May I borrow your pen?
Maybe then I could write a better poem, a happy poem full of sunlight and memories of days spent on the beach with summer wind blowing through our hair, no cares in the world.
Today all I write is fear, grey and dull, pulling me down into the void where even voices cut me into a dozen pieces I can’t fit back together.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
We Can Write It Out
Whenever I’m faced with one of many difficulties life tosses my way, I tell myself to simply write it out. While not everything I write is purely autobiographical, issues I’ve dealt with do find their way into poems, stories and novels eventually. And if it’s not something I’ve dealt with directly, I’m not above stealing from the lives of my friends. A cousin once read something I wrote and then spent weeks stewing about it, feeling I had stolen a little too much of her life for others to read.
However, isn’t this how we often cope? I got through a horrible first marriage by reading fiction about others who got through horrible first marriages. The librarian in the small town I lived in then saved books for me after becoming familiar with the theme I seemed to select. I didn’t even realize that she eventually selected books for me about women who found their ways out of horrible marriages. I should have thanked her.
It helps to write it out. There are some things we never make sense of, such as the death of a loved one before we’ve had time to say all we wanted to say or do all we’d planned to do. Still, writing about it dulls the pain momentarily, or connects us for a second with someone else who remembers what that felt like, making us feel not so alone in our grief.
I read for pleasure and escape and also searching for connection. Instead of focusing on the differences between me and my neighbors, especially at first glance, I long to know what experiences we may have shared. Reading helps me learn about others who feared walking into a first grade classroom as the new kid in town or being a young mother afraid she’d end up screaming right along with her howling infant if someone didn’t lend her a hand or being that wife trapped in a marriage that seemed impossible to escape.
That’s why I write, too. If I can write it out, write what I’ve gone through, what I might have learned along the way, what I’m still trying to figure out, maybe I’ll connect with someone who can find their own answers through my words. Maybe I can help someone else write it out for themselves. We can work it out, if we write it out. Honestly.
However, isn’t this how we often cope? I got through a horrible first marriage by reading fiction about others who got through horrible first marriages. The librarian in the small town I lived in then saved books for me after becoming familiar with the theme I seemed to select. I didn’t even realize that she eventually selected books for me about women who found their ways out of horrible marriages. I should have thanked her.
It helps to write it out. There are some things we never make sense of, such as the death of a loved one before we’ve had time to say all we wanted to say or do all we’d planned to do. Still, writing about it dulls the pain momentarily, or connects us for a second with someone else who remembers what that felt like, making us feel not so alone in our grief.
I read for pleasure and escape and also searching for connection. Instead of focusing on the differences between me and my neighbors, especially at first glance, I long to know what experiences we may have shared. Reading helps me learn about others who feared walking into a first grade classroom as the new kid in town or being a young mother afraid she’d end up screaming right along with her howling infant if someone didn’t lend her a hand or being that wife trapped in a marriage that seemed impossible to escape.
That’s why I write, too. If I can write it out, write what I’ve gone through, what I might have learned along the way, what I’m still trying to figure out, maybe I’ll connect with someone who can find their own answers through my words. Maybe I can help someone else write it out for themselves. We can work it out, if we write it out. Honestly.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Standing in the Shadow of Doubt
Every word is suspect, each sentence creeping across the page. Will it ever be good enough? Why bother? Isn’t there something better I could be doing with my time? The shadow cast by my doubts covers every word.
Then I hear him, the cardinal outside my window. He’s singing away, as he does most mornings when I first sit down to write. I close my eyes for a minute and imagine that this gorgeous flame red bird is the reincarnation of some unknown poet who spent hours toying with words urging me to cast away my shadow of doubt, lift my hands above this keyboard and allow my words to spill out of my head in the same manner as the cardinal’s song fills the morning air. He sings because he can. Does he care if anyone listens? Does he return to his nest and tell his mate, “Today I hit all the right notes"? No. He simply sings.
There are mornings I feel as though this cardinal is my only cheerleader. When he’s finished with his song and has flown off, the silence he leaves behind deepens, as does the shadow of doubt.
