BornWilder

Author. Certified Coach. Catalytic Speaker

Cheryl Wilder

On Writing Practice

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On Tuesday, March 23rd, I celebrated Anything That Happens with a virtual book launch. (Watch it here.) There were thoughtful, engaging questions from the audience. Due to time constraints, some questions weren’t addressed or didn’t receive thorough answers. For the next handful of blog posts, I’m going to answer these questions in more detail.

What does your writing practice look like now, when you put pen to paper?

My writing practice changed at the beginning of the pandemic. Before then, I primarily wrote on the computer. The pandemic prompted me to spend more time online, and I felt a pull to separate my creativity from the news.

I use a sketch pad with an Optiflow pen. When I don’t have an idea, I draw. Moving the pen around the page often opens me up. After I get a first draft, I transfer the poem to the computer. At some point during revision, I print and revise on paper. I read the poem aloud while walking around my office (or the upstairs bathroom when everyone is home). From there, it’s back and forth between the computer and a printout.

It took a while to learn that I need to move my body to create. I thought being away from the desk meant I was ignoring the work. But I need movement; gardening, hiking, yoga, dancing, and even cleaning. During the pandemic, I couldn’t do a lot of deep thinking. I relied on movement to keep my creativity flowing. Writing prompts are great, but I don’t often use them. I use movement to prompt me.

Do you write at certain times of day or in certain places? Or does it happen organically in bits and pieces?

My schedule has fluctuated over the years. During graduate school, I wrote mostly at night and on the weekends. When there were babies in the house, I wrote very little, if at all. Flexibility has been a consistent part of my writing practice.

A more consistent writing schedule came when my youngest boys went to kindergarten in 2018. I work part-time from home, which allows me time to write. I do my best generative writing in the morning, whether I start at 5:00 a.m. or 9:00 a.m. Writing also happens in bits and pieces. There are notebooks and pens all over the house, inside every purse, and stashed in the car. I strive to make the writing happen and to let it happen. No matter where I start a poem, I always return to the “workshop” to get the writing done.

It took decades for me to have my own office (with one exception in 2009-2010.), and it’s where I want to write. The exception is during final revisions or when I am stuck. While working on Anything That Happens, I went to Cup22 in Saxapahaw, NC, to revise. I also took mini solo trips to spend uninterrupted time working.

I don’t pull late nights writing anymore. Instead, I like to be asleep by 10:00 p.m. so I can start over again in the morning.

Writing Practice Summary

Movement – Keep the writing brain ignited while moving your body.

Flexibility – Adapt to life’s changes instead of fight against them.

Space – Find the space where you feel “at home” as a writer.

Quote and photo by author. (From “Moon Poem” in Anything That Happens.) All rights reserved.

On Accident

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When we want to heal after tragedy, we look for answers. Answers aren’t easy—if there are answers at all.

People reassured me a car crash wasn’t my fault, even though I was behind the wheel drunk, because it was an “accident.” “Accident” was their answer, and it seemed to provide closure. The word “accident” made me feel even more alone.

When I spill a glass of water or trip and knock over a lamp—those are accidents. When I drive drunk and crash a car…

Yes, the crash was unintentional. I didn’t plan to drive drunk or lose control of the car. I didn’t plan for my friend in the passenger seat to suffer brain damage. But this didn’t absolve my actions leading up to the crash. And “accident” didn’t help me heal: I didn’t know how to live in a world where I was capable of this tragedy. I needed language that held me personally responsible. (I’m not talking about stricter incarceration laws—that doesn’t help.) Until that happened, I couldn’t begin to forgive myself. I couldn’t learn from my mistake in the way I needed and wanted.

Anything That Happens

It wasn’t until I looked up the definition for “accident” that I realized why the word made me feel lonelier and even more helpless than I already did.

accident (‘ӕksidәnt), sb. [a. Fr. accident: —L. accidens. –ent, sb. properly pr. pple. of accid-ӗre to fall, to happen.]

  1. Anything that happens.
  1. † a. An occurrence, incident, event. Obs. b. Anything that happens without foresight or expectation; an unusual event, which proceeds from some unknown cause, or is an unusual effect of a known cause; a casualty, a contingency. the chapter of accidents: the unforeseen course of events. c. esp. An unfortunate event, a disaster, a mishap.

[The Compact Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed., s.v. “accident.”]

I’m not alone in this thinking. Here’s two articles: “It’s no accident” and “When a car crash isn’t an accident.” Both talk about the “Crash not Accident” effort started by Transportation Alternatives and Families for Safe Streets based in New York City.

