A Creative Life

The Moon's Distant Call

2009-10-13T10:10:00.000-07:00

It's yet another rainy fall day and I'm beginning to wonder what happened to the dry Arkansas weather I remember from childhood. Still, there are moments that aren't to be missed if you are paying attention. Right now, I wait for a break in the rain and take long walks along the dirt (mud) road that runs by our house and check out the autumnal changes. Although it's hard to see through the mist and rain, the leaves appear to be coloring earlier this year. We are headed towards Western North Carolina, the Blue Ridge and Smokey Mountains soon, hoping to see the best of fall in several states: Ar, TN, and NC.

In the meantime, I find plenty of beauty to celebrate right here at home. I wanted to post a little poem I managed to fit in between the screenplay, the novel, the cookbook and a couple of readings. I wanted to briefly remind my writers and readers that all you really have to do is pay attention, be present with your surroundings, and the beauty will appear. Then, if you want to share it, don't forget to write it, paint it, sculpt it, play it into a song. Sharing beauty is like spreading the wealth--it increases every time you pass it on. Someone will be inspired.

To bring the point home, I will tell you a brief story: The other day Leigh discovered an obituary on the web that was written for a wonderful man from Oklahoma. It seems the family had used one of our hospice publications during his illness. In that publication is a poem I wrote called "Leaving." And in this obituary of a man I did not know, was a quote from my poem. It brought tears of gratitude to my eyes to know that some folks I've never met were touched by this poem, enough to include it in a final statement about their beloved father, grandfather, husband. You never know whose lives you will touch when you put your work out there, so do it. In this world, at this time, we need all the inspiration and beauty we can get.

The Moon's Distant Call

Last night, luxuriating
in the steaming waters of our tiny hot tub,
watching the day go down to dusk,
I saw what I thought was a hummingbird
perched in the river birch beside the steps.
She sat so still, I grew confused:
bird...leaf...bird...leaf...bird?
She appeared to be watching the waxing moon;
slender as my little finger, green as a twig,
a furled leaf not yet flown.
I could swear she was watching the harvest moon
ballooning huge above the Ozarks.
Her tiny shoulders slightly slumped,
as if considering the long flight
from Fayetteville to Mexico on 1" wings.
But mostly she seemed, like me, lost
in the beauty of a 3/4 moonrise on a cooling breeze.
Motionless, she remained among the branches
until I gave her up for leaf at last
and looked away.
When I happened to glance back,
she was gone. Not a leaf then!
Not a leaf! But a moon-lover like myself,
there now, sipping her last
from the feeder before bed,
as I must have my chocolate chips
to sleep through the night–
with a large moon beckoning,
keeping watch
for wherever we might land tomorrow.

Mendy Knott Oct. 2009

Fish Tale: A Love Story

2009-10-05T07:39:00.000-07:00

I've decided to change my format, and have a couple of things in mind to see if they will help with the frequency of my blogging. I'm in the process of learning to use a laptop, so that should keep these darn entries a little shorter, at least for a time. And I've decided that I need to write a little more about everyday things as opposed to an entry I feel I must compose and make perfect everytime before I post it. As you can see, this can prevent me from blogging at all for long periods of time. But now I have this laptop thing, well, shoot, I can take you to the screened in porch (porch-sittin') or lounge in front of the fire (fire-sittin') and maybe put you in the boat and take you fishing, although this would elicit strong disapproval from my partner, no doubt, since really, the water would be mere inches from my computer.

Speaking of fishing, however, let me take you on a little Saturday morning ride in the "Fish Tale" which is the name of my tiny '70's Sears boat which sports a trolling motor only. The boat looks like one of those old-fashioned life boats when they were made from aluminum--something an Atlantic fisherman might use in times of trouble. It has a V-hull and is no more than 10 feet long. This makes finding a trailer for it quite difficult. So I just load it up in the back of my Toyota pick-up, strap it in (yes, I know how that sounds), and drive the 10 miles down the road to little Wedington Lake. This 170 acre lake was dug by mules by the CCC when times were nearly as tough as they are now. Let's dig some more spring-fed lakes, and clear some paths, and build cabins and lodges instead of highways and starting wars. Sound like a plan, anyone?

So, it's Saturday morning, early, like before 7 am. You really must get up early if you are an artist or a fisherman in order to nab some of the best time of the day. I'm not kidding about that. Leigh helps me get the boat on the truck, then leaves me to my own devices as to how to get it off again at the lake. It's not so hard with a ramp. The happy part is that I'm on my own. Here is another lesson for you creative types--time alone is absolutely necessary. You don't have to be writing or painting to need it either. You need to just be alone doing something fun or doing nothing at all. Got it? Things happen then.

I shove off. It's about 50 degrees and I'm pretty bundled. I've got this little Rapala thermos full of hot coffee my friend Kam sent me, a tackle box, two rods, an oar, and my trolling motor. The mist is still rising off the lake. Wispy ghosts rise in peaks and spikes, then disappear about five feet above the water. I hear a woodpecker's jungly call. I see one of those precious little green herons hanging by the water watching for minnows. I take some pictures, torn because I really should have a line in the water by now, but I NEED these few photos. Maybe I'll include one here if I can figure it out, or make Leigh help me. It is so quiet, although there are a few campers in the campground ( a place I highly recommend for the roughin' it type). Soon enough I'll smell their campfires, but for now I feel like I have just discovered this tiny paradise for the first time. I am alone on a lake with the sun beginning to peak above the tree line. It just doesn't get much better than that.

Except then I catch some fish! Yeah, two big beautiful catfish, all sleek and blue-gray, clean and sleek as a brand new car. They hit hard and put up a good fight. Took me off guard. I love that kind of surprise. Then I caught a couple of the prettiest goggle eye I've ever seen. Beatuiful, easy to unhook, fun to return to the lake. I only keep the ones I plan to cook. Usually I have one fish fry a year. The rest of the time, it's catch and release, which is easier on both me and the fish.

I was out about four hours, circling around, casting, drifting, drinking coffee and soaking up nature. I still had plenty of time when I got home to do some chores and go watch the football game with friends later. (Go Hogs!) Yet it changed everything for me. My day was holy, then, sacred and special. I felt I had brushed the fingertips of god as we both passed through creation in that misty early morning light. This is where I find the greatest joy in being creative; where I gather my greatest lessons. Alone, in nature, paying attention. Really, try it sometime. It will change your day.

Souvenirs

2009-07-25T11:19:00.000-07:00

You can see from my previous post that I was truly inspired with the beauty of the Pacific Northwest as I spent last week on Whidbey Island in Washington State. My trip was made possible by the generosity of my artist friends, Jane and Chad, and my partner, Leigh, who so sweetly and willingly stayed home to take care of the farm and critters and to work while I ran off on holiday. Now, some of you may say that wasn't quite fair, depending on the kindness of friends and spouse to make my vacation possible. But honestly now, could you refuse? Or would you, like I did, consider it your responsibility to bring something back, not just for them, but for everyone you know? Would you honor the artist's duty to SHARE your trip with as many people as possible?

I take that responsibility seriously. The second day I'm away on a trip almost anywhere, I find a place to buy post cards. Even though the price of a stamp has seriously risen since I first started sending post cards at ten, it is still one of the most cost-conscious ways I know of sharing your journey with friends and family. I think I sent fifteen post cards from Washington, writing a bit every morning, and posting it on my way out to daily adventures. Pictures of whales, Douglas firs, prairie and farm land, sailboats, and eagles flew all over the country and made someone look and remember a trip, an adventure, or an animal they once saw that stayed with them; that meant something to them.

Jane painted two watercolors while we were there, and sketched and photographed endlessly. Chad taught a felting and fabric arts class, inspiring 13 women to take themselves and their art seriously while having a hilarious time doing it. There's no telling what piece Chad will create with the rocks and inspiration she brought home from her trip. I recorded our journey in my journal and penned a poem that tried to speak to the beauty of women friends traveling together and making the most of their time away. We all brought home memories in a physical form, something to be shared with those who could not go this time, and those who may never be able to go. This is our responsibility as artists and creative individuals.

What? Responsibilities for the free-spirited artist? Art is not simply a way to make a name for ourselves, or just a job, or even an adventure. Of course, it can be all those and so much more. But there is a higher calling to us as creative individuals. The Earth and her beauty have been severely damaged by humanity. We owe it to our blue-green planet and to future generations to share what beauty we find out there with each other and with those who have forgotten how to care. After all, if we use the fossil fuel to fly somewhere, shouldn't we give something back, a sort of carbon/art trade? To me, it feels not only like the least I can do, but like I might actually make a difference even if I never know how or where.

Allow your inspiration to be your next souvenir. Share it with a friend or neighbor or even a stranger. Paint a picture, write a poem, dye some wool, invent a tune, write a letter, post a blog. Do what comes naturally to you, but do it. To quote ole John Denver, "I know I'd be a poorer man if I never saw an eagle fly." That one line sang in my soul every time I saw an eagle lift its wings on Whidbey Island. Because John took the time to write about his "Rocky Mountain High", put it to music, sing, and record it. I thank him for that souvenir. Next trip, bring home one of your own to share.

Busman’s Holiday

2009-07-23T07:08:00.000-07:00

Busman’s Holiday
(for the artists of the Pacific Northwest Art Center)

When artists get together to travel
every day is a busman’s holiday
replete with materials and tools of the trade.
Everything they touch taste smell see hear
is a subject they must cover with paint and pen,
vibrant with color and texture,
complex with metaphorical expression,
drenched in light.

The eagle must be photographed, collaged,
praised in words that lift the language
above the common waters of casual conversation,
striving to attain the heights of feathered flight.

The feltmaker, the poet, the painter,
determined to re-create the great state of Washington,
mix it up with watercolors, words and dyes.
They want something it takes two hands to hold
to take back to their friends; a pirate’s booty
in rubies of fresh-picked raspberries,
jewels of polished cherries glinting in a noonday sun.

Always, always they must give some away.
This is their tithe, their ten per cent of Whidbey bounty.
Taste the tart sweet of her fresh fruits.
See the damp, gray fog sifting green through Douglas firs.
Smell the salt clam chowder of the Sound.
Hear the lonely chime of a swaying buoy.
Feel this rock, so smooth and so round.
They won’t go home empty-handed, no!

Artists do their best work when they play.
For us, LIFE is a busman’s holiday.

—Mendy Knott

Sometimes You Win...

2009-01-19T17:16:00.000-08:00

In June of 2008, I had one of those crazy bugs that bites the writer, taking them by surprise, and took on a project unlike any I had done before. I wrote a screenplay.

I first became interested in the art of script writing when one of my best buddies, Kam Parker, wrote one in Asheville, NC. I admit when she asked me to read it, I had some reservations. I had never read a screenplay (although I’d read plays) and feared that I wouldn’t care for the style. And seeing as she is one of my best friends, there’s always, “What if I don’t like it?” I had nothing to fear. It was a page-turner. I couldn’t put it down. Even better, Leigh read it and she is picky, picky, picky about anything fictional. She loved it, too. The bug had gotten under my skin.

