writing process

poetry, Uncategorized

Upon Returning to Caffeine

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This morning, for the first time in a year, I had my first cup of real, honest-to-God coffee. You see, last summer I had an encounter with caffeine that totally reformed my whole perception of it: While on a writing binge, I consumed three large cups of coffee one after the other after the other. Something then happened that had never happened before — my heart rate shot through the roof (like say, 130 bpm), my blood pressure spiked to a dangerously high number, and I thought I was going to die. Yes, really. I even wound up going to the hospital to get checked out, having never encountered anything like that before. Once the effects of the caffeine subsided about an hour or so later, I was fine. In the twenty-some-odd years I’d been drinking coffee, it had never turned against me with such hostility. After this bright red warning sign, when I consumed even a little caffeine, I noticed that some of my previous symptoms began to return. Maybe it was psychosomatic, maybe not. Either way, I didn’t like the feeling.

So, I was turned off of caffeine for a good long while. For the past year, I’ve been a devotee of caffeine-free everything, from sodas to foods (bummer: chocolate has caffeine), and it has been a purification by fire. Admittedly, my mind has been clearer, my body has been more responsive, and my teeth have been noticeably whiter. This fast of sorts has had its advantages. Still, though, something was missing.

At family events, I declined the southern house wine (Sweet Tea) in favor of water. At writing events, I opted for beverages clear and flat while others around me were delighting in the carefree enjoyment of lattes and mochas. Yes, I missed it. But I didn’t miss the near-death sensation from my prior encounter. Better safe than sorry, I told myself.

So this morning, when I found I was totally out of decaf (which, by the way, still has trace amounts of caffeine), I took a risk and made a cup of the hard stuff. I prepared it as I would have pre-fast, two sugars no cream, and partook slowly and cautiously. Thus far, as I’m writing this, I’m feeling no ill effects. A little physiological charge, perhaps, but nothing devastating.

World religions of all sorts preach moderation, and perhaps this account is one that reinforces that idea. “Sucking the marrow out of life doesn’t mean choking on the bone,” teacher John Keating advises his charges in the classic movie Dead Poets Society. Sometimes we have to nearly choke on the bone to appreciate the marrow, however. I don’t plan to caffeinate myself like I used to, but I am hopeful that I can have an occasional indulgence without frightening repercussions. I’ve missed being a coffeehouse regular, I’ve missed the ritual of preparing a single cup before writing, and I’ve missed being a part of the rich history that “real” coffee embodies.

Today, as ten ounces of Nantucket Blend wind their way through my system, I’m reminded of a Simon and Garfunkel tune: Hello darkness my old friend/ I’ve come to talk to you again. The trick is not to be consumed by the darkness. As sunrise peeps over the lake beyond my writing window, I’m grateful that a new day has begun.

My dealer of choice -- a fine little coffeehouse here in Winter Haven.
My dealer of choice — a fine little coffeehouse here in Winter Haven.
poetry, Uncategorized

Niche and Identity

FLteacherpoet555 Leave a comment
Sometimes routine is more foe than friend
Can one’s writing niche become a rut?

Much has been written about the importance of finding one’s place, both in the universal sense and within one’s chosen profession. Modern poets strive for years to find their voice, their style, and their unique contribution to literature. In essence, they strive to find their niche.

No matter how you pronounce it (neesh for some, nitch for others), one’s niche is an important component to the writing life. Knowing it can mean the difference between publication and rejection. Our niche, to some extent, is how we brand ourselves as writers. A quick look at the title of this site will show you how I feel my work is defined — “Florida poetry.” Granted, that doesn’t mean my work is all beach sunsets and Disney characters (those aren’t the REAL Florida anyway), but enough of my work has its roots in Floridian soil to justify the label, I believe. I am indeed a Florida Poet.

But what happens when that niche becomes a rut? When the title we choose to wear is either outgrown or outmoded, it’s time to reconsider. A wise writing mentor once told me, “We are constantly redefining ourselves.” He was right then, and it still holds true. When our chosen position in life or literature no longer suits our situation, then change, in one form or another, must occur. Even now, as my travels increase and my style matures, I feel that the “Florida Poet” label is being stretched to its limits. The niche has lived its life, and perhaps I may retire that verbiage altogether. Like actors who fear typecasting, writers too can “portray themselves into a box.” If one is known by strictly one state or one style, then it’s time to diversify. Showing off the full range of “chops” that one possesses can also breathe fresh air into previously stale subject matter.

Oh sure, I’ll always be a Florida poet at heart — this land, where my family has spent seven generations, has been too good to even consider abandoning my roots, my heritage, or my Cracker drawl. But as my poems grow and as my tastes broaden, perhaps I may dig the niche a little broader. Florida for many is a destination. For me, it is the port from which to set sail — not a rut, but a route. May my work always do it justice, and may I always fit my niche, no matter its wording, to the fullest.