There is no living
from these
words
stories
songs
Whispering
voices
siren
suffocating
songs
Give in
retreat
despair
succumb
wrong
You’re wrong
to want
life
love
respect
No-one cares
who
what
why
how
No-one cares to
listen
read
touch
care
Whispering
voices
say
it’s
done
You
fool
for
even
trying
Hoping
believing
you
were
different
Whispering
voices
siren
suffocating
songs
Last week, I spent some time discussing my writing life with some interested folk. I’d been asked to attend a poetry reading, though the evening redirected itself towards my novels – that’s fine, it’s all just words that have travelled through me after all.
As I read a couple of chapters of Do Sparrows Eat Butterflies?
[by request, no less - is it possible for a writer to have a 'greatest hits' tour?]
I once again shared the genesis of the novel. In a nutshell, it goes like this:
I’ve told that story many times, I’ve got it squared away in my head, heart and soul. But once again, in the telling, I found people were interested in the journey I laid out. And my process for finding, exploring and, yes, writing a story.
All of which got me thinking about writer’s block.
Though I tell myself those 5 years of not writing were what the story needed to gestate, that I needed to grow before being ready to tell the story fully
[all of which is true through the denial/avoidance lens]
the truth is that I was blocked, by whatever definition exists for writer’s block.
Wait, there isn’t a single definition, let me create my own.
Writer’s block is the state of wanting to write, yet somehow not writing
I did a quick search this morning, and there are many articles on writer’s block, though few touch into my experience of how I moved through and in the block.
Here’s what the search told me:
If you are experiencing writer’s block, just write
And, yes, that is my experience. But saying that is like saying:
If you have severe vertigo and are scared to stand on the edge of the roof of a very tall building, just stand on the edge of the roof of a very tall building, you’ll get over it
I am sure the writers sharing this sage advice mean well
[and their advice is sound, the trick to moving through writer's block IS to write]
but it’s not enough. Everything I’ve read on the subject separates the writer from the writing. It all assumes that the writer is a fixed phenomenon, and that the problem is with the writing. That’s not my experience, which instead says its not either/or, and instead very much both/and.
Here’s where I’ve got to: writer’s block happens when a writer is not motivationally aligned with the story
[for fiction writers, let's call it 'subject' for everyone else]
they intend to write.
You are blocked, not someone else, and not the writing.
It’s writer’s block, not writing block.
Work on the writer, you unblock the writing.
None of the pieces I reviewed asked:
All the advice I reviewed assumed that the writer has considered such questions, and has aligned their writing self with the answers they’ve found.
And yet, in my experience, they haven’t.
And so we come to my epiphany. I’m a trained counselor, certified in use of psychometric assessment techniques, with nearly 2 decades of professionally assessing why people do what they do, and helping them do more of it. I’m also the author of 8 novels, a book of poetry and several screenplays. Until this week, I’d never put those two areas of experience together in my mind.
But I have now.
I’m uniquely placed to help people move within, through and out of writer’s block
[with a little more depth than simply saying "just write"]
and love to do so.
So, without a beat of hesitation, I’m developing some tools and an interactive approach to do just that. Locally, here in Connecticut, I’m planning my first workshop, which will be announced in the near future. There’ll also be an online/virtual offering. If you’re interested in trying any of it out, let me know. If you have a friend who writes and who is blocked, give them some love and point them in my direction.
In the meantime, stay tuned to vincet.net for what’s beginning to emerge
[and, yes, keep writing!]
If I were on
television
which I’m not
which is good
but if I were
I would say
fuck
many too many
times
for the censors
to avoid
immense
fits
of intense
apoplexy
That word
you see
seconded only
by the one
that begins
with a C
has been the
target
for
too
fucking
long
Yet
just the other
day
I caught
a cute
ad
from the BBC
and
an advert
for a beer
with which
I have a long
and fond
acquaintance
Both of which
jokingly
referred to
bollocks
with a cheeky
English
grin
I guess
offense
is selective
has ‘taste’
if you will
It’s OK with things
like
knob
boobs
bollocks
arse
shite
etc.
just not what
you might
do with
them
Well, after all
there might
be kids
watching
[From John's prompt: "Bollox"]
Fee-fi-fo-fum
we’re warned
when appetites
know few bounds
when ice cream
is joy
for breakfast
lunch
and supper
I’ll eat it all
we smile
as our plates
burgeon
ever-filled
by parents
supplanting
food
for love
Finish your lunch
you’ll get
just desserts
and pay no price
save that bloated
feeling
of too much
candy
Sugar rush
euphoria
Fast forward
fum-fo-fi-fee
to adult illusions
Sucked in gut
Crash diet
oblivion
Don’t eat it all
Manage portions
Just cut
stuff out
How?