In June, Leigh suggested offhandedly, after listening to me talk about fishing on the phone, “Why don’t you write a screenplay about fishing with your friends?” Let’s see, because who will be interested in that? Nobody is going to produce a movie about a bunch of butches who love to go fishing? Loyalty and friendship are too sentimental for this century? Who cares?

Turns out, I cared. For once I didn’t think about the audience, the producers (or publishers), the sentimentality of truths I hold to be self-evident. I wanted to do something for me. I wanted to write a screenplay about what I love, what I believe in. Along the way, I gave up worrying about the fact that gay plays don’t make any money, can’t find a market, etc, etc, ad nauseum. They don’t call it a screen play for nothing. And they don’t call us gay for nothing either. I determined to be gay while I played with my writing.

First I checked out the internet for contests or calls for gay screenplays. I mean, we watch movies, too. It’s the 21st century, after all! Somebody has to make gay movies. I’ve seen ‘em myself. And sure enough, I stumbled across a contest called the One in Ten Screenplay contest. They accepted 300 entries from around the world, and the deadline was Sept. 1. I admit “around the world” gave me pause. But only momentarily. This gave me the deadline I needed to get serious.

I got together with Kam in a Dallas motel room where essentially we locked ourselves in until we came up with the basic tenets, plot, and lots of dialogue. I knew what I wanted to do and say, and she knew how to make it work. We scribbled hard for a week. I titled it “Men Only.” Then I went home and worked some more. I worked all summer with many calls and emails to Kam. We exchanged screenplays and edited for each other. I sent “Men Only” out to my friends and took almost all of their advice. Leigh read it over and over. “Cut, cut, cut,” she’d say until I reminded her we weren’t to the filming part yet. But cut I did. And finally, I liked what it said. I liked my characters and what was happening in the story. It seemed like a decent story to me. And it was funny, I thought. But it just didn’t look right on the page.

In a last minute frenzy I called a writing teacher and playwright here in Fayetteville. His name is Bob Ford and he has seen his plays produced in great cities all over the U.S. But the really remarkable thing about him is his willingness to help just about anyone with their creativity. He does so much for the Fayetteville theater community with a gracious generosity. I knew him because I took his screenwriting course when I first moved here. I went to his plays and had watched him work. He knew this stuff and I knew he could help me, if he would.

He did. All the way from Mexico, where he was on vacation, he took the screenplay, scanned over it, and told me immediately, in one single page, what it should look like. In short, he taught me screenplay-ese in a one-page lesson. Although it was easy to read his directions, it was much harder to follow them. I rewrote the whole damn thing. Again. But when I finished this time, it looked and felt right. I put my all into it and that’s the best anyone can do. I sent it in before the deadline.

There was a long wait. Of course, you don’t really wait for these things. You go on with your life, which for me meant writing and teaching and working and feeding the dogs and chickens. As November 15 approached, I began to get nervous. So many times I told myself not to worry about it. Win or lose, I’d done a good thing, a brave thing. I had been true to my dreams. So I tried not to wish too hard.

On Monday, November 10, I got a letter from the contest director which listed the top 25 writers. I couldn’t believe my eyes! There it was: “Men Only by Mendy Knott from Fayetteville, AK!” Okay, so they got the state wrong, but they spelled my name right. As far as I was concerned this was success! In that list were screenplay writers from England, France, Las Vegas, Hollywood, New York. And then there was me, from Fayetteville, Alaska. I did let them know, just in case I made it any further, that the abbreviation for Arkansas is AR.

The day before the final notice for the top 3 was announced, I got a note from Mike Dean the coordinator letting me know, that indeed I had gotten second place in the contest! Now you can go to Scriptdoodle’s One in Ten Screenplay and see my name for your very own self. It’s worth a look. I won $500 and the privilege of having these “connected” people shop my play for me for 6 months. From February to July, they will send “Men Only” out to dozens of producers, directors, agents and the like. My plan had worked! I got a toe in the door my first try. I am amazed, grateful, happy. I thank Kam and Leigh and all those who read and believed in me and my play. I am quite gay about my play.

The main thing I learned is to be true to yourself. Listen when people give you advice on how to write. Listen to yourself about what to write. Keep coming back to your own experience. Believe. Then work, work, work. Ask questions. Get a book or two on the subject. Use the internet to research your dream. Use all the tools at your disposal. There are more than you think. Once you’ve put the work out there, move on to the next thing. Don’t wait. There isn’t time to wait. There are more ideas and dreams to realize than can ever be done in a lifetime. So get started. Because sometimes...sometimes, you really do win.

You Gotta Love It!

2009-01-13T09:12:00.000-08:00

My writer’s group meets once every two weeks. We call ourselves Hen’s Teeth because committed writers are “scarce as hen’s teeth!” We also happen to love chickens and a couple of us raise a few hens and roosters. At the end of each session, one of us assigns writing homework which is usually based on an exercise gleaned from one of the many wonderful writing books that inspire us. Our exercise this week struck me as a unique way to get in touch, not only with good writing, but with a deep gratitude for life.

The exercise comes from Writing Toward Home, a book by author Georgia Heard. Here it is for you to try at home:

“Each day for a week, fall in love at least 3 times. Write it down. Describe in detail what you fall in love with. What is the feeling that comes over you when you experience this falling in love? Each time we fall in love, something that before was closed inside us opens and creativity begins to flow.”

Got it? Three times a day for one week, allow yourself to fall in love with something--person, place or thing--and write about it. That is, “freewrite” about it, meaning don’t think about it too much. Write whatever comes into your mind without editing or even lifting your pen from the page. Simply write until you run out of things to say or your hand gets tired, whichever comes first. My experience thus far is that I might not realize I’m falling love at the time, but when I reflect on my day, I never have trouble remembering three instances and how I felt when they occurred. See if you find yourself, and your awareness of the fat generosity of Life, expanding with each writing. Following is a short write I did after having dinner with friends, Liz and Susan:

I fell in love with the moon swimming out from behind the clouds in the parking lot of Hunan’s in Fayetteville as we exited with two of our best friends. The conversation at the table had been thick with recent loss and potential loss, lightly salted with jokes and laughter. I ate a lot, but barely tasted the food I realized later, filling a hole that was both physical and emotional. Listening intently, I wanted to help but didn’t really know how. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair–this was cigarette talk to me. But hell, nobody smokes anymore. Except me. No apologies, just please, please, please let’s go outside. And when we do, there she is. Rolling in rough weather, nearly full white globe that human-whispers me, “Always here, changes predictable, yet I’m different everytime you see me. Light in the darkness, slow-moving meteor, crazy mentor, I am the moon.” We discussed this writing exercise over Chinese food and fortune cookies, wondering if we really fall in love with something 3 times a day. All our heads swivel on their stems to regard that fat white goddess racing between tatterd black curtains of clouds, and Liz and I sigh together, “Now there’s something I could fall in love with...”

Start with Your Art!

2008-10-17T11:38:00.000-07:00

The Power of Persistence–Start with Your Art!

I am writing today, not because I feel like writing but because I feel like I need to write. There are so many other things that need to be done. There are causes to fight for and an election coming up and two wars to protest and my partner is on her way to her first big conference as a vendor for her small publishing company. My bed is unmade, the dishes pile up in the sink, and I need to decide what to fix for dinner. It’s a matter of priorities. And because all these other things take priority on so many days of the week, I decided that what I need to do first is write a new blog entry.

It’s so easy to become inspired by a class, an eloquent speaker, a well-written book, a passionate poem. How fine it is when the fire is in the belly and we know, not only what we want to say, but what needs to be said; what the world needs to hear. Somehow we’ve stumbled on the watering hole where the answers lie magnified and crystal clear at the bottom of the well, and all we have to do is draw the water. And keep on drawing. If we can just keep it up, we can help. We know we can. We do have something to offer. We have these gifts. The answers are right down there. See them? They’re right there. Our proposal, book, screenplay, installation will be ready in, say, six months or a year. Of course, you’ll need another year or so to find a publisher. Once you do, it will take another year to see the work in print. And then, if it’s still relevant; if the world still needs an answer to that particular question...well, we’ll get back to you on that. You know, it’s starting to look like I might as well go ahead and bake some oatmeal cookies for that potluck, sweep the floor, wash the clothes, and clean the petri dishes out of the fridge.

There are so many things I could be doing right NOW. The Arkansas Adoption Act is going on the ballot and we need to protest. There’s a peace march next Saturday I have to attend. Why, this Saturday alone, there are five different activist organizations I support having potlucks, membership drives, and rallies. Not to mention that I could save money if I spent more time expanding my garden, cooking all my meals at home, riding my bike to the library. I’m sure my family and friends would love it if I would emerge from this closet I call my study for more than a couple of hours a day. The question isn’t so much how, but why do I keep doing this?

The short answer to why we persist in our creativity in the face of adversity, and in a world that so blatantly discourages authenticity, originality, slow food, home-cooking, and the long answer is–we can’t help it! We crave what is real and can’t be satisfied with short cuts, fake solutions, spam and american cheese on white bread. Quick solutions to big problems: war, the economy, global warming--don’t cut it for us. Part of us knows deeply and intuitively that creation took billions of years and that our evolution as whole human beings will not come quickly either. What we CAN do is begin, and then persist.

Of course, we don’t persist in our art, our writing, to the exclusion of all other work. All work is, or has the potential to be, creative. That is the highest achievement of a life fully realized. We don’t want to compartmentalize our creativity. We want it to be part of everything we do. But part of growing that originality is practicing it, and the place to start is with your art. THE PLACE TO START IS WITH YOUR ART! How quickly, once we begin to truly practice our art, we find our creative, authentic selves showing up in other areas of our lives. Our friendships seem to involve those of like interests. We hesitate less when a workshop or class is offered that might benefit our writing or painting. The book we need falls off the shelf or is handed to us by a bookseller or a friend. There just happens to be a volunteer position on the local literary rag or someone sends you a request for submissions.

Suddenly we find we do have time to flip a few pancakes for peace. We can spare $20 for the local AIDS foundation. We have an hour to spend on the fridge or putting dinner in the slow-cooker. We ask our partner or a friend to share a writing exercise, an art idea, or a gardening project. We watch a movie or read a book in a whole new light, as a learning experience and not merely entertainment. What can they teach us about ourselves and what we are striving to do in our lives? (If the answer appears to be “nothing” turn off the movie, close the book.) We begin to look at our lives in terms of the long view; not what we can accomplish in a week so much as what we can accomplish in a year or two, or even a lifetime. Maybe we stop focusing on what publishing house will pick us up and make us famous and begin to consider what individual will be touched by our words, will take comfort, or find some help, some hope in what we have to offer.

