National Day on Writing Self Pep Talk (I Need This More Than You but Bear with Me)

Here are some thoughts I had while writing with my composition students the other day. As today is the National Day on Writing, I thought I would share them on the off chance that it helps someone else, too.

Ten more minutes to write. What would I do with more? A lot.

I’m starting to believe that my reluctance to throw myself into another writing project (and Writing Project) stems from a deep yet faulty belief that I don’t have enough time to do a good job, and like so many of my students continue in the false philosophy that it’s better to not even try than to try and fail. I often voice aloud that I am not afraid to fail (at writing…because that is what revision is for), but I think I really am.

 I claim that my most toxic enemy is time, or the apparent lack thereof. I don’t have enough. At least I don’t have the time I want/need to start and finish projects as I used to. Sure, time adds up, yes, but my inner self struggles to produce writing when I perceive that I don’t have wide-open slots on my schedule. Lately my available “free” time minutes have been relegated to numbers I can count on my fingers and toes.

And I’ll admit that it is true that ten or twenty minutes here and there could make a difference if I made use of said minutes. However, those small chunks don’t permit my mindset to allow flow to happen. (Thank you very much, Mr. Csikszentmihalyi.) It takes me that long to warm up. To be honest, when I have to quilt the piece scraps of time together, the patchwork writing isn’t as pleasurable for me. What’s the fun in turning it off before the engine is heated?

Here’s my thought—probably not new to any who might still be reading—but hang with me. What if I use those small snatches of seconds and the odd handful of minutes I do actually have to become more organized or methodical or strategic about what I write and what I do as a writer. It might seem to be more work—starting and stopping like a new driver on a clutch—but I might actually produce something. As a wise mentor once (or twice or a thousand times) told me, only writing produces text. Using my time this way might allow me to navigate the shallow waters my creative vessel has been treading lately. Yes, I am mixing my metaphors. Judge harshly! It doesn’t matter right now. What does is that I am writing.

It has been too long. I’ve lost my groove, and there is no one to blame and chuck out a window except me. I gotta get back on the bike, as I once told a crowd of English teachers at UCTE. Seriously! In the past three years, I have only presented at a conference once. Pathetic. 

I need to get over the ugly despair that falls when I can’t find a perfect description or if my alliteration is over the top; the writing on the wall (which is not mine, by the way) clearly dictates that I have to get back to work. I just have to write. I might need a stricter taskmaster, though.

 

Christmas in July

“Christmas Crazy”

 

One Christmas, I got snagged

in the current of holiday shoppers,

pulled under and swallowed

by a swarm

scavenging the remains of

trendy trinkets, rooting through

bargain bins,

pecking and picking

over remnants of deals already closed out;

endless rolls of wrapping screamed

louder than the toddler trailing

behind her mother’s cart overflowing with

Christmas crazy—

 

It careened around a corner,

out of control,

rickety back-left wheel spinning absently,

and crashed,

triggering an avalanche of

expletives and baubles,

the gift-wrapped gaudiness

spilling across the not-too-recently

waxed tile—

 

The tin-speaker droned overhead;

the din of holiday havoc

paralyzed my senses:

individual samples of non-cheer now

in Aisle Two served in tiny white baking cups

for your convenience.

 

So I left—my cart

and my soul

empty—

for a more stable scene.

 

Deserting the hive behind

the automatic sliding glass doors,

I drove to an empty lot,

windows down,

gazed at the few simple lights

warming the blueblackness of the winter sky,

and exhaled private

exultations and alleluias—

a prayer to peace.

photo credit: Calwaen Liew on Unsplash

 So...I started scribbling the ideas for this poem about a year and a half ago, but a couple of weeks ago I felt the need to pull it out and either finish it or be finished with it. I'd love your feedback, but want to  remind you that I haven't poemed for a while.

Also, here is my traditional claim that I am going to start posting more content in the future. Believe it or don't, I'm still going to do it. Anyone want to hold me accountable?

Poem in Your Pocket Day 2021

It's here! The day that I almost religiously pay homage to my blog. Maybe my pilgrimage should occur a little more frequently, but despite my negligence and my writing sins, can I share a poem with you? #pocketpoem

I encountered this back in January, and I instantly knew that it was the one this year. Ted Kooser has recently become one of my favorites. Since Nebraska claims him, there are more Kooser poetry collections in the local library than any other poet. I'm just glad I remembered where I put it before it went in my pocket.

