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

Writing Dilemma #4: Digging Through the Blues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing Dilemmas #3: Holidays/Holidaze

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing Little Miracles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"CJ's, Lisa speaking."

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

"Hold on a sec, hon."

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, hon, we got it."

"You do? You actually have it?"

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

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

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

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

"No problem."

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

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

Writing Dilemmas #2 Traveling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing Dilemmas #1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaving

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

On a hill above Saluda beside Pacolet Falls I lay

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

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

like a camera changing focus, my stare shifted

caught the falling leaves that drifted onto clothing

slowly sifted, then gifted me, a weary warrior

with feathers for my hair.

Suddenly, I must know how each leaf fell

and how they felt about their circling descent

from heaven down to hell.

Surely after all that time so close to sky

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

No breeze shook them from their tenacious holds.

That same thin strength that held them

throughout a summer’s storms seemed gone.

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

Why, they’re leaping from their limbs,

they’re not just letting go!

They’re taking turns and laughing,

they seem tickled by the sun,

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

Bright red, burnt orange, soft yellow–

all dressed in Sunday finery

as they loose their perches fearlessly

for the first and last time flying

whirling, twirling, spinning ‘round,

singing Hallelujahs until they gently kiss the ground.

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

May my certain passing from this place

come to me this way--

Let me leap into forever like a well thought out adventure

leave rejoicing in the splendor of a brilliant autumn day.

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

Writing Empathetically

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

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

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

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

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

On the Occasion of Your Loss

"I'm sorry for your loss."

It's a line you hear over and over

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

"What did you do to them?

We know you didn't like them.

We know he was an asshole, and hurt you

a hundred different ways."

But what if he wasn't, and really,

she only hurt you a couple of ways that were,

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

compared to this...this...

"gone missing."

I am sorry for your loss

but can't bring myself to say a line

so eaten with suspicion, like a mop

the mice used for making homes,

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

Look, here is a box

of soups, a bar of soap,

some kleenex, some Bunny Grahams

for the kids.

There's still a lot of room in there,

but I ran out of ideas for how to help

this awful hurt–your heart all mouse-gnawed

and useless for loving–

the thing it was made to do;

its purpose half-destroyed.

I want to tell you how it grows back,

alive and beating,

whole, working,

able to do its job again.

But you won't believe me. Not now.

And who can blame you?

I wish I knew you better.

Maybe that's not the truth,

not right now anyway.

Because there's a bruise

darkening the first 2 ribs

below my own heart

from the battering you've taken

and I stutter when I try to say,

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Mendy Knott Oct. 2011

Who Were You at Halloween?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(photo from flickr)

Creating Mojo: The Chant as Poetic Form

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

will set creative spirits free.

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

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

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

will set my sullen spirit free.

There's Tom, then Mom, then Honey Lee

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

it eats my writing time, my poems.

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

refuse all calls; write poetry...

...for thee and me and we alone,

come close Marie, sit down with me.

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

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

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"

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

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

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)

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

(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)

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)

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)

—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.

Memory Keepers

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.