Growth Through Limitations

I’m not one for writing prompts in their most traditional sense. Personally, I never found it worthwhile for me to spend any amount of time writing on my character being in some situation beyond the reality I’ve constructed for them. I have never sent my heroine into a coffee shop only to discover she’d lost her wallet on the bus because there isn’t anything I can learn about my character participating in a scenario that exists entirely outside of her world. Making a list of penetrating questions and developing a solid dossier always seemed far more productive.

While writing prompts have never appealed to me, I have a respect for and understanding of the necessity to build agility, impact, and overall skillfulness regarding literary devices. My difficulty has always been finding exercises that develop these strengths without dragging my out-of-the-ordinary characters through everyday mediocrity as part of their practice.

Like all writers, I presume, I tend to experience what I refer to as drips: standalone sentences, two-minute long dialogue exchanges, and simple statements that spill out of my brain and onto paper. Sometimes they are junk, but other times they are brilliant and not to be ignored. After all, just because I’m not writing a larger piece that would include a particular sentence doesn’t mean the sentence itself is not worth being shared.

As writers, we take those random thoughts and squirrel them away, leaving them in piles of other scrapes, a treasure trove of future inspiration or a pile of garbage we only peruse when we are drunk and feeling the pressure of writer’s block and its accompanying self-pity. But what if we could use them as building blocks with which we can develop the aforementioned skillset?

Much the way a visual artist might doodle as a means of playing with ideas and practicing techniques, creating parameters in which to manage these drips gives us the chance to develop our skills. It is a realization that I had while rock climbing, of all things. In climbing, I am learning that by limiting options along the route, I am forced to see my situation with a greater sense of creativity, to take bigger risks, and to balance style with learned technique. Why not manage these writing drips in the same way?

Thus, I have designed for myself a limitation… Use exactly 19 words to make a single statement with as much skill and impact as I can conjure. Why 19? Because 18 didn’t seem like enough, and 20 was overkill. What an odd number, 19. It never gets any play.

Over the next several months, I will be posting to Instagram and Twitter hashtags that use this 19 word format. The first to be rolled out is #19wordstomakeyousweat, and it focuses on the erotic. Writing, much like speaking and reading, about sex is something that many enjoy but few share. (My, what would so many be reading if not for those of us willing to put the words together and let others read them?) My hope is that others will join in and use the hashtag to share their 19 words… both in this introductory exercise and in those still forthcoming. I’ll be posting my own collections here on the blog, and sharing some of them via Instagram and Twitter. If you’d like to play along, please feel free to post in the comments on my blog, or to use the hashtag across social media.

Enjoy. Have fun. Let go. As artists, our best work is the product we get when we combine both our creativity and our courage. Take the chain off and run with it.

Linen Lies

A curtain hangs between us,

a fabric of deception,

a grainy, textured falsehood

almost undetected.

 

Your words have been selected

so carefully, I find

this linen-like expression

of neatly woven lines.

 

A closeness you surrender

every time you move.

Your touch is soft and tender

but my skin remains unsmoothed.

 

Flimsy and thin,

they’re easily told

and easier wrinkled.

I see them unfold…

 

The truth comes not between us.

The truth I never know.

Just linen lies that keep us

from feeling what we show.

 

April 20, 2001

The Square Lens

True artists rarely have one form of expression. Though most of us have a preferred manner of speaking, if you will, it hardly prohibits us from babbling in other languages. We can’t help it. Creativity is not a singular experience, nor is it inspired by one thing. Creative people are mediums who channel an energy that can come through in any number of ways. We can see a painting and write a poem, or read a poem and paint a scene.

I have always had a strong attraction to visual arts, though words are my favorite tool. I can put a pen to paper and generate emotion, display images, introduce people to the world, and create entire universes. For me, the writing experience is highly visual, however. I see everything I write. I have never, conversely, been able to recreate those images with the same level of accuracy using any other tool – a frustrating reality for a person who loves working in the visual medium.

While my paints, pastels, and pencils may wield their own unique style – one which I do not necessarily love and can’t seem to alter, I have discovered a newer form of visual expression that has proved to be both satisfying and inspired. Instagram.