Who out there will be inspired by our persistence? Everyone who knows that, despite the fact we raised three daughters, home-schooled them and got them into college; or that we suffer from a chronic illness, or teach biology to a bunch of restless adolescent boys, or write boring technical manuals, or expend precious energy painting houses to pay the bills, we also maintain a creative practice. We produce! This is amazing! This is admirable! This, my friends, is noble. What you and I must remember is that the very things that seem to (and sometimes do) drain us, also feed us. Challenges stoke the fire of our persistence. What appear to be obstacles, charge our batteries and will not let us quit. They are signs, daily reminders, that our work is needed; is needed now, will be needed tomorrow, will still be needed years from now when it is finally finished. Believe....

Say it Loud, Say it Proud

2008-09-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

On a Sunday near the end of August, I was invited to speak at the UU Church in Eureka Springs, AR. Perhaps you’ve heard of Eureka Springs, a beautiful, quaint little town built on a series of hills, (or perhaps a serious hill) in the northwest section of the Arkansas Ozarks. It’s a great place with a grand mix of hippie liberals and Christian conservatives, lots of regional art and crafts, and tons of good food and music. Writers go there for retreats and to workshops at a place called Dairy Hollow. It’s a cool place to escape the blazing heat of the Arkansas summer sun. I highly recommend it for a daycation, a staycation or a vacation, depending on “where you’re from,” as we say around here.

The exquisite little UU church on the hillside was rebuilt by its congregation and it is a lay Unitarian Universalist church. A “lay” church has no regular pastor, but invites speakers to come and inspire them on Sundays to be the fully open and welcoming people I find most of them to already be. I wondered what I could say to these good folks that might encourage them, enlighten their journey, help bring them joy in an economic recession that is affecting all of us, but plays hell with a town almost entirely dependent on tourism.

I decided the best thing I could do was tell them a story. Virgina Woolfe laughingly said that “if you tell them a story, they’ll buy you a car.” She thought that telling stories was the easiest thing in the world to do and simply couldn’t imagine that people would pay good money to hear her tell one. Well, I didn’t get a car, but I did get taken out to a wonderful lunch and was given a free overnight for me and my partner at a fantastic little B&B called Pond Mountain. Fair trade, I would say! We had a great time (more about this lovely getaway later).

So I told them a story. My story. In poems. Starting with childhood and working my way through middle school, the police force, finding my writing self and my true love in the Appalachians, all the way up to becoming a poet for peace and an activist for justice. I used events that occurred in my life; true events that I’ve written about over the past 15 years. These are not complicated or complex poems, but they reveal a sometimes complicated and complex life, as stories and poems do when we tell the truth. Because that’s the way life is. Complicated, sometimes complex.

They are also stories of compassion and learning and change and evolution. And the truth is we have to trust ourselves, if only a little, to be able to share our stories. We have to trust the universe that sharing our stories will touch someone else’s life because we are, all of us, connected. And somewhere out there in an audience of fifty listeners, or five thousand, or five, somebody needs to hear our story so they can put their own in perspective. Inevitably, at least one person comes up to me after a reading and says, “That happened to me.” “I know what you’re talking about.” “Thank you for telling that story; I wish I was that brave.”

You are that brave. We need to be that brave, for ourselves and for our traveling companions on this journey we call life. We need to tell our stories and listen to the stories of others. Stories, in the end, are one hand reaching out to another, grasping it, joining the circle of humanity as we learn love and acceptance.from each other. So say it loud and say it proud. Stand up and tell us your story by any creative method you choose. Don’t hide it beneath a ton of symbolism or cynicism. Simply tell, write, play, paint the truth of your experience and you will inspire others to rise up and tell their story, too.

Now, let me tell you two stories:

“A Little Lazarus” by Mendy Knott (4 min)
(press arrow to play video)

“Revival” by Mendy Knott (5 min)
(press arrow to play video)

Split This Rock with Me - Part I

2008-03-27T08:32:00.000-07:00

(Photo: Poets Joseph Ross, Mendy Knott and Naomi Shihab Nye)

I’m sure this writing will only begin to cover my profound feelings for and about “Split This Rock” Poetry Festival held in Washington DC over Easter weekend, March 19-23 in 2008. Poetic insurrection and resurrection all rolled up in one. Here was a time and place where the peace poets felt safe to talk about their anger and sorrow, their grief and frustration during these war years as the Bush administration holds court in our nation. We also shared the joy that rises to the surface of our ordinary days and lives, fortifying each other where the skin wears thin. Here was a communion of souls, like-minded individuals with hearts too large to keep at home, where too often we feel isolated and give into wild imaginings that we are beating our little peace drums alone. People, we are not alone.

(Photo: A Poet reads in front of the White House)

We need each other, though, and that seemed obvious with the absolute delight we took in one another’s company and words over the long weekend. At Split This Rock no lines of divisiveness were drawn. One could not distinguish the “famous” poets from the community poets, the academic poets from the slam and performance poets. We were all together, gathered as one body to share our hopes and strengths and determination through the rhythms of our voices, our bodies, our hearts and minds. Our voices fell on receptive ears–finally, good soil for the seed. The rock was split, the Earth turned, and ideas were planted around the clock. New gardens were started every hour in workshops and on subways, in the streets and around tables of food and drink as we spoke and were heard, listened, learned and laughed together. And occasionally, our tears watered the beds. People, we were shining!

(Photo: Panel/Hosts DC Poets Against the War)

I think I can speak for us all when I say we felt lucky, indeed privileged, to be a part of this first gathering organized by DC Poets Against the War. What a lot of time and energy they poured into preparation for this event! Their handiwork and dedication was obvious at every turn. We tried to thank them as often as possible: Sarah Browning, Regie Cabico, Jaime Lee Jarvis, Melissa Tuckey, Mary Clare McKesson, Joseph Ross. Sponsors like The Institute for Policy Studies, Busboys and Poets, and Sol & Soul made life easy for the participants and created an atmosphere in which poetry thrived. We could never thank them enough. Their efforts made it possible to practice communion, not just on Easter Sunday, but every hour on the hour for four whole days. People, we were fed!

(Photo: Word Warriors Panel)

(Photo: The Princess of Controversy)

Our poetic pilgrimage took us from the Thurgood Marshall Center to the Center for Community Change but our home was always Busboys and Poets with its peace slogans and peace makers graffitied everywhere. Always packed wall to wall with diners, wait staff, poets, booksellers, authors, young people, old people, people of every color, orientation and national origin, words bouncing off the ceilings, lying in open notebooks on the tables, spoken, shouted, prayed, sang. It all began there with Sonia Sanchez and her poetic chant/scat rhythms as she implored us to reach out to the young ones and make them want to not just live, but come alive. Appropriately for her opening words, Busboys and Poets held the late night open mics, the high school poets and the women word warriors: Alix Olson, Theresa Davis, Karen Garrabrant, and Natalie Illum. The Princess of Controversy was a high priestess of poetry and our waitress, following a long line of tradition by serving the public in more ways than one. People, I tell you, the joint was jumping!

(Photo: Poet Naomi Shihab Nye)

(Photo: Poet Martin Espada)

(Photo: Poet E. Ethelbert Miller)

In the evenings we gathered in our poetry cathedral, Bell Multicultural High School where we listened to the words of poets who have been long in the making. Their words, ringing with truth, were pained with the suffering and injustice to which they bore witness. Sensual with imagery and metaphor, their poems made us mad, made us laugh and made us cry. Naomi Nye took us flying with her while keeping us rooted firmly in our humanity and delighting us with the confectioners sugar that has sifted the shirtfronts of all of us at one time or another. Martin Espada, E. Ethelbert Miller, and Alix Olson kept it real and we started off the first night with a bang.

(Photo: Poet Alix Olsen)

...To Be Continued in the Next Post

Split This Rock with Me - Part 2

2008-03-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

(Photo: Poet/Yogi Jeff Davis)

I took the “Yogic Path to Poetry and Conscious Action” Friday morning and found the poets both stunningly beautiful and flexible. Jeff Davis was so conscientious about sharing time that I didn’t get nearly enough of his words and presence. He left me wanting more, as a poet should. Kazim Ali, Susan Brennan and Jeff complimented one another’s styles wonderfully and I am only waiting for Jeff’s book From the Center to the Page to be re-issued in print so I can turn my friends onto the power of combining yoga practice with writing practice.

(Photo: Poet/Yogi Kazim Ali)

At “Off the Page and Into the Streets” Nathaniel Siegel regaled us with ways to reach the regular folks as they go about their everyday days, walking to and from work or heading to the local grocery. He offered great ideas about reaching out, keeping your protest and your activism “human-sized” which made so much sense to me. Put a small poem in someone’s hand and they’ll find it in a pocket later. Offer a strip of tape with “Peace and Love” printed on it. Who doesn’t want a little peace and love in their lives, right? Nathaniel delivered his ideas and comments with a grace that serves him well in the streets and makes me want to be THAT kind of activist.

(Photo: Poet Nathaniel Siegel)

I found Elijah Imlay’s “The Healing Role of Poetry in Wartime” to be particularly moving and the kind of workshop I myself like to lead. There we listened to some of Elijah’s experiences as a Vietnam veteran (a veteran myself, I appreciated this) and he read us some poems written by other war veterans. They were hard to hear and they were why we had come. He then had the class do a freestyle writing based on a painful memory of our own pasts.Those of us who cared to, were allowed to share. Again I found myself not ready to leave when this workshop ended. Our hearts had been opened and we had bled. It was good and it was necessary fodder for future work, but I found it difficult to return to the Washington streets. I needed to take a break and I missed the 5 pm readings while my friend Path and I returned to our rooms to rest.

(Photo: Poet Mendy Knott & Poet/Artist Path Walker)

We made it to Bell Multicultural HS in time to hear Jimmy Baca, Brian Gilmore, Semezhdin Mehmedomovic, Patricia Smith (one of my all-time faves) and Susan Tichy read. Then it was back to homebase at Busboys and Poets where the first open mic was being held. Slam-jam packed, it was, with a list an arm-long of poets waiting their turn to read. I signed on and it was good to look around that room and see so many active poets and their supporters. And it was good to see Naomi Nye, Alix Olson, Patricia Smith “in the house” as our host, Regie Cabico, continually pointed out one world-renowned poet after another who was there to hear US read! We ate the body politic, passed the cup of sorrow, shared our many stories and walked away fortified, everyone with a hammer the size of their writing hand, knowing we would never have to split this rock alone again. People, we rocked the house!

(Photo: Poet Patricia Smith)

(Photo: Poet Regie Cabico)

(...To be continued in Part 3)

Split This Rock with Me - Part 3

2008-03-24T13:00:00.000-07:00

I missed many excellent workshops on Saturday morning in favor of having some special time with my sister who lives in the DC area. I needed this time with her as I don’t see her nearly often enough, but I know I sacrificed some excellent learning opportunities with the DC Walking Tours which featured Walt Whitman’s Washington, “Harlem” Renaissance in Washington, and GLBT Writers of Washington. “Writing Isn’t Lonely” and “Poet as Oracle” were certainly enticing workshop titles led by poets such as Susan Tichy and Coleman Barks. I didn’t join up until later in the afternoon when I enjoyed “Word Warriors–Women Leaders in the Spoken Word Revolution.” Again, time felt too short when the high school open mic began just as soon as this crew of women warriors finished speaking.

