New Poem: When I Start My Beginning with Water

When I Start My Beginning with Water

I dove but I cannot surface

I stay with the sea’s pull

though my mother’s face appears

between the glass of tourmaline

I know the earth is red agony

I want to be spared

So, I leave deeper, deeper

until the ache of the sea dissolves me

Keeping laughter in the depths

sorrow surfaces

No man brings his anchored goods

words that tear at my sister’s face

I want her to have this

wordless freedom of waves

The singing is my companion

but not my commitment

The wonder, not possession

just curiosity

Mother, if I could give you

this innocence, would you dive back

to the beginning, where we are set loose

into the sea, the call of our true names

Strange Bedfellows: Grappling with the Private World and the Public Life of Creativity

A. Sato, 2014
A. Sato, 2014

It’s been a while since I have written anything. No poems. No essays. No short stories.

When I look at the newsfeeds of my prolific friends, I feel a little guilty. “Have you been writing,” one friend asks? Another inquires if I am at least submitting work for publication. Strangely, I have made scant progress on anything related to my own creative fiction and nonfiction.

This uncomfortable truth doesn’t take away the tinges of guilt and envy when I am surrounded by writers and artists who are producing circles around me. And, sure, enlightenment says this isn’t a race or competition… but, we all know it is. At least, the business of what we do compels us to be productive. To produce.

Most of us need the feedback, accolades, connection, and (although laughable at times) financial support we gain from taking our work to the streets. Some might argue the value of the creative process is moving through the creative process, as if just doing is enough.

For spiritualists and believers, the creative process is communication between self and Spirit or God. For others, and I would dare say the majority, writing, painting, music, etc. is our means of expression, communicating our deepest, most intimate selves (souls?) to the world (and, hey, maybe even the means to earn a living).

There are also many others whose work is the catalyst for social and political change – a meaningful vision, an ideal.

Mesquite Grove - A. Sato, 2015
Mesquite Grove – A. Sato, 2015

Back to Me

Through all of the definitions and pressures to produce for reasons both menial and purposeful, I seem to have lost my way. For several months I worried that I was simply bored with my writing. I was restless. I wandered around looking for something I couldn’t seem to find.

Sheepishly, I took all of those “what is your true calling” quizzes. I re-read the Enneagram (Tragic Romantic 4, no surprise). I took all of the career path tests and continued to draw the Writer card. Dammit. My other choices: Clergy or Psychologist.

Writers are akin to preachers, after all, channeling the message of the unseen, unexpressed, and under-appreciated.

“Writers are healers… words are balm,” one friend reminds. The narrative of our pain can conjure healing.

But, lately, I am neither wordsmith evangelist nor wounded healer. Even poetry seems flat to me, a personal chore, like pumicing dead skin. That old glass slipper that once fit perfectly doesn’t seem to encapsulate my big toe now. Bluntly, I am fucking terrified.

Still, in my terror, I refuse to produce for the sake of saying, “Hey, look, I made something!” (says every potty-training toddler).

Another friend lamented, and I will paraphrase, “There are too many photographers and not enough readers.” I argued against this notion of “too many,” but can understand his point.

People are writing and producing art more than ever before with the advent of print-on-demand and the vanity press. We’re all looking for a little appreciation, I guess. To be heard, seen, validated. Through the billions of Tweets and fragments, photos and paintings, the practice of the creative life has been shanghaied.

Let me say it again: the practice

I’m aghast at the grammatical errors found in professional articles and essays. If the pros can’t even manage the discipline to edit and hone skills, I really cannot rail against the amateur. In essence, we are in a creative frenzy, a race to stay ahead of the ADD public.

It’s as if, culturally speaking, we are still living the message of those 1990s Baby Einstein, Baby Monet, Baby Mozart cds … we believe talent just kinda makes itself. Everyone’s an artist, right?

Practice takes too long. Being unproductive means no attention. And, god forbid, the humble role of the student, of being willing to be taught.