I’m sure every digital artist in the room has just sighed and possibly choked back a bit of their last meal, but hear me out.

There is a natural pairing between words and images. They speak to and inspire one another.   The world is full of snapshots, tiny visual blips that exist in millions of spaces and at any given second… The turning spokes of a bicycle wheel as it rolls past the rigid immobility of a sewer grate… A vulture’s perch on a playground post… The softness of a flower somehow growing from the crevice of a stone… As a writer, I look at these things and see emotions, stories, poems, single sentences, lists of adjectives. Capturing these blips gives me that chance to share the visual experiences in life that inspire me. The option to adjust filters, angels, and finishes only extends and enhances the creative experience. Simple applications that allow me to lay the words I see across that image bring me to a state of digital ecstasy, allowing me to indulge in an entirely new medium.

Like many writers on Instagram, I am writing in a whole new way, drawing in followers using art conveyed with the split-second swiftness we have come to expect in the digital age. Squared off click-bait that must not only get attention but compel those that view it to want more of what I can provide. Learning to use these tools to promote myself as an artist of both words and images is vital to my success in the professional sense, but it is also wildly amusing and deeply inspiring… The world becomes a highly flammable substance with which I fuel the fires of my creativity.

Sure, there are tons of annoying “chat live” ladies and countless narcissists posting half-nude duck-faced selfies… But never let the glare of some make you blind to the beauty of all who lie in the shadows. Art is everywhere, even on Instagram. We need only open our eyes to it.

The Mountain

Photo courtesy of pro-climber Brady Hogan.  See more on Instagram @summersnowproductions

Photo courtesy of pro-climber Brady Hogan. See more on Instagram @summersnowproductions


I am obsessed with you
With everything about you
The way you look
The way you feel
To me
As my body
Moves over you
The sounds around you
The way you preside over everything
Everything
It’s true
You have brought me pain
Defeat
Injury
But every time
That I return
To stand at your feet
And look upon you
In all your majesty
I feel none of those things
They are gone from me
From my memory
From my body
And all I feel is courage
And hope
And fire
To go forward
To push upwards
To make myself worthy of the view from your shoulders
Because I want you
Under my feet
Under my belt
And crossed off my list
Because you
You are the mountain
And I
I was born to summit

The Empty Box

There is a void
In this room
A starkness
In space
Since you left here
With none
To replace
Your smile
Your charm
You static disarming whisper-like breath
Your verses
Of passion
Your sensuous jest
Your pear golden eyes
Now the world looks like less
Than it was
Than it is
A place that once fizzled
Is flaccid and drib
You stripped it all down
It all went away
A life that was full
Now echoes in grey
But not for not wanting
A lovelorn departing
Without ever quite leaving
Me safely from you
Still tied to your words
Your lips where they’d sit
The kisses between them
The silence of split
The bare walls around me
The vacancy sign
The murmur of nothing
This cube
This nude shrine
To you
And to us
Or at least what I thought
And what should I do with a heart under lock?
I shall stow it inside
This now empty box.

Native Affair

All my life, I’ve been having a love affair with native America. I have always found the culture, people, customs, and landscapes to be among the world’s most beautiful. I perceive the demolition of North America’s pre-Western society and the loss of its culture as being among history’s most disturbing genocides. Suffice it to say, I have a deep sense of compassion and respect for our indigenous people.

Since initial conception, I knew that my novel would have to have Native American characters and that much of the storyline would take place in a world dominated by native culture. Being a “white woman” raised in East Coast urban chaos, I, like my characters, was walking into a world I knew nothing about.

I have the advantage that I’m writing speculative fiction, a genre crafted by masters like Vonnegut, Huxley, and Orwell, a genre as layered with imagination as it is with serious research and defendable theory. Because I am writing a possible future, I am given the flexibility of projecting reality with curvature. I can apply any inconsistency to present day knowledge as long as I can justify it with the series of events that caused it to veer from “the way it is.” I can not, however – under any circumstances, allow this flexibility to make shallow, cheapen, or stereotype my native characters.

