Waiting for Spring

After weeks of dipping below zero, way below zero, it's 31 today and feels like summer. The sun is shining, the icy gray snow banks are beginning to melt, and I'm feeling like something should be loosening inside of me.

This winter has been rough -- rough on my skin, which seems to be chapped and flaking off in patches, rough on my creative life, since I don't feel like I have any creative projects really going. When it remains that cold for that long, I feel like I just shut down and retreat into a pseudo-hibernation. My thoughts skim the surface of eat-sleep-work-TV-repeat, without delving any deeper. While some people might be forced to a kind of self-reflection in winter, I simply harden and go into survival mode. I try to imagine what it was like to live here, before central heating, electricity, and the comfort of the metropolis. I wouldn't have been able to make it.

I'm hoping that this small glimpse of sunshine will help recharge my batteries a bit. I may even walk around one of my neighborhood lakes tomorrow, if it remains this warm. The sad thing is that I know it's only the end of February and we still have one more month (at least) to go.

So that I don't sound too much like Debbie Downer (meow, meow -- for those of you who have seen the sketch), here is a list of the small joys I've had in the last couple of weeks...


Season One of How I Met Your Mother -- Predictable, but hilarious
Season Two of Big Love -- Did I mention that I was watching TV)
My grudging enjoyment of Eat, Pray, Love
Going to my alma mater for graduate readings -- although they do make me feel like a slacker. There were many brilliant writers there including, Michele Campbell, Beth Mayer, and James Henderson, to name a few.
Kimya Dawson's Remember That I Love You
Seeing the orange sunrise in the gray sky in the morning
This article in last week's Onion -- I think it was written about my cats
Facebook's Texas Hold 'Em -- I suck, but I love it
The roasted garlic/crusty bread/cheese we're going to have with board games tonight (and the beer)
My impending trip to Tennessee next weekend -- please let it be over 40 degrees
Being able to sign up for cell phones with Credo when I return


Okay, I'm starting to feel like I can handle four or five more weeks of winter. I think.

Poet is a Verb: Prioritize

Lately, I haven't been writing as much poetry as I would like. I understand that this is a temporary situation. Since I've been paying closer attention to my writing habits, I've noticed that my writing output seems to ebb and flow. There are times when I'm "on" and I write up a storm, 2-3 poems a week. And then there are times when I stumble along, writing little to nothing. I can't predict when these happen, other than to say that one tends to follow the other.

I've learned that I just need to relax into the writing slump, and trust that the writing will return. So, instead of writing, I've been doing other things, including reading, writing articles, and volunteering my time. (Besides working my job, naturally.) One of the many books I'm reading now is CrazyBusy by Ned Hallowell. Dr. Hallowell is a leading researcher on Attention Deficit Disorder and this book follows the trend of multitasking and spreading yourself too thin as the new social norm. It's very enjoyable and easy to read and I find myself in some of his descriptions. Okay, lots of his descriptions.

Here's one that particularly hit home for me:

"If being busier than I'd like to be is the price I have to pay, most of us seem to say, then so be it. After all, modern life is worth it. Life's never been this exciting.

But if we're not careful, we'll get so busy that we forget to take the time to think and feel. We won't have the extended periods of time required to complete a thought, develop a conversation, or reflect upon a complex set of emotions."

This passage reminded me of W.S. Merwin's quote about poetry that I posted last week. Perhaps, rather than filling my time with other activities when I'm not writing, I should be slowing down. Perhaps my slightly addictive multitasking is drawing energy away from writing.

Hallowell suggests prioritizing as a way to slow down. His argument is that you can only give your energy and attention to so many spheres of your life. After a certain threshold (and everyone's threshold is different), you become less effective. He says that you should know where your energy is going, rather than rushing around and spending it without thinking.

