Social media hiatus

Having spent the past few days laid low by a simple but vicious head cold, I am still tired, so I’m putting myself on limited duty until after Christmas–no blog, no Face Book, Twitter, etc. Friends and family can still reach me by email, but the larger world will spin on its way without my supervision, I suspect. Hope all the upcoming holidays are pleasant. See you at the other end.

In a Common Place

A Commonplace Book

A Commonplace Book

As if I don’t have enough projects on my list, I’ve added another. This one is open ended and self assigned. I’m creating a commonplace book. Originally commonplace books were repositories for ideas, quotes, information unique to the collector of said info. My version is different. I’m gleaning material from the bulky journals stored in the closet near my office. My goal is to preserve and to prune, reduce the bulk but keep the essence of my morning pages and meanderings from the past couple of years. I take as my guide a phrase from Denise Levertov’s poem “The Five Day Rain”: “I don’t want to forget who I am . . . .” Reading the journals and copying whatever seems worth keeping is more than a guard against forgetting. I’m actually learning who I am. I’m more thoughtful than what the bulk of my scribbling would suggest.

I write often about my concern for people less fortunate than I in terms of material comfort. I write about those comforts, especially what faces me first in the morning,  luxuries like tea, warmth, quiet, privacy, a faithful dog, almost limitless ink and paper. I write about not being more productive, conversely that I have so much writing on backlog that I’ll never see most of it in print.

Transferring the pieces worth keeping is not as tedious as it might have been. I’m trying hard not to edit but to save just what was fresh on a given day. Some days yield nothing worth copying. I do keep quotes and the tiny reviews of what I read. If I cut, the cuttings are redundancies, flaccid passages, daily plans that mean nothing to anyone but me.

What use this commonplace book will have is yet to be seen. I imagine it outliving me as a succinct scrapbook of my mind for anyone who might want to know what another writer thinks about, what processes work, what topics recur, what worries hound me. If not, it’s just one more thing for the family to stash or trash as they see fit when I’m not around to defend it.

Be, Do, Have

Recently I heard those title words at a Colorado Independent Publishers Association meeting (CIPA, pronounced see pa, accent on see)  from a marketing specialist, Erik Hofstetter, CEO of Creative Visions, Denver CO. Among other marketing concerns he talked about knowing what a product–a book– should be, should do, should have in order to satisfy the reader or publisher. We were asked to apply these three categories to our own books. Inspired, I came home and thought about how these words apply, not just to my new novel, but to my writing in general.

I want my writing to be clear, articulate, a significant witness to the world as I see it, not necessarily as I think it should be. I don’t want it to be a sermon. It should be accessible to most English speaking readers.

It should do the following: entertain, hold the reader’s attention, make sense to any sensible reader, offer insights into the subject matter and provide details that lend it authenticity. It should surprise me and the reader. Remember Robert Frost’s caution: “No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.”

My writing should have legs, its news traveling by word of mouth from person to person, and it should  have staying power in a reader’s mind and in the market place. It should have resonance–that tuning fork analogy that suggests writer and reader react to similar stimuli.

Marketing is my hardest task as a writer, but at the very least, Mr. Hofstetter has given me a framework for this task. I cannot guarantee that what I write and publish will measure up to all that I’ve described above, but I know what I want my work to be/do/have. Try this thought experiment with your own work and let me know what you discover.

Remembering Michael Macklin

Macklin

DRIFTLAND

Sleep didn’t do much for me last night. I woke up torn about what to do with this day of rest when I’m restless, plagued by a to-do list hard to ignore. Times like this I miss most my friend Michael Macklin. Michael introduced me to Tullamore Dew, the only Irish whiskey I’ll drink. We were partners in poetry and determined talkers, often at Brian Boru’s over a Dew, straight up, till I left Maine for Colorado. Michael died in his sleep a few years ago. A small teddy bear that he gave me sits near my desk. It wears two feathers tucked into its shirt, one from a flicker, one from a crow. Michael and I liked crows–smart, working-class birds with firm opinions. As I drove off to live in the west, I often saw the three crows Michael had commissioned to watch over me.

