VinceT

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:

• In the previous novel (completed in 1993/4) the main character, George, gets to a railway platform as he tries to escape London
• I had in my head that he would leave the city and travel to a drop-out community where he would experience his turning point.
• Something made me make George turn around
• And the drop-out community became Certainty in Do Sparrows Eat Butterflies?
• However, when I got to page 60 of Sparrows, I put it down and didn’t write another word for 5 years
• When, in 2001, the story could no longer be contained

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:

• Why am I writing?
• Who am I writing for?
• What do I believe I should be writing?
• What do I want my writing to achieve?
• What do I want writing to do for me?
• What do I want writing to do to my audience?

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!]

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"]

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 )

A great open mic this week at the Blue Crab Steakhouse, Old Saybrook. Some known musicians and others new to me, all friends now!

As last week, we had some stage-sharing, new musical blends. Here’s a great example where Cathy Yuhas and Bob Mayfield are joined onstage by the fantastic Emiro on lead guitar – so pleased to have him visit with us again this week!

We were also treated to some great songs from Sue Mead:

Carl Suiter, family and friends were also in the house, first up his son, James:

Then Carl took to the mic, what a treat!

A little later on, we were joined by PJ:

Also joining us at the second Blue Crab Mic Attack! were The Meadows Brothers, Mark Proccaccini and his friend, whose name I unfortunately didn’t catch, but for whom I was happy to provide the backing for Stormy Monday!

We’ll be back next week – Wednesdays, 7-11pm – so bring your acoustic self down and enjoy a Blue Crab Mic Attack!

… Elton John said that. Or, more likely, Bernie Taupin did.

But I digress.

A good friend of mine was browsing my online profile t’other day

[thanks, Dianne!]

and dropped me a Facebook comment:

I like “You Say”, but Vince, why all of the darkness in your songs? Your life is extremely full, awesome and positive. MOST of your songs are dark. “You Say” has more of an upbeat melody, which I like, even though the words are still a little bit dark. Is it that sadness, in general, writes better music? Just wondering what drives your music.

It’s such a great question, and not the first time I’ve been asked – by others and, more importantly, by myself.

I’ve been writing songs for upwards of 30 years now and, while my capabilities have improved, my muse has proven pretty consistent. I didn’t always know how to say/sing what I wanted to, and when I listen back to earlier songs, they feel clumsy, indistinct, unrealized. But the core of them is true to what I wanted to share.

All of which is a way to say that I don’t know that I so much choose to write songs as much as these songs move through me and out into the world. Any musician, actually let’s expand that to artist, who has travelled into and through their muse, has given themselves up to it, will know what I mean here – the muse works through us.

As BB King said about Stevie Ray Vaughan – “Stevie doesn’t play the blues, the blues plays through Stevie.”

So, what do I know of my muse?

First of all, it reflects – I spend most of my time watching the world, watching people, sensing patterns within the chaos, gradually piecing together my ‘grand theory of everything’. It’s lonely over here – a thread about connection and belonging shows up all over the place in my songs.

All of that stuff, drops down into my subconscious which just chews over and over. Eventually something burps up to my front brain – I can usually sense it brewing; in dreams or idle moments. Sometimes it’ll be a song fragment, or a story idea, or a blog piece, or whatever form it takes.

Having done this for my whole life, I’ve got pretty good at letting my subconscious be, and trust it’ll tell me when it’s ready. I’ve also learned to give it a kick every now and then – my poetry prompts at Facebook, using Plinky, forcing myself to write on a given subject, all ways of keeping the wiring alive.

To Dianne’s question, though, why does my music tend toward the dark?

Well, firstly, I’ve come to believe that certain chords and progressions resonate with me – when I’ve spent time thinking on it, or discussing it, I wonder about physical resonance, the length of vocal chords, resonant cavities in the head

[you know, the ones that fill up with snot when you have a cold]

and know that certain tones just work for me – A minor, for example, shows up all over the place in my songs. Some of that, though, is the form-factor of the six-string guitar in standard tuning. A minor is part of a walking set of chords, C, F, Em, G, Dm that just work for most songs.

So, physically, I ‘get’ minor chords and they’re natural for me to play on the guitar. That leans my music towards the dark.

