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Well, I reached another milestone today. Writers do that, whether by intent or accident.

It's gone; gone for good I guess. I've still got the most important things, all those things based on love and belonging.

IT. . . was a nearly finished novel—wiped out completely. I did something stupid, and it disappeared never to be seen again. I'm assuming it was my stupidity. What is my stupid is that I hadn't backed it up yet. Yes, yes, yes, I know.

My decision lies with the question of DO I EVEN BOTHER? It's going to bring me to another question later on that will involve you, the reader, if there are indeed any readers. It appears that I might have had a few gazelles wander down to my little watering hole. I appreciate you for noticing.

I'm sad, I guess; I'm mad, more at myself than anyone out there; I'm numb mostly. I'm getting so tired of beating my head against the wall.

I lost a novel today; it's gone from my system. If someone out there knows how to potentially recover it, let me know—I think it's impossible.

DO I EVEN BOTHER?

Do I even bother to write it again? I have a written outline, a scene map, character arcs and all that, but I've been staring at it, and wondering what my motivation is for giving a crap? I've been tripping over tropes since time immemorial with not much to show, and I'm glyph gone, symbol subdued, word wasted. My question to the wide world: WHO CARES?

I thought I would have been more torn up about it, but I wasn't. To my credit, I took in stride. I was cool. Easy come, easy go, right? Who am I kidding?

Maybe it's a sign? Who am I kidding? I don't believe in signs. I do know what failure feels like though. I'm sure there are gleeful ones out there who smile big Grinch smiles when they see shit like this. Writer, hah!

It was going to be (it might still be) a fantasy novel, a planned trilogy—no, I'm not going to talk about that part—and I was looking forward to going over the first draft in the next few days, but no, NO.

I lost a novel today; it's gone, flushed away, recycled down some digital drain.

Here's the question(s); you want to talk with me, you go ahead and talk; if you don't want to talk, okay, fine; makes no never mind:

What should I do?
What would you do?
Has this ever happened to you?
If so, what did you actually do?
Did you rewrite the lost piece?
Or-did you start something new?

Any computer savvy folks out there who could help with recovery operations, give me a holler.

I lost a novel today. I moped a bit; I raved a little, but that's it: You won't. . .see. . .me. . .shed. . .a. . .tear.

Signing off till the next time,
Bill Bowling

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Today is World Poetry Day in many places in the world, and I always see it as an opportunity to pause and connect with the world on a deeper level. So many things happening that we would like to see coming down in a different way considering the historical record we've had to learn from, but oh, well. Read some poetry today, and find some meaning. Read some poetry today, and discover a new way of looking at things. I am a poet, and I read and write some when the force strikes me. I'm not sharing my own today; this isn't a plug. Maybe at some point you will seek it out and read some of it, but today I simply want to share one of my favorite poets, W. B. Yeats. The poem contains one of the most powerful lines I've ever read: We had fed our heart on fantasies, our heart grown brutal from the fare, more substance in our enmities than in our love. Yeah, truth that. 

The Stare’s Nest By My Window
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

​A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

​Happy World Poetry day; words are better as poetry, than words as war. A stare, by the way, is a starling.

 Recycled illusion! It seems we have a knack for it, don't we? We recycle everything but the right thing, in most cases.

​Politicking: Nothing more than recycled illusion. Well, in the case of the present presidential offerings, delusion is a better word. The 'American Dream', illusory hell, I say. Corporate goodwill, beyond illusion, non-existent; corporate greed, on the other hand, nightmarish reality.

​I know it's a stretched comparison, but all this illusory shift was brought full circle by the sudden virality of that silly duck rabbit drawing.

First, its history: It initially appeared as an anonymous entry in a German humor magazine way back in 1892, (original image above). Since then, it has become embedded in the culture along with the old woman, young woman illusion, and many others. It's been around a long, long time.
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​My question here, though, is WHY? WHY has it made such a wow comeback now? WHY the sudden interest in a simple drawing now? I know stuff goes in cycles, and next week it'll be something different, carted out as if it's brand new. But duck rabbit, ad nauseum, is everywhere: It's on my timeline every time I open up good old FACEBOOK, and pointedly, it's boring, furthermore, it's annoying as hell. It's burned over ground.

​So, why(?), I believe was the question.

