Sage Cohen's Blog, page 14

Inhabiting the authority archetype

This week, I was pretty much knocked off my feet when I peeled back the packaging from my contributor's copy of Poet's Market 2012 and found my own name–that oddly familiar and now, suddenly somewhat alien collection of letters–looking back at me from the cover. Poet's Market has been my constant companion for the past 20 years, accompanying my lifelong ache to sculpt experience in words–and then, gasp, send those words out into the world. I am incredibly honored and humbled to be appearing inside and outside of this important tome.

Then, as if there could possibly be a higher high, suddenly there was: a friend asked, ahem, was I planning to celebrate also being on the cover of Writer's Market 2012? I'm not sure how I managed this, but I had somehow completely missed seeing my name right there, front and center, on the contributor's copy of Writer's Market 2012 received a week or two earlier. An embarrassment of riches. A blind spot for success.

All day, I've been trying to find the words for what it feels like to contribute to publications that have shaped my writing life. And then see my name on the cover. My. Name. The closest life experience that mirrors the feeling is when I sat in the pediatrician's office with my week-old son in my arms and my mother at my side. I was filling out paperwork, and in the section where I was to fill in a name for "Mother" I kind of blanked, then turned to my mother to ask her what she thought that question meant — whose mother. She had always been "Mother" and now, we decided, it was time for my name in that field. (Such is the confusion cocktail of extreme sleep deprivation, pain medication post-C-section, and euphoria.) The transition from daughter to mother as lead archetype has been a profound one. And it seems as if inhabiting the authority archetype in my writing life has been even more complicated to comprehend and embody.

The truth is, I have authority ambivalence. And this has cost me friendships (with people counting on me to stay a student forever), money (on classes I no longer needed), opportunities, and a clear reflection of who I am and what I have to give. This one-two visibility "punch" has me thinking about how hard it is sometimes to practice what I preach: celebrating and sharing successes. So, here goes, folks, the full Monty of all I am celebrating in my writing life this month:

Read Just-Published Sage Advice

"Making the Most of the Money You Earn" by Sage Cohen in Writer's Market 2012

"Why Poets Need Platforms — And How to Create One" by Sage Cohen in Poet's Market 2012

"Grow Your Writing Life" and "Claiming Your North Star" by Sage Cohen in The Writer's Guide to Creativity from Writer's Digest Yearbook

"10 Ways to Harness Fear and Fuel Your Writing" by Sage Cohen in the September 2011 issue of Writer's Digest

"We Who Are about To Breed: Sage Cohen" — an interview about motherhood and the writing life, with We Who Are About To Die

See Sage Read

Writers Reflect on 9/11 at Powell's on Hawthorne on Sunday, September 11–featuring authors Tami Kent, Tom Spanbauer, Jennifer Lauck, and Sage Cohen.

Poetry reading at Annie Bloom's Books: Kathleen Halme and Sage Cohen on Thursday, October 20.

Get the details here.

Now, I showed you mine — won't you show me yours? Are you feeling a little shy about some good news in your writing life? You are hereby invited to toot your own horn right here. It's good practice, and we're all rooting for you.

Now, ask yourself if there could some realm of authority you have not yet been willing to inhabit — one that is pressing up against your window screen and breathing in on you at night? How would your life change if you accepted that mantle? We are so in the habit of focusing on our weaknesses, our rejections, our places that need work that often we overlook or take for granted our areas of strength. What if you were to make a sign right now and hang it over your desk / bed / window / fridge — that reads, "_____________ Expert," such as "Punctuation Expert," "Submission System Expert," "Metaphor Expert." Whatever you know you're good at, name it, no matter how insignificant you might believe this strength to be. Then see how the weight of that crown feels on your head. The paradox is that your successes may be far more informative about your wobbly places than your so-called failures. The sooner you are willing to look your own authority in the eye, the greater the acceleration of your writing life.

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Get back on the scale

When the scale stopped working shortly after my son was born, someone shoved it under the couch where it remained for nearly three years. Today I pulled it out, took out the battery, went to the hardware store, found a replacement and–voila–the scale blinked its big, bright digital eyes at me once again. No big deal, right?

One would think. Except that for for three years, this simple task seemed insurmountable. The central processing system of my mind was completely overloaded with all that I was responsible for: supporting a family, mothering an infant, promoting a book, writing and then promoting another. And, because I had no resources to devote to solving this small problem, I accepted the scale's defunct status as final. The secondary benefit, of course, was that I did not have to weigh myself. In my mind, this small loophole of no-scale sidestepped the accountability of being in relationship with my body.

