Writing Dilemma #4: Digging Through the Blues

There's nothing like the post holiday blues to really stifle the creative in us. All of a sudden, we're looking at the end of one year (giving ourselves a hard time for all we DIDN'T do as opposed to what we DID) and the beginning of a new year which, let's face it, looks an awful lot like a blank page.

I know I allow mood to influence my daily writing. Especially after the all-too-common holiday overindulgence when I'm sated as an ancient Roman on a barcalounger. I get depressed with my own lack of self-control and laziness, and won't write. I feel useless and then set about proving it by continuing to do nothing about it.

Here, during the longest nights of the year, in the dark hours before dawn, hide the biggest diamonds. You won't know this until you look; until you dig deep and dig when it's hardest. Go ahead and let the darkness in. Pull it around you like a cloak. Hide beneath the hood of it, pen in hand. Then dig.

Last night I dreamed I was trying to get into the Air Force pilot's program. In order to do this, everyone had to pass a series of tests, one of which included being wrapped tightly in some mummy-like material and locked in a steel box for an undesignated period of time. I'm not sure what they were testing--your ability to remain with the plane at the bottom of the ocean like a good captain perhaps?

Like any sane person, I kept putting the test off while completing all the other requirements. Claustrophobic as hell, I just couldn't bring myself to submit. So I went to the little group garden spot where we each were allowed to keep a small plot that belonged exclusively to us. (Are you picking up on the death inferences?) Mine, however, was at the end of a row and was consistently being run over by the maintenance man on his riding mower. My little garden was all short and stubby, pitiful as the ones we tried to work under the heat dome here in Arkansas this past summer. From a distance the green looked beaten up and barren.

Sorrowfully, I dropped to my knees to see if there was something I could do to help it. To my great surprise, I discovered green beans growing. Digging in, I found onions, beets, even carrots under the black soil. Soon I had a small basketful of the jeweled fruits of my labor in hand. Happiness and pride swelled within me, and I was even able to track down the murderous mower and get him to agree to quit chopping my crop. I never returned to the scary test. It's only purpose seems to have been to propel me towards my garden.

Don't get all caught up in analyzing this dream, my Jungian and psychologist friends. For all you know, I'm making this up. Simply accept the point I'm trying to illustrate: Don't give up on your art just because you got the "morning after" depressed and sads. Even if you have to, metaphorically or otherwise, get down on your knees and dig among the fear and despair that pass for our gardens of joy and fulfillment at times. Remember this: the roots of the Blues were buried in dirt just like this. Somewhere in there may lie the perfect words that will feed your soul and bolster the hearts and minds of others, too.

Writing Dilemmas #3: Holidays/Holidaze

Allow me to address the holiday dilemma while square in the midst of the most difficult one for almost any artist--Christmas. Whether you celebrate Hanukkah, Solstice, or nothing at all, Christmas will invade your life like the Roman empire invaded Europe. Or Europeans invaded the Americas. Whatever, you get the picture. No matter your beliefs or practices, Christmas (as long as it has been celebrated) has overwhelmed every creative that ever lived. Go ahead. Try to ignore it. Well-meaning friends and family simply won't allow it. They want YOU there for the holidays, not the book you intend to publish in the coming year. Your presence, if not your presents, is required.

My personal policy is to simply give into it. I enjoy colored lights, wrapped packages, buying gifts, lively parties with friends, seeing my folks, the smell of evergreen, and writing and receiving cards. I try to make as much of it about writing as I possibly can. I assign myself a seasonal poem or story to write and put it out there at an open mic, in a blog post, or send it off to some magazine or journal, usually too late for them to get it published in time. No matter. I wrote it.

I give gifts to my writer and artist friends that hopefully will inspire them in their craft--things to write with or on. Magical rattles that bring the muse running. Calendars to help them keep up with their crazy, non-traditional lives. Gift cards to independent bookstores or coffee shops where they can take an artist date and a break from the insanity of doing too much in so little time. Magazine subscriptions that encourage creativity or offer writing prompts are good. I write an annual letter with my partner, Leigh, and send it in personal cards to friends and relations everywhere. (This is actually a great tool for reminding yourself just how much you DID do in the last year.)

