The Ever-Obvious Metaphors of Gardening

Last summer I spent a lot of time on my front porch where I could get wi-fi while I worked with Quraysh on Google Docs to get our book written. I generally am found on the deck in back. It was fortuitous because it was the last summer with my two guardian trees. With last summer's extreme heat and a pressing deadline for the manuscript completion, the garden was left to its own devices. I liken it to a teenager: it thinks it can take care of itself, and it can do okay, but sometimes Mom has to step in and put things in order. Well, Mom did not get to it in 2010.

Last fall I lost the two trees in front of my house because lingering disease was weakening them too much for safety. I called the city and the decision was made to euthanize them. In turn, this was the year to watch, to determine what I could plant that I have never been able to plant because the Norwegian Maple canopy afforded too little light.

As we all know, this has been a summer of extremes and my gardening effort is backlogged once again.This morning it was comparatively cool, dry, lovely. I forsook my morning journal practice to dig in the insane olio of intentional and unintentional overgrowth in my front yard.

I stuck my pitchfork into the soil to loosen a gnarl of plantain, dandelion, forget-me-not, and chicory. It seems that I disturbed a colony of those teeny red ants. I don't think they were ready for the surface, much less their home being destroyed. They swarmed in a frenzy, all over my feet, up my arms, all over the sidewalk. They bit me, leaving little red anthills all over my ankles and arms.

I saw a metaphor for so many human disruptions: the way a housing project will be emptied, such as Cabrini Green in Chicago, displacing a whole population in short shrift. Or the imminent domain backed by a wealthy real estate developer. Or a school community will be disrupted by the decisions of the school board without parent input. 

When we have no choice in the changes in our lives, we swarm and we bite. We have witnessed the swarm of teachers and union members in Wisconsin. Last year teachers marched in New Jersey as well. We witnessed students at Detroit's Catherine Ferguson Academy for Young Women sit in to protest closing of their school. We also witnessed some of those same young women arrested for their civil disobedience.

In the long run, we witnessed all that those young ladies and their teachers, their remarkable administrator as well, bring light to their ordeal and then sponsors to save the school, which is so much more than a school. It is the beginning of a new life.

The young women of Catherine Ferguson have quite a bite and now they will thrive for their feisty refusal to be dislodged. My ants may take their territory back as well.

More on Making Things...

Ask.com answers my query with the following: Poem is from the Greek poema, a noun derived from the verb poie-o, to make or do. Poets are often called makers.Thanks to my dear friend Linda Moore for bringing this derivation to my attention originally. 

It is this making that keeps swirling through my thoughts. Too many poets are too much in their heads. We are a solitary sort in our creative process. But learning to allow the environment of the poem and all it is striving to achieve be a welcoming place for me is the work at hand. In writing a poem, I believe myself as the source of the work, rather than the conduit. In making a poem, I am a creative first responder to the moment of noticing, awareness that opens the window for a breeze that is inspiration. It is the mirror that reflects this moment in time. I, as poet, will commit those images, moments, sounds, thoughts, words to breath and into type. I respond to this life we have been dreamed into with my verse.

It is in this making that we poets must be willing to be most honest. It is with the intention of honest reflection that the best poems are written, those poems that reflect the world to itself through the individual lens of that artist who commits to the act of making the poem, establishing contact. It is through the poet's lens that we can see through windows of the places and times where and when others have lived, are living.

We teach a great deal through poetic verse. We see with the eyes of a fly, so many lenses. The poet must be conscious and speak for, to, and with the greater community. We have done this for thousands of years. We teach language through the sound and meter of poetry, even in pre-reading. It is in the pulse of our blood as a people. Poetry is organic, more than the towers and lecture halls of academia may have allowed us to believe throughout the 20th century. More than the media of the age would accept. Poetry is for everyone. We enjoy it more than many admit or recognize. 

The myth of poetry being too elusive for the average person, too challenging, is failing, is waning. There is a poem for everyone, a poem that speaks to that person's individual experience and understanding. A poem with which that reader feels competent in how they interpret the words and metaphor. We will never all like the same poem. But we will each be able to identify with one poem we rely upon or always remember.

The job of the poet is to catalog by using the wealth and lush capacity of language and image, to reflect everything of the human condition, of history, of nuance, of the marvel that this speck of the universe provides, as well as its pain,  or our outrage. 

My job is to create and to share, to communicate and connect. My job is to promote my creative art in all the ways it serves us and to encourage poetry as a viable aspect of lifelong learning as well as personal and cultural expression. I encourage others to make things as well.