Only the Ravens - A. Sato, 2015
Only the Ravens – A. Sato, 2015

The Muse is Dead… Long Live the Muse

None of this is exactly hot off the press news. And, I am not sure analyzing the state of the arts is going to alleviate my fucking terror at my own lack of motivation.

I’m driven by the same insecurity of silence. I want to have my muse back NOW and sell books that will actually be read. But, I am cursed with having to take my own mad advice.

So, maybe I will wait it out some more and see what shakes. Stay curious. Be zen about it.

Tomorrow I am going to one of my favorite mountains. She and I know I won’t share anything about it with you. Because, at least for now, the practice needs to be enough.

Winter poem – something new, borrowed and blue…

Los Angeles Boyfriend

The man blots his eyes with the sun – he hopes to capture another Lucy
To call from the door. I had hoped to be the chosen actress, but there are C cups
And champagne drinkers ahead of me, and the night dabbles its wand in the thick dusk.
Every man has his prize and the fat girls starve themselves for it.
Even the ugly guys weep their beautiful screenplays – attribute the higher arts
To virtues uncovered by dinosaur bones – a three hour disaster on boats with wine
And we landlocked look on, dreaming of them.

I have read your Mr. Ed resume. I have looked between lines for the cocaine you promised
And the dancing polka-dot bikinis. You were a liar before you arrived, and now you are perfectly
Suited, a dressed banana for signatures and benzo-shocked starlets.  You had a runner,
A desert dwelling bitch who couldn’t stand the noise. Vacuum and insomnia, you did her in.
Do you like anything? I have heard you monkey your lines in supermarket aisles,
Pretending your pretty goods can float like the traffic that pours aimlessly into here.

Here is the T-bird you didn’t expect to win, when your name pulled the asphalt dragsters
And we ate the deserts, the cold dog star flashing out need. And we glowed in the sex-light
Of too much wisdom.  Out there, I pulled you in. I made you king and kindred,
But we all learn the vengeance – how to float on the polluted red sea of metropolitan slaves.
Honey, you made your address shine and sparkle.
What you promised
Was a fool’s gold, and I, the fool to spin that wheel.

The Camouflaged Woman: Celebrating Irreverent Beauty & Natural Expression

Image

** Re-blogged from Juniper & Crow, my SageWoman channel.

For me, a landscape does not exist in its own right, since its appearance changes at every moment; but the surrounding atmosphere brings it to life – the light and the air which vary continually. For me, it is only the surrounding atmosphere which gives subjects their true value. ~ Claude Monet

I recently made the decision to reduce or eliminate most of the items in my make-up bag and medicine cabinet, and return to my nature girl status – using make-up and other such products minimally. The list of synthetic and chemically derived ingredients in many of the products I was using was astounding and contributing to consumer/identity guilt as well as dry skin. In this process, I explored more natural product lines – especially lipstick, not wanting to give up the occasional sensuality of a raspberry stained pout. In choosing to purge these products, I have considered the myriad reasons women elect to go “au naturel” – to discard products and opt for the glow of a face that is exposed to fresh air, sunlight and heart-pounding rock scrambles. Going through my wardrobe, I noticed how many clothes I never wear – shirts, skirts, dresses, suits… items that were acceptable for the office, but not at all my style or expression.

In the past I have vehemently defended any woman’s choice to call herself a feminist or independent spirit AND wear make-up, shave her legs and change her appearance as often as she pleased to complement certain situations – or, dare I say, to attract a mate. While I was going through the process of discarding those precious and coveted brands: MAC, Mary Kay, Sephora, etc.. I considered the rigid perspective I have held on natural beauty as being, well, natural. Just as natural as appearing bare-faced as I was born, is this urge to be incognito, to use the body and face as an artistic palette – a landscape of one’s deepest beliefs, dreams, culture, age and life changes. Being natural is being in a state of flux, adapting to change. Beauty and self-expression – beyond the scheme of vanity – are indeed statements of being “seen” by one’s community, one’s peers.