​Is it a generational thing, and it's simply new eyes and new minds ladling images out of the hard boiling pot of cyber soup to get a closer look? That's part of it maybe, but it's not the whole picture, I believe.

We've always, from our beginnings, had difficulty sorting the shadowy from the substantial. We don't always know where we stand inside our family circle let alone in the public bazaar. It's easy to see how a simple yet quirky image from the relative beginnings of our present age can lend a modicum of reassurance within the swirling uncertainty, (read that the illusory well), of the here and now. The here and now is a very scary place. Why not dust off some little nonthreatening iconic cultural quacker to pass the time away in ignorant social media bliss.

​I'm sorry, folks, I have a psychological bent, and I see things sometimes when other people only see a cute little duck rabbit picture that toggles one into the other. (Oh, no, doc, do I have it too?) But in this case, I can't help but think that there's more to it than being a cute little bit to share. It's a kind of escapism.

​The number one mental illness of this historical period is anxiety, supreme, mind numbing anxiety. We want to be told that everything is alright, and we go to great lengths to fill in those blank spaces in our individual and collective insight with all manner of shadowy substitutes. Duck rabbit is tricky, but its the cute kind of tricky, almost like it came from a children's book, and we prefer that to facing the obverse realization that in so many ways our society, our culture, our civilization in going to hell in a handbasket full of brittle dead roses, or flowery illusions, as it may apply.

​Here comes the stretched comparison. Let's take the run for the president shenanigans. There's the Donald Trump illusion. Donald Trump, as well as all the others, let's be fair, is an illusion, you know? Instead of seeing this dangerous illusion for what it is, we choose to virally share a silly optical illusion from over a hundred years ago--124 to be exact. Well, Donald Trump is shared virally too, but why I don't rightly know.

​Let's take a look at the Donald Trump illusion. Donald Trump is duck rabbit, but he's duck rabbit of a more ominous kind. If you look carefully, you can see him toggle from rogue to clown. Look! Do you see it yet? If you don't, don't be alarmed; you've been hypnotized into seeing what he wants you to see. In fact, a great number of the populace has.

​All of us, the human family I mean, from the beginning, seem to have been hotwired to see in this way; the survival value of it isn't readily apparent from a paleontological perspective. It is apparently a gap between what we actually see, and what our mind/brain expects to see. I guess a way to say it is that we make adjustments to satisfy that indwelling expectation. 

​The thing is we see what we want to see, and even when the illusory quality of a thing in focus is pointed out to us, we persist in our belief. The other thing is that we can be led to see what someone else wants us to see, which is where considerable danger enters the 'picture'.  

In the Vedic teachings there is a word for it: Maya, which means illusion, magic, i.e. what appears to be may no actually be.

​All I can say is that driving on life's highway can be tricky. If you're putt-putting along in your Volkswagen Beetle, AND you look up ahead, AND you see a giant, enormous, HUGE duck rabbit blocking your way, it may or may not be real, AND it may or may not squash you flat, AND leave your mouth agape, AND leave your eyes googly, flashing moiré patterns.

​Just remember; what is seen can't readily be unseen, like that dude wearing spandex with a pink thong showing at the back of his ass in an 'evil retail wart on the face of the world which shall remain nameless'. He had hunkered down so he could reach a big bag of that bite sized candy on the bottom shelf, and there it was. That wasn't an optical illusion; that was all too real. Quack-quack, hippity-hoppity, exit stage right or is it left. Duck rabbit has left the building.    

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 You've heard it, read it before, that little story about R.U. Harby. It first appeared in Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. I guess Hill originated it. I confess I read the Hill book sometime back.

I know you know what I'm talking about.

'Three Feet From Gold'. The story is a referent to the notion of never giving up. Persistence, and moving steadily toward a goal is the key to success or some such.

The gist of the story is that R.U. Harby went into business with his uncle in gold prospecting. The uncle had found a really promising ore vein and was sure of striking it rich. Well, this mine quickly played out, and they didn't have much to show. They kept digging, but at some point in the digging they realized there wasn't anymore gold to be dug, dig? They quit in great sorrow and disgust, sold everything and went home. Well the guy they sold it to found the mother lode they were seeking, and come to find out, Harby and his uncle had been three feet from gold. Had they but stuck with it and dug  just a little more, they would have been filthy rich. We don't know what happened to uncle what's his name, but Harby went on to make millions in insurance sales. We can't feel too sorry for him.

