Voices

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My fascination with words is no secret, even to the most casual ASPL reader. It is as readily apparent as my eye or hair colour, and even more essential to my sense of self.Although I would feel less fiery,I could pop in brown contacts and dye my hair blonde and still be at home.A life cut off from words is as unthinkable,scary and black as death:it would be no life at all.My strongest connection to anything this world has to offer,other than the hermetic bond that seals me to my mother,is an unbreakable tie to the English language.
Words are glorious;when the perfect one rolls off of the tongue it is,in a small way,an act of reverence,never more so than for writers. Any true wordsmith has their own voice,developed through a combination of nature and practice,that is as unique and resplendent as a snowflake or a soul.I have been writing since the age of seven.The journey from there to here has been full of much sweat,obsessiveness,passion and self-nurturing.At the end of the day, I am proud to state that my voice is recognizably my own, and cannot be mistaken for another’s.If ,when time has ceased to shelter me and my journey is no more,this is the sum total of my artistic achievement I will be satisfied.
My creative voice is thorny.It is not for everyone,nor does it need to be.If my overriding desire was to place a number of books on the Best seller’s lists,or to publish articles in the big glossies,this would certainly be an issue of gigantic proportions.I would probably have to dull my words to broaden my appeal.I admire anyone with the guts to go after the kind of career that they desire,for whatever reasons:I extend this respect to myself.I refuse to walk a path that I know would be littered with nothing but compromise and misery and recrimination.
Language is not merely a means to an end, the verbal equivalent of putting one foot in front of the other.At its best,its richest,it is hypnotic and commanding:it arrests you,distilling and then fragmenting your notion of what words can do.Moms are not always your best critic,as they want terribly for you to succeed.Mine is savvier and more realistic than most,nor am I a youth in need of coddling. She also has a preternatural understanding of what it is my voice is trying to say,why I arrange my words to suit a very specific rhythm.This comes as much from being a hard-core reader as from being my mom.
There are people who find my writing style exhausting (I say,”so be it”),not worth the effort to ponder,savour or turn around in their head or on their tongue.They want brevity,simplicity, writing un-enhanced, taken to the bone.They are entitled to that,but must go elsewhere for it. My mother has tried to explain to some of these people the nature and appeal of my style,what sets it apart,why it is worth the few seconds of extra effort . She says that I love words,revere words–that my writing is meant to be read slowly,with thought given to the flow and the meaning behind them. She is correct,at least, about the former:she has been witness to my life-long love affair with language,which gives full expression to my obsessive nature.
One of the main thrills that I find in reading is how happening across a stunning turn-of-phrase halts everything.Time stops,outside considerations cease to matter:the only focus is re-reading those words,pondering them,letting them fly or slink off of the tongue.Any writing worth a damn is enhanced,heightened,sharpened when read aloud.The words that I read two or three or four times in a row demand to be spoken.That is what I wish to accomplish with my writing:it is a tall order that I mercilessly task myself with filling.
Perhaps only James Joyce could get away unscathed with writing words for the sake of words,in homage to their sound,their meaning,their chameleon-like quality when grouped in unusual and unexpected combinations.The rest of us,even when equally in awe of language,must find a more solid ground to erect our combinations on.We must learn to do so–train ourselves to do so–without sacrificing our passion,our individuality,our peculiar patterns.In the end,if we fail–if I fail,for,in trying to speak for others like me,I must first learn to speak for myself–at least we do so knowing that we wrote with honesty and unfailing dedication to ourselves and our craft.
How did you develop your voice,your style,your own writer’s vision of things?

