Vacation Plans

Vacation Plans

I will drive days to the violent

lungs of the sea just to recall

what blessing means:

How I am blessed

with the source of my suffering.

How I am blessed in tending

to suffering in others.

How I am blessed with such insipid

and mortal hardships.

How I am blessed with a chasm

between our fitful skins.

How I am blessed now with these

tears the wind drinks dry.

How I am dumbstruck

to have this life, this

stunning, benevolent life.

--Kristen McHenry

Trouble With Horses, Mini-Holidays, Weight Angst, and Things that Seem like They Would be Really Romantic, but Aren’t

Things That Seem like They Would be Really Romantic, but Aren't

Dan, Dan, the Running Man

 Riding horses on the beach has always seemed to me like the quintessential romantic activity. But Mr. Typist and I just got back from a mini-holiday at Ocean Shores for our 10th wedding anniversary, and I come bearing this hard-won wisdom: Riding horses on the beach is not all it’s cracked up to be. I got excited about riding the horses as we were zipping by them on our rented scooters. It looked so idyllic—the noble horses trotting proudly with their swishy tails, their riders rocking along and gazing out at the open sea, the whole tableau so graceful. What better way to be all romantic? Besides, I was feeling a little guilty about my anti-horse outburst from the night before, when we rented “War Horse”, and, after what felt like about 9 hours in, I finally snapped. “That’s it! I’ve had it. I don’t give a damn what happens to this stupid horse anymore. They can shoot him for all I care.” I stomped off to bed, leaving Mr. Typist to discover the fate of Ben or Steve or Troy or whatever the hell his name was. 

 When I told the kid who was doling out the horses at the beach that I had some riding experience, he said that I could have “Dan.” “He likes to go fast, so you have to pull back on him a bit.” Yes! I thought. That’s my horse! Dan and I are spiritual twins. Dan and I will have a beautiful intuitive human-animal bond. They put Mr. Typist on “Tony the Pony”, then hoisted me up onto Dan, who was huge. As we headed down the beach with the other riders, Dan shot right out in front and refused to back off and walk with the pack. The trail assistants acted more as de facto drill sergeants than guides, bellowing, “Pull back on Dan!” about every 60 seconds, but Dan was not having it. Dan was going to be out in front, and that was that. No amount of pleading, bribing, or “pulling back” was going keep Dan from his rightful place in front. Every second that I didn’t have a death grip on the reins, he started trotting. I could feel him itching to gallop. Dan wanted more than anything to take off down the beach at full speed, and while I empathized, (oh did I empathize), they kept yelling at me to control Dan, and I pulled on the reins until my biceps were burning, but there’s only so much control one is going to have over a 1,000 pound alpha beast. By the end of the ride, my bad knee was throbbing, my deep imaginary bond with Dan had been destroyed by his stubbornness, and I was physically and emotionally exhausted.

 It turns out that Mr. Typist didn’t fare much better, even on the innocently named, “Tony the Pony.” He slid off the horse like a dying man and staggered to the car, threatening revenge on Tony the whole way. Apparently, Tony’s MO was to repeatedly slow to a snail’s pace until the pack was so far ahead he had to canter to catch up, thereby jamming Mr. Typist’s back and chafing other…delicate areas. Then the guides would yell, “Don’t canter Tony!” but of course, Tony wasn’t any more compliant than Dan. As we collapsed in the motel afterwards, both trying to convince the other that we were the one who had it the worst, Mr. Typist actually had the nerve to play the concussion card. “No, seriously, I have a headache in a weird place. I think I have brain damage.” At which point I snorted derisively, and he sulked off to take a nap. All in all, a very unromantic experience.

Weight Angst, or, Where I Expound Upon My Own Hypocrisy

Riots not Diets

I went to get weighed for an employee wellness program recently, and while I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, the actual number was so shocking I burst into tears in the nurse’s office. I know, I know, and yes, I do fully support the Health at Every Size philosophy and believe that thin does not always, or even often, equal "healthy" and there is a wide range of healthy body sizes that do not fall into the “normal” BMI range and fuck society and their unrealistic standards anyway, and please just eat the cookie, but this amount of gain, this fast, is not normal for me. After thinking about it for a while, I realized that not only have I been on antihistamines for the past two months (which are notorious for causing weight gain), the allergies have kept me from feeling any motivation to exercise because of the accompanying asthma and fatigue. Add to that almost 10 months of neglecting my physical health in order to achieve at the new job, being under massive stress, and the newly-acquired habit of eating Jolly Rancher hard candy from the Gift Shop for energy bursts, and well—you have a Typist with a near 20-pound weight gain. 

