Wet Ink

All the Small Things

"Anyway, yesterday when you were here, or was it the day before? - and I was typing the remainder of those pages, suddenly I noticed that you had been stealing up alongside me and had put carbons in the paper for me.  And when I noticed that, I was done for.  I was so touched.  Believe me, that is the height of self-abnegation.  Nobody ever did that much for me.  I was bowled over, I couldn't write any more, because I was thinking of that too deeply..."

Henry Miller, in a letter to Anais Nin (May 30, 1933).  To find their collected letters on Amazon, click here.

While I was in the UK, I found myself at a party singing karaoke into a mike.  Red wine had been involved.  I chose an easy song.  (My mate says anything by Oasis is a breeze!).  The woman who sang after me chose "All the Small Things" by Blink-182 and the rest of us couldn't help warbling along.  I got to thinking about the small things in my life, which others do to support my work: a scientist friend telling me he'd visited my blog; a writing friend asking what I'd written that day; Richard helping me navigate the computer when the whole darn thing went loopy...  In actual fact, these aren't "small things" at all.  They're vast and beautiful to someone who writes.  Why?  Because of the aloneness of the writing process?  Because of how society often judges us by outcome, rather than by meaning and skill?  Or because writing is often hard and support is just so welcome?

A close friend said to me, just the other day, that writing can be a very communal process.  Our aloneness is only the beginning, in fact.  What we do can become highly social.  It isn't always necessary to have a friendly reader, but if you can find one, dear Heaven, it helps.  On the other hand, maybe all we sometimes need is someone to put in the carbons, which brings me back to Miller's letter above. Here is Nin's reply (from A Literate Passion : Letters of Anais Nin and Henry Miller 1932-1953:

"Putting carbons in your paper is not self-abnegation, it is merely sound and profound acknowledgement of value, a wise critical appreciation...  it's intelligence, not sacrifice!  Don't be touched!  Take it as such."

What a reply!  Yet I'm still with Henry.  The careful insertion of one's carbons is a gift.

It is no small thing to know that you folks read this blog.  Thanks so much for being there, and a Happy 2009 to you all.

By the way, in the interests of spreading the word, you'll find thoughtful, well-chosen excerpts from blogs and the like at Andrew Christ's blogspot, Birthdays of Poets.  Why not take a look?  The comments are interesting too.

Culturally Yours

It's fascinating spending the festive season in my own country.  It reminds me of how language and ideas are often so culturally defined.  Yesterday, a pub landlord said (totally in jest) "So you're from Boston?  Isn't that where they threw the tea into the sea?"  Yes, I said.  He gave a dry laugh and a sideways look.  So I added, "I know what you're going to say.  Who'd throw away good tea?"  This was followed by a healthy load of laughter - at ourselves, primarily, and our British obsession with tea.  And the funniest thing?  I knew I had to make the joke.  It was almost expected.  A cultural must.

On the other side, there's much that my Brit companions find surprising about my American ways.  So many people have asked me about Thanksgiving - and do Americans still celebrate Christmas, they ask.  Expressions like "all set" (is that just Bostonian?" get me into all sorts of fixes, and I myself had to think a tadge about ordering drinks at the bar - a whole cultural phenomenon to do with subtlety of gesture, eye-contact and turn-taking.  How fascinating this is!

Back home soon.  Will blog properly then!

From England...

I am slow to blog this week because I'm back in the UK.  It's fun to be here.  As a writer, I'm constantly aware of differences in my setting: the cold is damper, the houses smaller, the irony sharper, the sun a dull disc.  And in this strange land with which I'm so familiar, I find myself longing to write.  The little notebook I carry in my bag is chock full of new descriptions.  How helpful changing place can be for awakening the muse!  I will try to blog again soon, but until I do, here's a quote from the Tate Modern (gallery) in London, where the Rothko exhibition was exquisite:

"If people want sacred experieces they will find them here.  If they want profane experiences they'll find them here too.  I take no sides."

Rothko, on his artwork

Thought you'd like that one!

Magic: A Guide for Writers

Well, we're meant to be bonkers this time of year, right?  Here 'tis:

1.  Magic can't be rushed.  Sitting staring at that raven feather waiting for it to erupt isn't the way to go.  Best case scenario: it'll vaguely smoke, causing you to wheeze and lose your concentration.  Take a walk in the park, or read a good book.  Then, when the urge hits, rush back to the feather.  The flames'll leap from it, with just one blink.  You won't even notice the effort.

2.  Not every place is fitting for magic.  If your love spell doesn't work in the attic, move to the cellar.  Think about the mood of the place.  This can affect your work.

3.  If you're having problems with an ambitious piece of magic, break it down to basics.  Pure invisibility is difficult for anyone.  Work first on your thumb and you can build from there.  You might even find an invisible thumb is worth contemplating for a while.  It can make folks focus in -- whereas pure invisibility is easy to ignore.

4.  Don't be afraid of cutting bits from your spells.  A shorter spell can create a slicker frog.

5.  Love your magic, even when it's a problem.  So what if your thunderstorm is just a splash of rain?  Catch it on your tongue, then start again.

Fly, While We Can

"...before I was born surely I could fly.

Not well, mind you, only a veil of skin

from my arms to my waist.