I wasn't sleeping, I wasn't exercising–heck, I barely had time to shower–and I was riding on the fumes of simple carbs and chai tea lattes to get me through each day physically and emotionally. If I didn't know what I weighed, some voice in me argued, I was somehow off the hook of reclaiming the lightness and vitality that had for many years before my marriage and pregnancy been the norm. And I wasn't ready to let go of the little lifeboat of comfort that sugar had stepped into my life to provide.

Those years without the scale, I thought I was saving myself from the pain of the facts. But as it turns out, the pain inflicted by my imagination, and a few choice words from my husband, was far worse than the facts. Because the size of my post-childbirth stomach had become a point of contention in my marriage, in my mind, my undesirability had become beyond measure. When I got on the scale as a single woman once again, I was surprised to find that I weighed far less than I had imagined. Shaped differently without a doubt, I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight and probably had been for years. Just by getting on the scale, I had lost the mental weight I'd been carrying in an instant. And, I was finally ready to take action to invite a vibrant life force to return to my body.

What does this have to do with you and your writing life, you might ask? Everything. Because I'll bet you the chai tea latte I skipped this morning that you are avoiding something in your writing life with as much skill and justification as I was avoiding my scale. You can't manage what you don't measure, as the old adage goes. And by putting your head in the sand, you are depriving yourself of opportunities to meet your writing life head-on. Sure, it's uncomfortable to sit down with your submission binder and see that you haven't sent work out for eight months after you were flatlined by your last rejection. It may be no fun to dig out that unfinished piece that you hid in the back of your file cabinet after the 13th round of edits.

But the truth is also the very best medicine. And facing every dusty corner of your broken promises and sloppy habits is the best hope you've got of creating the writing life you want.  In fact, chances are good that as it simmered in your file cabinet, your plot knot may have simply untangled itself such that you know exactly how to finish that abandoned story. And, your submission binder might feel inviting after a long hiatus. And maybe, just maybe when you get around to sorting that pile of unopened mail, you may find that you've been awarded the grant you applied for six months ago. At worst, you'll have a bit more perspective and emotional distance to perceive what needs doing next to move you toward what you want most.

It's never too late to get back on the scale, measure how you're living up to your goals for your writing life, and then take informed action. Buddah is reported to have said, "What you are is what you have been. What you'll be is what you do now." I dare you to take that big belly of yours, the rejection letter, the story of I-can't-do-it, and take one, small step in some new direction. Whether it's a new story you tell yourself, a new choice you make or action you take, I promise you'll feel worlds lighter.

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Poetry Prompt: Reveal Something Without a Narrative

My invitation today is to say something without actually saying it. To reveal something through a series of images, rhythms, and sounds that give us more of an experience of, or a feeling about, what happened rather than the actual facts, events and story line. The following questions are designed to help you get loose and wander into a scene or two in which you might want to include your reader.

* * * * *

How do you pray? If you don't pray, what do you do instead – and how do you do it?

What should you have done?

What can a person die of?

What surrounds your house? How does it protect you or not?

Who left you?

How did they do it? What did their face look like as they left?

What were they moving toward, instead?

What do you want to say to God about this departure?

What do you want to say to the person who left?

Where did it leave you? Doing what?

* * * * *

Solar Wind

By Larissa Szporluk

I don't pray.

I just walk out there

where it's thin

with my bow and aim.

But I should have yelled.

I should have changed the world.

A person can die of balance,

just gleam like squid

and disappear.

The fence around our house

is soft with rain.

It can't stop my arrows.

It can't stop

what wants to happen,

the meteors I hear, power lines

blowing from the mountain,

or the girl somewhere

who reads you,

whose skin has memorized your life.

Nothing stops her fingers;

they swim with you at night.

Leave if you're leaving.

Leave plain mud.

I don't know what else

is on your beard.

It would be mercy, God.

I grow weird in the field.

* * * * *

I admire how this poem seems to be making simple statements, without much fancy language or fanfare, and yet the statements don't tell us one, particular thing. Instead, they open up a field of possibility, take us somewhere felt, offer a string of images to make our own. Toward the end, a sense of narrative starts to take shape. But, still there is plenty of room for the reader to make this poem our own. And I just love that strange last line, which seems like it shouldn't work, but somehow does.

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Go right to the source

I was talking to a friend who is a wonderful writer. The subject of my next book for writers came up. She wanted to know what I was planning, and I answered her question with a question: What kind of book would you most want to read? This may seem like a casual enough question, were it not for the fact that this very friend represented the target audience for my two, previous books. And, I expected the same would be true for whatever came next.