 It was a wake-up call that I have to start prioritizing my body. Whether it be anorexia,  weight-cycling, self-abuse, or just plain nutritional neglect, most of my life, the health of my physical body has taken a back seat to almost everything else. I rarely go to a doctor. In fact, I don’t even have a doctor right now because I’m “too busy” to make or keep an appointment. I ignore pain until I can’t anymore, and when I do go to a doctor, I usually disregard their advice. I have little regard for my body and wish more than anything I didn’t have to live in one. And yet I expect it to function perfectly and up to my exacting specifications no matter what sort of neglect I inflict on it. 

 The gig is up. I have to start making my health a priority. This doesn’t mean getting thin at all costs, or even getting thin at all (I know I will never see 125 pounds on my 5”9’ frame again), but it does mean paying attention to what I’m eating instead of snarfing down a grab-and-go lunch that I don’t even taste so I can get just a little more work done at my computer. It means taking time to exercise, to leave the office, to walk, to get fresh air, to find a doctor I trust, to reduce stress, and to be more mindful about my eating. I’ve never been an overeater, but my eating has been very imbalanced—eating the wrong things, too quickly, eating nothing, then eating a lot because I’m suddenly starving, or doing ten other things while I’m trying to stave off hunger pains with whatever I can grab from the cafeteria. Or eating a big dinner at night because I haven’t eaten during the day. Whatever it is, it has to stop. I’m uncomfortable at this weight, but worse, I don’t feel strong. Like my ebullient Dan, I want to feel strong and powerful and fast. What that means for each individual is different, but for myself--I don’t feel it now, and I want it back. 


Of course, the the undeniably sick part of all this is that if I had lost 20 pounds in under ten months, I'd be thrilled. I wouldn't care what was happening to my health, or worry about my body or my life being out of balance--I'd just feel happy that I had lost weight for what ever reason it was. And I suspect that any doctor would agree--whatever it was, if the weight was coming off--if I was getting thinner--than it must be perfectly okay and totally healthy; no need to dig for a cause or worry about "imbalance" as long the physical, external body looks the way it "should". 

Sunset at Ocean Shores

Things that Seem Like They Wouldn’t Be Romantic, but Really Are

Mr. Typist and I went to dinner for our anniversary at this truly amazing place called Collin’s Restaurant in Ocean Shores. It was like dining at someone’s house. The tables were all set up around the very homey kitchen, and you could watch the staff cook in full view. We had this absolutely to-die for meal, at which I was actually able to slow down, enjoy, and be totally present with. It was perfectly made, and all in all, a joyous occasion. (It’s amazing how much more I enjoy food when it’s made into a meaningful event rather than just something I have to consume in order to keep working.) Afterwards, the chef came out to introduce himself. When the staff found out it was our anniversary, they gave me a red rose from their bouquet on the mantle. Roses are “my” flower, and I knew that this was a sign. Of what, I don’t know. Just the fact that it’s a sign is enough for me.

Afterwards, Mr. Typist wanted to drive out to the beach to catch the sunset, but it was freezing and I wanted have a swim before bed. However, I acquiesced, and we were rewarded with said sunset, which I ran out of the car in my sleeveless dress to catch on camera, thereby causing violent shivering, thereby causing Mr. Typist to get all protective and turn up the car heat. Very romantic, that. 

But as fun as the trip was—and it was a blast—there was nothing as romantic as coming back home, cleaning up the house after the cats had had free reign for three days, and getting back to our everyday lives. I have always believed that there is great romance in ordinary lives, but sometimes we need sunsets on the beach, fast horses, and beautiful candle-lit meals to remind us of it.  

--Kristen McHenry

Words for the Expendable

Words for the Expendable


Due to legitimate concerns for the safety of the company, laid-off employees will be escorted to their cars by security staff.--An Employment Manual

On your last 

leg through gray hallways past 

silent doors observe: 

Fractals in the linoleum, the 

tips of your shoes, that made 

no difference after all. 

Your absence will linger 

briefly and be swallowed. Bear 

your box of stolen artifacts 

clanking 
a toast to redundancy.

They say every 

seventh year our bodies 

grow in new.
Pluck grace

from wicked nerve.

