A Creative Life

Mendy's blog has moved!

2012-01-03T07:56:00.000-08:00

You don't want to miss the latest post (on New Year's resolutions for writers...) and other creativity posts to come! Please check out the blog's new home at www.hillpoet.com.

And why not go ahead and sign up to get the posts by email from the new blog? You can do that here: http://bit.ly/tRE342

(Remember to check your inbox after you subscribe for the 'verify' link that must be clicked to make it work...)

Happy 2012 and see you over at hillpoet.com ~ Mendy

Writing Dilemma #4: Digging Through the Blues

2011-12-28T07:14:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-16T07:21:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-09T06:49:00.000-08:00

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.

Writing Dilemmas #2 Traveling

2011-11-30T08:45:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-16T14:18:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-04T07:10:00.000-07:00

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

Writing Empathetically

2011-10-18T05:35:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-10-13T04:49:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-02T07:46:00.001-07:00

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.

Don't Ask Don't Tell: A Villa Knell

2011-09-20T08:31:00.000-07:00

Don’t Ask Don’t Tell; A Villa Knell

Since gays can now serve in the military, too, A1

And not concern themselves with what others tell; b

they shine, a rainbow, from behind red, white and blue. A2

As soldiers they can fight and die like warriors do. a

Heads high, they march through the gates of hell; b

Since gays can now serve in the military, too. A1

Now every word they tell commanders can be true. a

No more of that old rule, “don’t ask don’t tell.” b

They shine, a rainbow, from behind red, white and blue. A2

Gay troops can quickly grow to many from a few. a

Recruiters will not alter what they have to sell b

since gays can now serve in the military, too. A1

All medals, purple hearts and honors will accrue. a

While we no longer wonder at the tolling of the bell b

And shine, a rainbow, from behind red, white and blue. A2

Death becomes familiar, our privilege no longer new; a

An “army of lovers” who begins to think we may have failed. b

Our sisters and our brothers serve in the military, too, A1

And shine, a rainbow, from beneath red, white and blue. A2

by Mendy Knott

Originally, an old italian folk song, the villanelle became popular in English in the 1800s. This form is based on a pattern of repeated lines (refrains) and rhymes, and is usually about 18 lines long. The challenge to the poet is to compose lines that can be repeated throughout a poem and still carry the meaning forward. "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," composed by Dylan Thomas in 1951, is probably the most famous modern villanelle.

The first line which is often (though not in my case) the title of the poem is one of the refrains. In the villanelle there are six stanzas; the first five stanzas are three lines long (tercets) and the final stanza is four lines long (a quatrain). The first line and last line of the first stanza take turns repeating as the final line of the next four stanzas and then are rejoined as the last two lines of the poem. The poem has a rhyme scheme of a, b, a except in the last stanza where there is a slight variation.

Of course, as a poet, you are free (and encouraged by me) to take liberties with how strictly you want to follow the pattern. I find when I adhere to a pattern, and then make a slight deviation (as in the last line above changing "behind" to "beneath" thinking then of flag-draped coffins), the poem can become even more potent. However, it is in the rhythmical repetition that the form finds a lot of its power to nearly hypnotize the reader/listener. These are definitely poems that hold their potency both on and off the page.

Please, try this at home. Then find someone with whom to share it.

Nanci Ballew "Folk and Blues"

2011-09-16T10:43:00.000-07:00

As a quick follow-up to my last post, allow me to review an artist I admire greatly. Some of you may be surprised to learn that local visual artist, Nanci Ballew, known for her paintings and drawings here in Fayetteville, is also a singer-songwriter. In fact, there doesn't seem to be much that Nanci Ballew doesn't do.

Despite physical setbacks which began back in her thirties with a near-fatal bicycle meets automobile crash, Nanci has never let us or her own creative nature down. Not one to give into the ogre of self-pity, or even the pain that accompanies the kind of accident from which she is still recovering, Nanci uses her creativity as therapy; physical, mental, and emotional. Last time she was in the hospital after kidney problems, the docs wanted Nanci to go to a facility for some extended physical therapy. She told them, in no uncertain terms, she needed to go HOME so she could continue her own therapy, thank you very much! Nanci went home, where she continued her healing.

She may seem fragile in appearance, but to underestimate her strength and endurance, her sheer commitment to the arts, would be a mistake. She would not allow you to live under this illusion long. Really, I never hear her complain. Ask carefully if you think she may need a hand with that guitar, or that portfolio, because she may give you "the look" which says frankly, "I don't need a hand. Go find someone who does."

Nanci Ballew is one of the most vibrant souls on planet Earth. This vibrancy is reflected in her new CD, "Folk and Blues," which will be featured at Nightbird Books on Sunday Sept. 18 at 6 pm. The third Sunday of the month is usually reserved for HOWL, an open mic celebrating women's voices. This Sunday we'll start early, with Nanci as our main feature and the release of her new CD. Nanci has long been a contributor at HOWL (her words out loud) and now, for the first time, we can take her songs home with us to play at our leisure.

Such all time favorites as "Medicaid Blues" are simply gaining in popularity as these "entitlements" are questioned more and more often. Seeing Nanci play and hearing her words will make you want to wipe the word "entitlement" right out of the political lexicon. She deserves everything she gets; dare I say she "earns" what little money she gets and all of her health care by continuing to create and to share her creativity with others. People like Nanci and many others are ignored as they go on contributing to a society who would easily overlook them. Well, not Nanci. She's not letting anyone forget about her. She is busy working her art and getting it out there.

You cat lovers will thrill to "Best Cat in the World." Not a cat lover myself, Nanci made me want to go and get one after I heard her love song to her furry friends. "The Spiral" has a wonderfully psychedelic sound that is certainly familiar to my age group. "Tree House" deals with the homeless, a group Nanci recognizes as people worse off than she is. And there is my favorite, the last song on the CD, "Listen to the Heart Beat."

Don't miss this opportunity to come and enjoy one of Fayetteville's truly unique and gifted personalities. She will give you hope. Her life lesson is one that is upbeat: strength and compassion for others in the face of your own adversity. Come, spend a little time with us this Sunday as we gather together at Nightbird and "listen to the heartbeat" of a little Ozark town filled with wonderful human beings like Nanci Ballew.

Writing When It's Hard

2011-09-15T06:02:00.000-07:00

Today I promised I would post on my blog. I don't particularly want to because it is a beautiful day and I want to get out in the great outdoors and put the garden to bed; prepare it for winter. I want to chop wood--well, break up kindling which is something I am much more capable of these days. I want to go for a walk with my camera. Sit and scribble or draw pictures of Handsome the Rooster in my journal. Because I feel good in this cooler weather. I want to do anything, in fact, that takes me outdoors and keeps me active as opposed to writing a blog post!

Some days I don't want to post because I feel bad. I don't want to wait until I do feel bad to write about that because it is much less likely that I will. So, I'll try to write about it now, on a good day, which I don't want to do because I do feel good and who wants to write about feeling bad when you're feeling good? See how hard this is? It's important though, and I know I'm not alone, so I want to share this.

What keeps me writing when I don't feel like it? Here's a word we have darn near lost from our vocabulary--commitment. Some of us wish it would get lost along with dozens of other words like discipline, motivation, dedication. Sometimes I simply write because I said I would, and that is enough. It's a promise to myself and I believe heartily in keeping my promises--to myself and to others. Also, I have a Shero; a writer from a time when there was little help for illnesses like mine. Her name is Flannery O'Connor. She had lupus. She wrote until she couldn't. Really, physically could not. She was one of the best short story writers that ever lived. Google her if you aren't familiar.

I have a couple of inflammatory autoimmune diseases. This is no plea for pity, although I want you to know you aren't the only one if you have a couple, too. I have lupus and Sjogrens. These are illnesses that are hard on the joints in particular, the lubrication of the eyes and mouth, and some organs, especially the lining around the organs. They are not life-threatening for me, at least at this time. I have treatments that help and I'm lucky to have the VA as my insurance. At least I feel lucky about that most of the time.

I am telling you this because lots of artists have physical problems that make them want to quit creating. But we know that putting the brakes on our creativity would be one of the worst things we could do for ourselves. I believe my illness would worsen if I quite writing. If I decided my creativity did not take precedence over how I was feeling on any given day, then I may as well lay it down and give it up.

Writing is like eating healthy (Leigh argues that popcorn is not "healthy") food to me. Sometimes, I may not be hungry but I know I need to eat, so I do. Writing is like going for a walk when I wish I could stay in bed and feel sorry for myself. I get up, put on my sneakers and cap (I do NOT have to look good--let go of that), and put one foot in front of the other. I always feel better afterwards. Picking up my pen, going to my blog post page, writing a letter to a friend (even if I have to do these things in bed, which I find is the most comfortable place for me) all these things make my life worth living. Life has meaning. I have a purpose for being here. These are the two precepts on which I base my being; my raison d'etre, as it were. And oh yeah, love. But that's a post for another day.

Yesterday was my Hen's Teeth writing group. I dreaded getting out of bed (which I could barely do), taking a shower (which I had to do to make my muscles and joints move) and driving the distance to the library where we meet. And first I had to revise my Villanelle, which was our assignment for this week. I did it. I did it all and I made it, nearly on time, too. I wasn't the happiest person there. And everyone seemed to do a better job than me at their work. But I was THERE, and to me that was what counted. I honored my commitment. I learned from my friends. I was surrounded by my loving and compassionate writing community, whether they knew how I was feeling or not. That didn't matter. We all have problems at one time or another, and yet we show up. We keep showing up.

And so this week, I implore you to show up, too. If you feel really bad, write about it. Circle yourself with words of compassion. Write a chant of healing. Read it to yourself and encircle your creative friends with those words of goodness written during a bad time. You'll find it's darn near magical. There is tremendous power behind these words: commitment, dedication, motivation, discipline. Let them be your guiding principles on the days you feel you just can't do it. Then do it anyway. However you can; from whatever position you can, keep working. The payoff is the feeling that you are fulfilling your purpose. Once again, you are winning!

Story-Swapping

2011-09-09T08:37:00.000-07:00

One of the best way to gather material for memoir is story-swapping. A good memoir is not just one's own story, but a combination and juxtaposition of those who are key to the writer's life. This means we are presented with the challenge of gathering stories from friends and families. Even if you have no intention of writing a memoir, swapping stories is exhilarating and fun for everyone involved. It enables the memoir writer to practice a key element in good writing; being a good listener. I will write more on listening in another post, but today let me simply show rather than tell.

Leigh and I are blessed with great neighbors who have tons of stories to tell about growing up and growing older in Arkansas and Missouri. We also have a great resource for story-swapping in my parents. They are living members of the "Greatest Generation," those who survived WWII and the Great Depression, who loved and lived through some of the hardest and the best times this country has known. In their 80's, there is no time to waste in gathering their memories to keep for my own.

We have a wonderful tradition we keep now that we live in Arkansas. In September, when it is time to celebrate both my dad's and Leigh's birthdays, my parents come to visit from Little Rock to our house in Fayetteville for a few days. On the day we choose to celebrate, we invite our neighbors, Emailee and Hershel down from their house at the front of our long drive, to have cake and coffee with us. Having these four together never fails to turn into a fine story-swapping time for all. (Hint: If it's hard to get your folks to tell their stories, invite another couple close to them in age for coffee or drinks. Then sit back and listen to the tales unfold.)

This year was the year for romance. Mom and Dad talked about their first date. Mom was lured on a blind date by a mutual friend to a park up on Petit Jean mountain. She wore her best pair of new blue jeans, which she reminded us, were not faded and torn for fashion as they are today, but truly blue. The two couples went for a walk and came to a creek. Mom did not want to get her feet wet, so Dad volunteered to carry her across. He lifted her easily, but when he got to the middle, he dropped her in the water. I know my dad thought this was hilarious, but if you knew my mom, you would know that she would not find this funny. Later her legs were dyed blue from the deep, dark dye of new denim. How he ever got her to go on another date is beyond me (although he was certainly a handsome devil). No wonder it took them two years to get married.

Emily met Hershel at church. She was not shy, she said, and pursued him outright, asking his cousin to tell her everything he could about the handsome young man. The next time she saw him in church, she approached him and basically told him, "you're the one for me." They were married in 3 months. Emailee was 16 years old while Hershel had already reached the ripe old age of 21. He seemed quite proud that he had "robbed the cradle."

They told of other dates as well; how Mom tricked Dad and stayed in town to catch him at a dance with another girl. She said "she drove him crazy dancing with other guys" that night. How Mom went to New Orleans right after they got engaged and danced all night with several good-looking fellas. It was a well-known fact that she could really "cut a rug." She couldn't quite remember what she did with her new engagement ring while she was partying the whole night long.

As always, it was a delightful evening. Their stories were full of love and romance from a different time. These men still open the car doors for their wives. They are protective and loving without condescension towards their beloveds. Yet, we all know who cooks the great food that keeps those smiles on their faces, who nurses them back to health when they're ill, who brings out the best in them. The poor times weren't felt so harshly when people were happy--something we all would do well to remember when going through our own hard times. These beautiful people from an older generation remind us that love has always made the world go 'round.

After a weekend of visiting with our neighbors, celebrating two birthdays, fishing with my folks and swapping stories with all of them, I feel lucky to have been born to these beautiful people from Arkansas and to have spent some of the truly great days of my childhood right here in these hills. Then to have moved here right down the dirt road from such great neighbors who love to talk about what it was like "back in the day," well, I know this time was meant to be. May I continue to swap stories with these fine neighbors and my parents, making the most of the moment, as my dad would say, "as long as the Lord allows."

Doing the Write Thing (for You)

2011-09-01T06:34:00.000-07:00

Meet my friend, Katey Schultz. Katey is on the road (like Jack Kerouac) driving in her old dependable "Claw," a 1989 Volvo station wagon with over 200,000 miles on it. In this picture, she has made a stop at my parents' house in Benton, AR on her way to Houston, TX. Besides needing one of my mom's home-cooked meals, we needed a catch-up session after not seeing each other for several years.

The last time I saw Katey, we were both living outside of Burnsville, NC in the mountains near Celo. Katey was teaching at the Arthur Morgan School and I was selling books and teaching a class using The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron as reference material. Katey attended that class as well as my open mic, Eve's Night Out (now hosted by Britt Kaufmann), at Blue Moon Bookstore in Spruce Pine.

I could tell even 7 years ago, as Katey was just beginning to get serious about her work, that she would indeed be a published writer one day. Her dedication, commitment and willingness to work at what she wanted were beyond compare. She did her homework. She came to class prepared. She could face rejection (one of the hardest requirements for artists of all kinds) with stoicism. She had a natural talent for writing. All she needed was some joy to go along with all these tremendous gifts.

In our twenties we, of the artistic persuasion, can be mighty angst-ridden. We tend to take ourselves very seriously and have put ourselves on a mostly impossible time line for fame and fortune. We can become nervous wrecks before our time. We can turn to drink and drugs to dull the sharp edges of reality and rejection. Worse, we can give up entirely, and give into a world that demands something totally different as it defines success for us.

But Katey did none of these. She put on her thinking cap instead and thought long and hard about how she, as an individual different from all other individuals, should go about this practice of writing. She obtained her MFA through a low-residency program. She researched artists' retreats and residencies, then sent out applications everywhere. She found a type of writing that appealed to her in the form of flash fiction (extremely short, short stories). She worked enough to buy "The Claw," figured out what she needed to pack to keep her comfortable on the road, and took off for her first residency at the same time she began a book, a blog, and a literary journal. Yo! That's what I call youthful energy mixed with a mature dedication to one's art.

Now I can tell you that Katey has written umpteen short stories since she has been on her writing adventure. She has attended many writing residencies, taught classes for both young students and adults, kept up with her incredibly well-written blog, and is sending out her first book to publishers. She has met writers and artists, famous and not-so-famous, who have both taught and learned from her. Her journey, by anyone's standards, is a huge success.

However, the greatest gift her writing adventure has given Katey is the beautiful smile on her face. Joy and excitement radiate from her body and into those who approach her. She shines. I basked in that radiance at my mom's house outside Little Rock. Katey herself might not yet fully grasp what she has found out there in the great American "wilderness." She has acquired two of the most elusive of all attributes: happiness and fulfillment.

Despite the frustration of trying to publish her first book... despite the rigors of the road and a few physical setbacks (like a broken foot)...Katey Schultz is flying. She is soaring above society's strictures and structures. She is successfully ignoring the American definition of success. She is finding her own way through the writing maze and discovering a whole new grace in young adulthood; even in America, a place in which I so often lose faith. Seeing Katey has renewed my hope in humankind. Americans are looking after this young woman who would be Writer...who WILL be Writer...who IS Writer.

So write on, Katey. And ride on. See it all. Make discoveries. Write about it. Talk about it. Don't be afraid. Thrill at the incredible gift and wonder of life. You are one of my sheros. If I had it to do over again (that old lament of mid-life), I would do exactly as you are doing. So enjoy every moment and keep submitting your work. The pay-off is every single day you wake up smiling.

You can ride along with Katey at www.kateyschultz.com.

Remembering as You Write—One Way to Memoir

2011-08-23T05:09:00.000-07:00

(Photo from Flickr)

I often do not know what I will write about when I begin working on my memoir on any given day. I simply begin writing about something that occurred, perhaps even that day, and let my mind flow freely in whatever direction it will. If there have been some particularly sensory moments that stirred me to memory, ie. the smell of rain coming or leaves burning, the morning's first bird song or kids shouting as they play in a backyard, the taste of a tomato and mayo on bread – all the better. But I find if I simply begin writing with memories in mind, something from my past, like the Mummy from that old film, will rise to the surface to freak me out.

I have created for myself an alternate route as well. The way I see it, there are short term memoirs (which may have occurred as recently as that morning) and long term memoirs which may take us back to childhood or youth. There's no reason, as far as I can see, to actually separate these into different notebooks. Quite often, one leads to another. Mostly likely, remembering something that happened yesterday will key a memory from years past, or remind me of the original causal root for why I act the way I do now.

For instance, my book is called "Frankly I Think I've Been Freaked Out All My Life." Here is an answer to how the present may be affected by the past, at least in my case. The question you must ask yourself is, "What's your excuse?" Don't take any of this too seriously. Let your memories be stimulated by anything that works. I don't advise alcohol or drugs simply because they will take their toll in the long run. Ask me how I know.

Here's a quick "for instance." I was writing about going to the VA and how that freaks me out, and I remembered that, in actuality, I've been freaked out for most of my 50-something years. Although the military really put some shine on that old PTSD, I have to admit they had something they could work with when I joined up. I don't think I'm the only one either. Not by a long shot. Thousands of people get a lot more freaked out than they started by joining or being drafted into the military.

But really, I've been weirded out from infancy. Mom said I cried frequently and loudly as an infant; so much so that as a seminary student and a young nurse, my parents, in desperate need of a good night's sleep, wrapped cloths and padding around the faucets and knobs in the bathtub and closed me up in the bathroom to see if they could ignore their big-mouthed baby. By the age of just a few months, I found myself in my first padded cell. Was this a precursor of things to come?

I'm sure they believed I would wear myself out, cry myself to sleep, but I was already extremely sensitive to my environment and was way too freaked out to slumber peacefully. Who knows how much these early childhood experiences affect us as we get older? I am an insomniac to this day, tossing and turning and reading until I have worn myself down enough to finally pass out. Obviously, this is somewhat hereditary since neither my dad nor my middle sister sleep well. Luckily, both my sister and I maintain a secretive chocolate stash we raid in the middle of the night, and that seems to help.

After all that bawling as a mere babe, my parents should not wonder at the need I feel to use my voice, even if they do wish I would shut up and quit telling all these stories about our family. I have never had much of a sense of privacy. That fact alone makes me quite different from the rest of them, and could be the real clue that I am not really from them, but an alien life form as I expected way back when.

I'm not saying freaked-outness is all bad. The freaked-out have a way of noticing things other, more "normal," people miss as they move along at high velocity making money or acting properly. This is why freaked out people need to become painters or poets or crafts people or something, so that people will think of them as ARTISTS and we can find gainful employment and even happiness. That is if your parents or teachers or SOMEBODY eventually recognizes you are freaked out, not simply behaving badly, and tries to steer you in a perhaps slightly more creative direction.

Like that...

Write me if you have any questions so far. Try to answer them yourself first, though. On paper. Then you'll be starting your own memoir.

(Photo from Flickr)

Writing Your Own Life–Getting Started (Part 2)

2011-08-08T10:10:00.000-07:00

Let's confront some of the fears writers must face as they begin working on their memoirs. Simply considering these fears is capable of preventing many of us from ever beginning in the first place. In order to write our reality, we know we must be fair to our readers; we need to be honest. We can do no better than to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth as we remember it. This will be your escape clause. There may be a great deal of distance between what really happened and how we remember it.

Memory is a tricky character, after all. Think Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Clark Kent and Superman. Remembrances love to dress up and disguise themselves, especially as superheroes and monsters. But that doesn't mean they aren't the TRUTH–the author's truth. Be compassionate with yourself, even if you don't have the facts just right. It all will be forgiven if the story is well written. Nobody else remembers the order of events, how things unfolded exactly, unless it's Aunt Susie with the photographic memory.

Tell yourself you'll never publish your memoirs anyway. You're just doing it for you, and maybe the audience at the open mic you attend monthly. They love the stories, so why not read them there? It's just a bunch of beatniks, poor poets, and queers. You can let yourself go. Once you begin writing and reading, you may quickly realize how addictive memoir can be. You'll want to work on it all the time. Your poetry will wither on the vine; your essays dry up and fly away like WalMart bags after a Mack truck has blown by. Don't worry, you'll find them stuck among the roadside branches once you're memoir writing has cooled. I can't think of a better reason to keep more than one iron in the fire at all times.

Writing the truth of our lives is incredibly freeing. We remember more and more as we go along. We often find keys to locked doors that contain creaky skeletons; letting them loose to dance and rattle across the page. For this reason, you don't want to take the act lightly. Remembering can be hard, painful, sometimes brutal work. Having a support group of other writers willing to delve into their own past is helpful.

Using humor to offset some of the more difficult passages is crucial. It gives you the leverage you may need to open the next rusty-hinged basement door. Humor also opens hearts and minds so that your audience or reader can swallow the more bitter realities of your (and perhaps their) lives. "A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down" is not just a phrase from a silly song after all. Look up the word "levity."

Do not hold yourself to a timeline. The events don't have to be sequential, written in the order in which they occurred. That's not how memories work, after all. They come and go, fired by the smell of coffee one morning; the breeze off the lake on a hot summer day; the crisp pink taste of watermelon; the saltiness of tears that run down into the corners of our mouths as we grieve a loss.

Your best writing is there, just a few blocks away. Your very own interesting, inspiring, outrageous life story. You know somebody needs to write the thing. It might as well be you. At least then the tale will be told with your slant of the light, instead of bitter old Uncle Floyd's.

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the poetry collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here. Or, if cookbooks are more your style, get a copy of Mendy's family cookbook Across the Arklatex at www.twopoets.us.

