Sentence vs Cents

Artists make it. (Funny term, no? “Make it.”) Some folks, I can’t help but wonder how, but someone enjoys their music or art or medium of expression, their manner of interpretation, of caprice, of notions, the known and the unknown. Perhaps my favorite country singer and songwriter, Miranda Lambert, is an example of this “making it,” and continuing to do so. With the time she has been performing and writing, the quality of her music has not diminished; sure, her music isn’t the same as it was ten years ago, but the songs do not feel forced.

Perhaps that is what makes an artist an artist: patience. Words, music, paint strokes, carvings, welding, all of these can be forced. The products can be okay, sometimes pretty darn good, but the art lacks patience, which I would argue is a form of love. The best art is not forced.

This is why I don’t believe I ever could or will be a writer. No. I cannot and will not rely on writing for income; the writing will become desperate. Chasing the cent rather than the sentence—that is desperate writing. Not because life is about money, but because it takes money to survive in this world. And I fear that if my motive is money, my writing will not come from a healthy source.

This writing may seem desperate. Maybe it is. Maybe my writing on this blog is a desperate attempt to keep practicing so that someday I can maybe create something more worthwhile and send it to a publisher and then another and then another, until I can find it a home. But then again, when I am searching for a topic, writing and erasing, typing and deleting, not saving, crumpling, saying to hell with it all, I put my work aside. Not today, not this, give it a rest. I’ve practiced. I’ve tried. But this is not for the blog. Whoever my audience is, shrinking, growing, fluctuating, present upon fancy, non-existent, I will give them better; I can do better. I may make a penny for a published article, for which I will be grateful, if that day comes, but I do not want that to be my drive.

*Naturally, there is a place for monetary driven writing, and I respect those who can and do write to support their life, the life of their families, etc. Writing to support of one’s family, for lack of resources, so far as I’m concerned, is no longer desperate writing, but writing out of love. (For writing, yes, but moreover for people.)

Blessings From Whom?

Grand Rapids, sometimes, can seem to be a different country, but for reasons that seem to be anything but antithetical to what is “American.” Freedom of speech, right? That’s somewhat American, no? I don’t know. It’s a little difficult to decide whether or not it is still important when saying “Merry Christmas” is considered to be politically incorrect. But I’d rather not go too far up that stream right now . . . or anytime in the near future.

In any case, it’s a little different here in G.R. I bought some eggs at Horrocks, a market that I had never been to, or heard of for that matter, until this weekend. The eggs are from a dairy farm here in West Michigan (Grassfield); the chickens are free-range clucks that go munching on organic grass. The cartons are recycled, as in the first step of the tri-re-cycle: reuse. (It is marked “please return cartons.”)Good and green and hippy. I love it. Here’s the other-country bit, the box also reads “You [LORD Jesus] care for the land and water; You enrich it abundantly.” Psalm 65:9. !!

I have yet to see that in Santa Cruz. That’s brave. Having spent the last three and a half years attending Calvin and learning Reformed theology, I understand the reason for this verse: creation, fall, redemption. The land is good; it was made that way. That is the creation part. The redemption bit is the choice to care for the earth and its critters as, well, “God intended.” (Or follow the mandate—to have “dominion” is to take responsibility for, not exploit.) It’s a mission statement of sorts. Again, I could go into further depth, but I’m not going to.

            The next stop on my shopping excursion was G.B. Russo & Son, a bit of a snooty palooty store (high quality imports . . .), but not, as it is a family-owned, itty-bitty, the-one-and-only type store. I was there to take a gander at their olive oil selection (and wouldn’t be opposed to going back). When entering the purchase in my register, I noted some text at the top of the receipt: “Jesus is Lord!”

            Hm. Admittedly, that was a little too much for me. (Okay, so a lot of things are “a little too much” for me.) But, again, what boldness! Had it said, “Allah reigns,” I wouldn’t have been offended. This wasn’t offensive—just unexpected. I kind of prefer Grassfield’s approach to making a statement of belief. It’s more on par with saying, “God bless you” or “May Allah’s bless you” or whatever. I wouldn’t do either. But that’s me. These sayings are sending a person off with goodwill, a goodwill specific to a particular belief. And that is more genuine, I think, than an Muslim saying, “good luck.” Allah is more powerful than luck; therefore, the person is expressing the deepest blessing she can muster—it is the giving of the best comprehensible, rather than withholding the blessing of Allah from he who subscribes to a different set of beliefs. It’s something worth pondering. And I’ll step out with some words from Ms. Karr:

EASTER AT AL QAEDA BODEGA

At the gold speckled counter, my pal in the white apron—

index finger tapping his Arabic paper,

where the body count dwarfs

the one in my Times—announces

You’re killing my people.

