It’s time to come clean. I haven’t been devoting enough time to an important piece of my life and identity. I haven’t been scheduling–and honoring–a critical creative need: uninterrupted time to write.
Like an untuned car with dirty spark plugs, this sputtering connection–between me and my creative self–has been misfiring for about a year.
Though I have produced creative things (like a few librettos for my chorus and a blogpost once each week), I haven’t been protecting my creative time. I haven’t been developing enough ideas that are purely mine.
It’s time to take action. To go back to school. To open the metaphorical hood of this mid-century car. To do something about it.
I know this is a challenge for all writers … and I’m luckier than most. I’m not juggling a full-time job at this stage of my life.
Still, external forces and demands often flood through the door–disrupting my good writing intentions. (Even as I began to write this, a sprinkler head outside our front door just went haywire. I texted one of our condo board members to tell him a fountain of water is spraying everywhere!)
I’m back to the keyboard of my writing universe. Beyond the whack-a-mole geysers that pop up in every life, it’s time I became more selective and vigilant with how I choose to spend my time.
It’s time for me to find a better balance again. To be more attentive to my own creative needs (like I did when I wrote and published four memoirs and one book of poetry from 2016 to 2023) … while still taking some time to help others.
Today I began by scheduling two hours–between 10 a.m. and noon–to write this blog post about the writing process.
Tomorrow, I have another two hours on my calendar. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday will be the same.
Perhaps it is fitting that I’m treating myself like a misaligned student, who needs guidance from the teacher in me. Because this fall I will be leading a three-part “Meaningful Memoirs Matter” writing workshop for up to eight students at the Scottsdale Public Library.
I’m excited about the opportunity to teach again. (In the early 2000s, I taught the fundamentals of public relations as an adjunct instructor for Roosevelt University in Chicago.)
I think this 2024 experience will be more fulfilling on a personal level than the communication courses I led more than twenty years ago.
I genuinely want to help aspiring writers in my community tell their own stories. I want to tell them they don’t have to be celebrities to do it.
Extraordinary things happen to all of us. Important stuff flies under the radar in our everyday lives.
Just as important, I want to share my passion for the memoir art form and set this small group of individuals on a path to discover and unearth their own voices.
Back to scheduling. One of the things I will tell my students is that writing is a discipline. It requires solitude, time, dedication, energy, and–of course–passion.
But if you start small and string enough hours, days, weeks, and months of devoted and affirming writing sessions together–with time–the misfiring or underutilized writing jalopy can become a well-oiled machine.
Simply writing this is helping me get my creative energy back.
It’s time for me to practice what I will preach. To nurture the most important pieces of who I am … the writer, the storyteller, the essayist, the poet, the creative protagonist.
Because I am happiest when I am producing something that is entirely mine. Something that speaks to our human condition. Something that celebrates our connections to animals and nature.
Something that amplifies the importance of raising your voice and sharing your truth … even if the rest of the world has blown a gasket.
Numbers–like true stories that capture a moment on a page–are meaningful.
They aren’t merely markers on the shore of life waiting to be washed away with the next high tide.
They measure our progress. They tell us how far we’ve gone; how much we’ve achieved; how many we’ve accumulated.
My dad loved numbers, especially twin digits. On his fifty-second birthday–December 4, 1965–he wrote a poem about their significance in his life as a twin.
I published Unity 66 and the Twin Digits in the context of my first book. It belongs there, embedded alongside and intertwined with the writings of my grandfather, mother, and me. In its purest form, From Fertile Ground is an immersion into our family’s writing DNA.
Despite Dad’s volatility, he could be an exuberant, charming man. He believed in celebrating life’s mundane and magnificent moments as they happened.
On the road of our family vacations in the late 1960s (from his position behind the wheel of our white, four-door, 1965 Chevy Biscayne sedan), he announced to my mother (in front) and my sister and I (in back) when the odometer of our car was about to reach a milestone.
“Hey kids … we’re about to reach 50,000 miles.”
That was our cue to sing with him like circus clowns dancing to a calliope from the backseat.
“Da da da da … da da da da … da da da, da da … da da … da da da!”
Earlier this week–on April 7, 2024, to be precise–I hit the five hundred books sold mark since February 2016 when I first became a published author.
(If you are one of those who have supported my creative writing pursuits, thank you! I’ll bet there are a five hundred more who’ve read my books free through libraries and Goodreads giveaways I’ve sponsored.)
