Those who’ve followed my blog for a while know that I have a “writing room.” Back in the seventies, this room was the formal living room, and after my second son was born, I transformed it into my studio (since I had willingly transformed my previous study into a nursery). In this room, we installed a large picture window that looks out across Lake Elbert. I do most of my writing in view of the lake.
But today’s post is less about the room itself and more about that window — the one that allows me to clear my head of other outside influences and reach a state of creative clarity. This morning, you see, I had to go outside to clean the window. Living on a lake means tolerating the Daddy Longlegs, dirt dobbers, and other occasional creepy crawlies that want to claim your open porch as home. But when they start to encroach on my view, then the gloves are off. As I was scrubbing, I realized, as many poets have, the metaphorical power of windows. Granted, this was not some new, earth-shaking revelation, but simply a restatement of prior knowledge: windows in literature have served as eyes, symbols of transparency or opacity, and they have taken on a wide range of other meanings, depending on the work’s needs.
For us as writers, however, our window on the world (both literally and figuratively) must always remain unclouded. If we allow streaks or stains in the form of distractions, worldly worries, or doubts about our abilities, then the inspiration stops. Just as the window works best when clean, so too, does our writerly vision work best when we free it from the dust of politics, society, career, and finances. Maybe your window is clouded with something else — grief or glee, negative or positive stress. No matter what the “smudges,” we as creatives must get out our mental Windex, and keep the view inspirational. Clean your window, reader. Your work will thank you for it.
After the recent success of my post about Arthur Flowers’s advice to writers, I felt obliged to write another quicker but equally applicable piece about something else that emerged during my last MFA residency: “The Not Knowing.”
It seemed this phrase was everywhere over the 10 June days I spent at University of Tampa. Fiction writers, especially, swore by it. They recounted tales of how their stories simply “took on lives of their own” after a truly boffo first line or a vague inkling concept drove pen to page. As a poet, I failed to see the relevance. After all, poets like me are in the business of crafting lines one by one, giving explicit attention to the sound, the sense, the structure, and even the symbolism of each individual word. “The Not Knowing” seemed to be something that prose writers did, and even then, with sketchy success at best.
Usually, I have a pretty good idea about where a piece is headed when I sit down to REALLY begin writing. My brainstorming methods are sort of standard: If there’s a central metaphor at work (as there usually is), I start with a two-column note chart. This is a T chart, for those in business. Using this visual organizer, I’m able to see similarities, differences, and relationships between two things, be they objects, ideas, or something else entirely. Then, as the prewriting begins to hum, I usually have a few real zinging lines come into my mind. I write these down. I’ll use them later. Once I have a pretty good collection of these musical lines, then I’m ready to begin really putting pen to paper in the poetic endeavor. So, as you can see, I’m fairly methodical.
There are always a few surprises that creep into poems: pleasant wordplay or unforeseen ironies. But usually, the act of creating poetry goes pretty much according to plan. I know that sounds terribly boring, but it’s true. I have an idea, I explore the idea, I create a product from the idea. Then there’s the refining and the rewriting. I go through A LOT of drafts on legal pads, and usually 4 or 5 on the computer screen. In all this process, there isn’t much room for “not knowing,” as my prose-writing friends described it.
So when the great “not knowing” happened to me, I was pleasantly surprised, both with its advent and its outcome. I had a pretty decent first line written down on an index card: It was comprised of a single striking image that had a few different elements working within it. This line had occurred to me during one of those between-class lapses when the tardy bell has not yet rung, and students are idling about, yakking and poking at one another.
When I pulled the index card from my pocket later at home, I just started freewriting (something I virtually NEVER do) based solely upon that single first line that really sang to me. I’d like to tell you the piece that came from this inspiration won me a Pushcart and a Pulitzer simultaneously, and that Natasha Trethewey has written me envious hate-mail because of it. That didn’t happen. However, what did happen was this: I was now able to look at a “spontaneous” piece, one that was driven completely by the great “not knowing” I’d heard about, and I could relate. All I had to begin with was one line — one line that had beauty, had potential, and had heart. And that was enough.
I know, I know. You probably want to see the poem now, right? Here’s the letdown, reader: I’ve sent that poem out to several potential publishers with packets of other works I’ve generated, so, sorry about that. It’s going to have to remain “in the dark” for now. However, when it does find a home, please rest assured that you’ll see it here first. And in the meantime, please feel free to explore your own “not knowing”-driven work. I’d love to hear how that works out for people outside the literary realm. Who knows where the uncertain might lead us?