But it doesn’t cover lyrical content, does it?

Dianne is right, my life is full, awesome and positive – and has been for as long as I can remember – I am truly, truly lucky in life and love. But my muse knows that, even then, I experience doubt, sadness, and fear. And that dreadful loneliness. We all do. It is the human condition – all those survival instincts and neurons don’t disappear just because life is good. We’re wired to respond to threat.

We’re also painfully aware of our own mortality.

“Even if time is just a flicker of light, and we all have to die alone” (The Finn Brothers, “Won’t Give In”)

And I think, when it comes to my muse, that’s what shows up. Most of my art has a yearning for life – it’s touched by wonder of what is, and the crushing sadness that one day it won’t be there any more. Each moment looking in my kids eyes, knowing that moment can’t be lived again. There is so much life to be lived and so little life in which to live it. And, though I never want to lose a single moment, that next moment looks oh so enthralling.

So, Dianne, that’s the core of my muse, the yearning and melancholy of my own mortality. But I’ll throw the question back, maybe I’m lucky in this life because my muse let’s me discharge the things that could sabotage me? If I play out my neuroses, anxieties and stress in my songs and stories, aren’t I removing them from the enormous hopper that is my subconscious? If I connect with anyone who listens or reads, aren’t I looking that loneliness in the face.

But there’s more. When I say my muse reflects, I also mean that it means something to my audience. To take a personal experience, emotion, sensation and turn it to universal meaning is the ultimate artistic act. Think of U2, who took a personal reaction to intra-band tensions during the Achtung Baby sessions and turned it to the truly universal anthem, “One”.

For this reason, I don’t often describe what’s going on in songs, or more specifically the writing of them

[except For Granted, which is dedicated to Jo Short, a dear friend who we lost to cancer]

I’m always trying to expand my muse to encompass and engage others’ experience. I don’t always get it right, but when I do I know, because people tell me.

And so, we come to the final part of this extended answer. Why do I write these songs, with their melancholic dark edge?

Simply because, no matter how the surface may seem, how much people exist in their story, everybody experiences some of what I’ve been describing and if I can offer even a moment of understanding, solace, reflection, or sympathy – to let people know they’re not alone with it – I will. That’s my muse, that’s why I sing, that’s what I offer to the world.

There, D, now you see why I couldn’t fit it in a Facebook comment!

And, as ever, thanks for being here, you have my love.

For too long
these shapling
structures
consumed our air
and swallowed
our
best
hearts

Drowning
out yearning
disavowing all
desire
for freedom
to choose
our
best
paths

Finally abandoned
obtuse orders
constrictions
fighting free
yielding promise
our
best
ideas

Our muse swelling
creative
“Here we are!”
Yelling at bonds
Those pitiful
objectionable
meaningless
fear-driven
tethered restraints

“These!”
we cry
“These are
our
best
hearts!”

Flooding
dungeons
Emitting
Radiant
Exultant
Breaking
senseless bounds

We screamed
emergent…

Emerging
from
the shroud

Birthday in about a week’s time – that’ll make it 44 years since I popped out and said ‘Hi!’ to the world.

Though I had my eyes tested last week – and need prescription specs – I don’t worry about growing old.

Never have.

I want to grow old like Neil Young – doing what I love doing, on my own terms.

I want to grow old like Christopher Hitchens – irascible, non-accepting of moral weakness.

I want to grow old like Mother Theresa of Calcutta – caring until the end.

I want to grow old like my Nan and Gramps – loved, loved, loved.

I want to grow old like me.

Just like me.

I was interviewed at The Examiner over the weekend as my last formal stop on the Family Rules Virtual Book Tour:

“… I can, and do, write pretty much anywhere. At home, my office is chaotic, but I fall through the computer screen pretty quickly and all the junk and paraphernalia on my desk disappear.

I always have music on when I write, and I count that as the most important part of my writing environment. I usually write to what I call ‘transport music’, floating away from my own moment and into the landscape of the story. For Family Rules, and especially the redraft, I was listening a lot to the Scottish band Mogwai, who make epic heavy instrumental rock, very powerful stuff.

So, I tend to think of my writing environment as my MacBook Pro, a screen and transport music, all taking me into the heart of my stories…”