Stuck in the Middle: A Longtime Writer’s Whine

 

 

 

At this point, I have been writing something for over 50 years. As a child, I could easily whip off a short story or poem about whatever the teacher used as a prompt, and I can still do that today. For a few years I aspired to be a journalist, and wrote for a few local papers (!) and magazines as a freelancer. I was able to regurgitate a basic news story format, as well as a colorful review or account of an event. When that proved less than a living wage, I reverted to being primarily a poet. In poetry, there are no illusions of financial profit, but for me there’s been a wealth of personal satisfaction I would never have gained in any other so-called “career.”

I have assembled a respectable list of credits, and even had a book published by a mere acquaintance instead of a close friend, a major achievement in my view. I have self-published several chapbooks, and even won a contest or two. I’ve enjoyed the accolades that being a featured reader can bring, and truly appreciate all the nice (and even critical) response to my work.

Quality-wise, I feel myself hitting a wall of sorts. I want to be better, more effective, less derivative. I see the work of others and sometimes want to pack it all in, and move on to whatever people who don’t write do. My time to write is limited, but I know that despite what some instructors tell you, the Muse cannot always be lured to my desk when time allows. My poetry especially is dependent on whims and wisps of inspiration, a problem when it comes time to assemble a manuscript. I know poets who can create whole volumes on a theme. I have never come up with successful work this way. Any books I’ve put together have been cobbled  out of the flotsam of words that lurks in my files. If a theme emerges, I cannot take the least bit of credit for it.

Getting better, getting closer to the quality of work I aspire to is at this point a strictly personal journey. I’ve attended many retreats and workshops over the years, but the last few were disappointments. Not because of the instructors, but because they turned out to be aimed at beginners, and I am not in that category. One workshop even used prompts very similar to the ones I myself have used when instigating my own classes. There is no stretch in them for me. I have met some wonderful people, and I miss that part of being an active writer in the Hudson Valley for sure. Since the Pandemic, many venues have closed, or can no longer welcome a poetry gathering for free or minimal payment. And I get it—utilities, rents, salaries have all increased. The spirits of many entrepreneurs might be willing, but the flesh, the actual means of survival financially and otherwise has become a strain.

Zoom has been a great substitute for in-person gatherings, but it has not filled all the gaps. Calling All Poets has reverted to a strictly-Zoom format, and this enables writers from all around the country, and the world, to participate. But I miss the local community, the closeness of a tribe that needs its own to feel less alone in a world where writing is increasingly disregarded, disrespected, and dismissed.

Robert Milby was a tremendous advocate for the art of spoken word, and ran a series of open mics throughout the Valley and especially in Orange County for many years. He fell ill last April, and passed away in December. Already he is missed, the last hardcore troubadour following in the footsteps of Poe and Baudelaire. I’m hosting a memorial event in his honor at the Elting Library in New Paltz on April 13, just five days before what would have been his 55 birthday. It’s been postponed twice due to weather, and the Hudson Valley being what it is, I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet. It will be strictly live, despite the capability of live streaming. I don’t think Robert would object.

There are small salons around too, where folks share work without the pressure of a prompt or leader. I have participated in such groups, too, but a beneficial one can be tricky. There are the show boaters, those who’ve joined not to share and grow, but to merely perform, look for applause. Too many of these make for a dull couple of hours. I have so few hours available, fewer every day. And what will become of all my work? Some is out there now, cozied up between the pages of one journal or another. Some of it lurks in the file cabinets that surround my blessed desk. I even have a flash drive, easy to grab in case of fire. Would any of it be missed if a fire took it all? I don’t suppose it will matter when I’ve dropped this body. But the pursuit of betterment, the elusive perfection that writers seek and never find, make for a richness of life that I really can’t imagine going without.

Contrary to tradition, Emily Dickinson did send a few of her poems out for feedback. It’s hard not to. Poems are words, and the primary job of words is to communicate thoughts and feelings. I know I’ve accomplished that much. Maybe others will follow me, connect with the similarities, pity the differences. Feel more human together. It has done that much for me.

Genre to Genre: My Renewed Interest in Prose, for Better or Worse

 

When I was in grade school, I composed a short story about a whale who got to sing at the Metropolitan Opera. Since my family were not opera buffs, my inspiration came from a Walt Disney cartoon. I don’t even think I’d ever seen the cartoon, but only a still from it, picturing the whale onstage. I recall being praised for this effort, and for so many other artistic products, whether or not the notions were my own or blatant violations of copyright. And so began my writer’s journey.

For the last many years, my primary focus has been poetry. Since poetry consists of words, and words are used for communication, my work rarely veers into the abstract. And since so little of it is of any decent quality, E.E. Cummings excepted, I do not use rhyming forms, or any traditional forms, in my work. I am strictly a free verse gal. My verses end when the thought ends, not when I reach a certain number of lines. Line breaks happen like natural breath, not when the ‘rocking horse’ has reached his destination.

My sporadic forays into prose have for the most part been unsatisfactory. I wrote for several local magazines and newspapers, and was paid a pittance for it. The news article format comes very easily to me, and that work was as effortless as the paycheck was lilliputain. Bottom line, my curiosity about local events only goes so far. I lack the inquisitive nature that marks the work of our greatest journalists. Jimmy Breslin I am not.

