Artists Passion

A funny thing happened this summer. I gave myself time to read a book. Francine Prose suggests in her book, Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them, that writers, especially, need to savor books. We need to read them slowly, pay attention to the road stops of the style displayed by the author whose book through which we are journeying.

I would offer that this process of experiencing a book, rather than hastily rushing through it—as if the words and prose, and even dialogue are akin to a toll plaza leading to a bridge to which we are racing, applies to the creative process.

Our society values brevity, quickness, and speed versus, age, longevity and endurance. It’s no surprise to me that many of the world’s great marathon runners come from the countries of East Africa. Never mind that these athletes live in mile high regions where their lungs become accustomed to working in low levels of oxygen.

The societies with in which these men and women are born and reared are centuries old. The athletes hold an experiential understanding of time and relativity. They know that speeding up one’s actions does not always gain the desired reward.

Artists of the Western world, especially those of us who live in America, must address the demands required by the professional realms in which we work. The artistic business arena is where the talented and skilled must come to terms with the demands of a capitalistic system, and ideally accomplish this without losing her or his creative fervor. We must conserve our energies, while working at a continued pace. The larger context of the in which we live society holds allegiances to norms, and ego ideals, shall we say, that stand in stark comparison to qualities one must adhere and aspire toward if and when preparing for a marathon.

That marathon is the creative process through which we undergo in creating each work of art. It is also our commitment to our work, a vow to ourselves that we will not simply do one painting or write one short story, but a hundred if that is what the universe wills—10 novels or more if that is our calling–our dharma. We engage the practice of our art form in our effort to not only make a sustainable living doing what we love, but more importantly as our effort to evolve.

All of this requires time—time with ourselves, time with our work, time with the thought processes of our work, and ultimately periods spent examining our thought processes. Without this our work becomes only a mirrored reflection, an image if you will of the status quo—supporting and maintain human actions as they are, affirming individuals, and ourselves where we sit and stand, rather than offering a pole star toward which to aspire and grow.

How does the artist give her or himself time wherein to develop patience, build tolerance toward their lack of knowing—a place in the process of our working to create that the masters come to embrace?

On a higher level, how does the artist come to see, accept, that time given to doing what seems nothing is part and parcel of the creative process if the work is to reflect the uniqueness of the work itself, as well as that special touch with which we, the author and creator, has endowed it?

Laying the brush upon the easel, stepping back, and considering the image one is drawing. Abandoning the computer, and permitting a story to ferment as you, the author, take a walk through the hills. Or giving yourself a month to read and savor a book of poems, or perhaps work on a painting. Choosing to learn a new piece of music. Activities like these, and more fertilize, our works toward blossoming, and nurture them into fruition.

Time spent working in other art forms that are not primary focus teach us, everyone, not just artists, to slow down an effort to speed up. Refinement of our ability to wait and see, to linger in the purgatory of realizing only half the drawing, one third of the story, how the music sounds in our heads, yet not under the expression of our fingers—allows us to forget what it was we were ever trying to do and reclaim it with a greater vengeance.

Actor, Jeremy Northam, said in an interview of the actors and actresses in the movie, Gosford Park, that “…an actor/actress’s job is to learn his or her lines to then forget them.” In this way the actor or actress brings the character alive, imbuing director and screenwriter’s creation, the personage, with a sense of humanness.

Our works need time to work to simmer in the silent stillness of our hands. We, the artists and magicians of the unseen brought into touch, vision and sound, need time to forget ourselves, and who we are in between projects. We must lose recollection of the purpose of our lives, if only for a moment.

For in this moment where memory temporarily recedes from consciousness, the wellspring of imagination that resides in our unconscious steps forth. We are energized—forced to return to our work, and do it again. With greater fervor we regain and reclaim ourselves, give rise to a new identity, one rooted in the unconscious memories of all that we have experienced in this life, and those of times past. Our recent and distant creations settle into clarity of our memories.

A new creation emerges, fulminant and brimming with the unique qualities of the present–a moment wherein we are reborn, resuscitated for having not only created, but skipped a breath, and in so doing stepped back, exhibited a moment of patience, reviewed not only the work, but realized who we are, and how this all began.

Time is a chief commodity for artists, especially writers. We not only need time to work, but, if not more importantly, for thinking about our work–mulling over what we have done with a drawing, painting or piece of writing. Time, in the open space of seemingly doing nothing, permits us to decide what route we shall take next.

Time. It is an essential element, to invent and bring form to the nothingness of raw materials, and then reflect on what we have manifested. We would do well to remember that God took seven days to create the earth, and all therein.

The pricing of a work must therefore include the cost for time spent not just writing or painting. This stand in accordance with the familiar adage, “Money is time. And time is money.� Like it or not, money contributes to our ability to give one’s self the time to think and be, as well as work and create.

Yet there our attitude toward time, and how we spend it, or better said, how we value the manner in which we allocate it.

All too often and when allowing our minds to wander, to freely associate, and connect with the heart, we believe ourselves to be accomplishing nothing. We consider taking time away from our work a waste–conclude that we are squandering our resources of which time is top priority.

The ability, or inability to give one’s self time to, whether it be actively creating or considering what we have brought in to being, is directly connected, if not influenced by our development, or lack of patience—our commitment to our work, and ourselves.

