A Few Notes About Writing

Redon's "Homage to Goya"

A few years ago two friends gently yelled at me. Remonstrated, perhaps. They insisted the first thing I had to do every morning, once ablutions had been made and coffee dripped, was to write here. And I did.

And now I don't, not frequently, not daily, and to my loss, because readership notwithstanding, I discovered that writing some assurance--the Google statistics I can consult--my quick jottings were read at least by one person. The sense of contact served to boost my spirits. Most simplistically, it made me happy and set me up for a good day. An hour well spent beats vagrant time (I'm not sure what vagrant time is, but I like the sound of it).

Writing poetry also boosts and antidepresses but in a different way than writing in a blog, in the way stormy weather forebodes and then the storm breaks and there is sunshine, skies blue as the English countryside's (I rely on the Nineteenth Century novel for the shadings of blue).

Breaking that down, my spirits feel heavy, raincloud like. I don't understand it, I never do, I think I'm upset. And then I write a draft and I'm no longer heavy. Like storybook enchantment my intention has to be honest. I can't stage things, can't realize my sadness can be remedied by picking up my pen or laptop. I have to chance on the cure.

Each time it is required I forget what will work and each time I discover it.

I would like to remember in the essential way memory and work collude and start writing here more.  Who knows if that will happen but at least there are three drafts of poems and perhaps more on the way. I'm not a pretender in at least one sense. In at least one way, the way of writing poems, I'm a poet.

The Dry Spell Is Over

Art by Fan Zhou

Sometimes writers don't write.  It is not the end of their writing life.  It is not the end of all creativity on  Earth evermore, though some writers, such as this one, harbor such fears like they are creaky wooden vessels and the harbor teeming with thieves and conscripted sailors.

I'm not sure I know what that means, but shivers are sailing up and down my spine, matey.  The main news here is good.  Yesterday I didn't think I could write.  This morning I got up and wrote.  By "got up" I mean made two cups of coffee.  By wrote, I mean remembered I title I decided on just as I was falling asleep.

Sometimes you get lucky and don't forget what you were thinking of the night before.  I got lucky.  Perhaps because title of my newest poem, "Rolling on the Floor Killing Elves," is not subtle.  Perhaps because it is, in some form, archived in a series of comments, a conversation I had on FB with another poet.  Whose name I withhold merely to protect her.

Who besides Sarah Sarai wants to be associated with "Rolling on the Floor Killing Elves."  It may be dangerous to explore so much about spanking new work, but, well, I'll find out, soon enough.  The thing is, the poem starts silly and self-evolves into a vehicle for dreams remembered and not, and a family member who never, until last night, visited one of my dreams.

I love creativity and the process.  I love seeing words spill out of me in combinations I never before knew.

One more possible reason for the end of the siege.  Last night I submitted two poems to a journal for which I tailored the poems. The poems weren't requested.  There is no guaranty they will be accepted and a great margin of possibility they will be rejected.  I wrote them after being told by an editor who had accepted one of my poems, once, my new work wasn't quite what this editor's readers were looking for. So I had, against all belief in the possibility of doing so, tailored my work.  Then discovered the journal was closed to submissions.

But, lo! these many months later, submissions were opened, I tried.  When one door opens, so do many many more. Keep your doors open, universe.  Sarah Sarai is moving on in.

And for today, I am saved-er; when one job ends another looms; writing

I'm going to start with a post script. Using a Homer Simpson illustration may just undermine any attempt at seriousness here.  Oh well.  Here goes.

There is space in my head today, the kind of space a westerner appreciates, with sweeps of sky thinning into infinite firmament, mountain ranges on the horizon, shrubs, the many passions of dirt..

One job ended. It had been a long spell of databasing and so much information my brain rearranged itself. That's okay. It's malleable, my brain is. Further arrangements can be made and the rearrangement isn't so bad.  I felt its impact a few weeks ago when I wrote a few drafts.  Not so later with a different draft but any influence on a poem is if not good, then at least worth consideration and evaluation. 

Makes me wonder, did driving myself so much for these past few months open a few new passageways, block a door or two, narrow a circuit?  Does the new wallpaper work for me or doesn't it.  Yeah, I'm being abstract but then I'm not saying so much that detail is called for.

Only four hours of work today.  A full half-day vacation--time to detox or adjust as if I just stepped off a cross-country flight and am vibrating in solidarity with the airplane. 

