I have been doing a lot of thinking about the writer as both a public and private figure. With the publication of my chapbook of poems this spring, I have had to come away from the writing desk (computer screen) and interact with other people. People who might want to buy the chapbook. People who want to talk about my poems with me.
One of the most excruciating things for me is coming out of my writerly shell. I am happy to think deeply about my writing, and well, to write my writing. I am even happy to send it off into the world for publication. As much as I want others to read my work, I cringe when people want to talk about it.
Richard Siken, a poet, famously said, "If I have to explicate my poems, I have failed as a writer. I have wasted my life." Although this statement is dramatic, I know scores of writers who nod their heads at the sentiment of it. Just let me write my pages! Read them, but please don't ask me to explain myself!!
When work gets published, when a writer takes part in a reading of his or her work, and (hopefully) when it comes times for a writer to sell books, he or she MUST move beyond the writer's desk and into the public eye. How to do this? Better yet, how to do this well?
The best advice I was given about how to interact with others came from Facebook. Someone said that their writing mentor told them, "Be kind, engaged, and generous with every person you meet." Hard to do, but absolutely true. What does this actually look like in action?
To start with, kindness means that I don't get to be snarky. I have a sharp tongue and often "zing" friends and colleagues. Sarcasm is my native language. When in public, this does not serve me well. What I think of as humor, others, especially strangers will take as ass-hattery. Not only will I look like a jerk, but the next time a person sees my name in print he or she will tell someone, "Don't read that, he's a jerk!" Being kind means allowing others to have opinions about my own writing, even if I disagree with them. It also means taking a compliment well. Say, "Thank you." not "Whatever."
Being engaged means being present with whomever you are talking to. Let that person be in the spotlight. At a signing table, with a long line, don't keep looking over that person's shoulder to see how many other people are waiting. Stop thinking about how hungry you are. Actually take the time to listen to what is coming out of the other person's mouth. Nod. Make eye contact. The same eye you use to view the world as a writer, needs to be present at a reading, a signing, in a conversation. As Ram Dass says, "BE HERE NOW!"
Finally, there is the generous part. This is the hardest to pull off for me. My idea of generosity is not letting a person see me roll my eyes when it takes them longer than five seconds to go through the door I am holding open for them. Being generous is an extension of being engaged. It means that I am not the center of attention. My work is not the center of attention. This can be hard for a writer to understand. Being generous with others means that they are actually the focus. In a sense we write for our audience. Our poems, stories, and art arrives are created specifically for the person standing in front of you. Yes, that person. Yes, you.
Without an audience my writing is nothing more than a kind of journal, however artful. Learning through trial and error. Growing social skills no matter how painful. Smiling instead of furrowing our brow. These are real and necessary acts for writers. We must do them as we step away from the writer's desk and into the public eye.
As writers we don't need a makeover for the camera, we just need to remember to treat our readers with the dignity they deserve.
Showing posts with label the writing life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the writing life. Show all posts
03 April 2012
12 February 2012
On Sound and Vision: The Soundtrack of Your Writing
As readers, we are often stunned by the prose of the page, but how many of us think about the author toiling away to get their words in front of us?
Writers do.
I sometimes sit in front of a poem, or sentence dazzled. I think, "How could a writer do this?" I then begin to imagine him or her in the process of composing the work of art. Ultimately, this means that I am imagining myself writing it as well. How could I write something this good?
When in my cups (the self-pity cups) I imagine that the writer I so admire is always brilliant and has completed the entire novel on the first draft. We all know this isn't true, if for no other reason than editors love to edit.
Imagining other writers, helps me to consider my own writing practice. A large part of that practice for me lately, has been listening to music.
I know that many writers compose a book or piece of work with a set of songs to help them "get into the mood." For myself, I find words with music distract me. I have a hard time considering the next line of a poem is "Baby Baby Baby noooo"drifts through my stereo speakers. Sometimes the words even leak out onto the page. The horror of find upon rereading my new draft, "The gate slapped shut, an ultimatum / a gunshot. The car that gunned out of the driveway / the radio in the room playing on / as if nothing was going on at all/ and I was like baby baby baby ooooh."
For this very reason, I tend to listen to the classical NPR station while writing or reading. Sometimes if I leave the radio on another channel, I will find myself composing and then yelling at the radio: SHUT UP! When trying to summon up feelings from the past, I might play a song I associate with that period in my life or even a whole album. I wrote an entire essay about teenage angst and The Cure's album Disintegration. http://kinemapoetics.blogspot.com/2011/07/jory-mickelson-on-cures-disintegration.html
My question for you this week is what kind of background noise fills your writing? Is it the chatter of people in a busy cafe? Is it the sound of your children fighting or playing Wii? Do you impose absolute silence while you compose?
What is the soundtrack of your own writing life?
24 October 2011
Memory and Effigy
I recently read a draft of a poem that had the line "Why recently, I am so drawn to dilapidation."
