My words--and my heart--feel frozen

My words--and my heart--feel frozen.

They froze this past month as I watched multiple videos of Americans shooting Americans on American soil. Not just shooting but murdering, execution-style, as if I was watching a scene from some Hollywood movie about the mob or the invasion of an alien army. Only it wasn’t a movie. It wasn’t an alien army.

My stomach tightened in horror at the sound of gunshots and the sight of weapons raised and fired by Americans on innocent Americans, and my stomach is still clenched, still mourning Renee Macklin Good and Alex Pretti, two Americans who stepped forward to observe and protect immigrants, those among us who are the least safe and the least protected.

This morning, feeling the weight of grief, I didn’t want to write anything. Not a word. What could I say that would change anything? How could I write anything about the writing process when the act of writing itself seemed so futile, such a small act, compared to people being gunned down on the street for simply raising their voices or for offering help to those beside them who might have fallen down?

I pulled up a chair, anyway. I needed some way of overcoming the weight of this sadness and grief, this despair that has come with the murders and with the failure of anyone in this administration to hold the murderers accountable.

The journal page in front of me was blank. I stared at it, not thinking I had any words to offer. Not thinking I had anything to say. But I realized this: if I didn’t keep writing, one more voice would be silenced. Not by a bullet but by my own fear. By my own cowardice. By my own inability to stand up to forces that want to silence anyone who dares take a stand against this administration’s endless stream of propaganda.

And so I lifted my pen and started writing, and with each word I began to understand how important it is to keep writing through the sadness and despair, through the doubts and the fears, to keep writing in order to keep alive the dream of America, the America that I believe in, the America that Good and Pretti gave their lives to preserve, an America that offers freedom to all.

I can still feel my stomach clench in horror at the public executions of people who had the courage and compassion to join so many others and stand up for human rights and for democracy—for an America they believed in and which so many of us believe in, even as the boots of those carrying out the orders -- sent from the desk in the White House occupied by a man who imagines himself king -- try to stamp out the American dream, as if the dream itself is nothing more than a figment of our imagination, a fantasy, a tiny candle flame, rather than an unquenchable idea that over the centuries has forged a nation of immigrants into a beacon of light for the rest of the world.

The America that I know and believe in is a country that welcomes refugees regardless of skin color, religious belief, or country of origin. It welcomes those who need a home and provides a sanctuary to build a life, gain an education, raise a family, create the space to make art, build a business, or do the research that might lead to a new scientific discovery. It’s an America where we can join hands and together fulfill our hopes and dreams, our longing for liberty, our desire for freedom from oppression, our belief in love not hate, our trust in democracy not totalitarianism.

Maybe all I’m trying to say is thank you to all the demonstrators in Minnesota and elsewhere who have stood in frigid temperatures for days to remind us of where we live and what our country stands for. Maybe all I’m trying to say is thank you to Renee Good and Alex Pretti for your willingness to take a stand, for showing us how and why we all need to take a stand.

We owe so much to everyone taking a stand, for insisting that words matter, for demanding that all lives matters, for letting us know that stories and poems and songs matter.

The sound of your voices in the streets of Minneapolis and other American cities inspires us to keep looking for the good in people, to keep believing in the future, to keep writing to unfreeze our hearts and our words.

And you wonder at the miracle

The poems come in bursts

like gusts of wind

or a sudden rain shower

words spilling onto the page

coming from who knows where

your heart, perhaps,

or some other place

inside you

that's kept under lock and key

inaccessible 99% of the time

except on those days

when without knowing how

without understanding why

the key finds its way

into your hand and

you can unlock the box

and watch the page

beneath your pen

fill with words--

words you didn't expect

you'd ever find inside yourself

and you inhale a breath

and exhale words

and by the time

you take another breath

the wind has died down

the shower has ended

the box is locked again

and you wonder 

at the miracle

you just experienced--

the magic of poetry,

the mystery of words.

They say if you want to write

They say if you want to write

you need to write about

what hurts the most,

so you ask yourself

what's causing you the most pain,

and then you wait

to see what your heart reveals.

But what if they're wrong

and you don't need to write

about what hurts the most?

What if you need to write about

what you love most? About life?

About what you're most grateful for?

What if you need to write about

what you notice in the world

around you--the beauty

of a cardinal's red feathers

flashing in the morning light,

the sound of the wind riffling

the leaves on a spring day,

the pleasure you feel when

you stretch and open your eyes 

to wake up each morning?

What if you feel pain on some days,

love and gratitude on others, and 

you let your pen take you

wherever you need to go each day,

creating a path as you go?

What if you give your heart a chance

to reveal what it feels,

give yourself a chance to hear

what you need to hear and

write what you need 

to write?

It's like dreaming

Each morning I listen to the silence

and hope to hear a voice and words

I've never heard before.