Something new on Monday. And creation this weekend. Energy's being lowered like stars onto a stage. Everything's a prop. Every prop serves.

For today, I am saved

After work --ten hours-- I walked straight to a park for bark leaves shadows a whole different (lower thrum) vibration like a giant freezer might have if its shiny depth held tree trunks leaves shadows. 

Breathe breathe. 

My almost escaped Soul chooses to give me another shot. She is always ready to bolt.

Hope for me, there is hope for me, She believes. My Soul She likes flesh, likes a body without which She is intelligent ether only.

Without my Soul I am unintelligent electrochemistry. Souls find new bodies. Bodies don't find new Souls. That's a mystery.

Apple, spinach, celery.  Fresh juice. Cashews.  Carob-covered raisins.  Dinner.  I tell my soul She is  happy.  She doesn't care about spinach cashews raisins. She wouldn't care if I were macrobiotic or ate beef and chocolate cake for every meal.

Would She?

Why am I writing about Soul?  Why do I always land here?  Minutes ago I said, Sarah, write something anything, for any reason, or because you're a writer.

It's done.  Thanks for your indulgence.  For today, I am saved.

Welcome, 2011

Last night I wrote my 2010 list of accomplishments, some personal, small improvements of character; some literary, an unusual number of new short stories in '10. Some more literary, poems accepted or published. None were financial.

My nows need to be sustained and so I turn my attention to the other practical (the first practical is appreciation of the Great Other; the second practical is embrace of the embraceables in our lives; writing is a third practical, though on some days a person may blaspheme or hurt her loved ones by putting it first).

We'll see what happens.  My rent is paid through 2010, always a good sign. Trivial or flip though it may seem, my heart is open and purring. I feel like I'm growing up, an echoic feeling. Have you felt it before, well you're feeling it again.

Every January 1 I am convinced the future to be in all ways superior to the past, forgetting all I have is the now. The rest is speculation and agreement, theory and fog. Yes, this from the author of The Future Is Happy.

Cheers.

What Lists & Their Makers Ignore: the fact of bounding enthusiasm (for the written word)

It's easy to get snagged on personalities, cliques and even worse, seeming cliques—we perceive as one voice, one mind and exclusionary. Whether or not we think John Ashbery is the icing on the cake on the silver platter on the gleaming groaning sideboard on the waxed parquet flooring of literature, he's a good poet. I read him. I admire him greatly. I read many poets and admire them greatly, the living the dead the obscure the forgotten the neglected the famous.

Sunday I posted a Huffington Post slide-show on 15 overly praised writers. Fine and well. I could add another 15 to the list, as could anyone, but won't. In consideration of the slow accumulation of my soul embracing all good and comforting all bad (and weakened by that latter effort) I choose to notice—notice—the fact of bounding enthusiasm.

It's almost easy; I was born loving literature; not a struggle against my surroundings; still a little strange, strange. My mom wanted to write and I am one generation closer to being a writer. I add my little bit in honor of her.

Whatever our share, wherever we fall on lists, writing is a gift and as all gifts do, partakes of the divine, the divine being the sum total, the whole that's greater than the parts.

Writers and their willing readers are messengers. How can it not be so. Poets, you're messengers. Fiction writers, you're messengers. Essayists, you're messengers.

While lists of 15 most overrated writers are inevitable and not entirely reprehensible—it can be annoying to see favorites overlooked—what must be noted and is too often ignored are the wings, fluttery and phosphorescent, every writer has. How can there be a conference of the birds if the birds can't fly?

We must not lose sight of our joint and silly enthusiasm for the word. It offers focus and distraction, hope and terror, joy. I'm way beyond thinking I write because "I have no choice." I don't, true. At my last job (from which I was laid off)--I realized for the zillionth time, before being laid off, that upkeep and rent preclude art.

I was willing to write four hours on Sunday mornings and devote the rest of the week to Work and its attendant activities (sleep, laundry, tidying, friends). After I was laid off I wondered if it wasn't a meant-to-be gift—a bit more time to write. Yes it was a gift; not necessarily meant to be, but a gift nonetheless.

I'm all over the place as I often am in these postings. Sorry about that; it's a side effect of free association. Another side effect of free association is associating with The Ancient Association of Free Associators—of being a writer and loving the path, something far more important than any list.