To simplify beauty into two fixed categories where one side exalts heavy-blossomed fashionable ladies, dripping cosmetic dew, while the other side is stripped like a winter branch, a very austere interpretation of liberated womanhood, neglects the metaphor, pleasure and ritual alive in adornment. I believe many of the women I admire – the chosen iconoclasts – do not toe the line of beauty standards and definitions. Rather, their beauty rituals are rooted in themes of metamorphosis, camouflage and art. Beauty is found in change. Beauty is transformative, unruly, hidden or explicit… In other words, true self-expression lies in whatever the creator desires.

While there are many examples of cultural beauty rites and practices and articles on such a topic, my focus is on the types of expression not typically found in Revlon ads or feminist journals or anthropological studies. This essay does not seek to illustrate the cultural, societal, religious or commercial standards and challenge these from a political or social platform. What I am interested in, through my own stumbles of interpretation and myth, is the sublime force of physical adornment as ritual, the surreal elements of style and beauty, the wyrd and wonderful archetypes and manifestations.  I hope  all goddess- and empowered women explore their own ecstatic personas: lovely, horrible and unknown.

ImageThe Horned Woman is a persona that resonates deeply with me. I have a secret bond with deer, reindeer and antelope folk. I believe my heart is partially composed of the blood of a doe. Consider, for example, a woman’s response to danger, that alarming moment of stillness and bloodpulse. Imagine your life among a blaze of new prairie grass where you walk into the morning, quietly grazing and nudging the soft tip of your fawn’s nose. Inching into the cobalt horizon, the sun rises with the arc of this dream. Suddenly there is movement. The forest woman becomes the yellow lines, the still brook – her young blends with the creeping wind of grass and snow.  The horned woman’s style is that of hidden danger, of morning – the grey dress made of wool spun in Wales, the shawl of soft ewe wool spun in Lukachukai. The horned woman’s eyes are pools of almond light. She moves unheard in the soft soil – moccasins along sandy washes. Deer women have an aversion to chatter and prefer the silence of the woods. She is used to being uprooted. She will walk away when things get used up, spent.

Horned women are not so unlike reptiles: they are stone observers warmed by the sun.  They are misunderstood arrows soaring across dunes, plains and prairies. The song of the horned woman is the song of the whippoorwill, the song of the rifle. Her hair is often tangled, long and filled with dried leaves. Her dress hems are threadbare. She leaves trails that disappear with thImagee new snow, or with the shifting of sand. She is comfortable with her scars and does not suppose what others make of them. Her breath always shows in the air and her cheeks are ruddy with the autumn wind.

I am heartened
in this vast lonely land
by the room for affection.
~ Harney County Lessons, Angela AllenImage

Deer women adorn their bodies not with the palette of cosmetics, but the moss and hanging gardens of the forest and the gauze and cotton of sunbaked sand. She dreams her surroundings. If you personify the beauty of the deer, you are drawn to muted tones that allow you to dream and dance unencumbered. The musky smells of sex and earth are your perfumes. You stay close to the fire and polish your rifle. You don’t mess with the naïve love of starlets and do not comprehend being unprepared. Your expression is the bucolic longing of a country home in the moors, or a teepee in snow, or simply moving. You have the sharp gaze of a thorn in skin.

The horned lady loves changing in subtle and calculated ways. She is the mysterious portrait of trees and a beating heart no one can see or pierce.

Image
Water women choose their colors as the tides move under La Luna. There is an erratic and sometimes tsunami rhythm to what they wear and how they work the energy around them. The mermaid is the embodiment of a love that moves close and the enticing danger of a rocky island when she is adrift. She is Collette, the independent yet romantic women who raises the bar on sensuality. She is turquoise and azure, yes, but also fuchsia, hot pink, lime green lightning bolts across cheekbones. She holds prized dyed silk in one hand and ambrosia in the other.  In recent years, Disney has capitalized on the young girl’s fascination with color and water, of romance and the seashell-covered underwater princess. This is a diminishment of the oceanic force of the water woman’s abilities and intuition. The expression of this woman is psychic – sound is felt not heard. She is the first to dance in sequins and boa on the bar. She is the teal-draped siren of a Waterhouse painting.