She described what she saw as a universal struggle in her writing group. Then we talked about the type of guidance that could be most useful to address these concerns. In ten minutes, I had a clear picture of not just a resonant and timely topic, but the flow of how I might take writers through the evolution process of this particular dimension of their writing lives. In short, I had a mental snapshot of exactly how I might be of service to my literary community next.

I am not proposing that you should expect to come up with a book idea in ten minutes. But I do believe that you can powerfully advance a writing project that is in the percolation / dream / conceptual / early draft stage by identifying your target audience (If you don't know, make your best guess) and then finding someone to talk to who represents that group.

Chances are good that you already have a foothold in this community and could pick up the phone right this minute to ask someone you know what they need and how you might help. If you're not already established in this realm, now would be a great time to start as your writing project sets sail. Even if you're writing poetry or fiction (genres that are not necessarily limited to a particular topic or theme), having a specific person in mind as your desired reader can significantly streamline your process. Because, simply, it helps to imagine that you're writing to someone who wants to receive your writing.

Whatever you're working on right now, or getting ready to work on, I invite you to take a step back and ask yourself:

Who do I know who would be interested in reading something like this?
What do I want to understand about his or her needs, preferences, goals or aesthetics?
What are three questions I can ask this person that will help me clarify what he or she is seeking?
How can I engage this person in a quick brainstorm about ways to meet their needs in writing?

Think of this as a focus group for your writing life. Talk to as many people as makes sense. If you're writing a book designed to help families cope with Alzheimer's disease, for example, you may want to talk to a medical expert, people who have faced this challenge in their own families, experienced hospice teams, and/or association leaders and activists. After talking to my friend about her need for writing support, I could talk to the published poets and authors I know about what they wished they'd known or attempted early in their writing careers. I could talk to agents and publishers about how they'd like their writing partners primed for success. I could test out my idea with writers of every genre. And so on.

We all know about the extraordinary alchemy that is possible when pen hits paper. We may be less practiced in bringing other people into our process as brief and honored guests. When you take an interest in the people you know, this can literally clarify your own reflection. You may be surprised to find how much they reveal about the direction you've already chosen–and how their feedback can accelerate your journey.

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Poetry prompt: Write a poem-long metaphor

When I launched this blog, I promised that Fridays would be poetry days. And I got a bit off track these past few months. As I'm kicking back into teaching mode, I thought it would be fun to offer a poetry prompt every Friday for at least a few months. I hope you'll play/write along!

Today's invitation: write a poem that is comprised entirely of a single metaphor. Look to W.S. Merwin's poem Separation as an example.

I admire the extraordinary compression Merwin employs to paint an entire emotional landscape in three, brief lines. There's nothing fancy about the language, but yet the metaphor is rendered in such a way that I can feel that needle entering me.

How does Merwin achieve this? How can you?

(Merwin's is a short poem, but yours can be any length that makes sense for the metaphor you choose.)

Happy writing!

I'd love it if you'd share your poem in the comments of this post or include a link to wherever you have posted it.

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Two keys to productivity: perception & permission

At the Willamette Writers conference this weekend, I spoke with a lovely group of poets about productivity. As we were discussing some of their questions and concerns, it struck me that there are two, key underlying concepts to everything I believe is critical to sustaining a productive writing life.

The first is perception. Productivity is possible when we notice with fresh (and friendly) eyes who we are and how we operate. Where do we stall and when do we take flight? What are we doing when we have our best ideas? How do we waste time? What writing do we admire? What do we want so badly what we haven't even articulated it yet? That old adage advises, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." But so many of us are so entrenched in our unconscious ways of doing and being that we have no idea what's broken, and therefore are not in a position to intelligently decide what needs fixing. How can you meet or celebrate achieving goals you haven't defined or measured?

Once you're working with a clear picture of how you write (and how you don't), it's time to do something radical: give yourself permission to be you. That's right. Just because you read once that writers are supposed to write first thing in the morning doesn't mean that this is your flow time. Maybe most poets write only poetry, but you span multiple genres: no problem. Perhaps you think you should write faster, be less stiff in front of an audience, sharpen your pencil more often. Whatever the story is about what you should be doing, let it go if it's not in alignment with what you now know about yourself.

(A quick aside: While driving the other day, I caught myself in an inner-chastising monologue about this odd thought–Other people must be better at being happy than I am. I was being very clear with myself that I was a big disappointment on the happiness-maintenance scale. Then some part of me–I like to think it's the Productive Writer part I've been cultivating all these years–interrupted this negative self talk with the challenge: Well, so what? Let's say that other people are actually better at being happy. What difference does that make? This is who you are. What do you intend to make of it?)

