Writing Dilemmas #2 Traveling

I'm writing this post in a hurry because I am in the midst of writing dilemma #2 myself. I am suppose to be packing, doing some last minute snack shopping (who can eat that stuff offered on the road), cleaning up for the house sitter, and in general, getting ready to go on a trip. Yet, I'm determined to get a post written before I leave.

I am a traveler by nature. I love going, especially if it means seeing new places, seeing old friends, or visiting family. You wouldn't consider me a world traveler simply because I don't have the financial resources for that sort of jet-setting. Still, every chance to go someplace new offers a different perspective, whether it be your own, a stranger's, or a family member's. Every new experience is worth writing about.

Lunch in Holly Spring, MS can offer as much inspiration as Paris, France. Well, that may be a stretch, but not much of one. So much depends on one's state of mind, open heart, and willingness to be present wherever you are. And you have to carry that notebook, that ipad, that laptop in your luggage. Then you have to use it. Taking notes as you roll or fly along is a viable option to writing long treatises. Jot down what you hear at the table next to you at the diner or the fine restaurant. Then compare your notes. Great characters are born from simple eavesdropping.

You have to stay somewhere, so there will be time in the motel room at the end or beginning of each day to capture some of the most memorable moments of your trip. Time is of the essence; I don't care if you're 15 or 75. We never know how long we have here on this wildly spinning planet and the time we take to jot down our memories are always worth it. I sometimes think that if I were to have a bed-bound illness, reading over the memories I've captured on the trips I've taken will be a great joy. I consider memories and the words they inspire sacred. Let's face it, a lot of the world's great works are based on memories. Consider the New Testament, written long after Jesus was gone from the earth. That's just an example, so don't get nervous, readers of other or no religious persuasions.

I'll be taking my laptop and my notebooks and pens. I keep a notepad small enough to fit in my backpack so it can go anywhere with me. I take a larger journal for those lazy mornings with coffee in the Hampton Inn. The laptop can go to the bookstore or coffee shop in the town square with me.

When traveling alone, I'm famous for pulling off the road at a nice little roadside or state park and writing about what is found there. Just ask my friends and family, who are at the other end of the road usually waiting dinner on me. Leigh has learned not to wait. We always eat popcorn and apples when I get home from a trip.

If I'm traveling with someone, I utilize the power of collaboration. Challenge each other to write a song, tell stories, share metaphors and images. Driving through south Arkansas with my parents recently, they told me stories about their childhoods that the passing scenery inspired: my dad's job as a teen working on a cookie delivery truck and staying in a small hotel in Magnolia, AR, which is still there. My mom's long walk from her house to the small town of Rosston--a 4 mile round trip because her mom needed something from the store. She was eight years old and it was a huge adventure to be out on her own. They are in their 80's now and these memories are precious indeed.

My friend Katey Schultz (pictured above with her car, the Claw) may be the best example of the writing traveler. She has been at it for nearly two years, and her writing gets better and better. Through her, I am able to visit places I won't see in this lifetime. That is a special gift. You give it to others when you share what you've written while you're away--the best souvenir is taking others to places they won't see without you.

Next time you hit the road, don't forget your writing tools. They are every bit as important as your camera and your underwear. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then paint yours with words. When you're a writer, traveling is no excuse for not writing. In fact, it's a good reason to keep that pen moving. And don't forget to send a few postcards!

Writing Dilemmas #1

Dilemmas plague artists and writers. When to work. Where to work. How to work the work into busy schedules. There's just no end of things to keep us from doing what we both want and don't want to do most.

I thought I'd bring up a few of the most problematic issues over the next several weeks, get a little feedback on how you deal with yours, and let you know the various ways I resolve my own. I have to incorporate several tricks since surprising myself with something new is often effective.

I love living life to the fullest; that is, actively participating as much as possible in whatever is going on. I also love to write about life, which is an often solitary and sedentary activity. This would be what I would call a major dilemma; one not easily resolved. Writing every day is the goal. How can I accomplish this goal and still be the extroverted mesomorph I long to be?

There's a long answer and a short answer to this problem. We'll stick with the short answer because, actually, this basic problem covers the whole series. The main answer for me, on any given day, is write first. So what if it will be 107 degrees later in the day and the only time to garden is 7 am. Then I must get up at 5 am and write first if I want to go to the garden.

If it's snowing and what I really want to do is build up the fire, stick in a movie and lay on the sofa and watch it snow, I have to write first. If this means I can't get out of bed until I've written, then allow me to claim my place in a long line of famous reclining writers including Mark Twain, Truman Capote, and poet William Stafford who wrote reclining on a sofa at 4:30 am. Prop up the pillows, protect the comforter from the coffee and ink, and begin.