Then I let all these things count. I AM creating. I AM writing. Perhaps everything I write during those two weeks can't be used in the memoir or short story I hope to publish in 2012. That letter to the friend I haven't seen in 20 years may not have anything to do with the screenplay I've been busting my ass on for the past 10 months. But I can't fight all this holiday spirit, and I don't want to depress myself by arguing with my reflection, "Oh, you should be doing this or you should be doing that." It's tiring and wasteful of whatever energy I happen to have left.

Maybe you can run away to Paris or the Keys or Hawaii for Christmas. I've always thought I might ignore the holiday if I were somewhere far away and could just write, write, write. But since I've never done it, I don't know if it's true or not. Besides, if I were to try a trip like that, I'd go to South Africa where it's summer and thoroughly confuse myself. Personally, I find it easier to give in and enjoy. I received a comment recently that said, "But what about making memories?" Well, here's your chance. But make sure you stay sober enough to remember the occasion or else you really are wasting your time.

It's true that there are times to simply be present in the moment. I envision my writer self, though, with a little tiny observer, an elfin reporter, sitting there on my shoulder like the proverbial angel/devil decider, and taking in all that is occurring even as I am as "with" the people I love as I possibly can be. I don't know if I learned to do this while policing, or if it is simply in the creative's repertoire and only needs practice to work. When I was a cop, I did a lot of counseling and talking and de-escalating trying to keep people, especially upset family members, out of jail. Especially at Christmas. At the same time, however, the little recorder was up there noticing everything--the grimace or unseen gesture made behind the wife's back. The uncle who suddenly disappeared into the back room. This enabled me to act safely and to write a great report should an arrest prove necessary.

I realize this post is slightly all over the place. But remember, I'm in the midst of the holiday dilemma myself and have lowered my standards. My advice is for you to do the same. Do what suits you; what feels most comfortable. Enjoy yourself--that's at the top of the list. Don't feel guilty if you don't finish the book by Christmas Eve. The new year is only a week or so away. You've got all of 2012 to complete that final draft. Count the writing you do manage. Throw in a haiku or poem to stay in shape. Attend a poetry reading or a play. Read a book about your craft. Open your heart to the love and the confusion and even the contention that a holiday like this always brings with it. Jot down some notes, and let your little angel/devil reporter do the rest.

See, I got this post written. Now I'll wish you, faithful readers and writers, some happy holidays of your own. May peace, poetry, art, and laughter fill your lives in the coming year. Maintain your sense of humor--you're going to need it in this election year. And remember, you can stand up nearly anyone and be forgiven, but never ignore your Muse. She, too, requires the gift of your presence.

Writing Little Miracles

When I travel and when I write, I notice that little miracles tend to occur along the way. That longed-for phrase finally pops into my head to fit the sentence perfectly. The metaphor I've been chasing like a loose rooster suddenly stops so I can swoop it up and put it in the pot to stew.

When I travel, invariably someone, often a stranger, performs an act so kind that I can barely believe it. I can only hope that I am that person for someone else once in awhile. These things I call "little miracles." They happen all the time; everyday, I'm sure. But we have to be paying attention in order to catch them before they fly past. And (this is the hard part) we have to show a little faith in the basic goodness of life (even in these "mortal coils" we call our fellow beings) in order to catch the miracles at work.

Leigh and I were five hours into our Atlanta vacation where we were headed to hear our favorite band, Roxie Watson, play when the first "little miracle" occurred. We got away from Fayetteville later than we intended (of course), so by the time we reached Russellville, AR we were already hungry. Well, I happen to know that the best hamburgers in Arkansas happen to be in Russellville, so we pulled off at exit 81, and turned into CJ's Butcher Boy Burgers.

