​​Dear Writers,
 Hundreds of orchids show their beautiful faces at the Smithsonian’s American Art Museum’s “Orchids: Amazing Adaptations.” The display highlights these amazing beings in portrait style, posed behind huge tropical plants, tucked underneath moss, or shooting from trees. Orchids must adapt to this museum environment under the atrium, so close you want to touch them. Orchids thrive in other natural or artificial habitats, even our own kitchens. These brilliant plants, found everywhere but Antarctica, may store moisture or live in almost freezing temperatures. Believed to have evolved 90,000, 000 years ago, botanists now believe orchids are evolving into a new species as they adapt to the world’s climate changes.
 
We too as writers are affected by environment and change. As we live, we encounter better seasons of writing and times when we pull back, reflect, gather and store.  Within our writing, our characters and narrators evolve as well.  Do you find you ask yourself “what if?” and set something in motion? Even small changes in line, rhythm, speaker, dialogue, time may turn your piece stronger, more alive.
 
This month I’m spending time gathering, editing, and preparing some pieces to send out, asking many“what ifs?” It’s been a winter of reflection, deeper listening, adapting, my pieces and myself as a writer evolving.

​ 

​Has it happened to you after you’ve written a story, whether as a poem, essay, or scene, that something isn’t quite right about the form the story takes? This happens to me all the time. I find repurposing the story, turning the story into a poem or the essay into a scene with dialogue, tearing the narrative apart, selecting, cutting, reshaping sends me deeper into telling the story I want to tell.  
 
On a recent field trip to Alden Farms in Beallesville, MD, a small group of writers and myself met the sculptor, David Therriault, and heard about his process of turning repurposed stone into sculptured pieces. David uses stones, “stolen, asked to change, ripped, chopped, moved, and piled for consumption” and retells their stories. In his workshop, David imagines new lives for stones and found metals, and with a nod to ancient cultures, creates pieces to adorn his garden. We wandered that day in the sun, mesmerized by the stones which whispered stories, both ancient and new.
 
Artists are always looking at other ways to tell the story. It’s difficult and maybe never possible to get it just right, to tell the truth of the story,  but we try. I remember seeing a film of the novelist, Eudora Welty, as she cut apart her typed drafts, (before the word processing days), paragraph by paragraph, line by line at times, and with straight pins fastened them together in new patterns, aiming for a new story.  All artists, published or not, practice this.  At a gathering of writers, a poet friend and I talked together of how we spent the summer months revising, making something new out of the original poems. A seamstress buys sample wedding dresses and refashions them, a gardener, never satisfied with the present, always looks to the next season.
 
We write to make the pleasing music.  Just as David’s stones, we are influenced by wind, light and dark, by rain. In his book, You Must Revise Your Life William Stafford acclaims, “Language changes, you change, the light changes.” In repurposing, you might find yourself closer to telling the story you envision. A truck loaded with stones, is just a truck with stones, until an artist desires it.

                                                                                          An Arrow Pointing Eastward
 
                                                    The best thing about being an artist…is that you get to engage in satisfying work.
                                                                                            Anne Lamott— Bird by Bird
 
This past spring, I purchased some garden art:  a metal orb on a pedestal, our spinning world deconstructed, with an arrow pointed in any direction I desired. North to the Star, South to my place of birth, West to the river I love, but East pulled me. Sun, daylight, warmth, light, where I can be child and explorer. The spinning world found a home in my garden, arrow pointing Eastward.
 
This orb and its easterly direction serve as guides for my writing journey, and now a guide for my journey into the world of submitting work for publication.
 
Trying to get my work published seemed a natural step forward, a step I always promoted to my high school students and to my workshop participants because writing matters, because it fosters human spirit, the heart, individual and collective voices. Writing connects us. But when facing the possibility of my own work out there, to be looked at and criticized, the process seemed scary and daunting: hundreds of publications, rules, contests, rejections, rejections, silence.
 
What changed? I needed a compass, a direction. I turned to some of my favorite writers and found guidance in Brenda Ueland’s If You Want To Write: “the best way to know the Truth or the Beauty is to try to express it. And what is the purpose of existence Here or Yonder but to discover truth and beauty and express it, i.e., share it with others?”
 