Image
“I must be a mermaid, Rango. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”
~ Anaïs Nin

Rather than moor inland for her rescuer, fairytales and folklore paint this bejeweled woman as the enticer – the temptress to crash ships and lure men away from safe harbor – hardly the innocent sea nymph. Still, the water woman is no shallow girl to be labeled meek or cruel. To embody the ocean, a woman must be able to walk along the shore with the haunting shipwrecks and cliff-thrown bodies, with the whalesongs of dying sea life.

For the love of all sea creatures, the water woman is an advocate, a protector – and often her love of environmental activism defines her. She is frequently seen in t-shirts with statements that exemplify her beliefs, or in waders collecting samples of water. She is the soft-eyed seal and the mother orca.

Her expression of style is never mired in trends and never limited by ready-made fashions. She is often creative and makes her own garments. Gold is her metal and she forges the tides with orange and teal locks curled around her waist.  She is at home in her skin. Nude is her favorite state with the occasional coat of moonlight as she strolls among the lilies and beaver ponds, along the basalt cliffs of the Atlantic.

Image

“The Mountain teaches the dreaming…” Unknown

The Sorceress, The Steppe Witch – I have met very few women who embody the nebulous and sometimes frightening qualities of these mistresses of mountains, caves and mazes. What is most lovely about this woman is perhaps her rare character, her ability to be a map of storylines and ancestry. She is unafraid to be fierce. She is the Voodoo Priestess, Kali Ma, Oya – keeper of the cemetery.  In her, the sands shift as she wanders the dreamtime in search of lizards, spirals, dance. Hers is the darkness. Her color is yellow – the bee mistress concealed in the bud. Her stone is obsidian with which she cuts the patterns of her skin, strips the hides for her dress.
Image
Because of her fearless and healing abilities, her focus on dress and appearance is limited to the truest expression of magic and ritual. She is the La Loba on the bajadas. She is the thousand stars shining for spells and mirrors.

yes sir friends
sour is sweet things break
the yearning returns home
and abroad hungry is hungry.
~ Gary Gildner

The steppe witch is a spell caster, a bone reader. Her home is filled with mirrors and roots, black lace and red light. She is the one you see after taking a long journey, and in her courtyard she invites you in to be among her chickens and goats, to wait beneath a gnarled old tree for her clients to leave. She always seems older than her age, although she retains a youthful vibrancy in her smile. She is the song of a New Orleans jazz band and the funeral mass. More than her appearance, you will never forget the perfume of her – something like lingering smImageoke and rum.

“Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
~ Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles

The mistress of mountains is gauze – white knuckle, brilliant in the glow of a candle. She is always hungry and makes no shame in this. She wears aprons and collects a chicken for the pot. The stones that line her path and her pocket tell stories. She is perhaps less interested in attracting a mate with her physical attire because she has come to rely on the pulse of sensuality in her power.

ImageThe most tender place in my heart is for strangers.
I know it’s unkind but my own love is much too dangerous…
~ Hold On, Hold On, Hold On, Neko Case

The Ethereal Woman – She is the temporary fix. She is the weekend in Miami, front row seats, pink bubblegum gloss. The ethereal woman makes you believe in her fairytales. She is the embroidered pillowcases of her farmland. She stands on porches and gazes Imageout at the places she might one day see. The ethereal woman is  the ticking grandfather clock. Her colors are baby blues and dewy mauves, peppermints, lemony yellows. She is the woman in a 1950’s Comet cruising Route 66. While she seeks independence, she always stops for love (at least, temporarily). She believes the stories told by the women in her family and looks like her mother.

She is Ferris wheels and lights blazing up, the stuffed animals on a young girl’s bed. She has dreams that include you – the man who would love her, but she is as light as a feather for your promise.

