One thing I’ve come to know is how often I’m the designer and builder of my own walls and windows. We all are. And it is in leaping, in going for it, in saying yes, that we open up all the possibilities of our lives.
Here’s a poem (by Kaylin Haught) that gives us permission to do just that. Seems right for this new season that is spring…
God Says Yes To Me
Kaylin Haught
I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic and she said yes I asked her if it was okay to be short and she said it sure is I asked her if I could wear nail polish or not wear nail polish and she said honey she calls me that sometimes….
We prevent it everyday, are diagnosed with it everyday, recover from it everyday, rage against it everyday.
Yesterday, at 40, I had my first mammogram.
We’ve had plenty of cancer in our family, but no breast cancer. So, my risk was minimal and the mammogram was just the standard recommended screening.
It’s true what they say — it’s not a wildly comfortable procedure. But it’s quick, and if it can catch early illness in me or my sister, my mother or my girlfriends or, someday, my daughters, hallelujah.
One of the most disheartening things in Michael Moore’s movie Sicko was the dearth of preventative care in this country, and the corresponding gaps in mortality rates. People — mammograms are one of the ways we can close the gap. Mammograms and self exams, supplements and exercise.
Sometimes, it’s that easy.
Take care of yourself, friends. Not just in October…
Did y’all read the recent article by Ursula K. Le Guin in Harpers? She has a thing or two to say about the world of publishing.
Whoa, boy.
Here’s one of the many close-to-the-bone observations she makes about the state of the industry:
“…the relationship of art to capitalism is, to put it mildly, vexed. It has not been a happy marriage. Amused contempt is about the pleasantest emotion either partner feels for the other. Their definitions of what profiteth a man are too different.”
You know what really kills me about this? It reminds of something I believed at 22. And 28. And then I spent years convincing myself otherwise. Partly because I wanted to pursue my own passion and, at the same time, have health insurance with a decent deductible. I wanted to believe that I could; that the world valued what I valued enough to make it work.
I mean, is that so crazy?
But I’ve come back around to Ms. Le Guin’s way of thinking. I still want the passion and the perks (pedestrian though they may be), but not at any cost.
We all deserve our just rewards, but if the mediation between the separate beds of art and commerce is going to result in homogeneous schlock printed on thin paper with bad ink and sold out of one great big book stall in the sky, no thanks. Not only do you and I not want to write that stuff, but people don’t want to read it.
Maybe it’s why the folks cited in Le Guin’s article are falling asleep instead of turning the pages with wild abandon. Which is, forgive my bossiness, how we oughta write…
Because I’ve leapt into my previously-avoided revisions (and have thus ceased having original thoughts), and because my refrigerator is now in my dining room (or what would be my dining room if we actually still had walls and rooms at our house), and because my girls have been on spring break this week (which means I’ve had to devote a good portion of my days to, um, frivolous fun), coming up with something thoughtful for Poetry Friday was going to be a stretch.
But lucky for me, Jama “Like a Rolling Stone” Rattigan offered up a writing prompt for today’s Poetry roundup! She wants some Bob Dylan lyrics, because afterall, Dylan considers himself a poet first and a musician second.
Bob Dylan lyrics. Poetry for everyman. That I can do.
I went through the requisite Bob Dylan obsession in college like the rest of ya’ll (in between takes of The Police and Fleetwood Mac and Journey and REM and The Grateful Dead. What a weird decade the 80s was.) I was particularly fascinated by his Joan Baez years. (I read that section of her memoir twice.) The idea of that much creative energy in one relationship is really compelling, even though they didn’t live happily ever after together forever (or even for very long).
I’m pretty sure I don’t have a favorite Dylan song; there are too many. But Boots of Spanish Leather is right up there. Here’s a little sampling:
Oh, I’m sailin’ away my own true love, I’m sailin’ away in the morning. Is there something I can send you from across the sea, From the place that I’ll be landing?
No, there’s nothin’ you can send me, my own true love, There’s nothin’ I wish to be ownin’. Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled, From across that lonesome ocean.