There, I had it. I just got down to it.  As a student and teacher, I’d always loved research. In other times out of the classroom, I spent years working in the retail world with clothes and books, matching clients to styles of clothing and writing, so I began treating this process as my direction. Similar to a child’s card game, I pored over my work, matching my work with some possible places to submit, collecting literature journals, magazines, attending more writing classes, talking with writing colleagues, visiting websites, and of course writing, writing, and revising. The whole process actually became fun. —Unbelievable, right? 
 
But what I still loved was the writing, talking to other writers, reading so many writers in various voices and styles, listening to others— their words are Beauty. And I’ve been rewarded.  I’ve had some work accepted with kind notes from editors, and I’ve had plenty rejected, some one line rejection emails, others with a complimentary note or suggestions. Each acceptance or rejection has become a celebration of what Ueland calls “purpose of existence.” I’ve gotten so that when rejection comes, I rejoice in revisiting the poems, re-visioning, deciding where they might fly next.
 
At times I’ve been discouraged, and I know I will be again, but I know an idea or phrase will pull me in and I’ll be writing, without thinking of the publishing, but of exploring words, the worlds they bring me. I love what Pat Schneider says in her book for Amherst Writers and Artists, Writing Alone and With Others, about the moment you open an idea “… you might never be again touched by the confluence of images that have opened you to this particular moment in your imagination.”
 
And I suppose that’s what keeps me in. The writing for pure pleasure of that moment. Opening the imagination. The thing it is to be writing.
 
Many, many thanks for all who have encouraged me, written with me, and taught me.
 
Words roll on the tongue, in the ear, on the page, pointing me in the right direction to my garden, toward the Sun.
 

Over the recent busy holiday month, I thought all the poetry in me had dried up–just gone. In the night, I lay awake, afraid and searching for a little piece of music. I practiced deep breathing to calm myself, thought of all the things, places, and people who bring me joy, then conjured up memories of darker places, even got up in the night to practice yoga, hoping inversions would loosen words from my head, shake them out as if snow falling in a snow globe. But each morning, I awoke to silence and blank pages.
 
My experience wasn’t a unique one. I knew all writers have times WHEN IT’S JUST NOT WORKING. But this didn’t make the time easier. I got sad and then angry. I needed a brain switch. First I turned to poetry and some favorites. William Stafford writes in his poem, Run Before Dawn, 
                                                     
                                                      Most mornings I get away, slip out
                                                      the door before light, set forth on the dim, gray
                                                      road, letting my feet find a cadence
                                                      that softly carries me on. Nobody
                                                      is up–all alone my journey begins.
 
Huh. So, “Nobody is up”, but me.  Just do something about it.
 
I turned to other writer friends, thinking someone might have gone through this and have a piece of advice. I shared my recent drought with a friend and AWA writing colleague who told me about a five-week online journaling course, New Creative Journaling, created by Anne-Marie Jobin, an art therapist, and why didn’t I try it? I had always resisted journaling courses, particularly online ones, but I figured now was the time to stop resisting and just sign up. So, I did. And unlike some other classes, I actually bought a large blank journal and gathered the suggested materials. Into a large box went wrapping paper, scraps of writing, musical scores, letters, photographs, old calendars, dried flowers from my garden, magazine clippings. I also made a list of my favorite words, gathered some favorite poems, shopping lists. You name it. Suddenly I was having fun. I caught myself talking to myself, as if I had an imaginary friend. And yes, I danced in the kitchen, two fisting a paintbrush and pen.
 
And then I made time every day to work. Jobin suggests picking a theme for the journal, so I entitled the journal, The Creative Habit. I set no expectations, except to move through the activities, even skipping around if I wanted to. Sometimes I worked to music, sometimes to silence. I took my work to other parts of the house and to the outside. I showed the journal to no one, afraid a word or glance from another would stop my new momentum.
 