When I think about my priorities, I know that my energy tends to go to my lower, yet more insistent, priorities while my true priorities get ignored. I'm getting much better at this, but it is challenging to realign my actions with my intentions. If I had to prioritize my life right now, I would say that my top priorities are:

1) Marriage
2) Writing Pursuits (includes poetry, blogging, articles,in that order)
3) Work
4) Friendships
5) Volunteering
6) Other Creative Pursuits (includes reading, photography, and art making, in that order)

I am happy to say that my work is no longer #1 and I don't behave like it is. (Whew! Hooray for less stressful jobs.) Listing my priorities in this way, I'm not exactly sure what takes up my time. I watch a little too much TV, I spend a lot of time online, not blogging, but Facebook-ing and such. But I'm honestly not sure where it all goes. (Bad sign.) Notice TV isn't even on there!

This week, I'd like to spend my time closer to how my priorities are listed. While I believe I do a better job than I did a year ago, I certainly think I can do better. I am going to commit myself to a week of slowing down, and realigning my energies. I'm declaring this week, for me, Slow Down Week. I will try to spend my time working on my top priorities, rather than on the "other stuff" that seems to be rushing in.

When Your Calendar Sends You Road Signs

From my Poetry Speaks Page-a-Day Calendar, for January 15:

"Any work of art makes one very simple demand on anyone who genuinely wants to get in touch with it. And that is to stop. You've got to stop what you're doing, what you're thinking, and what you're expecting and just be there for the poem no matter how long it takes."

-- W.S. Merwin

My first thought when I saw this, while checking emails and voicemail messages simultaneously: maybe I'm not stopping enough. After all, this was yesterday's quote.

The Halfway Through NaBloPoMo Whine

Okay, it was inevitable, so brace yourselves.

Today marks the halfway point of what we call in our house "nanabooboo." (We can never get the letters in all the right permutations, so its become that instead.) I'm glad that I signed up for nanabooboo, because it's pushed me and challenged me and it's forced me to focus very intently on my blog. All good things.

But here come's the whine. I'm tiiiiired!!! I got home after working late, I have an article that's due tomorrow that's only written in my head due to some research issues, and I can't take a bath yet because I have to write something on my blog. Something good. Something interesting. Something literary. Blech. We get this instead.

I haven't written a lot of non-blog related stuff lately, because I'm blogging. And I even have things I want to write about, but haven't, like meeting these two people and reading this awesome book. Maybe I'll get to them. Maybe I want. Okay, I'll definitely get to the last one soon.

This feels like all the times that I've committed to writing in my journal EVERY DAY, because that's what published writers say that they do. (I secretly think they're big liars.) Committing to every day writing is hard, because sometimes dang it, I just want to watch tv and go to bed.

I'll return to non-whining posts tomorrow.

Poet is a Verb: Focus

This is not a Poet is a Verb entry about something I did today; it is about something I need to do. I need to be able to focus on one task at a time.

I won't tell the embarrassing story about the things I forgot to do at home this morning, because I was too busy doing them all at once. But I will say, that as I sat on the bus realizing all the things that I forgot to do and worrying about the things I probably forgot to do that I forgot about, I was thinking also about this week's Writers Island prompt: Unforgettable. I don't know if I can write about that prompt this week with a straight face.

The irony is that the art I like to do, poetry and photography and my renewed obsession with collage, requires focus. Most poets describe poetry as the act of focusing on details and relaying them with accuracy. At least, that's the beginning of poetry. Photography literally requires focus, for the selection and the clarity of the image. While I don't espouse to be a collage expert by any means, my experience on Sunday allowed me to achieve an almost Zen-like meditative focus as I combed through the heaps of materials to find my images. I love that experience when I am writing when I achieve that kind of focus that is both utterly calm and utterly specifically intense. It is then that I know that I am creating something. In fact, it is through these artistic activities that I become what I want to become: someone who recognizes and reacts to the little details.

At work, of course, I can focus on activities. I am the detail-queen. I can recall data and keep my desk and schedule well-organized. But at home, in my everyday life, this focus falls apart. It's like I can achieve focus in little bursts, when I have to, but when I relax, my brain goes wobbly and I forget where my keys are or how to put on clothes correctly. These are not the things I forgot today, unfortunately...I think.

I don't know if this is something that I can change about myself. If it is, I can only try to do better. If it isn't, then I think I'll need to create a checklist for myself before I leave for work in the morning.

Not an Obligation, But a Challenge

Like a crazy woman, I signed up for NaBloPoMo this year. (By the way, I hate this abbreviation. It's so difficult to pronounce.) I signed up about a week ago, and I am of two minds about it.

