Doing the Work

bootsThis is something my daughter Pearl and I have been talking about. She loves music and has been in school choirs since she was a little girl. She wants to make a career in music, but hasn’t yet figured out how to get there from here.

It’s a question I dealt with myself some years ago in my writing, but I find that one’s mother is not always the right person to offer advice. So I looked for other mentors for Pearl. I paid for piano lessons for an entire year — with an amazing woman who I hoped would inspire Pearl.

Pearl didn’t practice piano once that year, well, not once during those nine months. Not once. The only glimmer of light I got was in noticing that she was not willing to give up her half hour with Susan each week. So I kept writing the checks, and hoping. Eventually I told her that was it.

A couple of positive things have happened for Pearl this past year. She’s found a terrific choir teacher at Edmonds Community College, and when I thought she was going to drop out of school this past quarter (the Math 80 conundrum) she regathered her forces — because of choir — and registered for spring quarter. Though I don’t necessarily think college is going to be her path, I hated to see her quitting simply because she was discouraged. I wanted her to make conscious choices.

And another thing. In January she and her sister attended a Lady Gaga concert. Inspired, Pearl bought a beautiful leather bound journal (with music engraved on the cover) and she started jotting down lyrics for songs. She also started practicing the piano. She even arranged for it to be tuned! She wrote down this quotation in her journal and shared it with me — it’s from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke and is one of Lady Gaga’s tattoos —

gaga tattoo“In the deepest hour of the night, confess to yourself that you would die if you were forbidden to write. And look deep into your heart where it spreads its roots, the answer, and ask yourself, must I write?”

This is what I’ve learned from practicing my own art. You can’t just look into your heart in the deepest hour of the night, you have to do something. Wanting to be a writer — or a singer —  with your entire being will not make you a writer or a singer. You have to do the work, at least a little bit every day.

Phrasings — this weekend!

carlaToday’s Bellingham Herald includes an interview with my friend, poet Carla Shafer and the amazing poetry and dance presentation, “Phrasings in Word + Dance,” now in its seventh year. (April 5-7, tickets available on-line through Brown Paper Tickets.)

In the interview Carla also reveals how the Bellingham poetry series, Chuckanut Sandstone, acquired its name: “One night, the group of writers named the open mic ‘Chuckanut Sandstone,’ because at first, like poetry, it looks tough. It appears to be a rock, but when you dig into it, even a little, it breaks apart into small easy pieces. And sandstone, like poetry, has grit.”

Phrasings in Word + Dance is an amazing collaboration. If you are in Bellingham this weekend, I hope you can take a look.

After several weeks off — in theory to ski with my kids on Tuesday evenings — I am back at Writing Lab. Today we talked about publication, a word I can never hear without the palimpsest of Emily Dickinson’s “Publication is the Auction — / Of the Mind of Man…”

garden gateAuctions aside, I believe publication is a necessary step (notice I am not calling it “a necessary evil”) in a writer’s evolution. We write for ourselves, to start with. We gradually begin to write for our teachers, our friends, our families. If we stay on the path long enough, we probably consider sending a poem or an essay or a story to a complete stranger. I had the benefit of a poetry mentor — Professor Nelson Bentley — known to exclaim, “Send this out immediately to some lucky editor!” Even so I found that the mere consideration of such an act challenged me to take my writing to another level. What’s a dull line or two when your friends love you?

Several lab members are new at this, so we started with a modest assignment: Find one website to share. You might begin by Googling a journal or small magazine you sometimes read. If you don’t read journals that publish the sort of work you’d like to publish, now’s a good time to begin. To find them, you could look in a book of poems by someone you admire to find out where that person has been published. They don’t have to be the high-priced ones that the big bookstores carry. Check a smaller newstand or a neighborhood bookstore for local publications.

Of course writing blogs often include links to journals. If you have a favorite, let us know and we’ll check it out. Meanwhile: you might read this advice from The Review Review: “What Editors Want.”

 

If you plant it, it will grow…

I had an adventure yesterday. While driving home from Chehalis, in my mom’s boat of a car, a Crown Victoria, I had a flat tire. A very nice man tried to wave me over, but — as I was also extremely sleepy and had weaved a little (I know, I know) — I didn’t realize he was indicating my tire. I stopped at a rest area, walked around, freshened up, and got back on the road. About 5 minutes later the tire shredded.

To my credit, the Triple-A man (a really nice man named Dennis) said, “These cars are like land-yachts. It’s really hard to notice when something is wrong.” He put the spare on for me, told me to go to Les Schwab (he said that’s where the tire was from and maybe it was under warranty), and waved me off.

imagesSo I called my husband, who tried to talk me into driving home (I told him the Triple-A man said not to), and he told me that I must under no circumstances let a tire salesman talk me into buying four new tires. I drove around Federal Way for about 20 minutes, and found two other tire stores, was very close to giving up (after all, would the tire really be under warranty? could I be that lucky? my husband said for-sure-not), but decided to try one more time. I found it. The tire turned out to have been fairly new and it was under warranty. The man at the counter did not try to sell me anything.

I spent about an hour and a half sitting on the side of the freeway, then about two and a half hours at Les Schwab. I had my textbook for my college composition class with me and I got it out and read the first unit’s reading assignments (this was a revelation). After considerable time had passed, I discovered the popcorn machine, and I moved to the reception area, where sunlight was streaming through the windows, and I sat down and reopened my book.

One other customer was sitting there. He was a big man about my age, and he wore a white tee-shirt and had a gold hoop earring. He was African American, but he reminded me of Mr. Clean from those old Proctor & Gamble commercials. “What happened to you?” he asked. I told him, briefly (I really wanted to get back to my book) and he said, “Well, praise God. Weren’t you lucky!” 220px-Mr._Clean_logo

Lucky I didn’t have an accident. Lucky I was driving the car and not my 80-year old mother. Lucky I had Triple-A. Lucky that the tire was under warranty. Lucky I was obedient (he actually used that word!) to the advice I’d been given. Lucky that it was such a bright, pretty day to wait in.

I was initially leery, but he won me over with his infectious enthusiasm. I am still not sure if he was trying to convert me to his church, but he talked a lot about the Bible (Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth), or “the good book,” and how “it’s all in there!” We talked about my daughters. We talked about how if you want to grow something, you have to plant it first. “It might not grow. Maybe the soil’s no good. Maybe it won’t ever rain. But if you don’t plant it, it surely will not grow!”

His name was Len, and although (being at heart a reclusive hermit type who would always rather read a book) I almost got up and moved away when he began talking to me, he ended up making  my day. Added bonus: he gave me a story to tell.