Predictably, things do not go well from here. The speaker keeps offering up gifts, even as she (or he) wanders ever deeper into the great beyond. The lover always answers, No, nothing, thank you. Just you, please. Only he (or she) says it more poetically, of course. Like this:
Oh, how can, how can you ask me again, It only brings me sorrow. The same thing I want from you today, I would want again tomorrow.
And then, in the end, when realizing that the wanderer is not coming home soon — or at all — he asks for a pair of boots.
Spanish boots. Of Spanish leather.
There is something so just and, at the same time, so heartbreaking about those boots.
And if you go here, you can watch a slideshow of Dylan snaps set to the song. (Joan Baez makes the cut.) So, I’m happy. Nostalgic. Satisfied. And itching for a long trip across the deepest ocean. How about you?
So I’m supposed to be revising a picture book text.
It is short — the shortest piece I’ve ever written and turned in — so what’s the big deal, right?
I’ve had the first batch of editorial notes for nearly three weeks and plenty of opportunities to tweak.
But noooo.
It has apparently been more crucial that I wipe down the outside of my washer and drier (?!?!!) — during a remodel no less. And switch out the containers for the cat and dog food. And make spring rolls from scratch.
I mean, the spring rolls were yummy but give me a break. What should I do tomorrow — make puppets out of all the bachelorette socks in my drawer???
Sometimes it occurs to me — when I realize that I’m the boss who’s got to keep myself accountable — that I’m not cut out for managerial positions.
Somebody tell me to sit down, shut up and kick it into gear!!!
(Well, maybe not shut up since I have to read aloud. But you know what I mean…)
It’s funny. Last week after I posted about art and envy, I second guessed myself.
I thought, nobody’s going to relate to this and I will have exposed myself as a singular and pathetic yearner-for-more.
I thought, maybe I oughta go back to my gratitude posts and stay there.
I thought, maybe I oughta choose a pseudonym.
But then ya’ll stopped by.
And it turns out every last one of us thinks about how we receive news of our own successes and each other’s. It turns out we all have various spiritual and psychological veins we tap when times are tough. It turns out that we’ve all compared ourselves to others, gotten antsy, or rolled our eyes at overnight success. It turns out there have been an awful lot of “why not me” moments in our humble pasts.
But it turns out that very few of those “why not me” moments translate into “why her (or him)” moments.
It turns out we relish and wallow in and cheer and welcome the success of our compatriots. It turns out we believe there is space enough for all of our books on the bookshelves. It turns out we are pretty good at going back into ourselves and our own work with compassion and determination. It turns out we’re mostly patient (on the days we’re not impatient) and mostly industrious and dedicated (on the days we’re not flailing about) and mostly open to inspiration — in the world and from each other.
I am comforted, no end, by this affirmation of community. My desk is not an isolated island. Neither is yours. There are bridges and boats and messages in bottles between us.
I am here, working, but I don’t mind a little distraction now and then. So, when you get a chance, send good news…
This week, the trees popped green one day and suffered hail the next.
The cats dragged muddy paws through the house and across the bed.
The laundry’s overflowed upon the floor.
This week, our eldest had to take her first big whopper of a standardized test.
We had to go to lost-and-found three times.
The plumber’s bid came in too high.
This week, I tossed and turned and woke up too early four mornings out of five.
Including today. But a couple of hours later, walking up the sidewalk into school, I saw that the sign out front had been changed, to this:
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year.
Which is Frost. Just waiting for us on this chilly, tired Friday of a day. I read it aloud to the girls and, honestly, I nearly cried with relief. They smiled and took my hands and pulled me toward the front doors. I think they were finding me a little unstable.
But I assure you I’m not. How could I be, in the springing of the year?
A Prayer in Spring — By Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the happy bees, The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird That suddenly above the bees is heard…
We need each other’s careful critiques, but we also need shared rejection letter humor, encouragement when we’re blocked, and the whispered exchange of agents’ and editors’ names.
We need each other.
And yet. And yet, it is another writer’s success that can most swiftly and surely send us to the darkest little hole in our heart.
