Rifling through my remaining files, I recently came across an informal working paper I had drafted 50 years ago while working for the Workshop in Political Theory and Policy Analysis at Indiana University in Bloomington. At the time, I was employed as a social sciences editor but beginning to get really hooked on being a poet on the side, along with the entire small-press literary scene. This came in a break in my newspaper journalism career, which also figures into the considerations.  

One of my challenges at the workshop involved getting our field research findings out to a diverse audience of researchers, public officials, and politicians. Traditional publishing avenues were becoming prohibitively expensive for our enterprise.

What I saw as the challenges in a changing publishing world at the time seems truly prescient now as well as often naïve. The paper, “Thinking Thru the Future of the Realm of Publishing,” has been greatly eclipsed by the Internet, which wasn’t even on the horizon, as far as we knew.

Some of the problems, such as lack of compensation for intellectual property and vulnerability to piracy, seem larger than ever.

And there are still the challenges of establishing a readership and the related costs.

~*~

As I wrote:

There seems to be, at least as far as newspapers are concerned, a kind of decreasing level of literacy. This seems to be reflected in the declining reading scores reported over the ‘60s & early ‘70s in the SAT exams & other measures of reading abilities.

Perhaps this is nothing new, but in practical terms, as a measure the American adult illiterate — that is, incapable of reading the comics or Ann Landers with any degree of understanding or skill – it remains a challenge. Perhaps insurmountable.

On the other hand, the knowledge explosion is leading increasingly to the phenomenon Ortega y Gasset dubbed “the learned ignoramus” — the situation where individuals may be very deeply & narrowly trained in a field of technical specialization, but may also be very ignorant of other disciplines.

As an example of this phenomenon at work today, we can consider this: That two decades ago, a broadly-trained baccalaureate degree could be the threshold of the generalist — the PhD, the mark of the specialist. Today, the PhD is the threshold of the specialist, & the realm of research may lie far beyond his vision or understanding. In other words, perhaps, the minuteness of scholarly research today is so diverse & specialized that little of it fits into broad, theoretical concepts.

Are we at a point in which our investigations resemble a plant that has been given too much light, too much water, & too much food? Such a plant becomes weak & spindly, & collapses.

While that comparison may seem too strong, consider the problems of trying to keep abreast in one’s own field. There are far more journals in the social sciences, or in even political science or economics, than any researcher or scholar could possibly keep abreast of. How many journals are there on administration, urban problems, and police, that would affect even our own area of investigation?

I raise these two points because they do interact: the broadly- based, literate range of media would appear to be shrinking:

1. a) The range of specialized knowledge gets further & further away from their abilities to report;
2. b) The time required of specialists to keep abreast of their own specialties would decrease the time they have to spend with the more generalized, & hence more interdisciplinary, range of publications;
3. c) The increasing costs of publication & distribution would weed out the more marginal, but still significant, publications in this range. (The real money in periodicals publication in the last decade has specialized mags, focusing, for example, on skiing or coin collecting — areas with a potentially specialized market for advertisers.)

~*~

The costs, especially of labor & paper, have escalated sharply in recent years, resulting in outrageously expensive book costs (at least in the traditionally published & distributed volumes): journal costs for libraries & institutions are something that a number of Workshop personnel have commented upon. The situation of hard-bound volumes & high-priced journals facing libraries is one of “rip off.”

[As for individuals?]

~*~

Simultaneously, libraries have been forced to install photo-copying machines as a means to prevent the mutilation of their collections by users with razors & other means of lifting pages for home use.

The entire library system is based upon user cooperation & consideration, which appears to be breaking down in many situations. In other words, if the theft rate & volume loss rate of some collections continues unabated, the library as a source of photocopy material may be in danger.

~*~

On the other hand, the existence of photocopying equipment introduces a threat to authors, editors, & publishers. Authors have faced readers who proudly proclaim that they have the writer’s work – in Xerox form. The author, of course, receives no royalty from these readers, despite the reader’s praise.

~*~

My, those photocopiers seem so benign compared to so much of the Internet!

Stay tuned for next week’s continuation.

~*~

That said, you can find my works 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. You can also ask your public library to obtain them.

The role of a writers’ group will elicit a range of responses.

Some find value in having a core circle that intensely critiques each participant’s ongoing work, while others – I’ll include myself – see that as limiting if the others are clueless about your style and vision. It’s the unpublished version of blind leading the blind.

