Re-Visioning (Part 2)

"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

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

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

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

(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

(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

(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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Run Along

(Photo courtesy of Leigh at Larrapin Garden)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Commit

"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.