(Photo: Mendy at Bus Boys & Poets)

The high school open mic was just what some of us older poets needed to remind us that, yes, there are young ones waiting and willing to carry on the torch of peace, freedom, and poetry. Every poem was so vivid and fresh, every verse a lifeline slung out from one generation to another. Here is another chapter in the book of Revelations that Split this Rock opened for me: We need a high school/ youth open mic in my town of Fayetteville, AR. I came back with a renewed dedication to seek out the young poets and get them to come to Omni’s Peace Open Mic and to HOWL, the open mic I host in celebration of women’s voices. I stood to read as the room’s OLDEST teen, getting a by from host Regie Cabico because the subject matter of my poem, “Education,” was autobiographical, having to do with coming of age in a newly integrated junior high school in Jackson, MS in 1968. I felt right at home in a room full of teens, but then I would. I wanted to say it over and over, “You, Young People, the world can’t change without you!” People, these kids are the Future!

(Photo: Path on the train)

Path and I took the train one stop to Bell Multicultural HS to watch a lineup of poets you had to see to believe. Swept away, I was, in their words and the movements that accompanied their words. Their hands were like well-formed birds shaping their verses before they flew from the stage. Often, their bodies did a little dance or swayed with the rhythms of their lines. Some couldn’t stand still long enough to photograph. These poets were on the move. This was a bus stop, a way station on the road to more activism, and they moved us right along with them. We sat at the feet of poets such as Coleman Barks, Belle Waring, Dennis Brutus, Kenneth Carroll, Mark Doty, Carolyn Forche, and Alica Ostriker.

(Photo: Poet Mark Doty)

They taught us with metaphor, yea, even with parables. Can I get a witness? We practiced the sermon on the mount, in their presence, in their words:
Blessed are the peacemakers.
Blessed are those who mourn.
Blessed are the meek and humble,
those who hunger and thirst after righteousness (feed them).
Blessed are the merciful (for everybody needs a little mercy now),
the pure in heart,
the peacemakers (persecuted for all the right reasons).
Blessed are the poets
who say the words, paint the pictures, report to the public
and tell the truth whenever, wherever they can;
who never, ever, ever, give up....

We left our cathedral feeling like we were the salt of the earth. We are the light of the world and we are being called to return to our homes as poets and prophets, place our cities on hills so they can see again, become like potato chip people, yes, that salty, which imbues others with a thirst for truth and justice. And we read our poems to one another at the open mic, on the sidewalks, in the subway stations, on the trains, and all the way back to our rooms.

(Photo: Poet and Organizer Sarah Browning)

We awoke on Easter Sunday with one mission, to get to Busboys and Poets in order to hear the panel made up of DC Poets Against the War and to learn how they were inspired and able to put this event together. We left our baggage at the State Plaza Hotel (which we loved for its old-fashioned charm, roominess, and incredibly helpful staff) and headed once again to our favorite home away from home. The DC Poets were terrific as we heard them read some of their poetry and talk about the fundamentals of organizing Split This Rock. They discussed the importance of putting together their book of poems against torture, “Cut Loose The Body.” What amazing people, good as their words; serving, organizing, inspiring.

(Photo: Poet Naomi Ayala)

Our last trip took us back the way we came to the Cafritz Conference Center on the George Washington University campus. Here we were blessed and fired by the words of Naomi Ayala and Galway Kinnell to begin our pilgrimage to the White House, our final stop. We gathered outside the center on the sidewalk. We picked up signs with quotes by various poets and peace activists. We hung them around our necks on string or waved them in the air as we walked, without a word, to Lafayette Park across the street from the White House.

(Photo: Poet Galway Kinnell)

(Photo: Easter Tree)

Here then a preacher’s kid turned poet and peace activist finds new meaning in an Old Story once again. I loved this silent march, this mishmash of someone else’s Easter ritual into my own. How quiet it must have been that early morning in the land where war never seems to cease, when the disciples went to the cemetery looking for what they could not know they’d find. There were bird singings and the sound of sandals (sneakers) flapping against stone. A white tree bloomed atop a tall building, and for the moment it caught the corner of my eye I imagined the resurrected Christ, a holy ghost, a dove. The wind tunneled the streets and alleyways as we walked to the big white sepulcher with its guards and gates. Sure enough, centurions rode up on horseback and brought their dogs to search for bombs. But we had come in peace and it seemed they would be disappointed not to be able to send us away. For they and we all knew that words are stronger than swords, and last longer, too.

(Photo: DC Street Poet)

People, we wanted that stone to roll away--far, far away and not come back. We wanted that rock to roll, to set free the spirit of compassion, of love and truth and wisdom. But it wouldn’t budge and so with the hammers of our voices and twelve strikes each, we began to split that rock ourselves. Each of the 300 or so poets there pronounced a line of twelve words into the microphone directed at the White House, and we created a Cento with quotes that would ring in the air long after our departure. We split the rock and we are splitting it still. Peacework is all about splitting rocks instead of hairs. And the work, my friends, is never done. Won’t you come and split this rock with me?

(Photo: Naomi, Path, Joe and Jeff)

Instrument of Peace

2008-03-03T12:59:00.000-08:00

Take two oaks and a cotton cord
then wrap the rope around the trunks
back and forth let the rope unwind
tie it tight and what do you find?
A earth-friendly, wind-catching
homemade clothesline.
Ah, the world is full of images
and instruments of peace–
what we take for granted is
that wonders never cease.

Looking out the window, hands in the kitchen sink
washing up the dishes gives a person time to think.
I see our colorful clothing fly,
this old Arkansas home’s prayer flags;
from t-shirts stitched with slogans to denims and dust rags.
The blessed sun shines down.
The breeze it blows and fills.
They sail and pull at pins
as if the billowing clothes
could keep this old world spinnin’
spinnin’ spinnin’ spinnin’ spinnin’
spinnin’ round.

My clothesline is a work of art–
I hang those damp clothes out,
arrange each piece to suit my mood
then watch them blow about.
I ponder how this ties me to Palestinians and Jews,
Chinese, Pennsylvanians, Iraquis, Zulus, too.
And for a moment all the world
is gathered here beneath my trees
hanging clothes of many colors
on lines in a merry breeze.
Here we are together
dependent on each other
holding hands we shake out wrinkles,
share a perfect crease–
feeling for a moment we’re all instruments of peace.

Oh, the world is full of images
and instruments of peace.
And what we take for granted is
that wonders never cease.
‘Cause the blessed sun shines down.
The breeze it blows and fills.
The clothes pull at their pins.
as if their billowing sails
could keep this old world spinnin’
spinnin’ spinnin’
keep her spinnin’ round.

Mendy Knott Sept. 2006-2007

Leading Women

2008-02-01T12:22:00.000-08:00

I suppose my title could be "miss leading" or "misleading" depending on how you interpret it. I'm willing to bet that a lot of readers' first image was one of an actress, star of stage or screen, because these are venues where we've learned to associate the female sex as "leading women." Hollywood couldn't be farther from my mind today.

I rarely use this blog as a forum for women's rights or for any other kind of outright political activism. However, the issue at stake here is a women's issue and one that potentially affects us all. I am talking about leading women; that is, women who choose to lead. Women who dare to stand against a veritable tide of criticism, negativity, and derision. Women who refuse to be seated, driven out or defeated. Women who will attempt again and again to stand before their boardrooms, their classrooms, their communities and their nations and say, "I believe in my intelligence, in my intuition, in my ideas. I believe I can help change this situation for the better and I am willing to take the inherent risks to carry my ideals forward."

I'm not just talking about the presidential candidate. I'm talking about women everywhere. And I'm not just talking about the men who would rather not see a woman in power, for there are plenty of them; those hypocrites who elect a man because he bowed his head for a picture on Time magazine or managed to squeeze out a tear for one dead soldier while killing thousands of others. These are the very same voters calling Hillary a crybaby for showing emotion in public. That's hard to take, all right, and it's hard to imagine having to deal with that same kind of bullshit for 4-8 years, but I am willing to stand in defense of "Madame President." What is harder, really so much harder, is having to defend her from the onslaught of vindictiveness we hear from our own--the multitudes of women standing by to join in the name-calling. Already I've heard Hillary Clinton called a power-monger, over-aggressive, too assertive, pretentious, self-righteous. And these are just the names I'm willing to print here. I asked several women my mother's age why they wouldn't vote for Hillary, and their answer was, "I just don't like her."

Women, we have a problem. For I find this phenomena of putting a woman in a position to lead and then playing firing squad against her when she does, applies in more than just the case of a major election. We do this sort of thing all the time. We ask someone to speak for our community, to host an educational event, to lead a discussion on the library system. We elect women to smaller public positions and they just "never seem to live up to our expectations." Men often don't have to say a word. Women are more than happy to do the dirty work, especially if it will win them the approval of others; men, women or both. Are we really that insecure? Heaven forbid if a woman has any kind of past at all. We like our "leading ladies" to have sprung fully formed from their father's brains. Can you imagine Hillary Clinton with a DUI or a record of snorting cocaine? Puh...leeze!

Maybe it's true we don't want all that power concentrated in the hands of a single woman. Need I point out that we've been content to allow men that kind of power for years and years? A truly good leader, male or female, delegates power. A true leader doesn't want to be crippled by too many responsibilities, but knows her expertise and where to concentrate her strengths. A good leader knows that "It takes a village" to run a village. What a leader has done is to show she is willing to make the necessary sacrifices in order to lead. I don't think the respect and support of her women's community should have to be one of those sacrifices.

To put our faith in a leading woman doesn't mean giving up our own personal power. Instead, allowing a woman to lead us should increase and bolster our power, both individually and collectively as the leader accomplishes the task of empowering her community. Let us ask ourselves, what are we really afraid of here? Has that old message that a woman's hormones and emotions will make her incompetent really sunk into our subconscious? Will she somehow make us seem less feminine? Will she set a new high standard for being beautiful or butch in such a way that we won't be able to compare? Do we prefer male domination as opposed to the threat of a woman who would have the chutzpa to lead us? And if we think we can do better and if we want to do the leading, why don't we? Maybe we can't handle a standard of comparison clothed in our own sex that points up all that we could be doing and aren't.

When I was a little girl, I was led to believe that I could do anything, be anything I wanted. Then it seemed that the world set out to prove that statement was a lie. And the ones who worked the hardest at belittling or offsetting the "masculine" things I wanted to do or be were the very ones who would have benefitted most from my accomplishments--other women. Men barely pay any attention to a woman until she has achieved a certain stature--in business, politics or money. Up until that point, they know they can leave their henchmen, other women, to do the work for them. We are way too comfortable putting powerful, self-empowered women "in their places" and undermining their confidence long before they reach the first public platform.

