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.

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."