Postscript:

From the Owl Publishing web site I fell upon, the following quote:  Prose is when all the lines except the last go on to the end. Poetry is when some of them fall short of it. Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832)

The Free Dictionary on line offers this definition:

po·em

n.

1. A verbal composition designed to convey experiences, ideas, or emotions in a vivid and imaginative way, characterized by the use of language chosen for its sound and suggestive power and by the use of literary techniques such as meter, metaphor, and rhyme.

2. A composition in verse rather than in prose.

3. A literary composition written with an intensity or beauty of language more characteristic of poetry than of prose.

4. A creation, object, or experience having beauty suggestive of poetry.

---

[French poème, from Old French, from Latin poema, from Greek poiema, from poiein, to create; see k^wei-² in Indo-European roots.]

Why Working on the Deck Affirms My Conviction (and other summer rationalizations)

Three years ago this week, I was laid off. It was a surprise. I took the news with a considerable dissociative air. It was unexpected and I was not in agreement with the reasons why my position was being downsized but that was ultimately irrelevant. I did not have a job, effective immediately. The work, the agency, the constituents had all been my primary focus for 10 years, as well as a growing financial security.

I loved the projects I was able to help design and implement. I found great satisfaction in being the conduit between two people or organizations that could find mutual benefit that would suit the collective. I was honored to learn so much about the artists in our community and support their journeys into programs and schools as teaching artists.  I loved working in a state of collaboration as a standard operating procedure.

I also had an ongoing teaching gig in a school district that was a supplement to my program directorship, which had always been a part-time position. I had the best of both worlds in building my practice and honing my craft. 

Within hours of being laid off, I had already applied for a job and started a networking effort to let folks know I had a sudden change of circumstance. 

Within hours I had already traversed the soul searching to affirm to myself that, this time around, it was not about a job any longer, it was about the Work.

I spent the next 3 years continuing my work in the school districts that have fulfilled the foundation of my career, teaching adult writing courses, completing a collection of poetry, starting two more, as well as writing and now promoting the publication of Our Difficult Sunlight. I have also deepened my commitment to the Comstock Review as managing editor. I am fully immersed in my identity of Poet. This is quite comforting. I have managed, albeit in an often bumbling manner; I have survived, in spite of the economy and certainly with the support of many, for whom I am ever and always grateful; I have succeeded. That is the most important of the three. I have met my goals and in many ways exceeded them.

Too often I set my sights on everything I have not yet accomplished or have put off for some compulsive procrastinating reason or another. I make incessant lists. I beat myself up for those items not accomplished, in spite of the inordinate length of tasks and to-dos. So I started a new practice: I established an Accomplishment Log. Instead of looking at a list with check marks that always leaves something undone, this is the list of the things I did accomplish to reflect upon with regularity. To qualify for the Log, the task must be something that I have avoided or put off for at least 24 hours. Some log entries have been completion of goals or actions left undone for 10 years. My log is filling up and my life is more manageable day by day by day. It is the accomplishment that I then dwell on, rather than the perceived failure. Small amateur behavior mod trick but it seems to be working. 

I have spent this summer concerning myself with the bleak future I have been perceiving. I am a realist. The economy is frightening and my own pockets reflect it. I am likely to have much less of the school work I have relied upon thus far. I also have new opportunities. I have applied for several jobs. I have not received them for reasons I don't necesarily know. I am allowing my faith to soothe me in trusting that I am still making right choices that best suit me as well as the highest good for all involved. For, please understand me when I share this, this Work is about humanity and the power of language for me. This Work is about love and communication. I have to trust that I am supported to be able to continue to serve with my talents and abilities. For me, this work is about others and finding ways to support them in self-empowerment, however that may take form. These words are the heart of my personal mission statement.

I reaffirm, it is not about a job. It is about the Work. If a position comes along to which I am suited, I will be delighted. I will continue to network and reach out for consulting, editing, and teaching gigs. I will start planning the five different classes I will be teaching this fall. I will persevere. 

And today, I work under the leaf umbrella of the Norwegian Maple canopy of my deck, watching the feral cats sun, glimpsing the red and blue streaks of cardinal and jay, listening to the trance music of summer. Today, I also blogged...another entry for my daily Log.

Snack Time - New Culinary Discoveries...

