Solo or Posse?: Workshops, Groups & Creative Writing

At this point I have been writing for about 40 years. Not professionally of course, although some of those years have been spent posing as a journalist, editor and feature writer. Growing up, I did a little bit of everything-- drawing, writing, crafting. I still crochet, drawing has pretty much fallen by the wayside, but writing is the art that has stuck with me, to me. At last count, I have been a featured reader or part of a featured group of readers over 75 times, and had close to 100 poems published from here to there in that same time. I have spent a lot of time staring at my own work, and that can skew one's perspective after a while.

When I first began to write, the only revising I would do was for grammatical or punctuation errors. If I felt I hadn't quite nailed it, I would abandon the topic and move on to the next poem. I wrote quickly, and my poems were short, rarely a complete page. Over the decades, my method of working has changed considerably. I am all about the rambling rough draft, and always by hand. I make changes during the first typing, then print that out to make additions and deletions, again by hand. I sometimes write up long verses to insert, elaborating on a point when it seems like expansion would benefit the poem. I have also become a ruthless cutter. I have begun to leave out whole verses, even while I'm reading it aloud, editing as I go along if I begin to feel, on hearing it, that I've gone off track. I am now a firm follower of TS Elliot's maxim that poems are never finished, "only abandoned." Amen.

I have participated in a number of classes and workshops over the years as well, most recently the Goat Hill Poets, currently based in Woodstock, NY. This is a group that grew out of a couple of informal sessions I hosted at my own home, and abandoned, until another poet decided he was getting so much out of them that he offered to have people meet at his place. These days, the Goat Hill Poets are as much a performance group as a workshop, and do one or two staged readings a year at Hudson Valley venues. The current leader has high aspirations for the group that I have never been clear about. Many times I feel that reading is almost a necessary evil, a way to communicate with your poems efficiently and personally, and certainly much more satisfying than tossing them in the mail or over the great black galaxy of the Internet. I am always anxious and cranky before a reading, especially if I think too much about it. But I get through it every time, and often enjoy the interaction of the moment, and sometimes even "performing".

But my personal goal has never been to mess around too much with presentation. I made a choice at some point to concentrate more on writing than theatricals, and it fits my temperament. I am relaxed in my selected environs, not so much when I'm trying to be anything but myself. I can read on stage, but movement, props, costumes throw me off. When I was in high school, I was too shy to read my own poems at the Creative Writing Club's meetings, and asked friends to read for me. I've worked hard at just being myself, and don't have much energy beyond that effort to add a soft shoe to the act.

I have gained so much from participating in groups and classes, but at this point, I need to extend my hard won self-confidence to my own writing. There is a dangerous loop one can get caught up in where a poem isn't "finished" until you run it through the workshop ringer. I have stepped back from that compulsion, and it is refreshing to use what I've learned to do the work myself. The frustrations, the accomplishments, they are all mine now. With the online poetry communities now available to me, the Internet galaxy has brightened considerably.  I may even go back to facilitating my own RANDOM WRITING workshops, if the space is right and the interest is there. But I think I'll leave the groups and the grand operas to others. I need to try out a climb on my own.

Breakfast With The Muse

           Balancing my writing and personal lives is a constant struggle for me. I promise myself I will use an afternoon off, or an evening alone to “get some writing done,” as if inspiration is a switch that can be turned on and off. It is true that I have several long-term projects in various stages laying around at all times, and even a half hour of filing would be a constructive way to spend my time, even though it doesn’t feel very “poety.” 

            I think I scare myself by making too many plans for large chunks of time. We all have something else to do with those minutes, things that somehow seem to take precedence, but don’t hold up when I apply my Hundred Year yardstick (“What will really matter in a hundred years?”). Ultimately, I end spending no more than an hour or two doing what I intended to spend the whole day doing, if that, and beat myself up for “wasting” time on anything else. 

            I have finally accepted that the structure of my days is not going to change in the near future. I need a 9 to 5 job not only to keep myself afloat financially, but to give my days a framework. Freelancing left me with too much leeway, and perhaps I need a little imposed distraction to make me appreciate time away from work (sad but true). Luckily, my current position is overall a pleasant endeavor, and I don’t come home wounded and depressed as I had in the past. 

