Big changes are occurring in my life. A few frustrating ones. Far more good ones. Hitting goals, adjusting goals, and learning the ebb and flow of this new life I have chosen to live. One of the biggest and most difficult of these lessons has been that success can be disorienting and that’s when it’s most important to get your feet under you and push forward.
Yesterday when I was writing at one of my favorite coffee shops on the island (and one my my favorite places in general) I noticed an open journal on a coffee table. The journal itself was a work of art, but what truly made it special we’re the contents. I’d never stoop to reading someone else’s personal journal without their blessing, however, with the pages open I caught a glimpse of detailed sketches and painstakingly written notes that were simply breathtaking. I rarely keep nice notebooks because rarely are my own notes and art anywhere near nice. In a way I don’t feel like my chicken scratch is worthy of the journal. This young woman’s was. Beyond any shadow of a doubt.
My bride and I have been down in Galveston now for a little over half a year and we love it here. I found myself reflecting on that this morning and let that become the basis for today’s poem.
As an aside, we took some family member to the Galveston Art Walk this weekend. The first exhibit we walked in to was called “Cat Butt Parfait.” I’ll leave it to your imagination exactly what it contained. My parent’s reaction? Priceless.
Sometimes they are difficult to find. This is, I think, because quiet moments aren’t ever truly found: quiet moments are made.
Fun fact, in English the plural form of octopus is octopuses, octopodes is the old Greek plural, and octopi is simply incorrect all around unless you yourself are an octopus because it’s inclusive. There’s your random bit of trivia for the day!
My bride is an artist. A pretty darn good one in my opinion. We’re both animal lovers but I’ve got a passion for weird and wonderful creatures. Octopuses have been something of a running joke with us that’s now transcended humor to become a symbol of happiness for us. Once we decided to move to an island my bride painted an octopus. It hangs on the wall of our living room. Our conversation this morning over breakfast and coffee turned to the painting and the others around it. She thinks of octopuses when she thinks of me and is painting. I’m flattered.
Her painting is the header image for this post.
Twice I have been given assigned the exercise of personifying my muse. The purpose of this is not to create another identity within yourself–that’s simply unhealthy–but to give oneself the vision of something that can be trained or overcome. We are creatures of story and when you give a story to your creation process it becomes something more manageable. By training your muse, by overcoming it, you are in effect overcoming your own internal obstacles. It should come as no surprise to any that know me that I envision my own muse as a dragon.
I’ve got a bit of backlog again. I’ve been writing but not publishing my writing as I should. I’d intended to spread out several of these backed up poems out over the course of the day but the day had other plans. So did the next. And it has been brought to my attention that when a backlog such as this occurs, that those following his blog do not like being suddenly inundated with multiple updates. So, here is my attempt at compromise. One post. Three poems. Today’s own post will follow shortly.
This poem was written in an effort to recapture the loss of the poem, Creative’s Career, which I started in a moment of inspiration that was cut short and the scrap of paper I’d written it down on was thought lost. While the opening is very similar, It ultimately became its own thing. Every time I finish a book, my mind is overwhelmed with ideas. Many of them for entirely new projects or for things I’ve set aside to do later when often what I need to do most is push forward onto the next book in whatever series I’ve started. So many ideas. So many stories to tell. It’s a little overwhelming.
I have been my own worst enemy with my writing. I’ve said before that part of the reason I use pennames is because they give me permission to fail. Permission to simply write. In essence, when I go into a piece knowing that I am going to publicly claim it as my own, I am writing from a place of fear and I think it is undermining my efforts. That got me thinking about the nature of fear and courage and what is required of me with regards to both if I am to succeed as a professional creative. Perhaps what is required of many of us going forward.
There is a principle in professional investing that is difficult for many to wrap their heads around, let alone embrace, and which I feel applies to many areas of life. Diversify your investments. Bleed money. Aim wide. The idea is that you’re waiting for something called a “black swan,” which is to say the rare and unpredictable success. Something is going to do well eventually and it all boils down to a test of endurance. Waiting for that single critical moment to strike, the build off of. Then repeating the process over again.
I am a writer. I write poetry and novels. Stories are my passion. Have been since I was a child.
I use pen names, pseudonyms, as much for marketing as to allow myself freedom to fail and be detached from my work. I’ve been taking steps this year to remove myself from that fear-driven mentality. I don’t think that I’ll ever give up pen names–as a self-publishing author they’re useful for brand recognition and marketing–but there are many ways to handle them and mindset matters.
Those thoughts got me thinking about other kinds of performers this morning. The strength that some of them generate by virtue of having to face that pressure to be perfect and doing their jobs anyway. What if they didn’t have to? Would they, and we as those who enjoy their performances, be better or worse for it?
This is not one of my stronger poems, but I had to get this out of my head.
Have you ever seen something and it just stuck with you? I met this sweet dog a few days ago and haven’t been able to get him out of my head. He was adorable. In that way that when something is so positively ugly and goofy looking that your brain can’t quite process it so your mental filter does a one-eighty and puts it in the opposite category.
I even included here a little sketch I doodled up. Sadly, the proportions in said sketch are pretty much 100% accurate. I swear this dog’s entire body could not have matched the sheer mass of his enormous, fluffy head.
I’ve got a book coming out in a few days. I am both excited and nervous. I put a lot into it, maybe more than anything I’ve done before. It’s winding me in knots. This book is a big risk for me in more ways than one and took me way outside my comfort zone. I’m more invested in its success than anything else I’ve ever written. It’s either going to belly flop into a vat of acid or take off. Here’s hoping it’s got wings.
The Everyday Poet 