“Pocket Poem”
 
If this comes creased and creased again and soiled
as if I’d opened it a thousand times
to see if what I’d written here was right,
it’s all because I looked for you too long
to put it in your pocket. Midnight says
the little gifts of loneliness come wrapped
by nervous fingers. What I wanted this
to say was that I want to be so close
that when you find it, it is warm from me.
 
                                                                --Ted Kooser

If you want to play along, Here are the rules:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, ready to be shared. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Share the poem with people (friends, neighbors, complete strangers) throughout the day.

4. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

5. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter), Twitter (@joeavgwriter), or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out my chosen poems from years past!

"Flirting with Death"

Being the Grim Reaper, I have next to no friends, and I certainly don’t go on many dates. So, after all these millenia, I signed up for online dating. It was a risky plan; I didn’t even have a decent picture of myself. But miraculously, I found a match and I found myself speeding down the road, late for my first date with Alina Tyson.

According to her profile, she had just finished college and was teaching kindergarten at a local elementary school. Her profile also told me that she had a passion for cooking, which was something I also thoroughly enjoyed. After all, I have had more than a few years of practice. Alina apparently enjoyed being outdoors in the summer, which was something I didn’t agree with. It just got too hot in the summer, especially in my cloak. Oh well. The only real problem was that she was mortal, but I’d cross that bridge later.

I coasted into the parking lot of Aurea Lux, the only Greek restaurant in town. It was decent, as far as American-Greek food goes. There was no time to fix my hair or bowtie in the rearview mirror. I was already late enough. That last reaping had taken longer than expected. Stupid defibrillator.

When I entered the lobby I got a strange look from a couple exiting the restaurant, and realized that I was still wearing my cloak. I quickly slipped it off and hung it on the coat rack, hoping no one else had noticed. I smoothed out my blazer as best I could and looked around for my date.

I recognized Alina as soon as I saw her, and my breath caught in my throat. She looked exactly like her picture: Long, honey blonde hair framing a slightly oval shaped face, and eyes that sparkled like moonlight on a scythe. She was absolutely stunning.

Alina spotted me and smiled, waving. I returned her gestures and walked over to our table. There were already two waters on the table, a courtesy I appreciated about this restaurant.

“Sorry I’m late,” I apologized, “I had a… meeting that took a little longer than usual.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t waiting long anyways.”

Suddenly my mind was blank. I had no idea what to say. What could I say? We hadn’t even ordered, and the awkward silence had already come. Alina twisted her hair around her finger. I looked down at my lap, hoping by some miracle I would be able to find the right words--any words.

“So, Mortimer,” Alina broke the silence. “It is Mortimer, right?”

              I looked back up at her. “Yes, but my friends call me Morty.” At least, they would if I had any.

“Morty. Got it.” I took a drink of water as she continued. “Your profile didn’t mention a profession. What do you do for a living?”

I nearly choked. “I… um, collect… things.”

It was a vague answer, but Alina seemed genuinely intrigued. “What sort of things?”

“Uh, old things,” I brushed a hand through my hair, hoping to appear calm. “Though sometimes I dabble in modern stuff.”

Before Alina could ask any other questions, I cleared my throat and picked up the menu sitting in front of me.

“Shall we order?”

She nodded, picking up her menu as well.

When Alina had made her decision, I signaled to a waiter.

“What can I get for you two tonight?”

Alina responded first. “I’ll have the stuffed grape leaves, please.”

The waiter scribbled something on a pad, then turned to me. “And for you, sir?”

“I will have the dolmadakia as well.”

The waiter made another note before taking our menus and scurrying back to the kitchen.

“How did you know what it was called?” Alina inquired.

“What what was called?”

“The dolmadakia. Their real name wasn’t on the menu.”

I smiled. “I’ve had them before, in Greece.”

Alina looked impressed. “Do you travel often, then?”

“My career takes me all over the world,” I responded. “What about you? I saw on your profile that you like to spend time outside.”

She smiled. “I do. It’s always been a dream of mine to travel the world.”

Suddenly there was nothing else to say, and we lapsed into another silence. I fiddled with my red bowtie, still not exactly sure how dates worked. But I was pretty sure that two awkward silences was bad.

“I… um, think that you look very beautiful, Alina.”

She blushed, and returned the compliment without hesitation.

I didn’t have a mirror, but I knew that my face was as red as my hair. I looked down, a shy smile on my lips.

At that moment, the waiter returned, saving us from a third silence.

“Your dolmadakia, sir and ma’am. Enjoy your meal.”

We both thanked him, and he left. I waited for Alina to begin eating before digging in as well.