My initial reaction is dread and fear. What if I run out of things to say? Will I be forced to wax poetic about my pajamas? Or the few TV shows I like? Or the time my dad had us sell Monoracers at Venice Beach? Wait... I better stop now, I might want to use these next month.

But the more I think about it, the more excited I get. Initially, I started this blog as a way to reconnect with my writing. And it has worked marvelously. I'm writing every week, I've connected with other writers across the world, and I'm much happier in my creative life. So, if this blog is an extension of and a commitment to my writing life, then posting once every day is just a once a day commitment to my writing life. The more I post, the more I commit to writing. Plus I can stretch my writing muscles by having to write every day. It's challenging and disciplined. Music to a Capricorn's ears.

Besides, even if I wake up one night in a cold sweat (despite my pirate pajamas) and realize I need to post an entry, it only takes five minutes or so. Right?

Unpoetic

Did Emily Dickinson or Edna St. Vincent Millay ever have days (weeks) where they didn't feel poetic? Where they just were bone tired and didn't have the energy to see things with the lyric eye? I suppose, this could be why one was a recluse and the other was a drug addict, but I have a feeling it's not.

This week is the week where I have two jobs. I still have one week of teaching left at the old job, and I've begun working at the new job. So I work for two hours in the morning at the new job, leave at 11:30, commute for half an hour, teach for two hours, commute for another half an hour, then work for three hours at the new job. Gulp.

So all this driving, sitting at computers, last minute grading, completing of human resources paper work, and meeting new coworkers, has left me drooling on the couch, watching all the new must see shows for the fall. (Chuck and Reaper weren't half bad, even if I was in a drooling state. Or perhaps because I was in a drooling state.)

I want to write poems. I have the desire, somewhere deep in my body. I had inspiration -- both Writers Island and the Traveling Poetry Show are giving me prompts galore. But, mostly, I just want to relax and drool.

So, I think tonight, I'm going to try this exercise out of Julia Cameron's The Right to Write. (I've been reading it for a week. It's kind of her "Just Do It" mantra book, so far.) I'm paraphrasing her directions: In order to get in touch with the writerly side, find a quiet place to sit, and number a list from 1 to 100. Then, fill the list with things that you love. Then, post the list at your writing desk.

I think I'll try it before falling into bed. If it doesn't work, I should snap out of this by Friday, my last day at the old job.

Why I Always Stop At Stop Signs

I really like rules. I honestly don't know where it came from. Maybe it's because I'm a teacher or maybe it's because I'm a Capricorn. Maybe I listened to my parents a bit too much. Whatever the reason, I just like the tidiness, structure, and simplicity of rules. A rule is like a pre-fulfilled expectation, for me.

Then, there's poetry. If you're living in the 21st century, poetry is the art form that flaunts rules. (Flips them off really.) Now, I am attracted to formal poetry, which allows me to be orderly and disciplined while letting down my proverbial hair. But overall, I write poetry because it allows me to crack open my hardened exterior and access something that is hidden, secret, undiscovered, and lawless.

My problem is that, in my writing and my writing practice, I like rules a bit too much. Someone at my work once said of another person that if there's a rule to follow and a form to fill out, she thinks the problem is solved. I'm the same way. I give myself goals, structures, and responsibilities, and I think that my poetry will fit into the narrow little slot I give it. Poetry, however, is not a form to fill out and not an appointment to keep or break. It's something bigger and more difficult to pin down.

I struggle often with my discipline, with the ability to write consistently over time. It's an integration problem, really. How do I integrate poetry with the rest of my life? But, I solve the problem by setting up a rule or a system, when what I need is Something Else.

So, now I have to find that Something Else, that intangible source of inspiration. I often grapple with that, considering all the other responsibilities and outside factors in my life. It's not that I'm that much busier than anyone else. It's that I crave responsibility and run to it, rather than craving a source of inspiration and running towards that. Even after a master's degree (which I thought would solve it, because that's a program), and a stated (and restated)commitment to poetry, I still feel like I'm coming to grips with the basics -- what it means to be a poet when there's deadlines and work and life.