When we, as women, learn to support our own, believe in our own, nurture our own... When finally we quit practicing the envy and jealousy which is so often our downfall... When finally we refuse to resist our own success, then and only then will a woman lead the way.

Snapshot: Saving for a Rainy Day

2007-10-02T07:27:00.000-07:00

My partner Leigh shared a bit of writerly wisdom with me not long ago which she took directly from her cell phone. At first, I was hesitant. Although they seem to have a valid purpose, I find cell phones mostly annoying. I have one, but I don’t like having one, if you know what I mean. I don’t play with it or try to figure out what all it can do. I’m lucky to remember to take it off the charger and put it in my Baggalini. Whoever calls me is lucky if I have it on, am near enough to answer, or recognize that’s “my song” playing.

Yet, they have come in handy for hundreds of people in emergency situations. And think of the moments that have been captured and preserved since cell phones had cameras added to their repertoire of handy little capabilities. Once again, we can see the good, the bad, and the ugly that can occur as a result of trigger happy cell phone users. Simply check out My Face or You Tube and there you have it--cell phone abuse at its finest.

Metaphorically, however, there is something for the artist to learn from the inimitable cell phone’s ability to catch the moment. Leigh told me that all she has to do is select “Camera” on the phone and the word “Capture” appears which she chooses if she wants to snap a photo. She came to me while I was writing in my journal the other day and explained the concept, “image-capture,” to me.

She asked, “You know how when you want to photograph something with your cell phone you select image capture and then you’re able to snap the picture?”

I said, “No.”

“Well, you can,” she continued unperturbed. “And I’m using that idea metaphorically in my writing. You know how boring writing in your journal can be when you start every day with ‘Well, I did this and that and this and blah, blah, blah...?”

“Absolutely!” Now we’re talking my language, I thought.

“So every day now when I write in my journal, I include an ‘image-capture’ kind of like my cell phone. I take a moment from memory--it can be the past 24 hours or it can be from 24 years ago--but I just paint the image in words as vividly as I can and then I have a snapshot which may inspire a poem or an essay on any given day. I (*) star the image-capture entry so I can find it when I go back through my journal trolling for ideas.”

“Beautiful!” I answer, not nearly so surprised by another bright idea issuing from my most brilliant muse as by the fishing metaphor implied by the word ‘trolling’. “I’ll try it.”

I did. And it works! The pages of my journal now contain not only the necessary mental health rants, but are filled with ideas and images I can use in my creative writing as well. Today is a good example of what I’m talking about. From what will one day be a book of poems called “Remembering How to Breathe:”

Nine hours of pool-watching with a silver whistle around my neck, white lanyard bright against brown skin. Hours of wary guarding from shallow end to deep, babies in water wings to high school diving team. This early September day, the rain, the lifeguard’s friend, drove them all away. Thunder, lightning, thrashing trees closed the pool early and left me here alone. But now the clouds thin to spots of blue, and the air, cooler, harbors a touch of fall, even this far South in Mississippi. I am 19, alone, bare-skinned, a healthy young female animal. Thirty-five meters of blue pool stretches out at my feet, not a wave or a splash to mar that perfect surface. The knowledge that water, which looks so solid, can be entered and enjoyed from within as well as from without, is intrinsic to my way of seeing things this summer. There is nothing obscure about water, I think. I climb the steps to the high board, feeling the ridged steel beneath my concrete-torn toes. I take the requisite three long steps into a deep bounce, experience flight, jackknife and plunge. I pull the long blue length, green trees blurring the edges of my upward vision. The water is warm compared to the air, a dive from a brisk day into a pair of sweats, fit to my body like one big glove. Underwater, I flashback to childhood dreams I had of breathing without surfacing, oxygen entering through hidden gills. Remembering, I swim the entire length, emerging not breathless, but elated. Bursting from the warm waters, womb of my youth; baptized, full immersion, born again.

Putting It Out Without Paranoia

2007-09-09T09:29:00.000-07:00

(part 2 on this particular issue)

There was a time, shortly after I had become known as a writer and performer (in a small town sort of way), when I demanded payment for every performance and every poem. Money was a mark of acceptance, the affirmation that I was indeed what I claimed to be; a poet, a performing artist, a real writer. Although I wasn’t paid much on the grand scale of the material world, I would not work without monetary compensation. Even the New Age philosophy and psychology advised people to define their self-worth in dollar signs. “Ask for what you are worth and you will receive it” was a popular phrase. But I’ve always found that difficult to do. How does one set a monetary value on self-worth? It’s invaluable.

News flash folks: Poems are seldom reading material found on the desks or bedside tables of the rich, politically powerful, or the famous. In fact, as a bookseller I can tell you, books of poetry are most often purchased by other poets. Really, we would probably do just as well to trade books. In fact, trade may be the answer to our monetary woes. The bards of old were cared for by their tribes. I’m still open to folks bringing me green beans, potatoes or a chicken in return for a well-done reading.

As I grew in my philosophy of poetry, I grew less paranoid, more generous, and easier with my words. I quit worrying that somebody might “steal” my stuff. Although I wouldn’t be thrilled if I saw one of my poems tagged with someone else’s name, I figured this would be a rare occurrence. Not that it doesn’t happen. I know it does. I’ve seen it in my college poetry writing classes–students who stole the words of the Masters, rearranging them to suit their purposes and make that “A” they felt they deserved. The really surprising part was how the teachers didn’t recognize the work of Frost, Stevens, Plath. The key word here is “Masters.” I mean, somebody might steal a metaphor or phrase or a made-up word and claim it for their own, I guess. But who is going to want your WHOLE poem? Such is the world of letters--we put them out there for others to read, be inspired by, steal if they want. You aren’t going to need that copy write lawyer anytime soon. And don’t worry, there’s more where that came from. Creativity is a generous Mother.

I know from whence I speak. I wrote my first novel 15 some odd years ago. I sent it to a new publishing house that was actually soliciting new material. This is a rare and beautiful discovery for new writers. I sent the finished work to the publisher and hoped for the best. In a month or two, I was astonished to receive a phone call from said publisher who said they loved my manuscript and would begin writing up a contract. They told me to “Go Celebrate!” I did. I told everyone. I borrowed money against the advance they promised. This is a typical new writer response. I had no agent and no advisor other than artist friends who assured me that “I shouldn’t quit my day job.”

Anyway, to make this horror story short, they kept my manuscript for a couple of months and never contacted me again. I tried to be patient, but eventually they sent the manuscript back saying they had reconsidered. Just about a year later, a new book hit the bookstores (I know because I was working in one) which was acclaimed in California newspapers (the location of said Press) and was obviously being well-received in fantasy circles. My friends, who read the book and who had also read mine, said that this new book bore an awful lot of resemblance to my book. They said it seemed more than coincidental and I should look into it.

I didn’t. I never read the book, published by this same press, one year after they had received, accepted, then rejected my manuscript. I couldn’t bring myself to do it and I was not ready for a legal battle which as a new author I probably couldn’t have won. It worked a number on me. I became bitter and selfish and played my words close to my chest. I never wrote another novel either, but I will.

To my credit, I did continue to write--everything but novels. And I continued to submit, to enter contests, to let my words out into the living, breathing air of our world. And the older I got and the more experienced I became, the less important the thought of plagiarism or “monetary compensation” became. I don’t want someone else to take my words for their own. I don’t like copycats or thieves. But I won’t keep my words bound in a closet for fear of these things. The reason we write is to get the work out there. We write because we need to put the words down. The control comes from what we do with them on the page, not what happens to them afterwards.

Now, I give my work away. After a reading, if someone requests a copy of a poem or essay, I lead them to the copier myself, run it off, sign it and hand it to them, often with a hug of recognition or appreciation. If we are writing in order to make the world a better place, a more thoughtful and compassionate place, then I say “Here, take mine. Trade me yours. I could use an apple, a cup of coffee, some inspiration.” And I bet you could, too.

Doin' It For Free

2007-07-22T11:29:00.000-07:00

As a novelist, journalist, poet, or singer-songwriter you may demand payment everytime you read, write or perform your work. Maybe you get what you ask for and maybe you don’t, but it’s hard to earn what you think the work is worth. If you made a lot, you think, “Gosh, I could have gotten more.” And if you you made a little, well, you KNOW you could have gotten more.

One cure for this dissatisfaction is to occasionally do the work for free. It is absolutely amazing how doing it for free can free the artist inside you to do exactly what s/he pleases. If you aren’t getting paid, you might as well risk that crazy phrase you thought about omitting. Go ahead and play that song you’re sure is too goofy to be a hit. You can try something on an unsuspecting audience and see how it lays--what are their instant reactions? Doin’ it for free can be rewarding on both the giving and receiving ends. It is, after all, freeing!

As a poet, doing it for free is part of the job description. A person doesn’t become a poet in order to make a lot of money–girlfriends maybe, but not money. Generally poets don’t become anything so much as discover who they already are–rebellious, sensitive, outspoken wordsmiths who respond to practically everything from their hearts. Passing the hat for a poet is as familiar as passing the collection plate for the preacher. The real rewards are more often found in a touched heart, a tear, a smile of recognition, an audience who groans, sighs, laughs with you. Not even applause is a true measure of appreciation, since there are poems that inspire silence instead. But applause helps. Yeah, it definitely helps.

Now for you non-poets, don’t let this entry be your excuse for not paying your local poets and performers. Hire them when you can. Buy their books and CD’s. In fact, it is a responsible community who supports their local artists and artisans the same way they support their local businesses. If somebody doesn’t pay them for their work, artists, writers, poets, crafts people can’t continue to make the world a better, more beautiful and meaningful place to live. They’ll have to get jobs painting houses, landscaping, housecleaning--anything and everything that pays their rent and puts food on the table. And at the end of the day, there will be little energy left for the work they were meant to do---entertaining and enlightening you.

Recently, I was asked to read for 3 classes of sixth-greaders at lunchtime. The teacher asked me primarily because she was having a difficult time finding a poet to help her and her kids celebrate National Poetry Month (April). Nobody on her list of local writers would come to the school and read for free. I said, Of course I will.” I am invested in teaching young people to read, write, appreciate poetry. It’s part of my job, with or without pay. They are my future, too.

The kids loved it, for awhile transported into a world both similar and different from their own. They were a wonderful audience; responsive, inquisitive, enthusiastic. My payment: 60 hand-made thank you notes and a handful of their very first poems which were inspired by a hand-out I’d given their teachers. Their words: “You rock, Ms. Knott!” “Your poetry is awesome!” “When I grow up, I want to be a poet like you.” and “Your true fan..” are payment enough to get me through the next creative dry spell or the housepainting I’ll do to support my writing habit. These words, their poems are a balm in this world where violence pays better than peace...or love...or poetry. Their words lifted me up at least a half-step towards true enlightenment.