When I visit classes in elementary schools, there is an inevitable session that falls just as snack time is ending or scheduled. The students' desks are topped with an array of finger foods and crunchy treats, juice boxes, carrot sticks in zip lock bags, cookies. The teacher will often have big barrel-shaped plastic containers of snack mix or pretzels as thick as a thumb. They would have paid for that staple out of pocket at Aldi's or the Dollar Tree.

One of the treats I have been introduced to I find addicting is the junk food delicacy of Takis. A Taki is a Nacho Dorito on steroids, combined with a hint of salt and vinegar potato chip flavor. They stain your tongue and fingers red. They cause your tongue to tingle and pucker. You can only eat about 10 before maxing out.

I cannot find a bag of Takis in upstate NY so I bought a couple of them in Newburgh before I left Orange County at the end of my 2010-11 contract with Middletown Schools. I finished one bag about 6 weeks ago. I am hesitant to open the second because I know that, once I do, there is no turning back. I will devour them over the course of about a week. Then they will be gone.

My Treasure Files

Over the years in which I have worked in schools, both daytime and afternoon programs, I have received many small gifts from students. Often these gifts are little drawings that children have made, perhaps even while listening to our lesson. Sometimes they are portraits of me, a lovely reflection of who I am to the young humans before me. Other times the gift may be a poem, either handwritten or printed off a computer. These will likely have colorful, creative fonts and clip art illustrations. Teens give me gifts as well, Anime pencil drawings perhaps but mostly copies of writings that they want me to read and to remember them by. Poems they hope I will affirm. There is always something positive to state about the work. They often linger until most of their classmates have transitioned out the door toward the next class. Their need is earnest. Often my name is spelled in creative ways.

Students also seem somewhat surprised that their gifts are appreciated. I tell the elementary students that I will keep their gifts in myTreasure File. In the early days of my work with youth, I started a file folder for the little scraps and pieces of construction paper, notebook paper unclipped from 3-ring binders, origami cranes of various sizes and colors, friendship bracelets braided from embroidery floss. I graduated to the larger document pockets when I outgrew the first folder.

Sometimes students give me other gifts, little trinkets or bookmarks from the school library. This past school year, one 3rd grader slipped an ice-blue rubber bracelet over my hand to my right wrist from his own on my last day with his class. "Ms. Popoff, I want you to have this. I won it in basketball in gym..." I told him I was not sure that I should accept the gift since it was his and it represented his achievement but he insisted. I accepted but still I questioned, did I have the right to take this child's marker of doing well? I was also conscious that he was not a child of privilege. But I remember his face as if he were right before me now and I remember his huge grin in the act of giving. I had given him something of value and he was reciprocating. That is a basic human act and we are bonded by a small circle of rubber.

I noticed later that the bracelet was imprinted with a slogan something to the affect of "Remember Autism" and an Autism support organization web site. I have close friends who parent children with Autism and related processing abilities. I have taught many students who process differently than I do. For the next couple of days, every time I looked at my right wrist, I thought of my generous young man as well as my many creative students in supported classrooms.

Three days later, in the school hallway near the art rooms, I passed my young benefactor in line with his class. I have a little sign of greeting I share with students so we can be excited to see each other in the halls but maintain the decorum expected in the common areas. It is like a private handshake and it avoids most outbursts of "HI MS. POPOFF!!!" in the library or outside the lavatories. After sharing the our coded greeting, I caught the eye of the boy and pointed to my wrist, the band of blue. His eyes got big and he exclaimed, "You still have it!" I placed my index finger to my lips as a reminder we were in the hall and then I whispered with a genuine and gigantic smile, "Of course I do."

I knew at that moment that I was right to keep the bracelet. I wore it every day for nearly 3 months. I never took it off. After awhile, the white print of the organization and its motto wore off. The summer heat soared to 100. The sweat under the band was annoying so I took it off. Right now it is in a small dish on my nightstand with some Silly Bands that my nephew gave me. I will add it to the Treasure File when I am ready to not notice it every day, when I remember his face without the visual prompt and I keep the talents and skills of my students with special needs and abilities in the forefront of my consciousness.

The Natural Rhythms of Summer and a Foreboding Forecast

It has been a rough-n-tumble summer, given the huge impact of the current state of the nation and how it will affect everything, most certainly how it will hobble the world of education. I am piece-mealing my way through the summer months with some freelance work and a bit of teaching here and there. It has been cause for anxiety and a lot of soul searching. The cloud banks on the horizon are ominous and tunneled for most of us, not the least of whom the art educators like me, working independently and without a net. We are quite vulnerable, even more so than we have known previously.