I think I have to remember that the rule I need to follow is: Stop. Listen. Look. Breathe.

Swallowing Poems

Have you ever taken a really big gulp of water and got it stuck in your throat? And it feels like your throat is swollen to twice its size? It feels like its stuck there and the bulge of water will never move. You have a choice to make, up or down. Sometimes you spit it up and sometimes you wince and swallow it, against your better judgment.

That's what it feels like to swallow a poem, I think. For the past week or so, I've been so busy at work and finals and stuff, that I haven't really been able to sit down and write. So my poet-mind is still working and I see or feel things that could be poems, if I spend the time to jot them down. But I'm rushing around so much that I have to swallow it down. It's slightly uncomfortable, but necessary on busy days.

I wonder how other poets deal with this. Do they take the time to write when they're busy in their other lives or do they swallow it and remember it for later? I think I should be grateful that at least I'm still noticing little snaps of images and that I can catalog those for later. I just hope that they remain in my memory long enough to write on them later.

What My Life Looks Like Right Now...

I have been too busy to blog, lately. A paragraph here and there during the week hasn't been possible during the past week or two.

Part of it is due to the class, which I am officially half way through as of this week. It's a totally enriching experience and I really am learning alot. But, it's gobbled up a nice little portion of my free time.

Part of it is due to the job, which waxes and wanes in busy-ness and responsibility. And it's waxing right now. It should get better in the next week or two, but right now it's hugely busy.

And part of it is just because of my procrastination. I think of something to blog about, I imagine blogging about it, and it slips between my fingers when I tell myself I'm too busy to blog about it.

For instance, yesterday was the anniversary of publication of The Great Gatsby, quite possibly one of my favorite books of all time. F. Scott Fitzgerald, mad genius, was a St. Paul native and I thought, what a great topic to write about. And then, I went out to dinner with the husband, and did homework afterwards.

I never got to write about how I read TGG when I was 15 years old, the summer before I moved to Minnesota. How I devoured it, ignoring all other books. Then, I even rented the awful Robert Redford movie, and tried to decide if I'd rather be Nick or Daisy. (Definitely Nick.) When I went to college, I read every Fitzgerald book and tried to write like him. It's didn't work, of course.

So, happy belated birthday to The Great Gatsby. I wonder if F. Scott Fitzgerald procrastinated...

Walking My Path

This week, I have been feeling incredibly overwhelmed. My schedule has been, to say the least, in transition. A couple of weeks ago, I started an online course in order to learn more about teaching reading to students and to get a certificate in advanced literacy. From the outside, it made sense.

Now that I'm on the inside, I am being swallowed by a mountain of work. Last weekend, I had a long weekend due to a snow storm. I got ahead (or so I thought) in my homework, but didn't do any 9 to 5 work, which was so relaxing and deserved. This week, though, was a killer. I had to make up all sorts of administration work, not to mention all of the grading and teaching reorganizing I had to do. So, while last weekend, I was in my PJ's surfing MySpace, this weekend I'll be in my PJ's grading and doing next week's homework.

To top it all off, my younger male cat, has decided to reclaim his territory. He has taken to peeing on our bed. With us in bed. Often right on us or next to us. It's disgusting. We've had to wash our sheets and comforters dozens of times. In fact, one night, he had peed on all 3 of them, in order, and we had to sleep in sweatsuits.

On Thursday night, I was feeling especially overwhelmed. Over the weekend, I had signed up through my grad school, for a two hour workshop called "Walking the Labyrinth" with an instructor named Julie Neraas. This was back when I wasn't stumped on my response paper and saddled with a stack of personal essays to grade. I thought I was going to be done for on Thursday night. But, I went anyway, because I already paid 10 bucks for the event.

I am so glad that I went, despite the stress and extra work it caused me. First of all, I saw a couple of my old classmates, including someone who took a travel course to Greece with me in 2002. But most of all, it was an effective workshop. Julie led us on a discussion of vocation and calling. We discussed what it means to find meaningful work and how we can balance work with being artists. Then, she initiated a guided meditation, where we would find the question we wanted to answer in the labyrinth.