Anyway.

DON'T GIVE UP, RIGHT?
Don't give up. We hear it all the time, us, writers I mean. We, writers, get all kinds of mixed messages don't we? On the one hand, we hear don't give up, your 'tribe' is waiting for you, yeah? On the other, we hear from innumerable Yakety-yak-clickety-clacks out there just how many damn books are published every day, the innuendo being is that your book has pretty much a snowball's chance in writer's freaking hell of being found, much less being read. But. Don't give up, you're three feet from literary gold, right?

Does this sound cynical; it isn't cynical, is it? I'd be more flattered if you told me it sounded edgy; edgy is more cool in my estimation.

SHOULD YOU GIVE UP?
You hear philosophical rants from both sides of the fence, you know, the business side and the artsy-fartsy side. What about from the business side? From the business side, the general thinking is that if a project, product, (book in this case), doesn't clear a consistent profit, you ditch it because it's not working, feasibility or whatever jargon applies here. The artsy-fartsy side? The artsy-fartsy side says tend to the art, and don't give up on it, no matter what. But is that willful attitude correct because really you might be squandering the most precious thing you personally have, which is your life-time. If you write something no other person might read, is it valuable? What's an utterance for? What is writing for but to connect with others, and if you don't connect, what's the reward?

A FEW MORE QUESTIONS, IF I MAY!
Have you ever thought about it, fellow writer, simply giving it up, calling it quits? After all, there's not really anyone standing over you forcing you to do it. That evil bitch character from Misery, (I've talked about her before), isn't there, getting ready to take a sledge hammer to both your feet, so you're free to quit.

When is it right for a writer to say screw it, it's not working, I don't need this stress in my life anymore, ciao? Is it okay to give up?

When would you give it up? What if you wrote a book, and nobody even wanted a free copy, (I've got some thoughts about this free shit—another time), and I say that because it's happened to me. Talk about your crushing blow to the psyche. I shed a few tears over that one, but I didn't give up.

Would you give up if you labored over a book that made you proud, and you sent it out, and it never sold a copy? Would you give up? I'm still pondering it.

Would you give up, or would you ever start if all you had was hope and love of the craft to carry you? I haven't yet, but I've thought about it, a lot.

I know all of it: I know that people, readers are fickle and follow wherever the trendy wind blows, and they don't know you or care about you, until someone, somehow tells them they should care; I know that most are followers, period, and reside in some form of non-specific anxiety, and will always wait till somebody else makes the first move; I know that searching out new reading material isn't high on most people's priority list; I know, and evidence proves, that a lot of folks are losing the deeper connection to language, written language, I'm talking about. Sometimes you see stats that say more people are reading, but when you get out and interact at street level, it may not bear out, from my meager experience. I haven't made any studies on it; it's an observation. With all of that, I wonder sometimes where I should aim my literate arrows. I guess I'm making a veiled reference to marketing here. How do you sell one dream in a raging ocean of dreams? Just asking, bless the word.

LET'S CIRCLE BACK
You're not gonna give up, are you? You won't give up on something that brings you a deeper reward than money can bring, will you? By the way, it isn't wasted time, this writing stuff down; it's affirmation, sharing of life lived and the shit we've been through, sharing all the beautiful and foul stuff we've seen. It's not a waste of time to try to make sense out of garbled time.

I'm not going to give up; I'm too deep into it now. You don't give up either. After all, you could be 'three feet from gold'. I keep threatening to go out stark naked wearing nothing but my book for cover, holding a cardboard sign that says TAKE MY FIGLEAF, PLEASE.

Hang in there, and oh, never, never, never give up, no, never give up. It's tuneful, ain't it? Happy belated birthday, Tweety Bird.

Namaste
Bill Bowling
January 19, 2016
















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There are always surprises close to home. We have this ideation that the wondrous things are outside our reach, off faraway, somewhere else. But there is wonder right in front of us, if we open ourselves to it, and see it for what it is. As a writer, I confess my brain is always itching to fly off somewhere, and I suppose, through this restlessness as well as not being able to see the full value of what was in front of me, I've missed some of the simple stuff that makes life the precious thing it is. You realize at some point that it's all only about the seeing, the hearing, the touching, the believing, and being in this time, right here, right now. I have captured a few of those flighty moments, though, and I remember, and I'm grateful, and I hold them there in my misty memory book, and I pull them out occasionally, just for renewal, for that forever connection. This was surely a gift from the earth, the universe if ever there is one.