With the journal, I discovered I love practicing collage, drawing outside, using watercolors. And something happened in the process of steady work. Words came back. The dance and choreographer Twyla Tharp writes: “Creativity is a habit, and the best creativity is the result of good work habits." I trust this now to be true.
 
The page I feature here from my journal is from week 4 called the Intuitive collage. Jobin suggests softening your gaze, resisting thinking too much and follow your intuition to pick images related to your theme. And then she suggests writing about it.
                                                           
                                                      Do I Dare?
 
                                                      It’s all in the taking and grasping.
                                                      The roundness of the apple looks
                                                      like a peach in disguise
                                                      The plumed bird almost touches
                                                      the hand that grasps
                                                      the green wonder box
                                                      The rose, pink and wet, sits
                                                      next to the scrolled S
                                                      The name of the writer
                                                      and her place of origin
                                                      The shoes move
                                                      in a forward direction
                                                      as do spires upward
                    
                                                      Oh, if it is for the taking,
                                                      this creative life, this life
                                                      of words and story?
 
 I would answer, Yes. Yes, it is.  Thank you, William Stafford, T.S. Eliot, Twyla Tharpe, Lisa, and Anne-Marie.

​

​Join me and others in a theme based workshop, Food for Thought: Stories Surrounding Our Lives with Food, November 15, 9:30-2:30. For the day, writers will write from a variety of prompts of poetry and prose, receive positive feedback in a welcoming environment, and leave with possibilities for stories to tell. As in the Amherst Writers and Artists Writers tradition, all work is treated as fiction. Reading aloud and offering feedback are encouraged, but not required. Writers of all levels are welcome.

Bring with you a favorite recipe, one that has a story to tell, written or typed on a notecard. We'll use these in our day together.
 
Cost for the workshop is $75, including morning snacks and a vegetarian lunch.

To register, contact Summer at beyondmargins@gmail.com to send check and reserve a spot by Monday, November 13.

Writing from an image stirs powerful emotions, creates scenes and character, while creating metaphor. Read these selection from my recent October theme workshop to see how two writers, Barb Galvin and Barbara Farmer shaped pieces from local photographer, Jan Branscome.
 
I asked the writers to tell what drew them to the photograph. Barb Galvin was pulled in by “the feeling of the unknown as the tracks disappeared into the distance.  It opened up the infinitesimal possibilities of the future of those on the train and where they may be going.”
 
 Barbara Farmer “was immediately drawn to the center of the opened flower. …It stirred my thoughts of a yellow bonnet; a feminine quality of white, yellows bright & pale…accentuated an expression of final peace. The petals were like arms reaching in a prayer of thanks.”
 
Writing from images, or ekphrastic writing, is one way to prompt an immediate story. Thanks again to my generous writers and artists.
 
 
                                                                                                    Railroad
 
It rode on arms of steel, gently curved, bowing like the arc of a rainbow, disappearing into infinity.  The rugged rails of strength nestled into grey, gritty gravel, anchored with bolts into wooden cross-ties, lending its air of permanence and stability.
 
The train gently rocked and swayed on its journey—passengers cocooned into worn leather seats, a testament to the lives that had passed along this same path, day upon day, week upon week, year upon year.  But for the passengers, nothing was permanent.  Lives in flux journeyed into the future with uncertainty.  A man searching for hope with a new job; a young mother wishing for a respite from her tumultuous life; a teenager venturing on his own to college; an elderly couple seeking to cherish their waning moments together.
 
It stopped in towns large and small, disgorging some of its travelers, welcoming others to board.  Some sat in silence, others engaged in frivolous conversation, still others sought companionship.  The scenery changed along the way like the exchange of people from station to station.  Still the train moved on, undeterred by the lives encapsulated within the walls of its cars.
 
