Truth be told, I hate change. Always have. I married a guy with a wrong career for that, a railroad conductor, and I’ve been struggling against it ever since(fighting against it is a better term) You probably can tell just how much I hate change from how often I talk about life being Plan B. I try to keep that in the forward quarter of my mind to keep things in better perspective. No matter how well you plan your life, it just isn’t going to go along exactly as you plan. So just don’t fight it.

And no, this really isn’t another boring blogs of mine about plan b. It is about change but change writers have complete control of—rewrites.

Good writing is mostly rewriting. A first draft is just the first draft. It is not unusual for me to rewrite a piece numerous times. In the last few months while studying poetry I’ve read some poets make over 50 drafts of one poem. I’ve heard poets themselves say they are never completely satisfied with their poems. I completely understand.

Rewrites are the difference between good and great. I’ve seen this with my own work over and over. The way I see it, regardless of whether you’re working on poetry or short story or novel, you just can’t address all the issues you need to when rewriting and editing in one pass through your piece. And what’s the hurry? It is the quality of the work and the enjoyment, too, isn’t it? It should be.

We spend too much time hurrying to get on to the next thing on our list, but here in the writing arena there is reason to take a breath and go through the work once more. Yes, finally you have to say-done, but first polish the work the best you can.

A quote that expresses my approach is from James Merrill: Some poets actually say they don’t revise, don’t believe in revising. They say their originality suffers. I don’t see that at all. The words that come first are anybody’s, a froth of phrases, like the first words from a medium’s mouth. You have to make them your own.

For me, when an idea hits me I am so busy getting it down that I have no finesse, no grammar, no clarity at all. I find that in each draft after. Like polishing rock with finer and finer grit each time in the tumbler.

Try revising one of your pieces: poem, story, essay, chapter of a novel. If it improves, but isn’t saying exactly what you want to say, do it again. Find the gem, inside your work.

A Mentor

A talk with my granddaughter got me looking at old year books. Sixth grade, specifically. That year the sixth grade used the east wing as the rest of the new junior high school was being built around them. That year was memorable: sack lunches brought over from a nearby elementary school, no blackboards or lights for the first few months and my teacher, Mrs. Mildon.

She turned out to be my favorite teacher and that was some doing because mostly I liked my teachers. I can’t think of a one that I didn’t learn something from. It’s just, some things I learned were good and some not so much.

Mrs. Mildon taught the good. Taught more than school work. She taught us honesty, empathy, and to reach further than we thought we could. Plus, she created a creative writing class. In fifth grade I’d decided to be a writer like Louisa May Alcott. The idea of a class just for writing tiptoed want through my heart. One hundred and forty one students tried out for the class( a complete shock to the school district), only 35 could qualify. Oh, how I wanted to be in that class. I didn’t dare tell my parents how much I wanted it or how worried I was I wouldn’t make the cut. I don’t think I ever wanted anything like that before. My need frightened me more than anything I’d ever done because whether I was in the class or not, depended on me.

The day the class members were announced I remember feeling relief and pride and that awful, bittersweet taste when you get something and your friends don’t. You don’t feel like gloating, but you think your friends might think you feel like gloating so you can’t jump in the air and pump your fists but you can’t keep the silly, prideful grin from your face completely either. And you say you’re sorry about them not getting in, but really all you really feel is glad you did. It’s just a terrible, wonderful feeling and a sixth grader doesn’t know how to handle it, but that’s the day you start to learn how.

We made a collection of the work the class did that Mrs. Mildon deemed exceptional, my first experience with an editor. I don’t remember much about the class except the free writing with prompts. What I do remember is how hard I worked to get my writings picked for the collection and the pride I felt when one did.

On the last two pages of the collection, I found two quotes Mrs. Mildon included. Today, as I work so hard with my poetry and struggle with my other writing: novels, essays, short stories, these quotes seem so appropriate. Perfect.

Beauty and sharpness of expression, yes, but sincerity first!

And on the last page: To the creative writing class: Give your words wings—but remember, “I’ll never write a line I have not heard in my own heart.” Rostand

The creative writing class discontinued mid-year when Mrs. Mildon was diagnosis with breast cancer. It was 1962-63. Breast cancer was a killer. Yet, Mrs. Mildon lived three more years, kept working right up until she died. She encouraged her students to always try harder. And I am.

