Blocked? Sort out your files. Buy some pens.

If you’re not a writer, why do you have so many pens?

Writers I know often talk about experiencing block—a concept I’m not sure I fully endorse. But when I worked in hospice, the governing philosophy was that the patient was the expert on pain, and reports of pain were never to be questioned. Likewise, the writer is the expert on this very particular type of pain—the anguish of not being able to produce. It would be insensitive and maybe even ableist, in some cases, to suggest it’s not happening.

Still, I go through dry spells, some of them long ones, so even if I’m not using the same nomenclature, I’m facing the same issue. And it feels awful—whether a busy worklife is keeping me from the page, or whether I’m in front of the screen and can’t think of a thing to put on it.

I tend to think that if I sit down long enough and manipulate the tools—the pen or the keyboard—the writing will come. This philosophy has never failed me. Sometimes the stupidest things scritch out of my pencil—embarrassing things, things I can’t obliterate quickly enough—but if I keep at it, there will be the glint of something: a nugget, a gem. And that something can become the basis of something bigger, or it can be its own thing.

If a million monkeys on keyboards for an infinite amount of time can produce King Lear, this simian surely has a couplet in her. And a couplet is half a quatrain, and one-seventh of a sonnet. Just sitting and working will yield something every time, and even if it’s awful, it’s not … nothing. That’s a start.

Sometimes I tease myself back toward creativity by doing the butt-tinglingly dull administrative work that accompanies the creative life. Just having my hands on my poetry or fiction or nonfiction sort of gives me the itch to do something new.

If you can’t write, you might try this trick. Here are some of the administrative things you can turn your attention to while you wait for ideas:

·      Clean up your files. My laptop files are a mess. Naming is inconsistent; all genres are jumbled together; published stuff looks the same as unpublished. Imposing order on electronic files sometimes has the effect of clearing mental clutter (while reminding us of what we’re capable of).

·      Do select revision work. I know I’m bad at titles, and sometimes I slap a label-type title on top of a poem, with the idea that I’ll return later and make it something brilliant. That poem you labeled “Water” may have a new life as, say, “What Wetness the Stream Can Offer” or some such thing. It may even be more publishable. In lieu of titles, you might comb through your linebreaks or your starts and stops, just to see what kind of improvements you can make.

·      Research markets. There are a lot of good markets out there; see where your favorite writers are publishing, and check out those journals that are new to you. Make notes about submission windows, policies, fees, and the like.

·      Prepare submission packets. Determine what poems or flashes work well together and group them accordingly. Combine them into one file for submission. Do this as you research new markets—or after.

·      Go back-to-school shopping. Hit the office supply store and buy some notebooks, pens, printer paper, tape, toner—anything you need to make the magic happen. This is psychologically reassuring. If you’re not a writer, why do you have all of those pens?

·      Look into grants and residencies. Creative visualization is powerful, no matter one’s field. You can picture yourself at work on your writing in a residency environment, or you can imagine what you would do with the benison of some extra cash. Spend some time looking up these sorts of opportunities, and let your imagination fly.

·      Work on tracking old submissions. Maybe you never heard back from a specific journal, or maybe your records are a bit of a mess. Follow up; organize. Make sure you’re ready if you need to make an acknowledgements page in the future.

·      Put a new manuscript together. You might be far from having a manuscript that’s ready to send out, but if you read your unattached work, or print it out and move it around, you can start to see patterns and themes; what’s more, you can start to see gaps—places where some new creative effort could do some good.

When I tackle the mindless paper-shuffling tasks, what inevitably happens is that I get very sick of them—and I can’t wait to get back to the pure act of writing. Sometimes I use my energy on a different genre to help ease myself back into the flow, and sometimes I assign myself a project or a specific challenge, so that the intellectual aspects of writing temporarily take precedence over what for me is a spiritual practice.

I’ve mentioned it here before, but I have a daily contemplative project that contains a writing component—daily haiku-length poems on gun deaths. Some days I don’t write anything else, but this project is roughly equivalent to turning over the engine on that sports car under a tarp in the garage. You have to move the oil from the pan; you have to crank up the battery. Otherwise, it may not be drivable in the future without serious work.