“In order to discover your children,� said 37-yr.-old former tennis champ, Andre Agassis, “—you have to come to terms with yourself…looking at life through the lens of a 3-year-old…your filter changes.� Kettman, Steve. It’s Better to Be Lucky than Good.Parade Magazine, September 2, 2007, p. 9.

Like retired athlete Agassis, the artist each time she or he begins a new project, must make amends, offer recompense for all the times we have not trusted ourselves. Make amends. Come to terms. The latter is about acceptance, the former forgiveness. We must who we are, have always been, yet denied, and as a result, have almost assuredly experienced emotional pain. Viewing “…life through the eyes of a 3-year-old,� does transform “…the filters…� through which we imbibe the world. It shatters illusions. And yet some of those illusions have been good.

The ability to, “…always look forward…â€? of which Agassi speaks [Kettman, Steve. It’s Better to Be Lucky than Good. Parade Magazine, September 2, 2007, p. 9.] is good for assisting the individual in attaining their goal the ascertainment of which allows one the opportunity to reach some “…terms…â€? That done, they can begin to envision their essential and most authentic self that lies beneath all the goals and accomplishments–that part of them that lives beyond youth, beauty, the misrepresentations of success, their life.

As artists we must both establish and meet various goals to achieve a level of accomplishment in whatever art form we have chosen to create out of. We must exhibit a disciplined approach to our schedule of working and creating. We must never become complacent. And yet with each journey we embark upon to manifest a new creation, we must come to terms with who we are, accept the instances in which we have failed to reach a prescribed goal, but in falling short, discovered something wherein we are made better for having veered astray.

Unlike the athlete and many other professions, the practice of one’s artistry grows more sumptuous and takes on greater texture and maturity with age. The opportunities to further our growth and development deepen and widen with the length of our practice. The transformative quality of our work is as much a reflection and measurement of the times we have surrendered to our heart’s call as the number of years of we have poured our hearts into this work.

To envision a painting, read a story or poem we crafted a year ago, five or ten, or three decades ago, brings with it the opportunity to turn back and see the world through new eyes, eyes that help in the perception of words, paints and hues laid into form in earlier times, have evolved with time—our lifetime, the years of our experience.

We carry all this with us each time we paint and write or play our music, the experience and wisdom delivered through the period of time given to creating each work—the thought and heart processes we withstood and hung onto—how enduring all, undergoing the process required to yield the work through our hands has brought us to. All this yields the person, the individual we are now.

Coming to terms.

We face the conditions of growth each time we set out to create. The art we yield enables us through time and reflection to see what has always been and remains—in us, in our art.

So many of us, like myself are incredibly eager to have someone see our work, notice us that we forget, or never think. The wounds we bring from our childhood are viciously deep, and raw resulting from years, decades, lifetimes, if you will, of not being accepted for who we are, our unique quirks that make us the human and the artists that we are. In our sincerest efforts to succeed we leap before looking, forget the importance and necessity of asking the hard questions up front. We are afraid of rejection. And so we abandon ourselves as those closest to us, often times family members on whom our lives and hearts depended often did.

It’s like the little girl, who after carefully scraping the front and back labels from the Log Cabin Syrup Bottle and then filling it with the prettiest and brightest yellow daisies she could pick, delivers it to her mother, who just stands there, unmoved and unaffected. The mother is more concerned with how the little girl got the bottle, and from whose garden she had stolen the flowers. She overlooks the gift so cheerfully and imaginatively prepared.

Many of us as artists come from this place. And it is out of this hurt that we create—write our stories, develop our songs, complete our paintings, draft and post our blogs each day infusing them with such care and all of who we are.

Yet the business of the art world is not heart-felt and heart-held by so many who make their livings and fortunes by bartering and selling the works of those whose work they represent and publish.

As artists, wounded and sensitive individuals that we are, we must become the caretaker our parents never were, responsible to not only our commitment to create, but that of embracing every fiber of who we are and stopping at nothing to protect that person, that lonely child who creates to receive love and thus heal. The love we most desire and desperately search can only be given, granted by ourselves.

Even if our parents and family were supportive, we must take that love and support shown to us and transform it into a tenacious caretaker of our souls. We cannot let the business of art kill our spirit to create art. We must become artists and living and thriving. We do this by remembering the hurts and seeing the gift of and in our ability to create, and our work to transform what was once a bottle that held syrup into a flower vase. And in this remembrance and recognition asking the hard questions.

We are the flower vase. And the flowers in the vase are our work given to the world on terms that are fair and just for us that we might continue to work and offer hope and possibilities of positive change.

Directly after reading the article about copyrights in my writing magazine, I felt stupid for not asking how if and how long 451 Press held the rights to what I write in this blog. Then I saw myself as a pariah for wanting to know. The hunt for information, answers to my questions, was akin to a reprimanding search for the part of myself that gave away my work in such a manner. In fear I began to wonder, “What if they own it—that I’ve given away my work for not only free—but for life?� The points of the article had clearly overwhelmed me. Should that be the case I had not written and posted that many blogs, no more than 10. Yet and still they were my babies.