Creativity Challenge #1: A Balancing Act of Psychotic Proportions

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I am a person of many talents,skills,interests and proclivities.Flat-cleaning,however,does not fit with ease into any of those categories.I am rather at odds with the concept of scrubbing and shining and dusting.It disturbs my mind to think that anyone could find true enjoyment and contentment in such a heinous necessity.Yet power and kudos to those fitting that description:you must have a mental component that I lack.If it was merely a matter of grudging the occasional upper-hand to a wily adversary,I would suck it up and cede the occasional victory when necessary.Round 1 goes to you, dirty dishes. Make the most of it.
However,it sinks deeper than that, as it must for many artists. This is not to say that to be creative is to be a slob. I am sure that there are those who take especial enjoyment from wielding a feather duster or cleaning toilets,their surroundings always meeting the highest requirements of cleanliness and order.I,for one, am engaged in a constant struggle with time and priority and disinterest.Trying to find a satisfying place for diverse and demanding writing projects,outside employment,and cleaning is like juggling a bowling ball,an orange and a monkey. They have absolutely no organic connection but,somehow,must be made into a cohesive whole.
The problem–and that is exactly what it is–becomes all the worse when the muse is on a sustained visit.I become feverish when full of creativity,and single-minded to a dangerous degree.If I lived alone,it would be easy enough to slack off indefinitely,doing only the bare-bones chores until the muse again took flight.(Even then, with time stretching before me like an endless ocean of calm,I am not exactly obsessively tidy.)I can sit,slump,and contort myself before the keyboard for hours at a time,barely aware of the outside world but for the dog at my feet and the cat by my side.I am in what I can only hope is the early stage of a long and brilliant bout with creativity.I have been so full of ideas,and have had the empowering luck and guts of follow-through,these last few months that I see no possibility but that of success and endurance,and continuing fecundity.This will only add to my usual troubling choices:sweep the floor or write an article,clean the bathtub or start a story?
I realize that this is an ages-old dilemma for artists,especially women.Trying to balance,however perilously,outside demands and the creative impulse is something with which we have all contended.As there is no easy answer,no blanket panacea, we will doubtless continue to deal with this for a long time.I am not singing a song that no one has heard before.A hundred years hence it will likely strike an all too familiar chord.The words may be altered to suit the singer,but the refrain is the same.From Elizabeth Gaskell to Virginia Woolf to Sylvia Plath,the path has been trod by women (and men) of brilliancy and capability,by turns armed with confidence and disarmed by doubt.
Unless you are hermit-ed away in a cave,writing with the ash from your fire,there are so many factors that go into making up a writing life.They are not all glamorous,enticing and invigorating.They are mundane.They are frustrating.They never cease to cloud your mind and cut into your creativity.Even with modern conveniences,they are here to stay.How we deal with them differs from person to person.Hell,how I handle it varies schizophrenically, depending on: the day,my mood,what there is to be conquered,how many ideas and words are floating around in my head,how tired or energized I am,whether or not I have social plans or if I have,at that given moment,any confidence in my ability as a writer or human being.
This balancing act is a topic that will recur time and again on ASPL, as it is an integral part of the complex existence of this writer,and so many others.Upon realizing the desire–the urge–to write,and pulling up the ability from deep within yourself that makes it all possible, all externals do not suddenly,gloriously fall away,leaving your time unfettered.The writing life does not open itself wide to you:it has to be grasped,subdued and continuously commanded.There are new battles every day, and they are not always won.The maw of the real world is always gaping,always reaching for you, wanting to steal back what precious little time that you managed to take from it. Yet I acknowledge that I would not want to live wholly in either place.I feel like Persephone,caught between two worlds that are,in this case,neither entirely darkness or light but a constantly altering,swirling mixture:and,instead of being allowed the reliability and slight repose of 6 months in one world,6 in the other I have the awkward,tiring challenge of rocking back and forth,with one foot perpetually in each place.
Lest it sound like all ache and doom,the payoff to the writing life is the best thing that I know of:it is a thing of thrilling,comforting beauty.Although someone I am very close to insists that to compromise is to lose the battle at hand as well as part of your soul,the subtle dance of compromise is the very thing that makes my artistic existence possible.To be all artist would give too much weight and power to an over-riding selfishness that would eat up everything of external importance,including my own complexity and the love of those that I love.To be all civilian would mean to deny the very things that set me apart as an individual,and would sap a large part of the strength that I have for living.My small contribution to the world and to those I care for is shaped from the best parts of both incarnations.The struggle to find balance is ultimately a sign that I am paying heed,albeit imperfectly, to all of my needs. It means that I am doing something right.