If company is coming and you haven't cleaned the house, remember that candles and party lights can hide a multitude of dust bunnies and other dirt. Perfection in homemaking is highly overrated. (Leigh is fainting as she reads this). And remember, Mrs. Smith makes a darn good berry cobbler. Just dump a little vanilla ice cream on top. Because, no matter if Michelle Obama is coming for dinner, you have to write first.

So you put something really clever on face book and you need to see who responded; how many likes you got? You know you have a ton of unanswered email and if you don't do it now, you'll have even more in an hour. Don't touch that internet interloper until you have written first. You'll be sorry. In fact, your mind may even trick you into believing that it counts as writing. It doesn't. Write first.

So there's my simple and only answer to the number one dilemma--when will I fit it in? Always, always write first. And so should you.

Leaving

A poet, even in the best of circumstances, rarely sees the kind of success that a novelist or screenwriter, or even a journalist does. The first thing people say to you when you tell them you're a poet is, "Don't quit your day job." Actually, that's good advice for any writer these days, at least until you get that first big break.

However, so many of us let this bit of information keep us from writing at all, much less writing a poem. I'm not going to spend a lot of time on why we should write poetry today. I'm going to tell you a very short story (for me) and then include a poem and a picture and that will be your post for this week.

When I lived in WNC in a little town called Saluda near Asheville, there was a beautiful place I loved to visit both on my own and when friends came to visit. It was located at the base of Pacolet Falls, just outside that tiny town. The location was secret, and I felt lucky that locals trusted me enough to tell me how to get there. I had to be persistent and be willing to walk downhill going, and uphill all the way back. At least for me, the reverse is preferable and easier.

A year or so after moving into Asheville proper, I wanted to write a fall poem. I try to write a poem every fall, as it is my favorite season. Here in NW Arkansas, we have had a delightfully long one this year and I have spent so much time outside after the dreadfully hot summer, that I haven't gotten to my fall poem yet, but I will. It's a commitment. I owe it to that kind of beauty.

One fall, feeling rather melancholy, and wanting to write an autumn poem, I struggled and struggled to get just the right feeling, find the right words. The poem rhymed, which I hadn't counted on, but they do as they will when I write them. Sometimes they rhyme, sometimes they don't, sometimes they do and they don't. I give my poetry a lot of space in which to express itself.

This particular poem, "Leaving" became famous. I never expected that. In fact, I laughingly call it my funeral poem because several people (including my own mom!) requested I read it at their or a friend's or parent's funeral or memorial service. Ministers asked permission to read it at the death of a parishioner or congregation member.

Finally, Leigh published it in the first of her hospice booklets, "A Different Season." This was our first booklet and we have sold thousands and thousands of copies--dare I say a hundred thousand or more--over the past 4 years. Few living poets know that so many people have seen (not all read it I'm sure) or had the opportunity to experience one of their poems; to have it so appreciated.

I am lucky. More than that though, and this is my point to you, when you put those words down from an open heart, whether you are a renowned poet or a beginner, you never know where they may end up or whose life you may touch. One thing is for sure, they will be inscribed on your heart forever. Enjoy the beauty of this lovely, sometimes lonely, but ultimately wonderful season. You can even write a poem to honor it.

Leaving

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Matthew 6.28-29

On a hill above Saluda beside Pacolet Falls I lay

gazing though a screen of birch at the remnants of the day.

Not a breath, not a whisper stirred the air when,

like a camera changing focus, my stare shifted

caught the falling leaves that drifted onto clothing

slowly sifted, then gifted me, a weary warrior

with feathers for my hair.

Suddenly, I must know how each leaf fell

and how they felt about their circling descent

from heaven down to hell.

Surely after all that time so close to sky

the ground must seem an alien and far-off place to die.

No breeze shook them from their tenacious holds.

That same thin strength that held them

throughout a summer’s storms seemed gone.

But wait... there goes one on fiery wings of gold!

Why, they’re leaping from their limbs,

they’re not just letting go!

They’re taking turns and laughing,

they seem tickled by the sun,

as if today was a leaf parade and they’re falling just for fun.

Bright red, burnt orange, soft yellow–

all dressed in Sunday finery

as they loose their perches fearlessly

for the first and last time flying

whirling, twirling, spinning ‘round,

singing Hallelujahs until they gently kiss the ground.

I want to learn to leave my life as gracefully as they.

May my certain passing from this place

come to me this way--

Let me leap into forever like a well thought out adventure

leave rejoicing in the splendor of a brilliant autumn day.

Mendy Knott from the book A Little Lazarus published by Half Acre Press 2010