Let me tell you about the Butterfly House; that's what we've come to call it.

When my daughter was very young, she became my precious companion as we traipsed all over the land, the whole length of the wide creek bed, the abandoned campground that was nearby, up and down all over the winding country roads. She was a trooper, and always wanted to go with daddy; it was pure gold to have her along. We would stop to watch the tadpoles and the crayfish in the water, and she loved to take the shiny rocks that she pulled from the creek, and stack them to make these beautiful arrangements, the whole thing, the whole process was renewing, meditative, Zen like in the fullest cosmic measure that can be ascribed to it. That in itself is wonder enough. Ah, but no, more is yet to come. For this, I promise, you want to tag along.

Life is different, and moves at a different pace in this locale I'm talking about, and it was even different in an earlier time I'll reference. In another time before there were Walmart, and whatever other big name evil monstrosities you want to plug in here, people in Appalachia relied on the little country store that sat off on a side of the, often dirt, road at the mouth of a holler. The road where this house stood was now paved and led to a state park, but here it was a leftover, a marker of an earlier, slower, more grounded time. I guess no one had the will to tear it down. It indeed carried its own powerful memories. I know why it still stood where it stood.

This house was very close to the house we lived in. This former store building was ramshackle, grown over with weeds near to a thicket, with no door, windows just hollow black rectangles, no glass; the weather moved through of its own accord, winters, springs, summers, autumns, enough for two or three generations, the ghostly, lingering presence of another time, sad, gone. The roof was broken through leaving a jagged hole, a back wall was crumbling, threatening to fall at any moment. It was small yet stately in its own right, still standing, but wounded after all its lonely battles with the elements over the years.

My daughter always wanted go inside the house, and naturally I was reluctant based on its bad condition. I always discouraged her, but numerous times we bravely fought the weeds and crept up to the door, or where a door had been, and we would both peer inside this broken old house. What did we see? We saw only the detritus of time, dark shadows of once useful furnishings, a hole in the roof where the sun peeked through and, with the aid of, and at the whim of clouds, formed a slow roaming light strobe over blackened walls. That is as far as we would dare to go, and, except for the fact that a sapling had started to grow through the floor of the house and was finding its way toward the hole in the roof, that is all we saw.

One day in the lazy Summer haze, we were making our rounds again, and there it was, standing there, beckoning, and at my daughter's urging, we went in the direction of the house beside the road. As usual, I told her we could look inside the house, but we couldn't go inside because of the danger. She bounded ahead of me and got there first. With a little more urgency, I made my way to where she was, and stopped beside her. She stood there at the door-less entry, peering cautiously with her wide eyes full of wonder, transfixed by something inside. I paused, wondering what she could possibly be seeing, remembering how many times we had looked inside this old relic before, only to find shadows and dust. I asked her what she saw, and she pointed inside with her little finger. She stepped to the side so I could look, and with a big question mark hanging over my head, I peeked inside .Here is what she saw. Here is what I saw, and here is what filled her mind and my mind with joy and wonder.

The interior of this broken, abandoned shell had been transformed in the most wondrous way possible. All four walls, the ceiling, every nook and cranny, the wayward tree was alive with butterflies, thousands of butterflies. The rays of light stealing through the crumbling roof added just enough ambiance to place it in the realm of near dream. There they basked in the half light, their folding, unfolding of wings creating a rhythm behind a silent music that emanated from somewhere deep within the earth, a natural music only they could feel and hear. At that time, I had no words, didn't need any words to tell me what I was seeing. My daughter had words, though, the untainted kind born from innocence and the power of beauty. “Look, daddy, so many, where are they going?� “I guess they're trying to find somewhere safe because of winter.� The truth is, I couldn't say exactly why they chose this place at this time, or where they were going. I only know, and I think she knew, that we were witnessing something powerful, something that nature gives us as a gift, a reminder that we not lords of the earth, but sharers of spaces that are only as precious as we allow them to be.

