Some writers manage to follow a detailed outline, but that’s never worked for me. Sometimes I’ve had a vague timeline or trajectory or anticipated structure, but then the piece started going its own way.

Technically, that makes me a “pantser” – someone writing by the seat of his or her pants.

I do write to discover as well as remember, or as another artist once said, “What’s the use of sticking to an outline if you already know how it will end?”

Point taken.

An artwork in progress can become a living organism. It will be seen differently by readers and editors differently than from you do. What you would cut, they might love. What you love, they see as sore thumb.

I’d love to hear from songwriters and filmmakers and playwrights and painters along those lines.

There’s also the potential of becoming so rarified we lose all connection to others.

~*~

I suppose that rigidity can extend to the way we work. Do we keep a tight schedule – so many hours a day, putting in what Bukowski called “butt time,” or do we slack off and then explode in a two-week frenzy the way Kerouac would?

Again, we all differ.

Me? I used to prefer the wee hours around midnight. And then somewhere it switched over to early morning.

I had imagined having three books published each year – one of poetry, one of Quaker practice, and one of fiction or memoir/genealogy. (They were already written.)

The rest of the time would be correspondence and basic living, including a social life, with concerts/plays/etc. filling the evenings.

My wife rather scoffed at that, seeing so much I was overlooking. Alas.

As I once noted: Trying to catch up but constantly behind – the modern mind. The motor mind. As for your visions in the night?

~*~

Another shift has come in my appreciation of slang. It can truly enliven a passage.

The words don’t always continue with the same meaning, either, which is an additional live wire.

But listening to kids today or even athletes and pop musicians I’m finding I have no idea what they’re saying, not even the sentence construction.

~*~

When I first began reading contemporary poetry (for pleasure, independent of classroom assignment), I sensed that often the poem existed as a single line or two, with the rest of the work as window dressing. Now I read the Psalms much the same way, for the poem within the poem, or at least the nugget I’m to wrestle with on this occasion. Psalm 81, for instance, has both “voice in thunder” and “honey from rock.” How wondrous!

Also: Revise, revise, revise, and be alert for the flash out of nowhere.

I translated the motto inside a friend’s harpsichord as “Who sings once, speaks twice.” The original quotation, from Augustine, was “He who sings prays twice.” Maybe out of need?

Good poetry, I’ll insist, also sings. Or perhaps drums, I’ll take either. Even when it doesn’t fit traditional scanning.

Let me repeat the challenge that bad religion can be overcome only by good religion. Ignoring that only allows it to fester.

For me, the act of writing – especially poetry – becomes a form of prayer. Not that you will necessarily see that.

Does that work for any other writer? I’m all ears.

~*~

Remember, you can find my novels in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. They’re also available in paper and Kindle at Amazon, or you can ask your local library to obtain them.

One of the luxuries of not writing under deadline is that you can put a work aside for a while to let it season. Pick it up again a few months or even years later, and you may see so much that needs reworking or the trash can, but at other times the page can astonish you.

I’ve had that experience lately at the monthly open mic nights at the arts center, where I’ve been reading snippets from my published The Secret Side of Jaya as well as selected poems. As I was halfway through my time on the stage one night, I was struck by the thought, “Who wrote that!” It was a daring approach to fiction, completely contrary to what would emerge from the Iowa Writers Workshop, but it was mesmerizing my audience. I certainly wouldn’t write that way again, either. Still, I feel pride.

Sometimes, of course, that sense of “Who wrote that, it is so incredibly fine,” is countered by “Who wrote that piece of tripe? I’m glad it never saw publication.” Sometimes only pages apart.

Reading at an open mic or as a featured reader is a valuable test for how a page works, as you can feel from the energy in the room. Lately, I’ve been taking pages from the middle of a novel and reading them without an explanation of the previous action. Think of them as a trailer for a movie.

~*~

Well, mine is a contrast to the kids who get up on the stage and apologize for reading an old work, meaning something they wrote three weeks ago or even three months. Little do they know!

Parts of The Secret Side of Jaya go back 50 years.

~*~

At the moment, that has me wondering how non-writers revisit earlier times in their lives. Photos, old letters, trophies, musical albums?

The Argentine writer Borges took the concept so far as to ask himself about Borges and the other Borges – the one on paper and the other in the flesh – which one was which, at any given time? He no longer knew.

Or the Japanese composer who insisted he wasn’t the same person today he was yesterday, much less 30 years earlier.

Another consideration in revisiting earlier writing, especially as drafts, is that what we’re most fond of is likely to be what bothers others the most; what we’re about to toss out in the next revision may be what is most effective with our readers. The point was raised, I believe, by Joyce Carol Oates, but it’s true to my experience.

As critics of others’ work, by the way, we’re likely to be harshest on those whose work is most like our own! Too much mirror?

~*~

You can find my novels in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. They’re also available in paper and Kindle at Amazon, or you can ask your local library to obtain them.