In that I secured such a wonderful contract with the publisher of my novel, trust in myself diminished to such a low level I felt compelled to get to the bottom of the issue as soon as possible. I considered published authors and writers, whose work has been and continually is stolen at a pittance with the author possessing no hope of ever regaining ownership and control of it. The life of their words—the decision of when, and how long those words will remain in print and accessible to the public lives and dies with the publisher or magazine that owns the copyright to them, with the person who penned or typed them having no say.

At the risk of sounding narcissistic, I had fallen in love with one particular blog and the possibility that those words were no longer mine that I might have given them away such that if I wanted to ever reprint or use them I would need to ascertain permission, was painful. What I had done in not asking questions before signing the contract was, in my mind, tantamount to having taken my child to a daycare facility, without having thoroughly checked those who ran the daycare, and then to return after having left my child in their care for a week to find they may have possibly given my child away, that in actuality the daycare was an illegal abortion ring that when parents were away, displayed the children to potential adoptive parents who paid enormous sums of money to essentially buy a stolen child.

Perhaps this is an over exaggeration. More of my fears at work her than common sense. The work of any artist can never measure up to the value of any person’s child, biological or adopted. But if we as artist’s do not thoroughly examine the business practices, hearts and minds of those into whose hands we place our work to be distributed and sold, we run the risk of killing the inner child of our muse and creative spirit. It’s that simple.

Today I learned that 451 Press for whom I write this blog owns the rights to my blogs for one month (the first 30 days after I post my article) and then the rights revert to me.
I hadn’t asked this question when first applying for the position. I was so taken with the idea that I could write a blog and that I didn’t have to focus on its distribution, ascertaining publicity and advertising for my site that I failed to ask this very important question. Not a good idea. Yet as it seems those who operate 451 Press are good people.

They have also instituted really a good system for disseminating information for people like myself that aren’t asking questions at the appropriate times. Unable to receive word from one of the administrators about this matter I simply e-mailed the bloggers who serve on the board of trustees. Within an hour I had received several quick responses that not alleviated my worries, but indicated where I might find the policy of copyright. It was in the agreement I had signed, but failed, again in my excitement, to read. My mistake. Another potential disaster avoided.

I became worried about this matter of copyright after having read in the latest issue of one of my writing magazines about how in this competitive publishing market, many magazines own the rights to the author’s work on stories, essays, poems, etc, in perpetuity. Like me the writers, so eager to see their works in print do not ask about this matter.

As a newly published author I knew the importance of raising this question. But I am new, and again I was excited to have the opportunity to further my career in writing. Fortunately the company that published my book owns the copyright for only a decade. After that ownership reverts back to me. My attorney felt that was a good deal, especially for an author being published for the first time. He also interpreted this as a positive sign concerning the company who published my book. So far I have had complete enjoyment working with them

I feel good about 451 Press and what they are doing too. I like that they only own my work for 30 days from the time of posting.

Writing is challenging and laborious. Giving that work away or having it stolen out of ignorance, and forever seems like indentured servitude, disguised as pay. Yet, not unlike myself, many writers and artist’s fall prey to the excitement of someone simply liking what you have to say, willing to take a chance on you, and wanting to exhibit your writing, or as it is n the case of magazines, hiring you to write for them. In our exultation we don’t think, forget to ask the tough questions that need to be addressed and negotiated. And then oft times when we do, either before or after the matter is settled, we feel horrible for even considering the matter.

How does accepting that not all who are encouraged and touched by our work will be able to purchase it?

And how does satisfaction with or belief in reciprocity of blessings, or karma regarding our work, assist us in shamelessly asking individuals to buy our works of art?

Can knowing or discovering that my writing truly moves readers who may or may not purchase my book provide me the strength to overcome my fears of asking when the answer may be, “No?�

If my writing has moved someone, it has moved me. The two go hand-in-hand. Bland writing, however grammatically correct, but that does nothing for my soul, will not affect any one else’s. It’s just that simple. In most cases it will never get written, due to the lack of my interest in seeing it through, never mind making it into print.

Thus if a work of art has reached the level of print, whether by my own means as in self-publishing or due to the resources of a traditional publisher or art agent, or music company, I can trust it has moved someone—me. Why then, am I/ are we so hesitant to promote ourselves and out work with fervor and desire?

Could it be that we don’t believe in ourselves? Or are we more comfortable with failure than success? Do we fear how success will change our identity of ourselves? Or are we afraid of all of the above?

Every time we as artists participate in shameless self-promotion, what I call exhibiting a display of self-confidence—healthy grandiosity—we are saying, �Yes,� to what the Creator or the Universe has shepherded, channeled if you will, through us. The process through which the work of art is manifested has rendered us, you and me, anew.

Publicity and self-promotion share a reciprocal relationship with the act of creating a work of art. The latter sets the stage for the former, both constituting an overall process of rebirth. To remain stuck in the repetition of creating without mounting a formidable supply of energy to usher your work into the world is like giving birth to a child that one hides from all. The child doesn’t grow, is stunted. Those who learn of the parent’s acts judge harshly, her or him, guilty of abuse.