Using a mix of scientific theories on how various social and environmental disasters would affect our natural world, I was able to create a projection of how our society would be forced to change over time. Since there is, of course, more than one possible outcome, I juxtaposed the two most likely and most contrary scenarios. Blending historically documented accounts of tribal living and natural resources with the theorized changes in the environment, I designed a future in which a much altered version of our American history is playing out, an ecotopia marred by the nightmarish consequences of present disregard for our human habitat, a place where survival has triumphed because of native wisdom.

Living deep within this world are strong, beautiful native characters who come to the forefront as well as line the background of the story. Paying homage to what was through factual study, I needed to also pay homage to what is and what could be by paying attention to the subtleties that could not be explored through traditional research. So, I reached out to the tribes.

I am so glad I did this.

Three tribes are represented in my book, and I have made contact with elder members of all three. A native language professor, a chief, and a cultural expert – respectively. I have spoken with other tribal members in my efforts to reach the individuals best suited to answer my questions, and each conversation was helpful in some way. Discussing my story with people who happily and immediately shared my ambition for cultural accuracy was beautiful and inspiring.

My sincerest wish is that when they received the copies I promised to send, they will be happy with what I have done. I’m not sure how I would live with myself if I dropped this ball… No pressure, though, right?

Is it hot in here? I feel like it just got really… uh, whew…

Ripe Hearts

Pear trees,
and sunshine,
whispering willows,
and pussy willow pillows.
Kissing you
underneath
the falling blossoms
of breezy cherry trees,
whimsical and pink,
like my cheeks,
warm with the heat of
adoration divine.
Your love feels like
cool, crisp juice,
quenching, refreshing,
apple, peach, plum.
Lips are red,
full of blood,
engorged like
sweet, summer strawberries.
I fall onto
the lush green
of a grassy hill
and gaze up at a
canopy of color,
like a shading,
shadowing umbrella
made of tiny green leaves
swaying gently in the sky.
The warmth of you,
like the warmth of sunlight,
covers me as you cover me.
My toes still cool in the air.
As you touch
soft hands to my
soft white tummy,
I fill up again.
Filled with feelings,
I smile and sigh.
A warm breeze wafts by.
The leaves overhead
sound like the ocean.
The grass is cool
beneath us.
The sun is warm
above us.
Our arms and legs
wrapped up like
grape vines
on a fence of
faith and trust.
You kiss me again.
Your kiss is so sweet,
sweeter than
Queen Anne cherries,
more like
mandarin oranges.
Heaven above,
how I love
the taste of
your warm
and juicy
passion fruit kisses.

8/2000

Gypsy Prism

image

Spirit adorned in ribbons gold and blue
A penchant for breathless devotion
Steady in their wanton motion
Fueled by desires of royal equity
Spread across the layman’s alter
Bread and mead as rich as wine and cheese
Never feeling so alive
As when inside the midnight scape
The hearts and drums that syncopate
Driving us into the night
Where drink and rest intimate
Caravans of wood and wheels
Draped in satin
Trimmed in steel
Unfinished edges
Frayed and dancing in the wind
Like the long lean limbs of lover’s sin
Poured along sun darkened skin
Cloaked in shadow
Flickering
Ignited by the flames of fires all around
The sounds
Of merriment and passion
Rising to the skies
In wafting chants from those who worship both the spirit and the eyes
And from these embers
Our souls do rises
To meet with greatness and demise
The swift existence that is ours
Played out in song
Upon the flesh
Up toward the stars
With etherial earthbound dancing

Written 6/13/14

Inspired by “The New Gyspies” photo series by Iain McKell.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/evelyne-politanoff/iain-mckell-gypsies_b_936297.html

 

 

 

Come Forth

A funny thing happens to me when I’m moody. I write poetry. Gobs of it. It doesn’t really matter what kind of mood makes up “moody” as long as it’s intense. Because I’m human, primal emotions are the ones I feel most strongly. Anger, grief, sex… just some of the primitive triggers on my poetry cannon.

As I add to my blog, people who know me keep asking me if I’m ok. My poetry, they say, worries them. I take this as a compliment. Not because I’m trying to freak anyone out but because it demonstrates that my work is affecting my readers. I reassure them that I’m absolutely fine then turn my attention to the underlying issue.