If you’re not a booklover but still think your story would interest tons of readers, let me tell you, Forget it.

An editor can tell immediately when somebody’s manuscript is from a non-reader.

~*~

For other wannabes, the big test comes in submission of a manuscript. Typically, the first step is in approaching small literary journals, but be warned the rejection rate is steep. When I began, it ran to about 20 rejections for each piece accepted. And that went for just one of the three to five poems that went out in each submission. And that was for established, recognized poets.

Another place to start is as a contributor to a local newspaper, covering local public meetings and the like. At least your work will appear in print or the equivalent.

Still, when I was submitting poetry this way, I managed to get more than a thousand acceptances. I have deep gratitude for the devoted editors and publishers who encouraged me, back when. We need more, should you want to step up.

I think, too, of all of the envelopes, clean photocopies (once that was acceptable), postage stamps, time involved researching addresses. It got pricy.

When I was actively submitting to the journals, I could never predict who would accept what, no matter how long I’d known a publisher or how carefully I had examined the publication.

It was a quirky process, this exercise of seeking homes for personal work. The reactions of editors and readers is so idiosyncratic and varied that the same poem could be considered too intense, by one, and not raw and bloody enough, by another.

~*~

The bigger step came in trying to land full-book publication. More was at stake, considering the costs, especially in a marginal niche like poetry.

As for fiction?

Approaching literary agents was generally a black hole. Few even bothered to return the self-addressed stamped envelopes. Book publishers, ditto.

I had some nibbles, even so.

Even with a few non-literary manuscripts, I was repeatedly running full force into brick walls.

And then ebook opportunities came along. It still requires self-promotion in search of a readership. So here we are.

~*~

At this point in my life, I’m backing off from the cutting edge, wherever that is. Hate to admit I’m also out of the loop and haven’t kept up with literary journals. As for the hot celebrated novelists? I don’t recognize their names. Of course, they don’t recognize mine, either.

The real challenge for both of us is encouraging others to read as an essential part of human understanding. Since you’re reading this already, I’m assuming you’re already active in that commonwealth.

Stay the course, please!

In the hippie circles where I lived immediately after graduating from college, I remember visiting one couple’s apartment on the second floor of a former Victorian carriage house, not that it was in any way chic. They had one room that had benches or modest pews around the four walls, something I now see as resembling a Quaker meetinghouse interior.

Their reason was the small group they welcomed to study the works of Armenian mystic George Gurdjeff (c 1867-1949). He’s best known for his book, Meetings with Remarkable Men, published in 1963, describing his visits in remote mountains and deserts mostly, places he paid homage to eccentric and often aged holy men of varied stipes.

Looking back at my own life and people I’ve met, though, I’m not sure his were any more exceptional than many I’ve known. Maybe they were just a bit more eccentric.

It’s a thread running through most of my work, actually.

In my relocations around the country, I’ve lost touch with 99 percent of them, but do wonder how the rest of their lives unfolded.

Here’s a sampling.

• High school classmates and other youths from our church.
• Fellow commuters and faculty from the new Wright State University.
• The other residents in my two dorms in Indiana, especially the ones who show up in Daffodil Uprising.
• The other residents of the hippie farm in New York’s Southern Tier or my Hawley Street digs in town. See Pit-a-Pat High Jinks.
• The yogis of the ashram and those who came as guests. (Yoga Bootcamp.)
• Ex-lovers over the years. (Blue Rock, Braided Double-Cross, Long-Stem Roses in a Shattered Mirror.)
• Colleagues from the public policy research institute at Indiana University. One of the leaders did go on to win the Nobel Prize in economics. As for the others?
• Fellow poets and writers along my way.
• Fellow journalists and other newspaper workers. I’ve come across a few and read of others, but mostly they, too, have faded from sight. Eight papers in all. (Hometown News.)
• Quakers I’ve experienced in nine yearly meetings.
• The staff as the media syndicate where I worked, plus newspaper editors in 14 states, back when I lived in Baltimore.
• Mennonites and Brethren in Maryland.
• Neighbors around the Jacuzzi at Yuppieville on the Hill, Granite State.
• New England Contradancers in Greater Boston and across New Hampshire and southern Maine.
• Greek Orthodox in Dover. (What’s Left.)
• Voices in Revels Singers in Watertown outside Boston.

Trying to trace down even a few of them has been frustrating. Some have shown up in news reports that led me to them, fleetingly. Many of the women have taken their husband’s surname, which becomes a barrier. Facebook has led to some from my high school years, but beyond that I am surprised by the number of “friends” who are inactive at their profiles or other folks who have no online presence at all. And then there are ones I’ve come across at Find-a-Grave.

It’s been quite a cast in my zig-zag journey to here.

By and large, though, I’m seeing how short we’ve come in regard to the lofty goals we once professed. My heroes, especially.

~*~

That said, you can find the novels they inspired in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. They’re also available in paper and Kindle at Amazon, or you can ask your local library to obtain them.