When That Frequency Dies…
July 29, 2008
As I was trying to lull myself to sleep tonight (and clearly I’ve lost as it is now 1:25 am), I think I’ve finally come across a theory that could explain my nearly 7 month writing drought. It’s no new revelation truth be told, but everyone must come to their own conclusion in their own time.
I’ve spent the last few weeks (months if I tell you honestly) chasing “stabilty”, benefits and a big girl’s paycheck. I’ve spent the last few days in a job hunting frenzy because as August approaches, so does the semester soon. That’s not to say I’ve lost my desire to remain Professor Athena, but the road to that title officially is still full of many more adjunct positions. As a part-time job it’s pretty good, but unless you are a road warrior at multiple schools (which I will be this fall if I teach) that’s all it is. It’s a stepping stone and I’m ready to step up.
I rolled around in bed, my mind mulling over my accident from Friday and wondering what happens if the other party does not hold up to his agreement to pay for the damages, and it came to me. This frenzy, if it pays off how I am hoping it to, will end in death. Of course I don’t mean the end of my life, but death nonetheless. My fear, and what I almost know will happen, is that once that which I seek is obtained my “poet” is lost. I will have become yet another skeleton career at the bottom of poetry’s ocean. I mean I will be one of those people that published a few pieces, did a few performances, sold a few chapbooks and earned a few degrees, but no one will ever know me. I know that poets hold day jobs, but it just feels that way. For every Anme Sexton, Major Jackson. Tracey K. Smith, Emily Dickenson and Seamus Heaney there are thousands just like me who will never know what that sort of recognition, that sort of respect and that kind of purpose feels like. It saddens me.
Yesterday I saw Children of Men again and ironically it seems to fit. After the bombing, Julian tells Theo that the high pitch squeal he’s hearing is the sound of his ear cells dying and after it goes he’ll never hear that frequency again. Perfect right?
Far be it from me to give any writer “advice” at all… Realizing I’m Ms. Writes-every-year-or-so as of late. However, I’ve had this kind of conversation with Mike on several occasions.
Let me ask you this… Do you write because you want recognition and respect? Or do you write because you are a writer? Are you a poet because you want to earn the title, or because all that’s ever been in your heart to do is be a poet?
One thing Mike’s realizing is that it’s very difficult to make your art a full time job. The reason is that it then becomes “work.” The creativity and passion gets muddled up with things like “benefits” and “financial planning” and “insurance” and “productivity” and “evaluations”… Not beauty and creation and growth. As such, he’s chosen to keep art… art. The funny thing is, he’s making more money at it now than he ever did before.
I guess what I’m saying is… write because you have to. Not for a paycheck, or because that’s what people with MFAs do. Write because if you don’t, the words won’t get spoken.