Tag Archives: overcoming writer’s block

Dispatches from Writer’s Camp: Last Night’s Reading, Short Stay Alumni Converge, More Talk About Secret Agents, and Voices Inside Our Heads

Notes from one of today’s brilliant offerings. My penmanship has become stupid. Translation: Therapy is not art–art is not therapy–but there are important parallels. Anxiety moves us into creativity instead of driving us away–Susan Kolodny, paraphrased.

This title pretty much says it all. I think my work is done here.

Perhaps I can begin with the stuff left unfinished or uncovered by my title’s verbosity. We had a lovely little meditation experience this morning sandwiched between two readings of Stafford’s “Ask Me.” Some time when the river is ice ask me/mistakes I’ve made. Ask me whether/what I have done is my life. This has to be one of my favorite poems on the planet and it served this morning as the perfect bookend for 20 minutes of silence. But then, things turned ugly. Even though our masters of ceremony reminded us and warned us (no breakfast on the weekend until the 10:30 brunch), we were woefully unprepared. It was a rude awakening. It necessitated another foray to Whole Foods where I bought Burt’s Bees lip balm, a couple of bananas, a box of granola bars, and a latte. I refrained from eating a banana or a bar for some masochistic reason–I think I planned to save these items as a contingency for tomorrow morning’s unfortunate fast. Today, I thought, I’ll be brave. I will hold out. I was successful. I survived. And boy, that brunch was delicious. And I had Faith Holsaert all to myself–which brought me no end of happiness. Do you know Faith? You should know her. I cannot believe my good fortune to have her as a fellow Wally and a friend.

That’s it, everything that is not already alluded to in the title. I suppose it could use a little flesh on its bones. So, let me try that.

Last night’s readings were mind blowingly good. Yes, I know “blowingly” is not a word, but that’s how good they were: word-makeruppery. I was so honored to share that evening and that podium with these fine folks–but there’s the wonder of it–there will be (my prediction) no group of readers on any evening before or to come that I would feel less honored to share a stage with. I wish you could have been there. This guy, fellow Wally, Rolf, he’s making these lovely recordings, so the best I can do is to share my part of the evening with y’all. You can skip ahead and continue reading if you like, or, you can rest your eyes for 9 minutes and 50 seconds to listen to these five prose poems from my manuscript in progress, Fail Better: The American English Teacher Makes a To-Do List. 

Today, our ranks started to grow. There is always a group of people who, for what ever completely explicable reasons, are not able to come for the full six day retreat. So about three days into each of our conferences, new writers arrive and it’s like Christmas, but only if Christmas was a good experience for you. If it was not, insert a favorite holiday. Levity increases. Joyfulness exudes. The writing contests begin. Just in time for another round of discussions about agents, which is both terrible and good: terrible because we’re talking about agents, good because the more we talk about it, the less scary, the less secret they become. That’s a win. And finally, we heard an expert and insightful lecture about psychoanalytic insights into the obstacles many writers face in the creative process. Hint: writers often face obstacles in the creative process. There are reasons for these, some of which are unconscious. Psychoanalytical insights may be, often are, helpful. Here’s a takeaway that came from a new Wally friend, Peter, which I thought summed up Susan’s big concluding idea very nicely: Don’t try to get rid of your problems. Make friends with them. If you get rid of them, others will just show up in their place!

Yes. Amen. Take me to the bridge.

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Filed under Writing and Reading

#296: The 11th Poem of April

feat-master-11

was difficult to write.
I didn’t like today’s suggestion.
I thought about witch hunts,
fist fights between teenagers,
and spring time rain.
I thought about my dogs
and how angry I was at
the one for waking me up
at 2 in the morning and at
the other because she took
a dump on my meditation
cushion. Not to mention the
vomit. It was a sock, I think,
wholly formed, covered in
dog stomach bile, I found
on the stairway landing.
I thought about drummers
and drumlines, drumsets
and rock and roll records.
None of it, on this 11th day
of April, floated my boat.
I introduced Romanticism
to 15 year olds today.
That was something.
I played them some Wagner
and some Beethoven and
some Led Zeppelin for good
measure and I think they
understood. But, you know,
during the discussion of the
opening letters by Robert
Walton to his sister, it was
clear that only a handful
of kids knew what the hell
we were talking about.
That could make a poem,
I suppose, a rant about how
young people don’t read.
In numerology, 11 is the
most intuitive of all numbers.
It is instinctual, charismatic,
dynamic and capable when its
sights are set on a concrete goal.
11 is the number associated
with faith and psychics, all of
which I stole verbatim from
numerology.com, which is an
actual thing, a thing for which
I am immensely grateful, because
it helped me to finish this poem.

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It’s April: National Poetry Writing Month!

one of William Blake's illustrations of Hell

one of William Blake’s illustrations of Hell

Wasn’t it T.S. Eliot who wrote that April is the cruelest month?  Of course it was;  it’s the first line, and perhaps the most famous line* from The Wasteland.  What’s so cruel about April, T.S. Eliot? He must have known something about National Poetry Writing Month. But there is something considerably less cruel in my estimation (I hope my poet friends are not offended) about NaPoWriMo than there is about the seemingly herculean task of National Novel Writing Month.  Again, poets, forgive me, but a poem a day for 30 days seems so much less cruel, so much more compassionate than the requirement for a novel–60,000 words in a single month, which is kind of, if you work a day job that is not writing novels, like Hell.  So I’m on.  I’m taking the plunge and/or the pledge.  I failed miserably at writing a novel in November, and failed again at revising the novel I didn’t write in January, so I’m going to write a poem a day for the next 30 days of April, and I’m going to post all of them right here.

I’m a fiction writer, primarily, and kind of a closet poet.  I’m not in the closet through any kind of shame about writing poetry, but only because I feel less “educated” about the formal and critical aspects of writing it.  I know a good poem when I see it or hear it because I think I know what good writing looks like and sounds like–but when I look at my own poetry, I have less confidence in determining whether what I have done is a good poem than I do about looking at a piece of my prose and determining its value or worth.  I’m not going to freak myself out.  I’m just going to do the best I can do in the moment and try to do one every day.  Today is April 1.  I’ll post a poem by midnight or my name isn’t Michael Jarmer–and that ain’t no April Fool’s gag.

Notes:

*(because it’s the only one anybody ever reads)**

Notes to the notes:

**I don’t mean that.

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Filed under Introductory, Poetry