September afternoon
Hello, all!
Up at the lake, out on the porch, noodling around with the last chapter of a book...a fine Sunday in September, with big white billowing clouds that seem to hold totally still in the sky. The leaves are just beginning to scatter on the still-green lawn, and the wax begonias (red and pink and white) are starting to drop their petals -- I read this line a few hours ago: "When I bent to touch one, the cool, heavy petals fell to the ground like swooning birds." (Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World--loaned to me by my father, insatiable reader of good books and adviser in same, as well as all other things.) Also in this book (which I was reading as the sun came up through a thick, rose-colored, motionless mist over the lake): "According to the Talmud, every blade of grass has its own angel bending over it, whispering, 'Grow, grow.'"
Summer seems to be laying its head on the pillow, sighing, and slowly drifting off to sleep. (Which reminds me of the line "All endings seem to whisper, then lie down" -- the source of which of course I have forgotten, and now it will drive me nuts.) Fall--my favorite season--is almost here, and will whip through this corner of the world, gloriously arrayed in red and orange and gold, before it is ushered out in a rush one day by winter wind. The days are getting shorter. I wake early (has anyone read Mary Oliver's collection Why I Wake Early ? I wish I had it on hand--I would tell you what reason she gives), and sit for hours in a lingering night. It's when I write. Well, I write all day, in fits and starts, but those long dark morning hours are when the words seem to be most easily found.
There are writers, I've read of them, who say they write only two hours a day, or three or so, and that's that. Then they read, or walk, or write letters. I have decided these things--reading, walking, and the writing of letters--are possibly the things most nourishing to actually writing poetry or plays or prose. When people ask me how to learn to write, I tell them to read. Now I will add that they should walk, and write letters as well. Has anyone ever walked a labyrinth? I hear it's extremely peaceful. In truth, I suspect I would be just as happy walking down a street in Manhattan; I find it very meditative. Point being: motion seems to still the mind, and when the mind is still, maybe it's possible to reach a little deeper in it, and find language that's fresher and newer and more precise. But that's just a theory. And writing letters is an art that's much overlooked these days. I have complained of this here before. The epistolary form is dying out. We shouldn't let it--historically, it's our best record of intellects at work and love affairs in process and the spirit in its search. Journals and diaries aren't half as telling, I don't think. Because when we write for someone else, we work harder to express and to connect. God knows I hope my journals are burned en masse when I die--they're a wretched bore.
These days I'm buried in two sorts of books: those on spiritual matters, and collections of poetry by women. The former I am reading in preparation to write the second book of two for Hazelden Publishers, which is on spirituality for the non-believer. If anyone has suggestions for books or essays or poems that might be good food for thought on this subject, please bombard me. The latter I am reading because I have a new idea, which I will discuss when it's more than a fairly nascent inarticulate notion in my head. But between these two bodies of literature, I feel like I could do nothing but read all the time, and life would be complete. (Perhaps I would also write letters, and walk.) I wrote a friend asking for names of women poets; she obliged me with an astonishingly long list, in alphabetical order, no less, and I am reminded of how little I know, and how delightfully much there is still to read. Those of you who read poetry--who are your favorite women poets? What do they do for you, why do you read them, what makes their work work? More on all this to come.
This always happens in fall--I'm itching to travel. I mentioned upcoming locations in my last blog (Boston, Columbus, Florida, New Paltz, NY), but what I really want to do is get in my car and head out to the South Dakota Badlands. The sky there is like nothing you've ever seen. Instead, I'll hotel-hop my way from here until Thanksgiving, and then finally will get to work on the novel for a nice long spell of uninterrupted time. And then snow and more snow...
Many of you are back to school now--read much and write well--and for those of you who've long since left school behind, I say the same thing: read much, write well. And, to all, much peace on this end-of-summer day.
m
Up at the lake, out on the porch, noodling around with the last chapter of a book...a fine Sunday in September, with big white billowing clouds that seem to hold totally still in the sky. The leaves are just beginning to scatter on the still-green lawn, and the wax begonias (red and pink and white) are starting to drop their petals -- I read this line a few hours ago: "When I bent to touch one, the cool, heavy petals fell to the ground like swooning birds." (Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World--loaned to me by my father, insatiable reader of good books and adviser in same, as well as all other things.) Also in this book (which I was reading as the sun came up through a thick, rose-colored, motionless mist over the lake): "According to the Talmud, every blade of grass has its own angel bending over it, whispering, 'Grow, grow.'"
Summer seems to be laying its head on the pillow, sighing, and slowly drifting off to sleep. (Which reminds me of the line "All endings seem to whisper, then lie down" -- the source of which of course I have forgotten, and now it will drive me nuts.) Fall--my favorite season--is almost here, and will whip through this corner of the world, gloriously arrayed in red and orange and gold, before it is ushered out in a rush one day by winter wind. The days are getting shorter. I wake early (has anyone read Mary Oliver's collection Why I Wake Early ? I wish I had it on hand--I would tell you what reason she gives), and sit for hours in a lingering night. It's when I write. Well, I write all day, in fits and starts, but those long dark morning hours are when the words seem to be most easily found.
There are writers, I've read of them, who say they write only two hours a day, or three or so, and that's that. Then they read, or walk, or write letters. I have decided these things--reading, walking, and the writing of letters--are possibly the things most nourishing to actually writing poetry or plays or prose. When people ask me how to learn to write, I tell them to read. Now I will add that they should walk, and write letters as well. Has anyone ever walked a labyrinth? I hear it's extremely peaceful. In truth, I suspect I would be just as happy walking down a street in Manhattan; I find it very meditative. Point being: motion seems to still the mind, and when the mind is still, maybe it's possible to reach a little deeper in it, and find language that's fresher and newer and more precise. But that's just a theory. And writing letters is an art that's much overlooked these days. I have complained of this here before. The epistolary form is dying out. We shouldn't let it--historically, it's our best record of intellects at work and love affairs in process and the spirit in its search. Journals and diaries aren't half as telling, I don't think. Because when we write for someone else, we work harder to express and to connect. God knows I hope my journals are burned en masse when I die--they're a wretched bore.
These days I'm buried in two sorts of books: those on spiritual matters, and collections of poetry by women. The former I am reading in preparation to write the second book of two for Hazelden Publishers, which is on spirituality for the non-believer. If anyone has suggestions for books or essays or poems that might be good food for thought on this subject, please bombard me. The latter I am reading because I have a new idea, which I will discuss when it's more than a fairly nascent inarticulate notion in my head. But between these two bodies of literature, I feel like I could do nothing but read all the time, and life would be complete. (Perhaps I would also write letters, and walk.) I wrote a friend asking for names of women poets; she obliged me with an astonishingly long list, in alphabetical order, no less, and I am reminded of how little I know, and how delightfully much there is still to read. Those of you who read poetry--who are your favorite women poets? What do they do for you, why do you read them, what makes their work work? More on all this to come.
This always happens in fall--I'm itching to travel. I mentioned upcoming locations in my last blog (Boston, Columbus, Florida, New Paltz, NY), but what I really want to do is get in my car and head out to the South Dakota Badlands. The sky there is like nothing you've ever seen. Instead, I'll hotel-hop my way from here until Thanksgiving, and then finally will get to work on the novel for a nice long spell of uninterrupted time. And then snow and more snow...
Many of you are back to school now--read much and write well--and for those of you who've long since left school behind, I say the same thing: read much, write well. And, to all, much peace on this end-of-summer day.
m
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