How do I know? First, I keep track of all my book sales on a spreadsheet I update monthly. Second, my Amazon sales dashboard tells me that someone in the United States bought number 500, my book of poetry, that day.
Of course, these aren’t best-selling numbers. Not even close. I’d need to add a few more zeroes to play with the big leaguers. However, numbers–while important–aren’t necessarily equivalent to quality or creative impact. (If you’ve seen the movie American Fiction, you know what I mean.)
At any rate, for an independent writer operating with a paltry budget, my book sales numbers aren’t too shabby.
Somewhere, on the highway of life and in the universe of creative possibilities, I imagine my father smiling at me from the front seat through the rearview mirror with the wind buffeting his combed-back hair.
He’s gripping the wheel with his left hand, while waving an imaginary conductor’s wand with his right. He’s singing along with the crazy circus music from our 60s family vacations.
Like my husband Tom–last night sitting on the fold out couch in our cozy Arizona den–my father Walter–if he were still alive–would be telling me to keep writing about the things I enjoy.
Because writing, telling, and sharing serendipitous stories is what I was meant to do. No matter what the numbers say.
In late March of 2015, we visited the Painted Desert in northeast Arizona.
Tom and I weren’t yet full-time residents of the Grand Canyon State. We were Illinoisans, traveling on I-40, passing through the desolation and grandeur of the American southwest.
Fortunately, when we saw the sign for the Painted Desert, we had the gumption to exit the highway and soak up the scenery.
I don’t know what I was thinking at the moment Tom snapped this photo. But I imagine the experience of gazing out over the majestic landscape of this geological gem inspired me to keep writing, keep exploring.
I was nearing the midpoint of constructing my first book, From Fertile Ground, trying to maintain my creative momentum and find an ending to my grief-induced story of three writers talking to each other across the generations.
A September 2015 trip to North Carolina would provide the inspiration I needed to cross the finish line.
In 2016–on another momentous late March day–my book went live. I remember the giddy feeling of amazement … holding it in my hands when it arrived in our mail in Arizona.
Somehow, buried in the fog of my mother’s passing, I had unearthed my story, discovered an avenue for my artistic passions, and found my voice.
Since that time, the first half of each year–with March as the centerpiece–has become a catalyst for my creativity. I have published all five of my books (and launched my website) spread across the months of January through May.
This year, March has presented me with a new opportunity, a new wrinkle … and a new voice. Let me explain.
Up until recently, my books have been available in paperback and Kindle formats, but not as audiobooks.
A few friends and family members have encouraged me to pursue this additional option, but the cost and the time required to “give voice” to even one of my books felt prohibitive.
However, recently I learned of a viable option through Amazon, whereby I could select a computer-generated “virtual voice” to tell one of my stories.
I was skeptical at first. The concept felt mechanical and scary. How could a computer-generated voice capture the emotion, description, and intent of my words?
But after doing some research and listening to various options, I found a voice that resonated with me.
It captures the essence of An Unobstructed View, the personal (but strangely universal) story of Tom’s and my circuitous journey–physical and metaphorical–to carve out a new life in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona.
Thanks to computer technology, readers (or I shall I say listeners?) can now feel the sense of possibilities and uncertainties we experienced in 2017–remembering the seminal moments of our past Illinois life while forging ahead (on the other side of trauma) to create a home in Scottsdale.
I hope you’ll listen. Allow yourself to be transported through the theater of the mind. It’s a unique experience–possibly more powerful, like tuning in to someone else’s serendipitous story–to hear the words I composed spoken by a “virtual voice.”
At any rate, I know many people prefer to consume their books that way through their devices, through their ear buds, as they navigate the trail of life.
Now, one of mine is out there for you–and all the world–to hear.
After my mother died on this day in 2013 at age eighty-nine, my grief took root.
With a little time, a lot of reflecting and journaling, and the support of a small circle of family and friends, I found and nurtured my own path from the branches of despair.
By 2015, I had carved out a storyteller’s life Helen Johnson would have loved. Late that year, I flew to North Carolina to visit Frances, her only sister.
Spending time with Frances in the state where both were born–and revisiting childhood memories of my grandparents’ farm in Huntersville, NC–propelled my creativity.
In March of 2016, I completed and published my first book, From Fertile Ground. It is the story of my journey and grief.