This cold morning, I think of his practice when the world grew weary: go to an island, take a dog, a beer and a book. Sit on a rock and think. Today all available rocks are iced over. Beer’s not my drink. I do have a dog beside me and I have Michael’s book of poems, Driftland, but there’re damned few islands in Colorado.

As I consider the worldview from my writing chair, I immediately recall a comment overheard at a coffee shop a few days ago: “Remember those neutron bombs meant to kill people and leave the infrastructure intact?” Shit! If that bomb killed people it would kill crows, dogs, pet hamsters, owls. What would be left worth having without any life in the scene? It’s a scary thing—thinking. To sit on a stone and let the mind off its tether wouldn’t necessarily soothe me. And right now I want soothing. I’m tired of mean people and bombs, or the threat of bombs, of learning yet again that a celebrity whom I have admired might well be a rapist. I’m tired of being a poet of witness given how much evil I see. I see and I see and I’ve seen too much. I just want to close my eyes. Not a sane approach, though, eh?

Michael, did you always find solace on your island? Did beer, book and dog steady you? Anyway, thanks for trying. I’m reading your poems and they help. If you are there in the ether, on a cloud, how’s the view?

________________________________________________________________________

I think Michael would agree to sharing one of his poems with you:

Before Coffee

Every morning the dark-robed crows

congregate in the pines at the edge of my yard,

sitting in small groups grumbling

until I step onto the lighted porch.

 

They grow quiet as monks,

cock their heads and mumble

perhaps in Latin

and we share an early prayer,

a magnificat for another day.

 

All winter we have met like this at dawn,

wind fluttering their black cassocks

as they peer down their noses

to view me at my lessons.

 

For the moment we inhale the crackling air

until they rattle with impatience, cackle

at my feeble attempts to see the face of God,

and the old men in the trees fly off.

Writing Outside & In

Writing asks of me two approaches, one to determine what goes on inside me and one to guide me through the outer world, parsing it into manageable bits. Did I say manageable? Well, let’s see about that.

Internally, I spend time with my notebooks—every morning, first thing when life is still uninterrupted and quiet—writing morning pages, drafting poems, fiction, blogs, etc. Many of these writing hours happen at home in my comfy chair, some in one of three coffee shops that I frequent and where I find solace, because coffee shops make no demands on me. I buy my drink, my cookie, settle in and rarely speak to anyone. Whatever happens on the page comes from me.

Externally—let me count the ways that I function in my writing community. I go to a Goldbergian free writing group in a Denver artist’s studio every other Tuesday evening, usually the same Tuesday when my morning features a long-standing women’s group: we meet at a member’s home, talk, write and share what we have written. There’s no prep for either of these because the talking leads to the topic.

I facilitate a writing group twice a month with seven other writers. I go weekly to a long-running poetry critique group, which requires a fresh poem or revision each week. This one keeps me honest and productive. Then there’s the Friday 500 at Lighthouse Writers Workshop twice a month. I only miss this if there’s a blizzard or hundred-year flood. Today will bring the first of another group. My friend Toi, a chef, is starting a series of cooking classes that includes a mindfulness writing exercise. That’s my role.

Monthly I co-host Cannon Mine Poetry readings in Lafayette, CO. Recently, I added Michael Henry’s monthly free writing event at the Denver Art Museum. He’s the head guy at Lighthouse and an excellent teacher/poet/human being. Add Colorado Independent Publishing Association where I learn the business side of writing. I serve on the CIPA board, so that means all-day immersion once a month, plus planning CIPA’s Focus Forums, small-group meetings centered on a specific topic. Boulder Books has a monthly poetry book club, so I read the assigned book of poetry before hand.

Too, there’s social media: this website, Amazon Author’s Page, Goodreads, Linked In, Twitter, Pinterest, and recently, Smashwords, where my new e-novel, Accidental Child, is sold. Let’s not forget poetry readings that I attend, like the ones at Ziggi’s Grill and the Book Bar, both in Denver. This month I’m scheduled to speak to the Longmont Library Writers Group. And none of this precludes shoptalk with friends. (You know who you are.) Yes, writing is often solitary and must be, but my writing also relies on networking and the other writers who are my safety net. May you all be so fortunate.