After all this, we walked a labyrinth identical to the picture above. It took about an hour to walk, because I was journaling and walking at the same time. Not to mention that there are 34 turns in the labyrinth, and that's only going in one way. You have to walk in and out on the same path. How's that for a metaphor?

While I can't say that I had any epiphany moments, the experience really crystallized some questions for me. It's funny, that when I'm searching, I only seem to find questions, rather than answers. The specific questions that I was asking myself had been burbling to the surface for the past couple of days (years), and they all centered around what my path really is and what things I need to do in order to find it and walk it. I'm often so tied down by obligation and responsibility, which I create in excess for myself, that I forget to ask if the task is necessary and if I have to be the one to do it. I also really wondered why I am so task driven, rather than relationship driven. I always choose work over joy, fun, and friendship.

Of course, all the stress came rushing in the moment I returned to my car. But, now I have some questions to ask myself and think about over the next couple of days (lifetime.) I don't know if I'll ever answer these questions, but at least I know that I can consciously ask them now.

D-Day

I started an online education class today, and I'm not sure why. I know, partially, it's because I love school and I love learning. I also know that it's because I want to try to start a doctorate program, and I'm not exactly getting any younger. It's because I love education and I want to learn as much as I can about teaching students.

But it's also because I'm crazy. It's because I don't like having any free time. It's because I like to think of life as an all you can eat buffet of responsibility, and I like to see exactly how much I can pile on my plate. Also, I think I'm doing this and freaking out because I see my husband working on school work and I think, "why not me too?"

I guess there are a million reasons why I'm trying this, but because it's new and because I'm scared, I'm panicking just a little bit. I'm worried that I won't be able to hack it in school and work and writing and I know something's going to give. I'm afraid that I'll forget about writing, and focus too much on my job and school. It's easy for me to forget about the things that bring me joy, sometimes.

Not to come to any sort of false resolution here, but I also know that this is going to be a good thing. This is going to allow me to learn more and grow and stretch. I'll just have to, once again, reorder my life and realize what my priorities truly are. And that can be truly scary and wonderful, at the same time.

Wasting Time #3 -- Not Sleeping

Sometimes, when you're a writer who has to work every day, everything that you do seems to take away from writing time. Bathing for too long, for instance, becomes an impediment to writing. Naps or your regular sleep time prohibits the creative process.

Unfortunately, at least where sleep is concerned, I react in the opposite way. If I do not sleep regularly, I cannot write well. And I rarely sleep regularly. I know that my sleep habits are partially connected to stress, but also partially just habits. For instance, I woke up this morning a little before five, even though I know I can sleep in until almost seven, because my cat always wakes me up around this time. I couldn't go back to sleep, because I was thinking about work and the 4 classes I need to hire for in 3 weeks.

How does this affect my writing? Well, when I don't sleep my full 8 (or 6 or 4), I get cranky and I can't focus on anything too long. My inspiration literally dries up, because I am so focused on just getting through the day. When I come home, the last thing I feel like doing is writing, because I would much rather sleep. A lot.

My erratic sleep patterns used to be much worse. They are getting better and evolving, as I learn to deal with stress better. However, I am still working on making my sleep patterns much less about survival sleep and much more about dreaming and being able to create the next day.

Twin Lives

This shouldn't be a problem. Seriously, I think I'm a little off, because I can find the difficult (and the drama) in everything. I guess that's why I write poetry and why I'm glad my husband puts up with me, at times.

I actually have two jobs at my school. I teach two classes per term in English and/or 20th century literature. I love love love this part of my job. While the students aren't always in love with what I do, I can normally turn them around. I've been teaching at this school since I finished my thesis in graduate school, about two years. The other half of my job (up until a week ago) was Lead Instructor, basically the manager of the department. The department consists of all of the instructors involved in the non-culinary aspects of the school. Since we hire only adjuncts, we vary between 6-12 instructors, depending on the term. This part of the job can be stressful because the school has problems, which I am trying to fix, as best as I can. I've had this half of my job for almost a year.

This job makes me feel, at times, like I am divided by two. I wear two hats, have two duties, and they take up a lot of my time. Over the couple of years, while I have tried to leave this job for a real professor job, it's become clear to me that those jobs don't exist anymore. Not for profit and for profit schools alike both hire only adjunct instructors and I don't think I can live term to term like that, what with my exorbitant school loans and my not-so-exorbitant mortgage. When I was an adjunct, I had to work retail, and I just don't see myself doing that anymore.

