Old Projects Pay It Forward

At least a half-year before I finished my MA in Creative Writing, I knew that I didn’t want to make a living as a poet. That sounds funny. It’s sort of like saying I decided the life of an astronaut just wasn’t what I was looking for. NO ONE (except, probably, Amanda Gorman) can make a living as a poet. Most American poets make their primary income as writing teachers. Of course, there are exceptions, but this is the most common narrative.

So what did it mean for me to give up the idea of “being a poet”? It meant that I didn’t want to teach writing to students that didn’t take it seriously. Maybe I’m a snob, but I don’t think so. I don’t mind writing for clients that don’t take the work seriously, and I don’t mind doing jobs that almost wholly lack creativity. On some level, I wanted to protect some twisted version of integrity for myself. I knew that for someone with my level of talent–some, but not brilliant–I would spend my days teaching (at best) as an adjunct community college writing teacher. If I could manage that, I’d then look for every chance to break into and network in professional circles already established by writers with more talent, degrees from better schools, and friends at the most respected journals and publishers.

I wasn’t bitter. (I’m not being sarcastic, I promise.) I’m still not. It’s just the way that the profession has evolved. When I left North Dakota for CU Boulder’s MA Program, I didn’t know this, but it didn’t take long. So I resigned myself to writing the poems I wanted to write about the subjects that most interested me. Deaf spiders, paper dolls, anatomical history, grave robbers, smokejumpers, and old forms like sestinas, villanelles, and sonnets. It was great. And doomed. I’m not sure if one depended on the other.

I finished my degree and promptly stopped writing poems. I didn’t mind. I’m not sure if that was a product of burnout or indicative of my passion for poetry. Pretty sure it was both. It might also have been my first post-school job working for a potter in a studio on a farm outside Boulder. I worked long hours and learned a ton while I was there. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so creatively inspired and fulfilled. Eventually, I moved on from that job to open my studio. It turns out I was a much better potter than a businessman. So I closed the studio and took a job selling cars to start working off the debt. That was awful but necessary. No regrets, either. I wish that everyone I know could experience the level of fulfillment I felt during that fantastic stretch.

Poetry Returns

Fast forward a couple of years through my creativity desert, and I happened to run across a small group of writers interested in a twice-monthly workshop. A few months before, an image started nagging me, and it wouldn’t leave. It was a carnival barker sitting alone in the rusting wreckage of a long-closed circus. Like the captain of a sinking ship, he refused to abandon it. No matter what I did, this image kept popping back into my head. And then, one day, something akin to snowflakes began to fall around him, snagging on the long grass and frayed steel cables. But they weren’t snowflakes; they were more like the silk from a cottonwood tree. So I sat with that for a while, and the image kept returning. And when this writer’s group came together, I sat down to write–to finally figure out what the hell was going on with this moonlit carnival barker. And by the time I’d finished that writing session, I realized that what had been collecting around him weren’t cottonwood seeds but lost prayers that had fallen from the sky. When he rubbed them between his fingers, he could hear each supplicant’s entreaty, stalled here at his feet. So he gathers together as many of them as he can, stuffs them into his nap sack, and starts walking.

I’m not sure how long I’d been carrying this image with me. I wonder if I would have received it if I hadn’t been so starved for a flicker of creativity. On the other hand, I wonder if I would have unearthed it years earlier had I adopted a regular creative practice. There’s no way to know. What I do know is that once I pursued that creative practice with the writing group, I found another two characters: a flamenco dancer who dances dying words into their graves, and a clown who loves her, only to find one morning that he can no longer wash off his face paint. I wrote a lot of poems about those three. About laughter factories, and hooch tents, and twigs-n-twine dolls. Then that creative well ran dry. I only showed a couple of those poems to the writing group. I decided I wanted to keep them for myself. That was fifteen years ago, and I’ve never shown them to anyone since. But I think about these three characters often. I carry them with me. I’ve not had a regular writing practice since then. On the one hand, I deeply regret it. On the other hand, I’m not sure what they’ve been doing down there for so many years, wandering around my subconsciousness.

Then, a couple of months ago, I started a new writing practice, loosely following Julia Cameron’s Writing Pages model. And wouldn’t you know it? That trio of characters has resurfaced. All I’ve been able to offer them so far is a mention and a brief review. But this time, they’re jostling for position with the work I’m doing for this podcast, new scripts for digital stories, furniture I need to build for my new apartment, a hankering for an experimental podcast, and a rekindled interest in painting with chalk pastels.

I love these three characters. Really. Each of them is the hero of their story, and each of them will fail on their way to restarting. But I’m not sure if they’ll do it now. They’re knocking pretty loudly, but I don’t mind that it might not be their turn right now. Now that they’re back, I’m coming to understand that I’ve been telling myself stories about them ever since they left.

What I’ve “Lost”

I’ve started and abandoned SO MANY different creative practices. Poetry, creative nonfiction, pottery, encaustic painting, modernist color theory, spray painting parties, YouTube videos, podcasting, wire sculpture, plywood furniture making. I can’t say that I regret abandoning or pausing any of them. There have been times where I have regretted some of those leave-behinds, but not as I write this. Reflecting on my current creative pursuits and impulses, I have a better sense than ever about how those past pursuits do and will inform my present creative life. For example:

Chalk pastels helped me internalize the visual concept of layering, which has informed my ideas about layering sounds in audio texts and how visuals, narration, music, and ambient sound synthesize in a digital story.

Poetry helped tune my ears to the musical potential of narration and ad copy. It also helped me understand the importance of linguistic style and formal genres.

Writing creative nonfiction and essays challenged me to approach writing as a form of discovery. It also sensitized me to the idea of organic form (especially the “lyric essay”).

Pottery sharpened my attention to the “utility” of creative work. It also challenged me to pay attention to form and the interconnectedness of aesthetics, practices, and materials.

I encountered color theory when I was a young undergraduate, but that opened up a whole universe of conceptual approaches to making art and an understanding about working in a long tradition of aesthetics.

Making rough, temporary plywood furniture helps to keep “function” foregrounded when I’m making something.

I’ve abandoned or paused each of these practices, and yet I carry them with me in all my current creative endeavors. As I look back and catalog what I’ve taken from these interests, I’ve never been more pleased with the orientations and attitudes I’ve gathered over the years. I can honestly say they are ALL at play when I’m recording a new podcast episode, writing social media posts, or designing storytelling workshops. And now, all of those threads are about to settle down into repeatable, sustainable parts of my daily life.

For the first time in a long time, I feel creatively empowered. Now that we’ve laid most of the groundwork for Fools In Wonderland, I can feel us settling into the podcast as a practice. And that should free up some time and creative energy for other things that have been percolating within me.

My first impulse is to return to three different projects I haven’t actively worked on for years. The first is the set of poems I describe above. The second is a set of audio interviews I did with several of my friends in 2001. I’d like to re-interview each of them now, twenty years later, and look back at their answers to the questions. (Ex. Where do you see yourself in 20 years? What’s your favorite curse word? What’s the best question you’ve never been asked? What’s the difference between loneliness and isolation?) Cool project, right? And the last one is a set of interviews I did with my grandma a few years ago that I’d like to weave into some sort of family history.

Or maybe I’ll be suduced by the new thing in front of me. My white whale project: gathering, recovering, and creating stories about my father. It needs a working title. I think, for now, I’m going with “The Jerry Project.”