Cindy on April 7th, 2010
Whenever anyone reads his words the writer is there. He lives in his readers.” — William S. Burroughs
Creative writing teachers often preach: “Write for yourself” and “Write what you know.” Good advice, yes. Still, most of us hope to build a readership. We write to make a connection with others.
Working as a weekly newspaper columnist, I was lucky enough to acquire a built-in audience — a strange and wonderful relationship. Most of my readers lived in my community, so I couldn’t hide behind a desk for long. I’d bump into them in the produce aisle at the grocery store or in line at the post office. Or in church on Sunday. Some would pull me aside to discuss what I’d written in the paper; others e-mailed or wrote letters to express their own thoughts on the topic of the week.
Billy Collins has addressed several of his poems to his readers, proving that he’s ever-mindful of our presence, even though we don’t live in the same town. He makes us ponder the complex relationship between writer and reader. In the funny, wistful poem below, Collins also reminds us that it’s the poet’s duty to “notice” the humblest details and to weave even the most ordinary experience into a piece of writing. Are you the poet — or the reader? – CL
YOU, READER
By Billy Collins
I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you.
that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen
the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl.
Go ahead and turn aside,
bite your lip and tear out the page,
but, listen — it was just a matter of time
before one of us happened
to notice the unlit candles
and the clock humming on the wall.
Plus, nothing happened that morning –
a song on the radio,
a car whistling along the road outside –
and I was only thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were standing side by side on a place mat.
I wondered if they had become friends
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one another
like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
to each other at the same time –
me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.
– Reprinted from The Trouble with Poetry: And Other Poems, by Billy Collins (Random House); 2005. –
– Photo detail from “Reading” (a mixed-media collage) by Cindy La Ferle –
APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH. If you enjoyed this poem and want to read more, check out the archives in my weekly “Poems to Inspire” series under “Categories” at right.
Cindy on January 1st, 2010
And now, let us welcome the New Year/ Full of things that have never been.” — Rainer Maria Rilke
It’s perfect — how the month of January is named for Janus, the Roman god of gates and entrances, beginnings and endings. With his two heads facing opposite directions, Janus inspires us to look backward and forward as we step over the threshold and begin again.
Last year was a year of change and transition for me and my small family.
My only child, who moved to Chicago after graduating from college in 2008, purchased his first condo in the summer. On moving day, his dad helped him haul boxes up and down the elevator of his new residence while I organized his kitchen. Unpacking my son’s dinnerware and utensils, I recalled other “firsts” in his young life. First day of kindergarten. First formal dance with his girlfriend. First day of driver’s ed. First day of college at Notre Dame. How quickly those days flew off the pages of our family calendar.
Meanwhile — almost overnight — my widowed mother lost her old spark. Independent for years, she began forgetting things. Important things. She forgot that certain people in her life had died. She forgot phone conversations we’d had the day before. When tested by the neurologist, she couldn’t recall the name of the county we live in, or what day of the week it was. Not surprisingly, in November she was diagnosed with early stage dementia — a diagnosis that immediately reordered my priorities and changed the shape of my days.
Looking forward; looking back. My son moves ahead with his new life in Chicago while my elderly mother’s world grows smaller and smaller. Clearly, the seasons of family living are unfolding exactly as they should. And despite the inevitable heartache, I find myself feeling deeply grateful for every step, stumble, or leap that brought me to this path, this life of mine.
As a freelance writer with a supportive husband, I’m lucky to have the flexibility to help my mother when she needs me. Impromptu trips with Mom to the doctor’s office or the emergency room aren’t fun — but they’re not as much of a challenge now as they would have been when I had office jobs.
Still, there’s no denying that it’s been a very tough year for every writer and journalist I know. If there’s a silver lining in any of it, the sad state of journalism here in Detroit forced many of us to try markets we’d neglected or overlooked when we were employed full-time or working other assignments. Out of necessity in 2009, I developed new writing workshops. I worked harder at promoting Writing Home. I outlined a viable idea for a new book project. Several of my personal essays were published in national anthologies and magazines. Best of all, a piece I wrote about my Zen garden was accepted for the March/April 2010 issue of Victoria — a lifestyle magazine I’ve read and admired for years. Regardless, freelance writing is a crazy business, so I’m forever grateful to my local writer pals and support groups for keeping me (somewhat) sane last year.