Now here's the cool/scary part. My bosses (president of the school, et al) gave me a huge promotion last week. (They like me, they really like me.) They are now calling me Department Chair, which means that I will teach less (1 class a term instead of 2) and administrate more. I'll be more involved in the education initiatives of the school and the nature of the education we provide. So, I'll be in a better position to fix the problems we have. That's cool and I'm really happy that happened.

So now, I have these two careers. My education career as a future administrator and my writing career as a poet/teacher. One is really doing well and one is not. Unfortunately, I really like being an administrator but I am passionate about being a poet/teacher. With the education and training that I have, this is as I high as I can go. If I had to leave this school and go somewhere else, I would need to work myself up from the bottom again, because most schools require a master's degree in education (not poetry) for administrative jobs.

Here's my conflict. I should/could start up school again. There are several schools around me which offer Ed.d programs (doctorates in education) that would allow me to progress higher as an administrator, later in life. The programs take 5-7 years to complete, taking one class a term. My school will pay for my education, because they are dedicated to personal growth, so I can do this for free.

But by doing this, am I saying goodbye to being a poet? Am I admitting to myself that writing is fun and my passion, but ultimately not rewarding? I always knew that by dedicating myself to poetry, I am dedicating myself to a life of rejection letters, low salaries, and anonymity. While I have always known that I am never going to be a Mary Oliver or Adrienne Rich, I did fancy for myself a small teaching/writing career. With undertaking a new degree, I would be slicing into my very precious, very scarce writing time and turning it into homework time. I know it would be beneficial for my career and I know it would make me happy, but it's not poetry.

I know this seems silly, but I am stressing so much about this because most of the Ed.d programs in my city start every two years, in odd numbered years. In other words, I need to apply now-ish in order to start school in 9 months. Or I need to wait two years, which wouldn't be the end of the world.

I know most poets don't work in the academic world. Dana Gioia was the VP of General Foods before he was the chair of the NEA. Wallace Stevens spent his whole life being the Vice President of an insurance company. So there are 9 to 5 models out there. But can I truly be one of them, when life starts creeping in?

Wasting Time #2 -- Blurred Boundaries

Over the Christmas season, I was able to take some much needed vacation from my job. I took ten whole days off. Then, last week, we had a short week plus faculty development, which was more fun than work. I spent those couple of weeks reading and writing a lot, more than I had in a long time. I was cocooning myself in my living room, bundled up in blankets and cuddling with my kitties, and spending time doing what I love.

Today, I had my first "real" day of work of the new year. I thought it might be difficult to plunge right back into the frenetic pace, but instead it felt like I hadn't missed a beat at all. I was back to my 15 minute lunch break, mad dashes around the building lifestyle. There were times when I forgot to go the bathroom.

I have been thinking tonight about how easy it is for me to do that-- sacrifice break times and down times and let work consume me. Even when I got home today, I didn't feel like writing; I felt like working or worrying about work. I realized that the healthy barrier I constructed around myself over the break is being slowly etched away by my daily work activities. Or more realistically, I am stretching my own boundaries while working.

I've called this a time waster because, even though I am efficient and sufficient at my job, I am preventing myself from doing what I really love, my writing. I have to constantly remind myself that I am paid for 40 hours a week, not 400. I wish I could turn my work on and off, like a light switch, but I am still sorting that out for myself.

I think that other people (those magical other people whose houses are clean and lives are orderly) have this part figured out. They can work their jobs, come home, put their jobs away, and focus on their real lives. I wonder how they manage to do that at all. While I try to figure it out, I'll just focus on repairing those boundaries, between my work and my real life, after stretching them much too thin.

R.I.P.

I’ve been involved with the same writer’s group for about a year and a half and I believe that after tomorrow’s group, we will no longer be in existence. One of the other members, a co-worker of mine, told me that he’s quitting at our meeting tomorrow, which brings us down to only 3 total members. I honestly can’t imagine continuing in the state that we’re in.