Now, I'm not kidding about these burgers, y'all. (This post may not be as appetizing to you vegetarians, but it's still worth reading.) The beef is ground and weighed into 1/3 lb size balls, then hand-flattened into patties and grilled in the best old fashioned way. The hamburger, onions, tomatoes, lettuce and potatoes for french fries are visible right there in the front case. The menu is small: Hamburgers or cheeseburgers, french fries, sodas, and 3 kinds of milk shake--chocolate, strawberry, vanilla. To me, a small menu can only mean one thing; they make the best whatever it is they are advertising.

Anyway, Leigh had never eaten there and we loved our first road repast. We knew that every place we stopped would not be nearly as good, so we ate heartily. Then we headed out, changing drivers in the parking lot, and took off towards Memphis. We had been cheered by the decorations of the old-fashioned hamburger joint with its red booths, juke box, and shiny chrome fixtures. The staff was friendly and efficient even though they were busy, as always. I made Leigh wait while I took a few pictures to document our first cool oasis on a long, dry interstate.

On the other side of Memphis, we stopped for gas and drinks. I reached in my comfortable traveling sweatpants pocket to pay, only to find that my favorite money clip--a gift from two of my best friends--was missing, along with the $90 in cash it clasped. You know that sickening, sinking feeling where the hearts seems to drop down into the belly like you swallowed it accidentally? That's the feeling I had. More than the ninety bucks (hard enough to come by in this economy), I'd lost one of my most prized possessions, the mother of pearl money clip given to me as a birthday present from Lenny and Jane. Very unhappy moment.

I tried to recall, as we do, every place we had stopped. I stop a lot, so this took a minute. Besides CJ's, we had stopped at a gas station and a rest area bathroom. Part of me wanted to give up; to just say okay, these things happen. I could tell Leigh agreed, although she said nothing except to express her sorrow at my loss. But that money clip kept calling my name, and there was something about CJ's, too. If I lost the money there, then somehow, some way, they might still have the clip for me. It was worth a try.

I called information and got CJ's number. Meanwhile, I was not acting like the sweet traveling companion that Leigh had started out with. I felt sick at heart over this (when you think about the state of the world) small loss, but luckily my companion is a hospice nurse and understands loss, both large and small. I could tell she thought my call would most likely be futile, but she said nothing as I made it.

"CJ's, Lisa speaking."

"Hello, my name is Mendy Knott, and I ate at your diner at about 12:30 this afternoon. While I was there, I lost a money clip containing $90. I don't suppose it was turned in, or one of your employees found it."

"Hold on a sec, hon."

She half covers the receiver and hollers, "Did anybody turn in a money clip with $90 in it today?"

I hear a muffled, "Yeah. Ask 'em what the clip looks like."

Lisa says to me, "Can you describe the clip?" I wonder how many other people left $90 in a money clip there that day, but you never know.

"It's abalone-looking; a mother of pearl finish on one side."

"Yeah, hon, we got it."

"You do? You actually have it?"

"Some guy found it in the parking lot and brought it in here."

"I'll be gone a week to Atlanta. Will you keep it for me?"

"Sure, no problem. We'll put it in the safe with your name on it. You just stop by here on your way back through and we'll get it for you."

"Thank you. Thank you so much. You just made my holiday."

"No problem."

Sure enough, seven days later, we were back at CJ's and Lisa, the manager, washed her hands from the burger she was mixing, and retrieved my money clip and money. Most of our trip was delightful in every way. Of course, there are always a few bumps in the road. But this incident stands out in my mind as one of the finest memories I brought back with me. Something so unexpected; something as beautiful as the true meaning of Christmas started out to be. Something about hope and faith and like I said, miracles.

In the great scheme of things, this tale may be small to everyone but me. Getting that money clip, and even the cash back, felt like a big deal. It deepened something like faith in me, when it's so easy to give up on humanity these days. I mean, we rarely hear the good stories, right? That's one reason I'm writing this one. And so you won't miss the best hamburger in Arkansas when you whizz by Russellville. Make sure you stop at CJ's, exit 81. And be sure to say "Hey!" to Lisa for me.