Writing Your Own Life–Before You Begin (Part 1)

2011-08-01T07:07:00.000-07:00

Now, we come down to the brass tacks, or knuckles as the case may be, concerning family memories. Preserving them for posterity, "just for the family," is one thing. Writing as the author of our own memories is quite another. There's nothing I like better than a well-written memoir. I even prefer the word "memoir" to "autobiography" because it implies, not just a recording of the facts as they occurred, but the author's perception of what actually went down; how it affected them and their behavior, forever and ever amen.

A couple of really good memoirs that will help acquaint you with the process of memoir-writing are: The Liar's Club by Mary Karr; A Girl Named Skippy by Haven Kimmal; Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs, and absolutely anything by Anne Lamott and/or David Sedaris. In fact, there are nearly as darn many memoirs out there as there are authors. I encourage you to find the ones that appeal to your sense of story-telling. Don't let the sheer numbers of memoirs stop you from writing your own. You need to believe that your life story is as interesting and educational to others as anyone else's. It's true. Really.

My favorite writings within my writer's group, Hen's Teeth, are the ones that tell their stories. Memories are so intimate and real that they can terrify us in a way. We ask ourselves, "What if that got out? What if someone outside this small group heard how redneck my family was; or that it was full of criminals; or that Uncle Pete had an affair with the Baptist minister in our home town whose population numbered in the high hundreds? We don't want just everybody knowing about that. What will Mummer 'n' em think? They could excommunicate me. Not that I would lose anything financially...but emotionally I can just feel the hate rolling off them like heat off a Southern blacktop in July." When you start asking yourself these questions, you are getting to the good part.

I want to spend some time blogging about this memoir stuff because I think it's important to us as creatives, and to me, since I'm writing my own now. My working title is "Frankly I Think I've Been Freaked Out All My Life." The title is good for a few reasons. One, the term "freaked out" is pretty much dated to my childhood, or at least teenhood (hmm...a good made-up term, so don't steal it. I was a teen hood). For instance, "My first trip to a gay bar in Jackson, MS was really freaky!" or "I was so freaked out I shook the screen loose, leaned out the bathroom window and fired up another joint."

The second reason it's a good working title is that I can reinstate the term whenever I get off track. It gives me a kind of base of operations to which I can return and find my focus. "Do you know what really freaked me out?" Like that. Especially since I tend to wander all over the place, between past-past, present-past and fear for the freaked-outness of my future. And finally, I don't want people to think I got this freaked out just in the past few years, due to climate change or Congress or something equally as freaky... (cont'd next Monday)

Memory Keepers

2011-07-25T08:08:00.001-07:00

Do you think of your own family as one of your greatest sources of inspiration? By invoking the stories of those who have gone before us, of those whose blood runs in our veins, we can help preserve history. As my parents enter their mid-80's (and believe me I feel fortunate that they are still around to tell me stories) I realize I will never know as much as I would like about the history of their lives. These are people whose experiences includes the Great Depression, WWII, witnessing the atom bomb and a cure for polio, the Korean conflict, and simply growing up in Arkansas in the 1930's and '40's.

I was reminded of the importance of capturing these memories by an article in this past Sunday's Arkansas Democrat Gazette. In the "Perspective" section of the paper is a wonderful article called "Song of the South" by William D. Downs Jr. His book is called Stories of Survival: Arkansas Farmers During the Great Depression. In his article, he quotes from a few of the interviews in his book. I recognized my grandparents and parents in these short and well-told stories. Eight out of ten Arkansans lived in rural areas during the Wall Street crash, and my family on my mother's side was one of them. I was touched by the stories in the article as I have been touched by the stories told by both my mother and father who survived those times; my mother in rural Rosston, AR and my dad in Little Rock.

It's not always easy to get your parents to tell you their stories. These are stories of loss and hunger, clothes made from flour sacks, when holidays or birthdays meant getting one gift, a book, and that was a big deal. Your elders may be reluctant to talk at first. But the stories are poignant and important enough to persist. As far as that goes, they may come in handy for what could soon be the next Great Depression. They will certainly fill you with pride for the endurance and strength of character it took for your people to survive through the worst of times, and then send you and your siblings to school and on to an easier life.

If you would like to capture some of their stories, or even those of some of your older neighbors', and aren't sure how to begin, I would like to suggest a helpful guide. My partner, Leigh Wilkerson, put together a wonderful booklet of story-starting statements that can be used to help you with your own personal interviews. It's called The Memory Keeper: Glimpses of a Lifetime. Leigh wrote it to help families whose elders are hospice patients record the memories that are most important to them. For the dying, this is "life review." For those hearing the stories, I call it learning.

Within their memories lie the inspiration for a lifetime of writing stories, poems, and songs. Many of my own poems are based on family remembrances. I wrote Across the ArkLaTex: A Cross Family Cookbook based mainly on the Thanksgiving memories I have of visiting my grandparents with all my aunts, uncles and cousins in Camden, AR. Their stories contain the often hidden bonds that hold families together. In a time when these bonds are weakening, it seems more important than ever to capture the love that helped your family survive the suffering and appreciate the joys that is all a part of life.

You can order The Memory Keeper from Compassion Books online or pick one up at Nightbird Books if you need a boost to begin writing down the stories that will be keepsakes for you and your family. Nothing you inherit will be more important than this – what was important to them. Not the heirloom china, not the family table, or the antique clock. What you will carry with you when they are gone is what they loved about their lives. Most likely, one of those things will be you. As The Memory Keeper says, "We always think there will be time to collect family stories tomorrow, next week... Don't wait. Do it today. Just sit down together. Ask a few questions. Tell a few stories."

Really, my writing friends, don't wait to write your true inheritance. Powerful, painful, beautiful—these family stories from the past are important to growing into the fullness of your own life and time.

Mo' Better Poetry

2011-07-13T06:29:00.000-07:00

I hope my friends in the band Big Bad Gina–Jori, Melodie, and Renee–won't mind me borrowing the title of one of my favorite originals from their CD, "Amazon Warrior Princess," to use as the heading for today's post. The phrase suits so well what I have to say to my poet friends. It's a terrific song and the band is a great example of what can become Mo' Better when you work at it with that kind of head-down determination. I am sure that the three of them, both together and alone, listen to CD after CD of other musicians in order to acquaint themselves with various styles and rhythms and from which to draw inspiration for their own unique lyrics and music. They are a terrific band, as original as they come, with music so varied that it can make you want to dance, croon along, or make out in some hidden corner of the bar.

Today, I want to convince you writers and poets, in particular you newcomers to the art, that in order to write mo' better poetry you must read poetry, just as songwriters must listen to loads of music. Poetry is at the top of few summer lists of "must reads." Even practiced poets don't read as much of their peers' work as they should. I am telling you now, though, that the only way to improve your own poetry, to become "mo' better," is to read more poetry.

As a bookseller, shoppers would always be amazed when they stacked up a pile of books in front of the cash register and I would ask, all innocence, "Are you a poet?" Their jaw would drop as they nodded, thinking to themselves, "Wow, a psychic bookseller." But no, I'd seen the two books of poetry sticking out of their stack and knew quite well that the biggest buyers of poetry were themselves poets. There's a reason for that. The best are in love with poetry, and not just their own. The rest are wanting to become mo' better writers and realize, in order to do that, they must read accomplished poets.

I took a poetry writing workshop at the local university when I first arrived in Fayetteville. This was a senior class, and although I was at least 35 years older than the oldest student, and perhaps 20 years older than my professor, I felt like I could learn something from the exchange of ideas and poetry in the classroom. It had been a long time since I had attended a class on poetry writing. The prof was excellent. He gave good prompts, was full of fine ideas, and his criticisms were spot-on. He was extremely well-read and tried hard to pass on his love of poetry to his students. He himself was a published and prize-winning poet, and I adored both his work and him.

My complaint was not with the teacher. No, it was the students with whom I could not identify. They arrogantly went about their writing like school children (not college students, but second graders). They blatantly stole from the works of poets they were forced to read in other classes, and focused entirely on their small little circle of friends and interests when writing. I never heard such bad poetry, even giving them a break for being so young. I had heard better poetry at my open mics from 16- and 17- year olds. These were seniors in college. Finally, having just referred to a famous Frost poem and receiving only blank stares in return, I shouted out in pure frustration, "Doesn't anybody in here read!?" They shook their heads "no." Some said they had too much required reading, while others just shrugged their shoulders. I understood then that they considered this an easy elective and were just rounding out their credits. Maybe three of us were interested in writing mo' better poetry.

If you take away nothing else from this post, please take this away: to become a good poet, you must read good poetry. I think poets want to read good poetry, but the mind is lazy if left to its own devices. One must think when reading poetry. One must consider the metaphors, listen to the sounds employed, let the images sink in deep. Poetry can be slow going and is not meant to be read in a hurry. It is best read silently and then aloud, even if you are all alone. It's even better when you can share it with another poetry- or potential poetry-lover.

I implore you with compassion to read poems other than your own. I say, "with compassion," because for long periods, I too, fail to read the work of others in order to get mo' better at my own poetry. Yet, every time I do, like this morning, I am inspired into thought-provoking images and memories of my own. The work I write after I've read Mark Doty or Dickens or Walker or Nye, is not a copy of their work. No, it is originally my own, with the spice of their inspiration and knowledge flavoring what I've written in such a way as to make it better. Mo' better everytime.

If you don't have a favorite poet, let me suggest the Norton Anthologies of poetry. They are full of luscious poems by hundreds of different poets--the best poets in the world, past and present. This way, you can fall in love with a few of your favorites and purchase their books in order to familiarize yourselves with their work. Here are just a handful of mine, and believe me they are not all dead white men: Shakespeare, Langston Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Richard Wilbur, Alice Walker, Naomi Shihab Nye, Patricia Smith, Robert Frost, Yusef Komunyakaa, Rumi, Lucille Clifton, Emily Dickinson, Elizabeth Bishop, Walt Whitman, Mark Doty, Sonia Sanchez.

Why, right here in Fayetteville are Miller Williams, Davis McCombs, Geoffrey Brock, myself (I say this in all modesty among such poetic company) and many of the poets who read at the open mics here in town. We have a nationally known library, a great independent bookstore, and an amazing used bookstore in which to find all kinds of fine poems. Truly, there is no excuse. We all have ample resources for becoming mo' better poets and writers. So read, and then write on.

Thirty in Thirty: Test Your Commitment

2011-07-05T05:41:00.001-07:00

I tried it before and petered out in less than a week. This time, I was inspired by my friend Nave's determination to write 100 poems in 100 days as a way of healing from cancer surgery. I decided to try again. Thirty poems in thirty days. I know some poets think of this kind of exercise as a glut of words. Why would you write a poem when you weren't particularly inspired? A waste of time. A blasphemy of poetry. I couldn't disagree more.

What better way to prepare yourself to write a poem at the highlight of inspiration as opposed to putting it off until the brilliance has grayed, sunk deep into the quicksand of brain matter? Practice makes perfect. Here's a slightly violent metaphor: When asked why we had to practice shooting, using our batons, or our quick draw over and over when I was a cop, our trainer gave a simple answer. "When the time comes to use what you know, you won't have time to think. You will simply do what you have practiced. It becomes a physical memory, the natural response. You do what you practice."

I would say this is true for the writer. When we practice writing everyday, we are ready when the bright green glow of a shooting star lights the horizon. We do not wait until we've lost the freshness of watching the hawk bathe on a low branch just above the cow pond, or the eagle soars out over the lake on a late October day. We sit to capture the lushness of the July garden after a thundershower or the snake's writhing passage through our back yard. We learn to appreciate , notice, and praise the everyday events of our extraordinary lives; how lucky we are to be here, to be participating in what Joanna Macy calls "The Great Turning." We, as artists, should be documenting the ending of what has been and the beginning of what is to come. The wars. The revolutions. The farmer's markets. Our children and their discoveries. Our pets. Our love stories.

One good way to establish and to test your commitment as a writer, an artist, a poet is to take on the challenge of thirty in thirty. Whether it is 30 poems in 30 days; 30 sketches in 30 days, 30 pages in 30 days, the process can teach us so much about ourselves. We learn that everything we write or paint or pot is not precious. It doesn't need to be perfect. We discover that life itself is precious as we learn to express our gratitude for what we all too often take for granted. We write about those things in ourselves and in the world that we would like to change. We see that our writing is the first step toward making that change.

We plow ahead when the going gets rough. If all we can squeeze out is a haiku, we are satisfied. We don't allow ourselves to be deterred by anything, but carry on like soldiers of the word. It isn't easy. We start to notice how easily time gets away from us, but instead of moaning and groaning, we write about it. Below is an example of one of those days I could not think of anything but how hard it was to feel inspired every day for an entire month. I had begun to think I would fail and, indeed, had missed and had to make up days. Instead of throwing up my hands and giving up (the easy way out) I simply wrote about that, too.

After all, I had a few rules to help me accomplish my goal. I could write about anything. The writing could be a poem, a haiku, or a poem start (writing that would become a poem). Most importantly, the poem could be bad. What the practiced writer learns is that it takes the courage to write bad poems (or create bad art) in order to write good poems and create good art. The "30 in 30" exercise is one of the best I know for bringing this truth home, inscribing it on our hearts so that we don't forget it. This exercise makes us brave and gives us the joy it takes to want to create, even if it's just because we saw that incredible sliver of moon floating red in a darkened sky. That's enough. That's all we need. Prove it. Take the challenge. You'll be glad you did.

30 Poems in 30 Days

Time is a trick done
not with mirrors but with ticks
and tocks, watches, wall clocks,
wrist watch, cell phones, computers, dash.
Time wraps itself around your shoulders at dusk
thick, weighty, worn out as old grandmother's shawl.
All you can do is lay beneath it,
watch TV, snack, stop, drop, and roll into bed.
It all starts with a braying alarm
incessant beeping, NPR
and that first cup of coffee.
You want to write your poem then.
You do. You need to. You know you do.
But you don't. Instead
your head nods, eyes droop close
until you wake to find your cup
clutched between your fingers,
tilting coffee at the brim.
Time to get up, go to work
arrive at appointments
fix breakfast
get the kids off to school.
For the rest of the day
time is minutemen marching in camp:
double-time, quick-step,
here and there a half-step
until all of a sudden
day is done.
The wrist and hand are weak from working
at everything, at anything (but writing).
Your mind writhes beneath the worries of another day
of doing, doing, left undone.
Don't ride yourself to death
on the back of pen and paper.
This time you know exactly what to do, saying,
"Alright then, tomorrow I'll write two."

Poetry of Resilience: The Asheville Wordfest

2011-06-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

"After A-bomb dropping, all the trees and grass were burned. In the atomic ruins one tree sprouted. Green, green leaves. People were encouraged to survive."

Yasuhiko Shigemoto from the film, "The Poetry of Resilience"

Finally, I come to the end of what I lovingly, tongue in cheek, call my book tour. The time for retreat was over and the time to participate in the Asheville Wordfest had arrived. The first evening I attended a documentary called "The Day Carl Sandburg Died" by Asheville film-maker, Paul Bonesteel. The film was a great way to start Wordfest. I was, of course, familiar with Sandburg's work. I had visited his last home, Connamera, in Flat Rock, NC many times when I lived in Asheville. It's a beautiful spot for contemplation, reading poetry, writing.

Yet, when I watched the film, I realized how little I really knew about the man, the poet, the activist who was in many ways, a more modern version of Walt Whitman. He wrote and fought for the working man all his life. His love for the everyday American trying to get by through two World Wars and the Depression was evident in Bonesteel's film and the poetry and words that he used to highlight Sandburg and his work. It was a fine way to start a NC poetry festival. I recommend "The Day Carl Sandburg Died" to everyone who has loved his poetry and books, or wants to familiarize themselves with how poets are a necessary part of the change that needs to continue happening in America; indeed, in the world.

On Wednesday, I was delighted to hear my friend and fellow poet (and musician) Keith Flynn play with his Holy Men at a reception for the arriving poets and writers. He and Quincy Troupe perform in a combination of wonderfully wild music and poetry that is a delight to sit back and enjoy. Keith is also editor of the Asheville Poetry Review and has several incredible books of poetry published, as well as CD's available to the public.

Thursday night's feature was another film called "The Poetry of Resilience." These poets were true survivors: of the Holocaust, of Rwanda, China, and the Middle East, including Iran and Iraq. Exiles from their own countries, these brave poets write of their time in prison, of the incredible losses they have suffered and survived, of their need to write, read, and tell their stories in hopes that those listening will help them change the brutality of a world and her peoples constantly at war. This was both a disturbing and inspiring film; not for the faint of heart but made for hearts with the courage to speak out against oppression and needless aggression. Academy award-nominated, "Poetry of Resilience" is a film for all peacemakers and poets and should not be missed.

(Poets, writers, friends: Mendy Knott, Jan (Redboots) Barnett, Britt Kaufmann, Kam Parker.)

I read on Friday alongside my friend, Britt Kauffman, who had graciously taken my place as host of Eve's Night Out, an open mic celebrating women's voices, when I left WNC for Arkansas. Britt's new chapbook, "Belonging," is beautifully written and is a heart opening journey through motherhood, childhood, and gardens. I highly recommend it.

A young poet named Luke Hankins shared the stage, as well. His poetry was some of the most thought-provoking I had heard in a long time. The poetry speaks of personal struggle with God and the understanding of God expressed in language I've certainly never heard a young man deliver with such doubt and joy in spirituality. I felt as if I'd been in prayer for 30 minutes, in the presence of a troubled, yet holy monk. Beautiful!

My reading went well, and I saw many writing friends I had not seen in ages. It was a reunion of poets and writers, lovers of the word and peaceful activists for change. They understood the word "resilience" and in fact, practiced it in their own lives as well as in their work. I felt so grateful and honored to be a part, to have been invited to participate by the beautiful, determined poetic soul that is Laura Hope-Gill, the woman who initiated and runs the Asheville Wordfest. I was welcomed and even thanked for the part I had played in jump-starting the creative spirit in some of the writers present. Nothing feels better than that kind of praise because its value is so visible in the faces and words of those women who share their hearts' work with their communities.

Friday night features included Brian Turner, author of "Here, Bullet," his book of poems that includes one entitled "The Hurt Locker" from which the film took its name. Holly Iglesius and Paul Guest were also featured readers. Saturday was devoted to creativity in families and they gathered near Pack Square and at Spellbound Children's Bookshop to write and paint, scavenger hunt and poetry slam. That night at the YMI Cultural Center, world-renowned poet, Linda Hogan took the stage. There were many more poets, youth slams, and open mic readings; too many for me to attend them all. It's a jam-packed event and almost everything, and I mean everything except the films, was free and open to the public.

It's a beautiful event in a beautiful part of the country filled with fabulous poets and people who care about the Earth, about peace, about nature and kids and truth and justice. You can easily plan your spring vacation getaway around the Asheville Wordfest and you won't go wrong. One day, I hope to be invited back as a participant, but until then I will plan my visits around these 5 days and nights of inspiration and celebration. Go to www.Ashevillewordfest.com to learn more about this event.

(Top Photo via Flickr.com)

Writers Can Go Home Again

2011-06-13T14:02:00.000-07:00

Writers are often battered with quotes from well-meaning teachers trying to protect their sensitive egos. "A prophet (or writer) in their own home will never be understood." That one may have more than a grain of truth to it. Another one (and this one-liner is widely dispersed among young adults everywhere) is "You can't go home again." This is simply not the case. You can always go home again, but you must be prepared for the fact that you won't be the same person who left. Your perceptions and how you experience what is now your past have changed. If you are a creative, it's even more likely that you have changed faster than the place you called, or call, home.

I encourage writers to go home again if for no other reason than to quicken the pulse of memory. During my retreat time in Asheville, my home for over 13 years, I drove my little Corolla down to Burnsville and out along the South Toe River where I used to live. Spring in those old Black Mountains is breathtaking. The familiar curvy two-lanes, the swinging bridge, and the Toe River brought back so many memories of being newly in love, buying our first house together, planting the first small garden in rich river valley soil. I could still feel the ice cold currents of the river at my waist where I caught rainbows, browns and brookies on a fly rod.

I drove up Merry Bear Lane, a small drive Leigh and I named, to get a glimpse of our old home. I ignored the "No Trespassing" sign because I just had to have a look. Do not try this at home. Depending on where you lived, you could be badly bitten, or worse, shot. But I knew the same neighbors lived there and would recognize me, so I crept up just enough to see the house. There it was, the cabin we had turned into a cottage, the chicken house we built together. All the trees we'd planted were so much larger now than I remembered. The Pisgah National Forest rose behind the little house to a peak I once would climb to get a view of hazy blue mountains. When one of my old neighbors walked out of what had once been our home, I felt my heart wrench in my chest. Yes, they had bought it some time ago.

I won't say that it's not painful to go home again. It can be. We must foster the attitude that we have moved on. I know, for instance, that what I once had is not worth trading for what I now have. One is no better than the other--it is, after all, one creative life and that life in its entirety belongs to us alone. Don't compartmentalize your experience of it. Every place we've called home has played its part in making us who we are today. As Janis Joplin once said, "It's all the same f---ing day, man." It's all one life. Make of it what you will.

I finished my day with a long drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway. If you've never made this drive, with someone or alone, you must put it on your bucket list. Drive it on a weekday, before school lets out for summer. Drive slowly, stop often, snap some pictures. Write a haiku or two at the pull-offs as you look over that wondrous beauty. There is nowhere like it in the world. That can be said of every place, I reckon. The Blue Ridge is just one of many. However, if you crave the colors blue and green and giants that somehow remind you of the great breasts of the Mother who feeds us all, you don't want to miss the ride. It's a treat, a retreat, you will never forget.

I know some people who never look back. For me, there is a bittersweet beauty in seeing it all again. Revisiting and remembering allows me to savor who I've been and all that I have loved before. Besides, I'm not done writing about it yet. The pages of my life may have turned but my memoir remains unfinished. Until then, I need these real time reminders. They show me how I came to be where I am and remind me once again that wherever my heart is, there is home.

Retreat!!!

2011-05-28T11:32:00.000-07:00

Every writer needs a retreat, and I had pretty much zapped my energy by the time I left Atlanta. Rocking "alterna-grass" star, Lenny Lasater, and her band of Roxie Watson mates are traveling in the fast lane to fame, and I'm a slow lane writer. I drove the trip from Atlanta to Asheville, NC in record time, not stopping for my usual scenic detours. I arrived at Jane's house about 4 pm on a Monday.

I was house-sitting for my friend, Jane, while she taught a watercolor course at John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, NC. I walked right in, threw down my backpack, and fell into bed. Her tiny bedroom is perched in the treetops at the back of an old cottage style house. The bed itself is surrounded by windows, thick green branches filtering the breeze as it blows through the screens. I slept for two solid hours--this from a person who rarely takes a nap.

From that moment on, I did nothing but sleep and write. Eating wasn't even a priority. I visited briefly with a couple of friends. I enjoyed one short workout with my friends Kam and April, owner-operators of The Fire personal training studio, then shared a great brunch with Marianne in West Asheville on Tuesday.