Losses and Founds

As I’ve said before, this last year and a half has been of losses and founds. The founds much more valuable than what’s been lost. I know this. I never want to forget it. Mostly I don’t want to forget it because I have a feeling at my age, the losses will become more and more frequent and valuable. For now the founds-those things that come in to take the places of all that’s lost-are priceless.

What brought these thoughts on is my woeful hair. The medications, probably the prednisone has played havoc with my hair. What was once thick and curly and what we use to call dishwater blonde is thin and straight and graying. My beautician doesn’t recommend a perm or coloring until my hair’s stronger, but—

I just read a flyer from the Chinaberry catalog from 1999. The writer had an epiphany. Why was she investing time and energy into deep conditioning her damaged, thin hair, then pinning it back in a bun because it looked so sad? What was she holding on to? She wasn’t Rapunzel. Neither am I. I once had beautiful hair. It was the most mentioned thing about me in my yearbook autographs, but my hair isn’t me. And I’m no longer her-that person in the yearbook. I never will be again.

Truth is I really don’t know that I’d want to be, if that was possible. She had her problems, too.


We do hold on to things better let go of. Sometimes it’s hard to know if you should let go or hang on. Stick with your writing until you succeed? Or give up? And is letting go the same as giving up? I think we mixed up the two things. We cling to things that clearly no longer work, but give up on things that get difficult.

So, I’m trying to do that as I look in the mirror and mourn what once was.

Practice

Learning a musical instrument teaches things way beyond music. When I started my kids with music lessons (guitar, keyboard and drums) I sensed this. In those days there wasn’t research on that aspect, at least nothing I read or heard. I think I sensed or felt it mostly because of my own complete failure to stick with piano lessons. I wanted to play music. I love music. I always have.

I was brought up in a house filled with music. My father sang, listened to music, taught himself how to play the guitar and reminisced about the quartet he sang in when he was young. And my mother played piano—beautifully. I didn’t know this until I was about ten, when my father brought home a piano.

I don’t know that the piano was bought strictly for my mother. I really don’t think so because money was tight and usually if a lot of money was spent on something it was for us kids. I think the decision was as much for my brother as my mother. He wanted to be in his high school elite choir and that meant try-outs. It was the first time I realized my mother had talents beyond the home and my little world. I knew she was the best cook, sewed wonderful clothes for me and my sister, knitted beautifully, was organized and frugal. She kept the house immaculate and instilled in her three kids a love for reading. But surprise to me, my mother had this other life, this other wonderful, magical talent. (Imagine how I felt when I learned she could type and do shorthand with the best, too.)

I still remember the first time she sat down to play that second-hand piano. I don’t know if my jaw dropped, but my mind gasped. Her hands pranced over the keys and I wanted to play like her. I just didn’t realize what that meant—practice. And every stinking day, whether I wanted to or not. (I didn’t want to. I was much too busy playing make-believe, reading and making up my own stories.)

I didn’t understand that skill and genius is more than talent. Talent only gets you so far. Luck and opportunity helps, sure, but what really tips the scale is practice. Talent isn’t passed down in the genes but in the mindset.

In an article in the Dec.2008 Reader’s Digest titled, A Talent for Genius,” about Malcolm Gladwell’s book, Outliers: The Story of Success (Little, Brown), speaks of this subject. Gladwell figures it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become what he calls an outlier.

Can you imagine? 10,000 hours. I learned from failing that if I wanted to do something well, I had to put in the time. That was one of the things I hoped my kids learned when I signed them up for music lessons.

And though they never knew, every time I took them to lessons, made them practice before they could go outside to play I wasn’t hoping I was raising Mozart, Eric Clapton or Ringo Starr. I was hoping my kids learned that anything you wanted to do well takes work, but it’s worth it. The work is rewarding and fun, when you stop fighting it. But more than that, I was teaching myself that lesson, too. I had things I would have much rather done than take them to lessons or nag them to practice, but nothing more important.

And through them, I learned that lesson too. I don’t know if I’ve put in 10,000 hours practicing my writing yet, but I’m working on it every day.

