Since mid-March, I’ve been fighting illness after illness–colds, a flu, hacking coughs, interminable sore throats, you name it. No matter how hard I try to get better, I pick up the next round of whatever’s going around and do my part by breathing life into its nasty, persistent existence.

Even my computer–my Mac!–caught some kind of bug last week, and I had to do a full reformat to rid it of its germs.

If only it were so easy when we were ill, eh?

There’s no doubt that the time I’ve spent trying to nurse myself back to good health has taken a toll on my writing. I’m looking for more time to sleep, not write. More time to grade papers during the day, not at night. More time to keep the river flowing in all aspects of my life so that it doesn’t build, become stressful, and contribute even more to my compromised immune system.

What I have written, though, has been a darker, more poetic side of me.

I’m at Red Robin, sitting at the bar waiting for them to complete my to-go order, when I open my daybook and write this:

I lick my fingertips and granules of love slip to my cheek like crack,

An illusion of perfection.

This–all of this–is mine:

The prize, the bell around my neck, and the flowers on the floor–

Salt dissolves and the gums go dry.

I awaken to the clamoring of dishes in some far-off kitchen,

Where busboys dream of sex after the last customer leaves. . .

That’s just not the kind of stuff that I write. A product of being sick? The medications I’m taking to combat the red eyes and the stuffy noses?

For the record, Benadryl is just about the hardest “drug” that’s been in my system in 20 years. I don’t drink, either, unless you tally the occasional Guinness that I enjoy, oh, about once a month. I’ve always believed (corny alert! Beware!!!) that I can get my highs out of life; to rely on drugs or alcohol to transcend is, in my belief, the wrong way to get that Rocky Mountain high.

Okay. Off soapbox.

Here’s my point. I teach writing. I study the lives of other writers, past and present. One of the questions that has been frequenting my thoughts lately is the wellness of the writer. As I mentioned, I cannot deny that my being sick has slowed my writing. Philip Gerard, creative nonfiction guru and author of many books, including Secret Soldiers, stresses the importance of being in shape when you write. He compares writing a book to running a marathon. You have to be in top shape and show up every day, ready to play your hardest.

He’s a nonfiction writer. I hear the same strategy from countless others who write true stories.
Then I study the lives of fiction and poetry writers, and I see a slightly different pattern. Historically, writers like Poe and Kesey have turned to various life-altering drugs when they have written. Many singers/songwriters follow the same lifestyle, where performers like James Taylor have battled heroin addictions in their attempts to manage the pace of their lives and dig down deeper to get the lyrics that connect with their audience.

I know. As many drug-taking performers that I can list here, you can name two clean poets who have made it through the back-alley poetry slams to have their words heard to a much larger audience.

Still, I don’t know many nonfiction writers who dip in the doozy to find the right words, strike the right mood, describe the final conflict. I do know plenty of fiction writers and poets, though, who say they can’t put the words on the paper with a little help from their pseudo-friends…

Given the choice, I’ll train to run the marathon. Gerard puts a bottle of high-end bubbly in the fridge for when he crosses the finish line. Interesting that the booze comes after the journey.

I’m with him. Even writing the fiction works that I’m currently doing, I can’t imagine composing a single line without having the clarity and vision of a sea captain when it’s time to weather an oncoming storm. My Benadryl-induced poetry of crack-like salt crystals on a Red Robin bar are interesting, but little else.

I think I’ll take two Motrin and see my muse in an hour. Anybody seen my running shoes?

For some reason, my comments are dropping out of my posts…I’m getting notification via email that they’re posted, and the entry even lists the correct number of comments, but alas, they are nowhere to be found.

Working on the problem as I write this…If you will be so kind as to post a “saw this” comment to see if it’s posting, I’d appreciate it.

thanks, all.

One of the many questions I pondered during my blogging hiatus was how to pursue publishing my work. Last year, I was determined to create my own press and self-publish my work. However, a few less-than-rave reviews about my book made me reconsider, and I pulled the project entirely (well, postponed it for six months).

I dropped all of my plans to start my own press, and I decided that I would go the more traditional route and seek out representation and work through an agency. But then I began to doubt that decision as well, and when I started my blogging break, I initiated some deeper-than-usual soul searching about my career, my writing, and how to publish my polished works.