How can I move
away from
love
when it’s
what I’ve been
told
is good for me
always?
I’ll eat it all
I’ll eat it all
’til there’s no more
worth eating
I’ll swallow
this planet
and everything on it
before I’ll admit
I am bloated
and feeling
ever so slightly
just a little sick
[From Dan's prompt: "Omnivorous"]
Swooping
I fear the drop
may claim me
once more
From peak to trough
I lurch
Lightning speed
The view
from up here
stolen as
depths yawn
wide
ever
wider
Swallowed
whole
in aching
totality
Maniacal
Emotional
Chemical
Imbalanced
balance
Imbibing
bitter fruit
and juice
which turns
me green
Vertigo
amplified
These round
and around
ups and
downs
[from Lynne's prompt: Depression]
Mired in mirrors
once more
Spiralling doubt
Aching
might-have-beens
millions strong
In lucid eyes
tears form
Choking threats
brimming
Wash-me-aways
grow large
Stuck in moments
Mired in
defeatist self
Engulfing
inertia-ridden-pauses
suck me down
Sucked into
the mire
Stuck
Stuck
Stuck
Come
wash me away
you tears
Please
come
wash me away
Swelling
Swallowing
Come to wash
me away
Wash me away
Wash me away
Come tears
Please
wash me away
[from HeĮp Cenƚer's prompt: A tear drop]
OK, first a warning: this will be something of a rant. I’m finally getting it all off my chest just so I don’t have to carry it any more.
And apologies to friends who aren’t in the US, because it’s most definitely an American thing
[though I do reserve the right to be informed it happens elsewhere]
OK. You’ve got fair warning.
Right now, in America:
We know this, right? It’s fact.
So, if I see Bill Clinton getting introduced anywhere as President Bill Clinton
[or even Mr President]
or New Gingrich getting introduced anywhere as Speaker Gingrich, or Mitt Romney being addressed as Mr Governor, any longer I will quite literally go thermonuclear.
Bill Clinton is an ex-president.
Newt Gingrich is the former speaker of the house.
Mitt Romney has not been Governor of MA since January 4, 2007.
[about the same time that Rick Santorum left the US Senate]
Or, in other words…
THEY DO NOT WORK THERE ANY MORE!
None of them have/had lifetime appointments.
I don’t know what it is that the media have to cling to titles – it’s certainly an aspect of American society, where the first question asked of anyone is “Oh, hi <insert name here> and what do you do?”
But in professional politics
[and let's not pretend that anything in the state or national arena is anything other than professional politics, it definitely isn't service]
every day sees implicit encouragement of the use of the last most senior title for candidates who are no longer employed in that job.
It’s laughable.
As a former/ex-recruiter
[see what I did there?]
it’s as laughable as an unemployed candidate coming to interview and demanding to be called by their last job title.
THEY DO NOT WORK THERE ANY MORE!
So say it with me: “Hey! Anderson Cooper, Wolf Blitzer, Sean Hannity, Rachel Maddow, and every other talking head who has the temerity to suggest they have credibility to inform my political consideration – label these people for what they are: professional politicians.”
[or has-beens, or quitters, or shirkers, or usurpers, or interlopers… the list is endless]
End rant.
There, and I even kept my language clean.
Yours,
Former-paperboy Vince Tuckwood
I’m working on a new song at the moment, which I hope will be good enough to include on my full length release, Sparse, later this year. In keeping with the spirit of the work, the music is open, soft and inviting and the lyric plays with meditational questions:
If you could just stop talking
you might hear
one hand clapping
a tree
falls a lonely fall
with no audience
held in its thrall
[And no, I'm not sure about the last line either]
As ever, the songs we channel, that just seem to appear, are those from which we have most to learn. Whether it be our subconscious supercomputer spitting out its findings, an observation we’re making of the world without even realizing it, some psychic premonition of things to come, or even
[for those who ascribe to such things]
the voice of Yahweh, sometimes we just have to shut up and listen.
So, what have I been hearing as this song has sung in my ear?