If you read my last post, you will know that I most whole-heartedly agree with that statement! Again and again, I am being drawn to images, places, and people that are past their prime. Whether you want to call it dilapidation, beautiful ruin, or even something melodramatic like the gorgeous flaw, the fact remains that what is imperfect is far more interesting than something seamless and perfect. Perfection has its place, perhaps with Plato or in heaven. But here on earth, what garners my attention in writing are flawed characters, broken dreams, and the imperfect world of objects.
Who wants to read about St. Blandula's struggle-free life, where she was always immersed in the divine and never tempted? Not me.
There is an impulse within all of us to look back at the past through rose colored glasses. We call this nostalgia or the "good old days." History shows us again and again, that people like to recall a semi-mythical past in which their culture was at its greatest. The ancient Greeks (specifically Hesiod) called this their Golden Age, an age where men "lived with the gods without sorrow." There is a reason that the good stories from Greek mythology come later, at a more flawed stage of mankind. Where would our fairy tale princesses be without the long climb up to the castle throne?
So it is with each of us. When we begin to write, we may want to edit out the very parts of our stories that make them the most compelling. We might want to avoid the unpleasant or embarrassing aspects. Or even believe that our memory is absolute fact. That hazy world of the "good old days" beckons us, whispers in our ear to return, and ultimately to enter into an idealized, struggle free piece of writing. We become the lotus eaters that Homer warned us about. In other words, boring.
We, as writers, need to ask ourselves what we truly wish to show in our writing.
Miriam-Webster defines an effigy first as, "an image or representation, especially of a person" but then more interestingly as "a crude figure representing a hated person." We immediately know what we are interested in hearing more about. Give me enemies for $1000 please.
The word effigy comes from Middle French and Latin, meaning to form or to shape. It has a connection to the word dough. As a former baker, I know intimately, what it means to shape loaves for the rising and baking process. So it is with writing.
As you begin drafting or revising your pieces, I encourage you to write straight at the heart of imperfection. Dig deeper into the flaws of your characters and narratives. Is is through these cracks and brokenness that our strongest stories find their way into the world.
If you read my last post, you will know that I most whole-heartedly agree with that statement! Again and again, I am being drawn to images, places, and people that are past their prime. Whether you want to call it dilapidation, beautiful ruin, or even something melodramatic like the gorgeous flaw, the fact remains that what is imperfect is far more interesting than something seamless and perfect. Perfection has its place, perhaps with Plato or in heaven. But here on earth, what garners my attention in writing are flawed characters, broken dreams, and the imperfect world of objects.
Who wants to read about St. Blandula's struggle-free life, where she was always immersed in the divine and never tempted? Not me.
There is an impulse within all of us to look back at the past through rose colored glasses. We call this nostalgia or the "good old days." History shows us again and again, that people like to recall a semi-mythical past in which their culture was at its greatest. The ancient Greeks (specifically Hesiod) called this their Golden Age, an age where men "lived with the gods without sorrow." There is a reason that the good stories from Greek mythology come later, at a more flawed stage of mankind. Where would our fairy tale princesses be without the long climb up to the castle throne?
So it is with each of us. When we begin to write, we may want to edit out the very parts of our stories that make them the most compelling. We might want to avoid the unpleasant or embarrassing aspects. Or even believe that our memory is absolute fact. That hazy world of the "good old days" beckons us, whispers in our ear to return, and ultimately to enter into an idealized, struggle free piece of writing. We become the lotus eaters that Homer warned us about. In other words, boring.
We, as writers, need to ask ourselves what we truly wish to show in our writing.
Miriam-Webster defines an effigy first as, "an image or representation, especially of a person" but then more interestingly as "a crude figure representing a hated person." We immediately know what we are interested in hearing more about. Give me enemies for $1000 please.
The word effigy comes from Middle French and Latin, meaning to form or to shape. It has a connection to the word dough. As a former baker, I know intimately, what it means to shape loaves for the rising and baking process. So it is with writing.
As you begin drafting or revising your pieces, I encourage you to write straight at the heart of imperfection. Dig deeper into the flaws of your characters and narratives. Is is through these cracks and brokenness that our strongest stories find their way into the world.
25 September 2011
In Which Random Things Come Together and Appear to Make a Whole
Hello 5x5 Readers,
This weekend has been filled with a small accretion of idea bits and fragments, that have sort of reached a critical mass in my head. If my mind were a junk drawer, it would be time to clean it out.
One thing that struck me this weekend was my tendency to pick up old books, even if I may never read them. A great example of this is a book I got first published in 1939 called Cowboy Dances: A Collection of Western Square Dances by Lloyd Shaw. This book is filled not only with photos of the dancers, but diagrams for dancing groups and a whole commentary on what music may be appropriate to listen to. More intriguing is that the foreword is written by Sherwood Anderson, the author of the novel Winesburg, Ohio.
On Saturday, at the Farmer's Market, I saw a half dozen elderly couples square dancing. It is one thing that I have always wanted to learn, but never gotten around to. Do young people square dance these days? Perhaps buying older books on subjects that intrigue me is one way to give form to my countless aspirations.