If you’ve read this story about three writers (my grandfather, mother, and me) and their love of family, you know this isn’t really the cover.
Today I’ve superimposed this photo of Helen and Frances together (in my sister’s backyard in 2003 or 2004 in northern Illinois) to remember them both.
Why? Because Frances was the last physical vestige of that rural, 1960s world for me. When she died six months ago at age ninety-one, I metaphorically waved goodbye to those years of running amok barefoot on warm summer days in the Tar Heel State.
Of course, I will always have rich memories of my wise-and-frugal mother, who wrote countless letters, and my fun-loving aunt, who traveled the world in her retirement years. In their own ways, they inspired me to tell my story.
Today–as I remember them both–I can walk into the sunroom of the Scottsdale, Arizona condo where Tom and I now live. I can pull my book off the shelf and find this passage.
“What I knew before was that the farm was a place of discovery for me and the fertile ground there was a physical and psychological refuge from the hardships of our family drama in St. Louis. What I know now is that I would need to go back to North Carolina to come to terms with my grief and integrate my southern memories with my present-day, real-life adult existence.”
I can take solace in the fact that I’ve written about Helen and Frances–who they were, who they loved.
Though they are both gone, they live on the pages.
I don’t usually write film reviews. I prefer to leave the nuances of critiquing movies to my cinephile husband. However, in this case, I will break the rules. You’ll understand why in just a moment.
In American Fiction, Jeffrey Wright plays Monk, a frustrated novelist who feels his books have been lost in the bluster of less literary works that fly off the shelves on the wings of tired stereotypes about the Black community.
Against the advice of his agent, he decides to prove his point by writing a one-dimensional, inflammatory book under a pen name.
He considers it garbage, but ironically the story wins immediate acclaim. He finds himself faced with the conundrum of accepting his financial windfall and hypocrisy or coming clean.
No spoilers here. You’ll have to see the movie to understand the permutations of his dilemma.
However, the story–written and directed by Cord Jefferson–is a dazzling bit of witty screen writing, laced with well-drawn, believable characters navigating painful personal traumas.
It’s been a long time since I was so entertained watching a movie. Tom and I laughed. Out loud. And so did the fifty or so others who sat around us in the theater at Camelview Theater at Fashion Square Mall in Scottsdale on Friday night.
I even shed a few tears, because there is a story thread about Monk’s mother–played by Leslie Uggams–that hit rather close to home.
But what resonated most for me was the brilliant way the film explored the world of a writer. We tell our stories, hoping our truths will land with readers.
We spill our guts (or those of our fictional characters) on the page but have no control over the tastes and proclivities of readers.
We do it because we love to write. It’s what we were meant to do. But secretly–or maybe not so much–we pine for our books to blaze a trail and rake in the royalties.
For those of us with dreams and scruples, we want our books to sell … but never want to sell out.
I know some of you are like me. You have positive, vivid memories–as a child and adult–of visiting your local library and leaving with a few titles that piqued your interest.
My earliest library memories lead me back to suburban St. Louis, where my mother drove my sister and me to the Tesson Ferry Library on summer Saturday mornings in the 1960s. It was her attempt to sustain our thirst for learning away from the classroom.
More recently, now that I am in my 60s and living in Arizona, Tom and I stop by our local library in Scottsdale to discover books. Sometimes they are contemporary novels, sometimes they are classics.
For instance, I had never read any of the writings by Willa Cather, so I picked up her book, The Song of the Lark. It probably won’t surprise you to learn that I’m enjoying reading her mostly autobiographical tale about a character’s quest for artistic excellence in the desert southwest.
Meanwhile, back to this blogpost … I’ve found that local libraries (in Mount Prospect, Illinois, where I lived for many years and now here in Arizona) offer important opportunities for me as a writer–agreeing to place my memoirs and poetry on their shelves and (when the time is right, and pandemics aren’t running rampant) share my stories with those who may connect to their themes of love, loss, transformation, truth, and triumph.
For instance, on this day four years ago, I hawked my books at the Mesa Public Library’s Local Author Fair at Dobson Ranch here in the Valley of the Sun. It was the perfect opportunity to talk with readers, sign a few books, and compare notes with other writers.
Just a few months after that experience, a little thing called Covid-19 emerged and paralyzed the world. Of course, face-to-face opportunities to do anything became impossible for all of us. Even though I continue to write, I’ve felt my literary presence shrink during the past four years.