Well, the question goes: “If a tree fell in the wood, and no-one was there to hear it, would it still make a sound?”
A theoretical view: when the tree falls, it displaces air, potentially collides with other objects creating frictional energy, all of which has the potential to generate noise.
Done.
A humanistic view: the tree falls, but as no-one is there to here, the noise that’s generated cannot be interpreted as a sound.
Done.
A whole-Earth view: the tree’s fall was heard by thousands of creatures, all of which were enjoying their environment without the intrusion of humans.
Done.
My view?
In summer, the forest was struck by lighting during a fierce storm. Though the tree wasn’t hit directly, it’s near neighbors were, and a small fire scorched the outer bark, wounding the tree; mortally, as it would turn out. As Winter moved through the deep woods, cycles of frost and thaw weakened the tree further until, with the coming of Spring and Summer, the vines came back with a vengeance, covering the tree, pulling it hard back down to gravity’s home. The tree succumbed and fell.
No-one was there to hear it.
A pair of beavers, working on their lodge nearby, heard a crash in the woods and headed over to check it out. To their delight, they found the fallen tree, it’s branches still stout. With a little gnawing, the branches came free and the beavers worked together to drag them back to the pond, where they proved excellent material for construction. The lodge grew a little stronger thanks to those branches.
The next Spring, the beavers welcomed a new litter, raised in the warmth and safety of the lodge.
A little way off in the forest, the tree continued to moulder away, home to bugs, snakes, wood-lice, ants. A family of birds nested in the remains of its canopy. One of the chicks would later be eaten by a wandering bobcat; the nest to low to offer protection.
The tree lays silent, life proliferating in and alongside; all because of a fall that no-one heard.
The tree cares not whether we witness its regeneration in the multitude of life.
The tree knows.
My place in the world is but small in the story; I am a part, the teller, not the centre.
My song has reminded me.
And I pause once again to consider my luck in being able to tell the stories over and again.
Our third week at the Blue Crab, saw us move the open mic from the
[smaller]
bar into the
[larger]
restaurant – and, for most of the night, we filled the room. In total, we had over 20 musicians play during the course of the evening – as Dot Nielson of Gramma’s Attic Promotions would say: “WOW!!!”
A wide range of styles were on show, even including a wandering sax solo
[literally]
Here are just some of the performances from last night – shaky iPhone camerawork by yours truly while sitting at the sound-desk!
Tim Quinn started us off in fine style:
And Noah Feldman was back to share one of his originals:
A new face to the Blue Crab Mic Attack!, Anna Lennard – who, for some reason, I got fixed in my head was called Rebecca (sorry, Anna!):
Talking of new, we were also pleased to host the debut of two young musicians, Nico & Gerard, who did a great job:
Cathy Yuhas debuted a couple of works in progress – IMHO good enough to share here:
And, if you looked carefully at that video, you’ll have seen Bob “the Bass” Mayfield who jammed with most of the performers last night at some point – here he is with the Ian and Dustin Meadows:
Here’s Mark and Dave (and Bob, of course) on one of the rare occasions when Dave wasn’t walking the room, sax-ing it up
[yes, he is Saxy and he knows it]
The Suiter family were back, with the last gig for a while featuring Carl (Dad) and James (Son), as James is heading down to Alabama this Friday – best of luck, James!
And, proving that they have the patience of saints, last up on the bill were Two Reasons:
Also appearing, though not video’d
[apologies, I only have so many hands]
John & Mike, Molly Bowers, Emiro and Jesse McKellan
[who does not play Gandalf in the Lord of the Rings trilogy 
]
and, of course, yours truly.
I’ll be taking the night off from the Blue Crab next week, but Noah Feldman has graciously agreed to host in my absence, so be there to see the Blue Crab Mic Attack! open mic – Wednesday, 7-11pm.
And, as always, if you’re an artist listed above who I’ve not linked, let me know where you’re at online – and, please, get yourself a Reverbnation account!
A friend of mine is raving at the moment – RAVING – about Jonah Tolchin – it seems like every conversation of the past few weeks has included some mention of Jonah.
And, rightfully so, he’s very talented.
But this post isn’t about him.
It’s about me. And my friend.
More to the point, it’s about you.
See, earlier this week, after weeks of her recommendations, my friend asked me “what do you think of Jonah Tolchin?”
And, in all honesty, I replied that I hadn’t got around to listening to him yet.