The ethereal is the dove, the bird girl. She is the cheerleader uniform and the prom dress, but only on the surface. Under her soft façade, there is the metallic composure of lessons learned.
Image
The ethereal woman wears chiffon and walks with her head tilted back in a permanent laugh. She is not the tomboy and doesn’t pretend to be, but her strength resides in the heritage of the needle dropping on old records and the tractor’s morning hum. She learns her grandmother’s recipes. She is the first crush, the last to leave.

Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved.
~ And because love battles, Neruda

Image

The Heroine is essential to the story of womanhood. Who better to defeat the myth of girlishness?  I have included the heroine because – just as her male counterpart – the female overachiever appears more frequently in social roles and styles now than ever before.  She is the anime girl with a sword and wolf companion. She wears the stiletto heels of a financial district entrepreneur. She kills it. Everything is in her control. The heroine is not Mother Theresa or Florence Nightingale; she is the hit woman for justice. She Imagewon’t change or soften – don’t try. She is the calculation of prison girls who use the perfume of shadows to seduce cell mates – her cohorts. She can enlist troupes, lead nations. Her world is spinning between her fingers.  She is neither good nor bad but finds the dirty work of protection and rebellion necessary and within her domain of skill and talent.

The heroine will choose her work over everything. She has the searing insight and dedication to achieve more than most, and she is likely adept in metal crafts and other forms of visual arts. She is the eco warrior, the desert dweller. She gives up children in order to have her wild roaming and access to the road. She is leather and tobacco. She smokes, cusses, drinks and gambles. She is unafraid to run with the boys and takes the miles under her belt like a trucker. Under her prowess and tough exterior, she cares for her people, her community and her traditions. She will fight for her land. She is not afraid of death or displacement, but possession is her nemesis.
Image

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
~ Her Kind, Anne Sexton

The modern heroine is incense and badger. Her sign is made of crossbones. She can be a trickster when she needs to be, but abhors false fronts and pretenses. She takes what she needs, but does not fall to trivialities and indulgences. She is latex and Outback. Tattoos are her make-up and she usually has several by the time she’s 21. Sharp-witted and skilled, be wary of challenging her. She will win.

These are but five examples of women and their mythologies. There are important rituals and practices that live through beauty and self-adornment. Modern cosmetics are but a trivial matter in the larger meaning of body worship and shapeshifting, of embodiment and metaphor. A woman will use the magic of her surroundings to express deep connection to the land, tradition, womanhood, heritage, motherhood and all other roles she chooses for herself. The masks we exhibit are not necessarily means of camouflaging our true natures but rather illustrate the complex and multifaceted personalities and idiosyncrasies alive in each of us. We are several composites of the roles we walk into and with during a lifetime. These are to be celebrated as the manifestations of our very nature, our stories as shown to the world within and without.

Deer in the Desert: Scenes from the Sonoran and Beyond

atypical arizona

In the desert, everything awakens in autumn. I, too, feel my senses sharpen, my desire to leave the people world for the world of bewilderment. I am not to be found in the city on any given weekend, but prefer to spend my time traversing washes and slopes in search of new adventure. I become the kit fox that circles your campfire. I have a mind to run and roam, to kick up the dirt and steal some of your sanity, to lose my heart. Everything – from thistle to peak – burgeons, including my imagination and hunger for exploration and observation across the cooked basalt pavement and saguaro-laden ridges of my desert home.  This is a time of silence and recollection. There is something immensely sensual about the desert light in winter – the blues of a lover’s eyes and the painted doors of adobes – the pink hum of the mouth and tongue – the reds of embers and cool tiles – and the violets bursting through the robes of royals and the tapestries of a woman’s innermost thoughts. These colors keep me reeling in the beauty of what some people who have not experienced this home call stark. Austerity is a white walled room with no windows. Austerity is a false freedom we gobble up. There is nothing austere or dull about the desert… everything is in some form of changing light and shadow. Movement is slow but ever-present, and the landscape itself, comprised of grains and dispersed cholla, is alive with its shifting and yawning.