All those voices in my head seem louder in this silence: all those who’ve wondered how I could quit my “real” job to sit here and write, others who believe it’s a total waste of time, those who give me a smirk of a smile when they ask me what I do and I’ve replied that I’m a writer. Unpaid bills giggle at me and the pile of rejection letters flutter hello. I can even hear my mother reminding me that I have responsibilities to tend to, can’t spend all my time “pretending I’m Margaret Mitchell”. And then there’s the loudest voice of all, my very own internal critic, wondering if it’s worth it all.
And then the cardinal returns to that tree branch that sits directly in front of the window outside my office. He sings away again. Because he can.
A phrase pops into my head. I start scribbling a poem. Because I can.
Then I hear him, the cardinal outside my window. He’s singing away, as he does most mornings when I first sit down to write. I close my eyes for a minute and imagine that this gorgeous flame red bird is the reincarnation of some unknown poet who spent hours toying with words urging me to cast away my shadow of doubt, lift my hands above this keyboard and allow my words to spill out of my head in the same manner as the cardinal’s song fills the morning air. He sings because he can. Does he care if anyone listens? Does he return to his nest and tell his mate, “Today I hit all the right notes"? No. He simply sings.
There are mornings I feel as though this cardinal is my only cheerleader. When he’s finished with his song and has flown off, the silence he leaves behind deepens, as does the shadow of doubt.
All those voices in my head seem louder in this silence: all those who’ve wondered how I could quit my “real” job to sit here and write, others who believe it’s a total waste of time, those who give me a smirk of a smile when they ask me what I do and I’ve replied that I’m a writer. Unpaid bills giggle at me and the pile of rejection letters flutter hello. I can even hear my mother reminding me that I have responsibilities to tend to, can’t spend all my time “pretending I’m Margaret Mitchell”. And then there’s the loudest voice of all, my very own internal critic, wondering if it’s worth it all.
And then the cardinal returns to that tree branch that sits directly in front of the window outside my office. He sings away again. Because he can.
A phrase pops into my head. I start scribbling a poem. Because I can.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
It's Alright, Ma, I'm Only Writing
I can still remember it as though it happened only yesterday.
I must have been around 13. My parents bought me an antique desk for my bedroom. I dusted its wrought iron legs and shiny, slanted writing surface. On the book shelf that was part of this desk, I gently placed my treasured books: Little House on the Prairie, Dr. Doolittle, Little Women, Bartlett’s Quotations, Famous Poems Old and New, Mud Pies and Other Recipes.
Many a homework assignment was completed at that desk, and I fumbled at writing my first poems there, too, hiding them in my homework papers if someone should come into my room. Having this great desk to write at was partially to blame for my dream of being a poet. The librarian at our town library had also been saving biographies of poets for me. I’d read about Sara Teasdale and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but the book about Sylvia Plath convinced me of two things: I could be a poet and the mood swings my mother experienced weren’t a novelty after all.
Then came the evening I coughed up the courage to tell my parents that I wanted to be a poet. We’d been discussing my high school class schedule, so it seemed a good a time as any. I’d already been accepted in the Advanced English class, one focusing on literature and writing. I figured all I needed was four years of French to assist me in ordering food at the cafes I’d be visiting on the Left Bank and I could skip Biology and Geometry. I paced my bedroom practicing the presentation I would give at the dinner table, until I was absolutely certain I had chosen my words so perfectly that no one could argue with the fact that I must follow my dream. I could stop hiding all the poems I was writing, start wearing a black beret, maybe smoke a cigarette or two….
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! You’d never be able to feed yourself. You’re going to take a typing class.”
And there it was. My first review. My first critic. The same one that haunts me each and every time I slip a manuscript into an envelope to send out, every time I stand in front of a room full of people to give a reading. It never goes away. Partly because of the ring of truth within those words: I would never have been able to feed myself – literally – with poetry, although I have definitely fed myself spiritually. I don’t think this is something my parents would have been able to understand, though.
I am very, very thankful for one thing, however. I did, indeed, learn to type. And I have earned a very good living in the past because I knew how to type. BUT…..I’ve also been able to write more efficiently because I can type 80+ words a minute. I thank my folks, both gone now and unable to experience the poems that get published here and there, for making sure that I learned how to type.