But in Hell’s Kitchen, even the Antichrist

ought to have coffee—one cream

and two sugars. Blessings

upon you, he says, and means it.

Kneading and Editing

Hands. Hands, hands, hands. People are meant to use their hands; why else would we have them? To pound on a keyboard? I suppose that is a valid use. However, that is not how this subject came to mind; it all started with bread making.

             Baking is one of my best buddies. Bread making is a little more involved, but oh so worth the while. Pugliese bread does not require kneading, which is the first bread I taught myself to make. I didn’t choose the recipe because of the “no-knead” factor; I chose it because I like the stuff. But when I was in Spain, my Spanish mamá taught me how to make bread in a different, more efficient way, which brought kneading back into the game. Now, having made pizza with my family for years, kneading is not a foreign concept, and I happen to enjoy it, so I’ve rolled with this new (now quite familiar) manner of bread making. I could go on and on about bread, but I’ll spare you.

            Kneading is one of those “ya-do-it-with-your-hands” type things. Duh, right? Well, apparently, bread machines take that out of the equation—I didn’t know that until today. (And that’s more than okay; for people with arthritic hands, it’s a joy.) I couldn’t stand that. But there are many ways in which we can (and do) use our hands; and I hope we continue to.

            There are many professions that require it: massage therapy, physical therapy, chiropractic, painting, construction, etc. But also, writing. Shoot, Annie, you say, you’re feeling particularly intelligent today, aren’t you? Nah. Thanks, though.

            By writing, I don’t simply mean picking up a pen and scribbling across the paper, or chicken scratching a pencil to a nub, or doing a tap routine on the keyboard. Nope. The process—that is what I’m talking about.

There are folks who have this immensely spacious plot of land upstairs, on which they plant corn, run tractors, graze cattle, build barns . . . These people develop an essay in their minds, tweak the argument and art, and send it, when ready out the end of their ballpoint pen. Damn. (That’s not me.)

Then there are the Write-Rewriters. Meaning? Twenty tries later, we’re starting to take out the editing pen, and kicking ourselves for still having things so out of control. Expand. Remove or compress. Clarify. And then, we’re busy hating our past self for those marks, wishing the additions would simply pop into our minds. Meaning, what we want to write doesn’t order nicely or at all in our heads, write first, think second. And there are the super crazy Write-Rewriters that wring their hands raw over one sentence. (That’s me.)

That is tactile writing. I just can’t let it go. It’s environmentally unfriendly. I print out a tree with all of the drafting and restarting. But it’s working the writing over and over and over again the way one works dough over and over and over again. Then, you let it rise. But once you put it in the oven, dang, you had better hope you’ve done it right, ‘cause that’s that. Send it off to the editor . . . again, you’d better hope it’s perfecto (and that the editor isn’t gluten-intolerant). 

Say Goodbye to Why

Nearly everyday I come up with new why questions; if not, I repeat old why questions. Mixing paints, it’s like mixing paints, too many paints—instead of a new color or an answer, there’s just a mucky culmination of nothing useful. They’re mostly pointless.

A why question is an expression of emotion, often discontent, put forth as a question. Instead of I don’t want to go we say why are we going? or why do I have to go? They are typically questions without answers, especially as we get older. They can be questions of curiosity: why is the sky blue? But more often, with age, they aren’t. Why can’t I figure this out? Why do I feel this way? Why do they ask when they don’t care to listen? Why, why, why.

There are at least five other question words that can be applied to these questions: who, what, when, where, why, how. Whom can I ask for help? What can I do to feel better/differently? How can I address these emotions? What is a healthy response to this behavior I find to be hurtful? When is it appropriate to say something about it?

That is my challenge for the week, by day: to pause and reconstruct why questions.

Layover in Minneapolis

31 December 2012

Excellent. The sky is blue here in Minneapolis. Different than what I’ve been seeing over the last two weeks at home. Snowy. It’s probably chilly too. By time I get to G.R.—fo sho. Then two full days to entertain myself and . . . interim starts. Not crazy over the empty days, simply because my movement is so stinking limited.

When the ground is covered in snow and the temperatures drop severely, it is still captivating, the neighborhoods, the naked trees; it takes lifting one’s eyes from the ground, focusing on something other than the often grey skies to note.

Is it that easy? No, of course not. The cold curls chins into chests, shoulders into shields; it broadens backs and the gaze gravitates groundward.