There through the exit, sky 

is in its gloaming,  

constellations 

waiting to descend.

--Kristen McHenry

Perhaps, Indelible: Four Things that Broke My Heart this Week (And Then Dancin’!)

Perhaps, Indelible: Four Things that Broke My Heart this Week (And Tina Fey Stole My Dance Moves!)

I fight my inborn, high sensitivity all of the time, but after listening to the latest episode of “The Mental Illness Happy Hour” podcast, thanks to brilliant guest Dr. Jessica Zucker, I was recently reminded that sensitivity is a gift--and one I will therefore be indulging in full-force in this post. I hereby present you with four things that broke my heart this week.  

“Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea” by Barbara Demick

This book was haunting and heart-rending. I’ve been wanting to read it for a while, but haven’t had the courage. It was a book I had to work myself into slowly and then, once in it, read obsessively until finished, because I needed the pain of experiencing it to be all over in one fell swoop, rather than stretched it out over weeks or months. 

Now is the part where a nicer and more enlightened person than I would wax poetic about the resilience of the human spirit, but I don’t believe that what we possess that allows us to survive horrors has much to do with either resilience or the human spirit. I don’t necessarily believe in the common narrative that those us who survive against all odds are, by default, the bravest or noblest among us. But I must give kudos to those featured in the book, who did go on to cobble a life together after such harrowing and horrifying experiences. There is nothing I can do about the suffering of those living in North Korea now, and no amount of prayer and wishful thinking is going to alleviate their tragic situation. I'm glad that I'm aware of it, but awareness alone does not create change. So I’m left to just hold them all in my heart and hope for their sake the regime eventually collapses and that those who are left standing are able to eat, stay warm, and be comfortable for the rest of their lives.

An Essay

After almost three years, an anthology that contains a poem and an essay I wrote many years ago finally arrived on my doorstep. I was glad to get it at all. Just as the anthology was getting ready to go to print, the publisher underwent numerous challenges, including a chronic illness, which continually delayed it's release date. Ironically, the book is entitled, “Flowers Bloom in the Moonlight”, and is a collection of poems and essays about facing adversity. The essay of mine they published was about my intense, two-year involvement with an abusive spiritual leader. I hadn’t read it in the three years since I submitted it to the publisher. Reading it from the book last night after so much time had passed, I realized that while it was truthful and honest, it wasn’t as angry is it would be if I had written it now. I was still coming out stages of self-blaming when I wrote it, and in the essay, I put the entirety of the blame for what had happened onto myself, rather than directing it at the person who deserved it. 

Today, I would have written a very different piece. Now, I would place blame. I would rant, rail, and scream, “You had no fucking right to abuse vulnerable people!” I would refuse to blame myself for being taken advantage of. I would be righteous and outraged. But I wasn’t capable of it then. And that’s okay. I still honor the person who I was at that time, the person who was trying to make sense of the experience, trying to take responsibility, trying understand the enormity of what had happened. And—trying to protect the abuser from her actions. I can have still have compassion for the person I was when I wrote it. And the fact that I can means that I've grown stronger. And that makes me, if not happy per se, feel much more at peace with myself. 

My Family

In a time long ago before the economic collapse, there was a teensy amount of arts funding for a wonderful program called Poetry on Buses. And one of the poems I recall reading stated that there is a writer in every family, and that person is the dangerous one, the one who is always about to spill red wine on the white carpet. 

In my family, I’m the spiller. I’m the one pointing out the obvious at the bi-yearly Denial Olympics that pass as family gatherings; the one who has no patience not to tell the truth anymore. Over the last several weeks, a series of phone calls from said family members has left me feeling bereft and helpless and completely used up. I am taking a hiatus from "helping"--ie, getting sucked into a vortex that has no potential left to change or improve. I'm amazing at denial-after all, I learned from the best--but I know a hopeless situation when I see one, and I'm not obligated to keep pushing the rock uphill. 

Paul Gilmartin

Comedian Paul Gilmartin is the host of the afore-mentioned Mental Illness Happy Hour podcast, which is amazing, but so consistently intense and triggering I need long periods of time between episodes to cope with the aftermath of hearing each show. In a recent episode with Dr. Jessica Zucker, Paul shared his vulnerability around the abuse and boundary violations his mother put him through. It was an amazing story to witness, but something specific in the conversation with him and Jessica really struck me. At one point she tells Paul that her mother will never validate his experience….“and then, once again, you are erased.” Something about the word “erased” struck me very deeply. I had to hide my tears as I rode home on the bus with this podcast playing in my earholes, feeling how that simple phrase describes so much of how I have felt throughout my life:  and now, you are erased. But this is also old pain--pain that is moving away more and more each day as I begin to grow more powerful, and whatever the opposite of erased is. Perhaps, “indelible.” 

