Tag Archives: creative

Dear God. If in the End

Dear God. If in the End

we had no internet
no hot water in the kettle
no books riddled with notes
or bedclothes yellowed by the lamplight

If in the end you were as close to me as I am
to knowing every star,
marking each with naked eye,
reciting cinematic names and vectors

If in the end I’d hauled the wood
you burned for every prostitute
or preacher, every wandering soul
a minstrel in our bed

If in the end my body spelled
the only name that mattered,
and you wouldn’t read it, would not see
your sign in limbs and skin

If in the end our days fell impotent
and soft, no clam’ring mess
in back of us, only a sliding –
only a mouth open, a swallow

I’d curl myself around you
my chin between your shoulder blades,
a pressing: navel, buttocks
thigh to thigh and arm to arm,

a smell of static disavowal
soaking through my robe like ink
and I would say, I love you, love you
washed out, paling into pink.

 

 

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(Want)

That barking
is the smack of one flap of give-a-fuck
against the other. At the corner
of the sternum. Also the shaking of limbs,
of hands on the steering wheel.
Is the pulse normal. Is the sweat.
Is the exhale hard down into pelvis,
like a push against the flailing.
I’m not asking. That barking
is the sound of wanting sound,
how intricately-imagined the motion
of lips, of tongue and teeth
to form the words that don’t come.
Gestating long past hymn and dust.
That, my dear, that barking
is the chill of stomach sucking
in against investigation. Shaping
itself a bowl for questions.
The smack of eyelash against cheek
blinking them back.

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“For to live means to sing, to love, to rage, and to tear things to shreds, while…faces look on and pupils burn.” –Nicolay Aseev

(Choosing to ignore for a moment that Aseev wrote this in a bullfighting context.)
(Because advice is advice amirite)

(listening to Russian poets)

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“It is just as well to be rash and foolish”

If you need a weekend writing push, check out Zora Neale Hurston‘s reminder to be rash. Get what’s in you out. Stop asking why and making too many demands, on yourself or others. If you later regret writing this thing, at least you made something worth regretting.

Stop waiting. Say it.

“I regret all of my books. It is one of the tragedies of life that one cannot have all of the wisdom one is ever to possess in the beginning. Perhaps, it is just as well to be rash and foolish for a while. If writers were too wise, perhaps no books would be written at all. It might be better to ask yourself ‘Why?’ afterwards than before. Anyway, the force from somewhere in Space which commands you to write in the first place, gives you no choice. You take up the pen when you are told, and write what is commanded. There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you.”

Zora Neale Hurston
Dust Tracks on a Road

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Writing in a Changing World: Craft, Readerships, and Social Media

breaking newsOk WriterFriends,

My latest blog for Ploughshares Literary Magazine is all about navigating writing as a career: Learning publishing/submissions, taking risks, defining success for yourself,  sustaining your writing practice even if you’re not part of a writing community, etc. (I KNOW.)

It’s an interview with Stephanie Vanderslice, director of the Arkansas Creative Writing MFA program, author several how-to creative writing books, and HuffPost’s resident Writing Advice columnist. She’s known for her (somewhat controversial) stance on teaching career ins & outs along with craft —
If you’re a writer, bookmark this thing.

Check it out here!

PS – Especially great for writers who have an MFA, are getting one, and/or who are contemplating one in the future. Head here and lend your thoughts in the Comments.

 

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findingbuyinghaving vs the Creative Self

“the self is as strong as it is active. There is no genuine strength in possession as such, neither of material property nor of mental qualities like emotions or thoughts. There is also no strength in use and manipulation of objects; what we use is not ours simply because we use it. Ours is only that to which we are genuinely related by our creative activity […] The inability to act spontaneously, to express what one genuinely feels and thinks, and the resulting necessity to present a pseudo self to others and oneself, are the root of the feeling of inferiority and weakness. Whether or not we are aware of it, there is nothing of which we are more ashamed than of not being ourselves, and there is nothing that gives us greater pride and happiness than to think, to feel, and to say what is ours.”
Erich Fromm, Escape from Freedom

We creatives love to ask our successful counterparts about possessions.

What gear should I buy? What software are you using? What apps did you use while writing your last novel? What kind of [fill in instrument] is that?
If not possessions, perhaps situations. Locale. Circumstance.
Do you have a studio? Should I move to [fill in big city] too? Should I get a nanny? Do I need to switch to part-time? Do I need to switch to full-time? Do I need to get a(nother) degree? Should I be teaching? Should I stop teaching?

While such questions may get a craftsperson somewhere (sometimes), they’re ultimately distractions. Really sexy, productive-feeling distractions.

But their beds look great.For instance, if I can make the craft all about gear, tools, and/or assorted circumstances, I can avoid the terrifying relating-to-myself required of all creators. I can ignore the sense of weakness and inferiority I feel in front of a blank page, or when sitting (empty) at the piano.
I can believe that my lack of creation is due not to my failure or weakness (or lack of discipline, talent, motivation, skill), but to a lack of materials or access to a specific situation. Cue the bemoaning of low funds, lame writing space, poor connections, limited gear. I’d be ridiculously prolific if only I had that one thing.

Since I’m good at following whine-stimulated rabbit trails, I then spend my restless (creative!) energy researching tools, books, instruments, software, gear, and/or assorted jobs. I put myself at languorous pseudo-ease by accomplishing a non-necessity vaguely related to my art! Hooray! #winsthatarefails

Meanwhile, I’ve only moved things around. I haven’t created anything. There is no strength in use or manipulation of objects.”

wood paneling or no

Okay so here’s the thing.
Possessing is no artistic sin. It’s not even shady territory through which we artists should creep warily, lest we lose our Artist Cred.
But it does get in the way.

Primarily because while we’re busy asking questions about possessions, we aren’t asking anything else: of ourselves, of our craft(s), of the blank page, the instrument, the gear we DO have, the ideas we’re back-burnering into eternity, our own unique abysses.

Having and buying shit – blah blah blah. Think, feel, and say what’s yours.

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On the obscene… from (the widely-censored) Henry Miller

The most insistent question put to the writer of “obscene” literature is: why did you have to use such language? […]

Someone has said that  “the literary artist, having attained understanding, communicates that understanding to his readers. That understanding, whether of sexual or other matters, is certain to come into conflict with popular beliefs, fears and taboos, because these are, for the most part, based on error.” […]

People who would be revolted by drawings in Ecce Homo will gaze unblushingly at African pottery or sculpture no matter how much their taste or morals may be offended. In the same spirit they are inclined to be more tolerant of the obscene works of ancient authors. Why? Because even the dullest are capable of admitting to themselves that other epochs might, justifiably or not, have enjoyed other customs, other morals. As for the creative spirits of their own epoch, however, freedom of expression is always interpreted as license. The artist must conform to the current, and usually hypocritical, attitude of the majority. He must be original, courageous, inspiring and all that – but never too disturbing. He must say Yes while saying No. […]

It was demanded of [mankind] to know love, experience union and communion, and thus achieve liberation from the wheel of life and death. But we have chosen to remain this side of Paradise […] In a profound sense we are forever delaying the act. We flirt with destiny and lull ourselves to sleep with myth. We die in the throes of our own tragic legends […] If there is anything which deserves to be called “obscene” it is this oblique, glancing confrontation with the mysteries, this walking up to the edge of the abyss, enjoying all the ecstasies of vertigo and yet refusing to yield to the spell of the unknown.

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