I’m not going to pretend that I have the answers to those questions, even now. It’s a difficult decision for me to make.

The self-publishing route places me in full control of what I write, how, when, and where I publish it, and how I market it. The agent-seeking route strips me of all of those things (with the exception of the marketing aspect, which falls more on the author’s shoulders than ever before).

On the other hand, there’s still the stereotype attached to self-publishers. To some, they’re seen as auxiliary cops who couldn’t cut the academy, or volunteer firefighters who couldn’t get through the rigorous EMT training. Both of these stereotypes are just that–false conclusions about individuals who have chosen to put their lives on the line for us, every time they put on a uniform.

I’m not saying that self-published authors are exactly putting the bad guys behind bars or extinguishing 3-alarm blazes, but we’re authors who know the other side of the business. Know the layout and design elements of what makes a good book, know the ins and outs of marketing, and have confidence in our writing that it will hold its own against any book that might be represented by a million-dollar agent from William Morris. Self-publishers enjoy what they do, and they focus more on getting the work out to the larger public than trying to secure the best financial deal (that is, if you even get that far; in today’s market, it’s harder than ever to break in).

Self-publishers also give back to their communities and support a local network of writers and readers. They also support the locally owned coffee houses, used book stores, and bars by holding public readings and discussions. They publish the works of other local talents.

In short, they give their communities a mega b-12 shot to their culture. They don’t get hung up on the bigger deal that may never come. Instead, they’re out there publishing, reading, writing, sharing, helping other writers, promoting discussions and book groups that might never have formed.

I guess you can tell which way I’m leaning. The start-up costs to establish the press as an LLC are minimal (under $1,000), though the first book launch will probably cost twice that amount.

But who cares. If I’m going to get this career moving on all cylinders within 2 years, I’ve got to keep working at the pace I’ve gotten used to. This is what I’ve always wanted to do, so there’s no looking back from here.

Self-publishing, here I come!

Georgia Heard calls it your “Querencia” in her book Writing Toward Home, while many others simply refer to it as your writing space. It’s your place where you go to write. To push out the hustle and bustle of life and devote a solid block of time dating your muse.

I can write anywhere, really, when I’m closer to that “zone” within me and am feeling balanced. Dining room table, in front of the television, even at a restaurant having dinner with friends. If I have something to write on and something to say, nothing stops me from getting it out of my head and on to the paper.

That’s when I’m feeling in that zone, though. As much as I try to stay there, I’m faced with distractions everywhere I turn. When I was performing last week in West Side Story, I found that I couldn’t find the ability to just write whenever I had a few minutes to put pen to paper. When I had a moment to breathe, that’s all I wanted to do.

But I can’t live like that for more than a day or two. I can feel the pressures building up, the words falling all over themselves as they attempt to find an escape–any escape possible–to get out of this mind.

It’s these times that I need to find that Querencia, that writing space, to refocus my life and bring everything back into perspective.

My friend Catherine has found a little cafe a few miles from her home that brings her great peace and inspiration to write. Another friend has converted a basement into an art studio. I, myself, have resurrected the other half of the laundry room in our basement and have created a spiritual haven that is unlike any room I’ve ever created for writing. But even that’s not enough sometimes. I’ve found a small cafe about 30 miles away that is a true retreat. It’s a place where nobody knows your name, the food and coffee are excellent, and the environment is ideal for getting lost in your writing (or, as some others have put it, putting your butt in the chair and moving your pen across the page, non-stop).

I don’t take such places for granted. Writers need a place where they can get their hard work done. Whether it’s drafting, revising, or editing, the work has to be done in an environment that promotes the opportunity for sustained writing. Otherwise, we’re just pecking at our stories–a little here, a little there, and when we finish, we’re proud of just exactly that and little more.

We finished. Congratulations.

It’s not about finishing, though. It’s about getting it right. And finding the right place to spend that lengthy block of time getting it right means the difference, often times, between publishing or perishing.

Find your place. Go there. Write. And take the time to get it right. We’re waiting to be moved by your words!

