Writing Empathetically

As writers, we are never going to be spared feelings. If we have a duty, perhaps it is that we observe the world's joy and sorrow, healing and great pain while keeping our hearts open as well as our other five senses. Once we have truly felt it, we use our gifts to interpret and express the feelings in words or art so that others may access it. Not everyone can express what they feel; not easily anyway. And it may not be easy for the writer or artist, either, but it's our job. I take this job seriously.

Think about how it feels when you are down and out, experiencing loss or sadness, or even a great joy (like falling in love) and you hear a song on the radio, or come across a poem or story that speaks to the very thing that at that moment is turning your world upside down. Doesn't that make you feel heard? Don't you, all of a sudden, feel accompanied? You know, then, that you are one of many others who has felt the way you feel now. It's human. Someone out there knows what we are going through and has been willing to share it so that we will feel celebrated if joyful, accompanied if alone.

And there you have it, my poets and writers, my sister and brother creatives, your raison d'etre, as it were. You can't achieve your purpose of expression and self-expression, however, unless you are willing to "go there." We must be ready to "feel for others" what they may be unwilling, or even incapable of, feeling for themselves. Did I say that this is not an easy job?

You may have noticed already that this level of vulnerability mixed with the more objective powers of observation needed to write well and to capture the emotions of a landscape as well as a funeral, are difficult talents to cultivate and balance. Writing empathetically requires both boundaries and a willingness to make our boundaries permeable so that emotions and observations can flow back and forth through the creative membrane. That is the courage of the artist.

So I wrote a poem to try and capture another's loss. Try this at home. All you have to do is to think about your own experiences, and the feelings will rise to the surface like magic.

On the Occasion of Your Loss

"I'm sorry for your loss."

It's a line you hear over and over

when you watch cop shows. The detectives,
suspicious, observant, always seem to mean,

"What did you do to them?

We know you didn't like them.

We know he was an asshole, and hurt you

a hundred different ways."

But what if he wasn't, and really,

she only hurt you a couple of ways that were,

it's true, hard with sharp edges, but nothing

compared to this...this...

"gone missing."

I am sorry for your loss

but can't bring myself to say a line

so eaten with suspicion, like a mop

the mice used for making homes,

and now the cottony top, though soft, can help no one.

Look, here is a box

of soups, a bar of soap,

some kleenex, some Bunny Grahams

for the kids.

There's still a lot of room in there,

but I ran out of ideas for how to help

this awful hurt–your heart all mouse-gnawed

and useless for loving–

the thing it was made to do;

its purpose half-destroyed.

I want to tell you how it grows back,

alive and beating,

whole, working,

able to do its job again.

But you won't believe me. Not now.

And who can blame you?

I wish I knew you better.

Maybe that's not the truth,

not right now anyway.

Because there's a bruise

darkening the first 2 ribs

below my own heart

from the battering you've taken

and I stutter when I try to say,

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Mendy Knott Oct. 2011

Who Were You at Halloween?

Most every child has a favorite character they long to imitate at Halloween. I believe these characters are telling. They say something about who we will become; about the characters and traits that we admire enough to covet, even for a night. Perhaps we don't care to know these things about ourselves, but remembering is a river we can follow to self-knowledge. In this way we are at least able to change what we don't like, and capitalize on what we do.

I was a hobo. Every year, same thing. My longing for life on the rails and adventure through poverty never changed. I've outgrown this fantasy partly because my body can't quite handle sleeping beneath the stars under an old woolen army blanket, leaping from moving trains, or walking the ties for days homeless and hungry. Sure, a large part of my desire was pure fantasy. These men (and a few women) lived incredibly hard and short lives. But they had adventures and they saw the country in a way few of us will ever see it.

In my mind, and from the safety of my elementary school yard, I would spend days creating my character. This was all good practice for the writing years. I dreamed of sleeping in rocking freight cars, cooking my coffee in a tin can over an open fire, hobnobbing with other hobos and sharing what we had. Back in the '50's and early '60's there were plenty of my idols still living the life. It hadn't been long since Woody Guthrie was writing his songs from the open doors of a train car, legs dangling above the rails.