And since I was such a Debbie Downer in this post, I now reward your fortitude with funny woman Tina Fey, and her sweet dance moves--which she stole from me, but you know what? I am a forgiving person, and if Tina wants to steal credit--well, so be it. Get it on, bitches! (Sorry--embed code broken, so you have to follow the link.)

http://www.thedailybeast.com/videos/2012/03/30/how-to-dance-like-tina-fey.html

Summer vs. Winter, Rent vs. Own, Novels vs. Poetry, and the Entire World vs. My Sinuses

Summer vs. Winter

Yesterday, after a very long week, I woke up with a swollen throat and a nose that was both completely stuffed up and yet somehow still dripping copiously. I realized that I'd gotten cocky. The new medication had finally started to work on my spring allergies, and I began to believe that I could actually feel like a normal human being for the rest of the summer. That’s precisely the time that I caught Mr. Typist’s severe, five-day long cold. The only explanation I can think of is that I am being punished for my hubris. I am not a summer person. I burn easily, I hate the heat, I’m light-sensitive, I can’t swim, and with my stark-white legs and wobbly bits, I am not a pretty sight in shorts. And here I was, allowing myself to indulge in fantasies that this summer would be different—fantastic, in fact! Now that I wasn’t sneezing constantly, my energy would return. I would work out every night, wear breezy little dresses to work and maybe even put on 135 SPF sunscreen and “lay out.” I could wear my big floppy hat and insect sunglasses and “catch some rays.” But no. It’s clear, after 42 years, that I am not designed for summer living. I am designed for wearing bulky, earth-toned sweaters and slogging through cold, gloomy rain in mid-winter, under bare branches, with an ominous-looking blackbird squawking at me from atop a telephone wire. That’s when I’m in my element.

Rent vs. Own

Mr. Typist and I have been having the “rent vs own” discussion over the last few days, which has led me to start thinking in an uncharacteristically grown-up way about scary questions like my future and my priorities. There is a definite and unfortunate stigma against renting. The myth tells us that renters (just like people who choose not to have kids), are somehow not invested in their future or in their communities, that they are not “real” members of society, that they simply don’t care as much as owners. They myth tells us that owning a house is the only real path to financial security. At dinner the other night, Mr. Typist asked me why I wanted a house, and (to the poor man’s utter shock), I suddenly started crying. 

All I felt when he asked me that was this very old, very deep longing and sadness. It’s a feeling that has to do with finding home, and it’s a feeling that has haunted and dogged me my entire life. Someone once said the every artist has one central emotional theme that all of their writing centers around, and if that’s true, I believe that for me, it’s about finding home. It’s about finding a place where I don’t feel constantly alienated from my body, my surroundings, my society, my culture. It's tied up with a sense of not belonging, of this planet not being my real home.  It’s as though I have spent my entire life as an immigrant, and no one knows but me.

I have done a lot of thinking about how buying house, a physical structure, might either serve to heal or exacerbate that feeling. I want to believe that it will heal it, but as Mr. Typist points out, ownership is really just a delusion anyway. A house will most likely be owned by the bank for at least 30 years, and the hidden costs in time alone are enormous. After crunching the numbers, it looks like the returns would be more or less a wash compared with investing that same money.  Besides, the benefits of the freedom that renting affords us is huge. I’ve never understood why anyone thinks paying for your shelter every month is “throwing money away” as opposed to paying nothing but interest on a loan for the first 15 years. We haven’t come to any final conclusions yet, but we won’t be house-hunting any time soon.

Novel vs. Poetry

Writing the novel continues to be an interesting experience. I find that I have the opposite problem with the novel as I do with poetry—I am obsessed with producing, with getting pages filled, in order to feel like I am accomplishing something with it. I’m concerned that I haven’t developed an authentic voice for my main character yet. She still sounds too much like me. I’m going to go back this week and work further on her character development before I continue pumping out pages.

But that’s after I finish blowing my nose for the 180th time this morning. 