On a similar note—and yet a whole other discussion—restorative justice “is an approach to justice in which one of the responses to a crime is to organize a meeting between the victim and the offender, sometimes with representatives of the wider community.” (Wikipedia)

Quote and photo by author. All rights reserved.

On Planning

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100-year-old tobacco barn on snowy mountainside

I’m not a natural planner. I was born to go with the flow (Hello, Pisces!). Spreadsheets and lists make me want to run for the hills. And please don’t ask me to write an outline. But over the years, I have succumbed to the daily planner and made great use of it until the pandemic. My planner has all but grown legs and escaped out the window.

For example, the paragraph above was written for my January blog post. But I wrote the incorrect publish date on my calendar and only realized it a week after the post was due. Then, my book release date was decided, and pre-sale started. January’s blog post quickly became a mere memory of an idea.

I do blame Covid-brain. I do not allow it to define my year.

So, this month I’m relying on the efforts of my past self and that of family and friends. In other words, I’m pivoting from my original plan. Enjoy a little reading smorgasbord while I get to work on book promotion!

Reading Smorgasbord

Quote and photo by author. All rights reserved.

On Reflection

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There’s no way around it: 2020 felt like walking blindfolded onto a roller coaster with no safety harnesses. How do I reflect on the year when I’m still holding on for dear life, and the roller coaster hasn’t stopped?

I follow the advice of fellow Waterwheel Review editor, Claire Guyton: “I’m doing two things this month to say a firm goodbye to 2020 and walk with intention and strength into whatever the next year holds: Taking stock and making joy.”

Easier said than done. But here goes.

Taking Stock

My piece of the world is so small right now. If I had to count the times I left my house since March, I could. My youngest children have left the house even less though they boast at having attended more Zoom meetings than my husband and I combined. Their school district has been in full remote learning for seventeen weeks. And since they are in second grade, I have been in full remote hall monitor, teacher’s assistant, cafeteria cook, and principal for seventeen weeks.

I have lived anything but solitary since the pandemic began. Even so, I was compelled to reach out beyond my immediate surroundings during the early stay-at-home orders in March and April. I wrote a daily poem and posted them to Facebook and here on the website. I wanted to live what poet Stanley Kunitz says in his poem, “Revolving Meditation”:

The voice of the solitary
Who makes others less alone.

I may not be alone in my house, but as a poet, one of my strengths is the ability to express my single human experience.

Making Joy

When my husband asked me to think of a positive that came out of 2020, I answered, “Freeze dance.”

We had a quaranteam Halloween party while our neighborhood flooded—like it does every year—with trick or treaters. Our quaranteam consists of eight adults and three kids. We had so much fun we decided to do it again next year, in addition to resumed trick or treating. The favorite game: Freeze dance.

Why does freeze dance sum up joy for me? Dancing, for one. Stress release. Letting go of the world’s ills. Everyone separate in their rhythm. Then, stop. Be startled. Look at everyone around you. Laugh. When the music starts back up, get lost again.

Freeze dance reminds me of Kunitz’s point. We dance singularly, each one of us experiencing our own solitary emotions. The music abruptly stops, bringing everyone back together. We’re laughing and connecting—feeling less alone.

When my youngest was eliminated because he didn’t freeze, he asked me, “Can I still dance?

“Yes,” I said. “Of course, you can keep dancing.” Please keep dancing.

We played freeze dance again at Thanksgiving. We’ll play freeze dance at Christmas, New Year’s, and for years to come.

Word for 2021: Intention

My most pressing question: How long will my youngest kids be in remote learning? Yes, when will a vaccine be available to my family is on my mind. But seriously, when will my kids go back to school, even part-time?

Since I have no clue what my schedule will be, I can only look into 2021 with intent. There is no waiting for something to work out, no putting off until tomorrow. I can’t find a to-do list from last week. I can barely hold more than two ideas in my head at a time. The only way forward is through determination and resolve.

However, I am neither discouraged nor upset (just mentally and emotionally drained). I have an intentional act I already rely on, one that I have spent twenty-five years doing: Wake every morning with contentment. 

When I first started, I had to reach beyond my station. Reach for who I wanted to be. A “fake it before you become it” approach.

Some mornings, I still have to reach, especially in 2020. I will always reach if it’s necessary. Not because I need to be better. And not because I need to fulfill someone else’s belief in what I should be. I do it because I believe in more than I am in any given moment. And when I’m content, I can be fully present and available to others—the version of myself that I like best.

Quote and photo by author. All rights reserved.