Still, I have been greatly assisted by opportunities for weekly or monthly open reading sessions, starting with the Stoney Lonesome poets in Bloomington, Indiana, and picking up with the Café Eclipse evenings in Concord, New Hampshire; young poets who met at Barnes & Nobel in Manchester, New Hampshire; Isabel van Merlin’s Merrimack Mic coffeehouse nights in Newburyport, Massachusetts. Somehow, I didn’t feel that kinship in the Poetry Society of New Hampshire.  Later, a monthly group known as Writers’ Night Out in Portsmouth, introduced a wide range of writers, both beginning amateurs and seasoned professionals, spanning fiction, non-fiction, poetry, advertising and public relations, script writing, and playwrighting. We never knew exactly what the mix would be, but it was always stimulating and we never felt a sense of competition, as far as I could tell. The tips and insights we shared could be quite useful. That’s where I first heard of Smashwords, for instance.

There were other stints where I was truly solo. I was never part of the Iron Pig group in the Mahoning Valley, for instance, though my artist then-wife had her gallery groups.

Baltimore had a large writers’ group that never quite jelled for me, though we did have a marvelous evening with Tom Clancy just before the release of his first movie. His honesty did offend some of those present, though I found it refreshing.

More recently, it’s come in the monthly open mics at the Eastport Arts Center, where spoken word usually alternates with music.

~*~

The arts center does offer inspiration on other fronts, too, including the Sunday afternoon presentations through winter, plus concerts, plays, the film society, and even contradancing.

The arts center is one reason our community stands apart from many others. We had nothing like it in Dover, nearly 30 times the size.

My original expectation of dilettantes and artist wannabes was quickly dispelled. A key post-Covid Stage East production, for instance, was two one-act plays – Beckett and Cocteau. And some of the best chamber music and jazz I’ve heard anywhere has been here. So we get a good dose of deep work.

But lately I’ve been hearing stories of some of its founders, some of whom have died since my arrival. One, for instance, had worked closely with theater great Tyron Guthrie. You get the picture.

The full history still needs to be written. Not that I’m stepping forward.

It was a science fiction writer who suggested this as something the public gets nosy about. Like there’s something magical in where an author works.

Well, it can be personalized, including what’s on the wall or playing as music in the background.

Somehow, many people imagine that having an inspiring view helps, but Annie Dillard argues otherwise. In the newsrooms where I’ve worked, the executives had the windows. The workers had a sweat shop, rows of keyboards on cluttered desks, maybe even with cigarettes back in the day.

My own spaces have varied from a coffee table where I sat cross-legged at the typewriter to the upstairs bedroom I dedicated to the work when I lived at Yuppieville on the Hill before I remarried. There, I did have a commanding view over the parking lot and the water tower beyond as well as some fine sunsets. Usually, the arrangements were more of a make-do nature over the years, often in a second bedroom.

Once I remarried, I envisioned turning the top of the Red Barn into a year-round writing space, something that never materialized. Instead, it wound up being the north end of the attic, as you’ll find in many of the earlier posts here.

Now, as I’ve mentioned in reflecting on shifting from paper to digital, I’m able to work from a corner of my bedroom, where I do have a compact view of the ocean. Just enough.

~*~

Now, for a few related thoughts and reminders.

Note there’s a difference between an office and where you write.

An office may have a phone, filing cabinets, tabletops, checkbooks, mailing supplies, and so on. It’s probably where you pay your bills, too.

The writing space, as mine is at the moment, may be quite compact.

As for desktop maneuvers / chaos busters (by Jennifer Weisel, maybe from Elle, I have no idea how long ago):

The average person spends over four hours per week looking for misplaced papers, according to an Accountemps survey. Gloria Schaaf, a Manhattan-based organization consultant, offers advice on how to conquer chaos:

Make your desk command central (30 x 60 inches is the minimum size; large enough to spread out on.)

Add a “filing” folder to the front of each file drawer.

Avoid piles: Act on every piece of mail when you get to it and you won’t have to look back through mounds of paper later.

Use one planning tool for both personal and professional commitments (meetings, phone calls, errands, television programs …)

Leave time for a half-hour “recovery period” at the end of each day to organize your desk; it will be much more approachable the next morning.

TRAPS: the floor (that’s where piles begin), bulletin boards (if you must hang papers, use a one-inch cork strip, “Miscellaneous” folders, “To File” boxes.

Are you sensing how much this reflects the paper era? Like the size of that desk! Or wondering how to adapt the advice to today? The clutter hasn’t gone away, unless you left it on your last computer before the disk was wiped.