But this afternoon I am curiously at ease all of a sudden. I have been in deep self-examination since May, no stone unturned. At times it has been a fire walk. I have managed to achieve a great deal of clarity.  I have taken a magnifying glass to my reasons for the career path I have chosen. In spite of the disruptions of our current economic and political climate, I believe that this is the work I should be doing.  I will persevere. 

I experienced a lengthy poetic quiet time. It lasted throughout much of the 80s and into the early 90s. In the silence of my pen, I invested a significant course of study in my spiritual understanding, learning principals of metaphysics. Poetry had fulfilled my spiritual need throughout my life until my early 30s, when the words ran dry in the face of constant frustration and roadblocks to living my truest identity as poet. It was a crisis of faith and I searched for understanding. This was equally frustrating since the questions, I have discovered, are often confounding, rarely answered and, if somehow there is an answer, it is  generally anything but concrete.

I had a caring teacher who opened me to an understanding of healing and connection that is based in faith and intuition, the metaphysical realm of being that became an even stronger part of who I am in all ways. Rev. Joan D. Lee had a classroom in the basement of her suburban split ranch that served as a conduit to community in so many ways. There are countless ones such as myself who have reasons to honor and thank Joanie for all she presented to us, the keys to our knowledge, faith, and talents, that we then used to open a multitude of doors. For many of us, we embraced our life work. Our circle grew quite wide.

Rev. Joan has been on my mind this week, as is generally the case in August. It is her birthday month. We are no longer in touch. I knew that her husband of 55 years, Raymond Lee, made his transition this past winter. I wondered how she was going to get by. Joanie didn't drive.

This morning, as is my habit, I checked the obituaries on line. There was a notice with Joanie's name, stating that she passed into the Light on July 17th. I gasped. Then I offered my gratitude and bid her well in her journey. Thank you, Joan, for opening my eyes to my own capacity at a time when I needed both a mirror and a guide. Tonight I will light a candle in the garden for both Ray and Joan. I will place it between my two rose bushes that struggle on in their bed with not enough sun. I wonder who will inherit your rose beds. Will they understand how much you loved them? How long they have danced their seasons for you?

During my poetic quiet time, I learned much, including a healthy regard for the quiet times; an artist needs them. I also reflected often to the universe, If I may be of service with my words, please allow me to have them back. That was 17 years ago.

In these 17 years, I have created my life based on my true self, the one I knew intimately when I was first comprehending that I loved words. I am a poet. I take this very seriously. 

In those 17 years, I have built a pedagogy and a sound practice that may be summed up in a 3-word motto: Empowerment through Language. I thank my friend Amanda Gormley for assigning the task that led to this summary. I have also written and published three books. There are at least four in my brain right now, waiting for my fingers to translate them into written language. One of them carries the title Psychometry. I will dedicate it to Joan.

In my work as a writer educator, no matter the age or circumstance of the students before me, I approach my work with intention and integrity. I have no agenda other than to foster the ability of others to engage truly with themselves, with others, and with their own connection to language, and earn a living sharing the knowledge and perspective I have developed over the 50 years I have identified as poet. I hope that what I have to say has relevance to others. I hope that people will cross more bridges of understanding the poets of the world provide to us all so we may learn of the world beyond the small stamps we each create on this planet. 

This is a devoted path. It is my life. And now I trust that the recognition for my work will be expressed in a way that I am able to continue to earn my living and build some sense of security I do not have now.

It is a bit intimidating but we are all faced with fears in this moment in history. It is a crossroads for us all, one way or another. The horizon may appear dark but the sun is always just beyond, sometimes just beyond reach as well. But honor your belief in the sun. It is a constant.

Complacency Is a Slow Death - Last Part (for now...)

Our workshop met for the last time yesterday, a 6-week cycle of sessions that I hope directed the writers to new ways of thinking about their work and, for a few, created fuel for new poems and directions.

They took the assignment seriously. Each brought a revision of my poem or a complete rewrite as they would envision it, as I had instructed. Several were still reticent to mess with my poem, others were quite comfortable taking it apart and making it something different and new.

I learned a lot about what the poem may be able to accomplish and why. I also recognized how completely buried I had become in the clever language that enamored me in the first place. It has been more than 2 years since the first draft and at least 18 months since the last so now I have a remarkably clear vision to rely upon in bringing the poem to its potential. I appreciate the efforts of each of the participants and I trust that the activity gave them something to consider as writers and editors.

