Is there a correct amount of time to spend writing a book?
If there is, I broke every rule with this one.
My previously untitled “balloon-man project” is nearing completion. I designed the cover this morning. I finished the layout last night. I’ll probably publish it tomorrow.
This book is really about obsession—especially as it applies to us creative types. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of need that an especially appealing project creates in the belly of a creative.
And there’s nothing like that feeling of knowing it’s done. Even if you broke all the rules getting there.
It’s 12:30 a.m. and I have to be up at 7 a.m. My son graduates high school this weekend. I’m working between graduation events. It’s a busy weekend.
But I’m up right now because I really wanted to share something else from my balloon-man project. You know, the one that seized me by the freaking throat, picked me up and shook me until I agreed to indulge it? And now it won’t let me go.
Okay, maybe that’s a bit violent of a description for what’s going on here, but I do feel like this one came out of nowhere. I mean, I decided to write sonnets one day and bam. There it was. Twenty sonnets in two days, all connected, telling a story. And now I’ve illustrated more than half of them and I’m pretty sure I know how to lay them out in book format (a very tiny book), and I’m thinking it’ll be ready about the same time as Hypercreativity, which I worked on for months.
Yesterday I found a pink hair in my sink. No, I don’t play with Strawberry Shortcake dolls. I do dye my hair pink, though.
So what’s the big deal about finding a pink hair in my sink?
I couldn’t figure that out, either, at first. But for some reason, it thrilled me. It slowly dawned on me. It’s not a white hair because I dyed it pink. I did that. I caused a change in my life.
Over the course of the past year, I’ve come to the very difficult conclusion that I do not control the universe. Stuff I am not okay with will happen and I will most likely have to deal with it and I won’t be able to make a significant change in it. But then there’s other stuff that happens and if I don’t like it, I can change it.
Like white/silver/grey hair. No matter what you call it, if you don’t like it, you can change it. I looked at that pink hair and it thrilled me because I can’t change what the universe and other people will do to me, but I can change what I do to myself. I can curl up in a corner and cry because the universe SUCKS and is beating the crap out of me (sometimes), or I can come out swinging. And that’s what that pink hair represents.
I can’t change the universe, but I can change the color of my hair. Look out, universe.
Fear and hope. One can easily defeat the other. It’s a matter of which wolf we choose to feed.
I’ve fed both in the past. Fear is a scavenging beast of a wolf. His ribs always show, regardless of how much you feed him. He’s always wanting more. More of your confidence, more of your dreams, more of your self. He brings nothing but doubt.
Hope is a mighty warrior when you feed her. She’ll slay Fear before he can eat your soul. She’ll encourage you to reach for those dreams, even when it seems there’s no way you’ll ever achieve them. She brings joy and life and love.
I am almost finished with my next poetry book Hypercreativity. During the course of putting it together, I realized that although I always want to choose to fill Hope’s bowl with kibble, I often dribble it into Fear’s. Because you have to consciously make a choice to feed Hope, but Fear is always there, waiting.
I made a conscious decision to finish my book with a healthy feeding for Hope. I’m pleased with that decision because my entire writing life is built on Hope. She needs to be strong.
This isn’t exactly a new poem. It was inspired by my oldest son but over the course of the past year I’ve seen more and more instances of strength in all three of my kids. They’ve been generous with that strength, too, loaning it to me when I needed it. Like a warm coat they take off their own shoulders to place over mine.
So thank you, kiddoes. Without you I wouldn’t be me.
Poem and illustration copyright 2022 Michelle Garren-Flye
And so we have rushed, headlong, to the end. The end of April, the end of the beginning of spring, the end of National Poetry Month, and the end of my renga.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my life up to this point. I should definitely be past the beginning of spring. Well established in my, ahem, fifties, however, I’m not certain if I ever had one.
This year, this project forced me to look closely at the spring that was not just happening, but living and breathing all around me. I saw how the flowers bloomed, how they started as tiny buds, but because they knew from the beginning what they were supposed to do, they just did it without question. They spread petals, inviting the visits of pollinators and the gentle brush of spring breeze to spread the pollen that not only makes us sneeze but also carries their DNA to another willing recipient.
The flowers do this because they know what they are meant for. As human beings, we question. We doubt our talents and our abilities and our purpose. This leads to anger and resentment and despair. Most of us never fully experience our spring and are therefore not ready for summer because we’re stuck in that thawing stage at the beginning, unable to fully realize our potential because we just don’t believe.
(As an example, I’m doubting these words even as I write them.)
It’s a difficult thing believing in yourself. Going all in for what you want to do and be. More and more I’m trying to do that. Maybe even at this point in my life, it’s not too late for spring.
Poem and illustration copyright 2022 Michelle Garren-Flye
Ever considered doing something kinda nuts (nuts just because it’s totally out of character for you, not like dangerous or anything)? I feel like I’ve spent most of my life rushing headlong toward the end and now I want to put on the brakes and just enjoy. I might get whiplash if I put them on too hard, though, so I’m still hesitating. Hesitating while rushing onward.
Poem and illustration copyright 2022 Michelle Garren-Flye
On Saturday I actually give a fairly long speech about the history of poet laureates. I’m a bit nervous, not to mention ambivalent about closing my store for a couple of hours to do it. But it’s the last day of National Poetry Month, and I’m discovering I actually like public speaking once I get past the scary moment at the beginning—and if I am fully prepared with a written speech that I’ve read out loud several hundred times. This was an interesting one, too. I had to do a lot of research since I didn’t know that much about poet laureates (I had some idea that it came from Greece because of the whole “laurel” thing). What I found was equal parts interesting, amusing, and inspiring. If I wrote the speech right, maybe it’ll come out that way for my audience.
In the meantime, my spring renga is rushing to its close.
Poem and illustration copyright 2022 Michelle Garren-Flye
No real thoughts today except that I do think my artistic skills are improving lol. This rose, compared to the rose in verse 19, is far better. And the rose in verse 19 is better than the ones I drew in 100 Warm Days of Haiku. Most of them, anyway. Hopefully my art will improve along with my writing. We’ll see. That is always my ambition, at any rate. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve written the greatest poem ever only to read it a week later and think, god, what garbage…
I guess I did have a thought or two.
Poem and illustration copyright 2022 Michelle Garren-Flye
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 