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.

Mo' Better Poetry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thirty in Thirty: Test Your Commitment

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

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

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

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

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

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

30 Poems in 30 Days

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

Poetry of Resilience: The Asheville Wordfest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Top Photo via Flickr.com)

Writers Can Go Home Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

Retreat!!!

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

Reading, Rocking, Rolling in Atlanta, GA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

—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.

Poetry in Motion: Taking It on the Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—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.