The print copy is ready and will be available on Amazon.com within the next couple of days. I hope you enjoy it. And BTW, it won a first place at the Boulder Writers Workshop awards celebration last week.
Driving on Dillon Road yesterday I saw a hundred or more geese gabbling and pecking in a field just beyond the ditch, earthbound, hungry creatures. But against a clear sky one wild goose flew alone, against that empty background its aerodynamic shape elegant, every wing beat graceful, forceful and free. I have no idea why one individual left the flock and headed north, but I envied that bird and it became a symbol for me. Leaving the flock without fear became possible, maybe important, vital.
While I was sick–about half of December 2014–I fussed silently about all the tasks that faced me once my energy crept back. Mind you, I was drained, so much so that at times I could not focus on a printed page, could not hold a book steady, let alone write. But in that dreary time I decided that I would find a way to simplify my work.
So–my boss is sending me on sabbatical. I am leaving the internet flock of anonymous, virtual birds, and keeping dear, clear, real faces close. If I know you, can see your eyes, shake your hand, hug you, I’m still here. But I didn’t leave my former work to become a social media slave. I left to be a writer. Writers write, and I mean to do that, marketing and PR be damned. How long will I be gone? How high the moon?
I’ll leave this website open and update as needed the publication list and the bookshelf. The links to Accidental Child will work, including a new option in early January for a print version. Maybe I’ll drop by, but mostly I’m flying solo into reality. Bye for now!
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.
Rather than blather on, I’ll point you to this link for my thoughts this weekend. Smashwords Profile
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.
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.
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:
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.