In the artist’s case, the artist who has sought and received the commercial recognition of acquiring an agent, publisher, etc. to usher the sale of the artist’s work, the artist has not only made a commitment to their agent, but more so to themselves. They have promised to do all possible to make as many people aware of their work and gain consumers and the like. To embark upon the journey of turning one’s artistry into a business, one that involves the artists doing what she or he most love, and then abandon this process of mounting publicity through self-promotion, is the highest form of self-sabotage in which one can engage.

It is a re-infliction of the same wound out which the artist most likely performs her or his work in an effort to heal. To hold that work back from the world through the subtle form of neglecting and avoiding self promotion out of fear is a most certain way to destroy one’s own spirit and deplete the artist—you, me, us—of the much needed energy required to continue engaging in performing our artistry.

As artists we must cease cutting ourselves short, giving our work quick shrift. We must respect our work and ourselves, which means loving and believing in ourselves, our creations in our missions with such fervor that we move with and beyond our fears into the land, the act–the process of shameless self-promotion. While we risk rejection in so doing, we also avail ourselves, our lives, to the possibilities, the probabilities of self-discovery—the birth of a new child within, one who has our love from the beginning, and without conditions of the need for success.

To actively participate in the promotion of our own works makes us subject to the healing power of our artistry. It allows us to experience and enjoy what those who support us love and feel when engaging with our work—with us. Devoting our energies to shameless self-promotion allows us to become the painting, so to speak, and creation of our own artistry—the true subjects of our work.

I recently read at bookstore from by collection of short stories, Keeper of Secrets…Translations of an Incident. When the question and answer period opened an audience member asked each of us to discuss the kinds of publicity in which we had and were engaging in an effort to sell our books. The first to answer, I spoke of how along with doing the standard readings at bookstores and other venues that each author needs to, I was also educating myself in the ways of the internet.

The two authors sitting down from me, both women, stated they had focused on the traditional methods of seeking placement in print media to draw attention to their works. The fourth author at the end, a gentleman, shared that he had been lucky enough to gain numerous radio interviews along with doing the standard readings. What was interesting was that he prefaced all this with, “Shameless self-promotion,� adding, “Is there any other kind [of promotion?]�

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to determine why perhaps, it was the male author who broke the ice and stated what we all four knew. The world has long given men permission to be aggressively assertively about achieving their goals and projecting themselves onto the word.

Yet and still many male artists grapple with what all artists and business people (women and men) know it takes to sell a product—the ability to parlay your skill at creating into the artistry of conveying to a potential consumer the uniqueness of what your hands and heart have brought into form, and then having purchased your product, they will not only return for more, but tell others about their new discovery—your product—and you.

People are searching for ways to access their own truths, their internal selves, the authenticity they have buried within themselves as protection from a culture that is full of shaming and defeatist thinking projected onto others in the form of judgment couched in constructive criticism, and all done in the name of capitalism.

Every newspaper, television and radio advertisement is laced with the subtle and unspoken notion that, “You, [the consumer,] are not enough within your own right. You do not have within you all it takes to survive. Therefore you must buy what I/we have to sell.� Ultimately the consumer makes the purchase, but remains the same, if not slips into a deadening space of having been ripped off. Never mind how they feel when seeing the same product in the hands of another consumer who may have acquired it for a cheaper price.

As artists, our job is to leave our consumers not only feeling more aware of who they are, but hopeful about themselves even as they realize there is room for improvement for their own happiness. Whether they buy our painting or not, we wish it will stir their souls. Perhaps when seeing it on a postcard or in a book at a cheaper price, and from which we receive proceeds, they will be affected once more and purchase it.

And then there is just the beneficent act of having encouraged someone along the oft times lonely journey of life. Every person who hears my stories will and cannot purchase them. But if my writing and/or paintings move them in a positive way, I will receive my rewards from other avenues.

In the non-academic world our art, whatever the chosen form, is the dissertation upon which we have committed our lives are, our audience the committee forever asking what we know, and what have we learned about this topic that has come to us. Thus our job as artists is to purge themselves of all knowledge, question and answers on these our themes and subjects through which we explore and examine these themes—the various aftermaths that can occur in the wake of a murder, the many ways to render a sunset in either a drawing, acrylic or oil painting, or in watercolor, the exponential variations on a theme that has haunted one of our dreams. True artists exhaust all possible ways of manifesting their topics and themes through the primary art form in which she or he operates.

Each time we start a new project we embark upon this process once again. And each time in moving through the process, while focused on craft, and staying where the energy is—following its lead—we, the artists engage with the act of producing—harvesting—a new creation rooted in all we have created before it, while at the same time further elucidating the manner, order, and steps taken to yield this new work.

To begin work on a new creation with thoughts firmly settled on outcomes stymies the artist. Working within this context is like beginning a trip thinking only of the arrival. This is an unsafe thing to do when driving. It leads to accidents and deaths. We must be patient. It is a trap set for one certainty—failure. We must also leave in and leave ourselves plenty of time for driving, both on the mundane and profane, and the celestial and psychological levels. This allocation of time and space always involves making room for discovery.

When we cease to do this while there may be something yielded at the end of the work, if the process has become so verbatim, routine, that there are no surprises along the way, no lost passages down which we have trod causing the us to, at least once, doubt our way and grapple with an obstacle that forces us to reflect, if but for a moment on how we arrived at this point as a way to continuing forward, the work has been but an exercise in repetition, not an experience.