As a bonus, I never have to say I have writer’s block. I write every day, even when it’s vexing and feels more like math. A journal, as discussed yesterday, can serve the same purpose.

If something has taken you away from writing, I hope you find your way back, and I hope you find your break restorative. Sometimes we quit writing temporarily because we’re gathering instead of producing. Thinking is part of the writing process, even when we’re not spitting out words.

Being about what we're about

Yesterday I wrote about my new journaling habit—just a few days old, but fruitful. My post ended with an elliptical fragment: “Now to see how long I can keep the momentum going ….”

Not long, apparently, as I forgot all about it yesterday.

I’m a fickle journal-keeper. I am not, however, a fickle writer. That’s still an everyday thing—something I don’t neglect, ever; although my output varies, I always do the work.

And that brings me to today’s topic: being about what we say we’re about. If I claim that I keep a journal, don’t I need to keep a journal—a jour-nal, a daily record? If I don’t, I’m full of hot air.

But I can top that. For several years, I continued to call myself a poet, even though I was not writing poems. I know lots of people who do the same. Even in grad school, I remember plucking poems from my 30-page application for workshop—thirty pages being sufficient to get me through roughly three of my four semesters of workshops.

I didn’t go quite that far. But when I used old work in a workshop, I was not being a poet. I wasn’t even being much of a poetry student. I’ve since turned it around, but I remain implicated as someone who felt ashamed to say she wasn’t writing, and so clung to the poet title, even though it was unearned.

Several years back, I read poetry with someone, and I was so impressed by her work. But then we had an occasion to read together again four years later, and shockingly, she read the very same poems, and she subtly conveyed the impression that the poems were new.

Look—writers write. Poets make poetry. It’s not a label that doesn’t expire; if you last wrote a poem ten years ago, you’re a former poet.

Some people make the mistake of thinking that quality determines whether we deserve the title of poet. I know people who don’t think they deserve to be called a poet because they don’t think they’re at the point where they’ve earned the name.

My bullshit meter beeps when I hear a statement like that, but in the unlikely event that such a statement is sincere, I have good news: If you regularly write poems, or try to, you’re a poet—just as people who run every day with terrible form are still runners, and people who hang-glide into a mountain are still (bad) hang-gliders, and the guy who punches you in the nose, even weakly and ineffectually, is still a fighter.

I would add that a small dry spell doesn’t mean we’re no longer poets. Sometimes writing is about writing, and sometimes it’s about gathering and listening and thinking.

But if you haven’t written and you don’t see yourself doing so any time soon, you’re probably a lot of beautiful things—but you’re not a poet.

When a writer tries journaling

I’ve felt troubled in recent months. I’ve been busy and unable to catch up; I’ve worked hard, and in my working, I’ve shorted myself time to collect my thoughts and to just relax and fool around. I haven’t been a fun mom or partner or friend. And I’ve had some crushing disappointments—things that have gone wrong that I haven’t managed to bounce back from.

The other day, I bought a journal. I did it on a whim, really—I was at the drugstore, and I spotted a notebook with a pretty pattern on the cover. It was on sale. I grabbed it. I liked the look and feel of it so much that I needed to write in it.

And so I started journaling. It’s a no-brainer for a committed writer to turn to words to make sense of things. Many times in my life I’ve made lists of pros and cons—for moves, for job changes, for breakups. I’ve listed baby names. I’ve listed things to do. I’ve dieted and listed each day’s meals and calories. Seeing my ideas written down has helped me to flesh them out—to turn a notion into a scheme. I’ve always had a gift for untangling words, and when the words are attached to difficulties or desires, my writer-editor brain works for my own larger good.

For my journal, I’ve made a few rules. First, regardless of what’s going on, I’m just going to use a page—the front and back of a single piece of bound paper. This rule requires me to be direct and honest, and to maintain focus as I work.