I flew at night, too.  Not to be seen

for if I were I'd be taken down.

In August perhaps as the trees rose to the stars

I have flown from leaf to leaf in the thick dark.

If you had caught me with your flashlight

you would have seen a pink corpse with wings..."

From Bat, a poem by Anne Sexton

What is it about flight that we find so appealing in poems, stories and visual art?  Perhaps it's the wings that do it for me.  These amazing appendages, which are structurally alike to the human hand, are fascinating, especially outstretched.  I always feel that if a turkey could fly it would gain a certain majesty; even a vulture, which can seem so crouched, gains grace when it's circling.

Once, several years ago, I had a flying dream.  There's quite a lot written about this type of dream, and for me the experience was extraordinary.  It was unlike anything I'd ever dreamed before -- so vivid and free.  Quite a transformation.  I felt, as I dreamed, that I had all the answers, that life was simply easy, that the I'd somehow transcended.  I was flying over the sea and could taste the salt air.

I'm sure, at one point or another, we've all read about fliers.  Flight can be associated with childhood imagination, or superpowers, or other liberations.  The birth of the aeroplane came from a human obsession with flight, and angels, fairies and other enlightened beings have access to higher worlds.  As for poor old Icarus, he gets a bad press.  Many of us, as writers, know what it's like to aim too high, but it's when we depend on the outcome that we need to think again.  It's hard to try for the high place and then get burnt or melted; but as long as we can pick ourselves up, I reckon it makes us stronger.

Perhaps the power of flight in all kinds of art is its potential for metaphor.  Even back in Anglo-Saxon times, the image of a sparrow flying through the meadhall was often used to represent human life -- the idea being that we're not here for long, and what comes before and after us is vaster than we know.  Specifically, this was a Christian image, but I believe it's relevant whatever our beliefs:  Let's fly while we can.  If you love writing... do it. 

Out of Darkness

"One measure - and perhaps the best measure - of a person's greatness is the capacity for suffering."
M. Scott Peck in The Road Less Traveled

In this post, I'm writing about depression.  Know that I have the deepest respect for serious, clinical depression, and I believe what I write about below applies to milder cases. In short, I'm no great specialist except with regard to myself!!

I was having a discussion with some friends the other day about the depressing lives of many famous writers.   I think the suicide of Daniel Foster Wallace has caused ripples in the writing community.  Do you know of any writers who don't lead troubled lives?  I hope so.  Truly.  Then again, isn't the occasional low patch our difficult friend?  I know that when I'm low I often produce my greatest work; and what a comfort to create from the dark something we can love.

Being a creator can make sense of the lows; and if we can't create at the time, you can bet the experience is burrowing away, saving itself for a time when we'll need it.  Peck also says, "...the feeling of giving up something loved - or at least something that is part of ourselves and familiar - is depression."  He goes on to say that the condition is thus "a basically healthy phenomenon" because, if we stick with it, we grow.  Well, what better way to emerge from depression that by transforming it into something else?  Or by recognising that, once we see the light, we'll draw on where we've been.

There are times, of course, when we get depressed by the writing process itself; when writing's just so hard that it flips our lid.  It can be tricky to do as Brenda Ueland suggests and look out of the window, wander down the lane, enjoy life and know we are writing.  But of course, it's true.  Just living, is writing.  The only difference ?  When we actually manage to express it on the page, there's proof in front of us, crafted and concrete. 

Well, here's what I say to you today.  If you know you're a writer, you're a writer, and what you're doing's important.  And if you're low, but not about your writing, then I also wish you relief.  And I do recommend "The Road Less Travelled": a book by a man who was pretty darn imperfect, but put comfort into the world by using what he'd learnt.

The Start of Art2Art

Saturday night was the start of a new venture - an artists' salon in Boston, entitled Art2Art.  About twelve of us read or performed for an enthusiastic crowd, with acts including improv, dance, music, comedy and performance poetry.  My friend Wayne, with whom I co-planned the event, offered up a gorgeous space and decked it with lights.  He also displayed his own artwork, which never fails to slay me.  All in all, the evening was fun and rich.  There were so many people we could hardly fit them in.

Rewind a little, to the day I met Wayne for lunch.  He'd been to one of my readings and had offered to throw me a party -- nothing smart, just something very casual where guests would come and listen to me read.  Though grateful, I suggested something different.  As artists, we often work solo, or if we're in a team it's about calibre, quality and rewrites.  I craved an evening that was simply celebration, in which we got to share.  My friend felt the same, and in one beautiful moment, the idea of the salon came to us.  It was alchemy in action.  Ideas rolled from our mouths.  Now that's collaboration at its best.  At the opening of the salon, we stood together and he gave a stirling speech about community, art, and sharing.  My friend's an inspiration, to be sure.

Of course we all praised one another, that night.  The depth of talent was magical.  But more importantly, I felt received.  We were artists then, not people alone, struggling to create; but a part of something larger, a world of ideas and expression.

I felt a little nervous beforehand, as I always do with parties, but to view the night as a test would be to mistake it.  This was about community and once I truly felt that, I let go.

I enjoyed myself.  If you were there, I hope you did too.

The next Art2Art salon will probably take place in a couple of months time.  If you're interested, send an email to:   art2art@suewilliams.co.uk