Process—that of creating—is, in and of itself, an experience. It is what each artist must go through every time we or set out to bring something out nothingness and into being. If we undergo this experience, lose ourselves along the way of the process so too will our audience.

And this moment or hour, days or years of wandering in the dark, the cloud of unknowing is what people pay when buying a work of art. They are in essence giving themselves the opportunity to experience being moved in some way, if only a centimeter in that last split millisecond of observing a painting, or in the opening lines of a song to the final notes trailing into silence, or alas in the last word of a novel making them wish to begin the story again. In buying the work they can continually place themselves before it, revisit it’s sounds and textures, feelings and thoughts engendered by the words. The work has become a familiar, a symbol, bringing them home to some part of themselves they never recognized possessing, or have re-discovered. It allows them to return home–undergo a variation on a theme of what we experienced in creating it.

In a day and age where mass marketing and production go hand in hand, it’s hard to imagine how creating a product can become a means to the ends of focusing on one’s process. Yet most mass manufacturers, at least the good ones who make a profit know the importance of getting down in clear form the order of assemblage required to quickly and efficiently create their product. Henry Ford knew that having his car manufacturing plant on the Rouge River would shorten the time it took for him to get materials. The proximity to the waterway allowed for a speedy delivery of the iron and other materials required for the assemblage of Ford Motor Cars. Historians see his decision as a work of brilliance.

Likewise the artist must ask what materials she or he needs to yield their artistic product in the most efficient and cost conscious manner. But the efficiency required, and the attention on cost has less to do with money, and more do with outlay of physical energy. For the artist, energy and time are important commodities that when kept in close observance provide her or him with the ability to make the money needed by anyone to live and thrive and practice their profession.

Whereas most professions and jobs require the employee or owner to find the shortest distance between two points to achieve their ends, the artist knows that she or he must always take a circuitous route, for it is in the turns and curves of this trek that the jewels of each piece of work are rendered for refinement. The artist’s first journey on the path to a new creation is that of discovery, and inevitably the artist must allow time for getting lost, taking intentional, if not spontaneous, detours. We must allow for this or else our work, whether it be a painting, story or novel or piece of music will sound or appear not just similar to other creations, but cookie cutter.

There’s nothing wrong with continually exploring the same themes in one’s work, but to travel the same path in those themes is plagiarism of one’s own previous creation. In fact this not creation, but essentially offering up the same story or song or painting just under a new name or in a different frame. And while agents and publishers and even music companies may encourage this as a way of ensuring strong sales, the artist’s muscles at creating begin to atrophy, and their audience having heard, seen or read it all before, moves onto something offering hopes of a change, even if it is with someone who has interpolated or re-invented/created the artist’s work in a new light.

For the sake of longevity, and maintaining passionate interest in her or his work, the artist must continually push the boundaries of their skills, purging deeper and farther into the nature of their art and the themes around which their paintings, writings and music swarms. As writer, Nicholas Sparks states, he writes about one theme, or subject—one man in love with one woman. The art of what he does, which is not easy, is to create as many stories exploring the theme of a one-woman man.

The artist then is much like a doctoral student in whatever subject, observing her or his subject from every angle possible and thus becoming a certified expert on it, such that when she or he sits before the committee reading their dissertation she or he will have gained a body of knowledge in this topic, not just from the didactic research completed, but the actual experience of toiling the subject around their minds, dreaming it in their hearts and souls, breathing and sleeping the subject such that it becomes like a second skin. And from this the student can answer the various questions, address the many comments with assurance and confidence in her or his process of research and discovery.

A funny thing happened recently when my painting teacher came around and checked in, as she does several times throughout the 3-hr session with each of us, and asked how all was going with me and my painting. I stated my internal voice was doing its thing as always, “…criticizing.� But, I added, “It’s not bothering me.�

The voice(s) had been raging as I worked on my painting. Having reached that point where my energy was low, I was tired and doubtful. As usual in this part of the process of doing a painting I wasn’t pleased with my work. “It doesn’t look as great as you thought it would,� the voices said at their loudest. “I don’t really like these colors,� and always, “There go those eyes again.�

I paint a lot of eyes. A lot.

Yet I was not distracted to the point of stopping. “I’ve heard it before, or some variation on the theme. And I’m not listening,� I said to my teacher who is more like a facilitator, and not having given the words credence, then added, “I’m just painting.�

I wasn’t happy with the painting. It was messy. But I knew all would be fine. “I’ve been here before,� I said.

“You’re focusing on the process,� my teacher said. “And when you’re focused on the process the voices cease to distract you.�

Wow. I was energized.

She’d spoken those words many times before. Instructors throughout my MFA program in creative writing had said as much–encouraged us to give attention to our process when writing a story or novel or poem, let it come to us, befriend it like a dream. Of course we needed to bear in mind craft. But real attention on craft and refining would come later, they assured.

Presently it’s difficult to ignore craft, and trust my process of simply getting the story down on paper as in the early drafts. My first book now published, and as I’ve said in previous blogs, I’ve set a precedent for my work. The question, “Can I do it again?� constantly plagues me, never more so than when a reader tells me how much they enjoyed, or are loving the process of reading my book.