I end my entries with three specific observations: beauty, loss, and progress. Each day I write down something beautiful I noted since the last time I wrote, and then I write down something that’s causing me grief. I finish on a positive note with progress—what did I do today to allow myself to express more fully as the person I’d like to be?

I leave a bit of a margin, and in it I write down random things—funny quips from my son, a thing the cat did, a phrase I humorously mis-heard. These can be anything, but the common denominator is that they are things that make me laugh or smile. Thus my little journal becomes a tool for optimism, and I certainly needed something like that in my life.

Anyone who is reading this blogpost, in a space dedicated to writing and creativity, is probably wired somewhat like I am. We figure things out on the page. When we hear an introduction, we need to know how the name is spelled, because words are how we process the world.

Although I’ve taken some time off here, I do consider myself a daily blogger—that is my aspiration. And I also have a daily poetry project that I publish on Twitter—small, haiku-like poems that memorialize a person lost to gun violence the previous day. In a way, I’ve been journaling all along; until very recently, though, my writing hasn’t been the same as personal journaling, undertaken to sort out my problems and to work on becoming more fully me.

When a writer journals, the matter of style is front and center, in a way that it likely isn’t for the average diarist. What is the role of style in a journal? Is the journal a blank slate for honesty and candor, or is it a medium for literary artmaking?

I wouldn’t bother writing if I didn’t plan to embrace the potential for the clearest, most expressive, most artful statement possible. Real writers don’t fart around when dealing with words; they make art because they must. Even freewriting is about pushing ideas further and being on the lookout for intriguing chance connections.

In my journal, I try to be very honest as I write about what is, frankly, a monotonous and ordinary life. I have no hang-gliding to report. I don’t invent things. I don’t hobnob with celebrities. Mostly, I watch a lot of TV.

But my life is my topic, and I’m working on making it better. I’d like a full-time job; even more, I’d like a place where I fit in, enjoy friendships, contribute to something larger than myself. I’d like a desk, a set of keys, a job description.

And I’d also like the rest of it all to fall into place. I want the kind of regularity that can allow me to live and work in a clean house, and to exercise love for family, and to engage in rest and relaxation for myself. It’s not happening on its own, so I’m working through it—through getting what I want and need, or through changing what I want and need (I’m not sure which just yet).

I am artful while I do it, though, and I’m always on the lookout for important insights, or for poetic images, or for prose prompts and starts.

It’s going well so far, just a few days in. Now to see how long I can keep the momentum going ….

If the point is the arc ...

Today is one of those days that are a blessing in the life of a writer. Someone has taken my responsibilities, with their poopy pants and their appetites and their endlessly unwinding stories and their insistence on sticking their fingers into the ear of the cat, and left me alone, with time—time to write.

Naturally, my response to this unusual boon was to hit the couch and fall straight to sleep, the unworried cat taking his place in close proximity to my gentle adult hand.

But my someone’s sacrifice wasn’t all for naught. Apparently, in the seventy minutes I was sleeping, I wrote a whole craft essay about the distinction between poetry and fiction when the piece under review is brief, non-lineated, and condensed.

I remember almost nothing of the dream essay—just that it had something to do with cat-ears and some woman’s distracting snoring in my entirely empty (except for me) house, and that my thesis had something to do with the phrase, “If the point is the arc.”

That was the dependent clause I woke to: If the point is the arc. I thought it over and over. If the point is the arc if the point is the arc if the point is the arc … then, what? It was enough, though. As I began to rouse myself, I recalled it. From the academic conference of sleep, wherein I was the keynote speaker, let the published proceedings reflect this bit of erudition.

As the longtime editor-in-chief of Mid-American Review, my very favorite submissions were Fineline Competition entries. The Fineline was (and still is) a contest that explores the “fine line” between flash fiction and the prose poem. The work always had a special energy and a more experimental feel than our usual submissions. With a name like “Mid-American Review,” writers tend to think that your aesthetic is, for lack of a better term, middling. A journal with such a stodgy name can’t possibly want risky work, is the thinking.