We’ve been sputtering along for a good 4 months, broken, but still running. It reminds me of when a car’s dying… you can feel it when you drive, but you can’t quite locate the problem. Is the rattling coming from the carburetor? Do I smell smoke, or am I just imagining it?

Overall, I feel conflicted about the writing group process. I’ve been involved in several writer’s groups over my life and they seem to all follow the same process.

1) At first, belonging to the writer’s group inspires me. I have deadlines and people to read my work and I love it. I burn through new work and I’m excited to discuss it.

2) At some point, I begin to slow. Perhaps it’s the monotony of a writing practice or the pressure of the same deadlines that once inspired me, but the writing isn’t as easy or enjoyable as it could be. I continue to plow through work, but it feels hollow and false.

With this current group, I’ve been at this stage for a good five months, if truth be told. For most deadlines, my writing has been mediocre, at best, and I feel like I’m just going through the motions.

3) Around the same time, I start noticing that I am receiving the same critiques over and over again. If the critique is constructive, rather than positive, it can turn cruel at times. Then, I’m molding my writing to fit this critique that I don’t necessarily agree with or understand. In some ways, it’s necessary to have this outside critique that gives you a different perspective. But in others, it’s claustrophobic.

In the case of the current writer’s group, positive critique handcuffed me to a project that they loved and I did not. Writing became this unbearable chore and I lost that feeling of immersion in my writing.

4) Members begin to spin off, equally disenchanted with the work and the group. There’s always an early exodus, before the true dissolution of the group.

With this group, we’ve been cycling through members almost since the inception. (I’m actually a newer addition than two of the current members.) Sometimes, losing the members allowed us to progress, but at other times, it seemed like we lost a certain momentum and cohesiveness when we lost key people.

5) Group dies completely. I’m left with a half done project and a desire to have an audience for critique, without all the drama.

I know I’ve painted this process in a wholly negative light, which is not entirely my intention. I am grateful to my writer’s group for helping me to commit to my writing over the past year and a half. I think I’ve made some big strides with this group, including my return to writing fiction after an 8 year commitment to poetry. I also believe I’ve made good friendships within this group and found some kindred spirits in the struggle to work and write at the same time.

But I’ve also, through this group, lost touch with my poetry (being the only poet in a group of fiction writers). I think, overall, I’ve grown as much as I can with this group and I’m left with the same old options: toil alone at my writing or find a new community, and hope for a way to break the writer’s group cycle.

Fallow Periods

It's 8:30 PM and writing time; do I know where my ideas are?

Of course not. Yet, I sit down to write anyway, just as I tell my students, and nothing comes out. Or I just stare off into space, somewhere above my computer, and waste my time not writing. Worse yet, I do write and what comes out is a weak and painful trickle, about a paragraph's worth.

In college, with my friends, we had names for it. "Writer's sludge" was my favorite. It's somewhere in between a complete and total blockage and the aforementioned trickle. When I was in college, I had the time to work through the sludge and break through. It's such a rare and amazing feeling at that moment when I break through and start creating again.

Now that I've got only between a half an hour and an hour a day to write, how can I get my rhythm without the painful yet rewarding process of blocking then breaking? I turned to the internet, and of course, found some interesting tangential information, but mostly the same old advice.

In between the "just do its" and the "create a writing practice" advice listings, I found these two articles:

1) New Yorker article -- This ran two years ago, but it poses an interesting theory. Apparently, when we moved away from the logical process to the "creative process" within writing, we gained Writer's Block. Apparently, when I was citing inspiration as an almost divine act, I was espousing a Romantic notion.

2) McSweeney's article -- This is also an old one -- yet it 's very funny. A humorous look at Writer's Block and what's really wrong with writing and not writing.

3) Sydney Herald article -- More recent -- about famous authors who have famously stopped writing. We're not alone.

So for now, I get to suffer in my little writer's block/sludge phases and hope that they pass. Besides, I have something do in writer's group on Friday. If that doesn't inspire me, I don't know what will.

Penis Envy (Sort of) in Writing

Over the weekend, my husband and I saw an amazing movie called The Prestige. It was such a well-written, well-structured movie that my husband (also a writer) was devastated. He was so devastated, so cowed by the quality of this movie, that he considered stopping the project that he's been working on for 2 months. He's 44 pages in and he almost threw in the towel! Weird reaction? Not as weird as you think.