--Kristen McHenry

The Offer

The offer 
lolls in her inbox, the 
payout licked 
with lime green highlight.
What they’ll give her 
to just go quietly is fair enough.
She’s read “The Four Agreements”, 
“Secrets of Successful Women” and 
“Keys to Peak Performance”. 
She’s done with all this anyway, long  
gave up on “Refueling Career Passion”
and “Motivation from Within”. Knows
her Meyer-Briggs, her season, the color
of her parachute.
But her body 
is job-shaped, mutated
to the demands of the years.
Fired in the kiln of the office,
she jokes. I’m a ceramic, 
not a woman. She doesn’t add 
that the phrase “doubled over with a terrible sadness”
echoes in her ribs 
with disturbing frequency. She’s read 
“How to Get out of Your Own 
Way and Achieve Your Dreams.”




Kristen McHenry

On Reading Aloud, Being the Judge, and Giant Skull Throat Tattoos

My next tattoo

On Reading Aloud, Being the Judge, and Giant Skull Throat Tattoos

Last Thursday, I was a featured reader at Hugo House’s Cheap Wine and Poetry Night. I’d been worn down all week fighting stress and hay fever, I felt haggard and flabby, I was woefully underprepared, and the last thing I wanted to do was stand up in front of an audience and be the center of attention, even if only for fifteen minutes. But the pure goodwill and warmth of the standing-room only house was so powerful, I had a  fantastic time at the microphone in spite of myself. I felt all aglow the next day with the positive vibes and warm energy. The Seattle poetry community is truly engaged, enthusiastic, and incredibly supportive.

The other featured readers, Jeanine Walker, Tara Hardy, and Washington State Poet Laureate Kathleen Flenniken, were all amazing. As I watched them, I felt a strange mixture of sadness and inspiration: Sadness that the poetry is not coming for me as fast and strong as I want it to, and inspired by the power of their work and their commitment to writing as a tool for transformation and change. I realized that I have allowed myself to become far too isolated. Although writing is a solitary activity, it is not meant to exist in a vacuum, but to be shared in a community; to be celebrated, read aloud, and unapologetically wielded as a tool of cultural and personal transformation. My tendency to try to do this all alone, to isolate and hide and peck away in total solitude, is suffocating the life force from my creativity. The fact is, I need people. I need community. I need an audience to receive and respond to my words. I need to see that my work has impact and power, and I can’t do that if I perpetually hide and hoard my work in darkness. I’m resolved to change this; to take the risk of letting myself be known, to begin delving into the rich and exciting community of writers in Seattle and maybe even develop some friendships. I've put in an application to volunteer at Hugo House, and am resolved to start going to more literary events; no matter how tired am after work.

In the vein of supporting local writers, I was honored to selected as the judge of the Our Own Expression Youth Poetry Competition this year! I’m super excited to get the packet of entries and start reading, yet I’m a bit daunted at the responsibility inherent in selecting the winners and having to turn down others for a place. Last year, I got to emcee the awards presentation event at Pacific Lutheran University, and it was breathtaking to meet all of the beautifully shy and brilliant young artists and writers putting their work out there in the world.  It’s going to be hard to say “no” to any entry, but I’m looking forward to the chance to read the work of our state’s young authors.

I went out for beer and burgers with Mr. Typist on Friday night, and our waitress had a giant tattoo of a skull on her throat, which fascinated and distracted me throughout the entire meal. I couldn’t stop staring at it out of the corner of my eye, wondering what state of mind it would take to commit to limiting your options in life in such a dramatic fashion. “I mean, what if she decides she wants to be an investment banker?” I whispered to Mr. Typist. “Well, just think about it,” he said. “With a tattoo like that, she’d never lose a negotiation. They’d just take one look at her throat and give her whatever she wanted.” Budding investment banker or not, I admire her committing to a stance—permanently. No one commits to anything anymore. Everything is too easy to get out of. Nothing says, “I’m all in" like a giant skull throat tattoo.

The whole experience reminded me of my own relatively tame tattoo of Osiris on my left bicep, which is badly in need of being re-colored. Sometimes I’ve considered having it removed, but it’s like a living part of my own body now. It’s part of me; it comforts me, and I would miss it very much if it were gone. I’m working up the courage for my next one, a depiction of Lilith with a snake wrapped around her torso. But wherever it goes, I’m pretty sure it won’t be on my throat. 