All I really know is that on a day, years ago, in mid summer, in the heart of home, a wondrous kaleidoscope of viceroy butterflies transformed an old, broken relic of a grocery store from an earlier lost time, into a palace of throbbing, undulating orange gold.

As long as we lived there, my daughter invariably would want to visit the Butterfly House, and dutifully I would go with her, knowing that the odds of seeing the butterflies were slim. We would peer inside, but there were only the dark forms in disarray, only the musty odor of decaying wood, the dusty smell of time passing, and a tree slowly overtaking the space, the sad rays of wavering sunlight. “The butterflies are gone, daddy,� she'd say; I'd say, “yes, baby, the butterflies are gone.� “Will we ever see the butterflies again� she'd ask? “I don't know, we may not,� I'd say. “We'll remember the butterflies, though, they were beautiful, weren't they?� “Yes, daddy, they were beautiful. I'm going to remember the butterflies.�
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I remember the butterflies, and the old building still stands transformed in that remote place in the mind, the way it was at the moment it became the Butterfly House, the moment we looked inside. At the moment we looked inside, we were transformed as well. It is important to be open to surprise, to be open to that moment of transformation. It doesn't have to be faraway, and it can be as close as the well-worn path at home.


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What is it? It's a brand spanking new non-fiction project by yours truly Bill Bowling

Full Title: FOOD ALLERGY GUIDE TO SOY; HOW TO EAT SAFELY AND WELL SOY-FREE

What about it? It's here,  It's shiny and new, It's available.

What does it do? It fulfills a special need for those who have to monitor their interaction with food;
if you have a food allergy you can't take food for granted.
Going to the grocery store has to be a deliberative, and planned operation.
No more last minute dashes to the market or throwing things willy-nilly into the cart.
Having a food allergy causes you to look at food carefully, and eat  consciously.
The Soy Allergy Guide helps you learn about the allergen, and soy products so you can
avoid any possible dangerous interactions.

What does it offer? The Food Allergy Guide series focuses on each of the eight+ food allergens, and offers
the sufferer fundamental informational help to deal with a food allergy. The present one focuses on soy.
It is a compendium of useful, educational information that will most of all teach you about the hidden sources of soy; sometimes soy doesn't look like soy, or sound like soy on the labels. Reading labels, recognizing soy in all its incarnations and manifestations, all of the necessary information is in here.
The Food Allergy Guide will help you battle the bean with confidence and aplomb.

Who Is It For? The Food Allergy Guide to Soy: How to Eat Safely and Well Soy-Free is certainly for those who battle the bean in order to eat and stay healthy, but its for anyone who would like to learn more about this increasing phenomenon, especially among children. So it's for adults with a soy allergy; it's for the parents of children with soy allergy, and it's for anyone who might find themselves in a supportive position. Also, as the old saying goes, knowledge is a wonderful thing.

What to Do? Get hold of a copy, check it out. I'm very interested to find out how it helps you.

Best Regards, Live Well

Introducing FOOD ALLERGY GUIDE TO SOY: HOW TO EAT SAFELY AND WELL SOY-FREE. The finishing touches are happening now. The book cover is fantastic, and I'll be showing that off in the next few days. Look for it. The FOOD ALLERGY GUIDE gives you all the important information you need to 'battle the bean'. You would have to do a lot of time consuming research to gather the guide points contained  in this book. I've put it all together for you and I'm proud of the result; I'm happy that it's close to being ready for it's debut.

Here's the back cover copy for a closer look; check it out:

“HOW IS LIFE WITHOUT SOY?�
“IT'S DELICIOUS, THANK YOU!�
Soy is one of the eight top food allergens, and reported allergy to soy is increasing year by year. This book was written as your guide to eliminating the soy allergen from your diet and your life. This book offers you the means to cope with a soy allergy so you can eat safely and well.

You will discover how to:
Recognize the allergen and its hidden names
Use the cardinal rules for soy allergy management
Identify symptoms and how to deal with them
Be prepared for anaphylactic emergencies
Prevent anaphylaxis
Sort out myth from fact regarding soy allergy
Compare the positive and negative effects of soy
Find nourishing alternatives to soy products
The Food Allergy Guide to Soy comes with reference lists, a comprehensive bibliography of books and other information that you might need to effectively manage your soy allergy.