The lonely sound of its mournful horn filtered through the air, signaling its approach.  Cars halted at its crossing oblivious to the hopes and dreams streaming by.  All they knew was it was the Local 427 headed north.  Nothing else mattered.
                                                                ­­————————————--
                                                                                          
                                                                                                   Flower
 
The picture could be a model for a Georgia O’Keefe painting. The baby lies softly, tucked among the soft, white petals.  A bonnet of yellow stamen, frames her sweet, little face.  Peacefully she lies now; a little babe born prematurely, facing insurmountable odds for survival.  Her pink tongue is showing off her sassy personality.  Politely, she is wishing “mommy” would be here.  She slumbers into sleep, as her eyes close.  Her little arms are stretched out like wings, signaling up to the angels, thanking them for their love and protection, as she feels the warmth from their smiles.
 
The picture is taken of the sleeping babe, that will blossom later into bigger petals.

​

​October’s workshop, Let Nature Be Our Guide, focused on nature’s power and influence over us. From Annie Dillard, Thoreau, The Farmer’s Almanac, and poems of Linda Pastan and Tess Gallagher, writers explored their imaginations and memory in poetry and prose.
 
Also featured this month was the work of a local photographer, Jan Branscome, who travels miles and spends hours, searching out places which speak to her to capture with her camera. After lunch, each writer chose a photograph to write about in any style from imagination or memory. Writing from an image can spark a writer to capture a moment.

I was delighted to have such generous writers together on the AWA marathon, Writing Across the World, to benefit those who wish to be facilitators, but need assistance in the expense. It was an added boost of community to have Jan’s work. For the next few weeks, I'll offer writing from this day. As in all AWA workshops, all writing is considered fiction.

I offer one of Jan’s photographs with the corresponding poem by Kris Davis who lives locally and enjoys exploring the world of science and nature.

Thanks to Jan and Kris.


Silhouette
 
I want to shut out the words I can’t discern,
that nonetheless command my attention.
I want to forget that P. died,
that I need to find words to comfort
his children, who were his victims.
I want to curl up and sleep, not put on a gown and heels,
make small talk at dinner, hear a talk about grief.
 
I want only this moment,
when dusk whittles the palette to orange and black,
when the heron softens her neck
to settle her head against her body,
when she pulls her slender leg up into her feathers,
becomes a silhouette against light on water.
 
 

When I was a child, I spent most of my time outdoors. I could start my day at the front porch, round to the barn and paddock, mosey down past the persimmon tree, and wind my way through the woods, first passing down to Mr. Long’s, continuing though the darker pine wood into the open grassy field, cross the road, and enter the woods again to end up home at the barn and paddock. It was as if I could place stones or lay a rope on the circular path and end up in the center of the route.  In those simple childhood walks, I looked up, around, forward, and inward.
 
At my recent workshop entitled Thresholds, I asked my writers to tell about their places (real or imagined) to look up, around, forward, and inward—a place to honor their work as an altar for their writing.  I suggested it could be about a time to pause, to separate, or build a bridge. Here’s a sampling:
 
“Here’s the invitation to a life full of riches. All that is required is to walk through the door, turn on the lights, put the kettle on for tea, throw open the curtains, and make a place at the table; to claim a space, to make oneself welcome. And in turn, leave the door open for the Muse, inviting her to make herself at home.”
 
“The lushness of the drapes forms a cocoon, a private place…”
 
“An altar alters our mind, our heart, our perception of what’s real and what’s possible, folding our sight and spirit into its inner chamber that yawns ever wider as we seek a glimpse of its mysteries, its occupants, its owner.”
 
For all these writers, the place is a holy one, a thoughtful and inspirational place, sometimes private, but also one of action, choice and possibilities.  In AWA workshops, the altar becomes the “On Chairs,” a poem or writing tidbit offered for reflection.  Natalie Goldberg, in The True Secrets of Writing, describes the creation of an altar for her writing students.  Her aim with a favorite poem or a poet’s photograph is to instill an intensity and build a relationship with practice and craft.
 
On my desk, which faces the back garden, greening now with coming Spring, sits a rustic pitcher filled with woodland flowers, a circular bowl with found objects from the sea, some inspirational book friends, and other writing tools. I can come and walk about, and be restored, look up, around, forward, and inward. 
 
An Invitation: Create your altar for writing, thinking, dreaming. You could make many places to pause, create, contemplate, refresh. Or you could simply go on a familiar walk.