I listen with my ears

but, really, it's a different

kind of listening

that requires you to open

your heart, to hear

what you're afraid to say

or what you don't yet know

you need to say.

It's your voice and not your voice,

it's your hand holding the pen

and writing down the words

on the page and not your hand.

You hear something, a voice

beyond words. (Are there even 

words to describe it?)

It's like being bathed in light

or immersed in water

and you feel like you're floating

on the page as words 

emerge from your pen

and you see the letters

taking shape and the words

forming on the page

even before the words form

in your mind--as if

you are witnessing your thoughts

coming into being,

what you think and feel

unknown until you can

see the words floating 

in front of you.

It's like dreaming,

and when you open

your eyes the dream vanishes,

and you see instead

a page filled with the words 

you collected from a world

before it disappeared.

It's that time of year

It's that time of year.

Close your eyes. 

Sleep.

Let yourself dream.

You need to trust the process 

of rebirth, of dormancy, 

of silence turning into words

when the words are ready 

to appear.

You need to stop writing

in order to keep writing,

to close your journal so

you can open it again,

to put down your pen

so you can pick it up 

after you've had a chance

to rest,

revived, 

restored.

You need to feel the rhythm 

of life without holding a pen 

in your hand, to meet life 

head on, bare-handed, 

without protection,

vulnerable.

You need to let each day 

sink into you, let the world 

turn, let yourself accept

whatever comes with gratitude 

for where you are, 

for who you are.

A week from now 

you can pick up 

your pen to express 

in words what you 

can't say 

without it.

For now let yourself 

embrace the silence.

Be still.

Listen to your heart.

Open your ears to the wind.

Let your heart open, too, 

so you can sail in

whatever direction

your spirit takes you 

in the new year.

The Magic of Writing with a Fountain Pen

“My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course.” — Graham Greene

It may seem foolish, even a bit self-indulgent, to write about fountain pens when so many pressing issues threaten our world. 

But a fountain pen has not only helped me put aside my worries about the world for the brief time that I take each morning to write with one, it has also rekindled my pleasure in the process of writing by hand. 

The immediacy of writing with a fountain pen surprised me the moment the nib first touched the page and the ink seeped out of the pen, seeming to bleed onto the paper.

It felt like the pen was alive, a newly discovered part of my hand connecting me in some mysterious and supernatural way to my heart, and as I wrote, my hand moving across the page, it felt like the ink was coming straight from my veins.

Until a few months ago, I hadn’t used a fountain pen since high school. 

Remember how messy those fountain pens were to use back then? Often, I’d end up with more ink on my hands than on the page.

I’d write and the pen would leak and the ink would leave stains on my fingers and smudges on the pages and messy ink spots on my palms. 

For years afterward I preferred writing with ballpoint pens. I would buy cheap pens that I could throw away easily after they ran out of ink or dried up or broke in my backpack. Best of all, they didn’t drain my wallet of the little cash that was in it. 

But a few months ago my cousin wrote wanting to know if I’d ever thought about using a fountain pen. He had found one that he liked, a Pilot Metropolitan, which was supposed to be a good introductory pen at a reasonable price (under $15 at Amazon), and the thought of writing with a fountain pen intrigued me. 

I decided that I’d try one, just to find out if fountain pens were the same as I remembered or if they’d changed much since my high school days, and, after quickly searching Google, I discovered just how many fountain pens there are to choose from these days. 

There are pens made in Japan, pens made in Germany, and pens made in the United States and elsewhere. There are pens with cartridges and pens with converters, and there are so many choices for ink, more colors than in a rainbow, it seems. There are so many colors and pens, in fact, that it’s hard to keep track of them all. 

So, I started reading reviews, and I found a pen in my price range ($10) made by Pilot called Kakuno (which means “to write” in Japanese), and I ordered one, along with some extra cartridges.

After it arrived, I opened the packaging—surprised to find that the instructions were printed in Japanese—and, after figuring out how to insert the cartridge, I started writing. And … wow! 

It’s a pen, but it’s so much more than a pen!

I mean, looking at it, you’d think it’s just another writing instrument. The Kakuno shell is made of plastic, but it’s a perfect size that fits nicely in the palm of my hand, and holding it takes very little effort because it’s so light that when it’s in my hand and I'm writing, I hardly feel it unless I grip it too tightly. 

The moment I begin to write, it’s like magic: the ink flows onto the page, the blank page reaches up to embrace the pen, my hand moves effortlessly across the paper. It’s a moment of becoming, a moment of (please, excuse my enthusiasm) unexpected oneness with the universe, a zen-like immersion in the present.

It can take a while to feel comfortable using a fountain pen. But after experimenting a little with different angles and using it in different journals, I can say that writing with a fountain pen feels as natural (and effortless) as breathing. 