Joseph Campbell said, “Follow your bliss, your passion.” Not the money. And so I do. I make my money doing half a dozen other jobs. Occasionally, I even make a little money with my poems, but not a lot. Never a lot. But then I’m not making a living writing poetry, I’m making a life.

Wild Women Won't Lose Their Minds

2007-06-13T07:23:00.000-07:00

Wild women won’t lose their minds because
we told them to get lost!
It’s a conscious decision.
We know our minds for the tricky devils they are
and blow them off when they start whispering ill winds like:
“You can’t write (or draw or paint or pot or dance).”
“You’re no artist.”
“Get a job.”
“Put a period here, a comma there, and don’t forget to Capitalize.”
“This piece is lousy.”
“You can’t do anything right.”
“It’s not good enough.”
“You’re never gonna be Dorothy Allison, Margaret Atwood,
Georgia O’Keefe, Aretha Franklin, Meryl Streep.”

Wild women won’t lose their minds because
we tell our minds to shut up and go away.
We’re busy dancing to our own drums,
going to workshops,
listening to tree leaves talk,
watching melodies unfurl,
sniffing colors (sunset orange, lime green, cherry red),
shaping clay,
smearing paint on smooth surfaces,
touching the textures of everything.
We are behind closed doors making
love to our imaginations.

We don’t have time to lose our minds.
People may say,
because we slept all day
or read all night;
were caught writing love poems on the back of the boss’s last memo
or sketching faces on the teacher’s handout;
or we left work early because the sky was blue
or hold part-time jobs and live on less,
dress in Goodwill clothes and hand-me-downs
or take a day off because the Muse
came humming through an open window;
the rain made us want to write, paint, putter–
because we refuse invitations to parties,
don’t go on dates
and obviously enjoy our own crazy company...
Yes, people will say that we have already lost our minds.

Wild women won’t worry.
We know our minds are perfectly safe somewhere
among the socks in the bottom drawer
or on a back shelf in the kitchen where we hide the candy
only reaching back there occasionally when we really need it,
grabbing the wrong thing and putting the chocolate
where our minds should be
which makes us incredibly sweet, if a little spacey.
Some of us leave our minds in the pockets of suit coats
or skirts only to re-discover them much later
crumpled in a wad of kleenex and gum wrappers
or jangling in a pile of change and keys on the dresser in the morning.
I like to leave mine sealed tight in tupperware
so it stays fresh and won’t mingle
with the other fruits and vegetables.
In other words, it can be found in case of emergencies.
It may take a minute to locate...
but wild women won’t lose their minds
because what’s not lost can always be found
and we know minds are much too self-important
to stay where you put them
even if you say,
“Get lost you wretched thing!
You look like a brain,
all gray matter and logistics,
chock full of boring rules and barb-wire fences.”

Wild women won’t lose their minds because
we’ve learned to say, “Go Away! I’m busy
listening to the hot, hard beating
of my blood-red heart
pounding out secrets only wild women
can hear.”

Mendy Knott

Getting Ready to Read

2007-06-09T09:47:00.002-07:00

Here are some tips for reading your work, particularly poetry, aloud. To me, the process of writing is not complete until the work is shared. If you aren't currently publishing, reading to an appreciative audience can be very satisfying and encouraging. It's also a good way to get some feedback on your work. So don't let your fears dictate what you do, or don't do! Be prepared. Stand and deliver.

1. I call it the practice of reading poetry because, like anything else you intend to do effectively, you must practice. Always practice what you plan to read, both silently and aloud. Read your piece aloud in front of a mirror until you become comfortable with seeing yourself as a reader/performer. Find the hidden rhythms, the pulse of the piece and let your voice bring it to life. This is not a sing-song rhythm usually, but a sound and tempo as subtle as your heartbeat. Familiarize yourself with the words of the poem and take time to ponder what the poem means to you. Practice may not make perfect, but it will make a difference!

2. I find it helps to warm up the voice by telling a little about yourself or why the poem or selection you chose to read is important to you. Get used to the sound of your voice through a mic (or in front of an audience) before you begin. Say each word clearly and be careful not to read too fast. How fast you read a piece depends on the poem's rhythm and the difficulty of both the imagery and diction.

3. Don't forget to breathe. Breath is the life force—without it we can't live more than a couple of minutes and, believe me, spoken word won't last more than a couple of seconds if you don't breathe. Wear comfortable clothing with plenty of breathing room. Stand up straight. Feel your feet and legs connecting you to the ground. Pause briefly before you begin and take a deep breath. If you stumble or lose your place, breathe and continue. Remember, this is only a few minutes of your entire life. Put fear in a proper perspective.

4. Pull your power from the abdomen, just above the navel. Let the voice gain power as it travels upward through your chest and heart and project the words outward into the world, not just at the audience. Recall the experience of reading the piece for the first time, the effect it had on you, and recapture those feelings for your audience. Men, be careful of the bass register and of reading so low and "masculine" that you can't be heard. Women, be careful of the higher register so that the voice doesn't grate. It's perfectly acceptable to alter the voice for reading, while maintaining the integrity of your own individuality.

5. Allow the audience to both see and hear your power. Your face is a vital part of reading well. Look up and let your eyes speak as well as your voice. Be careful not to hang your head or let your hair fall in your face. Don't hide. The best readings are done by people who are completely open and willing to risk being vulnerable.

6. Believe in the work and understand that it's not your job to convince the audience to believe what's written, but it is important that they know you believe it. What you are giving your listeners is a piece of your own personal truth and because of that, it is valuable and worth hearing. Consider that what you read aloud may prod someone's sense of humor, save their sanity, redeem their sense of the sacredness of life, encourage or enliven them. It has happened to me—on both the giving and receiving ends.

7. Indulge your superstition a little. Perform a small ritual with yourself. Wear an article of your favorite clothing or jewelry. Repeat a prayer or mantra or make one up. But above all, breathe.

8. Speak with intention. Read through your nerves, Don't let the words become a bunch of black marks on the page. Imagine how the poet felt when s/he penned these words (whether the poet is you or not). If you find yourself mumbling or rushing the work, don't be afraid to begin again. Every word counts in poetry. Stand and deliver—don't just repeat. There's a little actor (dare I say ham) in each of us. Let a little of that Romeo or Juliet out to play. Shine!

9. Be proud of a good read. What you accomplish is an act of courage. Believe me when I say our voices have the power to change lives, particularly our own.

What Am I Writing For?

2007-03-16T08:53:00.000-07:00

By now, you must be asking, “What business does this ‘writer’ have with a blog if she’s not going to write in it more often?

Would you believe that I’ve been too busy writing?! It’s true...first in two college poetry classes and then for peace and justice because this bloody war wages on and I feel compelled to do what I can to help end it. Meanwhile it appears as if the current administration will do everything in its power to keep me writing peace and justice poetry and essays and attending marches and writing letters and calling senators while they prepare to send troops abroad in search of still more bloodshed and destruction.

The Bush Administration has kept me busy since 9/11/2001 and frankly, I’m about to be worn out with it. I want to write about something as “poetic” as Spring’s arrival, as down to earth as how good a hot shower feels after busting your butt turning soil, hauling leaves, preparing the garden for planting. So I’m alleviating my own guilt for a bit, taking a spring break, a sabbatical from all the gritty work of peacemaking. There are a million ways to make peace, and poetry is one of them. Quiet, peaceful poetry. So that’s what I’m about at the moment.

To help me get started stretching and loosening up my writing (right-ing) brain, I inadvertently enlisted the aid of a book I found in the 30% discounted section of Nightbird Books in Fayetteville, AR. I work there part-time as one of the world’s truly dedicated booksellers. That’s not a brag. It’s a fact. I believe in bookselling the way some people believe in religion or America or the Adkins diet. That is only part of this story, though, so I won’t dwell on the power of books in abstraction, but tell you about this one in particular that is working wonders in my writing life.

This little trade paper kept attracting my attention but it looked kind of dense, a little too left-brained for my taste. There were too many words on the cover for one thing, and they were big words, exercise words for crying out loud. The complete title is "The Journey from the Center to the Page: Yoga Philosophies and Practices as Muse for Authentic Writing" by Jeff Davis. I wondered how his name could be so short underneath such a long title. But I love writing and writing books (good ones). I love yoga or I did when I used to practice it and remembered how well I felt when I stretched and “sana-ed” regularly. And I believe in Muses. Curious, I kept picking up the book until finally, swayed by the words I liked in the title and, of course, by the discount, I bought it. I’ve never gotten a better deal on a book in my life.

Chapter One, “Putting on the Robe: Exploring Your Intentions for Writing” was worth more to me than the full price of several writing books I’ve bought in the past. Davis approaches writing with the respect a Zen Buddhist is expected to show all sentient and non-sentient beings. He awakens early, bows to his study, his computer, the blank page, takes a couple of yogic breaths from deep in the center of his body, and asks himself the simple yet profound question, “What am I writing for?” He does this every day and advises his readers to do the same.

I tried it. Getting up early is no problem for me. That part was easy. I went to my study and bowed to my desk. This small act which I thought might feel a little silly, moved me to respect anew this work I’ve been doing for 15 years. I stood in “mountain pose” which is basically standing, arms to the side, head up, feet balanced, body relaxed. I took 2 deep breaths then asked myself, “What am I writing for?” Davis suggests we ask ourselves this question on two levels. The first is existential. What am I writing for in the big picture of Life? What in the World am I writing for? The second level is more personal, a more focused intention. What am I writing for--today? What am I working on? What do I want to work on? How will I bring to bear this larger intention on this smaller, more personal one?

The answer varies for me, perhaps not as much for the larger intention as for the lesser one. As a poet, my individual writing focus shifts a good deal. If I were a novelist (which I hope to be one day) my intention might not vary as much, but it would change as I moved along from scene to scene, chapter to chapter and character to character. Inevitably, some days my answer to both levels of the question is simply to keep me sane and sober and writing. That’s it. And that’s enough, done with a clear intention to do even this small act respectfully and well.

I won’t go on any longer. I just want to give you a taste of what the mix of yoga and writing can do for you. I want you to ask yourself this question, “What am I writing for?” Write it on a sticky note and put it over your desk, your computer. I want you to have this book, but it’s out of print. Far be it from me, an independent bookseller, to send you to some online megastore, but I’m a writer first and think you should have it wherever you can get it. And check out Jeff Davis’ website, Center to the Page. Google it, get on his mailing list, bookmark it. Don’t lose sight of this wonderful book and its author, whatever you do. He may be bringing a workshop somewhere near you soon. I wouldn’t miss it if I were you. I’m waiting for one I can make. Meanwhile, I’ll be reading and rereading this lovely little book with the long title as I stretch my skills, my body, my awareness.

Labors of Love

2006-08-03T11:10:00.000-07:00

It has been a mighty long time since I made an entry here, but the time for procrastination is over. Truly I had no idea school would be so time-consuming (what was I thinking??) and I have been focused on swimming competitively for the past 6 months. I did some serious training as I prepared for the gay games in Chicago. It, too, was a labor of love but I’ll write about that some other time.