            One thing I have learned over the years is that I work best, words flow best, in the morning, before I’m bombarded with sunlight and radio and all the other sensory stimuli that seem to cloud my early visions. Therefore, I have begun a routine at 6:00 a.m., the time my alarm clock is set for anyway. I get myself out of bed (perhaps after the weather report. Weather has been a big issue lately, and I gain some false sense of control and security by listening to the daily guess at what’s ahead), go to the bathroom, grab a cup of coffee which I may or may not finish, and head back upstairs to my desk. 

            After all that, I may only get twenty minutes to get something done, maybe half an hour. It depends on whether I plan a shower before work, packed my lunch or picked out my clothes the night before, or even on the blasted weather itself. But in that twenty minutes, I can put down a first draft of a poem, type out a few first drafts I’ve accumulated, or even do some revising. I have several years worth of feedback from my faithful Goat Hill Poets salon that I’ve yet to consider in the revision process. It’s twenty minutes more a day than I’ve been spending, and I’ve quickly seen work begin to pile up. I’m even inspired to sometimes grab twenty minutes in the evening to file or get submissions together. 

            I prefer most nights to spend most of my nights with my Roommate. That is why we live together in the first place. Quality time with Michael is beyond the Hundred Year test. We will never have enough time. But he goes his way and I go mine at some point in the evening, and after doing a token few dishes, sorting socks or unpacking my lunch bag, poetry is finding a place in my day. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but what do studies say about creating a new habit? I am hopeful. And the bottom line is, it’s up to me. I cannot continue to bullshit myself about some future time when it’ll be more convenient. It truly is now or never…

**The Muse Must Have Gotten a Better Paying Gig**

2013 wasn't my most productive year. In the spring, a health fright ultimately turned out to be overcautiousness on the part of the medical establishment. At my age (52 this coming February), I should get used to abnormal test results, but this one rocked me for three weeks. I also had the pleasure of my very first colonoscopy in the autumn. In between, I was learning
my new day gig and catching up on some bills. The Muse pretty much left me alone for a good part of the year.

I brought sections of an old poem to the Goat Hill Poets salon each month, so I was covered there. I took a break from most open mics in the Hudson Valley area, and tried out life as a non-poet. I came home most every evening straight after work  I cook more now that we've fixed the oven in the 1936 Chambers that came with the house, and this makes dinner more interesting. If you're still stuck with a toaster oven, let me know. I am a Master Chef with those.

I've worked on and off over the year on a memoir about my early years in college and after, and my very, very silly marriage. In referring to my journals from that time, I have been confronted with the true complexities of my life then, much more nuanced than the simple 'he hit me and I moved out' story that I'd learned to tell myself afterwards, to justify my actions and to help put that part of my life to rest, to move on to whatever was ahead. There were complications, someone else I met two weeks after my wedding that I may or may not have made a go with if I had met him just a month earlier. Someone I thought was as close to a soul mate as I'd ever get (not quite believing in the concept). There were complications with him. Complexities with school, family, work. I wish my younger self had been bolder, but I had a lot of figuring out to do. There were many reasons I jumped at the chance to marry at 19, the least of which was love.

Being confronted with the realities of my past has motivated me positively, if not creatively. I am more aware of time "wasted", and of the limited time ahead. I am cleaning out closets, cutting my hair, castiing off art supplies and remnants of hobbies that no longer speak to me, bit by bit. I feel compelled to put things in order, as if that will count for something at the end. I know part of it is a desire to live the rest of my life in a more streamlined fashion. How much does it all matter? What will the scales show once I'm out of breath for good? Not for me to worry about. But this is how I'm compelled to behave now. 

In fact, I almost feel like if I never wrote another word, I'd be good with it. I am satisfied with my efforts to date, short of my goals as they are. I am also comfortable with my limitations, finally acknowledging I'll never be Erica Jong or Sylvia Plath. I am quiet now. I've had years like this before. 2002 was one of them. Until I hooked up with my Roommate, my Beloved, I spent a long time in shock about 9/11. I had no desire to add to the piles of odes and graphic rants that tried to pass for odes. Words failed me. Now perhaps I'm failing them. There are stirrings, urges that indicate I won't be quiet for good. Very rough drafts right after returning from Costa Rica, a hit and run trip for work that turned out better than I'd hoped. But in the meantime, there's a birthday party to plan. Dishes to wash. Blue jeans to patch, or toss aside. And a desk to clear off and at least put papers in order.