I must have been around 13. My parents bought me an antique desk for my bedroom. I dusted its wrought iron legs and shiny, slanted writing surface. On the book shelf that was part of this desk, I gently placed my treasured books: Little House on the Prairie, Dr. Doolittle, Little Women, Bartlett’s Quotations, Famous Poems Old and New, Mud Pies and Other Recipes.
Many a homework assignment was completed at that desk, and I fumbled at writing my first poems there, too, hiding them in my homework papers if someone should come into my room. Having this great desk to write at was partially to blame for my dream of being a poet. The librarian at our town library had also been saving biographies of poets for me. I’d read about Sara Teasdale and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but the book about Sylvia Plath convinced me of two things: I could be a poet and the mood swings my mother experienced weren’t a novelty after all.
Then came the evening I coughed up the courage to tell my parents that I wanted to be a poet. We’d been discussing my high school class schedule, so it seemed a good a time as any. I’d already been accepted in the Advanced English class, one focusing on literature and writing. I figured all I needed was four years of French to assist me in ordering food at the cafes I’d be visiting on the Left Bank and I could skip Biology and Geometry. I paced my bedroom practicing the presentation I would give at the dinner table, until I was absolutely certain I had chosen my words so perfectly that no one could argue with the fact that I must follow my dream. I could stop hiding all the poems I was writing, start wearing a black beret, maybe smoke a cigarette or two….
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! You’d never be able to feed yourself. You’re going to take a typing class.”
And there it was. My first review. My first critic. The same one that haunts me each and every time I slip a manuscript into an envelope to send out, every time I stand in front of a room full of people to give a reading. It never goes away. Partly because of the ring of truth within those words: I would never have been able to feed myself – literally – with poetry, although I have definitely fed myself spiritually. I don’t think this is something my parents would have been able to understand, though.
I am very, very thankful for one thing, however. I did, indeed, learn to type. And I have earned a very good living in the past because I knew how to type. BUT…..I’ve also been able to write more efficiently because I can type 80+ words a minute. I thank my folks, both gone now and unable to experience the poems that get published here and there, for making sure that I learned how to type.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Dissatisfaction
Dun dun da da dun da da dun, dun dun da da dun da da dun.....
Come on. You must know the riff. "I can't get no...." Well, yeah, I've changed the word because, in case you haven't noticed, the title of each blog post is an altered song title. But I guess I shouldn't be singing "I can't get no....dissatisfaction" because my cup runneth over with such.
Is the earth spinning on its axis at an unusual angle, and not the one that tips us a little closer to the sun that I welcome every year around this time? I mean the one that seems to be making everyone around me act almost exactly the opposite I expect them to, or whatever is causing situations I once felt to be well in hand to cascade out of bounds. I'm spinning my wheels, and I haven't the energy to run after myself any longer.
Where will I end up if I have to stop chasing words across my computer screen every day and return to the world of hiring/firing? I shiver to consider it, yet I see the path ahead of me and it's littered with poems bleeding by the side of the road because I have too many things on my "to do" list again to lavish any attention on their wounds, patch them up and ready them for the party. Will I turn into a resentful shrew with more grey hairs and a screech to my voice when I inform others that I "used" to be a writer? How do I hide my disappointment, buck up and take my turn at the wheel of our life, steer our course awhile in the gracious manner that I know is the route that should be taken instead of throw the colossal temper tantrum I feel welling up inside of me, totally unwarranted, that would inflict undue harm?
I've lived through those times when my words were THERE but the hours weren't. It wasn't pretty. Relationships with everyone within a hundred mile radius suffered. I don't even like myself when that happens. And the older I get, the less inclined I am to give up sleep.
I'm reminded of a favorite poem by Kenneth Koch: You Want a Social Life, With Friends. Basically he cautions that you can have a family, a social life and be a writer. But you can never have all three at once. I'm wondering today, did I learn anything from juggling friends, family, a job and writing when I tried it all before to be any more successful at it if I have to do it again? The very thought of it literally makes my stomach turn. If I was a drinker, I'd be drunk right now, even though as the daughter of an alcoholic, that's hardly my style or solution to anything. I'm terrified of losing my words again....especially now when, for the most part, they visit me almost every day, perky and ready to oblige. What I do know is that they'll vanish if they don't have the attention they deserve.