But for the most part, I lay in that glorious treehouse room in a bed filled with pillows, scrawling notes and poems into a notebook on my lap, reading, and in general catching up with myself. Now that's what I call a retreat!

Every writer, artist, or creative needs to retreat (get away, fall back, let the others do the fighting) at least once a year, even if you have to do it from your own home. That's not always easy as long as we remain surrounded by our lives and responsibilities; it takes more than a modicum of willpower to block out the everyday of our regular worlds. My advice is to save up enough money, or points on your credit card, and blow it on a motel room as close as 30 minutes drive from your house. And for two days laze around and write or draw or pick on your guitar whatever comes to mind. Sleep. Eat bonbons or gluten-free cookies; whatever trips your trigger. Answer no phone, no email, no knocks at the door unless it's room service.

All you need is a good bed, your computer or notebook and pen, a couple of books, and a little extra cash. If that's hard to come by – believe me,I understand the monetary plight of writers – pack a cooler with some of your favorite treats and drinks before you go, and bring it in with you. Leigh has an embarrassed laugh she reserves for the moment I walk into the hotel and get the rolling cart so I can load all my shit for a one or two night stay. But hey, as much as it costs to live in one of those places for a night, you better make sure you have what you want. That's my philosophy.

You can also experience the luxury of an artist's retreat in a cabin, or house-sitting for a friend, as I had the opportunity to do on my Asheville trip. The point is that all of us need the peace and comfort that solitude brings when we are busy getting our work out into the world on a regular basis. The creative mind needs to sleep, dream, go slow, exist quietly inside itself as it turns over new ideas or shapes the future of things unseen. No, you can't take your lover, no matter how quiet he/she promises to be. You can't take anyone--you have to go alone. That's part of the retreat. Once you've retreated this far, you'll find you'll want to re-treat yourself, time and again. Don't worry, it's what I like to call a positive addiction. Besides, you'll never find the time to do it as much as you need, so take full advantage when you get the chance!

Reading, Rocking, Rolling in Atlanta, GA

2011-05-21T11:53:00.000-07:00

Having been chased by tornados from central Arkansas through Jasper, AL and all the way to Atlanta, GA, I was suffering from a new form of PTSD by the time I arrived at my friend Lenny's house in Decatur. Post Tornado Stress Disorder. It was so bad, I kept Lenny up all night watching the weather channel. Atlanta (and I) got lucky as the tornados split around the big city and one went north and one went south. I got very little sleep that night.

By the next evening I had recovered enough to give my poetry reading at Charis Books in Little Five Points, one of the oldest feminist bookstores left in the country. Charis was my bookstore when I lived and policed in Atlanta and my memories of that store are long and fond. So I was pleased to be reading there one last time before they move from their present location to a new one and begin to diversify to include more than books.

The reading was small, but with some of my oldest and dearest friends attending. Friends and fans often say to me when I tell them I have butterflies in my stomach before a reading, "Oh, you can do this blindfolded. You've been doing it forever." But the truth is every reading is different and every audience is different. My own perception and mood is different, and no matter whether you still have post tornado syndrome or not, the show must go on.

The flavor of this reading was sweet. I had come all the way from being a cop in this city to being a visiting poet, some 20 years later. The audience was incredibly attentive, almost spellbound, although I know how this may come across. I can only say this was the look I saw on their beautiful faces as they gazed at me, listening hard for the next word, the image, the metaphor that would hopefully strike a chord with them. And they made noises of affirmation and understanding. No reading can compare to the one where your audience actually amens in one way or another. To a preacher's kid, it is the ultimate signal of a job well done.

Well, sounds and selling books--which I did. As many listeners bought my family cookbook as they did my book of poetry and I was thoroughly pleased. Of course, there were several good cooks in the audience who just couldn't let the idea of a book from which I had drawn family recipes for women's potlucks all those years ago get away from them.

Admittedly, I felt exhausted after the reading, but the weekend was just beginning. I was to hear my favorite band, Roxie Watson play in both a parade and onstage at the Inman Park Festival. Saturday morning, Lenny and I loaded up the car with her bass, amp, and gasoline generator and headed over to meet the band just a few blocks from where both she and I used to live over twenty years ago. Beth, who plays mandolin for Roxie and is one of the original founders along with Lenny, owns a big old F-150 pick 'em up truck. A talented carpenter, she has devised a stage which can be built on the back of the truck in about an hour and taken down in less than that. This is really an amazing feat and a testament to the many talents of Beth Wheeler.

Then the band climbs up (and I mean UP) on the stage with their chairs and instruments all set in place and the driver slowly, carefully (with a stick shift no less) drives them along the parade route with all the other acts; none of whom, I might add are actually doing a live set on the back of a pick-up truck! They were singing "Jolene," the famous cover by Dolly Parton, when they passed Victoria and me where we lounged beneath a giant shade tree. I have to agree with Lenny, that nobody sings that song as well as Becky Shaw from Roxie Watson.

The next day, Sunday, the band was scheduled to play at the Inman Park festival in the early afternoon. At least they had a stage that stayed in one place this time! A huge crowd gathered when they learned who would be playing next, and I found myself surrounded by fans shouting and stomping with every song they played. I grinned the whole time as they played several songs that I and my partner Leigh had co-written with Lenny. I had written a song on the spur of the moment a couple of years earlier called "Five Easy Words" and this was the first time I had heard it played by the band. The refrain goes, "It's gonna be all right." When they got to the chorus and were repeating the phrase in harmony, they completely changed keys altogether in one voice, it seemed, and chills ran through my entire body. Both that song and Lenny's true song about being a coal miner in the deep mines of Alabama continue to haunt me.

When I finally left Atlanta for Asheville, I made my way to my friend Jane's house and barely made it to the bed before I was asleep; knocked out cold for 2 hours in the middle of the day. I slept for a couple of days to recover from the excitement of ATL, Roxie, and Big Lenny Lasater. But every moment was worth it. Well, I could have done without the tornados, but not without a minute of the rest of that 5 days. So far, it was Mendy's Excellent Adventure all the way.

Poetry in Motion: Taking It on the Road

2011-05-16T07:17:00.000-07:00

Julia Cameron calls them "artists dates." I call them "risk adventures." Call them what you will, but these forays into the unknown broaden our sense of the planet, allow us to taste a life we did not choose to live, and give us a new-found self confidence about our right to be anywhere, everywhere in the world. Not to mention all the new material we can collect. Adventuring with a sense of awareness can provide us new opportunities for self-expression and a certain respect for our earthly neighbors.

I've been away on a poetry journey; a 3-week long writer's retreat of sorts. Writers simply must retreat once in awhile from the head lines, the front lines, the hard lines and laze around in a soft bed with nothing to write but what brings them joy. I covered several states in my journey, slowly making my way through Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Western North Carolina, and ALL of the extremely long state of Tennessee. My state of mind varied as much as the states through which I drove and the weather. I ran from tornados, swam in the sun, hid from thunderstorms, wore both jackets and shorts along the way. And I wrote about all of it.

Sometimes, there's nothing better than a decent motel room in a distant town where you know no one and nobody knows you. There you can let your curiosity roam well beyond the confines of the big, boring (but safe) building with its giant TV, WiFi, and exercise room to wander the streets of the town in which you've arrived. One of the towns I explored enroute to a reading in Atlanta was Holly Springs, MS. I wasn't even staying there, but it was the first sunshine I'd seen in days, and that was enough to tempt me off the beaten path.

In the town square of Holly Springs, I walked around the old courthouse studying the historical markers which told of the area's involvement in the "War of Northern Aggression." I am still fascinated by that period in the history of this nation and the Southerner's point of view, both black and white, of what occurred before, during and after that devastating civil war. I'll stop on the side of any highway to read an historical marker anyway, and here they all were within walking distance. Holly Springs is a trip back in time, not so far as the civil war, but at least to the 1940's or 50's.

I ate at a restaurant called "Aunt Whooeys" on the square which served me a dessert called "apple enchilada." It was several apple dumplings rolled long and baked in a pan with a syrup of butter, sugar and cinnamon poured over it. Heated, with a perfect round of vanilla ice cream melting over it--what can I say? The word orgasmic may seem crude, but it is close to my actual experience of this homemade delight. And I think it cost all of $2.75. That alone was worth the 3-mile drive from the interstate to the town center.

After lunch, I walked around the square and went into an ancient drugstore with a real soda fountain and soda jerk working hard to serve a long line awaiting the cold, creamy treats. Even with a belly full of apple enchilada I was tempted to try one of the icy confections the customers held in their hot little hands. I did buy a postcard of the town there, then wandered back to the historical post office to mail it to Leigh. I am in love with old P.O.'s in all their different settings and would search high and low for something to mail just so I could get it postmarked there. I did all this on my lunch break with miles to drive before I reached my overnight destination of Jasper, AL.

This was the beginning of my trip and I tell you about it, creative reader, to remind you that the journey from one place to another never need be a straight line. Human beings, as a rule, are in too much of a hurry to get where they think they are going. I believe the road should not be straight and narrow, no matter what the Bible says. In fact, it should be as wildly adventurous and as full of nectar as a bee's flight. At nearly every exit, around the next bend in the road, two easy miles from your boring hotel, adventure awaits. Go! Be free! But don't forget your pen and paper. Or your camera...

(Photo 1 source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/courthouselover/2351780036/. Photo 2 source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holly_Springs,_Mississippi)

Congratulations HOWL Contest Winners!

2011-04-21T10:56:00.001-07:00

Recently my open mic reading, HOWL, sponsored a contest for best poem. I saved the money from passing the hat at every reading and challenged the poets to enter 3 pages of poetry along with a $10 entry fee to win a 1st, 2nd, or 3rd place prize. Since it was our first contest, and the rule was that you had to attend 4 HOWL open mic readings a year, I worried that many of my poets would be too nervous to enter. Reading at the open mic was one thing, entering a contest to be judged was another.

I was very pleased to have 10 entries, nearly 30 poems. The fees and hat would take care of the $300 first prize. I enlisted the aid of two poets unassociated with HOWL to judge the work on a points system. It was a very close contest and highly educational for me. Judging is much more subjective than I ever thought. If you didn't win, it didn't mean your poem wasn't good. That's the truth.

After the points were tallied, I was very happy with the winners. Congratulations to Jeanne, who took first place; and to Jan who won second, and Fran who won third. All three are fine poets and wordsmiths. (Jeanne's winning poem is featured below.)

However, winning was not the most important part of this contest. (Tell that to the winner, eh?) But I think she would agree. The most important part was gathering the courage to enter. If she had not entered (and she is a fairly shy person and a fairly new poet) she could not have won. And you would not have the pleasure of reading her poem in this post.

I am proud of every woman who entered our first HOWL poetry contest. I know what it is like to submit your best work. I know what it is like to win, and I know what it is like not to win. As far as I'm concerned, there are no losers who take such a risk. When you do, you champion your own creativity and earn the admiration of your peers. It's hard, and we do subject ourselves to disappointment at times. It forces us to deal with rejection in a healthy way; in a way that does not hurt our work, but simply redoubles our determination to continue.

Write on, my poets, my peers, my peeps. What you risk, you never lose.

The Catch

Stiff wind
dances points of light
on the friendly pond.
Clear water above thick algae
Hiding minnow, water bugs, bass, perhaps.

Blue Sky
hazy with wisps of clouds--
Backdrop for the stand
of pole-like pines
ringing the dappled pond.

Live oak holds
onto its parchment-dry
leaves, resisting
the wind's call
to let go.

Waist-high grasses, brown now,
Lead me to the water's edge.
I cast and the thin fine line
Of my imagination reels off
And sinks into the rippling water.

I wait, my eye on the bobber,
Impatient for the strike,
the spark of insight
that will pull the words
from my watery soul

To form the flash
and wriggle of the poem,
the story, the work that
once hooked, comes
struggling

Into this fresh
cool winter day,
Into this moment of quiet,
Of solitude,
Of attention to.

by Jeanne Sievert
© 2010

Join the HOWL: Women's Open Mic facebook page at www.facebook.com/howl.openmic

Risk It.

2011-04-21T05:51:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in every artist's life when they must take the risk; whether they write, paint, work in clay, metal or wood. What risk? The final risk for every work of art is putting it out there.

I compare it to sending your 5-year-old to kindergarten for their first day at school. In the classroom, they will quite naturally be compared and compare themselves and their skills with others. As parents worry and pace, bite their nails at home, the children size each other up, find out what their strengths and weaknesses are, and determine where they will need work to become better students and to excel.

Such are our feelings when we put our creative work out into the larger world, whether we are entering a contest, submitting for publication, entering a show, or simply standing to deliver our work to an audience for the first time. It's a nail-biting, floor-pacing experience. This is the jumping off place. Believe me, the water can look a long way down from the cliff's edge far from the comparative safety and privacy of our computer, palette, studio. Out in the world, our very personal work (our babies) will be subject to comparison and criticism. It will be, in some way, judged--a scary word. We know if we never go to the open mic, never enter the show or contest, never submit for publication, we are safe in our own little world. There we can believe it's all good and we need no one's input.

The only drawback of confining ourselves and our work to the security of our creative caves is that we never get to share what we've accomplished. The people who need to read or hear our poems and prose, see our pastels, touch our carvings, and hold our pots in their hands cannot be inspired or encouraged in their own creativity. If we don't take the risk of putting our work out into the world, we not only isolate ourselves, we leave others who would create—if they thought they could—without inspiration.

Join the HOWL: Women's Open Mic facebook page at www.facebook.com/howl.openmic

Why We Don't Write: Beginning Again

2011-04-13T06:29:00.000-07:00

Buddhist writer Sharon Salzberg teaches us that "with every breath, we can begin again." I find this one of the most hopeful and helpful quotes of a lifetime of reading, writing, and listening to writers. We need this bit of "begin again" wisdom to become something we rely on in times of doubt. I say these things because, I too, fall victim to the "Oh, I haven't written a new post for so long, why do it today? It just seems too hard right now." Until a month, or even two, have passed and all my readers begin to wonder what has happened and wander off to other more conscientious bloggers.

Today I begin again. And not for the first time, but for the first time in a long time. I can blame it on my shoulder surgery which made writing hard; made it, in fact, hurt. Yikes! Or the fact that I broke a tooth and the whole getting a crown thing has been quite painful. Or maybe the fact that I have lupus and experience fatigue and pain most every day, but that hasn't stopped me in the past, and I've been dealing with it for years. The question is not why I haven't written in the past couple of months, but how do I begin again, and how do I continue? I believe this is a question we all deal with at times, especially those of us with a chronic disease or pain. Or maybe it's taxes, the state of the economy, war. These are all very real, not simply excuses. I know that. But how do we write or remain committed to our art anyway?

Because we also know the truth; our art, our passion for words or paint, the longing to somehow capture truth and beauty even for a moment, is one of the most healing things we can do for ourselves and the world. I always, not sometimes, but ALWAYS feel better when I write. And yet my tendency, when down, is to give in and allow my self to distract me from the very thing I know will help most. I can't answer the why of it so much as help with how to pull ourselves out of it. Somehow I'm better at doing the physical, when it's hard, than the mental/emotional/creative. I realize even if I'm tired or my feet hurt already, that a walk will make me feel better. And so I walk and therefore do feel better. Swimming is even harder, so I tell myself all I have to do is get in the water. It never fails. If I make it that far, I swim. I keep my expectations low--if I walk a mile or swim at all, I get a star on that day in my calendar.

Art is not as easy. We have higher expectations of ourselves--to be gifted, to be wise or witty, to make perfect whatever it is we are working on. When what is called for, what is most needed, is just doing something. Anything. Creating crap is better than not creating at all. From experience, I can tell you that writing through my pain has created some of the best poems and songs I've written. I've always loved listening to the blues, so why can't I allow myself to write some, too? Blues singers and composers are quite obviously taking a hard moment and transforming it, through their persistence and unwillingness to cave, into art. We can do the same. I often do. But not always.

That's when we have to forgive ourselves and climb with all our aches and pains and doubts, back up on the wagon of our creativity, trusting that it will take us where we need to go. We have to believe that wagon is our way out; taking us down the road to better times and into the land of truth and beauty. Even if the landscape seems bleak, we are moving! We are headed out of the "valley of the shadow" that keeps us from creating. Don't give up. Don't give in to the voice of pain, doubt, or even despair. First, forgive yourself. Then pick up your pen, and begin again. Start with small goals, short freewrites, small paintings. Write about the very thing that plagues you. You don't always have to be bright and cheery--that's another difficult expectation to fulfill. Just start and see where your life leads you. This is trusting the process to the fullest extent. Believing that all of life is like riding a bike. You don't forget how to live, no matter how long you've parked it in the dark garage. A few circles around the block, and baby, you're back in business!

Creative Collaboration Part 2

2011-03-13T16:20:00.000-07:00

Some of the creative collaborators I admire most are songwriters and musicians. When I think of the dedication and talent it takes to learn to play one instrument, I am amazed at people who can play several and then play them altogether in a band. Add to this the ability to write music and lyrics, the idea is practically overwhelming. And yet, music and song abound in our world, and have for ages. One of the reasons this is so, I'm convinced, is that it's fun to write songs and make music. Otherwise, why would there be so much of it? The earth and her creatures crave music. That's what I think, and we follow our natural inclination to create when we participate along with the birds, the trees, and the whales.

Two of my favorite musicians live right here in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Although they have traveled all over the world, and are quite famous among folk musicians, they love their hometown and never slack in their commitment to make it a better place to live. They have a CD and a DVD dedicated to the people, their ways and music, of the Ozark Mountains. I'm talking about the duo known as Still on the Hill. Here, we know them as Kelly and Donna; Kelly Mulholland and Donna Stjerna. (Photos by Jane Voorhees, with cool iphone filters, March 2011.)

I feel privileged to know Kelly and Donna and to call them friends. I participate in the peace open mic they host once a month whenever I can. I'll go to see them play anywhere. They honored Leigh and me by playing at our 10th anniversary party and by writing a song for the two of us which they played on the 'courting dulcimer' at their Valentine's Day concert. (Super fine time was had by all!)

Now, perhaps the greatest tribute of all has been paid to me and my poetry by the two of them. Donna, who is one of the most prolific songwriters I've ever known, loved my book "A Little Lazarus" and shared it with many amazing people. Then she took one of the poems and part of another and combined them into one incredible song. Believe me, it's a whole different creation than the "chicken rap." They invited Jane and me over to see their Ozark Ball Museum, perhaps the finest collection of round objects in the world, and then played my song for me. It was so beautiful I cried. They gave me their permission to put it on my blog post to show you yet another way creative collaboration works. The poem itself is below, then listen to what happens when Donna arranges it and they put their incredible musical talents together to make it sing.

Here is the poem:

Ode to a Day

by Mendy Knott

Day, you awakened me with whispers
early, like a lover who has lain awake for hours
waiting, excited and impatient
for what you thought was long enough
then with a breeze that kissed my eyes awake
began sweet murmurings:
“Hey girl, get up.
Looky here what I have for you.
It’s not Dec. 25th, but it might as well be Christmas.
It’s not your birthday, but I have presents.
Roll on over into me and let me be your greatest gift.”

Then Day, you dripped butterscotch
all down my windowsill; it pooled
yellow on the floor so I was sure to step in it.
A broken blue horizon like a jack ‘o’ lantern’s teeth
grinned in at me while I let you take me unobjecting
let you get inside me deep
let you make me come with you
wherever you would lead.
“Day,” I said, “Take it away..”
And you did.

You, Day, all day, are my lover, mother, my best friend.
You know no limitations.
You shapeshift into my every want and need,
toast me with jam,
celebrate my awkwardness,
remind me of grace,
run your warmth all up and down the length of me
purring like a cat.
You kiss me repeatedly–
sun on back
rain on face
snow on eyelashes, a butterfly kiss.
You throw an arm around my shoulder, Day,
protect me like a shade tree.
I lean against the trunk of you when I’m afraid.
You say, “Listen I’m gonna be with you
all day today. Trust me,
you can have it all your way.”

We act like puppies, yearlings, 5-year-olds.
We roll on the ground with my dog,
weep with a friend on the phone,
sing to everything: a tree, my car, a plate I’m washing.
It’s ridiculous I know, so
I blame it all on you.
You made me love you
even though it was not hard;
made me love your cutting chill
evening shadows
goose and whip-poor-will.
I loved you, glorious tricky Day,
even though you threw those curve balls
straight at me,
hollering, “Catch this!” way too late,
then laughed ‘til the tears ran down your face.

When we lay down at last,
I felt your gentle weight press into me.
You were still chuckling at my antics
forcing me to say, “Hush you crazy Day.
Be quiet now. I need sleep.”
You embrace me,
wrap me up in cozy memories,
then rock me as you make up fantasies
about your twin–
Tomorrow.

And the mp3 of the song, adapted by Donna Stjerna, and played by Still on the Hill (Donna and Kelly) is here. Click to listen or download!

Creative Collaboration Part 1

2011-03-03T06:29:00.000-08:00

My friend Jane returned home yesterday after a week-long visit, which is the main reason I'm late with my post this week. Jane is a visual artist: a watercolorist, sketch artist, photographer and bookmaker from Asheville, NC, and one of the best playmates I've ever had. Every creative person needs a playmate like Jane. In truth, every person needs a friend like Jane, and I wish they had one, too. The world would be a better place for it. But the main reason I'm singling out Jane is because the nature of our friendship, its essence in many ways, flows from our mutual joy in the creative experience and what inspires it – beauty.

While Jane was here, our days were spent following and enjoying our creative natures. The English have a saying, "If it moves, you can bet on it." Jane and I believe, "If it exists, you can capture it on paper--somehow." I am writing this post, not simply to sing the praises of my good friend, Jane, but to paint you a picture that inspires and encourages you to play creatively with the friends you have. And if you don't have any friends who seem interested in creative play, I want to encourage you to go out and get you some. (Chicken photo by Jane on her new iphone. Her watercolors—of mountains, sheep & more—can be seen at www.janevoorheesart.com)

I will try to accomplish this feat in a series of posts that run from the laugh-out-loud happiness inspired by being spontaneously goofy with your artistic natures to the beauty of getting down to business with artistic collaboration. Although artistic collaboration may be a rare bird in a world where people seem intent on flying solo, the joy of mutual inspiration cannot be replicated alone.

I call it playtime. We do it when we're kids in kindergarten and preschool but forget about it as we get older and "want to do our own thing." But ask any band member on what their success depends, and they will tell you at least one aspect is the happy collaboration of the group. A director of film and plays might answer the same way. They might also launch into a diatribe about how hard it can be to accomplish this.

So let's begin with just one other person, a dear friend perhaps, and learn to play together. Perhaps your creative gifts even bend in different directions. Don't be discouraged by this. Be excited. These differences can open all kinds of doors and invite brand new opportunities for collaboration. For a long time I titled Jane's beautiful landscapes. She uses one of my poems at the beginning of each new year's calendar. Imagine Elton John tickling the ivories as Bernie Taupin scribbles nearby, while they unknowingly create some of the most memorable songs of an entire age. As in any creative endeavor, you must be willing to play, to create bad art, to be imperfect in order to allow yourself the freedom you need to collaborate at all. It doesn't have to be great, it just has to be fun.

