On Not Living for Gatekeepers
I spent a couple hours this morning listening to an interview podcast (Commonplace: Conversations with Poets, Episode 40: Kaveh Akbar) in the background of my daily toddler wrangling. I relished the sounds of that conversation, the skillful and empathic maneuvering in and out of subjects like writing practice, art-making and life-making in these troubled times, poetry conversion stories, and personal discoveries. Like Akbar said in the interview, I think I could listen and talk and read and write about poetry and language all day, if given the opportunity. I feel this way also when I'm writing in my online workshop group-a spinoff of a Fine Arts Work Center online workshop I took last fall. The work and the feedback nurtures this kind of beast I've created since I started writing poetry again and venturing into that milieu.
And it is a bit of a beast. There are poems or essays or whatever that need to be released. They press on me, and I find myself more distracted with my children or spouse. Resentful even. It's so easy to slip into this self-pity. My writing lacks clarity because of ALL. THIS. CLUTTER. Who cleans around here?
There is a cost to all human endeavors. I'm realizing that opening the door to writing is not so simple. I'm writing and expressing myself, and that is good. But the act of writing assumes an audience, even if that audience is just yourself. Writing really creates a community, or at the very least, a communal experience between the author and the reader. And so I find myself craving not only the physical and psychic space to write, but also readers who are not my immediate family members.
But this craving is sort of in opposition to my nature. Or maybe it's in conflict with other values I hold dear like generosity. I want to be read. I want to be published. I want to be known to the gatekeepers. But this flirts too close with hoarding and envy and scarcity mindset. I know that the work has to be done without pretension, with generosity and with honest authenticity. I cannot write for any particular audience or in pursuit of something dictated by conventional ambition.
Inevitably, this leads to other, more practical questions. Like why am I even doing it? I saw a blurb recently from a poet interview that said that writers needed a hobby because if they didn't have one, then writing is their hobby, which was a negative thing. I didn't read the interview so I don't know how much further into that thought the poet went, but it gave me pause. As much as I love language, love listening to people talk about all the things they talk about, love talking, love reading, love thinking about all the things I read, as much as I love all that, I am always reluctant to name myself a writer. I don't have a book or chapbook or even a manuscript. I don't have any graduate degrees nor am I really inclined towards one. I don't have a social media presence beyond my small circle. I write some things. Sometimes they get published. Some people have said that they like what they read. It seems an impossible leap to claim admission in the Writers club when mostly I make messes with kids and pretend that there's some sort of order in here.
I don't know why I've dedicated this small space in my life for writing. Maybe it is just this minute and banal way, this hobby, of preserving myself against the grind of motherhood and its invisibility and lack of institutional support. Maybe it's a seed planted for later, when I might be able to actively pursue more ambitious paths. Either way, it is what I'm doing for now. It's another course for growth, and I am trying to be remember to be thankful for it.
And it is a bit of a beast. There are poems or essays or whatever that need to be released. They press on me, and I find myself more distracted with my children or spouse. Resentful even. It's so easy to slip into this self-pity. My writing lacks clarity because of ALL. THIS. CLUTTER. Who cleans around here?
There is a cost to all human endeavors. I'm realizing that opening the door to writing is not so simple. I'm writing and expressing myself, and that is good. But the act of writing assumes an audience, even if that audience is just yourself. Writing really creates a community, or at the very least, a communal experience between the author and the reader. And so I find myself craving not only the physical and psychic space to write, but also readers who are not my immediate family members.
But this craving is sort of in opposition to my nature. Or maybe it's in conflict with other values I hold dear like generosity. I want to be read. I want to be published. I want to be known to the gatekeepers. But this flirts too close with hoarding and envy and scarcity mindset. I know that the work has to be done without pretension, with generosity and with honest authenticity. I cannot write for any particular audience or in pursuit of something dictated by conventional ambition.
Inevitably, this leads to other, more practical questions. Like why am I even doing it? I saw a blurb recently from a poet interview that said that writers needed a hobby because if they didn't have one, then writing is their hobby, which was a negative thing. I didn't read the interview so I don't know how much further into that thought the poet went, but it gave me pause. As much as I love language, love listening to people talk about all the things they talk about, love talking, love reading, love thinking about all the things I read, as much as I love all that, I am always reluctant to name myself a writer. I don't have a book or chapbook or even a manuscript. I don't have any graduate degrees nor am I really inclined towards one. I don't have a social media presence beyond my small circle. I write some things. Sometimes they get published. Some people have said that they like what they read. It seems an impossible leap to claim admission in the Writers club when mostly I make messes with kids and pretend that there's some sort of order in here.
I don't know why I've dedicated this small space in my life for writing. Maybe it is just this minute and banal way, this hobby, of preserving myself against the grind of motherhood and its invisibility and lack of institutional support. Maybe it's a seed planted for later, when I might be able to actively pursue more ambitious paths. Either way, it is what I'm doing for now. It's another course for growth, and I am trying to be remember to be thankful for it.
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