Run On

I told you in my last post that, while I was entertaining my inner editor/critic, it's important for me to keep playing with something else. Although I choose to write most of the time, I choose to write something so mindless and fun that it is absolutely freeing to the heart and soul. It can be emotional work and strains my memory occasionally, but this is familiar territory.

Here's what I've been doing while I edited A Little Lazarus. I've been working on my memoirs. You may say, "My God, that sounds like scary work to me." But it's not. It's relaxing and goofy, sad and hilarious, and slightly crazy--just like me. I am loving it. I simply do what my friend, Glo DeAngelis, used to advise and "follow the golden thread." I go wherever the next word or memory leads me: from past to present to wandering about the future and back to the past again. If this memoir were a figure it would look like the giant scribbles we used to make as kids. Then we would go back and color in all the circles and loops until we had something a little like a stained glass window.

That's what my life looks like to me; a stained glass window. Not the kind you find in fancy churches, but the kind we hand-made as children with nothing better to do on a rainy afternoon. If there is a God in charge of getting all of us born into this world, then that's what God was doing when s/he created me one mushy March Wednesday afternoon in 1954. Messing around with crayolas on a blank sheet of typing paper, going "Goodness, look at all these cool colors!"

I find my stained glass life easy to write. I simply take the same black marker or crayon God used and begin; somewhere, anywhere. I follow the line (alright, it's not exactly a golden thread) where it leads me. Later, I'll add the colors, the sensual stuff that appeals and wakens the reader once I've gotten the lifeline drawn. I call that painting the story.

There is no real chronology to memory. That's not how it comes to us, anyway. It comes out of the blue, like the smell of coffee on a crisp morning when your camping. It comes with the flash of rainbow in the water as we tussle with a trout. It may even come to you when you read a quote on face book. Memory can be elusive, but the flashes that jump start it are everywhere if you pay attention. Oh, and don't listen to those old fogies that tell you that you're not old enough to write your memoirs. Sorry, but that's just bullshit. If you've got a black crayola and a storyline, friend, that's all you need. Now, tell that critic to run along while you write some run-on sentences about the stuff of life.

Here's a little sample from my memoir with the working title, "Frankly, I Think I've Been Freaked Out All My Life." Maybe it will help you get started:

"In the second grade I had a teacher, Mrs. Duncan, who was big and tall and wide; at least to me who was seven. But I could tell in comparison to my folks, who were fine-boned and slender, she was way bigger. Anyway she had a reputation among the students, especially first-graders, that she was tough and mean. In first grade all this really meant was that she wasn't pretty. She wore glasses and was kind of pasty and lumpy, ergo she was ill-tempered like the giant in "Jack and the Beanstalk." I was scared, too, even though I kind of liked her, which fact I did not share with my classmates, as they would think I was freaking out to like a freaky teacher like Mrs. Duncan.

One morning I had a fight with my parents over the oatmeal. It wasn't funny. And it wasn't the first fight I had with them over cold food. I cannot abide cold food which is suppose to be hot. It freaks my mouth out and I can't swallow. All breakfast food is suppose to be hot, except maybe bananas, strawberries and orange juice. This not-so-weird preference for hot food has for some reason given me bad breakfast karma and I get served a lot of cold eggs, pancakes, waffles, etc. Except at the Waffle House where you can watch them cook it and the waitresses are fast and immediately pick up your food and slam it down in front of you. If they don't, you can gently remind them (gently, because usually they are pretty tough) that you think your food may be up because you can see it.

I hung out at Waffle Houses when I was a cop, which was the most freaked out job I ever had, and it was a great comfort to me to sip their bad (free) coffee, talk shop with the other cops, and wait for the next call to come so we could argue over who would take it. On my birthday, the waitresses served me steak and eggs, and they were good and hot and I didn't get a call while I ate them, which seemed like a good omen for my 33rd year of life. All this to say that my preference, no, need to have hot food, began when I was very young, maybe even an infant because I was not breast fed, which would have automatically made the milk the right temperature and which is extremely hard to imitate in a bottle. Mother's milk it ain't, okay?