What unfriendly things do you say to yourself that make you feel unwelcome? I hereby grant you poetic license to release the oppression of who you believe you are supposed to be as a writer. No need to force yourself into some idea of a "right way" if it's not your right way. Your job is to honor your process, your rhythms, your voice by finding ways to put them in service to your writing life. Give yourself permission to be exactly who you are. The welcomed writing self feels far more receptive to fine-tuning systems, habits, and craft.

If you'd like some support with bringing these concepts into play, you can download my free Productivity Power Tools workbook from this blog's center column, under the books. This workbook companion to The Productive Writer is designed to help you perceive how you operate, decide what you want from your writing and publishing, and give yourself permission to be exactly who you are. The paradox is this: when you welcome the writer you are today, you clear a space in which the writer you always wanted to be can come forward.

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See you at the Willamette Writers Conference today!

THE PRODUCTIVE POET workshop

Successful poets live and write in alignment with their aspirations. While no two poets are striving for exactly the same results, we all have the opportunity to put solid systems, strategies and attitudes in place to keep us moving toward what we value most. Sage Cohen will share the top ten ways to exponentially increase the results and rewards of your poetic practice. No matter what your level of experience or time limitations, you can put these strategies into play today to start writing more, publishing more, transforming fear into courage, and finding your rightful place in your literary community. You'll come away with your own productivity blueprint, plus a range of ideas, inspiration and planning tools to help you make the most of your relationship with poetry today and tomorrow.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

3:00-4:15

Willamette Writers Conference

Sheraton Airport Hotel

Portland, Oregon

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You don't know how the story ends

I received a thank-you note today from a friend who claimed she was nervous about sending me a thank-you note because she considers me the "Queen of The Thank-You Note." As I held her card and considered this, I wondered if there were any title in the world (other than "Mommy") that could make me happier. More than any other writing form, it occurred to me, I love the thank-you note. Taking the time to write down what I appreciate about another person, to simmer in that gratitude word by word, and then send it off in a pretty little envelope to arrive into that person's hands just makes me feel good.

I have my mother to thank for this discipline that has become a bedrock of my being. She insisted not only that I be grateful in writing, but that I be memorable, creative, and downright original. Seated at the kitchen table, for example, drowning in a sea of bat mitzvah thank-you notes, hand cramped and mind exhausted (How many different ways can you say "Thanks for the cash" to a friend of your grandparents who you don't actually know?), I answered to my mother, my gratitude drill sargeant. If a card didn't say something specific about what I appreciated about the gift and why I was glad that person had come to my bat mitzvah, (Yes, she reviewed each one) it was rejected  and I had to start again.

Given what we went through–her demand for perfection, my complicated desire to please mingled with teenage resentment–it is surprising that today, at the age my mother was when we labored together in my first gratitude marathon, I am a disciple of the thank-you note, humbly in service to its small gesture that routinely breaks my heart open.

How did it happen? I'm not sure.

The girl I was at that kitchen table could only see the struggle, the imposition of my mother, the burden of responsibility. And yet, the work that girl did, card after card after card after card became a kind of transportation toward the woman she would become. She didn't know how the story would end. And she didn't care. All she wanted was to be done with her thank-you notes so she could get on with the dramas of life as a thirteen-year-old.

There is some alchemy that can happen despite us–taking us through the fire of our resistance through the abrasive discipline of our effort until we arrive at something pure and true and so obviously authentic, despite the fact that we never knew it.

I thought my marriage was one thing, but it turned out to be something else. All of the hard work and deep love that went into that commitment have not washed me up on the shore I expected. There were binders full of book outlines on my shelf–books I was convinced I was destined to write–until they landed in the recycling to make space for the new outlines coming through. Where might all of that effort of imagination and intention actually be steering us, if not where we wanted to go?

I don't know how this story ends, or even what direction it might take next. The unassuming thank you note soldiers on, my faithful master and servant, asking only that I hold one moment at a time before releasing it. Expecting nothing more than that.

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Pick the low-hanging fruit

In my "day job" as a marketing communications writer, I grudgingly participate in all kinds of business jargon. One of my least favorites has always been, "Let's pick the low-hanging fruit," meaning, let's take an approach that requires the smallest effort for the greatest return. If you had asked me a year ago why this phrase irritated me so, I probably would have complained about business leaning too heavily on nature for metaphor.

But what I now understand about the dissonance between the low-hanging fruit and me is this: I have always, on a cellular level, taken offense to the idea that something worthwhile could be easy. Until now.