Why not add a little variety to your writing practice and try a fountain pen? It doesn’t have to be an expensive one. (You can find the Kakuno online for as little as $10 if you don’t mind  the color….and a plastic shell.) 

You might be surprised at how your writing—and your feelings about your writing—will change when you begin using one.

If you’re still undecided about whether to use a fountain pen, or just curious and want to read more about them and the people who find them attractive, here are a few links that you might enjoy: 

https://www.penheaven.co.uk/blog/top-5-reasons-to-use-fountain-pen/

https://blog.gouletpens.com/2018/09/6-writers-on-why-they-use-fountain-pens

https://luxipens.com/18-famous-authors-and-their-fountain-pens/

https://www.countrylife.co.uk/luxury/style/unparalleled-joy-writing-fountain-pen-five-beautiful-examples-175439

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/the-joy-of-fountain-pens

https://medium.com/@lancelotkirby/on-the-pleasures-of-writing-with-a-fountain-pen-3d95e8495550

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/26/style/fountain-pens.html

On Revisions

In working on a poem, I love to revise. Lots of younger poets don't enjoy this, but in the process of revision I discover things. -- Rita Dove

It’s strange how one’s perspective on the writing process can change over time.

When I was setting out on this path, just entering the water, I viewed editing first drafts as a necessary but nightmarish chore.

I found it painful to face mistakes, uncover misspellings, and detect poorly constructed sentences. I’d feel demoralized whenever I came across paragraphs that made no sense, sentences that led readers in the opposite direction than the one I’d intended to point them in.

If you asked me why I found the process of editing my own work so frustrating, I’d tell you that it was because I found it intimidating to face my own failures. I viewed editing as a way to correct mistakes, my last chance to catch errors or delete passages that might mislead the reader or which would inevitably make me look foolish.

The editing process was nothing like the writing process, which I loved because it always led to unexpected discoveries and insights. Anything was possible as I set out on a first draft. How I loved the chance to dive into an empty page and fill it with words! I loved--and still love--finding out what I don’t know.

In comparison to the first draft stage, the editing stage seemed dull and stultifying, an exercise of the head, not the heart. With the words already on the page, I felt as if I had nothing left to discover, only the mistakes that I might have made when putting the words down on paper. Editing was simply the painstaking job of getting the words to appear as I thought they should appear on the page.

But the more time I spent writing, the more my understanding of the editing process changed. And it changed, I think, when I began to realize what I love most about the early stages of writing: the unexpected flash of insight, those moments of discovery, especially when the flow of ideas and words are rushing out of my pen so quickly (when it's going well) that I have a hard time keeping up with my thoughts.

Compared to that break-neck pace, editing has always seemed like writing-in-reverse or like trying to ride a bicycle downhill while squeezing the hand-brakes so you can never pick up speed. It was frustrating, especially when I wished I could go faster.

But then I asked myself if there truly is a distinction between writing early drafts and editing later drafts.

And this question led to the realization that it is all writing.

This perspective gives me the chance to see the entire process in a different way, a way that lets editing nourish my soul as much, if not more, than the first-draft stage of the process.

That’s because even in the end-stage process of editing I’ve learned how to let go of the “fixed” nature of a work, the way I think a work should go, and allow it to expand or shrink depending on what it needs in this particular moment.

Editing in this way, like writing, is much more in flux and less fixed, It's an ongoing process of listening and revelation, again and again, just as in the early drafts of a story when I have no idea what may come out of my pen or if the words will flow fast or slow or where they might lead me.

In the editing stage I find myself making discoveries, too, and each discovery takes me deeper into the words so that I don’t feel as if I’m reworking an “old” piece over and over in search of mistakes, but, rather, fleshing out a new piece, carving a new path, discovering a new way to approach an idea, a story, and exploring from different angles and perspectives.

When you edit with an open-minded attitude (an open-hearted attitude) toward your work, an attitude that suggests you are not correcting mistakes but rather looking for ways to deepen and expand a story that you love, you may find you are able to enjoy the process of editing in a new way, and to see your story from a new and unexpected angle.

For more on how to take pleasure in revisions, visit:
http://betweenfactandfiction.blogspot.com/2010/04/why-i-love-writing-recreating.html
http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/wolfe_interview/
http://www.learntowritefiction.com/writing-a-novel-revision-part-2/
http://www.everything.com/WD-Josip-Novakovich-On-the-enjoyment-of-writing-fiction/
http://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com/2010/05/agent-blogs-treat-for-revising-mind.html
http://prowritingtips.com/2009/03/after-the-critique-hardcore-revision/
http://www.thestudentroom.co.uk/showthread.php?t=375017

PS - Thanks to JM for inspiring this post with his insights into self-editing.