Lessons

I’m learning so much from the poetry workshop I’m taking.(http://wow-womenonwriting.com/) Many of the lessons I know, but a refresher never hurts anyone, especially me—now. Many lessons are about detail and going deeper into my emotions. Some lessons are about discipline which I’ve always had in good supply (sometimes too much. I tend to lower my head and keep going when I should let it go) and how to not allow myself to be overwhelmed.

As most know who read Windfalls for Writers regularly, I’ve spent the last year and a half struggling to recover from MPGN, a rare kidney disease. It isn’t curable, but hopefully manageable. I would just as soon never feel like I did last year, so I take my health seriously. But I’ve also found how important my writing is to my health (mental health and happiness).

I think one of the lowest points last year was when I finally started feeling up to sitting at my desk and I couldn’t seem to put one word in front of the other on the page. Sometimes I would find myself face down on the desk, drool pooling under my cheek and the whole morning gone. I felt lost and I suppose I was. After all, what is a writer who can’t write?

A million terrific ideas traveled through my head. Couldn’t seem to catch a one on paper, but this blog isn’t about-oh, poor sick me. It’s about writing. And this blog is about lessons, particularly now.

Excitement in my writing has been growing for several months now and I’ve been working on a bunch of poetry. Poetry is the right vehicle for my writing right now. It makes me joyful.

And—my roots are in poetry as I’ve said before. Like a loyal, childhood friend, I’ve written poetry during the most emotional times of my life and abandoned it, too, for a while, but always I come back to it. Coming back seems right, right now, like coming home. I needed that comfort, but also I needed the stretching, the concentration.

For years I’d wanted to take some classes in poetry writing. I’m starting small and carefully because I’m not supposed to get overwhelmed. This workshop doesn’t get all the credit, but a lot. It’s given me a finish line, a goal. I push myself a bit more to do better because I have an instructor reading my efforts, giving me immediate, constructive comments.

So what I’m I learning? To write that first draft with wild abandon. Bungee-jump into the brine-don’t even hold your nose. Just jump right in. Then chop, cut, rewrite. Painful, but not as painful as not writing. There’s always another chance at making our work better.

I’ve learned to never take anything for granted and enjoy the things I love more. I’ve learned that writing isn’t everything. Many things are more important. Like family and friends and health. I don’t intend to forget that. But—writing is a part of me. So I’m learning how to prioritize.

Funny—in all that learning, in all the struggle to get better, to find my joy, to find what was important to me—never once did getting published come up. Imagine that.

Sound

I’ve been thinking about sound a lot lately. For one I finally bought myself and my husband a Djembe. Why? It started with a poem I was writing for the Poetry Challenge I did in April. No, that’s not entirely the truth. It probably started with Ringo Starr, if the truth was told.

Ringo Starr? The Beatles were my Jones Brothers. All my girlfriends were crazy about Paul, but for me, it was Ringo. Those sad, soulful eyes, the rings on his fingers and his humor, but also, I liked the drums. I use to dream of playing the drums. Back then it was a little out there for a girl to think of that. I was before my time, I think, because the things I wanted: to be a veterinarian, to play drums, drive little sports cars weren’t so much the girl thing: not proper, appropriate or something). Woman’s lib hadn’t taken off where I come from yet. Good girl that I was, I never thought to question things.

And then the Poetry Challenge. It was a simple prompt. Write a poem about clean. I remembered my son playing the Djembe one night. The clean, crisp sound, a sound spoke to my soul. ( I wonder...was my father's story true? Was I a really his palomino Indian? Was this a sign?)

Often to do a poem I research. I researched the Djembe and listened to a CD called Sacred Spirit Drums by David and Steve Gordon. The CD was very soothing, meditative even. I thought of what it would be like to play the Djembe.

Soon after that I read Crazy Creek Woman. Several essays in that book mentioned the healing power of drums. I bought the drums. Now in the way things so often work, I’m taking a workshop called Poetic Passion: Image, Story, Line and Language by Melanie Faith. (Love it.) For the first assignment I chose the prompt: Write a poem composed of primarily auditory images. So I spent some time listening.