Expectations

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I am declaring this little corner of the universe “mine!”,to do with exactly as I please. As such,I am dedicating it to what is becoming,through a long and slow build,what I can only describe (albeit with abject and disbelieving terror) as my life’s mission.Those are some high-flung,soaring,intemperate words that I have just typed,but I will neither rescind them nor disown them,or cower in fear.I did not set out to have a mission of any kind yet it is sublimely appropriate that the one I ended up with is literary in nature.
The cohesion binding together the myriad colourful threads of “A Small Press Life” is spirited independence,of the past and the present.It is my most heartfelt aim to weave together stories of the great small-press path-burners (Kay Boyle,Harry and Caresse Crosby,Ernest Walsh,Robert McAlmon,among others)with my own day-to-day triumphs,struggles,frustrations and joys as an Indie writer.Yet that is only half of my intention for ASPL. I will spotlight other contemporary writers,artists and creative-types,giving space and voice to their unique talents and perspectives.There will be columns,essays/monographs,fiction,artwork,poetry and any other manner of expression that is born of this process.I envision onetrackmuse.blogspot.com as a lively,inclusive forum for those who share or appreciate the guiding-spirit of independent creativity.The name onetrackmuse is a declaration in and of itself:it states,with lucid loveliness,that this is a place to explore the very specific calling of unshackled artistry,in all of its breathtaking variety.
It is my goal and my hope that ASPL is purposeful yet organic,specific yet relatable:full of inspiration and support,with open veins of beauty,complexity,determination,wisdom and achievement.

It’s a Small (Press) Life For Me

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A surprising majority of the finest writers of the early Twentieth-Century found their only ready audience in the small bands of readers, usually subscribers, of the “little magazines”. These were often kitchen-table affairs, funded on non-existent budgets and the hard-wrought words of dedicated and often neglected artists. The rostrum of publishers,editors,columnists and contributors to these independent journals offers an amazing roll-call of the innovatory,diverse and brilliant talent so associated with the writers of that era. To list them all here, while impressive,would be ridiculously space-consuming. I will make do with a representative few:James Joyce,Ford Madox Ford,Kayle Boyle,Gertrude Stein,H.D.,Marianne Moore,T.S. Eliot,Ernest Hemingway,Ernest Walsh,Mina Loy,Ezra Pound,Wallace Stevens,Edith Sitwell,Robert McAlmon,D.H.Lawrence,Glenway Wescott and Djuna Barnes.
As with countless wordsmiths before and since,many writers and poets of the ’20’s had to make do financially,often only scraping by,working day-jobs or accepting hand-outs. T.S. Eliot famously worked for a banking house in London while Kay Boyle was the shop girl for the Parisian retail establishment of Raymond Duncan, Isadora’s half-charlatan brother. Across the Atlantic,Marianne Moore was a librarian in New York City and William Carlos Williams a small-town (i.e. poorly paid) doctor.
Eighty or ninety years ago,these small,passionately produced magazines weren’t just a romantic,idealistic alternative to the big glossies. For many,publishing works in the always-revolving coterie of arty mags was the only way to get published at all. There were a few “big name” affairs to be found in New York City,Chicago, Paris and London. They tended to be traditional,stuffy things, exclusive in their outlook and hard to break into.
Groups of artists,sometimes with the help of a moneyed backer or two,more often relying on their own spare change or donations,formed reviews and journals as a method of disseminating their work.They wore many hats while touting the work of themselves,friends and often complete strangers.In their limited way,they served a function similar to that of the Impressionists when they broke free of the Academy and its esteemed show, the Salon de Paris,to exhibit without restraint as the Societie Anonyme Cooperative des Artistes Peintres,Sculpteurs,Graveurs.Both came about through a combination of forced circumstances and exceptional avocation. Neither was a cohesive movement at the time;labels came later.
Their writing careers were usually padded with the occasional book deal,often with equally independent publishing set-ups,such as:The Hogarth Press (created by Leonard and Virginia Woolf),Contact Editions (Robert McAlmon) and the Black Sun Press (Harry and Caresse Crosby).Literature,no less than any other art form, is a tough world in which to find one’s way,or to even stay afloat. For every true star–by which I mean anyone widely known outside of company circles–there are hordes of aspiring or working writers piled leagues deep. The difference between an aspiring writer and a working one can be as simple as taking matters into your own hands,i.e. the willingness to act as publisher,editor,agent and anything else that may be required. That is exactly what the aforementioned poets,novelists and essayists did.Many of us,even in a world of vaster choice,continue to do the same.
Today,there are countless outlets and,with a bigger population,more readers to be engaged. The Internet alone has drastically changed how,and who,any one writer can reach. Yet,limiting ourselves to paper editions alone,we still find our selection to be much superior, at least in number, to what Boyle or Eliot had to pick from a mere 80 years ago.Even the big glossies are more numerous in our time.A career can,if one is willing to tow the line of writing to order,in subject and style,be found in penning product for the fancy,still well-read magazines.
For certain of us,myself included,that could never be an option.I am an avid,unashamed reader of a plethora of magazines that I would never write for.I may be a Cosmo girl but I am not a Cosmo writer.The world has enough of those:I would rather lend it my small,eccentric voice than change it to suit others,however gargantuan that audience may be. Don’t misunderstand:I wish to have readers for my writing.If I didn’t,I would not be here nor would I work with the wonderful independent presses that publish my work elsewhere.I would,doubtless,write on the sly,hiding my work in a sewing basket whenever a family member entered the room.No,wait.That is another Austen, Jane.
I wish wish to maintain a level of control over my work that I would be forced to cede if working for glossies. While I am happy and eager to have others edit and critique my writing,I would become demented and austere if unable to be the full mistress matter;it is mine,not a foreign thing to be dictated and directed by others.
There is a satisfying synchronization to what I do that I believe would diminish if the end-result of my art was writ large rather than small. Every encouraging comment,erudite opinion and insightful appreciation that I have ever gotten has been genuinely received.
My refusal to go mainstream with my artistic and intellectual goods is not born of ego.It is the result of a conscious choice to be sovereign,to be connected to a lasting movement, of creators creating what they choose and helping each in the endeavor.

