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.

**Where Have All the Workshop Venues Gone?**

 

Since the Pandemic, there has been a tremendous overturn of venues that used to happily host open poetry mics. Some have closed, and some are no longer willing to make the space available. Zoom has become a contender, and has its advantages as well as drawbacks. In a Zoom reading, one can interact with poets from across the country and around the world, a rarity at best in the Before Times. Unlike a live reading, however, interaction is limited to private chats and public conversations instead of intimate chit-chats in a dark corner of the coffee shop. But nothing is perfect. With Zoom, Calling All Poets (CAPS) would have been doomed, and it still maintains an ambitious online schedule while waiting for its next physical venue to emerge. The Woodstock Poetry Society currently holds hybrid meetings at the Woodstock Library, an ironic twist since its previous incarnation, the Stone Ridge Poetry Society, had its origins at that town’s library. The ART BAR is no more, so Teresa Costa’s Word of Mouth Poetry series (WOMP) is on hiatus, with hints of a future resurrection making the rounds.

But readings are one thing, and have ebbed and flowed in the 40+ years I’ve been attending. The current difficulty for me personally is finding a venue to offer my RANDOM WRITING poetry workshop at. Past locations are often history, or have incarnated into high priced rentals that are out of reach of my wallet. Talks are in the works for a session at the Poetry Barn, a fine addition to the poetry scene here in Ulster County. I am also making plans for a one-day event at a private home here in Kingston, NY, a generous offer I will tell more about soon. But the old days of a side room at the library, a bar, a church have all evolved in this newly “upscaled” valley into big buck endeavors.

Now, it is America for sure, and Capitalism still reigns supreme, even as the costs of housing, food, and healthcare rise to criminal heights. Everybody has a right to make a fair and reasonable buck. But now more than ever, we need arts that are accessible to the other 90%, people who can tell the stories of life without trust funds and safety nets. Groups like TMI are doing this good work, putting out there tales of the real world that most of us populate. And certainly I charge a fee for my workshop, too. Nothing I could actually pay the light and water bills with, but what I believe is fair compensation for my time and experience.

I have an opportunity to offer a session of my poetry workshop under the auspices of the Hudson Valley Writers Guild. The stipulation is that it needs to be free to participants. A $100 stipend will cover my small expenses. However, I have reached out to three area libraries with no reply, even while emphasizing that the class would be free. I am at a loss now where else to look. Churches that once offered the use of their space for free or nominal charges are now making a business of it, it seems. I cannot think of a retail space that would be appropriate either, understanding how much they are all being overcharged for their own square footage. Finally, my own home is truly too small to host more than a couple friends at a time socially, let alone an eager group of poets!

Any ideas? I am open to suggestions. Perhaps in the spring one of the local parks would be an option. If the rent isn’t too high.

National Poetry Month 2019- Part One!

Above is a photo of me at Readings Against The End Of The World, my bad side, already exhausted from all the hubbub of National Poetry Month, and I was only halfway through. April 2019 seemed like a busier Poetry Month than usual. Maybe it’s because I’m more focused these days on the art, or maybe I’m just putting myself out more places, or maybe I’m getting a little lazy and might just like to stay home once in a while and peruse Netflix without planning for some reading or another all the time. In any case, I attended several terrific events, and spent most of May recovering from the whirlwind.

The April feature at Calling All Poets in New Paltz on Friday the 5^th was El Presidente Himself, Thom Francis. Although a vital force in the Albany Poets organization, Thom doesn’t often feature much these days, perhaps because of the demands of his newer roles of husband and father. It was a treat to hear Thom again. His work is fresh and energetic. His delivery draws the audience in with direct attention. Thom is at once intimate and unapologetic. His was one of the superior readings this spring at CAPS.

On Saturday, April 13^th, I did a rare “double-header,” and read at two completely different events, at opposite ends of the Hudson Valley. I signed up online for the 11:00 a.m. slot at Wordfest’s “Readings Against The End Of The World.” Revived just a couple of years ago, RAEW was created by Tom Nattell as a marathon reading showcasing the diverse voices and views of Albany poets (with a small “p”). It’s now hosted by Jil Hanifan and Mary Panza, and is truly a 24-hour event. A few years ago, I was up for sleeping on the floor, but time, love, and knees no longer allow for such excess. 

Stay tuned for Part Two of my April Poetry Odyssey…