Process. It’s a word we hear many times, and a lot about. But how often do we commit our minds to simply focusing on the process—the experience of allowing the energy of the heart to direct the hands, and leave editing for some time later?

When I reach the middle phase of creating a painting where energy wanes, I get bored. Whatever the image, I don’t like how it looks. It’s messy—the painting—partly done, and so much unfinished. This is a far cry from the fun-filled excitement of bringing the first brush stroke of paint to the canvas.

As I consider the years I’ve been painting, and the struggles I now have with developing patience with my process of creating stories now that my ability to craft them has improved, I am amazed at the my capacity to remain attentive to the process of creating a painting, and my ability to allow the rise and fall of energy during the process to guide me. I am also in awe of my skill at tolerating the frustration that is inherent to the experience of creating.

You begin a painting with excitement, and then hesitation and uncertainty set in. You grow uninterested, dispassionate, when the images you create don’t appear as you desire. The voices arise and grow loud. Now it’s almost rote. I anticipate the arousal of these sensations and internal voices when approaching a certain point in the development of a painting.

My process of creating a painting is much clearer, the stages more defined than those of when I am drafting a story. Edith Wharton is correct. “…it is infinitely [more] difficult to render a human mind when one is employing the very word-dust with which thought is formulated.� [Wharton, Edith. “The Writing of Fiction.� pp. 16.] The paints on the canvas are more exact—the chaos and confusion they reflect, more distinct. I recognize where I am in the process instantaneously when the distaste for my work appears.

It is harder to recognize and manage the internal commotion of this stage when I’m writing. I am overcome, overwhelmed. I lose my way, having achieved a level of competence in my writing that I have never sought with my paintings. I lose my way, grow afraid, and impatient. The chaos that ensues with the outset of writing a story overwhelms me. I don’t like the sketches of the story. I want the whole thing laid out.

And yet when I have plotted and outlined a novel straight through (66 scenes) I have lost interest in writing the last words of the final scene. I know the ending, or where it will occur thereabouts. The mystery is dispelled. This is not say I don’t see benefits in outlining, or that writers should not diagram their stories. Yet, I have discovered this in depth analysis eliminates a large part of the joy of writing that, for me, arises from discovery. I have yet to develop a method for outlining that leaves something up to chance.

I’m a planner, a heady person, whose mind, while strong and tenacious, can, and has often become my worst enemy. The paints loosen my thoughts, smooth and lather the string of knotted ruminations binding the threads of my imagination so that they unravel and coalesce into tapestries reflecting my imagination. These tapestries are my paintings, reflections of my mind, my ego taking a back seat to the creative, my creative, process.

How can I accomplish this with words? How can I disentangle the snarl of voices releasing my mind’s frustration at having to give way to the unconscious whose disorder so frightens it? Writing stories was easy when I didn’t know the rules of craft. Ignorance of what I had yet to imbibe buffered me from the internal critic. On the road of learning, something for which my mind is well suited, it ruled its domain of the search for accomplishment with tenacity and verve.

Now a mere graduate of an MFA program in creative writing, and a published author, albeit of only one book—neither of which I am alone in achieving—it is hard to let go and allow the energy of my work created by the honoring the rules of craft, to flow through, transform and educate me on an unconscious level.

A relaxed mind is a receptive mind. And a receptive mind can take in the story, image or melody the universe is sending through it and be reshaped by it, modified and rendered anew, more able to accomplish the task of creating. Creating stories is not so much a learn process for me, rather one of change, like painting.

I want to relax when I write.

Interestingly that happens when I write this blog. I do not censor myself. I speak my heart, say what I feel, deliver honesty.

Perhaps this is what I need to do when writing—at least with that first draft. Perhaps too with those that follow.

Three nights ago I did a reading at a local bookstore. There were four other authors with me. We all read from our books and then, after answering a few questions, signed copies of our books for both the store and those who came to hear us read and had or did purchase copies of our books. It was wonderful, especially seeing our books on the table and the bookshelves, and with the sticker, Autographed Copy on the front cover. Truly amazing, what any author works toward in her or his efforts to become published.

And yet when the last author had read, and the store moderator opened the question and answer period for those in the audience, the first question asked and that seemed to dominate the discussion from there on out, was one that concerned money. The questioner’s sentences didn’t contain the word money. But her desire for information concerning publicity, specifically, “How do each of you go about publicizing your books?� could not be mistakened for anything else. And rightly so.

Hers was relevant question. Though I must admit, I had come prepared to address comments about my writing process, where I gained ideas for my stories. One member of the audience did raise a topic of this caliber later on, and concerning my book. That same person then gave another author a raving review of the scene the author had read. Again it was wonderful.

And yet I had found myself flubbing, and groping in my effort to answer the audience member’s sincere question about the theme of my story.

Why the difficulty with this question?

It had been so easy, and I could have gone on for hours discussing the comment on publicity, and all with which I am presently engaged to bring attention to my book. I emphasized that I had to play catch-up with my skills on the utilization of the internet toward this ends. One panelist, a gentleman in addressing the question on publicity, and asked of us all, was very direct, “Shameless self-promotion,� he said.

