September 🍁: On Being an Artist
...and the making of art, whatever that is
Hi, all.
In the past month, I’ve:
traveled internationally for 2 weeks
gotten the stomach flu, along with my husband and three kids
moved
had an oops-moment with an important contract, probably due to all of the above
enrolled my kids in a new school
continued to face a very challenging relational situation that has zapped a lot (a lot) (a LOT) of my time, energy, and spirit this year
So I’m sorry that I’m not feeling particularly snappy or witty. I had grand plans of writing an essay all about epistolatory novels, and why I love them, and why I made What Happened to Rachel Riley one. But instead, I think I’ll tell you about poetry.
In college, I told a friend I hated poetry.
This was true, at the time. Clunky words written by trying-too-hard arTISTS, the kind that drink milk from strange animals and wear felt berets. The kind who have faced oppression, the kind who have driven across the country in a Toyota Corolla listening to Steve Winwood, the kind who do not have Costco memberships. Poetry felt like a far-away grasping at straws; an attempt to throw random words together and declare they have meaning. This friend whipped out his laptop and made me sit and read all of the poems he wrote in high school.
…it was a whole thing.
Anyway, eventually I did what all white Christian women do in their late 20s: started reading Mary Oliver.
Mary Oliver writes about God, but she does so by writing about herons, and grass, and the gate in her backyard. She started every morning by standing in her backyard with a cup of coffee, just staring out over nature. She’d walk among her weeds, feel the roots of the trees underneath her slippers. And then she’d write about it.
Mary Oliver’s poems spoke to me in a way that’s hard to describe. It was a different type of reading: not following a particular narrative, but uncovering some kind of truth about the human experience through the very way she pierced words together.
Someone buy me a Corolla. I’m becoming an arTIST!
Except that I’m not, of course. My poems are terrible. They clank and clamor; I read back over them and see every ounce of trying. Mary Oliver winces from Heaven, then pats me on the shoulder and asks if I wouldn’t prefer to stick to prose.
But here’s the thing: I love writing poetry. I love this odd little art form. I love doing something I’m bad at. I love the lack of pressure, the lack of hustle. I will work on a poem for five months before doing absolutely nothing with it. I will return to it, tweaking this word and that. Nobody is waiting for me to finish a poem. Nobody is going to pre-order it or not pre-order it. Anthony Doerr has written about how church liturgy is similar to storytelling in that it uses the tangible details to reveal invisible truths, and isn’t that poetry in a nutshell? Words trying to convey feelings; sentences trying to evoke emotions. It’s whimsical and difficult and it’s been making me feel more like a writer, even without the beret.
I used to love spending a Saturday morning or two every month writing fiction. I would order a giant latte + some kind of sugary treat, and I would write, crafting a story and a world out of my mind.
I would never consider that “fun” now. I wouldn't ask to do it on a Saturday morning. I still love to write fiction, but now I have deadlines, obligations, expectations. The love remains, but the fun has (somewhat) vanished. I’m being given money for it; someone is waiting on it. Writing poetry is still fun, because there are none of those things. It sounds dreamy, to me, to get a peanut butter muffin and sit at the coffee shop, twiddling away on a poem.
So here’s to spending autumn doing something you love. Do I have, you know, time for this particular creative hobby? No. I’m currently promoting one book, editing another, drafting another, and researching a fourth. And I’m allegedly in charge of keeping three small humans alive.
But I also don’t have time to not write poetry. Who could live an entire life on this earth without doing the things that make your soul sing? Who could avoid trying to make sense of suffering through some type of art, whether it’s putting together an impeccably beautiful house or running an ultramarathon or writing a dreadful poem?Isn’t it art to make your kitchen beautiful after a long day of five children eating in it? Isn’t it art to keep bees, to design an app, to say a rosary? Isn’t it art to teach kids, to mend broken bones, to steam milk for a latte or bake a loaf of sourdough? Why is the mother who selects the perfect throw pillow for her new couch any less of an artist than the man who sells a painting for $3,000? Why is the teenager who writes a lamentation in her journal any less of an artist than Mary Oliver?
“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” - Thomas Merton
So often in our side hustle economy, we look to monetize our art. We want it to find its place in the marketplace. Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for making money, and I’m sure Mary Oliver had quite a nice little will at the end of her life. I’m married to an Eastern European; I’m vocationally obligated to appreciate capitalism. But there’s something to be said for an art form that we simply enjoy. And that we do for the sake of the beauty it creates.
I write poetry because it’s good for my soul, the same way eating broccoli is good for your heart. I also write it because I enjoy it. I hope you have something like that in your life, and if you don’t, I hope you can work towards finding it this autumn.
ArTISTS, we are! ArTISTS, everyone of us!
I’m so excited to be presenting about middle grade books and why they matter to the Central Wisconsin Book Festival on 9/24. You can find more details about my event here! It’s 110% free and I would absolutely love to meet you if you’re in the central WI area. I’ll also be selling signed copies of my books.
Speaking of my books…have you preordered What Happened to Rachel Riley yet?! I know. I know! You’re sick of hearing about it. I’m kind of sick of asking you for it. But the Powers That Be tell me preorders matter, so I ask, like a “boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” (Name that book, a favorite of mine that my sister-in-law told me was “trash” because she is RUDE.)
If you’re planning on buying the book, it would mean the world to me if you would consider buying it in advance. Then when it arrives on your doorstep on 1/10/23, it’ll feel like a belated Christmas gift. You deserve it!
Carrie Firestone, the author of Dress Coded, had these kind words to say: "What Happened to Rachel Riley has every single thing a middle grade reader could want: a twisty mystery; relatable, authentic teen characters; and the kind of demonstrated courage that seeps into our souls and leaves us feeling brave. This book is going to change lives."
And GoodReads reviewer Deena said this: “I wish I could give this book 10 stars. Even more! Every single middle school student, teacher, volunteer, and parent should be required to read this book.”
And lastly, a book I’ve loved lately for…
Kids: Franklin’s Neighborhood by Paulette Bourgeois. Well, really, all the Franklin books. All of them. GIMME MORE OF THAT TURTLE. These stories are the sweetest things; I’ve loved them since my own childhood and to see my kids ooh and aah over Franklin’s cozy kitchen and cackle over his arguments with Beaver is just such a delight. This one in particular is very autumn-esque.
Middle graders: The Abby in Between series by Megan E. Bryant is a fun read, and very reminiscent of the types of books I loved as a middle grader. Lots of talk about puberty, friendship conflicts, and real life things that seem very, very, very ginormous to a 12-year-old. They almost have an American Girl vibe, which I love. Why do I feel like there are no middle grade books about puberty anymore? Did girls stop wanting to read about getting their period? Where’s Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret when you need her, am I right?!
Adults: Sometimes I get in the mood for a bit of armchair travel, and on a whim I picked up Four Seasons in Rome by Anthony Doerr after a few of you suggested it on the ‘gram. Stunning writing, a fascinating account of the funeral of John Paul 2, and hilarious tales of twins?! Bellissimo. Five bajillion stars, and I will now trounce off to read every single thing Anthony Doerr has ever written.
Thanks for reading along!
-Claire-