~*~

TOUCHSTONES: those items and reminders of what’s essential, the way home, the way ahead: emotional and spiritual energy points.

Does this mean I put up the cow skull I found on Rattlesnake Ridge in the Yakima Valley 45 years ago?

~*~

As for a routine that keeps you doing the work, as the artist Red Grooms insists, “It’s very bad for an artist to lay off. You get out of shape.” (Catherine Barnett interview, May 1991 on page 62 of a glossy mag. In the interim, I’ve lost the tearsheet. Maybe during one of those purges?)

~*~

So what kind of workspace do you have or aspire to for your own creative endeavors? Include the right kitchen, if you wish. A studio doesn’t have to be a private space, does it?

I would have said alert but she’d counter twitchy.

I would have said observant but she’d counter oblivious.

I would have said free-thinking but she’d counter too serious.

I would have said independent but she’d counter aloof.

I would have said sensitive but she’d counter nervous.

I would have said inquisitive but she’d say I rarely ask questions.

I would have said accepting but she’d counter indecisive.

I would have said nurturing but she’d counter cold.

I would have said serious but she’d counter silent.

I would have said playful but she’d counter negative.

I would have said witty but she’d counter legalistic.

I would have said intelligent but she’d counter uptight.

I would have said slightly bent but she’d counter insecure.

I would have said self-sufficient but she’d counter evasive.

I would have said caring but she’d counter mean.

I would have said spiritual but she’d ask how that makes me a better person.

I would have said spirited but she’d counter lazy.

I would have said somewhat reserved but she’d counter socially deficient.

I would have said somewhat shy but she’d counter loner.

I would have said elitist in quest of excellence and quality but she’d counter self-centered.

I would have said egalitarian in opportunity and expectation but she’d counter workaholic.

I would have said outdoorsy but she’d counter escapist.

I would have said rainbow chaser but she’d counter impractical.

I would have said aging but she’d agree.

I would have said youthful but she’d counter bald.

I would have said honest, direct but she’d counter defensive.

I would have said exploring but she’d counter unemotional.

I would have said hedonist but she’d counter fiscally irresponsible.

I would have said ascetic but she’d counter dull.

I would have said a bit gallant but she’d counter straight-laced.

I would have said organized but she’d notice I rarely dust.

I would have said self-starter but she’d counter with a list of projects.

I would have said visionary but she’d counter icy.

I would have said original but she’d counter quirky.

I would have said inventive but she’d counter weird.

I would have said creative but she’d counter unrealistic.

I would have said hopeful but she’d counter inexpressive.

I would have said responsive but she’d counter boring.

I would have said kind, gentle but she’d counter too serious.

I would have said frugal but she’d counter tight-fisted.

I would have said financially marginal but she would have countered too willing to pay full price.

~*~

Mirror, mirror, on the wall?

 

As I continue to reflect on the writing life as I’ve known it, I’ve been collecting loose ends and wrapping them up. As I writer, I feel I’ve gained much with age, countered by so much that’s been lost.

I do wonder about how the parallel works for people whose best moments have been in their youth – professional athletes or dancers, for instance – but most novels do seem to be rooted by events and experiences of people under 30 or so. We can argue the same for movies, and then salute the efforts to look beyond that.

Sitting down to compose a novel requires some bravado, an assumption or presumption, even outright arrogance, that you have something important to say and an ability to do it in an interesting way.

You know, balls, swagger, mojo. Go to a writers’ group and just listen. But it’s not all sheer ego-driven. For many, at least, there’s an ongoing tension between believing in our own talents and shielding ourselves from the nagging self-doubts. Even Stephen King has them. Remember, the practice of the craft is a solitary act, not a team sport. It gets lonely, especially in the absence of feedback or fans in the stands, whether they’re cheering or jeering. Sometimes, to your surprise, harsh criticism is easier to handle than any praise.

Unless you’ve been there, you have no idea how important a voiced reaction can be in nurturing you. Those brief reviews and star ratings are important, not just for guiding others to certain books but for guiding you as an author in your practice. An astute reader picks up important elements that have slipped right over their creator’s consciousness. Please, please, please take a few moments to weigh in when you finish a volume. We all need confirmation that we’re not wasting our time – or yours. Best of all is the epiphany when we’re left feeling that someone finally “gets it,” actually understands what we’re about. Don’t be shy.