In the short video below, you will see how my backyard chickens inspired both Jane and me to have some fun creatively. We sat among the chickens (who loved the company) and as Jane sketched, I wrote. Then we made this silly video on her new IPhone. Most likely you will not have visions of Elton and Bernie, or even Eminem. But then, who would have expected Elton to give Eminem a hand up when he needed it most? Mentoring is just another form of creative collaboration.

If you are horrified by the "Chicken Rap" and say, well this isn't "art," stay with me for the next couple of posts as we go deeper into collaborative creativity and see and hear what happens on several levels. The one theme that runs through all these posts, no matter how the collaboration was completed, was the pleasure we took in sharing this process we call art. Observe how much of that process involves play, and how play brings us joy. Finally, let me encourage you to go out and find someone to play with today!

Click here to watch The Chicken Rap Video (recorded on Jane's new iphone)

Walking Over Facebook

2011-02-19T08:55:00.000-08:00

Facebook, ah Facebook, one of our modern most devilish distractions. I should leave it alone, but I'm driven by curiosity and the desire to look inside peoples' half-open curtains. Can any writer really ignore the possibilities that might be revealed through the flimsy folds or beneath the blinds in the beacon of that yellow-white light, in the flickering strobe of a TV, or in this case, computer screen.

Still, I find that nothing can take the place of a good old-fashioned walk. A million, jillion stories are taking place just a few yards from where you are striding down the sidewalk, supposedly minding your own business. Comedy, tragedy, violence, love, lust, family reunions, family dysfunctions, loneliness, sadness, joy, every "ism" or addiction you can think of are being played out on the small, unintended public stage of a living room, kitchen, bedroom where someone forgot to close the blinds. I look. I always look. Don't you? But I try not to look like I'm looking.

I'm listening, too, trying to hear the story, fill it out with what has led up to the present interaction. Is it another man, a woman, a bully at school today? She says her mother is coming for a week. He says "the hell you say" and a door slams, the volume to the TV rises like a wave into the street. Punk rock, hip-hop, folk songs, Bach stretches between houses like an old phone party line where one voice overrides another until you're not sure which one is speaking to you; or if they all are.

This is what facebook used to look like. Where would we have gotten songs like "Pretty Woman" or "The Girl from Impanema" if writers hadn't been out walking, looking, paying attention? Walt Whitman, Steinbeck, Mary Oliver, Stephen King (he's the only one I know that got hit by a car so don't let that stop you), Thomas Wolfe, Lucille Clifton, Thoreau, Robert Frost, Raymond Carver, O. Henry. All these great authors and many, many more have been walkers and voyeurs. How many stories, poems, even novels got their start from a writer who passed an open window, or from a stranger simply tipping their hat to a lady who strolled down a boardwalk across the street?

Yes, now we have facebook and think we need not go for our story-seeking walks any longer. Why waste the time and energy when we can, with a wave of our hand, bring up a whole community of people and their stories, the ones they're willing to tell, along with the ones who tell too much? Remember, though, most people put on their best face before they write--they don't call it facebook for nothing.

Some, it's true, like my friend, Sue Ann from Maine, are just as much themselves on fb as they would be if you were to run into them on the street on any given day. For this reason, and the fact that she is without a doubt one of the most honest and interesting human beings I've ever met with a thousand great stories to tell, would make a stroll through facebook worthwhile. Occasionally. But she is herself too busy shoveling snow off the roof, driving her tractor, drinking beer with her friend boys, or running the pet squirrel out of the homemade apple pie to spend all her time on face book.

Remember, too, these are your "friends." They are your friends for a reason; mainly because you share interests in common. It's like trying to learn some new style from the people you grew up with--you already know what they'll be wearing and will probably be dressed a lot like them to boot. No, you've got to get out in the streets, travel to a new part of town, or a different town entirely to be inspired. Get out there and go walking, gang! Not only is it good for the creative spirit in you, it's good for the body and clears the mind. Oh, yeah, and it makes you realize you are vital part of a big, diverse world that can't be contained within the four sides of a computer screen, no matter how many friends you may have on facebook.

Apprenticed to Poetry: Part Three

2011-02-11T17:22:00.000-08:00

(This is part three of the "Apprenticed to Poetry" posts. If you missed the others, you can read part one here and part two here.)

How will we make a living while we are still apprentices to our passion? Who can help us learn, be the mentor or master tradesman that sets the example? What will we do with the children while we practice our art or our writing or our music? Understandable fears block our way. If we get some gestalt on the picture of our lives, however, we may very well see that we are more afraid of ignoring what calls us, than of giving into the call. We have been graced with the gift of life and blessed with certain talents. We are wasting some of the finest parts of this gift when we consistently tell it no. This denial can lead to depression and despair, even if its expression is oh-so-quiet that nobody knows. We suffer though, and we are aware that we do.

I believe we are here to shine. No, we may not get to American Idol, win the Noble Prize or a Grammy or even an Emmy. We most likely will not grasp Oscar and take him home. But that’s not why we choose creativity. What’s important is the choice that carries meaning in its craw. It’s the choice that gives our lives purpose and a new found happiness.

We make these kind of choices every day, and every day we are alive, we are given the chance to begin again, to choose differently this time. Each time we choose real life over TV, to cook a new dish rather than eat at McDonald’s, to write a poem rather than write on face book, we are empowering ourselves and those around us. We are taking a step in the direction that creates life rather than denies it. We are choosing to make a difference, to go against the grain of commonality and have a life that is sincere and authentic. There is no better feeling, unless it is influencing someone else to make an authentic choice for themselves.

We have the power to change our lives from mundane to challenging. We have a calling, each of us, and we are lucky enough to know it. That doesn’t mean we have to heed it, though. You are free, as I was, to stay in the least satisfying and most dangerous job in the world because I was more afraid to pick up a pen; to learn that, behold, the pen IS mightier than the sword. Any job that is crazy-making or even boring can kill the human spirit. We are meant for joy. And a joyful person is a peaceful person. A fulfilled person brings meaning to the lives of those they touch. Even if a creative commitment is your avocation and not your vocation, you can find the time to include it in your everyday life. Dedication and persistence for 30 minutes a day can change you in ways you never thought possible. Like the moon, we begin to reflect our lives outward so that it is shared and becomes a light by which both you and others can travel when it’s dark. It’s only scary for awhile and it is so worth the risk.

So give yourself, say thirty minutes this very day, to sit alone quietly and remember what it was you always wanted to do before you got that business degree, before you had a family, before you let go of the dream. Then figure out a way to revive that “dream deferred,” choosing now, to begin again.

Before You Jump
by Mendy Knott

She stands firm in a big old Birch.
Its limbs stretch over the same length of river
her granddad swam when he was just a kid.
She is just a kid herself,
rangy as a boy; thick brown hair
pulled into a ponytail shows off her pixie features,
the brown shells of her ears.
Her face gazes at something no one else can see,
some future far away as college
or closer than the swirling water
flowing past beneath.
She waits for her courage to catch up
to how fast she can climb,
stand alone,
take hold of the rope.
Breathless, she considers how her feet
will leave the sureness of the branch and then...
What happens next?
She can only guess.
There are so many firsts for a girl
green as the leaves which frame her
and she will not be rushed.
No “Ready-set-go!” or “Jump!”
will make her leave her perch.
This girl knows her mind.
What happens next?
We are left to guess.

Thoughts zip past like swallows dip and dive
touch the water, fly.
She is not a swallow, though.
Flight depends on courage, heart,
her willingness to risk
adventure.
Shoulders arch wings aching to be tried.
The thin brown feet shift.
What she can’t yet know, she can anticipate:
rush of wind, the muddy water taste,
mouth full of sunshine as she swings
from beneath the canopy of leaves,
body suspended in mid-air when she lets go
as the rope releases her from all she’s ever known.
Momentum, once begun,
will take us somewhere;
of this we can be sure.

Flight, with all its fear and fascination,
will only be first once.
What she appears to know right now
(how quickly we forget)
is not to rush the moment, let it linger.
Stand a moment in that place where you’re familiar
with the feel of everything.
Appreciate your apprehension.
Realize you’ll never be the same.
Know with every act we’re changed.

Then my girl, let fly and take it in:
all the highs and lows
the swing the fall
the grace that lands us on our feet
or sinks us deep in Mystery
the breath that brings us back
the Self that, if we let it, always rises up to meet
both our victories and defeats.

Remind us how time passes fast
and how much more we need to be
open and alive as this young girl
poised in the widespread arms of a tree,
life flowing past beneath our feet.

Apprenticed to Poetry: Part Two

2011-02-04T16:01:00.000-08:00

Where I’m From
by Mendy Knott

I am from Dick and Madelyn
Jethro and Jewel
Lillian and John (Jake to his buddies).
I am from deep beneath the tarnished buckle
of the Bible Belt.
Southern states have left traces
all over me like lint:
sweet dark molasses of Big Muddy in my accent
orange dusting of Texas hill country across my cheeks
the wild of a barefoot, small-town Louisiana child.
I’m from a long line of preacher men,
mostly Presbyterian, some Methodist,
all absolutely fundamental to:
my love of language
my tendency to tell a story
the long, lost lonely nights of young lesbians and liars.
I’m from my Mamaw’s front porch swattin’ flies,
Camden street lamps jarring junebugs,
farm ponds catching bream, bass, catfish, carp.
I am from every night a home-cooked meal,
hand-cranked ice cream in the summer
roastbeefriceandgravy on most Sundays.
As I was made once from my Momma’s garden,
I’m now grown up in Leigh’s greenbeans and red tomatoes.
I own the drunk I’m from, the addict born to bear
the brokenness of a woman soldier and big-city cop.
I am living proof there’s a kind of universal grace:
born once, then
born again in AA
born again in creativity
born again in true love
born again each time I open up to hope.
I am from, as much as all of these,
black ink and blank white paper
the will to write, to change, to be.

I was born into a Southern preacher’s family a misfit. But I recognized beauty when I saw it, read it, heard it. I loved poetry from before the time I was able to read it. Mother Goose spoke to me in a sweet enchanting voice. I memorized hymns whose meaning I did not understand and sang them lustfully from my place in the middle pew. I loved early mornings looking out my window at patterns of sun and shade made by the leaves of the backyard fig. I worked hard at learning to read so I could choose books and travel places far away from the restrictions of a religious home.

For a long time, it looked like I would fail. I was a terribly unhappy teen with a tendency to addiction and depression. But I kept reading and writing. I rebelled against everything that smelled even slightly of authority. Much of the time I felt lost, unacceptable and alone. I did not know it then, but I was getting an education. I was learning, as I would for years, the hard way.

Yet, somehow I knew I had a clarity of vision that allowed me to see beyond the surface of ordinary things. But it was painful to me, and lonely, so I blurred the images as much as possible with alcohol and drugs. Because I did not want, with my “tough girl” persona, to appear weak or overly sensitive, I did my best to go against my nature. In my early 30’s I realized that I must get sober or life would soon be over for me. I could no longer stand what I’d become. I joined the police department and stayed until I realized that the job was not helping with my “sensitivity” problem. I had to harden myself or die. For years I didn’t realize there was a third choice: I could quit.

The last year I policed, I began writing a novel, for no other “conscious” reason than to pursue a personal challenge. Once I put pen to paper, some desire long-buried, to be a writer, even a poet, was finally freed. I walked away from my life as a cop and started over again at 37. It was not too late. In fact, the longer I live, the more I realize that it is never too late to begin again. We are surrounded by second chances if we only raise our heads and remember… remember what we loved from the beginning.

When I started writing, I immediately recalled two unfulfilled longings from childhood: I had always wanted to be a writer and to live in the mountains. My first real act of creativity, writing that crazy novel, set these memories free and I was empowered to act. The decision to do what not only seemed improbable, but impossible to my peers, to write that wild first book full of beauty, violence, and sex, set me free. I began, and the answers to those scary questions, like where and how I would live, fell into place. Surely, it’s suppose to be some come-to-Jesus type conversion, but for me it was “Silverwaters: Amazon Adventures for the Stout-Hearted Lesbian.”

We all must face decisions that either free us to follow our forgotten dreams, or bind us to unfulfilled lives of frustration. We know we are called to do more, to do something other than what we are up to at present, to immerse ourselves in a passion that demands the best of us. I think we understand that we could live in an exciting world full of amazing surprises, brought about not only by what we can do, but by what the world will do on our behalf once we have chosen to live by our hearts and creative wits. In this world, the measuring stick has very few markers. Does it bring you joy and does it empower you to share your gift with others?

(Continued in the next post...)

Apprenticed to Poetry: Choosing the Life that Saved My Life, Part One

2011-01-28T05:59:00.000-08:00

This next series of blog posts is a written version of a “sermon” or talk I gave at the UU Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas. They are a lovely and lively group of people who believe heartily in allowing the creative spirit to soar. Sometimes we all need a pep rally, though; especially during the dark days of winter. What brings back the light is the brightness we ourselves create. So let these words inspire you to revive your sleeping bear. Whisper in her ear, “Awaken my friend. The child of your creation is waiting to be born. It’s time to re-create Spring once again.”

Apprenticed to Poetry: Choosing the Life that Saved My Life, Part One

by Mendy Knott

The Writer
by Richard Wilbur 1976

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy;
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses;
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking.
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life and death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

Ask yourself, when did I first fall in love with something that was not another person or creature, but rather an expression of someone’s creative passion. Perhaps you fell in love with a landscape, architecture, a movie, a book, a song, or even a poem. And something stirred within you, poked you perhaps with a kind of excruciating pleasure, and a voice inside whispered “ I want to do this, too. I want to re-create this feeling in my own way, in my own words, with crayons or paints or a pencil.” And because you didn’t know you couldn’t or weren’t suppose to, or didn’t know how, you tried it. You loved it! You felt different, good, wonderful, brilliant!

Later on, someone, a parent or a teacher or someone with “authority” on the subject would let you know that you were doing it wrong, that your creation wasn’t really “all that” and quite possibly never would be. Ah, the spirit crushers are everywhere. Not everyone is as lucky as the daughter in the above poem whose father understands the struggle to create, the life and death of it, and wishes her a “lucky passage.” One of my mother’s favorite criticisms was “Oh, you’re so sensitive.” This was not a compliment coming from a Depression Era child who smirked at what she perceived as weakness of any kind.

Most of us will face our creative longings several times and turn away before we finally embrace the challenge; shoulder the courage and determination it takes to immerse ourselves in our truest passion. Because of the spirit-crushers we let the paint set harden. We allow the clay to dry to brick. The pens are a dried flower bouquet in a jar, untouched. The books about writing, the poetry we loved, and our notebooks remain high on a shelf above the mysteries and romances that are dog-eared and worn. Because it does takes courage. It takes believing in ourselves, and faith. A certain amount of “screw you” is called for. We must have a desire or need big enough to override our fears of imperfection.

It takes dedication, persistence, and practice; some would say a sort of benign delusion or obsession. We must be willing to become “rogue scholars” learning all we can on our own, doing homework nobody makes us do. Often, we must be our own mentors and cheerleaders. The road can be long and rough, but the personal rewards are oh so sweet.

(Continued in the next post...)

An Artist's Responsibility

2011-01-16T05:55:00.000-08:00

Two events urge me to write on this cold, gray, weepy Sunday: Congresswoman Gifford's assassination attempt and the birthday of a truly great writer and intuitive speaker, Dr. Martin Luther King. These two people, separated by an entire generation, took their creative gifts and their responsibilities into the arena of personal sacrifice. Their courage both inspires and intimidates me. How do I hold myself to be true to what seem like such impossible ideals? How do we as artists respond to their personal sacrifice?

What is the artist's responsibility in a time of crisis and turmoil? Do we have one, not only to ourselves, but to the larger community? These questions plague both artists and critics alike and there are as many answers, it seems, as there are people with opinions. Since I have a blog and write about artistic responsibility, among other aspects of the creative individual's life, I feel a need to address this issue.

All King and Giffords were doing, in reality, were practicing their first amendment rights; the same rights with which every artist and individual in this country are endowed. We have a responsibility to practice these rights. Everyone knows if you don't practice you'll never get good at anything, right? If the artists and teachers and public speakers are afraid to express themselves openly, then who will stand for the citizen on the street? Who will use their gifts of writing and rhetoric to rise to the occasion of justice and freedom and take the risks that prove responsibility, even if it costs us our lives? Surely this is too much to ask of our artists, a quiet and reclusive people. That image, even when true, can no long serve as an excuse for us to remain quiet around the injustices we observe or experience daily.

These are questions we at least must ask ourselves. I'm not sure anyone can decide the answer but the individual artist. I cannot make a proclamation for each and every creative individual. Nor can I say what form that responsibility will take. Some of us are natural street corner speakers. Some of us do our work with introspection inside our rooms or in the solitude of nature. But we all know the work is not finished until it is shared. At some point, we must all take a stand in public for the ideals we claim to believe in our writing; in the work we practice at home, alone.

As for me, well, I've been about this work for a long time now. I am accustomed as an "out"spoken lesbian poet and writer to speaking my mind in public. As an ex-cop, I am completely aware of how devastatingly messy the consequences of "speaking truth to power" can be. Dr. King and Congresswoman Giffords knew absolutely the risks they were taking every time they decided to speak directly to the people. And yet, they found the risk worth taking.

So do I. People have been killing or attempting to kill poets and politicians for as long as they have existed; a very long time indeed. Those who refuse to follow the rules (not law) of the status quo, who insist on shaking up the apathy of the well-heeled and well-fed few, will always be suspect and subject to disappearance, by way of bullet, bullying, or by the simple refusal to acknowledge. But hey, this is our job! And we have a right, perhaps even a responsibility, to do it to the best of our ability even in the face of adversity.

We are the poets, the writers, the artists of our generation. We cannot, nor should we ever, "hide our lights beneath a bushel" or let the people down. It is now, and always will be, our job to accept the risks and speak out. If this is not true for you, Artist, perhaps you should look into a different line of work. Consider it said.

Revision: Sleeping With Your Work

2011-01-07T07:39:00.000-08:00

Once you've begun working on a larger piece--say, a collection of poems or short stories, a novel, or a show for your art work--more drastic measures may be in order. I find it helpful to let myself go a bit. I do not mean drink and do dope like the "tortured artist" stereotype with which we are all too familiar. In fact, this can be tempting at times, but it's a great way to screw up whatever potential you have for great art, too. You may be in pain, at least a little at this stage of the game, but pain is an essential part of the process. It is, my creative friends, the razor's edge.

That sharpening of the senses may feel a little (or a lot) like pain, but shows us the finer points of our work and helps us shave away all that is not essential to the final product. You actually need that pain, so don't dull it. Sure, stepping back at the end of the day with a glass of wine or a beer and observing what you have accomplished that day with an objective eye is fine. You may even want to make yourself a note or two to be reviewed in the bright light of morning. But I advise strongly against touching your work or making any changes while under the influence of intoxicants of any kind. They are painkillers, and as I said, a little pain is your friend right now.

The days of the drunk and drugged up artist are over, or should be anyway. Personally, I think it was bullshit in the first place; a figment of their imagination, a creature invented so that the creator had an excuse to indulge, self-indulge, and over-indulge. You can be special without drawing a lot of unnecessary or unwanted attention to yourself. If the tortured look appeals to you, (and I admit there's something to that frazzled appearance and feeling at times), there are other, much safer ways to achieve it than spending all night at a local bar talking about your work as opposed to doing it.

I simply don't bathe or shower or comb my hair for a few days. I don't change my clothes. I sweat when I work. I look wrinkled and worn (and I usually am). I stay up late and get up early. I eat a lot of yogurt and popcorn, or just forget to eat entirely. Most of us Americans can afford a missed meal once in awhile. I forget to brush my teeth. In other words, I look as raggedy as I am beginning to feel. It's the real thing, though, and not chemically induced.

Finally, let me encourage you to sleep with your work. That's right--at the beginning I advised you to sleep on the work before beginning to edit. But now that you are in the thick of it and your office or workspace looks like a tornado came through, not once but several times, I'm telling you to lie down in the midst of it and go to sleep. I find this eccentricity not only helpful, but comforting. I'm already so up to my chin in the project that I might as well go ahead and camp out amid the papers and pens, laptop, glasses, cups, and crumb-laden plates. I cannot entirely discount the idea that osmosis really works, at least a little.

I have a wonderful wood stove in my living room and an old couch made more comfortable by a board put beneath the cushions. In the middle of a long project revision and edit, I build up the fire around midnight, damp it down, put a comfy pillow and some soft blankets on the sofa and sleep there among my papers and notes. I watch the flames flicker and the coals glow until finally I fall asleep. It never fails. I sleep like a baby and wake completely refreshed and ready to dive into work, my creative project immediately to hand.

Lets face it. When you're deep in your work, you aren't good company for a lover or spouse anyway, so you might as well leave them alone. You are having an affair, an affair of the heart, with your work. If they love you, and have any sense of self-preservation at all, they will gladly leave you to it. Give them an absent-minded kiss, and lay down to sleep with your work. Show your creation that kind of respect, and I promise you will reap the rewards for your faithfulness in the end.

Revision: To Change or Not to Change

2011-01-03T09:22:00.001-08:00

Photo via Creative Commons at Flickr

Once you've begun the process of revising a piece of art, stay with it. Work the poem or the painting for a specified amount of time each day. Do your free or fun write for fifteen or twenty minutes to loosen up before you turn to the left brain work of editing. I advise against starting to edit cold. Artists can be too hard on themselves without a warm-up. Always begin your day remembering how much you love your art by playing with it first.

Once you're done playing, you are ready to chisel or sand (depending on how much shaving needs to be done) your latest construction. Pull out the piece you slept on overnight from underneath your pillow and take a fresh look at it. " Ohmigod!" you cry. "I thought this was a decent piece of work. What a bunch of bull hockey!" Okay, that's the only negative say you get for the rest of the day. Just pick up your tools and see what you can do with this rough bit of raw material.

At this point, people often do one of two things: they throw the baby out with the bathwater, meaning they wad up their potential masterpiece and trash it even though that, once revised, the piece may have been priceless. It's very difficult to retrieve a complete idea and all it's inherent feelings, once it has been tossed to the dogs. Or they look at it with their lazy eye and tell themselves that's good enough. "My Muse wouldn't have led me down that primrose path if She didn't think it was worthwhile." Try to remember, your Muse is just another fickle god (or goddess), and as such, expects you to use a little common sense about the gifts she lays on your table. You need to clean the fish and before you serve it.

There are many, many books written about the revision process. Go to your local library and get some help. Turn to your writing group, take a workshop or a class. My current favorite is a book called Immersed in Verse: An Informative, Slightly Irreverent & Totally Tremendous Guide to Living the Poet's Life by my friend, the fabulous Allan Wolf. Don't be fooled by the playful cover and title. Yes, it is designed to appeal to young adults, but it is totally helpful to poets and writers who desire to take themselves seriously and create their best work.

Some of my and Allan's suggestions are the same:

1. Sleep on it
2. Save what you have
3. Remember that nothing is precious. There's more where that came from.
4. Play with the poem fearlessly.
5. Read it aloud. Many times.