Today, while it’s fresh in my mind, I want to draw a portrait of an artist for you. The young have so much to teach us older artists. And certainly we have experiences to share with them. I feel privileged to have recently been a part of just such a lesson, on both the giving and receiving end.

I was in Dallas, TX this past weekend visiting my sister and her family and saying goodbye to my 18-year-old niece as she prepares to leave for her freshman year in college. The adults all suffered from a sense of sadness as she graduates from this final stage of girlhood, while she herself can hardly wait to be off on the greatest adventure of her life. The house was astir with excitement occasionally dampened by a few wistful tears, but always as active as a beehive during honey-making season.

Now the soon-to-be-departing niece is, quite naturally, the center of a lot of attention. These are the farewell days and there are so many goodbyes to say, not to mention the endless preparations for living in a dorm room and away from home for the first time. Her younger sister, at 16, feels overlooked a lot of the time. She is fairly good-natured about the imbalance of attention, but it can and does get on her nerves. She keeps herself occupied with her music, which serves the dual purpose of increasing her aptitude while drawing attention to her many talents at the same time. She performed a little concert for us the first day of my visit.

Now, Sally has only been playing guitar for 6 months and she is entirely self-taught. Not only that, but she insists on playing songs performed and written by artists she admires, some of which are quite difficult to learn. I hear Patty Griffin, Nancy Griffith, and Iris DeMent performed darn near to perfection. Can this possibly be the same niece who patiently plucked and picked her way through her first songbook at Christmas time?

I also notice that she is singing in a rather nasal voice, using a lot of twang, much the way her favorite singers do. In other words, she is imitating them. It is, after all, the way we learn. We imitate our favorite poets, painters, dancers, musicians. That is, at first, the way we learn to play, paint, write, perform. However, I happen to know that my young niece is naturally gifted vocally. She has a beautiful voice all her own. And that voice, excuse my prejudice here, has it all over any of the singers she is presently imitating.

After I’ve been around awhile and the strangeness has worn off a bit, Sally and I find time to talk about her music and her singing. I tell her how astounded I am at how well she has learned to play in just six short months. We talked about music as an art form and about creativity and the possibility of her writing a few songs of her own. This is hard for her to imagine, what with listening to all those great singer-songwriters on her IPOD. So I told her how I put off writing anything of my own for 25 years because I “could never be as great” as the authors I was reading--Dickens, Dickinson, Frost, Steinbeck. Good Lord, the list goes on and on. What I hadn’t realized until much later is that what is artistically crucial for all artists is authentic work written in their own voice telling the story they most wanted to tell.

Soon we got around to discussing her singing. I told her she wasn’t using her talent to its full potential simply because she thought someone else’s voice might sound better. I mean, after all, they were big stars--they had to have something going for them, right? And I explained that the sound of those voices were authentic and original to those artists. They might not have thought much of them when they first heard themselves sing. Maybe they wanted to sound like Joni Mitchell or Joan Baez, but it put a strain on them to try and be like someone else. I suggested she try one of her songs singing with her “regular” voice, the one she used for chorus and choir.

It was difficult at first because she had learned the songs a certain way and practiced them over and over. I suggested a few new songs she might learn later, a few by men and some by women I thought she’d like. I named a few songs I thought might be more difficult to imitate. To her credit, Sally dealt well with what could have been perceived as criticism. She GOT IT.

Now you know it ain’t all that easy to receive advice when your 50, so imagine hearing this after you’ve worked your tail off learning something a certain way and you’re only sixteen! Plus your whole world is changing around you as your sister leaves home, leaving you alone with the parents and no ally. But Sally proved herself a true artist, a dedicated musician. We listened to several songs from a handful of CD’s. She picked out a few she liked. And then she got to work. She put her head down and picked and plucked and strummed and hummed and sang those songs over and over. Right there in the middle of chaos, with relatives running all over the place, with the last couple of weeks in summer left to hang out with friends, swim in the pool, sleep late--Sally worked like a rock star who had two days to cut an entire album.

In a single day, she learned three new songs, among them Neil Young’s “Old Man” and Gillian Welch’s version of “Tear My Stillhouse Down.” And she had to transpose Young’s song completely in order for it to suit her voice. No formal training. No one holding her hand or making her do her homework. She was in love with the music and this was not labor, but passionate play. Best of all, she was using her own voice and style in a way that made my heart break. These songs I had heard hundreds of times became new to me. I couldn’t believe what that young woman was able to do in such a short amount of time.

If only all of us were willing to work at what we love with such grit and determination. If only each of us could accept suggestions, even criticism with such open-mindedness. Sally reminded me what a labor of love looks like, feels like. She showed me again how much we can accomplish when we set our mind to the task and set everything else aside even for a few short hours. Devotion--that seems like a word you use for relationships or religion. But that’s what I saw in Sally this past weekend...a trait that can go missing if we don’t practice it often enough. Devotion---that’s what a labor of love looks like. Devotion.

Thanks for the lesson, Sally.

Speedwriting

2006-02-23T10:10:00.000-08:00

“Write what you know.” If you’ve been a writer any time at all, you have heard this expression. Truer words were never spoken; at least for the beginning writer. In college, you were required to do “research” papers, all footnoted, referenced and paraphrased. Even as a fiction writer you will be forced to fall back on this kind of work occasionally. You need to know what was happening in 1954, what happened to the Masonic Temple that occupied the corner directly across from the First Baptist Church. What kind of clothes and hair-do’s were popular in the ‘80s? What were Richard Nixon’s favorite foods?

First, however, I feel like we need to get away from the research and literary box that academia draws around our writing. We need to write free before we can conform ourselves to the rules of English grammar. Most of us know the rules already. The hard part is forgetting them long enough to get creative without our internal editor going to work on us before we’ve finished a sentence. One good way to avoid the critic is speedwriting, or writing what you don’t know you know.

For this exercise, all you will need is a watch or clock, your pen and your notebook or journal. Place yourself somewhere pleasant. A spot that inspires you, like a bench beside the lake. Or somewhere comfortable--propped up on pillows in your bed. Put on a pot of coffee and let the fresh-perked smells evoke a memory. Go to a favorite bakery or kick back in your car with the widows rolled down and the engine off. Sit in a public park and observe the people and the pigeons.

When something, anything strikes you begin writing. Maybe it’s a memory or a fresh idea. Maybe it’s a fragment of conversation or the smell of magnolia blooms drifting on a spring breeze. As soon as you have an idea, look at your watch and begin writing. Decide whether you will write 15, 20 or even 30 minutes without stopping. Follow the silver lining wherever it leads you. Don’t pick up your pen from the paper until the time has run out. Write as fast as you can. Forget about grammar and commas and everything you learned in school. If you get stumped, write the same phrase over and over until you move out from it. Or begin something new from there. Start over. There are no rules but these: Write as fast as you can. Don’t think too much. Don’t stop or lift the pen from the paper until the time is up on your clock. A cheap kitchen timer works well for speedwriting as it will signal you when your time is up. If you find you have more to write, then turn it off and continue.

This exercise is fun to do with writing friends as well as by yourself. Ask a buddy to meet you somewhere and do a few of these writings together. Then read them to one another. There will almost always be something in these timed pieces worth using--a phrase or an idea, a line or a even a word that proves evocative. Like telling your dreams, it often helps to have someone listen to what you’ve written. They can hear things that you can’t see. Besides it’s a great way to spend a couple of hours with a friend, especially if you take turns making up subjects.

This is not a new idea. Most creative writing teachers are familiar with it. Natalie Goldberg in “Writing Down the Bones” and Julia Cameron in “The Artist’s Way” both recommend this form when trying to break through blocks and banish inner critics. But I forget about it as I drudge along in day to day writing and have to be reminded that speedwriting always works to bring me back to what’s fresh but lying quiet as a new potato deep beneath my conscious mind. Following is a 5-minute speedwrite. The prompt was: “Every spring the pond turns over.”

The pond turns over and the dead rise again--Roll back the stone boys we’re bustin’ out the crypt! And man, rising from the dead feels good it really does but don’t expect it not to stink. Don’t expect instant clarity or attar of roses. Forget about it. Nobody comes from that buried place that deep-down dank cave without bringing the stench with them. Don’t recoil no, breathe deep that’s the essence of Earth re-creating Herself. Those missing fingers and toes are full of microbes turning flesh to soil that will feed the mouths of babes. Future creatures are waiting for the fruits and nuts from the tree of thee. But it’s a process like deconstruction--break it down, all the way down to atoms and microorganisms and there in the smelly dark, in the putrefying flesh and decay is new life coming to light. Nobody said it would be easy or smell good or that it had to be pretty. No one promised us a rose garden and even if they did we shouldn’t forget about the thorns and the crumbling compost, the rich black death that feeds the flowers. Every spring the pond turns over.

Get Sensual

2006-02-14T10:55:00.000-08:00

Anytime you take a creative writing class, whether it be poetry, fiction, or essay, the issue of sensuality will arise. Now I don’t mean sensuality as in sex, but then again, it’s a good example. What is sex without sensuality? What is sex without foreplay? B_O_R_I_N_G! I suppose it could be a quickie, and those are fine when you’re all hot and bothered before you begin. But if you really want to warm things up first, how do you go about it?

It’s a good question to ask on Valentine’s Day, the big foreplay day of the year. If you are a lover, then you know that today is an opportunity for the sensual you better not forget. At the very least, you better pick up some blood red roses (appealing to the sense of sight and smell) and a little dark chocolate, too (ooh, there’s nothing like a little bittersweet melting in your mouth and the flick of tongue on fingertips). You’ll want to play that sexy jazz CD you bought for just such an occasion (listen to the sax weave in and out of that throbbing bass line). A dab of perfume or cologne at the throat and below the belly button. The whisper of silk slipping effortlessly to the floor. The rough scratch of a five ‘o’clock shadow, the smooth skin of a downy cheek. You get the picture. Because the picture, the taste, the touch, the smell, the flavor is my point.

We have these wonderful minds that can recreate almost any image by using words. If we use the words well, we can place our readers/ listeners square in the middle of ecstasy, sorrow, elation, disappointment, fear, fury. But not with these abstract words. By themselves, these words are almost as exciting as terms from a medical dictionary. This is what is meant in writing circles by “Show don’t tell.” “Tell” is a technical manual. “Show” is a function of our imaginations ( to create imagery). The only way we can do this is to employ nouns and verbs that actively describe these multifarious abstractions. What does fear smell like to you--sick sweat, dried urine, old blood on a car seat? How does ecstasy feel? A swift, wet kiss, then gone? How does disappointment affect the body--slump of shoulders, bitter twist of lips, tight wounded voice? Lemons, lions, lapis lazuli?

