Who’s your mentor?

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I intended to drop by for a long post about mentors, as it must seem a little clumsy of me to include mothers and wives in that category (but why not?). Unfortunately, I am preparing to leave for Chehalis — another round of doctor visits for my mom tomorrow — and am pressed for time. I need to fold the clothes from the dryer and put the wash load in the dryer, and pack…well, you know. I need to be away from home for 48 hours and it’s never simple. (I will take my notebooks and pens with me.)

So in lieu of a more interesting post, I offer this link to a newish blog — with a fascinating post — that I have been thoroughly enjoying: http://www.penandbell.com/the-joy-long-winding-sentences/. It’s hosted by my friend, poet Holly Hughes, and the creative non-fiction genius Brenda Miller. The picture is of flowers brought to me by my friend Lori, whose mother is having a 5-way heart bypass this week.

I’ll have more for you about writing — and about getting writing done — when I get home on Tuesday.

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said the little red hen.

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I had a very interesting conversation last night about mentors, submissions, and punctuation. My friend, in a moment that sounded a lot like despair, wanted to know where her mentor was. “I can’t do this myself,” she said.

I know of a few amazing mentor stories. A woman whose teacher sent her poetry manuscript to the right editor. Someone who shared her agent’s personal phone number. There’s the inspiring story of Christopher Paolini and his mother with her small press. (And perhaps we should mention all those manuscripts typed by dedicated wives — but that’s history, right?) I have been known to go through a student’s manuscript and insert all the commas. (Particularly around the interjections in dialogue.)

But I also know a woman with an MFA in screenwriting, who until this past year (and she is my age) never sent out a screenplay. I know poets who have never submitted a poem. I am good at submitting poems — thank you, Nelson Bentley — but I have a very hard time submitting my short stories. I get a rejection, and don’t send another story out for YEARS. After being invited by an agent to submit my novel manuscript, it took 2 years before I actually put it in the mail. What can I call that except paralysis?

My conversation was with a very dear friend who has also been my mentor — at times. (I like to fancy that, at times, I have been her mentor.) One concept she has taught me is “aporia.” David Lodge, in The Art of Fiction, defines aporia thus: “a Greek word meaning ‘difficulty, being at a loss,’ literally, ‘a pathless path,’ a track that gives out.” But here’s the real point — aporia points to exactly the place where you must go.

When you hear yourself saying, “I can’t,” then you know what you absolutely must do. For heaven’s sake, do your work. And send it out. It may look as though the path gives out, but in truth it’s just getting more interesting.

Some thoughts about the work…

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This is how I remember work on the farm — a picture of my dad (beside the wagon) and either a brother or cousin on top. We cut the hay, raked it (see my poem, “The Hayrake”), shocked the hay into big stacks, loaded it on the wagon, and used a huge fork on a pulley to lift the hay into the hayloft of the barn. I remember riding on the wagon in from the fields. I remember how the hay got under my shirt collar and up my sleeves. I remember getting sunburned and feeling dusty and parched and, back at the barn, drinking water straight from the tap. The water tasted like rust and was incredibly cold.

I have been thinking about how writing can sometimes fool me into thinking it isn’t “work,” that I have to feel inspired or even caught off guard in order to write well. When it was time to harvest the hay, we didn’t have that sort of luxury. If the hay was ripe on July 4th, we hayed. (I guess that’s a verb.) If the hay was mature and there was no rain in the forecast. In any case, it wasn’t going to wait until someone felt inspired to bring it in.

Some years ago I heard poet Eavan Boland say that she learned from artists that you can’t wait for the muse — you paint when you have the light. Same with writing, or farmwork, for that matter. You get up in the morning and you do it. And you get up the next morning.

Today, feeling utterly stuck — as well as a little pressured because I had plans to meet an old friend at 10:00 — I decided to go to www.e.ggtimer.com (I think that’s the address) and set the timer for 15 minutes. I wrote in my journal for 15 minutes. Then I reset the timer for 20 minutes and worked on the novel. Then for 20 minutes more.

And I still had plenty of time to get dressed and meet the Edmonds Ferry at 10:00.

Plus there is no chaff down the neck of my shirt, and I’m not sunburned.

Begin Again

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Begin Again is the title of a collection of Grace Paley’s poetry. It’s also an excellent title for a short blogpost about my weekend at the farm. My nephew and his family are now living there. There is a wading pool in the back yard, a tricycle and a bicycle with training wheels and a pink push car in the driveway. There’s a new kitten, Enya.

I am home again, with several additional boxes of stuff, plus four quilts made by my various ancestors, a very large cabbage slaw slicer, an old handsaw, and a porcelain chicken.

I need to get my manuscript out and turn myself back into a writer.