And here's one Allan suggests that I like and will use in the future:

6. "Highlight the poem's golden moments." Allan says take a yellow highlighter and highlight your poem's three or four best lines. These are the lines that are essential to the core meaning of the poem. These lines are the "…organs – brain, heart, liver, and lungs," and might I say, soul of the poem.

Once you've highlighted these "golden moments," check out the rest of the poem with a critical eye. Do the rest of the words and phrases support and enhance these lines? Or do they simply weight them down like a ball and chain? Set the poem free! As my partner likes to say "Cut, cut, cut!" And as another writer once said, " You must kill your darlings." There will be another chance to use your favorite lines if they simply don't move your golden moments into the limelight.

On the other hand, never horde your favorites either. You have the perfect phrase, but you've been saving it for a piece you haven't gotten around to writing yet. It fits right here in this poem and highlights your golden moment, making it shine. But it was meant for another poem. What's a poet to do? USE IT! Never save anything. Again, there are always more brilliant metaphors where that one came from. You're a writer. You've got a million of 'em.

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here.

Re-Visioning: Let it Be (Part 3)

2010-12-21T07:17:00.000-08:00

Alright, you've made those exquisite first tracks across the snowy page. You've slept by the campfire of your imagination and dreamed of excellence and perfection. Ancients whispered to you of genius in the night. But now, in the harsh light of a new day, you look at what you've created with a sense of horror. "Good Lord! I did that? My 8 year old nephew could write better than that!"

Take it easy. Things always look different under a bright light. Approach your work with respect and a certain amount of caution. You are changing outfits, becoming a surgeon where a mad artistic genius worked mere hours ago. It's a tricky business. If you aren't careful, you will remove something vital, cutting the very life from your new creation.

The first thing you want to do is transfer the piece from its initial scribblings on the back of a napkin or whatever into a form someone (you) can read and recognize. If, like me, you have the tendency once a computer keyboard is under your fingertips to immediately begin to revise, let someone else type the original into the file for you. Trade them something--like donuts--if you must, but don't do it yourself if you can't help messing with it. At this point, you do not want to change a thing. Copy it into the computer exactly the way it is written on the page.

Once the piece is reproduced in its entirety, print it. Changing nothing about it; simply print it. It is now, in some ways, a finished piece of work. No matter whether it seems like crappy work or great work, it is a complete entity that can be held in the hand. Read it several times over. Don't even hold a pen while you do this. When you're done, you will know whether this piece is worth keeping or not.

Here is your first opportunity to see again (re-vision) what you did the first time. Immediately, certain phrases will jump off the page, standing out like a drag queen in a biker bar. This is either delightful or out of place. Really, if you do as I suggest up to this point, you will know whether this particular work is worth the time, effort and energy you need to put into it to shape it into a finished work of art. Force nothing. Remember, you've got a million of 'em.

If, at this point you realize that it will cost you too much life to re-work the poem or essay or whatever into something both you and others can appreciate, do NOT despair. Never discount the value of what you have accomplished thus far. You have kept your promise to the Muse to meet her at the appointed time with pen or paints in hand. No matter that you do not like what you have done, or don't find it worth more time, the Muse will remember that you were there and you did as you promised. You kept your date.

This faithfulness will pay off eventually. Honor the positive energy of art you have put out into a world that needs creative thinking and beauty. Respect yourself for having the passion and the grit to keep carving into the stone, creating records for an uncertain future. Some might call it crazy. I call it courage.

Next time, we will go into what to do if you like the piece and want to pick up your chisel and work on it, attempt to make it all it can be. Do not throw away what you have produced this time, however. Store it, save it in a file. Return to it later. There may be something hidden inside, a pearl in that ugly oyster, that will make the perfect necklace eventually. Save it and know the world was fed because you gave into the impulse to play a little God and create something from Scratch. Is that an oxymoron?

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here.

Re-Visioning (Part 2)

2010-12-09T05:49:00.000-08:00

"To sleep, perchance to dream"

—Hamlet's Soliloquy

No, we're not going to get into an analysis of Shakespeare's famous soliloquy. I simply want to use this quote to get my next point across, which is not about dying. I'm translating literally. Go to sleep. Have a dream. That is my best advice once the original, wild, passionate creative work is done.

Let's begin our revision with what may well look like the end. Go to sleep. Go to bed if you've written into the night. Take a nap if you worked until afternoon. Whatever you do, give yourself a chance to sleep on it before you ever begin to revise your work. That's right. After you've enjoyed your romp across the blank page and have built your jaunty snowman, which you now notice tends to lean to the left, rest awhile. Your perfect igloo seems to be melting in the bright light of the noonday sun. So leave the scene entirely – go for a walk in the snow, make some soup, sleep on it before you try to "fix it."

Two things happen while we sleep on our work. The mind rests and we are able to see the work fresh the next day. If we're lucky, we may even have a dream that opens a new door to our imagination, offering an insight we could not have come up with in the bright light of our original creative frenzy. And time passes. The value of the passage of time should not be underestimated. You don't want so much time to pass that you lose interest in your poem or project. You really don't want to start all over again because you don't recognize the work as the same beast with which you began. But you do need at least one night, maybe two, before you "go back in" and start to revise.

Time itself works on a piece. Change occurs like the weather. We can see more clearly the core of what we want to say, what we want to accomplish with the work. It's as if the outer layer full of sticks and grass has melted away, leaving us with what we really want to express. Use the tool of time; it's invaluable and it's free.

So the first thing you want to do once you've created a first draft, a zero draft (I call it a fun draft) is sleep on it. Don't touch it. Read it and enjoy it for what it is; a snow person or scarecrow with bits of flora and fauna attached, leaning slightly and already beginning to melt. Love its carrot nose, which is nothing original but still looks good. Stare into the steel gray stones you set into its face for eyes, and the old fishing rods you used for arms. Those seem original. But don't touch it until the next day. It will be there, waiting for you. If you still have energy left – well, shoot, start another one!

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here.

Revision: The Beginning of the End—Part 1

2010-12-04T07:49:00.001-08:00

Writing the first draft of any piece is easy for me. Some artists open the door of their creativity and freeze in front of the blank screen, white page or empty canvas like they've just stepped out into a blizzard without their boots and mittens. Not me.

I look out on that vast emptiness thrilled that I will be the first human to make fresh tracks in new snow. I leap forward. I dance out the door so full of ideas I leave prints criss-crossed and circling until sometimes it's hard to follow me. You know that cartoon "Family Circus," and the kid they trace with little dashes all the places he goes during his day, leaving a maze only he can retrace? That's me writing my first draft. I am happily lost in the wilderness of a freewrite, of not thinking, of letting the ideas course through my veins and fly out my fingertips without left brain interference. Pure, unbounded freedom of expression. I can really get down with that.

I find words and images everywhere. Feelings are as visible as breath in the freezing air. I spent two hours in a coffee shop the other day and wrote four rough drafts of poems. "Rough" is the operative word here. For these happy tracks to become real poems, a labyrinth someone else can follow in order to find the meditative center, the hidden treasure, they need (dare I breathe the word) revision.

Think about that word, "revision." In its simplest form it means "seeing it again." I love the initial vision, the dream, the breakthrough. Good writing requires us to look at what we've done again (and again) closely, with a willingness to pare away the excess; to find what's unnecessary and cut it out. We must be willing to throw a lot of words and images on the brush pile and burn them in order to find the essential core of the poem or piece of work. Think of it as a "bonfire of the vanities." It will keep you warm while you continue to work on your revision.

Anybody who has read my work knows this is not my forte'. This is why I require help. I have a writing group who kindly critiques my poems and pieces and lets me know what works and what doesn't. I have a writer spouse whose parting cry after reading my work is often, "Cut, cut, cut!" And I have my own determination to make the best poem or essay possible.

Revision is where the work, the real nitty-gritty, no guts no glory drudgery begins. It's true that some people love this part. They are the opposite of me. They may be terrified of the unbroken snow of a blank page, but they love to fix stuff. Their left brains click in, their little inner perfectionists grin and rub their tiny hands together, and they throw out useless words and phrases as easily as if they were born to find fuel for a bonfire. And as hard as this is for the "natural," it is a crucial part of the creative process.

The next several posts will deal with revision. I'll tell you my experience; what helps and what doesn't. Keep in mind that you don't want to burn something beautiful in your efforts to prune the grove. So always copy your initial work as is, save it, and check back to make sure you haven't lost a needed branch of your initial vision.

Here's an idea. Pick a recent rough draft or untouched poem of your own. First save it; then work on it as you read the posts. I'll do the same. Let's see if my suggestions can help us re-vision our pieces.

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here.

Prairie Fire

2010-11-27T08:51:00.001-08:00

Photo by Leigh of www.larrapin.us

On Nov 16, 2010, at 9:00 AM, Kamala Parker wrote:

Mendy,

I wrote a poem today. It is inspired by a cherry/crab apple tree at the front of The Fire studio:

When winter comes

Bitter apples not for eating

Still nurture the eye

Clustered in the light

along sleeping leaves

Red, gold, earthen

Like a mother bird

Sheltering fledglings

In a gentle rain

We complain about

Raking, and petroleum

Leaf blowing, fruit falling

To stain the paint of our

Shiny cars. Forgetting

It wasn’t like this once.

We use to pray in the

Colors of harvest

Give thanks, laugh with

Our lover. Now, the

Alarm rings and we

Are late for something

When we would rather

rest. Simple in our sleep.

Sincerely,

Kam

———

From: Mendy Knott

Sent: Friday, November 19, 2010 2:39 PM

To: Kamala Parker

Subject: Re: rough draft, winter poem

Dear Kam,

This is such a lovely poem. Would you mind if I read it at HOWL this Sunday? It will bring a little bit of you into my open mic, which I really miss--having you there and hearing your work. Can I call it Prairie Fire? That's the name of our crab apple tree in the yard which we love and took pictures of this fall, with their bright little apples against a fall blue sky. Thanks for sharing this.

My young niece (20) came through on her way home for Thanksgiving. I adore her. She is really growing up--and beautiful. It was lovely to hear how she admires the way Leigh and I work and live at home.

Take care my friend. Have a good Thanksgiving, whatever you do. Have been busting my butt on this family cookbook, but it is at the designer as of today. And we are on the short end of a long stick now. Thank goodness. I love you, buddy. Keep the pen moving.

Even a moment to write a short poem is so much better than not writing.

Love, Mendy

———

On Nov 20, 2010, at 8:24 AM, Kamala Parker wrote:

Mendy, I thought about you when I wrote it. About the first time on the farm in Celo when you taught me about abstract versus something solid, something someone could imagine in their mind’s eye.

Have a wonderful holiday ! I’ll be in touch soon with a longer note and an update on my wonderful life! Please give Leigh a hug for me.

I love you too,

Kam :^)

———

Within this exchange of emails and a poem are a handful of hints to good writing:

#1 When we don't seem to have a lot of time for personal creativity, we tend to quit trying. What I told Kam, and what I'm telling you, is that some time is always better than no time. Take what you can find. Be prepared with your tools (pen, paper, pencil) at any given moment. Stop for 10 or 15 minutes and write what you observe. That is what Kam did here and it's a beautiful reminder of what we find important when we pause for breath.

#2 Use all the senses when writing. Paint a mental image that shows the reader what can't be said in the all-too-common abstract words we use daily. Doesn't the picture of this crab apple tree in poetry and picture say more about how little time we take to observe and appreciate life than the words I just wrote do? No preaching; only painting.

#3 Find someone with whom you can share your art. It doesn't matter if it's a "rough draft" sent in an email or read aloud to your spouse or best friend. Two great events are occurring when we share our work: we are speaking our intention to create out loud AND we are becoming better listeners. Both parties benefit.

So thanks, Kam, for allowing me to share this beautiful piece with my open mic group, and now with all my blog readers. It was so meaningful to me to receive it, and it made me feel good that I had been able to help another writer. You see, her poem touched more lives than she ever knew it would when Kam took that 15 minutes to observe a "prairie fire."

These Are My People: Leaving a Legacy

2010-11-19T19:17:00.000-08:00

Leaving a legacy seems like such a weighted phrase. But really, it's a part of you, created by you, that you leave behind for those you love. It's acknowledging your past and saving something for the future. In my case, my legacy to my family happens to be a cookbook.

I don't have a lot to leave my family, my relations near and far. I have no children, no money, no real estate or jewels. And I have quite a lot of relatives. Dozens and dozens of them. They go back a long way; as many as five or six generations right here in Arkansas. I realize without them, I would not be here. The person I am with my characteristics, personality and abilities, would not exist if Francis Marion Cross had not married Francis Evangeline Fincher (Frank and Fannie) and raised a family in a tiny dot on the map called Rosston, AR. If they had not had a son (among 10 children) named Jethro Cross who married Jewel Moore in the tiny town of Kervin, TX in a barbershop because that's where they found the preacher getting a haircut–then I would not exist. And if Madelyn Cross (eldest among 10 children) hadn't been talked into a blind date with a sailor boy named Richard Knott, then there would be no Mendy Knott to tell this tale. I felt I owed something to that history, to the miracles that made my life happen. I don't want it to be forgotten.

So two years ago, I started working on a family cookbook. In some families, people pass down musical ability, art, or carpentry skills. In my family, the women pass down recipes. The men enjoy the results of the recipes. From great grandmother to grandmother, to mother to daughter, to sister, to cousin, to best friends or neighbors, recipes travel hand to hand, by telephone, and now through the internet. They are shared, tried, and tasted. Once hand written on note cards or legal pads, now they are emailed, tweeted and twittered. The ones I got from my mother through the mail always said, "Love, Mom" at the end; like a letter. Only better. Because I would think of her every time I cooked from those cards. The dishes from those recipes were so good they became famous among my friends as the "Love, Mom" recipes.

It was harder and took longer than I thought it would. There turned out to be more than 200 recipes and 40 contributors. There were pictures to collect and narratives to write. The process involved research, which is not my strong point. But finally, one year past deadline, the manuscript is complete. I am proud of the work that went into making this little legacy. I'm happy to have something that preserves a bit of my family's history, and so are they. I feel I have used my talents in service to both my ancestral past and the future. One day a third, fourth, fifth cousin will pick up this cookbook, look through it and think, "These are my people. This is where I come from. I can make 'Mother's Squash Casserole' from the yellow squash in our garden and eat what my great, great grandmother ate."

Working on a legacy strengthens the ties that bind us to those who came before us. Memories were my constant companions as I worked. I felt my MaMaw standing in the kitchen making the biscuits she made every day and smiling at me, nodding her approval as I wrote, copied, cut and pasted. If we all created our own legacy to leave behind for those who came after us, no matter how small or large, it might help us appreciate and care for what we have now as the treasure we will be handing our children and theirs.

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here.

Support Your Local Poets

2010-11-10T04:07:00.000-08:00

(Photo by Leigh from Larrapin Garden.)

"Tis the season," to be gift-shopping for friends and family for whatever holiday you may celebrate. Maybe, like me, you buy the thing that pops out at you with their name on it whenever you see it, then just go ahead and give it to them. In any case, let me plug your local artists and artisans as a good place to begin your gift buying this year. Yes, I am saying this partly because I have a new book published. And yes, it is true that unless you are a Pulitzer Prize winning poet, you most likely won't make a lot of money selling it. Still, if crafting poetry (or anything) is what you love to do, then you really can't help yourself. It's simply a must-do.

When I worked as a bookseller off and on over the past 15 years, I had a little trick I used to play. When I rang someone up who had a book of poetry or two in their pile, I would ask, "Do you write poetry?" Inevitably they would answer with a pleased "Yes." Poets read poetry. At least most of them do. And they buy books full of poems. (This is Mendy logic.) Therefore, if you would like to write poetry or get better at it, you should buy books of poetry, too!

In my household, we are doing our best to buy local--food, crafts, art, books, CD's, gifts--whatever we can find that is made here or near Fayetteville, AR, or has been created by people we know. We want them to live well and prosper. We want them to get famous. Besides, we find the best stuff this way. I went to a little, tiny craft show in Benton, AR with my sister who was visiting from Baltimore last weekend. They had the coolest things made from their own bright ideas. Their items were totally useful and beautiful, as well. Plus they were cheap. I was happy to pay their asking price and tell them I loved what they were doing. This is good business; when everyone walks away happy.

So when you go to a concert, don't just listen to the show. Buy the CD. When you go to the reading of a local author, buy the book (at your independent bookstore, of course). When you're visiting Underground Art, Terra Studios, or the Farmer's Market, buy the crafts and art from the people who created them. I have made so many people happy with the gifts I've given from exactly these places. So, yes, if you can, buy my book. You won't be sorry. And to tempt you further, I will give you a gift in this post. Here is the last poem in my book, and no doubt the most famous. It has been read by thousands of people. No lie. So here it is; a teaser to make you want my book, partly because everyone needs A Little Lazarus in their lives.

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.
—from A Little Lazarus by Mendy Knott. Published by Half Acre Press, 2010. Copyright Mendy Knott. To order your copy with free shipping click here.

Create A Better Life

2010-10-21T07:06:00.000-07:00

(Photo via Creative Commons at Flickr)

With all the recent news accounts of school and internet bullying and the recent suicides of so many gay youth, I feel I must address this issue on my blog without further delay. "Well, what does this have to do with creativity?" you may ask. My answer is– just everything. Every single sensitive soul out there, gay or straight or in-between, needs their creativity to help save them from the carelessness of a war-torn and insensitive world. When life is all about the money and where you fall on the socio-economic scale; how you look, what you wear or how you are perceived by the majority of people in any particular group, creativity can help preserve your individual sense of self. Your creative efforts can keep your mind in the moment, your feet on the ground, and prevent you from getting lost in the woods (or the words) of the self-righteous.

I say that creativity, in my case writing, saved my life. Of course, a dramatic individual by nature, most people think that I'm simply overstating the case. But I'm telling the stone cold sober truth. Writing saved my life. I was a misfit from my youth. I did not fit in with the kids in my schools. I was not popular. I did not have dates. I was slender and strong and practically breastless. After being bullied and scorned by my peers, I drank heavily, had difficulties at home, could not finish college and, feeling like an utter failure, attempted suicide – more than once. Lucky for me, I was bad at that, too. I finally joined the military, where further problems awaited me. I was investigated twice for alleged lesbianism and raped in my dorm.

When I got out, I joined the police department in a big city. And although policing suited my tough outer skin, it broke my heart repeatedly. I soon realized that I could not stay sober, sane, or kind and remain a cop. So I quit and became a writer. I told myself that I would live in a broom closet if need be so that I could write. I didn't have to, but I was willing. I had friends who helped me, and I spent every dime from my police retirement fund to write my first novel.

It was not a great novel. But it was great for me. It was cathartic--in it I could punish those who had punished me. I got my revenge with characters on the page. Nobody got hurt. I lived in a wonderful fantasy world where women like me were strong and powerful–sexy, beautiful, and smart. And I proved to myself that not only could I write, I could start a long project and finish it all by myself. Talk about empowering!

That year of writing "Silverwaters" healed me. It healed something so deep in me that I would never allow myself to be beaten down again. Not that I wouldn't fall down. I would. But I knew how to get back up. And I knew that a large part of healing was in the sharing of one's work. I wanted others who needed it to hear my "gospel;" that all of us are created as beautiful works of art with a special purpose in this world. We need to stay alive, stand up, and be counted. It is important to know that "God don't make mistakes." And neither I nor you, nor anyone reading this is in anyway a mistake.

Want to prove that theory? Sit down with a pen and paper right now. Begin this sentence, " I am not a mistake. When I was 15 years old, I thought maybe I was, but...." Now write until you have nothing else to say. Take a morning or afternoon or evening and do this. Then read it to yourself. Share it with a friend. Share it on the Trevor Project or the "It Gets Better" site. This is how we save our lives and the lives of others. We tell our stories and we tell the truth and we tell it as creatively as we can: in stories, songs, poems, essays, youtube, visual art, and in the fact of our everyday lives. I learned long ago that the best revenge is a life well lived. Begin today. And help someone else along the way.

Celebrating Success – "A Little Lazarus " At Last

2010-10-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

(Click photo or hillpoet.com to order your signed copy!)

Okay, let's get past the excuses for no post for so long. There is no excuse. How's that? However, I have been putting together my new book, editing dozens of poems, working with my editor/publisher, waiting for the books, reviewing them, realizing we left out a poem (groan), and re-printing them. I've been busy, but have simply not taken time to post a blog. And for that, I apologize. My deadlines are winning the race and beating me to the punch. Is that a mixed metaphor? Yes. I'm a mixed metaphor at the moment.

After 17 years of writing and performing poetry, I have finally put most of my classics (top 10 hits anyway) along with many other poems, on the page. Now anyone, not just my true blue open mic fans, can read and re-read my work in the comfort of their own homes sitting by a fire or lazing on a beach in S. Africa. ( In fact, you can order a copy now, here! ) Finally, a beautiful trade paperback with a Path Hennon pastel on the cover, actually exists. Special thanks go out to her, as well as to Leigh Wilkerson and Liz Lester for believing in my work enough to finally make me do it. I must express my deepest appreciation to Naomi Nye, Patricia Smith, Glenis Redmond, and Allan Wolf, who had such wonderful things to say about my book. Shoot, the blurbs alone are worth the purchase!

So there it is--in black and white as they say. My big reading/signing will be at Nightbird Books on Thursday Oct.14 at 7 pm. Par-tay! I hope we pack the place out. That might not be too hard, since the reading space seems to be shrinking, but lets make it SRO anyway. I want everyone who has encouraged me along the way to be there so I can say thank you. Thank you for your listening ears. Thank you for the encouragement. Thank you for the inspiration of your shared poems and stories. Together we can make anything happen, which is exemplified by the fact that I finally put these poems on the page so you could take them home with you.

My publisher Liz over at Half Acre Press sees me as this completely outgoing extrovert of a performance artist (in other words a big ham) and does not believe it was difficult to take what I do in performance and put it on the page. I don't know why she doesn't believe it since it has taken me nearly two decades to do it. But to me, it's like writing a letter or email: once it's written down, you can't take it back. No more corrections. No more changes to make. (Remember that next time you fire off a snappy email.)

So now all that's left is to sell books and celebrate. We artists often have difficulty taking time to enjoy our success. We almost always have another iron in the fire warming up even as we bask in the glow of the one we've just finished. Yes, I do have another iron in the fire. One project at a time is simply unheard of in my life. But I do intend to celebrate, if not exactly rest on my laurels. I'm going to toast my publisher and editor. I'm going to eat chocolate--as much as I can get. I'm going to take a day off afterwards and go fishing. I'm going to tell myself, "Dang, I deserve this... and whatever recognition follows." I intend to celebrate this success and not just toss it in the pile of "Well, that's done...what's next?"

Celebrate your successes, my sensitive and shy creatives. You've worked hard for your moment in the spotlight. It never lasts long, so bask in it. Heck, come help me celebrate mine while you're at it. And I'll do the same for you.

( To order a signed copy sent right to your mailbox with free shipping click here to go to www.hillpoet.com! )

Run On

2010-08-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-23T06:11:00.000-07:00

(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.