I felt so relieved in hearing his words. It was what I had been trying to say in a round about manner. I, like many, am afraid to see myself as this female author aggressively promoting herself, and her work. But getting copies of my book into the hands of as many readers as possible is my goal. And I am an author who loves to write stories that move people, leave them to ponder, let them know they are not alone in this often dirty, and joy-filled business called, LIFE.

On the surface I, at least came prepared, in my mind’s eye, to discuss the aesthetics of my book, how I crafted the stories, what they meant to me, what it was like writing them. But when presented the opportunity to address this, I stumbled, was ashamed to admit my desire for success. I was caught off guard being myself—revealing this other part of myself that I have secretly discovered, and want to hide.

Why was I dumbfounded when facing this question? More particularly, why do I feel badly about having groped to answer the question on publicity in that I could have talked for hours on end, and that I was experiencing a million ideas going off in my head as other authors added there measure on the subject of publicity, how to increase one’s sales, ultimately making money?

Am I afraid to be a businesswoman as well as an artist? Did I not count on having to do this, and now that I am, and I must admit LOVING it, ashamed of having discovered something, some part of my personality that I never known existed?

Art is like that?

It carries, brings with it a healing force, one that touches not only those who view, read and listen to the artist’s creations, but also heals the wounds of the artist not only in the process of creating her or his masterpiece or disaster, but in the realization of what she or he had once thought not presentable, and with no possibility of ever being shown to outside audiences that would receive it with joy and adulation. That your work is now something that others truly like and want to buy, is amazing, frightening. The artist in this discovery, this awareness, is brought alive and given energy to not only create other masterpieces if only in the minds of their readers and admirers of their work, but more importantly to promote and sell what she or he has already created with greater fervor, and confidence in their chosen mission—to create and to do it with joy.

The ability to promote one’s work, address those who know nothing about you and move them to at least take a look at your work of art, purchase it if they will, and give you feed back, takes enormous strength. Doing this directly relates to one’s ability to practice their art, and create. Publicity is a creation in and of itself. The ability to find ways to present your work in an appealing manner and that draws visitors and buyers, positive reviews, is creativity in its highest form. It is real and human, the success of which makes way for the artist to continue mining the catacombs of her or his imagination and create other works.

My compulsion to write stories is now met with equal desire to see my work in the world, copies of my book in the hands of any and everyone I am shamelessly willing to ask to purchase a copy, and more. The two for are inherently bound, creativity and the ability to promote my artistry which for me is writing stories, not because I am entangled in the process of making money, rather that I am consumed with the process of re-making myself, or more specifically rendering myself available for God or the Universe to re-shape, re-mold, re-create me in the wisdom the divine hands of evolution.

I am not who I was ten years ago. Neither am I the person who sat down to write this blog.

Writing transforms me.

The little girl raised on a southern farm has come a long way. I have matured into a woman willing to ask, and accept what ever the person I ask to consider reading and or buying my book might say. Fear has left me for the moment at least. For in the act of asking I am, quite surprisingly, met more times than not with the response, “Yes.� And that in and of itself is healing.

Cathedral Gallery of Avila. Spain

This week’s Time Magazine holds an article on the deceased Mother Teresa’s 50-year crisis of faith. From all accounts of her letters that are to be published later this year, the woman, who for many was a symbol of undying faith, struggled daily, in perpetual emotional pain, to feel the presence of her maker.

What are we the artists of this world to take from this? Can we divine any new understanding for what many, and the greatest of us have struggled entire lifetimes to comprehend. One need only think of the tormented Van Gogh who eventually committed suicide, D. H. Lawrence and the path of destruction his life took, or Anne Sexton. These are just to name a few.

Many would say there can be no relationship between these and any artists with what many termed a saint, Mother Teresa, who is on her way to canonization.

Perhaps not in the strictest sense of the word. Mother Teresa spent the last five decades of her life caring for the least of these in a country, Calcutta, where the word least indicates near non-existence. The poor of this country can truly be considered the least of the world on many counts. The artists listed above, like many of their counterparts and colleagues before, during and after their time, were involved in what others would term and others be hard-pressed to deny, a mission that held purely narcissistic ends—their artistry, painting writing, or their music such as with Mozart. And then we have the half century of Mother Teresa’s internal suffering that counted more than Mozart’s life time, not withstanding the years served as a nun before dedicating her life to some of the poorest people in the world.

There is no comparison when observing the two vocations from a purely strategic or external perspective. Mother Teresa committed her life to altruistic duties, while artists and many more were consumed with the overwhelming need to create and project what lay in them out onto the world.

But what of the years of endless emotional torture fed by a lack of feeling, or experiencing God’s presence, where in letter after letter, correspondence after correspondence Mother Teresa question where had God retreated to and why, at times suggesting if not our right stating, that she could see God’s presence in the lives of others while feeling divinity’s absence?

Freud, Ricoeur and others have suggested that life is a balance of altruistic acts stack against, or along with those of narcissistic means.

What can we as artists glean from Mother Teresa’s longing, her yearning, the same that resides in many, whether artist, human individual, or saint setting about to do divine work on a planet many have long feared and declared God has abandoned after creating?