--Kristen McHenry

The Spiritual Meaning of Hay Fever, Novel-based Emotional Turmoil, and the Joy of No-Leave Sundays

The Spiritual Meaning of Hay Fever, Novel-based Emotional Turmoil, and the  Joy of No-Leave Sundays

An article on Squidoo states that the spiritual meaning of my hay fever is, “You are allergic to someone, or yourself, who denies your power." Apparently, the cure for this is to tell myself repeatedly,“The world is safe and friendly. I am safe. I am at peace with life.”  

Me and my power-denying self have been struggling mightily with seasonal allergies, to the point that I had to actually come home from work one day this week and take to my bed after an ill-conceived double dose of Zyrtec. I’ve been miserable and congested, red-eyed, fatigued, and zonked out on medication for the last two weeks, hence not much activity on this here blog of mine. But today all of the pollen is drowning in the heavy rains, and I feel better. I don't know about being in denial of my power, but I have considered the possibility that perhaps what I am actually allergic to is the chaos of growth; all of the wild, unformed life flying around uncontained and unsettled. 

In the meantime, I have been pecking away at the novel, thinking obsessively about the novel, turning ideas over in my head for the novel, and having strange welling-ups of old, deep, and apparently still-present grief that are seemingly being stirred up by the novel. I find this surprising—and a more than a little annoying. Writing the novel wasn’t supposed to be an emotional process for me. It was supposed to be a way to meet a new writing challenge, to stretch my skills, and to get this story out of my head that’s been stuck in there for years. It’s supposed to be fairly shallow, lightweight, chick-littish sort of book, simply plotted and straightforwardly told. 

And yet this is becoming not just a writing exercise, but something that feels suspiciously like a spiritual growth process. It seems to have grabbed onto me, gotten me by the heart, and taken on a whole new life and dimension of its own, tugging me around on its own momentum and demanding that I work through old pain and heal old wounds. I didn’t ask for that! I don’t know why it’s happening. I have no control over it. And I cannot deny it its power, it's unsettled, chaotic and wild growth.

However, I am writing, happily and copiously, and there is no block and very little confusion. In fact, the actual writing process itself seems uneasily, well, easy. I feel like I should be struggling more with that part of it, but at the moment, I’m not. It’s all just flowing, and instead of enjoying it and accepting it as a gift, I am looking around jumpily, constantly thinking that’s too easy; that it’s a trick, that I must not be doing it right. 

But’s that’s okay, because right now, I am going to forget about all of this and distract myself with errands so that tomorrow, I can indulge in No-Leave Sunday, which is exactly what it sounds like—a day that I do not leave the house. Other things that I don’t do on No-Leave Sunday include putting on makeup, cooking or getting take-out (Mr. Typist handles dinner), checking work e-mail, or doing coffee runs. It’s a lovely thing, knowing that I have ahead of me a whole day completely free of external stimuli, to assuage my inner recluse. I am working eventually towards a No-Leave Month--perhaps a February, as nothing good ever comes of a February—and then, an entire No-Leave Year. Come to think if it, I should probably start planning that one now, as shall have to have staff.

--Kristen McHenry

Writer's Block as a Transformative Tool

I’ve moped here and there on this blog about my issues with writing lately, including this statement from a few weeks ago:

“I am in a weird place with the writing...still feeling a strong impulse to branch out, but forcing myself to come back to poetry, even though it's not working very well for me right now. Last weekend, I took a stab at starting a novel, but I feel funny about it, like it makes me undisciplined and unfocused; like I shouldn't be ego-maniacal enough to assume I can cross over into anything new. I am reading dire warnings about not trying to become a ‘cross-over’ writer, which are depressing me, but I continue to read them.”

I have been managing to eke out a few poems for the latest series, but the experience has been fairly joyless of late. I’ve had to torture poetry out of myself, and in spite of popular myths to the contrary, I’m not one who believes that creative writing should be onerous, painful, or otherwise feel like drudgery. Or that we must “force ourselves” to produce when there is nothing in the well. But the well has been empty for far too long now, and I’ve been stuck in a state of suspended animation, too anxious, passionless and unmotivated to write, while frantically trying to get anything at all onto to the page just to prove to myself that my writing “career” wasn’t just some weird anomalous blip on the fuzz-crackled radar screen of my creative life.

At the same time, my urges to branch out became so strong that I recently spent several days writing a short story to submit for an upcoming themed issue of Big Pulp. The process of writing the story felt great. Simply changing my focus seemed to burst open my creativity, and the writing flowed better and faster than it has than with almost any poem I’ve tried writing for a while. It felt disconcertingly effortless, and I’m fairly happy with the end result. But the anxiety around poetry and writing still had its icy finger on my throat chakra, so I last week, I whisked myself off to see a writing coach, hoping for some help in breaking through the fog of confusion and general creative doldrums. 