The book is of greatest value to newly diagnosed allergy sufferers, but family, friends, and expanded circles will benefit from learning about the specific allergy as well as the general effects of soy in our food supply. Well worth the read. Definitely plan to take a look. There will be further postings regarding the exact release date. Stay tuned. Get ready to battle the bean.

     

ÌýÌýÌýÌý If it's good enough for Isaac Asimov, it's good enough for me. Other than six or so juvenile novels, (the Lucky Starr series),  he wrote as Paul French--however, he outed himself as the writer in a short time--Asimov wrote fiction, non-fiction and poetry in his given name to the tune of almost 500 works. He wrote about science, the Bible, Shakespeare, History, limericks and other subjects. He had the opportunity to write under a variety of pen names but chose not to for whatever the reason. I hope it was for the fact that he simply recognized the value of a leveled playing field.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý I'm talking about a pseudonym or--'yuk'--nom de plume; you, (the writer, author, scribe, litterateur, what have you), have the obsessive compulsive need to write crap under a name that is not your own, your given one.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý This entry was prompted by a recent bit of advice that asserted that a writer needs a pseudonym if he or she plans to write in more than one genre. Well, I thought about this, and I thought about this, and I decided that I don't like it. Well, I've known, and heard of writers who have up to ten. I can't imagine getting into the head space of all of those disparate facsimiles of self.

I won't use a pseudonym:
Because I'm proud that I have the ability to write in different genres and speak from different points of view.Because I'm not ashamed of anything that I write.Because writing to inform, educate, entertain and enlighten are all pretty much equal in importance in my perspective.
Because I don't want to confuse any precious readers, fellow thinkers, companionate citizens I may have the good fortune to connect with on my writerly journey.Because integrity and ethics are important to me, and I feel like the use of a pseudonym implies that I have something to hide, or that I'm not soulfully connected with each project.Because at this point in my life, I'm trying to integrate the scattered parts of me, and more artifice such as writing under different names is counterproductive and counter-intuitive.Because I want to simplify and take ownership of my whole life, not become some compartmentalized chest of drawers.Because I'm good just the way I am, and my name is good just the way it is.Because there won't ever be any surprises or guesswork; if I write a memoir, a training manual, a how to book, a novel, or a book of poetry, any and all readers will know that it came from me, and that I gave the same care and consideration for one audience as I gave to another.
Because writing is all about the sharing of thoughts and concerns from one person to another, and I think that bears the importance of the one being the same real, recognizable and honest person across the spectrum of living from the mundane to the sublime, from the down to earth to the highfalutin.
          I will take as my guidance the Eightfold Path, the fourth of which is right livelihood. I will be the best version of me that I can be and I will write about whatever interests me and strikes my fancy to the best of my meager ability under my own self ascribed name. I hope that is okay, and I hope that you will still visit with me from time and time and read, but if not that is okay, too; I'll love you and write for you, anyway, and I'll keep a pot of tea brewing, and a sugar cookie waiting for when you do decide to visit.

ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý  I promise to put my heart into everything I do as just little old me. I want you to promise me that you will read, and if not me, read something; learn something about something everyday. Even better, write something, let your own voice be heard. I wish everyone hope and love and peace. Namascar.

Dear National Endowment for the Arts:

ÌýÌýÌýÌý Let me introduce myself: I'm Bill Bowling, and I'm a writer and a poet. Well, perhaps I should amend that straight on and say that I'm a self-published writer and poet. In fact, I recently published a book under my own auspices entitled Perturbance: Flash Journal, the Sevenlings; it's on Amazon. I called it  Project Little Red Hen; you know her, from fable--'who will help me publish this book'; "not I," said the snobbish, arrogant publisher; 'who will help me polish my book'--"not I," said the self-important editor, "you can't afford me." I said, "I'll do it myself," and that's what I did. Yes, yes I was chief cook and editorial hatchet man; it felt good to hold that book in my hands; you, of course, would consider it garbage perhaps, but it was, as Maslow would say, a peak experience.
ÌýÌýÌýÌý