Actually, this is probably the conundrum of the artist, not the writer exclusively. That it is our own community — the community that inspires us and lifts us up — that can also drive us ugly-green with envy.
I’m here to admit right now that I’ve been on both sides of this thorny fence.
I have many friends who have garnered significant acclaim and/or monetary recognition for their work, and boy-oh-man do they deserve it. But if their award ceremony or book signing or big-money advance coincided with my zillionth consecutive week of editorial slap-down, I wasn’t always graceful. Well, I mean, I think I usually was graceful on the surface, but there were days I suffered self-imposed lock-jaw rather than own up to what I was really feeling, which was, “Why not me???”
The flip side? My own good times that I eagerly share with my support network — my writer’s groups and blogger pals and such — knowing that they might be locking their own jaws, even as they hug and cheer me.
Often — usually — I’m at my own desk, working on my own words and the world outside is (don’t take this the wrong way) immaterial. But other times I sit stewing in the midst of these questions and think, “What ‘s a gal to do?”
This week I was newly inspired to mull it over after the wise and talented Sara Lewis Holmes announced her awesome two-book deal with Arthur A. Levine Books. The very next day, Sara posted about her own fear of success (or failure) and acknowledged that other people might want what she got. “I… know (because I’ve been there myself),” she said, “that there is no hearing about another person’s good fortune without a tinge of ‘But what about me?’ “
Sound familiar?
I am relieved to say that for me, this time, Sara’s good news was pure — partly because I adore her (and her writing) soooo much and partly, probably, because I’ve had such a good year myself. (I can sometimes be a little self-centered that way.)
Still, her comments made me think we should out this issue. Let’s admit what’s hard and what helps. Better to lay bare than to bury.
Here’s what I’ve tried, for years. It doesn’t always work, which I think may just prove that I’m unelightened. You all may have much greater success than I.
Remove the ego. Writing is like yoga this way (going back to my own tried and true metaphor). The practice is the point. Judging oneself on the mat (or on the page) is just gonna make you lose your balance. It isn’t about what you’re doing compared to what anyone else is doing. It is about your own best work — centered, soulful and true.
Here’s something else I try. This one’s a little Pollyanna but it really does help.
Allow yourself to really celebrate your friend or critique partner or colleague or competitor. Really and truly. Acknowledge how dang hard they’ve worked, and how nimble and vivid their art is, and even how luck was on their side. Send them flowers or a new pen or 13 emails. Really celebrate. The joy can be contagious and inspiring and better on the digestion than jealousy or greed.
And then there are the lessons to be learned.
We can either choose paralysis or proactivity. We can freeze in the face of each other’s successes or be inspired to kick it up a notch. We can ask ourselves, like my friend Lindsey does when the green-eyed monster threatens, “Am I ready? Am I in shape? Have I gotten all my proverbial ducks in a row? Is my office cleaned? Are the mss polished? Are they out in the world?” Lindsey reminds herself that on one hand, she’s exactly where she needs to be today, and that on the other hand, dissatisfaction can inspire her to keep her eye on the prize. If we want the things other people have, Lindsey says, “we should put those things on the list to shoot for.” Right?
Finally, there is the little itty bitty reminder that, um, it’s not all about us. It’s about our work. It’s about what we are bringing to the table and to the world. Our contribution. Our gifts — not as something to laud, but as something to be received by those to whom we’re giving. It is, for me, about the kids I’d like to connect with through my books. Awards and big-dollar advances notwithstanding. Honest to pete…
The illustrious Cynthia Lord wants to know what middle graders think about books. She is speaking at a Washington State SCBWI conference in April and she’s gone straight to the mouth of babes for her material.
My nine-year-old agreed to answer a few of her queries, and you can just color me enlightened right now.
I didn’t know she wished Pacy (from Grace Lin’s Year of the Dog) were real so they could be best friends.
I didn’t know she wouldn’t choose a book if the cover were messy.
And I didn’t know that she thought this:
One thing I see in books that isn’t really true about kids is that all kids hate there siblings.