Right now, my friend is taking her elderly father through Montana on his "last tour." At the age of 88, she doesn't think that he will be able to make another foray into the Big Sky State where he spent the first half of his life. She said that they were stopped in Ekalaka, Montana which is a town that nearly touches the divide between North and South Dakota. I went to another book that I have to learn a little bit more about where they were at. In Montana Place Names from Alzada to Zortman published by the Montana Historical Society, I learned that Ekalaka is named for the niece of the Oglala Sioux chief Red Cloud. She and her husband opened a store and saloon there in 1885. The town is currently a whopping 410 people.
Over the weekend, I stopped at the small town of Garfield, Washington in hopes of eating at a BBQ joint and cafe run by an elderly couple. I haven't been up that way in about five months. When I arrived, the place was closed. Instead, I ate at Grumpy's Bar and was told by the woman at the counter that the elderly woman was ill and her husband spent a great deal of time taking care of her so the restaurant folded. Another place that I enjoyed visiting has faded off the map.
This morning I drank my coffee out of a cup I bought from the Steamboat Rock Restaurant in Grand Coulee, Washington this summer. It was perhaps the ideal small cafe. The woman who was our waitress had worked there for 36 years. The decor was replete with wagon wheels and knotty pine paneling. It probably hadn't been remodeled since 1960, and this was a positive thing. Although things looked worn, they were spotless. I bought a cup at the counter, because I know that someday soon, this place will probably also slip into history.
And that is what this post is really about, the way that life continues to slip into the past.
How elusive our points of reference can be. Memory too continues to shift inside of us. My recollection of the ham and egg sandwich I ate at the Steamboat Rock Restaurant will continue to haunt, even though it was perhaps the aura of the place that charmed me. I begin to long for such things, especially when faced with the fact that I will most likely not be back to that part of Washington for years, if at all.
And this is where writing comes in, at the end. Through writing, I am able to capture if not the actual moment, at least a texture of it. If not the exact shape, then at least I can sketch its gesture in words.
Writing, can sustain us, even if all else recedes
This weekend has been filled with a small accretion of idea bits and fragments, that have sort of reached a critical mass in my head. If my mind were a junk drawer, it would be time to clean it out.
One thing that struck me this weekend was my tendency to pick up old books, even if I may never read them. A great example of this is a book I got first published in 1939 called Cowboy Dances: A Collection of Western Square Dances by Lloyd Shaw. This book is filled not only with photos of the dancers, but diagrams for dancing groups and a whole commentary on what music may be appropriate to listen to. More intriguing is that the foreword is written by Sherwood Anderson, the author of the novel Winesburg, Ohio.
On Saturday, at the Farmer's Market, I saw a half dozen elderly couples square dancing. It is one thing that I have always wanted to learn, but never gotten around to. Do young people square dance these days? Perhaps buying older books on subjects that intrigue me is one way to give form to my countless aspirations.
Right now, my friend is taking her elderly father through Montana on his "last tour." At the age of 88, she doesn't think that he will be able to make another foray into the Big Sky State where he spent the first half of his life. She said that they were stopped in Ekalaka, Montana which is a town that nearly touches the divide between North and South Dakota. I went to another book that I have to learn a little bit more about where they were at. In Montana Place Names from Alzada to Zortman published by the Montana Historical Society, I learned that Ekalaka is named for the niece of the Oglala Sioux chief Red Cloud. She and her husband opened a store and saloon there in 1885. The town is currently a whopping 410 people.
Over the weekend, I stopped at the small town of Garfield, Washington in hopes of eating at a BBQ joint and cafe run by an elderly couple. I haven't been up that way in about five months. When I arrived, the place was closed. Instead, I ate at Grumpy's Bar and was told by the woman at the counter that the elderly woman was ill and her husband spent a great deal of time taking care of her so the restaurant folded. Another place that I enjoyed visiting has faded off the map.
This morning I drank my coffee out of a cup I bought from the Steamboat Rock Restaurant in Grand Coulee, Washington this summer. It was perhaps the ideal small cafe. The woman who was our waitress had worked there for 36 years. The decor was replete with wagon wheels and knotty pine paneling. It probably hadn't been remodeled since 1960, and this was a positive thing. Although things looked worn, they were spotless. I bought a cup at the counter, because I know that someday soon, this place will probably also slip into history.
And that is what this post is really about, the way that life continues to slip into the past.
How elusive our points of reference can be. Memory too continues to shift inside of us. My recollection of the ham and egg sandwich I ate at the Steamboat Rock Restaurant will continue to haunt, even though it was perhaps the aura of the place that charmed me. I begin to long for such things, especially when faced with the fact that I will most likely not be back to that part of Washington for years, if at all.
And this is where writing comes in, at the end. Through writing, I am able to capture if not the actual moment, at least a texture of it. If not the exact shape, then at least I can sketch its gesture in words.
Writing, can sustain us, even if all else recedes
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