Since 2019, I’ve exhibited my books on a few occasions, but the opportunities have become less frequent. For instance, the Scottsdale Public Library decided to discontinue their annual author event permanently. However, there is a silver lining for me to report.
On Saturday, December 2 (noon to 4 p.m.), I’ll be selling and signing my latest two books (completed between 2019 and 2023) at the Mesa Public Library again … this time at the Red Mountain Library location, 635 N. Power Road, Mesa, Arizona 85205 … for their 2023 installment of the Local Author Fair.
Arizona authors across all genres–memoirs, mysteries, science fiction, thrillers, westerns, children’s books–will be there.
If you live in Arizona–or plan to visit the greater Phoenix area in early December to escape the cold in other parts of the country–I hope to see you there, too!
Me sans glasses, standing outside the Mesa Public Library at Dobson Ranch for the Local Author Fair on October 24, 2019.Me on October 24, 2023 in Scottsdale, Arizona preparing for the Mesa Public Library Local Author Fair on December 2, 2023.
Whenever the opportunity presents itself, I enjoy talking about the discipline of writing. Honestly, it doesn’t happen that often. But when it does, it’s generally in the course of an ordinary day.
For instance, last Friday–on the way out the door of the gym I frequent–I stopped to talk with the manager. He asked me about my latest writing project for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
“It’s fun,” I told him. But then I went on to explain that creating a full-blown musical libretto is also draining. Such is the case for anything that pushes us beyond our comfort zones.
What does writing a libretto feel like? Well, I’ve never been a clothing designer or tailor. But it’s as if I’m sorting through a world of potential fabrics … selecting the right one … weaving it into a fictionalized story with smart dialogue and an emotional arc … and stitching it to music (which the chorus’ artistic director has selected).
Back near the entrance to the gym, another person joined the conversation. It morphed quickly into a discussion about the motivations and pitfalls of writing. She–a technical writer, who has dreamed about writing a childrens’ book–asked me about my creative commitment and impulses.
That’s when I felt my energy swell as I became creative mentor and cheerleader on the fly. I told her writing is like any discipline–exercise, yoga, boxing, for instance.
I told her I write something nearly every day. That–strangely–after my mother died ten years ago, a new door opened. I decided to take a leap. To write stories that were important to me, not some corporation.
Along the way–I told her–I discovered my true calling as an independent writer. It’s something I’m passionate about, though sometimes the creative process can be lonely.
I told her you have to make it a priority. You have to make the time for it. I told her that the childrens’ book she wanted to write was inside her, waiting to be written.
As I left the gym and walked to my car in the heat of the desert sun, I felt happy … content in the knowledge that I had encouraged one other person to step beyond their creative comfort zone.
***
In this world of raging fires, heat waves, social upheaval, and constant noise produced by snake oil salesmen, I believe the best thing we can do is to put down our phones and turn off our TVs more often.
To take back our lives. To talk with one another face to face–or at least voice to voice. To offer encouragement when opportunities present themselves. To write and read more books and poetry. To make time and room for practices and people who make our hearts sing.
If we do, maybe we can begin to restitch the underlying fabric of our society … one thread at a time.
Hello literary lovers. It’s time for me to stop teasing you about my upcoming book of poetry. Book number five–A Path I Might Have Missed–is alive!
The title and meaning? I chose the title, because it is a reference to the creative odyssey I might have overlooked (but fortunately found late in life and explored through my poetry). Plus, I just like the lyrical sound of these six words strung together.
The concept? It’s a wide-ranging collection of forty-two poems, which I wrote over a period of thirty years (from age thirty-six to nearly sixty-six). My poems cover a host of universal topics–love, loss, pain, discovery, truth, and transformation–with an eye to the ever-present influence of nature in our lives.
The content? The poems run the gamut. Some are reflective, probing, mindful, and deeply personal. Others examine the challenging times we face in contemporary society. I dedicated the book to my father, Walter A. Johnson. He was an unfulfilled poet.
The format? The book is organized into six sections: buds and blooms; fog and fire; magic and music; trials and trails; water and wonder; and stones and sky. I’ve included a photo of nature with each section, images I captured while living in Illinois and Arizona.
Just click on the embedded link below to reveal the cover of the book and purchase a copy on Amazon. Also, please leave your review online. I look forward to your comments and feedback. Thank you for supporting my creative endeavors. Happy reading!
Mark Johnson Stories 