But as it happened, I was hungry for experimental work, and so were my fellow editors. I always hoped for L = A = N = G = U = A = G = E or found poetry, for long poems, for formal work—anything to mix things up. And the prose we printed always pushed boundaries and fought against convention.

We got the challenging stuff in the Fineline entries, in spades. Year after year, these represented the most solid submission category; many years we printed the winner and all ten finalists, just because they were all so delicious.

The Fineline Competition provided a wonderful occasion to consider distinctions among genres. While the contest was created to single out work that was liminal—neither clearly poetry nor clearly fiction—the truth was that it was almost always easy to tell what was what. The work that came closest to defying categorization always made it to the finalist stage, but on occasion none of the work offered a challenge in this way, and even the winner was just an excellent flash fiction or an excellent prose poem—occupying a single category, clearly an example of whatever genre it was.

I’m writing some flash fiction at the moment, and that’s probably why the issue entered my dream life. Adding to my dream fodder, yesterday I conducted a Q&A with a favorite writer for SmokeLong Quarterly, the flash fiction journal that I serve as interviews editor, and his piece would make a compelling Fineline. It is extremely brief and very lyrical, with no extraneous language, not even a loose syllable. The story itself is subtle—more of a character portrait than a narrative. Something happens, though—the character changes—so I would come down on the flash fiction side (and its appearance in a flash fiction journal certainly bolsters that analysis).

My flash of understanding, then, is this: If the point of the piece of writing is the arc of the plot, it’s fiction. If the point is the arc … fiction. If, on the other hand, the objective is to present a compelling picture, and a story is secondary or missing, it’s probably a poem.

I love a story by Jim Heynen called “What Happened During the Ice Storm,” written in 1985. It’s a double-spaced page that presents an account of what happens when a group of boys encounter a group of half-frozen pheasants. It actually reads like nonfiction to me—it’s just that honest—and maybe it is; I don’t know Heynen’s life story.

In this piece, the title backs me up: the point is the arc. “What Happened During the Ice Storm” is about what happened during the ice storm. It’s a somewhat liminal piece, too, though, like the forthcoming SmokeLong story I cited before. Heynen is as focused on painting a picture of the frozen plains as he is on saying what happened—but telling “what happened” is his announced objective.

Writing flash fiction is challenging for me, and I’ll just say, the big challenge for someone who is primarily a poet is to find the story. The short form allows for a simple narrative; there is no room for an elaborate subplot or a crafty MacGuffin. Sometimes, though, I leave the plot out altogether—and then I don’t think I have a story at all. Something has to happen for a story to exist. Some character has to change. A simple portrait does not a story make—but it can make a very fine poem.

A favorite Fineline winner of mine was a piece called “Fifteen Ways to Think About Italian Opera” by Alan Michael Parker. As the title suggests, the story/poem/Fineline was segmented, much like Wallace Stevens’ excellent poem “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” and the segmentation chopped up the arc, frustrated the narrative, so that the story got muddied in the process. Still, I saw it as a story—the fifteen ways Parker offered sort of built in intensity and each one heightened the drama: “I gave up my tickets, I smashed my CD’s, I shredded my books, I hammered my toys, I threw my clothes from the roof in a storm. Maybe now I’ll understand,” Parker writes. He presents a character whose need to understand opera tortures and alters him.

But I missed the call. The piece that I would have sworn was fiction was included in a book of poems, Long Division, released by Tupelo Press. Occasionally, you really can’t make genre distinctions from the evidence on the page, and then, I suppose, we do something I would never suggest otherwise: trusting the author to make the call. Authorial intent is a laughable consideration for most aspects of writing. I really do hold with the idea that an author only half-creates a piece of writing, and my brain finishes the job—so I’m nearly as much of an authority on a piece of writing I love as the author is.

When other measures fail and it’s time to make the call, maybe the author can tell us if a piece is poetry or fiction or something else entirely. But at the end of the day, I’m not willing to relinquish my authority as reader. I’m getting out my protractor. I’ll do my darnedest to detect the arc.