Embrace the Minotaur (or: Freedom in Structure)

I seem to have contracted a post-graduate malaise. I feel tired, lost, somewhat twitchy.

What is this place? This no-man's-land (or no-muse-land) of not writing? This creative ennui? This blank-page-avoidance? It feels...familiar. Ah, yes, I think I've been here before. The only difference is that this time I've arrived with letters after my name.

I'm thrilled to have the letters, but they don't really help me when I'm faced with my old foes of fear and procrastination. But something from my time in the graduate program can help, and that's the experience of working toward the degree. Each month, whether I felt inspired or not, I had already made a commitment to send work to my advisor.

I chafed against that structure for weeks on end, but when the deadline came, I always had something to send. It wasn't always new work, and it wasn't always my best work, but for two years I managed to cobble together revisions and attempts, and even a few promising gems. That structure forced me to produce. Now that structure is gone, and I feel lost.

This is an ongoing theme with me: I hate structure, yet I need it. There's something almost mystical about this concept of freedom within structure. Structure limits the options, narrows the focus, directs the attention. Structure says, "Here's what you need to do, so do it." Whether it's the formal constraints of writing a sonnet or the crazy commitment of turning in thirty pages of writing every four weeks, structure delineates a path for us to follow, like a lantern-lined path in a dark forest. We may not be able to see where we're going, but at least we know where the next step falls.

Without that structure I feel like I'm shuffling and limping along, groping at trees and shrubbery, possibly doubling back on myself in some kind of labyrinth. Without structure to show me the path, I end up standing still, straining my eyes against this free-form darkness, listening for strange sounds. (Where's that heavy breathing coming from? Is there a Minotaur in here?)

Too dramatic?

Even so, I've linked arms with several of my friends and former classmates, and we've created our own structure through a virtual workshop group, complete with monthly deadlines. I'm also gearing up to submit a few pieces to literary journals, as well as to apply to at least one writers' colony. This is self-imposed structure, and nothing will happen if I miss the deadlines.

I mean that last phrase several ways: nothing will happen if I miss the deadlines. Nothing "bad" will happen to me, but also: Nothing will happen in my writing. If I don't keep moving forward, I will simply stay in this dim wilderness.

The structure of a graduate program taught me about two crucial concepts of the writing life: work and practice. Each word wraps around itself in dual definition, a double-helix of meaning.

Work: Writing is work, and writing is my work. Writing is occupation and vocation. I work at writing because writing is what I'm called to do. Within the structure of that lighted walkway, I find the freedom to follow my path.

Practice: A musician practicing scales. A Buddhist with a daily practice of meditation. I practice the practice of writing. I'm beginning to develop muscle memory. If I sit down to write often enough, maybe the part of me that is called to this work will glide more often than she fumbles. I might even hum -- metaphorically speaking, of course (or not).

** ** **

During my last semester in grad school, I admitted to my advisor that I hate the blank page. Generating new work makes me squirm. I much prefer the process of revision, the comfort of familiar words and stories. Upon hearing this, he invited me to try something radical.

"Sit with the blank page," he said.

I gulped and squirmed. I may have pursed my lips and squinted my eyes at him through the phone. And then, like a good patient, I promised to try this newfangled medicine, knowing that it was just what I didn't want -- and just what I needed. And then I promptly avoided sitting with that blank page for three weeks.

The final week of the final four week cycle rolled around and I sat down. Or maybe I started walking along that path with my eyes closed again, this time trusting that I would be shown the way, that I wouldn't be eaten by a man-bull, that I wouldn't trip, or if I did trip, that I'd have the faith to get back up. (At this point maybe you're wondering: Which is it? Is writing about sitting still or about moving forward? Yes. It's not either-or. It's both-and.)

Something miraculous and unexpected happened as I sat with that blank page: The path widened, branched out, and I gained access to parts of the forest I hadn't seen before I sat in that silence, in that structure, in that freedom.

** ** **

I remember this now when I feel lost among the trees. I remember this now when I hear the words whispering somewhere in the woods, beckoning me, haunting me with their heavy breathing. I remember this now as I sit down to revise and to, yes, write something new.

I'll keep working and practicing, working and practicing, because I don't really know what else to do.

Find me at Hunger Mountain (the journal)

 I recently became one of the assistant editors of The Writing Life section of Hunger Mountain, a literary journal based out of Vermont College of Fine Arts. I have two blog posts up on Another Loose Sally**, which is the journal's blog. Last week I posted the first of my bi-monthly round-up of writing-related links, and today I published a little essay about literary citizenship.

Here's an excerpt:

When the opportunity to be a submission reader for Hunger Mountain came along, I thought it was a great chance to learn about a journal from the inside out. I also hoped that it might bring me some good juju, a little cosmic extra credit when it came time for me to start submitting to journals. Maybe the submission gods would smile on me, perhaps reward me with publication the very first time I submitted. And then The Best American Essays series would anthologize me! I would enjoy a bright and shiny publishing future, devoid of all the angst and rejection I’d heard so many others talk about. Yes indeed, this being a volunteer reader could work out well…. At the very least, I figured it would give me a practical education in the do’s and don’ts of the art of submitting.

Read the full post here.

**Where does the blog name "Another Loose Sally" come from? Here: "Essay: a loose sally of the mind; an irregular undigested piece; not a regular and orderly composition." ~ Samuel Johnson's Dictionary

One moment, one line

The trees buzz electric with the late summer current of cicadas.

** ** **

I opened my back door this afternoon, heard the loud buzz of bugs, and these words surfaced. I'm taking this serendipitous appearance of poetry as a promise that the words, which have been quiet for me, are returning. Stay tuned.