Oh...there's that riff playing in my head again.....I can't get no satisfaction, and no answers. Not today, at least. Not today.
Come on. You must know the riff. "I can't get no...." Well, yeah, I've changed the word because, in case you haven't noticed, the title of each blog post is an altered song title. But I guess I shouldn't be singing "I can't get no....dissatisfaction" because my cup runneth over with such.
Is the earth spinning on its axis at an unusual angle, and not the one that tips us a little closer to the sun that I welcome every year around this time? I mean the one that seems to be making everyone around me act almost exactly the opposite I expect them to, or whatever is causing situations I once felt to be well in hand to cascade out of bounds. I'm spinning my wheels, and I haven't the energy to run after myself any longer.
Where will I end up if I have to stop chasing words across my computer screen every day and return to the world of hiring/firing? I shiver to consider it, yet I see the path ahead of me and it's littered with poems bleeding by the side of the road because I have too many things on my "to do" list again to lavish any attention on their wounds, patch them up and ready them for the party. Will I turn into a resentful shrew with more grey hairs and a screech to my voice when I inform others that I "used" to be a writer? How do I hide my disappointment, buck up and take my turn at the wheel of our life, steer our course awhile in the gracious manner that I know is the route that should be taken instead of throw the colossal temper tantrum I feel welling up inside of me, totally unwarranted, that would inflict undue harm?
I've lived through those times when my words were THERE but the hours weren't. It wasn't pretty. Relationships with everyone within a hundred mile radius suffered. I don't even like myself when that happens. And the older I get, the less inclined I am to give up sleep.
I'm reminded of a favorite poem by Kenneth Koch: You Want a Social Life, With Friends. Basically he cautions that you can have a family, a social life and be a writer. But you can never have all three at once. I'm wondering today, did I learn anything from juggling friends, family, a job and writing when I tried it all before to be any more successful at it if I have to do it again? The very thought of it literally makes my stomach turn. If I was a drinker, I'd be drunk right now, even though as the daughter of an alcoholic, that's hardly my style or solution to anything. I'm terrified of losing my words again....especially now when, for the most part, they visit me almost every day, perky and ready to oblige. What I do know is that they'll vanish if they don't have the attention they deserve.
Oh...there's that riff playing in my head again.....I can't get no satisfaction, and no answers. Not today, at least. Not today.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
In the Early Morning Dream
Words tease me awake. Long before the dog nudges me as an alert that his bladder has reached its capacity. Long before hubby has stumbled to his closet, pulled a shirt off a hanger, kissed me goodbye and driven off to work. Sometimes I've been dreaming a line of a poem or an ending to a chapter I've been struggling with. Often it's pure nonsense. Yet there they are, precious words dancing on the end of my eyelids, tickling my tongue, tingling at the ends of my fingertips, awaiting their release onto the stark white pages of my bedside notebook or the sterile computer screen.
If I'm lucky.
Sometimes I'm unable to capture them, and what might have been haunts me through my day. I'm always certain those morning dream words were my salvation: the beginning of the very poem The New Yorker can't possibly reject; the solution that gets one of my characters off that bench in Central Park; the ending for my short story about the couple having a fight in MOMA.
And today is one of those days those words are teasing me, hovering over my shoulder, slightly out of reach, whispering too softly for me to hear them, their brilliance fading in the bright sunlight of a day too filled with distractions.
If I'm lucky.
Sometimes I'm unable to capture them, and what might have been haunts me through my day. I'm always certain those morning dream words were my salvation: the beginning of the very poem The New Yorker can't possibly reject; the solution that gets one of my characters off that bench in Central Park; the ending for my short story about the couple having a fight in MOMA.
And today is one of those days those words are teasing me, hovering over my shoulder, slightly out of reach, whispering too softly for me to hear them, their brilliance fading in the bright sunlight of a day too filled with distractions.
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