My short stories have been adequate at best. Late last year, while yet again cleaning out my physical files (yes, I still have work on paper, and you should, too), I came across some of my old efforts and decided to try to rework them. I have learned a lot in twenty-plus years, and felt I improved them greatly. I sent a couple out for possible publication, but short stories being what they are, the turnaround time is much longer. These days, if you don’t get a reply regarding a poetry submission, they’re either the New Yorker or they’re just lazy. With email, it’s never been easier.

Perhaps spurred on by these minor successes, I decided to start another novel. Meaning, I’ve got a couple of efforts in that area in those paper files, too, but never brought to any satisfactory completion. The final straw was an independently published novel I abandoned after fifty pages, even though the author was a graduate of the holy Iowa Writers Program. It reeked of the same moldy simplicity that most MFA work suffers from. Bland, simple, boring language that takes no chances, elicits no emotion. Maybe it’s just me and my lowly SUNY diploma, but I was not impressed.

Now, did I draw up an outline for this novel? Write up bios for all the characters? No, I did not. Am I aware of these traditional preparations for decent work. Why, yes, of course. I simply wanted the experience of writing prose, and decided to see if that myth where the characters “tell” you what they want and where they’re going could be true. To a certain extent it is. At the beginning of each session, I read the last couple of paragraphs and take them to the next place that seems right. I average about 1,000 words at a time, skipping some days when my schedule really doesn’t allow. I am still working full-time, and I am still going to the gym three times a week. I do what I can.

The good news is I’m not pressured by any deadline or advance. If this never gets done, it’s OK. So many of these projects around me, chapbooks, crochet items, even a bit of physical art that I’ve started probably won’t be finished. Many of these things will no doubt rejoin the elements in one way or another. Even words I’ve published may not be remembered in the next iteration of communication that’s no doubt on its way. You hear it over and over again—it’s all about the process. And I am enjoying this process. I have always enjoyed the process of writing. It’s the one activity I feel completely absorbed by, completely a part of. And if a certain project isn’t fun anymore, I let it go.

While it’s still my choice, I am letting a lot of these projects go. I won’t be a painter, or a seamstress, or make jewelry with polymer clay, although I can. I am at the point, the age if you will, where I need to streamline, focus more on the art that satisfies me, that will make up whatever “legacy” remains when my body has had enough. I’ll be 63 on Friday. That’s basically 60 years of creating, if you count that little drawing my mother has of her and my baby sister done at age 3. I figure I’ve got maybe 20 years remaining to finish what I can, or at least produce some quality work informed by experience. Wish me luck.

Twenty Years Stardust- Remembering Tom Natell

 

It’s twenty years ago this week that Albany poet and activist Tom Natell passed away, after a long dance with throat cancer. The day of his passing, he was scheduled to take the reins of a new open mic at the Lark Street Tavern, a favorite hangout for artistic types around the city. Word got around, and the reading took place anyway, evolving into an impromptu memorial. His ex-wife and son were there, as well as his partner Maryann. The back room was packed, and poet after poet took the mic to express their appreciation for all Tom’s work promoting local poetry.

I first encountered him, I believe, when I was newly single and eager to drive anywhere to read. For many years he hosted Readings Against the End of the World, an annual event that was briefly revived pre-Pandemic. I was pleased that I managed to find my way to Willett Street and the old 8^th Step Coffeehouse location all by myself, and that I was able to take part in what I considered an important event.

Later, I moved to Albany for a year, ostensibly to complete my MA in English. I learned more about poetry and life at Tom’s QE2 reading than I did in any of my UAlbany classes (no offense, UAlbany, but the Ivory Tower turned out to not be my thing.). He showed me what a good host does, leaping on and off stage, offering information about other events, and mainly keeping the show moving along at a brisk pace. Although my years there was brief, it was a rich and varied experience, and the poetry scene was a big part of it.

For years after, I tried to keep up. I would work my miserable shift at Cosmodemonic Communications, leap in the car, and head up to the Lark Tavern, or the QE2, or to any one of the various readings held each week. I was stronger, and somehow supernaturally motivated to exhaust myself attending these events, in addition to whatever was being offered here in the Kingston area. It was an exciting time.

Even 9/11 didn’t slow the pace, but these things go in cycles. There are times when  a poet can’t possibly keep up with everything going on, and other, leaner days when one a month anywhere can be a blessing. And then there’s love.

I can’t blame everything on love, except my survival, my sanity, the fact that a good fit is to be prized more highly than even a well-turned phrase. My Beloved moved in in July 2005, just a few months after Tom’s passing. The three years before, in addition to frequent dashes to Albany, also included weekends in Central New York to spend time with my boyfriend. The move was made, and suddenly I had almost no reason to leave the house. In the days before Door Dash, we shopped and cooked and loved like crazy. Did my writing suffer? Not in the least.

I’ve been so lucky to have landed here, and so lucky that the poetry community has welcomed me so sweetly. I couldn’t have imagined as an awkward teen on Long Island that my life in the future would be so full, so completely satisfying. Granted, the path here has not been without its potholes. But at this point the old cliché applies—I would not change a bit of it. I’ve survived, worked hard, written hard, and created a home and life for myself to the best of my ability. Thank you, Tom, thank you, Albany poets, for showing me how it could be done. I learned what my priorities should be, and proceeded in the correct direction.