Life in Flux (want to join me?)

Flux. Flow. Jumbled mess. Quicksilver. Molasses.

That's me and my life these days. All over the place. Stationary. Contradictory.

Lazy, elastic hours stretch on in front of me, or they whiz past like a taut rubber band shot from across the room. I don't know what I'm doing with myself. Some things get done. Others don't.

I've been trying live away from the laptop lately. It's good to get offline and into a book. To close the computer and open the window (on days it's not 90+ degrees). My fridge holds fresh berries, a few avocados, lots of herbs. Tonight I shucked seven robust ears of corn and made a black bean sauce from scratch. Yes, some things are getting done.

Others aren't. I've been trying to write this blog post for days. There's nothing difficult about it -- except putting words next to each other, putting one thought in front of another. Sometimes that's difficult.

I look around the house and see piles of paper, laundry, dust bunnies, stacks of books. I pick one up and start reading.

I look around my mind and see to-do lists, story ideas, plans for family outings, blog posts, big dreams, small fears, corners packed with questions.

Oh, the questions. Those fluxing questions!

I'm living with too many of them these days. It's uncomfortable. They muck up the landscape. They whisper distracting half-secrets. They taunt me with their curvy punctuation marks. It's not that I'm adverse to mystery; I know that's where a lot of the joy and wonder live. But it's unnerving, all these unknowns. Like a math problem with too many variables come to life.

Where do we want to live? What kind of book am I writing? What do we want our daily life to look like? What makes a family? What is my work in this world?

Since coming back from my summer hiatus/graduation/vacation, I've been trying to find my plot, my through-line. I feel like I'm at the beginning of a new chapter, but the words swim around the edges of the pages, refusing to line up into phrases, sentences, paragraphs.

I'm in a time of transition. It's overwhelming, exciting, and confusing. I keep asking out loud and to no one in particular: Where do we go from here? What comes next? What happens now?

I look around and think: I've been here before. I've known other times of flux.

And yet, the landscape is never the same twice. That's the tricky thing about times of transition: What you learn during one can be applied to the next, but not necessarily in a one-to-one ratio.

I don't know exactly what to do to answer these questions and emerge from this transition into the next chapter. I only know what to do generally. Write in my journal. Go outside and breathe. Use my camera to help me see the world around me in a new way. Read. Make dinners and homemade desserts. Talk to friends on the phone and in person. Sit in the quiet and listen to the house settle around me. Go out for ice cream with my husband. Let the cat sit in my lap for an hour-long petting session, even if my leg itches or my bum goes numb.

As I find my way through this transitional time, I realize it's no accident that I'm about to co-teach a course on navigating life's transitions through creativity.

It's coincidental, serendipitous, even amusing, but no accident. It's often said that we teach what we need to learn. I'm beginning to see how this truism is deeply true.

Just as I was entering this time of transition, I was also creating the content for Emerge, the first online course from Live it to the Full. Liz Lamoreux, Vivienne McMaster, and I are teaching it, and it's chock-full of stories and tips about wading through the times of flux, about living the questions.

I'm honored and truly jazzed to be teaching alongside Liz and Viv. They're my friends, but they're also my teachers. They've taught -- and continue to teach -- me so much about being true, about living the creative life, and about taking care of myself.

Class starts in a few days, on Monday, August 1, but you can still register for just $49.

I'm looking forward to sharing my own stories and transition tips, to learning from Viv and Liz, and to taking this four-week journey with everyone who signs up. I'd be honored and jazzed if you joined us. We can follow our paths, sit with the questions, and create together.

Some Things I Really Need to Know I Learned in Grad School

I'm back from 18 days out of the studio, which included 11 days at school, four beaches, three states, two bed and breakfasts, two hotels, and one graduation. I've been taking my time wading back into daily life. I hope I'll have more words in the days and weeks to come, but for now here's a list of some of the things I learned over the last two years.

1. True friends will miss lunch to help you practice your role in the school play, which, in this case, is known as your graduating lecture and public reading.
2. It's okay to cry in front of your teachers. The good ones will understand.
3. The experience is more important than the credentials. (But the credentials are nice, too.)
4. There is no "there" there. Just be on this journey for all you're worth.
5. Adults still need to hear the words "I'm proud of you" from the people they love and respect.
6. Ice-cold, lime-flavored slushy drinks are the perfect way to celebrate on a hot day. (If that ice-cold, lime-flavored slush also contains tequila, so much the better!)
7. If you dance like no one is watching, so will other people. And everyone will have fun.
8. The world needs more sing-alongs.
9. Other people see your beauty and brilliance so much more clearly than you do.
10. It's good to honor and celebrate your hard work and successes, even if you're already looking ahead to the next thing.
11. Living the writing life is not for the faint of heart.
12. The best teachers will ask questions more often than they'll give you answers.
13. Structure is not always the enemy of creativity.
14. Nobody cares if you keep making your art, except for those few people who do -- which should include yourself. And that's just fine. Pay attention to those who care (even if it's just you).
15. Hitting an artistic plateau is an opportunity. Use it to rest, to push yourself in new ways, or to practice the art of commitment.
16. Persistence is the writer's best friend.
17. Wally Lamb seems like a nice man. He has confirmed that "there is life after graduate school," which is reassuring, but also a bit ridiculous given his life after grad school. (Something to aspire to, I suppose.)
18. A good balance of community and solitude helps to keep away the crazy.
19. The concept of genre is useful in theory (and book sales) and almost nothing else related to writing.
20. Treat your Muse with deep respect. She holds a lot of power.