In fact, this weekend, I spend a late morning with my son, my brother and his sons picking the low-hanging fruit from their plum tree. Having dozens and dozens of perfect plums surrendering into our hands from the low branches was an unprecedented ecstasy after all these years of urban living. And though the collecting process was effortless, I had no idea what one does with dozens of plums. Oh, how I love a learning curve! The next, few days were spent researching recipes and rediscovering my baking powders, flours and tins. I baked a plum cobbler and a plum upside down cake. I fell in love with plums uplifted in butter, sugar and gluten free flour. And I discovered that easy is not the equivalent or boring or stagnant. It is instead a surprisingly obvious and joyful path of illumination. I who have spent my life avoiding the kitchen as if it had wronged me in childhood have not left the stove and flour-dusted counters in days. Today I moved on to researching beet recipes for my latest harvest from my own garden, and ways to enliven meals with the mint that flirts its perfect, fuzzy leaves at me all along the edge of our deck.

In fact, I think I've gone a bit "pick the low-hanging fruit" crazy. My office has been taken by storm with the impulse. I completely overhauled my submission system in about ten minutes–in a way that made me feel overcome with the desire to send out my work. Then I spent the next, ten minutes submitting two batches of poems to two contests. I did everything on my to-do list that could be done in less than a minute. I had a revelation about the trash can, the bookshelf. I got the envelopes out for a mailing I've been dreading. Somehow, this made it feel easier having the supplies at hand. In short, I allowed myself to do what felt easy and "right" from moment to moment. This gave me energy and enthusiasm. I wasn't struggling to make myself behave/accomplish/meet deadline or any of the various things I have a tendency to strictly embrace.

True, I could have forced myself to revise that pressing client FAQ in the ten minutes dedicated to my submission binder. However, I believe I was far more efficient by doing what I was moved to do first. By the time I sat down to the FAQ, I was high on the satisfaction of an orderly system that reflects my current goals and priorities. My basket was already full of the low-hanging fruit, and now I was able to stretch a bit higher, balance on my toes a bit longer. The FAQ went quickly and well.

There is nothing simpler, nothing more complicated than identifying and moving toward what is comfortably in reach.

What could you do in the next, three minutes that would take your writing life just a breath closer to where you want it to be? Would you be willing to clear three minutes right now to do it? How does it feel to trust yourself that much? To get your will out of the way ever so briefly and let another guidance system lead you forward?

There is no taste in the world like plum upside down cake. What low-hanging fruit is about to effortlessly land in your mixing bowl, and what will you make of it?

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Name and Claim Your Lineage

I have always been magnetically drawn to the books I need as teachers. This past year as the fabric of my life has been torn apart and stitched back together in a patchwork of grace, my writing practice has consisted mostly of gulping down books that can quench my parched soul. Today, I cleared a shelf and with great reverence placed on it the books I have traveled and loved most–the ones that have shaped me in the way that water shapes stones, almost imperceptibly, over time.

As I scanned their proud spines all lined up in a row, it occurred to me that this shelf reflects my literary lineage. These are the poets and writers whose work whispers directly into my ear to penetrate my being and reveal to me what I need to know about being a person and a writer. These are my ancestors, father, mother, siblings and cousins. In my early 20′s, I so desperately wanted to write a poetry collection like this dog-eared, tear-stained sliver of a book that I considered giving up poetry altogether. One how-to book has a structure and flow that feels resonant with my own rhythms such that the shifts it suggested were inevitable. A book about spiritual awakening has such poetic depth of feeling and breadth of wisdom that I want to live inside it. And then there's the memoir that sings through me as if its narrative were a plucked string of the sitar and my own story were the next string on the instrument singing effortlessly in accompaniment.

This small literary collection gives me a funhouse mirror reflection of who I am, what I love, and from where I have come. I imagine the little serif font letters swimming through my cells. The words that come through me now have breathed the amniotic suspended dreams of every word I have admired, allowed in and sent back into the world. These titles seem to me a bouquet harvested of my desire to enter the universal through poem and story.

Here in the authority and stability of its literary family, the title of my next project presents itself. It is shy, wobbly, unsure of whether to trust my hand. We sit together, and I listen. Take a few notes. A large fluff of dandelion seed drifts by my open window as the peas in the garden bed below nod in the wind.

By taking the time to name and appreciate my literary lineage, the next step on my path revealed itself to me. I wonder if that's really all our writing asks of us — to know what we love, and to give ourselves over to that love?

I invite you to honor the books you love most by giving them their own shelf. Then sit with them and appreciate how they have informed your vision, your craft, or your sense of direction in your writing life. Is there something in you lingering on the peripheries and wanting to come through? What work of yours belongs on this shelf, in this company? Soften into how much you already know.

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