Lately, I have been perusing my photos from the past six years of living here in the Southwest. I feel compelled to share a sort of word journal and collage of imagination, of sites and sensual feasts, a poem to the land. Just by recollecting the moment my boots hit the entry point to a special wash or a hidden valley of water, I return. Perhaps this endeavor is also to share an intimacy of place with the reader who may never see or exist within the boundaries of this fevered land.

These are favorite moments, small time capsules and episodes of beauty that leave me forever related to this wild, immense dreamscape.

photo 1

Sunset on Babbitt Ranch, a place called Little Wild Bill… the air is starting to cool as I squint in the sun through the branches of alligator junipers. I look down to find a serrated projectile point, possibly archaic… antelopes run into my periphery, then into the horizon where something I want, an ache, awaits.

photo2

A man walks out onto a granite lookout above Tonto Creek, near the Mogollon Rim. The black outline of rock and impending snow brings out the intensity of dark green and the hunger of deer. Who says Arizona is nothing but sand has never walked this place or seen the way a man’s shadow can look like a bird’s, like verdant hope.

photo 3

It’s July and the heat has settled into the concrete and breath of everything. I step outside to the perfume of queen of the night, those heavy moon-worshipers, illuminating asphalt, conversation and secrets. My collection of bones line the side of the house, a lovesong to death and the promise of something beyond this city, something creeping under highway metal and running towards home.

July13dump 1948

Perry Mesa volunteer project … and down we go to the promise of an afternoon swim in the Verde River… the basalt boulders make for a wild ride as we ascend and descend, ridge after ridge. Beyond the clouds, the Mazatzals rise as stained purple tablecloths against this table of sand and time.

photo 5

Sometimes I need to drive. When everything collapses, there is the road and bad coffee, crows and absolution. Every night there are shots of whiskey and motels. What destination can find you when everything else has fallen into the sky?

542153_10151482402795114_1572578077_n

Recognition happens in a moment. I stand on an old tree stump, a cut for the coming tourist season. I look out at the river below and the climbing sacrosanct peaks of the La Platas. Snow still covers the northern slopes. The aspens are thick with their desire – those pale women stand together, afraid of being alone. I am only five minutes from my home, a little strawbale, but here is eternity and I want to become this place, these cold drifts and promises.

photo 7

This is a bad sign and I am an intruder… there are hexes and omens I ignore for a peek down into the trail. The turquoise water snakes its course, one thousand feet below. I could jump. I could be nothing. I leave but tempt the night with a quick look back, over my shoulder, to where people left for the journey of salt.

July13dump 534

There are times when the wild doesn’t want you. I arrive with my head full of questions, hellbent or perhaps just bent by the disease of being too much with the cacophony of hell. I did not leave it. I brought it to the top. I wave my arms and scream out from the gang of pines. There is no song for the impatient. I am a closed coffin of betrayal. The wild wants an opening.

July13dump 160

I am a little like coyote in my stone house with my curious eyes and smile that conceals. I am the dirt bath and the morning run through washes, behind carbon copied homes, threatening the babies of suburbia. I am not a friend. I may eat at your table and shit on your bed.

458004_10151812599650114_600155463_o

Making fry bread and speaking of horses near Narbona Pass – this is the way to learn. There is always something to do or fix, but afternoons under the trees with my friends, laughing and preparing dinner… this is the work of women, the skirt of chance.

582455_10151482393930114_1311678033_n

There is fire. There is the immolation of this destiny. The woods will soon be gone. The animals have fled. I cannot help but stay with the anger until the ashes fall.

CoalMineCanyon3

I came here to know a peace. I came here to write the names of those who have come before, to gather or to bleed. I came to write poems but have been silenced many times. Already, the ravens are waiting, singing.