So anyway, I'm like seven years old and living in Houston, TX. I walk to my grade school which is a few blocks away. I don't remember whether I couldn't find my shoes, or I lingered over my toast, or the oatmeal sat around too long before making it into my bowl, but it was cold."

And that's it fearless writers. Simply follow what seem like the loose ends of your life and you will find that they actually tie together remarkably well. I eventually get back to the story I started with, but meanwhile I may tell a couple of others in between. It's feels good to write my life this way and it's easy. The whole point is not to think to much, but to let memory lead the way. It's a great way to tell the critic, who is your nearly constant companion when you're polishing some great work of art, to take a break, to run along while you run on. Trust me. Try this at home. Get ready. Get set. Run on!

Run Along

(Photo courtesy of Leigh at Larrapin Garden)

Wouldn't you know it? Write a post about commitment and then don't post anything else for a month. Good grief. Your followers won't believe you if you don't practice what you preach. The excuse-maker in me wants to holler, "Wait! I've been working on getting my book published!" The book is not my blog, and I must be true to the blog so I can stay in touch with you, fearless creative.

Today, my new book of poems, my first full book of poetry—A Little Lazarus—is going to press. It is a day for celebration; a day to rejoice! But also a day to post on my blog site. Here's our timely topic: How will you know when the editing is done and you can tell that darn critic to run along? What fun creative pursuit will help you "rest" when your mind is pretty much taken over by the alien (at least for me) that is our necessary and often unappreciated inner editor? You know them; the guy or gal who moves in to help us polish a piece of work. First, thank them for coming. The editor/critic is not my favorite guest, but I do appreciate that they show up when invited. If you follow my grandmother's rule that guests and fish stink after 3 days, then you'll know when to tell them to leave.

You may ask yourself, as do many creatives, how will I know when I'm done, when it's perfect? If you let go of the "perfect" part, I think you'll know. There is no perfect work of art: no Dickens or Dickinson, no Gaugin or Picasso, no Rodin, no Bach or Beethoven or Mozart (well, maybe Mozart but he was crazy) ever created anything perfect; the work that completely satisfied their inner critic. That's why it's art. It is first and foremost, human. Even in Nature, look closely enough and you will see that the Great Creator loves the little mistakes just as much, if not more, than what appears perfect. Sometimes we call that evolution.

I guess knowing when to tell the critic to "run along now" takes time to learn, but I don't remember at what point I learned it. Maybe it was a special gift for a special needs writer. The Muse said, "Bless you child. You write so much and never seem to know when you have enough words on the page. I will touch you with my wand so that when you go to edit, you'll at least know when you've done all you can and quit." Basically, I just stop. I make my adjustments three or four times, then I quit reading the damn poem and put it in the publisher's capable hands.I am in a hurry, you see, to tell the critic to "run along." I want to do something I don't have to think about so much.

And I always keep something going that I don't have to think about while I'm editing a body of work. As I see it, one of the terrible things that happened to the human race was that our brains outgrew our hearts. This has gotten the world in a terrible predicament. That's why everyone, from Wall Street bankers to BP oil executives; from Army Generals to LA gang members (are you feeling me President Obama?) need to write some poems or paint some pictures; especially of what they have screwed up. We all screw up and writing or making art about it will help you not repeat the same mistake twice. We need to know when to quit., in more ways than one. Because we have made such a habit of perfectionism, getting our critic to run along when the time comes takes practice.

If we don't know or learn when to tell the Editor to run along, we cannot let go of perfecting our work. And if we don't admit at some point that the work can't be perfect, that it will never be perfect, then we can't let the work go out into the world where it belongs. Ahhh...the hidden agenda. This is the perfectionist's pay-off. You never have to share what you have created. You must admit that the world would be pretty unstimulating if all the creative geniuses didn't finally learn when to let go and let the work fly on its own merits.

This is what we must do, too. One way to do this is to always keep something fun going on the side. It may be creative work you don't usually do. If you're a writer editing, then take some photos or play with clay. If you're a sculptor, start your memoirs. If you're a poet, write an essay on why you will never write another poem. Whatever. Make it fun and keep it light-hearted. Tell your critic to run along for some portion of each day. After three days, or three revisions, and everything starts to stink, heck, tell them to run along for good, or at least until you invite them back again.

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