I recall giving a friend a booklet I’d written about the Quaker metaphor of Light. (By the way, in the first two centuries of the Society of Friends, the term was always Inward Light or some variant, never the Inner Light expressed today. It’s a crucial distinction.) When he finished, he thanked me, said the text had cleared up his understanding, and then added, “You write very well.” Even after four decades in the words-on-paper business, I was taken aback, considering that he is, by any measure, an important American literary figure and a master of the language. It was like “welcome to the club,” the exclusive one with the dark paneling and Manhattan address. It was like a cup of fresh water in a desert. Within myself, I felt freed from the “hack writer” label so often applied to journalists from Dr. Samuel Johnson on.

Later, in an aside, he told me I was more of a poet than a novelist. Knowing his fondness for poetry, I took some comfort in the perspective, as well as some umbrage about the fiction part. On reflection, I now have to agree on his assessment, at least as my novels stood then. He certainly helped my character Cassia press her case for the reworking of all my existing novels, as I did in the aftermath of What’s Left, where she’s the star. The revisions in that book really took off once she started dictating to me.

There’s also that frightening moment in the gap between when a book’s been accepted for publication and when it actually comes out. We’re afraid someone’s going to somehow uncover our darkest secrets or that we’ll be shamed by some indiscretion or that we’re about to make an unforgiveable transgression or that we’ll be sued for everything we have and more. Again, go to a writers’ group and listen or even ask. If you’re an author, you think you’re somehow bonkers when you feel this, not knowing how much company you actually have.

As I’ve previously confessed, I’m of the camp that hews to Bukowski’s regime of daily “butt time” at the keyboard, day in and day out, regardless of how inspired you might be feeling. Many days it’s a dry struggle, but on others something different and amazing blossoms. From my perspective, it’s when writing becomes a kind of prayer and you find yourself in a “zone” where things come together as if by magic and characters start dictating to you, if only your fingers can keep up with what your soul is hearing. It’s a dialogue with the Other, as in Muse, and you’re the mere scribe at her service.

It’s not always at the keyboard, either. Sometimes it happens while you’re in the shower or on the throne next to it or swimming laps in the pool or commuting on the highway to work.

You can’t control this. Realistically, it happens when you’re not in control.

It happened to me at the finale of Subway Hitchhikers, which years later became the launch pad for What’s Left, where I had to make sense of what I’d been given, however intuitively.

Perhaps the best, well, I just had a phone call and lost the thread of thought. Maybe it wasn’t that important.

~*~

To back up, then. I hope you’re among my small but loyal following.

Not just here at the Barn but in the novels and poetry, too.

I would like to think all this work has not been in vain.

How’s that for raw and candid?

Not that I would know how to cope with fame or fortune.

Still, every writer and other kind of artist yearns for the support of fans and a loyal following.

If you like a work, tell everyone you know.

Otherwise, tell the source. In this case, me.

You have no idea of how important even a brief review, too, can be.

I experienced that with my book Quaking Dover, especially when readers delighted in the quirkiness that led one publisher to reject it.

Let me emphasize my deep desire as an independent writer for recognition (affirmation!) – after years of largely reclusive labor. But I’m also asking which circle did I most want to recognize me – Quaker, international literary, Seacoast New Hampshire? At some level, perhaps, it was also wanting to visit Dayton and be known even there – or to hear again from many people I’ve known and lost contact with in my relocations. The Quaker world seems awfully small and restrained, especially with its three sharp divisions. The literary world, meanwhile, has so many high priests and exclusive emphases – could I move among them? Yet, if the Society of Friends is to survive and grow, I sense I must have somehow moved beyond its confines and reached out to a wider audience. In a larger sense, then, my recognition would have been as one who brilliantly bridged those disparate worlds.

Labor on, then. Or simply quit and do something more sustaining.

Still, let me fall back on this: “Jnana, I’m really amazed. I didn’t think thee had it in thee to write a novel, at least from what I had seen in thy letters and Tract Association writings. But this is amazing, I couldn’t put it down. I read the first seventy pages last night after work, and if the rest of it’s just as good … why, it reminds me of Vonnegut. Thee writes in swatches, just like him. Jnana, we’re quite different in so many ways, but thee knows what? I’ve just realized from reading this that thee looks at women the same way I do. I had the feeling that thee was speaking what I had felt.”

Well, perhaps I’m still trying to find the RIGHT people.

And I’m wondering if I’ve been too kind to the true villains along the way. Maybe their “truth” still needs to be exposed as Satan’s?

Oh, will this ever let up?

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.