There was a moment. One of those moments. We looked at each other, her with some measure of shock and hurt in her eyes, and me feeling that prickle of discomfort that I’d somehow done something wrong. The moment held, and then we got back to doing what we do best, blending energies to make everything move forward for the better.
But, as ever, I’ve been mulling it over.
We live in a recommendation-saturated world.
To build your online profile, to become “known”, is to draw eyeballs to your website, or band page, or gigs, regardless of whether those people stick around, whether they listen, whether they read. We’re being inculcated to equate passing interest with abiding care.
[and, yes, I did just use the world inculcated]
They’re not the same thing.
Is it better to have 20 people at a gig who are giving their full attention, or 40 who are talking all the way through the songs?
After the gig, in the telling, it’s always the higher number that wins out – but in the moment, I’ll take the 20 who are listening than the fat geezer at the bar holding court with his band of wankers, lording it over everyone’s conversation…
But I digress…
Fact is, I hadn’t said I’d listen to Jonah, so hadn’t broken any commitment, nor do I ever commit to following a recommendation, unless I fully intend to follow through.
I wish people were that honest and clear-cut with me.
See, one of the hazards of the online world is that artists can get, if they’re that way inclined, near-immediate feedback on listens, sales, reads, eyeballs, visits and probably, with the right skills, the mental health of visitors.
Put it simply: I know how many people listen to my songs, how many people buy my books, how many people read this blog post. Immediately.
And I know that those numbers are FAR lower than the number of people who say they’ll listen to my songs, read my books or visit the blog.
I wrote about how that feels last summer, and I don’t intend to rehash that here.
But I will say that, I think people have a knee jerk when speaking with an artist, of expressing interest and excitement, some of which is driven by wanting to be “nice”
[and the very American leaning towards passive-aggressive superficiality]
but most of which, I truly believe, is in very, very good faith – i.e. people say “oh, I’d love to hear you” and they really mean it. But then something happens, life intrudes, whatever, and they never quite get around to it. No biggie, right?
But it is, because now, the artist can see that you haven’t followed through. And when that one becomes ten, becomes twenty, none of whom follow through – well, you can see how that begins to feel like an insult, right? It’s not just me. I know it’s not.
I’ve lived with this long enough now to have recognized the pattern. It goes like this:
Me: “Yes, that’s right… I have published a number of books.”
Them: “Really?! How exciting! What are they about?”
Me: “Contemporary fiction, stories….”
[for your sake, we're hitting fast forward on the description, but just know it's to the point and makes me feel awfully like I'm over-self-promoting]
Them: “I’ll definitely check them out!”
Me: “Cool, let me know what you think, OK?”
Them: “Definitely.”
[weeks pass - I know they didn't act - every day when I check the numbers - our paths cross]
Them: “Oh, I didn’t get around to it. I really do need to read your stuff!”
Me: “Great. Let me know what you think, OK?”
Them: “Definitely.”
[weeks pass - no, scrub that, rinse and repeat the above for several cycles]
Eventually, I don’t even mention it. The deflation is mine. Completely and utterly mine.
Though sometimes, they do follow through. And they let me know what they think, like I asked. And guess what? Words like excellent, a story that tells itself, couldn’t put it down, difficult to tell if it’s fiction or reality the characters are so real. I feel elated and, as ever, blissfully thankful that I have art in my life and that people have cared enough to have shared in the journey.
And for a little while, that elation erases the bitter taste of so many broken promises. For a little while.
I said earlier, this isn’t a whine, but can I ask a favor – if you’re not a reader, please don’t tell a writer that you’ll read his books; if you don’t listen to anything but top-40 radio, please don’t tell a musician that you’ll spend some time at her website. It hurts more when you do that than just saying, “best of luck, I’m sure your stuff is really good, but sorry I won’t get chance to check it out”. Honest, it really does.
If you tell me you sing, or you write, or you have a website and I meet the news with a poker face, please know that it’s nothing personal.
And, please, if you are madly in love with an artist’s work, and can’t hold back from recommending them, don’t expect anyone to follow up on your recommendation. Recommend by all means, but if someone is honest enough to say that won’t follow up, or that they haven’t followed up, know that they’ve been honest from the outset and unwilling to lie to your face while reverting to their truth behind your back.
Thank you for reading. As ever, you have my love.
Vince
PS: by the way, you really should check out Jonah Tolchin – he’s very, very good. After all… he comes with the highest recommendation )