I spoke last Saturday to my dear friend, Phil Alexander. We make a habit of sharing a weekend morning of puttering in our respective homes, his condo apartment in Brooklyn, my Victorian home in Syracuse, our headsets in our ears or phones on speaker, coffee cups probably in hand, and the little chores that need to be met.

We were talking about process and writing. I was discussing the purpose of being a poet and suggested that it is simply to make art, to investigate and experiment with language. Phil added that it was to use language to share a thought, feeling, or inspiration. I countered that I considered that the goal, but that to make a poem is about the discovery of the possibilities of language as a painter discovers the possibilities of paint in the experimentation. To me, in this stage of my life as a writing artist, the goal is secondary to the making; the product is secondary to process. 

Then Phil suggested that the poem communicates to another the essence of the artist and the artist's beliefs and understanding. I suggested that, to me, that is the mission. The process is for the purity of making art. The goal is to make art that another responds to, and the mission is to make art that translates meaning and experience to others in a valuable and conscious way. In speaking with my dear friend, once again, I clarified my own mission statement. Thanks Phil!

Thanks to those members of my poetry workshop too. Not only did they share process and craft with each other while they created new work, they also supported my efforts to continue to be a teaching artist. I am blessed with abundance in this life because I have such people to share it with me, who believe in me, who see me through, and show me the way to all things, including the potential of my own work.

Complacency Is a Slow Death - Part 2

The workshop conversation regarding critique and how we may learn from each other, provide new lenses with which to observe our own work was such a prod to me that I chose to take a tact that I have done before: I distributed copies of one of my own poems that is particularly troubling me and assigned the homework for the week - rewrite the poem. I instructed the workshop members to take full liberty. They were to read the poem and try to find a better way for the poem to reach its potential. There were no restrictions on how to do this.

I have done this before, mostly with introductory classes after I have driven home the revision process and its value. I have received comments from colleagues that this is "brave," "courageous," even "How can you do that? I never could." 

I don't see why this is so brave? I want to drive home a number of points: I am just as prone to be stymied by a poem and the best way out is someone else's perspective on the poem itself and as well as their sense of the craft; although we honor the work, it is not so sacred that we can't let people play in it a little bit; and the process of discovery is the point. If I grant permission to mess it up, then have at it with hole heart and see what may be found. 

Additionally, in having to reinterpret a poem, or to reflect the style of another poet, one gains as well. Having to respond to a poem by another writer in this way eliminates the emotional attachment that blocks some writers from comprehensive revision. The habit of revision must be cultivated and this is a fine exercise to support that cultivation, or so I believe. Plus, I am not so attached to my poem that I mind new interpretations. If I do not find anything that I value in the comments, it is my choice to not employ them, as is always the case with workshop comments. We, the poets, must always listen and then determine which of the comments support the essence of the poem, if any, and then make some changes based on what was gleaned.

I am looking forward to the results of the assignment. We will meet on Thursday for our last session of the summer. We will compare and contrast all of the interpretations of my poem and I will listen well. Then maybe I will distill all the comments in a way that I find the success that has eluded me thus far. I will report out to the blogosphere later in the week and share what resulted from this little foray.

Complacency Is a Slow Death

This summer, as I focus on teaching adults rather than classrooms of school kids, a conversation surfaced in the poetry workshop regarding critique and suggestions from one writer to another.

One of the workshop participants took issue with another participant for the habit of offering rewrite suggestions. He felt that it was against protocol to rewrite another poet's work. This gentleman stated that he was very interested in receiving "harsh criticism" but that no one should rewrite his draft. Meanwhile, another member of the workshop was grappling with receiving comments from the other writers that did not suggest options for revision; he felt that simply stating what a reader felt was or was not successful does not deliver enough to help him make critical decisions for the growth of his work. He wants to be given examples of "how to fix it."

Here we have the age-old debate concerning workshopping. Workshop is the best way for any writer to take the work to a "control group" to ascertain its effectiveness and strengths. It is necessary to maintain an air of mutual regard. It is also supremely important to remember the difference between "critique" and "criticism." The difference also connects directly to ego issues on both sides. There must be an air of safety and respect among all participants for a beneficial exchange. A skilled facilitator will set that tone in the beginning and expect it to be maintained throughout the life of the workshop.