The term, “morning pages,” has crossed my path many times in the last few weeks. I don’t know if it’s just the type of books that I’m reading (Goldberg, Jenkins, Cameron, Lamott, others) and the blogs I’m visiting, but these pages are on fire right now.

For those of you who may be unfamiliar with them, morning pages is a concept developed by Julia Cameron and published first in her book, The Artist’s Way. Cameron contends that everyone–writers and nonwriters alike–should begin the day with writing three pages in their daybooks. Leave the censor at home; tell the editor to take a hike. These three pages are meant for no eyes but your own (and even you shouldn’t feel compelled to go back and read them later). They are to be written without inhibition, without judgment, without thinking. It’s a direct line from your brain to the page, and you don’t stop until three pages are filled.

My students think I’m a nut for doing these pages. They think that they’ll never be “a writer” because they don’t do what their teacher does. But what I keep trying to explain to them is that this isn’t a writer’s thing at all. it’s an individual’s thing. The writing of the pages is not about being a better writer as much as it is about being a better you. Clean out all those nasty thoughts, those bothersome problems, those overwrought emotions. Throw them on the page and forget them forever.

Of course, those who do pages consistently find that one of the natural outcomes is your sudden ability to be creative on the spot. It doesn’t mean just writing. The creativity can hit you in song, in dance, in painting, in pantomime. Pages allow you to open up. Live a more exciting and creative life. Experience the world in a way you never dreamed possible.

I used to scoff at this. Me and my big, bad, stubborn self, telling the world that I didn’t need pages to be a writer.

Maybe not. But you need pages to be an individual who knows how to get on with his life. And that’s not such an easy thing to do these days.

Give it a go. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nobody’s going to see it. But I promise you that what you get out of it, even after only a few days of writing them, will make you feel like you’ve discovered some hidden elixir within you.

And that, my friends, is because you have. It’s there, right now, just waiting to be set free….Why even wait till morning?

Carpe Noctum! (and write those pages, will ya?)

Well, I’ve missed you very much, blog. But I promise you, my disappearance has been for good reason. You see, I have spent this time on a bit of a personal retreat to clarify, focus, and refine who I am and what I really want to do with my life.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my job teaching at the high school and university levels, and I love the time I already have to write. My life, by any measure, is a blessed one that I do not take for granted.

Still, something’s been missing, especially lately.

Maybe it’s been the trigger of the second hand, sweeping ever so swiftly these days around the dial. I feel myself getting older in a society that continues to get younger. There is a certain desperation that keeps surfacing, despite my efforts to just let these feelings come and go without allowing them to take up residence for too long. Somehow, I turned 43 when I thought I was still 23. Where did those 20 years go? I’ve accomplished so much during that time, and I’ve not wasted the time, at least not awfully. Still, I somehow spent those 20 years on a zipline to today, and now I’m looking down the barrel of dead-on middle age.

I’m making some changes. I’ve lost 25 pounds since mid-January, so I’m getting my health back on track. And I just finished a 5-show run of West Side Story, where I played Doc. Loved being on stage again after a 25-year hiatus. I won’t be on stage again; consider this an item on my bucket list. But I did it, and I feel great that I took the risk and realized that I still got it in the spotlight. I can still make a character come alive. That’s a piece of experience I’m taking with me to the pen and paper. Writers can never have enough experiences when it comes to developing strong characters.

I’m working on a major story called Carraway Station. I’ve outlined it more than any story I’ve ever written, and the first draft is going well. I’ve sketched out a little over 100 pages to date, and it’s turning into the best thing I’ve ever written.

But the biggest change, probably, is taking the transition from educator to writer very seriously. I’ll be submitting 3 pieces a month for the next 6 months, and then consider increasing my work schedule based on how successful those 6 months are.

This means changes to my blog as well. My posts will be much more writing-centered. I hope to keep my (largely silent) audience intact through this transition. If you know of somebody who might enjoy reading what I have to say, please do not hesitate in sharing…

One thing is certain: my focus is now on making this transition. I will never leave teaching entirely, but I can wait no longer to take this career change seriously.

My love to all….and thanks for hanging in there these past few weeks!