(If you like to join us on the HOWL facebook page click here: http://www.facebook.com/howl.openmic. To get A Creative Life blog posts via email, look at the top right of the blog for the subscription box! )

Commit

2010-07-21T05:21:00.000-07:00

"The difference between involvement and commitment is like ham and eggs. The chicken is involved; the pig is committed." Martina Navratilova

This Sunday I'll be doing what I call a sermon (preacher's kid) on commitment at the UU Fellowship in Fayetteville, AR. Of all the churches I've attended in my life, I have to say that the Unitarian Universalists have treated me and mine the best. They are a welcoming congregation in every sense of the word--and they let me preach, too! I love standing behind a pulpit, looking out and loving the faces I see, "delivering" my sermon.

When I told my friends I would be speaking on commitment this Sunday, they were surprised. They have heard me speak on love, peace, community, gay rights. They've listened to a lot of my poems and basically heard my life story in verse. But they are curious about this commitment thing. Why now? What inspired this topic? I seem like a committed person to them, perhaps in more ways than one!

Part of the reason for my topic is that I equate commitment with love. We have to love something or someone a lot to be committed to it in a world where we can just move onto the next thing at the drop of a hat. We must be committed to creativity if we choose to write, paint, throw pots, or make music rather than be workaholics, zone out on TV, Face Book, or movies and video games. It's so much easier to admire, even buy, someone else's work than to make our own.

A wise woman once told me that a major component of commitment is simply showing up. We must be at our desks, our wheel, our easel, our bass guitar when we say we will in order for the Muse to know where to find us. The same is true of love. Even when the going gets tough, when we are out of sorts, or fear we are falling apart, sometimes the best we can do is to show up; and to keep showing up. So far, this bit of wisdom hasn't failed me. Believe me, I use it a lot.

My most recent proof of the power of commitment came through my daily journal (this is showing up). Now, I have been commited to the act of writing for many, many years. My filing cabinets are stuffed full of the proof of that commitment--poetry, short stories, a novel, essays, letters, memoir, songs, screenplays--you name the genre and you will find evidence of it in my drawers. (You know what I mean.)

However, I have not been as committed to getting my work out there as I have been to doing it. I have stretched myself thin trying to write, do yardwork, clean house, paint, sell books, cook and care for my family, including every bird on my 3 acre farmlette. They must have clean water and full feeders every day or they will fly away and I will never see them again. Ah, this is such an obvious metaphor for my fears that there is no need to say more.

Finally, months after a therapist told me as I complained yet again that I felt like a maid to "Get that image out of my mind and quit claiming that as who you are," I began to take her advice to heart. I am not a fast learner and have to take all advice into consideration before I act. It's my paranoid nature. Besides I'd been acting as if everything took precedence over my writing for a really long time.

Let me make it clear this is in no way the fault of my partner or anyone else. I was a compulsive cleaner before she ever came into my life. Besides, she had been telling me the same thing for ages, but you know how it is when it comes to attending to the advice of someone you love. For some reason, a complete stranger has more sway than the person who has lived with us for the past 11 years. Go figure.

So one morning I'm writing in my journal and I guess I had reached the end of my metaphorical rope. I just started writing: "I am not a housecleaner; I am not a yard man; I am not an entrepreneur; I am not a house painter or Mr. Fix It. I am a WRITER. I wrote this repeatedly. I am a WRITER and what I do is WRITE. And I will do WHATEVER IT TAKES to make this work for me in my life." Some of you who have attended AA like myself will recognize the "whatever it takes" line. It is an absolutely necessary promise. I wrote that entry in early June.

Now it is nearing the end of July. During that time I have received two new sources of income, enabling to me to contribute to my household budget and also to hire a little help with the things I find difficult to do now. I have enough to travel a bit, take some writing workshops, go on a solitary retreat now and again. I can concentrate on my writing and getting my work out into the world. I can write more blog entries.

A publisher showed up in my life and said "Sure, I'd love to do a book of your poems." So I'm pulling the poems together and sometime in September my first "real" book of poetry will be in print. I heard from a woman in the "Biz" and got some very good advice about my screenplay. The house isn't as clean. The yard needs mowing. The birds and and Leigh and I are fed, though. And the garden, weedy in places, continues to grow. We are all together and no one has left; not even the first wiener dog. In fact, I don't believe I've heard a single complaint. Only, "Go, Mendy, go!"

I had been slowly chipping away at my dream. My intentions were good. I had been writing for years. Yet, it was my courage and commitment to claim the WRITER I am; for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health that helped me make the final turn. And quite suddenly, within six weeks time, all these things began to fall into place. And I swear, laugh at me if you will, I feel for the first time beloved by God, or the Great Creator, or whatever you call your Higher Power. That is the truest blessing of claiming my commitment.

I wanted to tell you about it because I don't want you to waste any more time. Who are you in relationship to what you love, your dreams? It is a marriage; no less than the one you have to your life partner. It is a vow taken to create your own happiness, your sense of fulfillment, your absolute joy in being here, now. It is a right relationship to the Creator who endowed you with certain gifts. Waste no more time. Who are you? To what are you committed? Say it out loud. Write it down. Do it now. Change is waiting for you to make the first move.

Art and Fear

2010-07-18T06:29:00.000-07:00

It's the Sunday morning before HOWL, my monthly open mic poetry reading celebrating women's voices in Fayetteville. I should be preparing for that event, finishing up poems and cleaning up an essay I'm reading in concert with 4 other women from my writing group, Hen's Teeth. Instead, I'm writing a blog post which is long overdue, but probably could have waited until tomorrow. Still, when the spirit moves you, move!

I have borrowed the title of a book I highly recommend, Art and Fear, as the title of my blog post today. It's a phrase that any artist, new or old, highly acclaimed or just starting out, can identify with. (I realize that sentence ends in a preposition but I must continue.) This is the sort of thing I'm talking about. (See, did it again) Sometimes we must move past our fear of writing according to grammatical rules and simply write what needs, what is driving us, to be written.

The book, Art & Fear: Observations On The Perils (and Rewards) of ARTMAKING by David Bayles & Ted Orland is a remarkable book; really, a necessary book for all those who create art of any kind. Making art is scary--of that there can be no doubt. Even an old-timer like myself, writing and encouraging writers for years now, gets shaky when something new is on the horizon. Bayles and Orland say that uncertainty is as much a part of the creative process as imagination. They call uncertainty a virtue, in fact. "Uncertainty is the essential, inevitable, and all-pervasive companion to your desire to make art. And tolerance for uncertainty is the prerequisite to succeeding." (p.21)

Why am I dealing with this now? Sure, I've encountered my share of uncertainty all along this journey through writing and reading my work. But in 18 years, I've never published a book of my own. Chapbooks, sure. And 3 CD's. I've had my work published in other magazines and books. But I have never had a fine-bound book of my very own. I've always worried that my poetry was meant for the stage instead of the page. People needed to hear it to appreciate it. Whether this is true or not, I never gave them the chance to buy a copy of my poems and read them alone in the privacy of their own homes.

Now, all that is changing. I have had an offer to publish a book of my "hit singles" from the past. Most of these poems were written quite awhile ago, when the dam first burst, and poems came pouring out of me with enough force to create electricity for hundreds of homes. I've read them, truthfully, all over the country and even in South Africa. They have been heard on CD in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. But nothing has ever frightened me more than putting together this book of my bard-like poems. How can I stand beside published, acclaimed, academic poets and assert with confidence that my work is just as important, no matter how different, as their work is?

Really, I am scared shitless. I am completely uncertain about how my work will be received in this new format, much less accepted. Who will want to buy or read my book when they have all these highly recommended prize-winning poets to choose from? (Darn those prepositions.)

So I am trying to develop my "tolerance for uncertainty." I've done well, so far. I was able, even when just beginning to write, to stand before a group of people and read and perform my work. But I come from a family of preachers and my courage and confidence before an audience seemed inherited. My hands didn't shake for long before I was enjoying the limelight like the ham I am. (Apologies to Dr. Seuss.)

But a book; a book where folks could sit down and read and criticize my work carefully. I mean, appreciate my work. Yes, appreciate every word and nuance; each image and metaphor, repeatedly if they like. This is the way I must look at the outcome. The way I will look at it as I pull these poems together, edit, and hand them to my publisher. And, of course, continue reading Art and Fear on a daily basis.

You'll be hearing more about my forthcoming book, expected "out" in September. I will give you the title now so you'll know where to look: It will be called "A Little Lazarus" from one of my partner's and my publisher's favorite poems. The rest is still a mystery, even to me. So you'll have to wait, breathlessly I'm sure, for the outcome.

Your uncertain, but determined author,
Mendy

Link to find out more about the book "Art & Fear," and/or to order from an indie bookstore.

Just One Thing

2010-06-29T04:42:00.000-07:00

I woke this morning early, perhaps 5 am. I know many of you are groaning at this bit of information, but sometimes for the writer and artist, it's necessary to get up when no one else is awake. Or simply stay up, as the case may be. Personally, I like to know the morning is coming, that the light is changing incrementally as our earth turns toward her blazing star.This morning, the moon was still on the horizon when I woke. A bright spot in a dark navy sky. And I heard the first bird sing. There's something so special about that. The trill of notes seems to be sung just for you, even though you know it's not true. It's "only" life inside a winged and feathered creature finding a way to burst forth into expression. How much more should we be singing the praises of creation; we who have voices and words and the ability to play music, sing, and dance?

Try this at home: set your alarm for 5 am one day this week. Put the coffee pot in your room if you must. Set two alarms. Sit quietly, looking out a window, listen to the rising day. Grab a pen and paper and beginning with the first thing you noticed, write a poem about it. Make it a haiku or a prose poem, a song lyric or a sonnet. Just write the poem. We are called upon to celebrate and commemorate life as poets and artists. Sometimes we must get up very early in the morning in order to do it. Leave your poem in my comments if you like. I would love to read them. Share it with someone.

I bought a great little notepad from Malaprop's Bookstore in Asheville, NC while I was there visiting last week. Each note is printed with, "I will do one thing today." Beneath that it says, "Thing."

Yesterday I mailed out a CD to a local DJ with some songs I'd co-written on it. And although I did many other things yesterday, I was most proud of the one I did that I'd written on my notepad. Today's is "write a blog post." I am doing that now. There is something to be said about the surety of doing one thing; just one, to forward your creative process. I had to get up very early in order to do this. So might you.

Try it. Make your one thing tomorrow: I'll rise at 5 am and write a poem. You might just find you like it.

Like Eve awake before Adam,
I heard the first bird sing.
She trilled from the branch of an unseen tree
music just for me.
From her tiny breast she
filled an entire dawn with dancing notes,
left me longing
to sing my own song
so easily and free
with only the dimming moon to hear.

______

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Have You Noticed?

2010-06-12T05:34:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it hasn't gotten any easier to be uplifted with what's going on in the world right now. I believe the Gulf oil crisis is enough all by itself to keep us depressed and angry for years to come. However, those feelings will only leave us stuck in despair and lead to a personal crisis when we can't afford that either.

Although I am not burying my head in the sand, I limit the images I see and the news I hear concerning BP's big fiasco. I do what I can in my family to keep it green and wait for the next way I can see to help. When I can I will write about it, but the injury is still too fresh. At the same time, I know I must write, and I must encourage you to write as well. Here is a prompt that helped me.

Take a look around you, no matter where you are. Right now, as you're reading this. Look at your room, out the window, around the park where you may be sitting on a bench reading. Now ask yourself the question: Have I noticed? Write it at the top of a page and answer it. This will put you square in the moment where you will realize what the wonderful Zen teacher and writer Cheri Huber says, "You will never be given more than you can handle in the present moment."

Have I noticed?

How the morning light caresses the high branches of the trees outside my window long before it touches anything else? How the sun locates a hole in the world even while it is still so low in the eastern sky, takes aim and shoots a ray like an old sci-fi film hitting those three or four branches with its bright magic, giving them an energizing buzz, while all around them other limbs are slowly waking. Have I noticed that some mornings I am the lucky zapped limbs, and sometimes the lazy malingerers, sleeping deep in a dream of dark green until the bright light of a hot sun awakens, startling me into remembering, "I'm alive! Must grow. Must green. Must make oxygen!"

Have I noticed how day lilies are so appropriately named? How their big heads are bent and closed in the shadows of dawn; wet, heavy, dull with their outside skins showing. Then a little light strikes, and kapow! they are all glorious orange and red and yellow, open to the sky and the loving beams of a perfectly placed star. Have I noticed how the dew moistens the grass as Leigh leaves footprints when she walks, wetting her shoes as she trails out into the early morning to let the chickens out of their coop? In an hour, it will all be dry, sucked up into the air, waiting to fall again with night, the other side of day.

Have I noticed? Have I noticed these small, important parts of my day? Have I noticed that these little miracles occur momentarily, in every season? Because not to notice is to somehow fail each other and our Earth, to be a little less than human, to give up the passion which enables us to live up to our potential and love our lives.

This ability to take note of the world around us is a potent gift, one that burdens us lightly with a responsibility to our world. If you pay attention to the smallest things, you will experience great rewards. Have you noticed how that works, yet?

Night Rose

2010-05-27T05:09:00.000-07:00

As black oil gushed into the deep blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, I had the privilege and pleasure of seeing the Pulitzer Prize-winning nature poet, Mary Oliver, read last week. For some reason, the experience brought on an unaccountable fit of despair and hair-pulling angst. I worried that great art, especially expressed so gently and beautifully, should have this effect on me. Instead of inspiration, I felt desperation. Good grief! How in the world, I kept asking myself, does the woman manage to block out two wars, oil pouring into the Gulf, and the systematic destruction of our planet long enough to write nature poems? Hundreds and hundreds of incredibly descriptive and soul-stirring nature poems? For the rest of the night I felt "slain in the spirit," as Southern evangelists like to say you must feel before you can experience salvation. They may be onto something.

This world, truly, is full of grief for the sensitive soul. It is all too easy to despair over the destruction of the natural beauty of Earth, the original creation. We weep at the poor quality of life the great majority of the human race suffers while the few wallow in wealth and greed. What can we do that is more constructive than beleaguering our loved ones with the burden of our quite real and even justifiable response? Being ashamed of our feelings doesn't help. Only action can ease our troubled minds.

Exactly how, you may ask, can we reshape this dark place of grieving and despair so that our sensitive souls are not frozen by bitterness at what is, in fact, reality? We must remember that reality occurs on different levels at the same time. The wild rose blooms even as another species goes extinct from human carelessness. Drawing attention to the rose doesn't mean we ignore the dying dolphins. We must find a way to shape the wet, raw clay of grief into some slight but recognizable form of beauty, then fire it with our imaginations–a discipline that requires us to sit down with our art, even when it feels most painful and impossible. How, how, how do we go from this hair-pulling angst to creating a poem or painting?

First, we must accept our sensitive selves and the feelings we experience as part of an artistic nature. This can be difficult if you don't have friends around who are happy to indulge your freak-out for a night or two. Allow yourself the space and time to experience what may feel (and look) like a form of temporary insanity . Then lock yourself in your room with pen, paper and a book or two of poetry or prose. Begin reading. Find a poem you love. Read it over and over again. Read it silently. Read it aloud until a sense of calm begins forming like a small cloud in the distance. Then copy it by hand, word for word, onto a clean sheet of paper as if it were new. As if it rose from your own imagination in the immediacy of your grief.

We don't have to start over from scratch. At times our pain may be too great to construct a creative piece from the scraps of our sorrow. This is a good time to let those who have gone before us, have suffered these feelings and prevailed, lead us though our healing and back to the balm of our own words. The Richard Wilbur poem, "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World" is just such a poem to me. It eases my heart and calms my wild, unruly spirit. It is, for me, poetic vailium, a diazepam for the soul, a simple cure for my existential anxiety with no hangover. Why don't you try it? Begin here, with this poem by Mary Oliver:

The Roses

One day in summer
when everything
has already been more than enough
the wild beds start
exploding open along the berm
of the sea; day after day
you sit near them; day after day
the honey keeps on coming
in the red cups and the bees
like amber drops roll
in the petals; there is no end,
believe me! to the inventions of summer,
to the happiness your body
is willing to bear.

Art and Heart Connections

2010-05-10T09:01:00.000-07:00

One of the best benefits of putting your art out into the world are the connections that come about from your act of courage and trust. I've met so many interesting and beautiful people, artists and appreciators alike, since I've been writing, hosting poetry events, and reading my work to unsuspecting audiences! You never know when that six degrees of separation will shake your hand and say, "Hey I know you!"

When I lived in the Asheville area I applied for and received a NC Art Council Grant to spend a month at a fine arts center in South Africa. All I knew at the time was that it was in Zululand and was called Caversham Press. I flew from Asheville, NC to Durban on the Indian Ocean in South Africa via Atlanta, GA. You got to go through Atlanta to get anywhere if you live in the South.

At Caversham I met the owners, Malcolm and Ros Christian and worked with their apprentice Sean Strohle to create my first visual art poetry collaboration. What resulted was an amazing fold-out primitive art piece called "Passages Through Poetry" and friendships with these three fine people that will last forever. Not to mention that I have seen some of South Africa and fallen in love with the place, her people, and their artwork.

Malcolm Christian is one of the truly great art mentors of the world. Sure, that's my opinion, but ask anyone who has ever listened to him more than 10 minutes and they will affirm the fact. He talks about creativity and you can't help but listen, can't help but get fired up and want to burn up the page with your own creative blaze. After Malcolm, you understand the importance of art in creating a better world, the connectedness of all the lines we write and all the lines we draw. Like the aboriginal songlines of Australia, our work connects us to our ancestors and to those we may never actually meet. In this world of you tube and blog posts, the world is much easier to traverse than it was, even in 2001 when I went to South Africa.

The picture above is a small proof, but you know for yourself what is possible if you are willing to send your art out into the world, free to make whatever mark it may. This is a picture of Nomkhubulwana, a Zulu word for Mother Earth, and a perfect symbol for Mother's Day I might add. She appeared at the Fayetteville Farmer's Market upon it's 2010 opening the first weekend in April. Nomkhubulwana is made entirely, no pun intended, from used TIRES! She is gorgeous and life-sized. I hung around her for a long time, snapping photos with the spring blossoms behind her, so different from the trees in South Africa from which she came. I thought about my time there, my friends there, Zululand, the people, the incredible world of elephants and giraffes roaming free. I sat and stared, suddenly homesick for Malcolm and Ros, the midlands near Howick, and the Leopard Lodge where I spent a week near the home of the Zulu king.

When I got home from the market, I sent a picture of the elephant to Malcolm at Caversham where fall is coming on even as our spring bursts all unbridled from the winter's bare trees. And this is what Malcolm wrote back to me:

"It is a sculpture made by a friend of ours, Andries Botha, and in fact I went to her naming ceremony in Durban prior to the beginning of her journeys. It was a very moving ceremony performed by an elderly African Game Ranger from Umfolozi Game Reserve, close to where you and Sean stayed at the Leopard Lodge. He ‘sung’ her into existence and named her Nomkhubulwana. She IS great!"

So you see, my friends, it is a small world after all. If you have never visited South Africa, you cannot imagine its vastness, and it is just one part of the giant continent that is Africa. Now imagine that an African artist wants to create an elephant as a message of peace to send around the world, and that artist just happens to hale from South Africa. Okay, then remember that a NC poet so wanted to see Africa in her lifetime that she applied for a grant, won it and ended up in South Africa at a lovely fine arts residency called Caversham with a mentor called Malcolm. And Malcolm just happened to be friends with artist, Andries Botha, who created the elephant. Now think how all these lines got tied together in the little town of Fayetteville, AR in the Ozark Mountains, and you just have to believe in the miracle we call Art, now don't you?

This is the official end of my post, but if you want to know the story of Nomkhubulwana, read on.

NOMKHUBULWANA

Nomkhubulwana is a heavenly deity who, being a virgin is closely associated with young marriageable girls. In addition, she is associated with the sky where she lives in the rainbow and the multi-coloured rainbow snake is to be found in the pool where the rainbow ends. It was Nomkhubulwana who taught people to build their homes following the hemispherical construction of the rainbow.

Nomkhubulwana appears in the morning mists and children and girls are the first to see her. She usually appears to girls in the maize fields and so is associated with good crops and good rains. As she does not age, she is always of the same age-group as maidens. Men must not look at her for fear of being struck by blindness or incurable diseases.

According to many women, Nomkhubulwana is naked except for a string of white beads around her waist. Nomkhubulwana may be appeased by the observance of nomdede, a festival prepared for her by girls and unmarried women. Days in advance they prepare beer and food for the festivity. On the morning of the feast the young women put on the clothes of their lovers or brothers and take some cattle to the grazing fields. They take turns in feasting and herding the cattle.

After the day’s work they leave the calabashes with drink and food, such as beans and pumpkin seeds, on an overhanging rock for Nomkhubulwana to enjoy. Thus her blessing is sought in their love life, for good harvests and cattle raising.

Of Woman Born: An Open-Mic of Your Own

2010-04-17T05:46:00.000-07:00

Of all the actions I've taken, all the roles I've fulfilled, all the jobs that seemed important at the time: soldier, cop, bookseller, poet, screenplay writer, editor–none has been more gratifying or more helpful to my community than starting open mics where women can celebrate their voices and tell their stories to an active listening audience.

I have hosted an open mic in every town in which I've lived for the past 15 years. I took over Cafe of Our Own from Laura Hope-Gill who started it in Asheville, NC sometime in the mid-90's. It became a huge success with a faithful following of 50-60 women attending and as many as 15 women reading on a Saturday night at Malaprop's Bookstore downtown.

Moving further out into the Black Mountains with my partner, I wondered where I would start my next open mic. To my surprise, just 20 minutes away was another independent bookstore called Blue Moon Books in Spruce Pine, NC– population 2000. There I began Eve's Night Out on the fourth Friday of every month. We had a great group of women who came from as far away as Johnson City, TN and from Asheville, NC. The readers set a high bar for fine poetry and wonderful stories, and they are still meeting today just down the road in Burnsville, NC.

Now, here I am in Fayetteville, AR hosting HOWL (Herwords Out Loud, or Her Out Words Loud, if you're picky about that sort of thing). We have anywhere from 20 to 40 regular attendees, both men and women, those who read and those who listen. We meet at Nightbird Books, Fayetteville's independent new bookstore owned by Lisa Sharp, the third Sunday of every month. I've had as many as 12 readers and singer-songwriters perform in one night. Our voices range from the practiced performance poet to the woman who shakily reads her poem for the very first time.

Our ages range from 16 to 76. We are lesbian and straight and somewhere in between. We are daughters and mothers and grandmothers, but most of all we are sisters in the word. We are giving birth to our stories, poems and songs and we are proud of our lives, even when what we have to share is hard. We are survivors and cheerleaders. We are learning to love and forgive and create and recreate together. We are making something bigger together than the sum of our parts. HOWL is the center of our community where we mourn our losses and celebrate our accomplishments with writing. This reading is a vital heartbeat in the community of women here in Fayetteville, just as it was in Asheville and in Spruce Pine.