ÌýÌýÌýÌý I'm writing at this time to talk a bit about your recent call for poets in your grant program. I was interested until I came to the part that deems me unworthy because in an act of foolishness, or reckless bravery I dared to do it myself; how interesting that I can't even in most artsy-fartsy circles get a nod for chutzpah, if nothing else; my act of creativity isn't even worthy of a look, much less full inclusion and consideration. How many possible finds does this rule out? It's simply an obvious question, maybe a rhetorical one, since no one cares, obviously. I'm not saying that I'm necessarily the lost poetic discovery, merely extrapolating off your precisely worded policy of exclusion. For your collective reassurance, I won't bother you with an entry; I certainly don't want to make your job too difficult: After all, you might have to do a little searching to find out that I'm a nobody.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý Anyone who knows me can attest to one thing: I have an absolute unwavering passion for the arts; I've taught art and writing; I love spreading the word about the arts; I love the notion of a true and abiding education deriving from the arts; I believe in the notion that everyone, I mean everyone, should be exposed to and have creativity in their lives; I believe that communities should be based on the creative process in all sectors; I believe the arts make us better. There, Ive said that part. With that being said, I want you to know that I still love you, at least what you think you stand for. Any promotion of the arts in our lives is good by me, and a biased rendering is better than no rendering at all, or something like that.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý So, you go on doing what you do, and I'll keep on click clacking along, and working on some more Little Red Hen Projects, and hope for the best; I'll spread the word in whatever venue will have me, and if I have to read my poetry on a street corner, I'll do it.  Just want you to know I'll be okay; hope you find a good, well-established poet to give that dough to. I won't quit my day job.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý Best regards from self-published land.

Yours in a mutual love of the arts.

Bill Bowling

ÌýÌýÌýÌý I do a lot of thinking about this and that, and that and that, yes, that too; I talk to myself a lot. Hell, I carry on complete symphonic, fully orchestrated, lavishly staged dialogs with myself--can we say over-the-top monkey chatter?

ÌýÌýÌýÌý As a writer, I think about words, words, and more words that get carted out, words that go 'viral', words that trap me in their 'ridiculously' powerful orbits. There are some, a few, a couple that not only set off my annoyance meter, but they also make me question my ability, my focus as a writer.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý For example, when did the words 'niche' and 'platform' infect the writer's world? You know we obsess over these things. Why, whoever you collectively are, do you insist on heaping anxiety on top of  nail-biting angst? It's hard enough just getting to the point of declaring yourself a writer, and then having to figure out how to stuff yourself into some narrowly defined little cubbyhole and stand on a remote flat ledge while you wait for your train to come in.

Can't I simply be a writer?

ÌýÌýÌýÌý I looked these two words up in Webster's, the head-bonking weapon of choice, you know, and neither of these words have a damn thing to do with writing. It's a stretch at best. Check it out yourself.
Niche--"a recess in a wall, especially for a statue."
Platform--"a flat area next to railroad tracks where people wait for a train or subway." 
I jest, I guess. I suppose it is possible that a writer does, in most circumstances, have to channel creative energy into a cubbyhole in the wall where sits a statue replete with all manner of gilded expectations.

It's just that along with that mandate to pigeonhole everything comes the awareness that the dire tradeoff is that we create nothing of ourself, first of all, and second of all, the finding of something edifying is squandered in the flinging of stone-dead statues into the larger niche place, the gaping black hole that is the seller's den.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý I swear I'm not, strictly speaking, an art for art's sake guy, but by the same token, I'm not Flat Stanley either.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý I like to think that if I'm to fling some flotsam out onto the vast sea of information, I want it to be a three-dimensional version of self as that self resides in the larger world. I'm real, I'm not a canned reality show. I don't know exactly what I'm saying other than to add the cautionary note that as writers I believe we need to be careful how we define ourselves, both in the wide, wide wilds and in our individual connections so that we don't wall ourselves off from  a fuller spectrum of possibilities. 

ÌýÌýÌýÌý Just because you wrote a textbook for the medical field doesn't rule out writing that sci-fi novel that's been floating around in your head for a few moons.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý I repeat: Can't I simply be a writer? There is absolutely no reason that the poet can't be a novelist, that the novelist can't be a copywriter, that the poet can't be a reporter, etc.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý I am a writer, but more that that, I'm a learner, a teacher, a worker, a volunteer, a musician, an artist, a son, a dad, a friend, a lover and so much more. I say put that little burner in a niche and smoke it like precious incense, baby.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý Can't I simply be a recorder of life in all its permutations? Oh, Hi, monkey!