Sound adds a wonderful dimension to your writing, but I think often times we forget to include sound. We shouldn’t, for it sets tone, enriches setting, helps define character. You don’t realize all that sound does. But take a day or two and concentrate on sound, just sound. See how it affects you, see how many times you rely on sound, enjoy sound, react to sound.

How many sounds do you hear from your window? How many sounds have we forgotten because the TV, the computer, our I-pods are blaring in our ears. Take some time and listen.

Write down all you hear, make some sounds of your own. Beat out a rhythm on your desk or beat a drum.

June Reads

My June reading concentrated on the poem; the reading and writing of poems. I decided to use this summer to take classes and read up on poetry. That is what I’m enjoying now. After last summer with the whole episode with MPGN, not feeling up to par and having such a deadness with my writing, I’ve felt poetry was where I wanted to spend my time. And I’m loving it, so happy that the writing, the excitement to write is coming back. I can never explain how empty and lost I felt without my writing. I never realized how much it was part of me not matter how busy and interested in other things I get. I need the writing to be whole and me.

As I’ve said before, I miss writing my novels, but I don’t think I’m up to the many faceted research and organization of that just yet. Poetry is a wonderful training ground and I’m still keeping my hand in essays and short stories. But I want to get back to writing the novel. I have so many ideas in my head, down on paper. Some I think really good ideas and publishable. Soon…very soon.

As we vacation in June I also haven’t had a huge amount of time to read. I hope for July that will change, but I am reading a book right now that is taking a lot of time.

May Out West: Poems of May Swenson by May Swenson: I read an article in the Ogden Standard Examiner, maybe a year or two ago about May Swenson. It was the first I heard of her though she was from around my neck of the woods, as they say. The article included a few poems and I really enjoyed them, so when I saw this book I bought it. For me, it was worth it.

Her work is wonderful and this book about the West had a wonderful sense of place and spoke of a love of land and nature. You knew she loved the West and had a unique way of seeing it.

A Magical Clockwork: The Art of Writing the Poem by Susan Ioannou: This book went along with a workshop I’m taking, but I wanted to read the book first, then go through the lessons. I’m glad I did, too. The book is a wonderful guide to the nuances of poetry and how to bring them into your own work. The writer is Canadian and proud to be. She has tons of illustrations to describe the tools necessary for writing good poetry, mostly Canadian poets. I loved that. I would likely never read any of them. I loved seeing the differences in their writing compared to American poets.

I’ve always thought seeing things from another point of view, even if I don’t agree, adds another dimension to my writing. Every chapter had new insight into the way to write a poem. I have no doubt that what I learned will improve my work.

A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver: Okay, I’ll admit it. I read this and the previous book simultaneously. Some would ask why, but I do that all the time. Have more than one book going. This time it works perfect. The two books complemented each other. A Poetry Handbook was mostly about craft, which I really need help with. Oliver also had wonderful simple words to urge you on. Words that are often needed when struggling with putting down on paper what you hear in your heart.

A favorite quote was the last sentence in the book: “For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.” Maybe that sentence explains it all—the way I feel about writing poetry right now—I just frankly need it.

Crazy Woman Creek: Women Rewrite the American West edited by Linda M. Hasselstrom, Gaydell Collier, and Nancy Curtis: These are the same editors of Leaning into the Wind, which I thoroughly enjoyed and loved. I think about many of the essays and poems I read in Leaning into the Wind. I was so hoping Crazy Woman Creek would be as good. I think, maybe, it was better. These essays and poems are snippets of life, western life, but life in general and they make me feel not so alone. They make me feel such pride in being a woman.

There is such strength in us, such wisdom and I am part of that sisterhood. I got so inspired when I read this book, I couldn’t wait to write. I can’t say enough, but to say I can’t wait to read the third book, Woven on the Wind: Women Write about Friendship in the Sagebrush West. I think any woman would love these three books, but there is a special something for anyone who loves the West and who live there.

July Godsends:

• Red, white and blue—everywhere
• The sight and sound of fireworks
• The garden, full-blown
• The verdant taste
• The neighbor kids running through sprinklers
• Bikes with crepe paper weaved through spokes and streaming from handlebars
• A nap on a hot day
• A family barbeque
• Parades
• Homegrown broccoli