Sorta Outside Rebel Leaders

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“Yeah, I get this idea of us being a pair of sorta outside ‘rebel leaders’ of a group of neo-Lost Generation types who reap heaps of cash for the quality stuff they do, unaffected by some talent-free corporate big-wig who would ruin everything.”

The above quote, while a bit off-the-cuff, and less tongue-in-cheek than you might expect, captures the spirit and driving force of “A Small Press Life” with humorous perfection.It was said–typed,rather–by my excellent friend and collaborator, Kevin, during a convo on Facebook this past weekend. He lives in Korea;I do not. The Internet is the conduit that keeps our mutual creativity flowing uninterrupted.
While we may practice that creativity in private, as all artists ultimately must, it is through a sense of connectedness and community that we find inspiration, hope and the ability to continue moving down such a difficult path. A support system is vital to the well-being of any artisan:it lessens the isolation in-born of such consuming intellectual yet hands-on endeavors. For some, that serves;it is enough. For others, it is a jumping off point to different ambitions. Such is my case, and Kevin’s.The quote is not the result of an unbridled, flagrant ego:it is born of a positive,open desire to spread talent far and wide, ours and that of countless others.
I have jokingly referred to us as like a poor man’s Elaine May and Mike Nichols. This is probably unfair to us as individuals and artists, as we are distinctly ourselves.Perhaps, as outsiders,we are more akin to Robert McAlmon and Kay Boyle. Everything that we do,separately or together, is small-scale, though well-regarded:and, in following the muse, we try to include others in the ride.
McAlmon and Boyle, to be sure,never collaborated as such, and neither do Kevin and I at this time. They published their goods–poems,stories,articles,criticisms–in the same places. She edited periodicals,so did he:they ultimately printed each other’s work many times over the years. They were friends, insightful to the other’s singular talent and life. Their career-boosting and warm regard were mutual.The lives of both were a long saga of creating,inspiring, and trying their damnedest to spread the work of fellow wordsmiths to as many people, in as many crannies of the world, as possible.
While Kevin and I are unlikely to recreate a Lost Generation-type environment–at the very least we would need Paris and London for that–there is a true spirit behind our intentions and what we do. Our refusal to give in to big media, and remain craftily independent, while encouraging others to do the same, makes at least part of his quote ring true. Every day that artisans embrace their uniqueness, and set to work doing what they alone can do, without ceding to others’ requirements, they are holding true to Lost Generation ideals. Rebel leaders? We all are!