The most compelling thing I learned from the session (and I learned a lot), was that experiencing a block means that you are hovering on the verge of a breakthrough. Writer’s block had never been explained to me that way before, and this was an exciting concept—mostly because I think it was something I intuitively knew without knowing I knew it. Acknowledging this somehow granted me “permission” to go right on ahead and plunge headfirst in what I’ve wanted to do for years—begin writing a novel. And I haven’t felt this excited and energized around writing in quite a long time. In two weekends, I’ve been able to flesh out the entire plot, and am ready to begin writing the narrative. And I’m actually experiencing passion and joy in the characters, in the story and in tackling the challenge of writing in an entirely new way. The thought of writing energizes me, rather than making me feel drained and dim.

I believe that writing should feel joyful, playful, and expansive. For me, there is no joy without playfulness, without humor, without some sense of quirky mirth and even silliness. Maybe right now, poetry and its denizens have begun to feel too serious and relentlessly heavy-hearted. With my very daunting day job in a busy urban hospital, maybe I need an outlet from the grimness rather than immersing myself in further seriousness of the poetry world.  Or maybe I just simply need to stretch. I have faith that poetry will return to me in its own time, and when it does, I will be here to receive it. Right now, I’m excited (and a bit scared) to be on this new leg of my creative journey--writing a humorous novel.

If you’re looking for a great Seattle-based writing coach, I recommend mine—Robyn Fritz. Personally, I need hard-nosed practicality blended with a liberal dash of intuitive insight and guidance, and Robyn fits the bill perfectly. You can learn more about her here.  

--Kristen McHenry

Meeting Adam Carolla, Judging Hipsters, and Unconventional Fandom

Myself, Adam Carolla, and Mr. Typist at The Moore. 

On Saturday night, Mr. Typist and I shook ourselves out of our usual glamorous routine of take-out and falling asleep in front of the T.V. to actually leave the house and go see our favorite podcast personality/comedian Adam Carolla at the Moore Theater. We were packed in shoulder-to-shoulder with 1,800 other fans and seated in the balcony section. I could only see Adam cut in half by the metal bar that kept me from falling into the nice, cushioned seats below me, but still, it was a great show. I listen to Adam’s podcast almost every day, and it was a bit surreal to actually attach a body to what I have come to think of as a discorporeal voice that exists only inside my I-pod. Afterwards, we waited for over an hour in an astonishingly long queue so that we could meet Adam in person and get my copy of his book signed.

I wanted to tell him, “I loved ‘The Hammer’! Thank you for making my commute bearable for the last five years! Your life story has been such an inspiration to me! And, well…*sniff* I love you, man!” But they were moving the line along with terrifying efficiency, and before I knew it, they had snapped the picture, Adam had signed my book and all I could eke out was a stammered “Thank you”. Adam smiled at me and said, “Thank you”, too, and then it was all over. Ha! He smiled at me. And it was a warm and twinkly smile, too. I don’t mean to brag, but it’s pretty obvious he liked me best of all of his fans. 

Since I tend to listen to Adam only in my own earholes, isolated and insulated behind my headphones, it was somewhat disorienting to realize he has so many other listeners. Somehow I had come to think of him as just my own thing, someone that I liked, but that everyone else in Seattle was too cool and highbrow to care about. But it turns out Seattle has a massive Adam Carolla fan base, and they seem to be for the most part a friendly, outgoing and garrulous bunch. Most people tend to think of Adam’s listeners as all beer-swilling dude-bros, but there is actually a huge cross-section, including, I was heartened to find, a lot of women, a healthy smattering of literary/artsy types, regular folks over 40, and a fair number of punks and hipsters. 

It turns out I was seated next to one of those hipsters, one with brilliant pink hair, striped stockings, and a leather jacket. For some reason, I instantly judged her as humorless and vaguely dreaded sitting next to her for the whole show, but my snarky and baseless judgment was totally wrong—she laughed with joyous, uninhibited abandon during the entire set, and actually made it more fun more me. So much for my asshatted assumptions about others. God, I have got to get out more.

If you need to laugh—and who doesn’t these days?—you can download Adam’s podcast here. Happy listening!

Kristen McHenry