You, too, can start a women's open mic reading – anywhere you live, no matter where you are. This post is about how to do just that. It's easy. The hardest ingredient to fill is your commitment. "If you build it, they will come." Here's the recipe for a "cafe" of your own:

1. One or two women who take on the host's position. That means someone who introduces the readers, keeps the flow going, reads her own work or that of other women poets in between readers or when there's a shortage. These must be women of commitment and passion, willing to send out a once-a-month email or flier and remind the community that the event will be happening.

2. Keep the same date every month. Do not change the time or place unless absolutely necessary. Have the reading no matter what, barring terrible weather. Changes confuse everyone and makes it difficult for new people to find you. Get on face book and on other calendars of events.

3. A space that is friendly to you and supports your event. I love independent bookstores best because they are the perfect place for readings. Being surrounded by books is comforting and it is the host's duty to encourage participants to shop at the bookstore who is generously giving their space so your event can happen. A good cafe is also a plus. Mutual benefit is always a good idea. You want them to want your event to happen in their store.

4. An audience who learns to listen actively. I have had the best audiences in the world, I think. No one talks when a reader is at the mic (even if there is no mic).They are listening with open minds, hearts, even their bodies lean forward into the words of their sister who has found the courage to stand before them and share something as personal as a poem or story about their life. Applause is optional. Usually a poet will ask not to be applauded if they don't want it. Otherwise we clap, or hoot and holler if the reading calls for that and we get excited.

5. Invite a special guest once in awhile; an author or published poet. These writers inspire us and raise the bar for our own writing. There's nothing like a monthly deadline and listening to the work of others to make our own writing better.

6. I make my readings women only. I have been challenged on this point. Men are invited to be part of the audience. And believe me, those men who come to listen to women read are admired and appreciated. Women need a space that feels safe in order to share what is intimate to them. There can be no competition, only acceptance. And so, I keep the space behind the mic for them and for them alone. They read their own work, or they can read work written by another woman. I maintain that this is essential to women's empowerment. Their ability to branch out and read to larger audiences begins here, at HOWL or Eve's Night Out; at a Cafe of Their Own.

Begin here. Begin now. Show up and keep going even if it's 5 people at first. Sit in a circle until it grows large enough to have an audience and a mic. Every person counts. Just keep showing up and let people know you are doing it. If your host has the passion and commitment to creativity, women will come. And if they come once, they will return. Good luck! If you have questions, leave a comment and I will get back to you. Or go to the HOWL Women's Open Mic page on Face Book.

Power to the women--write on!

A Little Women's History During March Madness

2010-03-29T06:13:00.000-07:00

If we don't know...

that the first person to go over Niagra Falls was a woman who couldn’t swim, one Annie Taylor, an elementary schoolteacher in a wooden barrel

or that Mozart’s fame depended on his wife Constanze’s inventiveness and good business sense

or Mehitable Ellis “Auntie” Woods stole a commissary wagon in order to make regular supply runs to Union soldiers on the front lines

If we are unaware...

that Aivia Lubetkin was a commander of the Jewish resistance movement in the Warsaw ghetto who made her escape through the sewer systems of that city

that African American dancer Janet Collins turned down the opportunity of a lifetime with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo because they would have required her to wear white make-up
but
she eventually became the prima ballerina for the NY Metropolitan Opera anyway

If we’ve forgotten...

That it was Mary Leakey and not Louis who discovered the “missing link” in Tanzania, demonstrating that humans originated in Africa, not Asia

or that cartoonist Dalia Messick had to change her name to the more androgynous “Dale” in order to get her comic strip “Brenda Starr” published in 1940

If we don’t know...

that Mary Read and Anne Bonny were pirates in the 1700’s
and
that Mary (alias Mark) Read was a cross-dresser
and
that the two women were lovers aboard a pirate ship

If we’ve somehow failed to remind our schoolchildren...

that Queen Liluokalani fought against the annexation of Hawaii by the US in favor of a government by her people and that she spent 9 months in jail for her efforts

that the world’s first self-made female millionaire was Madame C.J. Walker (born Sarah Breedlove), an unschooled black orphan who earned her fortune through the development of a hair preparation process for African American women

or that Rear Admiral Grace Hopper helped design the first large-scale digital computer, the Mark One

If the facts have been misplaced...

that Conchita Clintron mastered over 1200 bulls in her career as a bullfighter and was arrested at her farewell appearance int 1949 for refusing to kill the bull

and that Cosmonaut Valentina Tereshkova was the first woman space traveler, orbiting the globe 48 times in 1963

If we haven’t been reminded...

that Mary Lyon, founder of the Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, the first school of higher education for women in this country, had to weave two blankets to exchange for her admission into boarding school

that Julia Ward Howe wrote the text to the Battle Hymn of the Republic for a mere $4

If we haven’t thanked...

Gertrude Muller for the child car seat
Margaret Knight for the square-bottomed paper bag
Hannah Slater for cotton thread
Mary Engle Pennington for refrigerated railroad cars
sisters Patty, Mildred, and Jessica Hill for composing “Happy Birthday to You” in
1893

If we forgot or never knew...

that legal secretary Iris Rivera was fired in 1977 for refusing to make coffee for her boss

that Alice Stebbins Wells was the first female cop in the US, sworn into the LAPD in 1910 and was forced to wear a badge that read “Police Woman’s Badge #1” because she was constantly being accused of wearing her husband’s badge, thereby imper-sonating a police officer

that Assistant Attorney General from 1921-1929, Mabel Willebrandt, brought 49,000 bootleggers to justice and achieved 39,000 convictions

If a single schoolgirl hasn’t heard...

that on the night of April 26, 1777, 16-year-old Sybil Luddington rode from town to town in New York and Connecticutt to warn the colonists that the Redcoats were raiding Danbury, covering double the distance of Paul Revere and saving the day for the Patriots

then they don’t know enough
and we don’t know enough
and nobody knows enough
to make basketball more important than women each March,
to tell his-tory but not hers,
to omit a women’s study program from a college curriculum.
We can’t allow ourselves to continue to forget
how far we’ve come, how much we’ve gained
how hard the struggle’s been
or that even in 2010
we haven’t reached equality yet.

The Defiant Gardener - Part II

2010-03-09T09:46:00.000-08:00

Defiant Gardens: Making Gardens in Wartime by Kenneth Helphand

Yesterday I was inspired by something as simple as the title of my spouse's library book. It's called "Defiant Gardens: Making Gardens in Wartime" by Kenneth Helphand. The book is a fascinating account of gardens planted in internment camps, in Warsaw ghettos, even on the front lines during times of war. Anyone who believes gardens inspire and promote peace should read this book. I love the book and the concept, but it was the title that inspired me to write the following poem. I'm quite sure that Mr. Helphand (don't you just love that name?) did not intend his title to inspire this particular poem. However, the poet must go with whatever comes crashing into the mind, shattering the original observation into bits and pieces to be reformed into a poem.

The Defiant Gardener

I am a defiant gardener,
attacking the soil with pick, shovel, rake
until the patch surrenders up her stones.
I hack and yank at weeds like enemies.
The burgeoning garden is a battlefront
and I, the conquering warrior.
This, of course, is not the right approach.
I watch Leigh and try to learn.
She observes and weighs where each bed will lay.
The consummate garden hostess knows
every plant must feel at home.
But I was born to dig.
In a no-till garden this is not an attribute.
So I dig trenches and post holes,
start new garden spots, bury my dog
and hope Leigh lets me help her plant a tree.
I'm also quite good at bonfires,
burning sticks which we have aplenty.
I'm sure my Astrological signs
influence my defiant gardener status.
Mostly fire, I have not one single sign in Earth.
Therefore, I'm flailing away to contact it.
I'm an alien on foreign soil.
I unearth rocks and toss them into Al's cow pasture
or throw them at the guinea
when he beats up on my rooster, Handsome.
A defiant gardener has little interest in the pretty parts.
I leave the planning and the planting to Leigh.
I harvest with the same intensity
of purpose with which I dig--
"git 'er done."
Only when I water do I find connection
watering slowly I soak deeply
at rest finally in the garden
I relish the various greens
of spinach and collards
spiky onions near the broad-leafed squash
the purple of a late evening sky
cooling eyes and the smell of wet earth
fills my nostrils while
warm hands pat the seed within
and the defiant gardener discovers
peas at last.

The Defiant Poet-Part I

2010-03-01T05:04:00.000-08:00

Spring is upon us, faithful readers. Time to try your hand at writing some poetry. "Ah, but I'm no poet," you groan. "I wish she would get over the poetry thing and talk about writing stories." Writing a poem is simply telling a story in verse. I believe everyone has a little poet inside them. A poem cries out to be born every time something special, something emotional, something which fires our passion occurs in front of us.

Poetry requires paying attention. We have to notice the two bluebirds considering the wooden birdhouse shaped like a church as their potential summer home; a place they can raise a family. Then we have to allow the feelings that arise to bloom and take up space inside us--so much space in fact, they demand an outlet. Finally, we must take pen in hand as soon as possible and capture the details. This is telling a story. And writing a poem.

Using the craft of poetry: line breaks, vivid imagery, maybe an occasional rhyme but mostly rhythm, is simple enough for a child to do. In fact children all over the world do it. They write poems in classrooms, sprawled belly down on porches, or sitting cross-legged high in back yard tree houses. Nothing stops them. They aren't afraid to write bad poems along with the good. The quality of the poem is not at issue. Cupping the moment and the feeling in their hands and heads is the point. They are defiant poets. They let nothing stop them, and neither should you.

Here are a couple of my first poems written at age 7, when I was in the first grade. The first poem, entitled simply "Spring" was written as I sprawled across the small back stoop of my house in Houston, TX in 1961. Already you can see the Realism in the budding poet.

Spring

Spring is here.
The birds are saying tweet, tweet, tweet.
The trees have leaves on them.
Butterflies are playing on flowers.
Fruits are growing on trees, too,
and grass is turning green.
The flowers are turning all colors,
and the flyes are eating our food.

My second attempt, after we had covered poetry in school, came out a little more formed; not quite so freestyle. It did have the honor of being the first poem in my class's poetry book! You can see the Emily Dickinson, no?

The Rain

I love to see the drops
of rain,
Falling on the window
Pane.
They splash and splash,
on the ground;
and make the little puddles round.

A defiant poet lives in all of us waiting for someone to hand her a pencil. Give her one. Set her free.

Women Who Gave Back

2010-02-15T09:12:00.001-08:00

blessing the boats

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)

from Blue Lake of My Dreams

Blue lake of my dreams,
I don't know what you mean.
Your waves say
hello and goodbye.
Someone's always leaving,
someone's always coming home.
And some things you feel
you've always known

Coyote shows us where to go:
up past the rocks,
up past the snow,
where the wildflowers bloom,
delicate, yet strong,
they have room.

Blue lake of my dreams,
I'll be there in the spring.
Snow melts like a heart
that will survive.
Over rocks and crevices
we climb up from the plain.
The air is clear
and we are free again.

Nancy Maier (1955-2010)

Women Who Gave Back

What do these two women have in common besides their love of the lyrical and the close proximity of the dates of their deaths? Look closely at the words to the above poem and song. There is a glimpse into something much deeper than a blue lake or even an ocean implied in both; something that sings of freedom and eternity if we will only summon the courage to read them with clarity and vision. Seeing deeply, writing about what they saw, and then sharing it with the larger community were attributes both poet and songwriter shared.

Lucille Clifton, poet laureate of Maryland, winner of the National Book Award as well as many other prestigious awards, didn't do it for the money. No poet does. Ever. Not in a million years. Neither prestige nor recognition impressed her. What made an impression on Lucille Clifton was seeing a book of her poetry in a classroom, being read and loved by kids, black and white alike.

What really made her day was seeing women, particularly African American women, rise up with a new courage inspired by her poetry, determined to climb from the pit of discrimination and make room for their differences and their lives in this world. Best of all, she loved listening to new poets crowding the stage behind her, reading and writing to impress their mentor, their muse, while creating a whole new world of poetry and words atop her foundation.

Lucille Clifton wrote of the pride she had in her race; on the confidence she desired for women to have in themselves, including love for their own bodies; from the beauty, solace and lessons she found in Nature. Most of us just got lucky. We were lucky to live in a "brave new world that has such creatures in it" as the likes of Lucille Clifton. We can best thank her for the work she did by sharing her words, her books, and quoting her aloud whenever we get the chance. Share her dream and she lives on in us.

The same can be said for Fayetteville, Arkansas singer/songwriter Nancy Maier. She taught both children and adults that creating with words, music, and song was the true blessing of being born into this world. She began her creative career writing poems from the time she was sixteen and ended her career in the midst of creating a new CD with original songs with her gifted friend, John Two Hawks.

In between singing and writing her own songs, she taught voice and music lessons to kids and adults alike. She gardened and was always a part of the Omni Peace Gardens Tour (see Larrapin Garden). One of the most important things she did in her community--perhaps the one I appreciated most--was she directed the "Everyone Can Sing Chorus." Really, it's self-explanatory. Nancy believed beyond a shadow of a doubt, that not only could everyone sing, but that everyone should sing. And if your weren't singing, no matter how your family complained every time you lifted your voice in the morning shower, you were missing out on one of the truly great joys in life. Nancy believed wholeheartedly in making a "joyful noise." And sometimes that noise would turn into beautiful music. I know. I was there. I heard it happen.

Nancy shone a light on everything she did. She was one of those people beloved by an entire community, one at least the size of Fayetteville, AR. Her inclusiveness in the world of spirit and creativity was unmatched by anyone I ever knew personally. She was adored. At her memorial service, she was recognized by Episcopal priests and acolytes (all women), her minister first cousin, two Buddhist monks, Native American John Two Hawks, and of course us, the Everyone Can Sing Chorus, including everyone who EVER sang in the chorus. We did it for Nancy, although we could barely sing or even see through the tears that spilled down our faces and choked our voices.

I told Leigh, sometimes there needs to be a public grieving. Celebrating a life is a good thing, an important event. But when that person gave so much; gave as much as Lucille Clifton and Nancy Maier, then it seems only right that we recognize that loss for what it is as well. They, of course, have flown on the wings of poetry and song they spent a lifetime creating. But for the moment, we are left bereft, standing alone without them, looking up.

Inspiration for Many Generations

2010-01-29T12:36:00.000-08:00

"It is the job of the artist to transcend–to think outside the boundaries of permissable thought and dare to say things that no one else will say." —Howard Zinn

Howard Zinn, historian, author, peace and civil rights activist, WWII bombardier for the USAF, and Veteran for Peace died of a heart attack while swimming in California on Wednesday Jan. 27. He was 87 years old, and personally, taking your leave of this earth while swimming sounds like a pretty good way to go. At least to a swimmer.

Howard Zinn was many things in his life and he made no apologies for the choices he made and the adventures and stories he had to tell. I read that when he came home from WWII, he took all his medals and honors, stuck them in a plain envelope, sealed it, and wrote across it "Never Again." From that time on, Mr. Zinn devoted himself to working for civil rights, securing justice for the poor and for indigenous peoples, and always, always striving toward an end to war. His most popular book, A People's History of the United States sold over one million copies. In this book, Zinn attempts to tell our history with all its violence, slavery and genocide intact. History is not a coloring book that we can paint in pretty colors so we don't recognize the truth. Howard Zinn wrote a history book where the winners don't get to tell the story.

My favorite book by Howard Zinn is a slim volume which you can read in a couple of hours. It's called artists in times of war and other essays published in 2003 in Canada. It is a book to be kept on your shelf and read again and again. He directs his words to the artist, the writer, the poet when he says, "The word transcendent comes to mind when I think of the role of the artist in dealing with the issues of the day. I use that word to suggest that the role of the artist is to transcend conventional wisdom, to transcend the word of the establishment, to transcend the orthodoxy, to go beyond and escape what is handed down by the government or what is said in the media."

I interpret this admonition seriously. We as artists have a duty, a responsibility that comes with our gifts. And that responsibility is to rise above mediocrity, to reject a herd mentality in favor of expressing what we perceive to be the truth, no matter how dangerous, outrageous, or unacceptable to the status quo it may be. I take that responsibility seriously and reading "Artists in Times of War" reminds me of my duty as an artist and activist.

If you take Howard Zinn's words to heart, you're not alone. It is easy to get tired, to give in or give up, to take the middle ground when wars seem to just go on and on, no matter what we do. But there are places where you can re-charge with poets and writers of like mind. Here in Fayetteville, you can join up with the OMNI Center for Peace, Justice and Ecology at http://www.omnicenter.org Location: 3274 N Lee Ave. Fayetteville, AR 72703/ 479-935-4422

World-renowned folk musicians Donna Stjerna and Kelly Mulholland, better known as "Still On the Hill," host a peace open mic for musicians and poets the first Sunday of every month from September through May at Omni on Lee Ave. It is a moving, inspiring, uplifting and hope- renewing event. I always walk away from the Omni open mic feeling surrounded by others who want peace in the world. Whether that is true or not, it's a feeling I need in order to keep writing and working for peace.

Every other year, Split This Rock Poetry Festival gathers writer-activists of peaceful intentions together to share their truths and advice, their poems and creative endeavors. The festival is in Washington DC and the dates for this year are March 10 - March 13, 2010. I went in 2008 and wrote a series of posts about my experience there. Your presence at an event like Split This Rock is evidence enough that you take your responsibility as an artist seriously. There are workshops and readings non-stop for 3 days. Busboys and Poets, THE DC independent bookstore and restaurant is a central meeting place. There are no "famous" untouchables at Split This Rock even though many of the poets you meet will be known the world over. There, everyone is treated the same--your art and your work are as valued as any poet's. Everyone has a chance to actively participate. I believe that Split This Rock is the kind of festival Howard Zinn would have loved to attend. To learn more about this one of a kind (very affordable) festival, go to www.splitthisrock.org. (Photo above is from their website.)

"It is the job of the artist to transcend–to think outside the boundaries of permissable thought and dare to say things that no one else will say." So says Howard Zinn, and so say I. So say on, Poet. The world is waiting for your words.

The Devil Made Me Do It

2010-01-19T04:15:00.000-08:00

The journey of a creative piece often takes a twisting, turning, unexpected path to its final destination. You can't know when you begin, where that poem or song, that painting or pot will finally land. All we can do is be true to the calling of the Muse, who shows up most often when we arrive at our pen and paper, our easel, or pick up our instrument at a regular time in a designated space. She needs to know where and when to find us. Her faithfulness is entirely dependent on our own. Now this is a true story.

After one of my all-night writes up on White Rock Mountain last year, I came back down after two solid days of writing and one of complete solitude on the mountain top. Needless to say, I was immersed and had no desire, really, to return to the mundane chores of everyday life. I felt as if I could live that way up there forever. Truthfully, I only had a couple more days like that left in me. My creativity feeds off the fire and energy of life and love, so I know I'm not really the monkish poet, but it calls to me occasionally. It calls me, and I try to answer.

Anyway, when I got back down, I was grumpy and downright hard to live with, according to Leigh, who should know. Smart Leigh, creative Leigh...instead of reacting to my surliness, simply went to her room and penned a few lines about how she was feeling. They went something like this: "The devil stole my baby from the mountain top. She went up sweet as honey, now the sting is all I got. The sting is all I got." Then she sent it to me via email.

Well, instead of getting mad that she seemed to think the devil got hold of me instead of my creative need, I just happened to be in the space (from all that writing) to recognize a really good bluegrass refrain when I saw one. And since I just happen to know a bluegrass band, I wrote Leigh back and said, "Send me all you got. This is great!" So she did. She had a couple of phrases she thought should be in it, like "all she ever makes me is a blackbird pie" and "they sent me old Scratch" which is a great old-fashioned term for the devil, for you younger readers.

Anyway, I took what she sent and turned it into song lyrics, being as true to her words as I could be. Then I sent the song to my musician friend, Lenny Lasater, who plays for a Blue/Newgrass band in Atlanta, GA called Roxie Watson. Lenny listened to some of the old, darker bluegrass tunes and came up with some incredible music along with her band members. And just the other night, I made the long drive to Atlanta with a friend to hear the debut of their new CD "True Stories." And what's the best song, the most original and intense song, on this album of really terrific songs? Why, "Devil Stole My Baby," of course. No, I'm not prejudiced. I co-wrote some of the other songs on that album as well, but this is the one that really knocks my socks off.

Who knew that Leigh, when she wrote her words (called a "hook" in the biz) to avoid a conflict, deciding to do something constructive instead, then sent them to me to let me know how she was feeling, would make a hit song on a bluegrass CD in less than a year? Because the band could choose "Devil" to enter into a local band contest to perform for Lilith Fair in Atlanta. Whichever song they choose, we believe they'll get there. You can hear a snippet of "Devil" and even buy the CD (or download your favorite songs) here. Or just look for Roxie Watson at cdbaby.com and then the "Devil," who is always easier to find than you think.

I know I say this all the time, but follow your instincts. Use your natural abilities to create a song or poem or a painting rather than a conflict. Bring it home and make it healing. I swear, you never know what will happen next. Trust your Muse to do the rest.

Fishing for Poems

2010-01-07T09:47:00.000-08:00

This year's all-night write was another success. Different from last year's in every way, we stayed inside by the fire to keep warm in 20 degree weather. But we got a lot of writing done, and "different" is good when it comes to creativity.

One of my favorite exercises this year was the word-grouping exercise. Make a list of the names for the individuals of any group of things. For instance, under the heading flowers you might list daffodils, roses, sunflowers, bluebonnets, dahlias, peonies, etc. You want to be specific, but you don't have to know the Latin names. That would be a different poem. Birds would be another group, or automobiles; any group that has individuals with particular names. Take 5 minutes and name as many as you can. I started my list several times (ingredients for a recipe, spiders, buildings) before finally settling on something I felt I knew and understood pretty well: fish. A partial list included bass, bream, rainbow trout, Dolly Varden (a beautiful gold trout), crappie, minnows, goldfish, sharks, flounder, cod, and so forth. I named a lot of fish. I was glad there was something out there in the world for which I knew that many names.

Once you've made your list, then write a poem using the names from your chosen group. Leigh Wilkerson wrote a beautiful poem called, "As Names Become a Part of Us" about trees. Her poem inspired me to want to create this exercise because naming encourages us to experience a kinship with life we may miss by throwing everything into a group under a single heading. The exercise of naming also helps us to be specific in our writing. The lovers didn't just sit under a tree, they sat under a blackjack oak.

Following, you will find the rough drafts of my work on this exercise. Because I had so many fish, I had to break the poem into 4 parts.

Backyard Pond

Flash of goldfish
silver shad
minnows spin like quarters
tossed in a wishing fountain.

Lake Wedington

Grass waved underwater like wheat in a windfield.
Springfed and dug by mules, Lake Wedington's grasses
thrived in sunlight through clear water.
Catfish, bass and bream swam through forests of weeds.
Crappie and largemouths loved what they found there–
so much food and safety in their undulating lengths.
Fishermen cursed the tendrils caught in trolling motors,
calling for oars instead of engines.
Someone smart killed the grass, disintegrated
it into a minutiae of green swirl,
destroying homes and clouding what once was clear.
Now the fishing's no good.