After a few bites I made a comment about how I enjoyed cooking Greek food. Alina agreed, and we launched into a conversation about cooking. I was surprised at how easily the conversation flowed, especially compared to our previous attempts.

When Alina laughed, it filled me with an unfamiliar sense of happiness. I hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and I realized that I had missed feeling it. The more I thought about it as we talked, the more I understood something.

I really liked Alina. And I wanted to always be the one to make her laugh.

So I made up my mind right there to ask her out again.

When there was a break in the conversation, I was ready to seize the moment. I realized that if I was going to ask Alina on a second date, now was the time. I took a deep breath. “Alina?”

“Yes?”

I straightened my bowtie. “I’ve had a really great time tonight, and I think that you are an amazing woman. Would you like to go on another date?”

“Yes,” She smiled. “I would like that very much. When were you thinking?”

“Well,” I pulled out my phone to check my schedule, grinning. “I think I’m free next Friday. Maybe we could--”

I stopped mid-sentence, staring at my phone.

“Morty? Is something wrong?”

Something was very wrong. A notification had appeared on my screen, reading, Reap Appointment in 20 minutes! Olivia Tyson: 1094 North Pine Rd.

“Um, Alina?”

“Yes, Morty?”

“Your mother wouldn’t happen to be named Olivia, would she?”

“Yes, that’s her name. Why do you ask?” Alina seemed extremely confused.

I swallowed, ignoring her question. “And does she live at 1094 North Pine Road?”

“Morty, how do you know this?”

I stood up so fast that I bumped the table, spilling both glasses of water. “I have to go.”

“Morty,” Alina stood as well. “what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” I apologized.

I turned and made a beeline for the coat rack. I grabbed my cloak and slipped into it, not caring if my blazer got wrinkled or creased. I walked up to the door and was about to leave, but instead looked back.

Alina was still standing at our table, watching me with a sad, confused expression. I swallowed the lump of emotion in my throat as I raised my hood, eyes still on Alina. Suddenly her face paled, and realization flashed in her eyes as she saw me for who I was. Her mouth hung open. I tore away my gaze, shoved open the door, and stepped into the night.

 

This story was written by guest blogger, my daughter, Ally. It was a work for her creative writing class. It reminded me of a story I wrote as a high school junior. Ally is currently a sophomore. I'm sure she would like some constructive criticism. (Maybe.)

Celebrating That Which Has Lost Its Meaning (or Why I Like Phil Kaye's Poems)

 

Watch the video first.

 I first discovered Phil Kaye when I saw a video of him performing “An Origin Story” with Sarah Kay (no relation) back in 2012. I immediately started bingeing other videos he produced, my favorite being “Repetition”—simple enough for junior high geeks to understand, deep enough for them to ponder and connect with. Every so often, I recycle it as a scribble prompt. Earlier this week, I used it again for my Comp II class at BU. For those of you who don’t know, students are allowed to write anything they want after the prompt is shared. This time, every single student who shared his or her writing discussed the ideas of the poem (and none of them are English majors!) and how they interpreted the poetic device of repetition and the word choice. It was a beautiful moment. Here are my thoughts from those few minutes of writing, only edited for punctuation and spelling. The rest still hovers in a first-draft state. Keep in mind I wrote this before the students shared their writing and their thoughts:

 Using Phil Kaye’s “Repetition” was definitely the right choice. It created, as far as I can observe, a pensive mood in the classroom. Maybe it struck a chord or two today.

 I think that it’s poignant that the overuse of an action or a word or phrase can take away its importance or significance if you let it. However, human beings tend to take for granted the small, repeated instances of our lives. And that’s one of the reasons my poetic heroes include Phil Kaye, Sarah Kay, Ted Kooser (recently read in more depth), and Billy Collins. Each one of them takes something mundane—a setting or a situation--and makes the moment extraordinary, something worth celebrating.

 Each time I read one of their poems, my mind recalls when I taught Ben Mikaelsen’s Touching Spirit Bear to seventh graders. The hardest concept to help my students connect with was Garvey’s advice about the hot dog. (If you haven’t read it, take an hour to devour it. Reading it aloud with a reluctant teenage boy is even better.) In short, life is not a meal, its only purpose to refuel your body. It is something to relish (pun intended), something to celebrate, to enjoy, savor, and appreciate. Most importantly, it is something to share. (Draw your own connections here.)

I suppose that’s another reason why I write—to share the celebrations and the setbacks of life—the small repeated moments that most might overlook. I love to others (and myself) find meaning in the mundane.

Maybe I can turn this into a 2021 resolution of sorts.