Ideally, writers, when confronted with a sublime example of their art, are inspired to produce work on their own. Perhaps, it inspires an homage to the original work of art. Or, perhaps, the artists are invigorated, ready to confront their work with a new perspective or new verve.

Confrontation with a work of perfect human creation should be, for artists, a confrontation with the divine. When I say divine, I do not necessarily mean the hand of God, although that is what the word is originally derived from. I only mean the contact with something outside of ourselves, that must be expressed through our art. In fact, American Heritage dictionary, cites one of the definitions of inspiration as "Divine guidance or influence exerted directly on the mind and soul of humankind."

But confrontation with the divine is both splendid and terrifying. Splendidly terrifying. It is terrifying precisely because when a piece of writing or art is so perfectly composed, we can no longer detect the human creator behind the art. It becomes a seamless work of art that seems to be natural. We forget that the quality is not intrinsic to the product; it is there because of the artist. A human artist, with weakness and insecurity and failings, like every other writer or artist out there.

Now, I'm not saying that The Prestige is divine, but it is damn good. But inside its story, my husband was confronted, momentarily, with something special outside of himself. And it devastated him, because he did not know whether or not he would ever produce that same effect on another person. My husband is at that stage in the creative process where his work is still new and tender. It needs nurturing and work, not the evidence of some other writer's brilliant and seemingly seamless handiwork.

I remember, for me, when I was writing my master's thesis that I had that moment. I was a masochist enough to read the early books of many of my favorite writers. I figured at the time that if I could see their unsure, early work I would be encouraged on my own. Instead, I came across a book that inspired me to a full-on breakdown, complete with tears and assumptions of failure. It was called Ararat, by Louise Gluck. The book was so beautiful and layered and complex, everything I wanted my book to be, that I thought I could never compare. And let's be honest, it's Louise Gluck -- I'm not in the same stratosphere. Once I remembered that, and became okay with that, my writing continued.

So, this week it's The Prestige for my husband and once upon a time Ararat for me. What piece of art was it for you that made you want to quit? How did you survive it?

Wasting Time -- One in a Series

I've been thinking about all the things that suck my time, steal it away in little five-ten minute bursts. I like to think of them as little bandits that rob me of my writing time. It starts out, most of the time, as little increments. Five minutes here, ten minutes there. Then, there are those sneaky thieves that steal larger amounts -- an hour or two. Before I know it, I haven't written all week. I'm left with nothing truly tangible to show for my week.

I originally was going to write about some of my fun & common time waster, but the one that struck me today was stress. Stress is probably the biggest reason for wasting time I have in my creative life. Stress is my most typical excuse for not writing, and my most typical excuse for my more destructive habits. It is as if having a moderately stressful and responsibility laden job absolves me of any creative effort. I can just lounge away my evenings and weekends, in my PJs, all thanks to stress.

I have two or three concurrent stress patterns. My typical stress thinking goes something like this: Man, I have had a stressful day. I don't feel like writing/I can't write. Or it could go something closer to: Man, what a stressful day, I deserve time off. (Deserve is a typical stress word for me. I don't deserve this stress, but I do deserve this 3 hour television watching spree.) Often times, these stress thinking patterns intersect, giving me the double dose of I don't feel like writing and I deserve time off.

Stress is a hungry time waster. While it can take the little bursts of time, it most often results in a lost evening or weekend. I drift in a semi-comatose state, seeking only pleasure and relief while creating absolutely nothing.

The kicker of it is, of course, that my biggest stress reliever is writing. For many artists, this is the case. Writing/Art is the one release we have from the stresses of daily life. Through our art, we can have the flow experience, that moment where we lose ourselves within the act of creation. What can be better than that?

So how do we, how do I, break this cycle of stress & not creating? Easy answer: create new cycles of stress & creation. This is something that I have struggled to include in my writing practice. Sometimes, like today, it is successful. Other times, it isn't. But I can only work to connect pleasure and stress relief with my creation, through practice, rather than tying it to that other obligation that only exists to stress me out.