To Have a House

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white translucent jellyfish in dark blue water

Four years ago, when it was clear the people in our country were so divided, I decided to focus on what unites us. My mind naturally went to “home.” Everyone in the country has a relationship with the inanimate place we call a house.

Yet, the depth of a house’s impact often goes unnoticed. When we talk about the influence of place, we start with urban, suburban, or rural. We say Victorian, cookie-cutter, bungalow, brick ranch, double-wide. These are big-picture descriptions that only begin to explore how human experience is interwoven with the house.

How often do we talk about the meaning of a bedroom door? What do barred windows teach us about safety? When do we slow down to see how the details of place shape us?

In Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard says, “A rather large dossier of literary documentation on the poetry of houses could be studied from the single angle of the lamp that glows in the window.”

I wonder what we would learn if every voter had to write a poem from the angle of a lamp in their house. Maybe similarities in our griefs and anxieties, shared joy in births and anniversaries, differences in décor, inspirations in design, offers of advice.

And I wonder how the poems would change over the years. If we had the same lamps but in different windows.

Now that I think about it, I’m going to write a poem “from the single angle of the lamp that glows in the window.”

Care to join me?

“Come what may the house helps us to say: I will be an inhabitant of the world, in spite of the world.”

Gaston Bachelard, Poetics of Space

Quote and photo by author. All rights reserved.

On Plenty

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Recently, I came across Henry David Thoreau’s well-known quote, “The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.” His sentiment inspired a Google search where I found Just Enough is Plenty by Samuel Alexander, a book that examines Thoreau’s alternative economics.

“Just enough is plenty” has been circling my mind ever since, reminiscent of how I felt during quarantine on April 3, 2020 when I wrote:

I relearn what is essential,
balance worth on payday
by my smile lines.

In his book, Alexander examines the events leading up to Thoreau’s journey to Walden Pond, “the young Thoreau was confronted by those great economic questions all of us must face when trying to establish financial independence in a world of scarce resources: How best to earn a living? How much time should I spend at it? How much do I need to live well and to be free?“

Thoreau wanted the poetic life. But how?

How to live?

Thinking about Thoreau’s “vocation of crisis,” I reflected on a few of my own decisions when faced with how to live in the society I was born in to. Like Thoreau, I wanted to be a poet but didn’t know how to live like one.

My first economic decision was whether to pay my bills on time. After high school, I lived with roommates and worked part-time in a trophy shop. I knew I’d pay bills until I was dead. The only people who didn’t pay bills, I reasoned, lived in communes. I ruled out moving to a commune and decided paying bills on time simplified adulthood.

In my early twenties, I looked for a more holistic approach to life as a poet, and “how to live” led me to Bronnie Ware’s top 5 regrets of the dying:

  1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
  2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.
  3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
  4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
  5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

If this isn’t a blueprint for a poetic life, I don’t know what is.

I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

Artists must live a life true to themselves and definitely not what others expect of them. The Art demands it. As historian Sigfried Giedion put it:

The artist, in fact, functions a great deal like an inventor or a scientific discoverer: all three seek new relations between man and his world. In the artist’s case these relations are emotional instead of practical or cognitive. The creative artist does not want to copy his surroundings, on the one hand, or to make us see through his eyes, on the other. He is a specialist who shows us in his work as if in the mirror something we have not realized for ourselves: the state of our own souls. He finds the outer symbols for the feelings which really possess us but for us are only chaotic and—therefore—disquieting, obsessive stirrings. This is why we still need artists, however difficult it may be for them to hold their place in the modern world

I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.

Okay, poets work hard. But, if we’re to take the advice of Rainer Marie Rilke, (and we do take his advice), we get another perspective on work: “We have to mix our work with ourselves at such a deep level that workdays turn into holidays all by themselves, into our actual holidays.”

I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.

Done.

I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

The last two regrets speak to the importance of community and being kind to oneself. I wouldn’t say they are natural to a poet’s life; more like a poet’s two biggest obstacles. Poets like to be alone. We’re tough on ourselves. And we’re prone to melancholy.

What if you’re not a poet?

You don’t have to be a poet to live a poetic life. You might be looking to slow down and find the extraordinary in the ordinary. Maybe you’re having a “crisis of vocation” like Thoreau or questioning how to live (especially as we face a cultural shift in the wake of a pandemic).

As a poet, I’m driven by the need to understand how to live. It doesn’t pay all the bills, but my life is enriched in ways that money cannot buy. Thoreau knew this to be true. Yet, it wasn’t a new idea. “Just enough is plenty” is another way of saying what philosopher Lao Tzu taught in 6th century BC, “Those who know they have enough are rich.”


Quote and photo by author. All rights reserved.