What does the discovery of Mother Teresa’s letters in these years since her death suggest perhaps about our own need to feel the presence of something greater, larger, outside ourselves that when in the experience of it, or under its influence, we come alive within and manifest that energy in our artistry? And what of the relationship between artist and creation?

“Why oh, God, has thou forsaken me?

I search but do not see.

I listen but do not hear.

I reach out and receive only emptiness.

In the end we will not know whether Mother Teresa was simply depressed, overworked, burned out, or a saint experiencing the dark night of the soul as others did an have before her.

For me the dawn of a new day begins with my attempts at starting a new painting, writing the first lines of the first draft of a story, playing the opening note of a new piece of music that I long to play as if having known it all my life. This is also the darkest point. For I do not know if I can do it–again. It’s like running up that hill I have trod many times prior and each time thinking, pondering worrying, “Can I do it one more time, this time? Will I make it?â€?

And then there’s my arrival at the other end to which I must answer, “Why do I start again? Why do I keep writing, painting, playing, running, trying?�

The answer for me is as for one fellow writer addressing the question of “Why write?�
“Because have not reached heaven.� That was her answer.

Perhaps this is what links Mother Teresa and all artists, and humans. We are all searching in some way, shape or form, for that which lay beyond us, beneath the soles of our feet and keeps us going, that which we at times doubt and more often than not rail against when in the wake of its absence. But our yearning for it always brings us back—back to ourselves, back to our art, back to our beginnings, the point at which the umbilical cord is cut and we look back not to see God, but the face of our mother, a mother whose womb will one day close up and that we cannot enter to be born again. And so we work, we paint, we feed the hungry and the dying, we do what we can. We hope. And we struggle hoping that perhaps in the midst of this we will find comfort.

Perhaps that is what Mother Teresa’s letters are to us—comfort that we are not alone in our search.

How does the writer respond in the face of human tragedy such as with the recent Utah Mining Disaster? Or in the aftermath of the human devastation left by Hurricane Katrina? Memories of that fateful day of September 11th, 2001 still loom over us. What do we do? What can we as artists faithful to our purpose, our mission to create, in the face of pain and loss accomplish when the distance from the tragedies for some of us is no less influencing? How can we use this lack of close proximity that leaves many of us experiencing a disconnect to those hurting and affected by the tragedies, an in-conjuct, if you will, creating within us a repository of frustration demanding attention?

The word in-conjunct in astrology denotes a 150-degree angle between two planets. To novice astrologers this relationship between planets, an aspect, appears benign. Unlike the hard angle of the square openly displaying its challenges—two ideas, urges, colliding at 90 degrees, much like two vehicles approaching a stop light at a T-intersection, and neither choosing to stop—the in-conjunct, though holding 60 degrees more room for possible sway would seem to offset the sharpness of the meeting of the two ideas. In actuality experienced astrologers will tell you that the in-conjunct aspect between two planets is prone to sudden explosion, arising from the slow, but steady build-up of frustrations.

The in-conjunct aspect is ruled by the planet Uranus which is related to explosions, bombings, sudden releases of energy that when carefully explored have been mounting for some time. This is in no way saying that these disasters occurred due to the uranian activity of human emotions. But their occurrences do leave in their aftermath the strong possibility of accumulation of anger and despair leading to destructive behaviors if given no outlet for venting and emoting, and these outlets maintained over time.

I read once that the job of the writer is to say not only what others feel, more importantly to put in to words, voice, what the corpus of the human collective cannot. Likewise I believe that the job of the painter is to bring into creation images that express the deep longing of the collective to transcend what we normally see and think about life, and deliver us to the other side of not only understanding why we envision and contemplate as we do, but what it all means in the grand scope of things. Of course what the artist paints or says is not a solid immovable, static truth, rather one that evolves with time as another individual reads the author’s words, views the painter’s painting, hears the violinist’s sonata, invokes the poet’s poem with her or his voice.

How can we view tragic events in that they have happened despite our desires that they cease to occur? How can were perceive these painful events in a way that furthers our growth as humans who are also artists? What do they say to us that we as artists and humans must hear? How can we listen, and interpolate what we hear and attach meaning to these events and their aftermath—incidences that many deem as a senseless waste of life to which we can find no definition? And what does it mean when, and if we do?

Nothing.

And then all things.

Life is beautiful. It is also filled with tragedy of all sorts that has, and will darken the skies of many—ourselves included. Yet and still life exists and continues—ourselves included. And if we are to thrive as a human race—ourselves included—and as an individual in this collective of humankind, we must continue our work as writers, painters, musicians, poets. We must further our creations, take them to new levels that invigorate the spirit—ourselves included. This axiom is no less applicable when in the face of the human experience of the inexplicable—death and destruction—ourselves included.

Death and life are intermingled—in our lives and in the lives of others. Each time we finish a work, we die a little death. And each time we begin again, we open ourselves up to the possibility of resurrection, which inherently involves dying a little, once, more, and then again.

It is a circular path we trod. To face the blank page, the empty canvas, to pick up our instrument in the silence of the morning or night reminds us that one day we will not be here to participate in this process of creating. If we are to be prepared for a future of which we do not know we must create in the moment, and as we are now—ourselves included.