As artists, we channel inspiration through ourselves and into our chosen medium. We see the world and what we need to add to it through a vision that is uniquely ours. When it’s good, our art is the collaboration of both our inspiration and our perspective. Inevitably, in the process, pieces of our hearts and minds are transferred to our craft, revealing ideas, images, perspectives, and emotions that arise from within us, making us visible to some extent.

The implications of this, of course, is that once you start putting your work out into the world, anyone who views it is offered a peek inside your life, or at the very least inside your crazy, mixed up, frequently ridiculous, though quite creative brain. The inevitable revelations that show through in our work leave us asking an important question: How much of ourselves should we reveal?

For me personally, I’ve decided on all of it.

Does that seem over the top? Definitely, and good for it because the truth of that matter is that I am in no way responsible or even concerned with how the world receives my work. It isn’t my job to anticipate the responses of any number of people who might visit it. My job is to tell the story, to put the work out there, to finger paint the canvas of life with colors both inspired and inspiring. If I start filtering my work based on what might offend or what someone might use to design an under-informed judgment about who I am as a human being, well, I should close up shop right now.

As artists we are drawn to passion and prone to provocation. The things that most find disturbing are often our greatest sources of inspiration. We lurk in the alleyways of the human experience, looking for a broken piece of reality discarded or ignored by others so that we can fit into something bigger than ourselves, something we can sink our teeth and hearts into, something that moves us… and in turn, might move another. We cannot afford to be timid or shy, to offer up only what we think will be well received. We can only speak from our hearts and paint the world as we see it, and we should never look to change our eyes.

So, come forth, poets and painters. Come forward, sculptors and songwriters. Come up, artists of all kinds. Come into the lightness of creating without a filter, without a care for how the world perceives you. Stand in your place, and let them look. Let them talk. Let them grimace, if they must. I am certain it is infinitely better to explain or defend your work than have it go unnoticed.

Learning the Writer’s Craft

I’ve been writing all my life. It started probably around five, maybe six, with a pencil sketched comic strip featuring a simple, wiggly outline of a heroic sheepdog called Flufster.  By 9, I was the mad short story girl, most accompanied by minor illustrations.  Middle-school saw my first book – a neatly presented, word-processor-produced anthology of my poetry up to that point in my life.  It included nearly 50 poems, ranging in topic from love to murder, flowers to fornication… yes, I said middle school.  Don’t ask.  It’s just my brain, and the point is that it has always been my brain.

Writing, words, emotions, expressions, visible people with visible flaws pushing through real-life problems – even problems I have not experienced directly, are all just natural components to some bizarre and expansive spiritual index from which I draw material.  These things don’t “come to me.”  They come through me.  I’ve never curtailed the act of expression because I have no control over it.  I can only let it out or be eaten alive by it.

But if you know me, you know that my real hang-up isn’t writing about things.  It’s learning about things – and learning them so well that I am able to turn the valve from suck to flow.  It’s the channeling of information into and out of my mind.  The type or topic of said information need only be of relative interest.  All knowledge is based on experience, and I want to experience everything.

It’s a very simple process.  First I flood, then I write.

Moving forward in this work of building my writing platform has brought to the table the very language my brain speaks.  After decades of unbridled self-expression, all my flooding and all my writing, the countless Obsessions du Jour (cut me a break… I’m a red-headed, Italian Aries), I’m learning about writing for the first time.

I ramble through tons of articles and commentaries on writing.  I watch The Writer’s Room on Sundance.  I read Writer’s Digest.  I follow the blogs of other writers.  I’m flooding… Oh, look… I’m writing about writing.  (Geez, I hope my novel isn’t this predictable.)

But what am I learning?  I’m learning new ways of tapping into the stream that once flowed only when it chose to.  I’m learning how to craft the result of unchecked creative cascade into something even better.  I’m stepping outside my box to move around and get a better look at what I’m creating, and I’m tweaking it from there – like a painter placing one brush stroke from the corner of the room.  I’m gaining skill.

So, with a bow of gratitude, I tip my hat to all who, unbeknownst to them, help provide me with this education. What a beautiful, useful lesson this has been thus far, and there’s so much still to learn.

I’m a sponge in the ocean, a kid in a candy store.