Typing these notes, I’m also overcome with gratitude for all of you who read my reflections here. Your comments and support always cheer me. And I apologize for not visiting (and commenting on) your blogs and Facebook walls as often as I wish I could. Too often lately, real life has made it impossible to spend as much time on my computer.
I’ll be offline for most of next week too. It’s time to pull down the Christmas decorations and begin the ritual of clearing out things I no longer need — holiday treats and leftovers; old clothes and grudges; bad attitudes. Getting started this morning, I opened our front and back doors to let the old year out and welcome the new one inside. It’s an old Celtic custom that’s still praticed in parts of Ireland and Scotland, and it makes perfect sense to me. The first cold blast of January wakes me up and hurries me back to work.
So there you have it. Doors opening and closing. Endings and beginnings. I wish you all a peaceful, healthy start for your own new year. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on December 6th, 2008
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” — Mary Oliver
So, I asked a newly retired newspaper columnist if she’s planning to start a blog — especially now that her work isn’t appearing regularly in print. I’ve admired her beautiful writing for a long time, I told her, and would happily read anything she cares to post.
“Does the world really need another blog?” she shot back, adding that it’s hard enough to keep up with her e-mail — not to mention Facebook, Twitter, Gather, LinkedIn, and all the other “distractions” online. “Who in the world has time for all of that?” she said. “Now that I’m retired, I want my real life back.”
My columnist friend got me thinking about how much time I’ve been spending online in recent years. After putting in two or three hours (daily) on writing projects or assignments, my routine goes something like this:
- Answer e-mail
- Work on posts for various Web sites (including 50-something Moms)
- Update status on Facebook
- Visit friends’ blogs and leave comments
- Surf the Web for juicy political articles
Before I know it, morning has morphed into afternoon, and I’ve only left my desk to refill my coffee mug. Hanging out in cyberspace was perfectly fine — even ideal — when my son was much younger and needed a stay-at-home mom. But the kid is 23 now, and lives five hours from home. Besides, even when he was in middle school, the Internet didn’t monopolize my time.
So what did I do with my “one wild and precious life” before a keyboard became part of my anatomy?
I accomplished so much more. For starters, I generated a lot more article proposals for print publications. I read more books. Met friends regularly for lunch or dinner. Started and completed more art projects. Rode my mountain bike, took longer walks, or worked in the garden. Explored local businesses and flea markets. Pored through cookbooks and tested new recipes on my appreciative family.
Like my retired friend, I want that life back again.
Trying an experiment this week, I limited my “social time” on the computer to 45 minutes per day. (That includes checking e-mail, surfing, and visiting blogs.) At first it felt weird, since I’ve been compulsive about checking my e-mail several times a day. But soon I felt happier, more creative — and liberated from the tyranny of my computer. I felt as if I’d finally seized control of my free time.
During that free time this week, I made a few simple Christmas gifts for friends, then completed an altered art project to enter in upcoming exhibition. After cleaning my art studio, I picked out a pretty note card and wrote a heartfelt message to a college room mate. (Imagine her surprise when she gets snail mail from me!) Later in the week, I cut evergreen branches to decorate the empty planters on the porch. I called my mother more often, just to talk. I even had time to plan a small party for dear friends whose December birthdays typically get lost in the holiday shuffle.
Once again, I began to appreciate the sacred in the ordinary.
My late father used to talk a lot about the importance of life balance. “Everything in moderation” was one of his favorite catchphrases, and he used it whenever the topic of substance abuse or addiction came into the conversation. This fall, I realized that my computer use was bordering on obsession or addiction. And like any addiction, it was impacting my attitude and relationships with the most important people in my life. I knew I needed to come up for air.
I truly enjoy posting blogs and following colleagues on Facebook. I love surfing the Net and making new discoveries, new friends. And I love reading the blogs of other writers. I can’t “quit” entirely — but from now on, I’ll try to spend less time hugging my computer. – Cindy La Ferle
Please note:Â I’ll still continue to post essays, short blogs, or announcements at least twice a week.
Creative writing teachers often preach: “Write for yourself” and “Write what you know.” Good advice, yes. Still, most of us hope to build a readership. We write to make a connection with others.