There are those who believe that there is no place for one poet rewriting another's work but I do not concur. In fact, my answer to the first gentleman was "Yes and no." No to the concept that a poem brought to workshop is so sacred that it cannot benefit from the ways that other writers may see the potential for the language and offer suggestions in tangible ways. Yes to the point that if, in the editorial suggestions, the person offering critique changes the context of the poem, that is not appropriate. We must strive to maintain the intention of the poem, but to provide viable options for the poet to consider. Then it is the poet's choice as to which suggestions will help deliver the success of the poem for the greatest readership.

In workshop, a poet has two jobs: to fairly offer critique to peers that will show a writer how much the poem is connecting with readers in a positive manner and to listen to comments about one's own poem in order to weigh the considerations fairly in developing the work. The fundamental difference between the words critique and criticism is that the first is a positive commentary that provides a constructive opportunity for discovery in the work; the second is based in negative response and can be hurtful. There is no place for criticism in workshop but critique is the foundation of the workshop process.

I have often heard poets who participate in ongoing workshops say that they were not planning to attend a session because they did not have any work to share. This misses the first responsibility of a workshop participant, that which each writer brings to the others. This is based on just getting one's own needs met without reciprocity. I believe it is a selfish  indulgence and negates what we all give each other in the workshop process. It also negates the ability to hear something regarding craft that will teach or illustrate something that may be incorporated in one's own work as the commentary flies. As members discuss one poem, all that craft discussion is applicable to the whole. Listen well.

Two other elements of a successful workshop experience are that of nonattachment and the willingness to revise for discovery. Do not bring a piece of writing that you are delighted with and feel is complete. If you are so satisfied, fine. Send the work out to be considered for publication. Mail it to your mom. Don't bring it to workshop for a pat on the back; stretch your arm over your shoulder and give that to yourself.

Do bring a poem that you either believe is very close and could benefit from the last phase of tweaking so every word brings value to the whole or bring a poem that stymies you. Make the workshop experience productive, one that shows you new approaches and opportunities that will benefit your poetry.

You must be able to develop a thick skin, a nonattachment to the work that will give you free reign to discover what the poem wants to be more than what you believe it is. We must be the navigators, holding the map and watching the road, but we benefit by letting the poem be the driver.

This nonattachment features strongly in the profile of a mature writer, one who knows that it is not about the end product as much as it is about the process. The life of the writer is of writing and creating but many seem to think that it is about publishing and there is a crush to meet that goal that results in work that is almost meeting its own potential but falls inches short of the true finish line. Again I ask, "What is the rush?" Honor the poem first! Take the time to fully serve its potential. Be willing to cut and change, to look up words and search for the perfect synonym. Be willing to let the poem fully evolve and take its time in so doing. Be willing to allow others to offer suggestions that they recognize, potentials they witness, in the off chance their vision as a reader will give you a key to another door of possibility for the life of your poem.

And for heaven's sake, never indulge in complacency. If you cannot be open to grow and experiment, you are not a poet, you are someone who writes poems, and that difference is as vast as the two definitions I cited above. There is no place for complacency in making art.

What a Difference a Day Makes - Some Thoughts on Memoir

This summer I am teaching another in a series of memoir workshops. My approach in this class is somewhat different from previous classes. Instead of offering a number of writing prompts and approaches for initiating the story lines, I asked the participants to determine a thread or theme for the entire 6 weeks, creating the goal of a completed piece or series, declaring the outcome of success and achievement from the start.

In reading memoir in the last few years, I keep encountering the profile of the privileged woman with a loyal and committed husband, a successful career (often as a freelance writer), even a great cat or dog, and a malaise that can only be satisfied by taking a year off in some exotic land or ritualistic endeavor. Of course, there is likely the complaint of a decrease in discretionary funding but it will all work out because these women also have book deals.

Another model for a successful memoir is often the pot-boiler tell-all that shares the sordid and painful details of a troubled life, the horrid things that an individual has endured and every skeleton uncloseted for the shock value and loads of book sales, especially if the author is famous or the child of someone famous.

Then there are the exceptions to these two examples, the well-written, touching, and authentic sharing of one's personal story. Anne Lamott is a prime example; Patti Smith, Stephanie Hubbard, Kathleen Norris all meet that mark as well.

Everyone's story is important. We are losing the stories of previous generations, the ties to our families, our heritage, history itself. Start your story. Start it simply...what was the first day of school like, your first job, your first date, how did you learn to cook, describe the bathroom of the home you grew up in. Dedicate a file folder on your computer. Purchase a spiral notebook or a blank journal. Don't worry about whether or not you are a "good writer." Write the way you would tell a friend. Just start...