On Halloween afternoon, I would rush home and begin putting together my costume. Although my outfit required a bit of drag, Mom didn't seem to mind. It was cheap. It was easy. We had everything but the corncob pipe in a closet somewhere, and pipes were easy enough to come by at Woolworth's. A rope around my waist served as the belt that would hold up a pair of my brother's britches. I'd pick out one of Dad's plaid flannel shirts and slide my feet into a pair of his old oxfords padded with a few pair of socks to keep them on my feet. One of PaPaw's old felt hats crushed down around my ears, and I was ready. All I needed was make-up and accessories.

I'd choose a long crooked stick from the oak outside, stuff a red bandana full of newspapers to make it look nice and fat, and if I was lucky, there'd be a pair of old winter gloves I could cut the fingers out of. Momma would dot my face with eyeliner, smear it around my cheeks and chin as black stubble, and there I'd be: staring back from the mirror with my bright eyes, the hobo I longed to be the entire rest of the year.

Momma could hurriedly move from me to the Frankenstein and fairy princesses my brother and sisters longed to be. I was done and outside, shuffling around in my large shoes, smelling leaf smoke on the air as the neighbors raked and burned, and waiting for dark. But already, I was fulfilled. In my costume, I was a hobo. I rode the rails. I drank my coffee hot and black from a tin cup. I read the secret language of hobos inscribed on barns and doorposts at every stop--who would give and who would not and who would barely let you live. Nothing was ever as good as it was in my mind. After all, I was sent trick-or-treating, not down to the train yards.

In the next couple of weeks, remember what you loved to look like as a child at Halloween. Who was your favorite character? Think about what it meant to become this creature, this character for a night filled with ghosts and goblins and all the candy you could eat. Remember, write it down, and learn a little something more about yourself. If it scares you just a bit, so much the better.

(photo from flickr)

Creating Mojo: The Chant as Poetic Form

I haven't taken a poll and I can't prove it, but I believe that many, if not most, creatives are spiritual people. They are certainly as superstitious as baseball players. Just ask yourself if you have a ritual involved when getting ready to write. A lot of you may not even notice.

"Okay, instrumental music on low volume; lamp with mardi gras beads hanging from it lit; glass of wine or cup of coffee in place; tiny carved jade Alaskan storytellers my sister gave me standing on window ledge above computer; candle burning. Ready, set, go!"

It's funny, but something about having your mojo on helps when it's time to get down to the work of creating. Whatever rituals we perform...whatever words we repeat...whatever time of day our hearts or spirits are most open...that is when the moment is ripe and the Muse beckons us to the creative chapel. Refuse her at your peril. She wants us to keep our dates, and hates being stood up. This is easy enough to find out for yourself.

Perhaps a chant to help us get started...Now this sounds like something the Muse would really like. An enticement, so to speak, to bring her close. Start loud and lower your voice to a whisper. Force her to draw near to hear the final words, and make them worth the effort. Not all our hoodoo has to be visual, is all I'm saying. We could try writing and reading, or chanting it.

A chant is a poem of no fixed form, intended for reading aloud, with certain words or phrases meant to be repeated over and over. This form is prehistoric, folks, so something about it must work, right? The rhythm of the repetition forms a musical beat. Blues songs, slave songs, prison work songs all draw on this ancient form. The chant was revived in the 1960's by poets like Anne Waldman and Diane Wakoski.

To write a chant, it helps to come up with a good, musical line you want to repeat; that's the key to the poem. What next? Well, remember that the chant form has an openness and spontaneity you won't find in a sonnet, so go crazy. Stir in some magic. Get spiritual, then physical. Whirl and twirl around your creative space. Chant in that crazy Muse--she loves being courted and called. Besides, it's fun, and fun opens us to creativity. Once she gets there, open the door, invite her in, make her sit close, very close.

Thinking About John Lennon's "Let It Be," I Call Marie

Sunny Sundays mean, for some, to go to church or pray or run

while I invite my Muse, Marie, to write with me and have some fun.

Come on Marie, I call on thee; for thee and me and we alone

will set creative spirits free.

In a funk with chores to do, I don't want to play with you

or anyone. I won't create, allow for fun.

Come on Marie, I call on thee; for thee and me and we alone

will set my sullen spirit free.

There's Tom, then Mom, then Honey Lee

all waiting for replies from me, but I really hate the phone

it eats my writing time, my poems.

Oh, sweet Marie, I'm begging thee; for thee and me and we alone

refuse all calls; write poetry...

...for thee and me and we alone,

come close Marie, sit down with me.

Try this at home, and remember, chants started out pagan and stayed long. By the time you finish chanting, you'll be quite content to sit and write quietly.