Of Horny Appliances and Comic Books Well-Done

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A few years ago, I had my first exposure to a small-press and comics convention. It is called SPACE, it is held in my hometown and is well-thought of and attended. While it was far from the aesthetic and performance Freak-Show that a typical Sci-Fi Con is, SPACE was,in its smaller and marginally saner way, a touching and determined triumph of independent artistry and spirit.
It takes all sorts, to populate the Earth and to create art. SPACE was full of a strange,arresting and engaging crew of creators,fans and those striving to move from the latter to the former. Some were already accomplished in their artistry,with viable and identifiable oeuvres;others were in the awakening,floundering stages of finding their voice,their line or their milieu.
For most, these weekend gatherings represent not just a venue to showcase wares and services;they act as a wellspring of strength and camaraderie. Art is famously and accurately pursued solo. Mingling with others is usually reserved for the after-product pastimes of networking and selling, begging and whoring. When, whether by passionate choice or practical necessity, one pursuits their artistic path through The Small Press World, that sense of supportive community attains deeper importance.
During that particular weekend, a young woman from Michigan occupied the table across from ours. We were giving away copies of our arts magazine, as part of a wider promotional campaign. She was trying,with a talkative desperation,to interest anyone in her little self-produced comic book. It could, with charity,be classified as the crudest kind of zine–a primitive kitchen table affair,copied on a public machine and held together with staples. The asking price,early on, was fifty cents. Mid-way through,she was giving copies away,
She had, after paying the set-up fee,traveled a few hundred miles for the privilege of handing out,gratis,her artistic products to mostly uninterested strangers. Attendant upon accepting her comic zine was the awkward requirement of hearing a shred or two of her uncomfortably sad life story. Bluntly, all that the 20-something had of value was her art,which was the most awkward subject of all. I still have my copy tucked away in a box somewhere yet consultation is unnecessary:I remember it well.
Her tiny comic told the painfully unfunny story of the sex lives of a group of kitchen appliances ( a toaster,a coffee pot and, I believe, a blender). Further elucidation would be pointless. I initially felt sorry for the sad girl, whose bewildered, loving father had made the trip South with her. Upon deeper reflection, I saw it from a different angle;an angle that has, along with many other varied experiences, including my own,helped to inform and shape my life’s mission.
Creators must,at any cost, however lonely or painful, create. That is what the Michigan girl was doing. Her zine was obviously self-medication as well as self-expression. Yet,instead of crafting her art in secret,and keeping it there,she chose the bold and liberating step of placing it in the world,however fragile the task. Art is art by the very act of creation-slim talent and poor reception make it no less important. Taste, ability and renown wildly vary from one artist to the next;passion and dedication are much more constant.
In contrast to the now-nameless girl, there were many independent artists of acclaim, respectability and esteem in attendance. To the right of us sat a comic book artist of brilliance,originality and, evidently, poor time management skills, as he showed up hours into the affair. No matter. There was a small band of fans waiting for his arrival. Word quickly spread–he was soon mobbed by followers of his very specific artistic cult. The average American would not recognize his name or know of his existence but his rabid readers and,likely,bank balance show a very different story.
A surprising number of artists and writers showing at that edition of SPACE were able to, with hard-wrought freedom, earn their living by brush or pen. They did so in true Small Press fashion,by avidly disseminating their art, and that of others,through old-fashion leg work:by personally attending trade shows and conventions,selling their product on the Internet, and publishing in Indie and self-produced periodicals.
The Michigan girl and the brilliant artist are on opposite ends of the spectrum but they, and many other artists who share the poles or exist somewhere in between the extremes,tread the same road of artistic sovereignty,fulfillment and freedom.