Life in Fiction – An Argument for Less

a-jean-cocteau-the-blood-of-a-poet-dvd-review-pdvd_014

It begins with a character, usually, and once he stands up on his feet and begins to move, all I can do is trot along behind him with a paper and pencil trying to keep up long enough to put down what he says and does. ~ William Faulkner

The artist is not a person endowed with free will who seeks his own ends, but one who allows art to realize its supreme purpose through him. ~ Carl Jung

I was one of those true believers. The edgier the story, the more fantastic the outcome, the more I loved it. Who adores our macabre or exhilarating human stories? It would seem we all do. We read, watch, listen to misery or – its twin – vainglory like a commodity we know exists “in the real” but to someone else, somewhere else. It doesn’t translate. When it does come home to meet us, we forget those narratives we were once so engulfed in. The macabre becomes that which we’d like to deny, forget. This process of subterfuge creates a culture that is both attracted to negativity and extremism, and opposed to personal acceptance of such.

As my writing life expands – and my personal understanding of life evolves – I find that I have developed an aversion to most fiction. Many of the novels and shorts stories I read rarely contain a redeeming point or overarching message to their melodramas. Even more exemplify a life lived stymied by fear, and thus dutifully put into print. I am infrequently moved by the concept, emotion or substance of fiction. Frankly, most of it is driven by ability to publish rather than a true call to meaning, vision and the art of writing.

I know this sounds incredibly pedantic. I am not reading fiction, however, as a writer; I read for the pleasure of reading. I try my best to put aside prejudices of style and form, and I simply allow myself to be carried away into the narrative. But the narrative is the problem. Wading through millions of books is overwhelming. It forces us to avoid the printed word for the very love of trees. There are simply too many books. Everyone I know is an “aspiring author” seeking personal redemption for a life under-lived. Pick up any number of pulp novels and tell me I am wrong.

Two of the most important rules of writing I was given are:

  1. Know what you know, and know it well, but don’t write about it specifically; no one cares.
  2. Live your life first – write later.

When I was a budding poet, I frequently wrote about my life, as I knew it then. When I read the older material now, it boggles me why anyone would want to walk the same steps as I walked through readership. And yet, when I wrote these stories and poems, I seemed to think they did. The personal can be very compelling. I do like wonderful storytelling from gifted writers such as Dorothy Allison. I do find some of the personal to be persuasive and intimate (while remaining well crafted). The difference I see between her style and those who monkey these skills is this: she does not tell her stories to supplement a stagnant existence – the woman, dare I say, lived it all and – given no audience – would have done what she set out to do.

An important question to ask every writer (or artist) is: why do it?

If the answer involves healing or getting any kind of validation in the form of reviews or publication, then please assess the necessity of what you are giving to the world. Perhaps it is better suited for your journal.

Beware of the writers…

If you find yourself falling into the perils of these patterns, consider getting outside critique and changing your habits and literary focus.

 He/She Who Wishes to Get Laid

You know the type. Everything they write is laden in some sort of sexual escapade where they are top performers. Really, it is quasi-soft porn and should be assigned as such.

He/She Who Wishes for Justice

They want heads on platters. Perhaps it is for good reason – but it is not something everyone else needs to know or to which be subjected.

He/She Who Wishes to be Indiana Jones

The band dork has grown up. Can there be bravado? Can there be lovelorn women draped on balconies or Grecian men serving wine? This writer will find a way to fulfill his/her earliest fantasies of coolness.

He/She Who Needs Friends/Admiration/A Real Living

No one wants to feel lonely, but writing is certainly no way to make friends. Most people think you’re creepy if you write anyway (because no one wants a friend who may divulge their secret psychological problems). Writing rarely is glamorous, either. Those who make any kind of living usually have to diversify through teaching and commercial writing.

I am sure readers will find other unsavory archetypes for us to ponder, and many of us have dabbled in most of the above, if we are willing to be honest.

To summarize: Let’s agree to reduce the verbal waste among us. Let us aspire to say something that matters – that engages – that connects us to wonder and growth. I am waiting for you, dear writers, in the Garden of Narrative. We have some butts to kick and some egos to shed.