These are the questions we must ask ourselves. A poet friend says that she won’t allow herself to use an abstract word unless she “buys” it first by using so many descriptive, sense-oriented words or phrases. I edit any piece of creative writing by rereading it with all five senses in mind. Have I used them all? Is there one I’ve inadvertently omitted? I am a very visual person with a strong sense of touch and feel. I tend to omit sound and smell when I write and these are vital to reconstructing memory, especially the sense of smell. Think back to your childhood. What memory does the smell of bacon or coffee bring to mind? Isn’t there something that reeks of country summers in the smell of skunk breezing through a car window on a warm night--so much so that you really can’t call it unpleasant? How does the sound of wet tires on steaming pavement affect you?

This week write a poem or piece--make it a love poem if you like--using all of the five senses. Read it aloud, first to yourself and then to someone else. FEEL IT!

Why Write?

2006-01-31T17:51:00.001-08:00

Every once in awhile we must pose this question to ourselves and answer it. Occasionally someone else, usually a good friend or a concerned parent, will ask it for you--”Why do you write?” I find that, as many times as I’ve answered this question, which is at least every other year, the answer continues to change. At least it looks different on paper. After my inner cry baby finishes with me, “Why the heck do I keep writing anyway because basically the whole world either despises or is indifferent to my subject matter and it’s never going to take off and nobody is ever going to pay me for it either."

But then, that’s not why I write, is it? No, it isn’t.

I write because I want to give some form and substance to my life experience. I want to express what begins as wordless: the spirit, the soul, the heart of the matter. I want to play with language until I get it “right.” I want to barter with others--my words for yours. My poem for your poem. My story for yours. Let’s share what we do, see, hear, taste, touch, smell, feel. Let’s expose a little of what we have hidden, locked away inside a closet until the bones of that skeleton have mildewed, gone moldy. Let’s pick each other’s ribs. I want to add to the Grand Mysteries of Life--Love, Beauty, Tragedy, Truth all the old capital-letter words. Let’s do save the whales, the Earth, resurrect peace and justice from the dead. We’ll dog the establishment and praise the accomplishments of those who work for good--penniless poets, independent documentary makers, teachers, nurses, storytellers, peacemongers, the Mother Theresa’s who never make it to sainthood or even to India.

Let’s use a big vocabulary and be inclusive, diverse and not show prejudice against the words that don’t seem socially acceptable when really we just don’t understand them yet--until we have a chance to mouth them ourselves, roll them around on our tongues, try ‘em out on somebody new and watch the shock as they think, “I can’t believe you said that.” This is what starts conversations..or ends them.. depending on what you’re up to. We’ll trade poems and songs and stories like baseball cards, school lunch items, Halloween candy. I might want what you find tasteless or have grown tired of. Go ahead and show me. We’re writers. We’re all about show and tell:

See this crab claw? It still stinks but I found it on an isolated beach at noon and nothing else was there, the beach was bare--no conchs, no abalone or oyster shell, not even a clam--just this one claw and it made me write about how we go around grasping for things, clawing our way through a tide of plenty, wanting more, more until nothing is left but a disembodied claw that clutches and grabs at nothing--it’s involuntary. There’s not even a greedy mouth left to feed. We simply don’t know how to stop.

And if it ain’t show ‘n’ tell, it’s “What I Did on my Summer Vacation.” How as a teen I discovered who I was completely by accident when another campfire girl lost her marshmallow in the fire and I put a perfectly toasted one from my stick in her mouth with my fingers sticking to her lips and she licked the white stuff off and laughed a big gooey marshmallow laugh which stuck to my soul and somehow my sex and I couldn’t get it off no matter how I scrubbed later in the shower and of course that’s when she came in and stood in the stall right next to me and slid the slippery soap into my wet hand, then offered to help me wash my back and that’s how it all began--what about you?

Oh, yeah, this is why I write and I want to remember this for the next rejection letter, the next offhand remark when a friend “forgets” this is what I do for a living, for my life; when somebody new says, “Yeah, but where do you work?” I want to remember and not ever forget but I still need these words to remind me.

So, tell me, why do you write?

ACTION!!

2006-01-28T09:29:00.000-08:00

Some of the most basic tools for good writing are the ones we take for granted. Breaking it down to the essentials, we come down to words, like nouns and verbs. One names a person, place or thing. The other describes an action. What is the person, place or thing actually doing?

In order to make sentences interesting then, a lot hangs on what names or nouns we choose, but even more depends on how we show their action. Consider the power of a simple, active past tense verb: “We had been swimming” isn’t nearly as strong as “We swam.” Every qualifier we put into a sentence removes it once more from the 'now' world of the reader. Sometimes the hads, weres, and would bees are necessary, but I try to avoid them whenever possible.

Descriptive verbs also lessen the need for adverbs: “He walked away angrily.” “He stormed off.” Which of these gives a more vivid picture of the action and the person? Natalie Goldberg, in Writing Down the Bones ( a book I highly recommend) includes a very effective yet short chapter on verb use. She immediately moves into an exercise rather than spending a lot of time describing what she means. I paraphrase her exercise here:

Fold a sheet of paper in half. On the left side of the page list ten nouns, any ten. Most of these nouns I observed from the center of my bed:

woodpecker
maple
dachshund
post oak
bedspread
pen
paper
pasture
barbed wire
window

Then Natalie directs us to turn the paper over and think of an occupation; for example, lawyer, pilot, baker, coach, etc. Anthing that interests you. I chose rancher because in my heart of hearts, I always wanted to be a cowboy. “Rancher” seemed a little more distinguished (and possible) for a 51-year-old. Then make a list of 15 verbs that go with that job. Here are mine for rancher:

lasso
mend
graze
range
ride
rope
buck
bridle
hitch
gallop
herd
hogtie
brand
hammer
pasture

Now open the page and you have the nouns and the verbs alongside each other. Hook them up in sentences and see what emerges on the page. Try some nonsense attachments as well as ones you may actually use. Keep rearranging and playing with this exercise until you experience the power of action words for yourself. Try writing a poem or paragraph using at least some of your sentences. Here is the simple extended metaphor I wrote after “hitching” up my nouns and verbs:

At the Longview Writer’s Ranch

Today they roll from their bunk unexpectedly
wakened by a woodpecker thumping a thorny old Maple
who bucks her rider in a winter wind.
She is a poet and wiener dog whisperer,
sings nonsense songs to her dachshund
to make him love her...
and maybe mind, this time.
She was dreaming of lassoing metaphors and hitching them to phrases
without their bridling, without her having to hogtie herself to a table first.
He was dreaming of rolling in cow patties and squeaky orange men
falling like ripe fruit from the post oaks and pines.
She writes, bedspread branded across one cheek,
herds words onto a page then mends sentences.
The hammering of the sapsucker gallops through her study window.
Cowbirds graze next door then decorate the barbed wire, wings folded.
She grips a pen, presses it to paper,
promises cornfeed and a warm barn
later--as long as she begins.
But still her mind wanders, ranges
far and wide across fenceless fields and pastures
astride the golden pony of her dreams.

MGK Jan. 2006

Do this exercise regularly and see how many interesting combinations you can come up with. The possibilities are endless. And buy Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg--she’s one of the best!

Try This at Home

2006-01-24T19:19:00.000-08:00

Claytime

I don’t know clay besides the red stuff
that stood for soil where I grew up.
I have to ask the clerk
what kind, color, resiliency
the temp at which it can be baked
like the ovenset for my poppyseed cake.
I only know I want to feel it in my hands
SQUEEZE it between my fingers
push and pull
shape and mold some form or figure, godlike
into animals, mountains, trees, human
beings in all their various shapes and sizes.
I buy a DK book on animals of the world
and begin, sitting at a card table
with my friend.
She is an artist, a real artist
who still knows how to play, judgement-free with me
together, yet independently.
She shapes roly-poly pigs, a bear and sheep
who appear to me to be perfectly created.
I tackle grizzlies, alligators, bats, giraffes.
I don’t know how hard these are to make
with all their lines and angles, curves and indentations.
I don’t care about my finished products’ imperfections.
I just pull the clay and round it
fingertip balls until they resemble heads,
poke eyes, pinch ears.
My animals are creations by a god who loves a taffy pull;
elongated Salvador Dalis; people reminiscient of “The Scream,”
only calm and happy in their misconfigurations.

Each time I pick a brand new critter
Jane’s eyebrows raise
because she can’t believe I would even try
to replicate the thing:
a blackbird spreading wing,
a hawk diving for its prey.
Her proportions turn out wonderfully
she practices until she gets it right.
Meanwhile mine continue to emerge like laundry
squished between the rollers
of an old-time wringer washer.
But I’m contented as a clam
as long as I can make them stand
thumb their sinewed muscles into shape
stroke a face or mend a hand
into something that resembles grace.

Mendy Knott Jan. 2005

Try This at Home

Never underestimate the power of a well-known Buddhist concept called “beginner’s mind.” In America we sometimes call this “beginner’s luck.” Basically the same principle applies. When no one has told you that you CAN’T do something--perform onstage, write a poem, paint a watercolor, make a clay pot--quite often you find that you CAN. Since nobody has told you how hard it’s going to be or that it’s downright impossible, you approach the process with openess and ingenuity. There is no rigid set of rules to follow. Instead, you wander rather blindly, albeit happily, into an act of creation and make something wonderfully authentic simply because your pleasure , your joy is in the play of it.

Beginner’s mind is a beautiful part of Creation’s plan which allows us to try something totally intimidating because we’re ignorant of all that can go wrong. Like having children, if we really knew how much pain and agony would be involved, we might never have any--and there goes the species! Sometimes we forget how hard it is and little Charlie gets a baby Polly to play with.

This is the way it needs to be each time we set out to create--it is new! It has never been done before by you and therefore it won’t, can’t be the same as anyone else’s. Disregard what others tell you about how hard it will be. Ignore all nay-sayers. Here at the beginning, having fun will keep you working long after determination and stubborness have worn down to grit. Not even the promise of fame and fortune can do what real pleasure in the process can do for you. It’s the only way to complete a project and still be enjoying yourself. And why shouldn’t we enjoy our work, our art? All suffering should be short-lived or non-existent.

The first creative writing I did after 15 years away from writing of any kind, was to write a novel. That’s right. I wrote a 350-page novel before I had written a short story, a poem, or even a class paper. I could do this because nobody told me I couldn’t. I was well-read. I knew the genre. I figured I could tell a long story just as good as the next fella. I simply didn’t know any better and I had a great time. I learned a lot, but the most important thing I learned was that I loved what I was doing and I wrote a book--all by myself. It was an incredible feeling.

Do this: Pick an art form that you always thought you might enjoy but have never tried. Make it something that doesn’t require a lot of money--use Sculpy, inexpensive water-colors and brushes, pencil and paper to draw or write. Try out for a part in a community theater play. Join a choir or chorus. Buy a harmonica. Decide to prepare a gourmet meal for your date or your boss...or maybe just your mom first. Don’t think about it long. Dive right in! Work hard at playing. Don’t forsee the future. It’s all about staying in the moment and getting messy with your materials. Experiment. Believe you can do anything you want with what you’ve got, then do it. Just do it.