Trout Streams

In search of the illusive trout, we stumble
over stones bigger than our feet; toes grown numb
as we hunt rainbows and browns. Under overhangs
beneath the green drip of hemlock,
deep in pools riffling off shallows,
we snap flies. Lengthening the line
we curl it behind then lay it perfectly,
praying for the rise.
The crisp air breathes trout,
our lungs become gills, our tongues
trip along syllables, Dolly Varden.

Deep Sea

Fishing off the far end of a pier
one night in my thirties,
I caught one sting ray,
a single clam shell,
an entire nest of sea snakes,
and an eel.
What started out as night fishing
turned nightmare fishing.
For awhile I was afraid to drop a line in saltwater;
wanting snapper, grouper, flounder, redfish
but coming up with crabs.
For awhile I fished only in daylight
bright enough to blind, but lately
I've returned to the dark,
thinking something down there feels me,
so I feed it.

Start the New Year Write!

2009-12-31T05:20:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year when writers and artists are dragging their limp, uninspired wrists through the dregs of the old year. They're either worrying about what they will begin in the upcoming decade, or excited to pen all those New Year's resolutions and commitments that can be so easily forgotten by the first of February. My writing group, the Hen's Teeth (because committed writers are "scarce as hen's teeth"), have a way of holding each other to our commitments and inspiring one another in the new year.

Each January, we do what I call the "all-night write." We get together for a grown-up slumber party, preferably at a cabin or lodge, some place where no one person feels responsible for anything like food or pets or beds, etc. Last year we took the 2-hour drive to White Rock up in the Ozark National Forest. We got lucky with the weather which remained in the mid-60's during one of those freak false springs we often get in this part of the country. We were able to write outside, on top of the mountain, with 360-degree views of the Ozarks spreading out at our feet.

We arrived with our food and small overnight bags about 1 pm and were busily scribbling by 2. Each of the five of us were assigned a food to bring to cover dinner that night and breakfast the next morning. Leftovers would be lunch the next day. The main event was writing. We each brought to the mountain top as many writing prompts and ideas as we could possibly dream up or find in some of our favorite writing books. We then took turns presenting our prompts and all of us wrote on that subject.

One of my favorite ideas was to walk out to the White Rock Mountain overlook on the balmiest January night I've enjoyed since living in Mississippi 37 years ago. We separated and stood in the quiet night for twenty minutes, the wind blowing our hair back as if we were standing on the prow of a ship and the Ozarks below us were dark waves heaving back to a starlit sky. Then we came inside and sat by the woodstove to write about what we had observed and felt in the wind swept silence.

I believe we did a total of 14 exercises in 24 hours. Some of the "writes" had several parts and we always shared them aloud with each other. Everyone came away with at least one piece they would polish to a finish and share with a larger audience. AND we had fun, remembering for that time at least, how very important art and creativity are to our spiritual well-being, and to our sense of the community of women writers. In that 24 hours we grew in our love for writing and for each other in a way that a two-hour session can't quite achieve. We met and built our fire. We wrote. We made great food. We wrote. We hiked around the top of the mountain. We wrote sitting on boulders that had been there since the mountains formed. We wrote into the wee hours of the morning. We slept (briefly) and wrote drinking our coffee before breakfast. We wrote after breakfast. We wrote for the last time just before a late lunch and then took our leave of one another and White Rock.

This wasn't the first all-night write I've done. We did two with our writing group, Herwords, in Asheville, NC. This year, economic constraints didn't allow for a trip away, so I'm hosting it at my place. I know it will be fine. Our expectations are fairly low as to where we spend the night, and I have a nice place. What we're really all about is the writing. We are either far off somewhere in our imaginations or so focused on what is right in front of us that we don't notice our surroundings. Our heads are bent over pen and paper. I'm already excited about the walk I'm planning for us on the 1/4 mile path around my yard as we observe the natural beauty of winter in NW Arkansas, then sit by a warm fire to write about it.

Why don't you try this with your writing group? It doesn't matter where you are, but you'll want those 24 hours of unbroken time together. You'll end up with tons of things to write about in the new year, pique your interest and desire to write, and bond with the writers who mean the most to you--your own writing group. And if you don't have a writing group, start one! There's still time to start your new year write!

(Photos by Susan R.)

Letter to Michelle

2009-12-09T06:00:00.000-08:00

(photo from donkey dish .com)

Dear Michelle,

While everybody is busy writing to your husband,
I thought I'd send this letter to you.
I was sitting in church Sunday
trying to pay attention but my mind kept wandering
to the Peace Open Mic later that night, and I'm thinking,
"really, what's left to say?" We're all so disappointed
with the way things are going
you know, war-wise particularly. I'm not one to place blame;
after all, there I was in church
supposed to be focused on the body and the blood
but it was all the bodies and all the blood
I kept seeing behind my closed eyes.
Don't ask me if this was inspired
by the Christ–I don't know for sure.
It's all a mystery to me. But I started
writing this letter then
from the stark middle of those images and I thought
maybe it was time to appeal to you,
you know, a little woman-to-woman, hoping you might listen
if I could get the words right, make my plea clear,
take us both somewhere we haven't been before.
I was so taken with this idea, this letter to you,
that I didn't make it home
but pulled into the first coffee shop I came to, dug around my bag
until I came up with a pen and a teensy pad of paper
that wouldn't hold a paragraph of mine, even on a good day.
I ordered coffee and sat down to get started but happened to sit
right in front of a little Christmas tree which preoccupied me
a moment and that's when I saw the photo hanging on the wall.
As a veteran, it caught my eye and held my attention.
It was a field full of American flags,
big ones, full-sized, billowing in an unpredictable breeze
and I knew then this letter just had to be.
The photo is titled "Valor, Innocence, and Justice"
and was taken by Ellen Gregory of Farmington, Arkansas.
It's hanging in the Perk Coffee Shop in Fayetteville,
a great buy at $50, just in case you're interested.
Hanging there with those red, white and blue words,
"Valor" and "Justice"but it was the "Innocence"
that got to me. Please know,
I write this in all innocence; a patriot,
a flag billowing in your direction.
It seems I digress, but I believe in synchronicity and all the signs
(and photos) were right for this letter to you.
I should probably start over after this lengthy prologue.
The letter itself is really not that long.

Dear Michelle,

The next time you lay down with your husband and for a moment
he is just a man, your man, the man you love more than anything,
put your arm around him, pull him close,
your breasts against his chest
and think...peace.
Wordless, let your hands and body say
with all the love you feel inside
that thousands are counting on him to save their lives.
Remind him he is a mother's son,
your husband and your lover,
father to your daughters. No words now–
stroke his head, his hair short and graying
with the pressure of too much power,
and remind him that other mothers, wives and daughters
love their men
the way that you love him.
Place the palm of your hand over his beating heart
and try to imagine life without him–
gone to war, to kill the "enemy," some other mother's son.
Imagine him coming home estranged or crazy or in a flag draped box.
Remind him this is Christmas and there will be
such flag wrapped packages
delivered to mothers, wives, and daughters
when the doorbell rings
and they were expecting UPS or FedEx,
but it's a captain and a chaplain.
Woman to woman, I'm asking on behalf of all women here,
in Afghanistan, in Iraq, everywhere--to let him know by loving him
that we don't want this anymore.
Show him you'll do anything,
anything--one long romantic, rose-filled, red wine, candle-lit, well...
you know the rest...anything for him,
if every mother's son or daughter
could just come home for Christmas dinner.
Michelle, my last good hope,
clasp his hand, embrace his body, entwine your legs with his,
and hold him tight, tight.
Let your heart drum out this simple word;
for you, for him, for all of us..."peace."
Whisper to him in his sleep,
"Peace, my beloved. Let there be peace."
You know hearts speak louder than words.
Let peace be in your every breath,
in your laughter and your love until he hears it,
until he gets it loud and clear
and wakes up with a changed heart,
thinking he has had a great idea, "Why not? Peace!"
I'm writing you because I need this hope;
the belief that things can change, wars can end
and women are the arbiters of change.
Thanks for reading this, Michelle. I know you must be busy.
I meant no disrespect.
Poets go where their minds lead them,
even beneath the comforter
with the President and First Lady. We can't help ourselves.
We still believe in dreams and visions, foolhardily following
the wanderings of our imaginations.
Please consider what I've asked you here.
I have every faith in you.

Peace,
Mendy

As promised in my previous tips and cures post, here is the poem/letter that came to me while sitting in a little country church gazing out the window at the headstones in an old cemetery. It is a peace poem, which I keep saying I'm going to quit writing, but they keep coming to me and I simply can't ignore them. Let me know if you think I should send this on to the First Lady. If I get enough affirmations, then off it goes!

The Winter Writing Blues—A Few Cures

2009-12-07T06:04:00.000-08:00

What does a writer do when you just don't feel like writing? You know, you've had this sinus thing for a couple of weeks, a foreign object flew in your eye, you're arguing with all your best pals and your gal, and it's cold and dark by 5pm. These kinds of things can really stymie your creative urge. You just want to lie down and let it pass, but the problem is that it will pass much more slowly if you don't do something about it. Here are a few suggestions for dealing with the winter writer's blues:

1) Write anyway. I know you don't want to hear that, but it's true. There's only one way out and it's through. Now, what I do is allow myself to write anything. This includes lists, letters to friends, letters to the editor (even if I never send them), holiday greetings, journal entries (highly recommended for mental health), post-it note quotes, blog entries, even a long email to a friend or family member. They all count. Let them count. At the end of even the shortest day, you can say "I wrote today."

2) Let inspiration lead you. In my next post I will include a poem that came to me while sitting in church. It has absolutely nothing to do with the sermon, which I vaguely remember had to do with John the Baptist, who is in himself an inspiration with his wild locust and honey eating ways, but the poem turned out to be a letter to the First Lady, Michelle Obama. I tuned out the sermon and tuned into my own creative mind. I had to get past the Southern church upbringing of "pay attention to the preacher," but then I had a lot of practice imagining other scenarios than the one I happened to be in at the time, being a preacher's kid and all.

3) Do not wait to get the inspiration onto paper. If I had had a pen in the pew (what happened to those stubby pencils and information sheets that used to be stuck in the rack by the hymnals? They were so perfect for writing notes and drawing pictures) and if the bulletin had any space left at all after a dozen announcements and the church wasn't so small that the entire congregation was visible from the pulpit (I do believe in being discrete both with poets and preachers), I would have begun the piece right then and there. I prayed my thought wasn't that fleeting, shook the pastor's hand and was the second one out the door. I headed to the first coffee shop I could find, which was darn close, praise the Lord.

3) Always carry the tools of the trade around with you, in some form or another. I had to dig before I could find my pen and a 2" square notepad, but I never hesitated to use it, although the writing filled half the tiny notebook by the time I finished. And I admonished myself for not having a little more paper and at least a couple of pens in that crazy bagalleni I carry around for just that reason--so I can put a bunch of crap in there, like paper and pens! Now some poets swear by napkins, but I am too heavy-handed and end up with inky smears on raggedy paper. It's better to be prepared.

4) Allow yourself to be creative in other ways. Cook a hearty, wholesome meal or just comfort food. Make a pie or cake and then give some away. I find fresh pumpkin pie to be particularly inspirational. It's the best and really nothing like the kind you make from a can, even if it's organic canned pumpkin. Canning takes the light out, and my god, you don't want that, particularly at this time of year. Do some drawing or painting. Get out of your head. Let your fingers do the talking. I made an entire illustrated book of my anniversary trip with Leigh in the mountains of WNC using stick figures. It was a big hit.

5) Go some place different. Try church or synagogue or George's Majestic Lounge for a little live music. Nothing, I mean nothing, inspires the creator in me like live music. Take in an open mic somewhere and listen to someone else's writing. Even if all you take away is "I can do better than that" well, go home and prove it! Watching crafts people at work, sitting alone on a hilltop, going to hear Handel's "Messiah," strolling through an art museum, studying seed catalogues for spring...try something different. You must allow yourself to be inspired. Give yourself permission, then go!

6) And last, but not least, although it may be your least favorite suggestion, get some exercise. It's tough I know, especially in winter, but a simple walk opens the mind and heart in the most surprising ways. I find I need to walk from 2-3 miles for the best effect, but even one will help. If you're lucky enough to have access to a pool, swimming is great, but don't overdo it or you'll just eat and fall asleep. "Chop wood, carry water." Do this for an hour. Stretch into some yoga. Do not clean house or wash dishes or do anything that resembles regular chores. They are endless and you will keep doing them and never write. Save them until after you've written your first draft and are editing in your mind.

I could go on and on as usual. But here are a few tips for now and I will post my next entry with the poem I wrote following my own instructions. Oh, yeah, and don't go all heavy-handed criticizing your work while you're in the "don't feel like writing stage." Accept it for work well done at a time when you really didn't feel like it. That makes you a writer.

The Moon's Distant Call

2009-10-13T10:10:00.000-07:00

It's yet another rainy fall day and I'm beginning to wonder what happened to the dry Arkansas weather I remember from childhood. Still, there are moments that aren't to be missed if you are paying attention. Right now, I wait for a break in the rain and take long walks along the dirt (mud) road that runs by our house and check out the autumnal changes. Although it's hard to see through the mist and rain, the leaves appear to be coloring earlier this year. We are headed towards Western North Carolina, the Blue Ridge and Smokey Mountains soon, hoping to see the best of fall in several states: Ar, TN, and NC.

In the meantime, I find plenty of beauty to celebrate right here at home. I wanted to post a little poem I managed to fit in between the screenplay, the novel, the cookbook and a couple of readings. I wanted to briefly remind my writers and readers that all you really have to do is pay attention, be present with your surroundings, and the beauty will appear. Then, if you want to share it, don't forget to write it, paint it, sculpt it, play it into a song. Sharing beauty is like spreading the wealth--it increases every time you pass it on. Someone will be inspired.

To bring the point home, I will tell you a brief story: The other day Leigh discovered an obituary on the web that was written for a wonderful man from Oklahoma. It seems the family had used one of our hospice publications during his illness. In that publication is a poem I wrote called "Leaving." And in this obituary of a man I did not know, was a quote from my poem. It brought tears of gratitude to my eyes to know that some folks I've never met were touched by this poem, enough to include it in a final statement about their beloved father, grandfather, husband. You never know whose lives you will touch when you put your work out there, so do it. In this world, at this time, we need all the inspiration and beauty we can get.

The Moon's Distant Call

Last night, luxuriating
in the steaming waters of our tiny hot tub,
watching the day go down to dusk,
I saw what I thought was a hummingbird
perched in the river birch beside the steps.
She sat so still, I grew confused:
bird...leaf...bird...leaf...bird?
She appeared to be watching the waxing moon;
slender as my little finger, green as a twig,
a furled leaf not yet flown.
I could swear she was watching the harvest moon
ballooning huge above the Ozarks.
Her tiny shoulders slightly slumped,
as if considering the long flight
from Fayetteville to Mexico on 1" wings.
But mostly she seemed, like me, lost
in the beauty of a 3/4 moonrise on a cooling breeze.
Motionless, she remained among the branches
until I gave her up for leaf at last
and looked away.
When I happened to glance back,
she was gone. Not a leaf then!
Not a leaf! But a moon-lover like myself,
there now, sipping her last
from the feeder before bed,
as I must have my chocolate chips
to sleep through the night–
with a large moon beckoning,
keeping watch
for wherever we might land tomorrow.

Mendy Knott Oct. 2009

Fish Tale: A Love Story

2009-10-05T07:39:00.000-07:00

I've decided to change my format, and have a couple of things in mind to see if they will help with the frequency of my blogging. I'm in the process of learning to use a laptop, so that should keep these darn entries a little shorter, at least for a time. And I've decided that I need to write a little more about everyday things as opposed to an entry I feel I must compose and make perfect everytime before I post it. As you can see, this can prevent me from blogging at all for long periods of time. But now I have this laptop thing, well, shoot, I can take you to the screened in porch (porch-sittin') or lounge in front of the fire (fire-sittin') and maybe put you in the boat and take you fishing, although this would elicit strong disapproval from my partner, no doubt, since really, the water would be mere inches from my computer.

Speaking of fishing, however, let me take you on a little Saturday morning ride in the "Fish Tale" which is the name of my tiny '70's Sears boat which sports a trolling motor only. The boat looks like one of those old-fashioned life boats when they were made from aluminum--something an Atlantic fisherman might use in times of trouble. It has a V-hull and is no more than 10 feet long. This makes finding a trailer for it quite difficult. So I just load it up in the back of my Toyota pick-up, strap it in (yes, I know how that sounds), and drive the 10 miles down the road to little Wedington Lake. This 170 acre lake was dug by mules by the CCC when times were nearly as tough as they are now. Let's dig some more spring-fed lakes, and clear some paths, and build cabins and lodges instead of highways and starting wars. Sound like a plan, anyone?

So, it's Saturday morning, early, like before 7 am. You really must get up early if you are an artist or a fisherman in order to nab some of the best time of the day. I'm not kidding about that. Leigh helps me get the boat on the truck, then leaves me to my own devices as to how to get it off again at the lake. It's not so hard with a ramp. The happy part is that I'm on my own. Here is another lesson for you creative types--time alone is absolutely necessary. You don't have to be writing or painting to need it either. You need to just be alone doing something fun or doing nothing at all. Got it? Things happen then.

I shove off. It's about 50 degrees and I'm pretty bundled. I've got this little Rapala thermos full of hot coffee my friend Kam sent me, a tackle box, two rods, an oar, and my trolling motor. The mist is still rising off the lake. Wispy ghosts rise in peaks and spikes, then disappear about five feet above the water. I hear a woodpecker's jungly call. I see one of those precious little green herons hanging by the water watching for minnows. I take some pictures, torn because I really should have a line in the water by now, but I NEED these few photos. Maybe I'll include one here if I can figure it out, or make Leigh help me. It is so quiet, although there are a few campers in the campground ( a place I highly recommend for the roughin' it type). Soon enough I'll smell their campfires, but for now I feel like I have just discovered this tiny paradise for the first time. I am alone on a lake with the sun beginning to peak above the tree line. It just doesn't get much better than that.

Except then I catch some fish! Yeah, two big beautiful catfish, all sleek and blue-gray, clean and sleek as a brand new car. They hit hard and put up a good fight. Took me off guard. I love that kind of surprise. Then I caught a couple of the prettiest goggle eye I've ever seen. Beatuiful, easy to unhook, fun to return to the lake. I only keep the ones I plan to cook. Usually I have one fish fry a year. The rest of the time, it's catch and release, which is easier on both me and the fish.

I was out about four hours, circling around, casting, drifting, drinking coffee and soaking up nature. I still had plenty of time when I got home to do some chores and go watch the football game with friends later. (Go Hogs!) Yet it changed everything for me. My day was holy, then, sacred and special. I felt I had brushed the fingertips of god as we both passed through creation in that misty early morning light. This is where I find the greatest joy in being creative; where I gather my greatest lessons. Alone, in nature, paying attention. Really, try it sometime. It will change your day.

Souvenirs

2009-07-25T11:19:00.000-07:00

You can see from my previous post that I was truly inspired with the beauty of the Pacific Northwest as I spent last week on Whidbey Island in Washington State. My trip was made possible by the generosity of my artist friends, Jane and Chad, and my partner, Leigh, who so sweetly and willingly stayed home to take care of the farm and critters and to work while I ran off on holiday. Now, some of you may say that wasn't quite fair, depending on the kindness of friends and spouse to make my vacation possible. But honestly now, could you refuse? Or would you, like I did, consider it your responsibility to bring something back, not just for them, but for everyone you know? Would you honor the artist's duty to SHARE your trip with as many people as possible?

I take that responsibility seriously. The second day I'm away on a trip almost anywhere, I find a place to buy post cards. Even though the price of a stamp has seriously risen since I first started sending post cards at ten, it is still one of the most cost-conscious ways I know of sharing your journey with friends and family. I think I sent fifteen post cards from Washington, writing a bit every morning, and posting it on my way out to daily adventures. Pictures of whales, Douglas firs, prairie and farm land, sailboats, and eagles flew all over the country and made someone look and remember a trip, an adventure, or an animal they once saw that stayed with them; that meant something to them.

Jane painted two watercolors while we were there, and sketched and photographed endlessly. Chad taught a felting and fabric arts class, inspiring 13 women to take themselves and their art seriously while having a hilarious time doing it. There's no telling what piece Chad will create with the rocks and inspiration she brought home from her trip. I recorded our journey in my journal and penned a poem that tried to speak to the beauty of women friends traveling together and making the most of their time away. We all brought home memories in a physical form, something to be shared with those who could not go this time, and those who may never be able to go. This is our responsibility as artists and creative individuals.

What? Responsibilities for the free-spirited artist? Art is not simply a way to make a name for ourselves, or just a job, or even an adventure. Of course, it can be all those and so much more. But there is a higher calling to us as creative individuals. The Earth and her beauty have been severely damaged by humanity. We owe it to our blue-green planet and to future generations to share what beauty we find out there with each other and with those who have forgotten how to care. After all, if we use the fossil fuel to fly somewhere, shouldn't we give something back, a sort of carbon/art trade? To me, it feels not only like the least I can do, but like I might actually make a difference even if I never know how or where.

Allow your inspiration to be your next souvenir. Share it with a friend or neighbor or even a stranger. Paint a picture, write a poem, dye some wool, invent a tune, write a letter, post a blog. Do what comes naturally to you, but do it. To quote ole John Denver, "I know I'd be a poorer man if I never saw an eagle fly." That one line sang in my soul every time I saw an eagle lift its wings on Whidbey Island. Because John took the time to write about his "Rocky Mountain High", put it to music, sing, and record it. I thank him for that souvenir. Next trip, bring home one of your own to share.

Busman’s Holiday

2009-07-23T07:08:00.000-07:00

Busman’s Holiday
(for the artists of the Pacific Northwest Art Center)

When artists get together to travel
every day is a busman’s holiday
replete with materials and tools of the trade.
Everything they touch taste smell see hear
is a subject they must cover with paint and pen,
vibrant with color and texture,
complex with metaphorical expression,
drenched in light.

The eagle must be photographed, collaged,
praised in words that lift the language
above the common waters of casual conversation,
striving to attain the heights of feathered flight.

The feltmaker, the poet, the painter,
determined to re-create the great state of Washington,
mix it up with watercolors, words and dyes.
They want something it takes two hands to hold
to take back to their friends; a pirate’s booty
in rubies of fresh-picked raspberries,
jewels of polished cherries glinting in a noonday sun.

Always, always they must give some away.
This is their tithe, their ten per cent of Whidbey bounty.
Taste the tart sweet of her fresh fruits.
See the damp, gray fog sifting green through Douglas firs.
Smell the salt clam chowder of the Sound.
Hear the lonely chime of a swaying buoy.
Feel this rock, so smooth and so round.
They won’t go home empty-handed, no!

Artists do their best work when they play.
For us, LIFE is a busman’s holiday.

—Mendy Knott