Why Don't I Write Every Day

Last week I presented at an NeMLA conference some of my poems from my upcoming memoir manuscript, Empress Dreams. But now I am considering a change in the book title to My Memoir is the Skeleton. As I prepared for my presentation, I realized that my manuscript is a complete mess. I have post-its everywhere indicating that this poem needs to be longer or that prose piece needs some copy editing. I have not taken the time to work on this manuscript daily, and I don't know why. 

For decades I have struggled with not having a writing routine. So at this point in my life, I have to say that not having a writing routine is my writing routine. I just do not feel any kind of contentment when I am writing or working on my writing (revising) or taking the time to put together a book of my work. Since I made the decision to go with self-publishing, I do find that I think more in terms of books and not in writing a single poem and sending it out to journals. And my books are the following: At The Pit Mouth (a chapbook length manuscript of poems about the Dawson, New Mexico mining disaster of 1913 where 263 miners were killed and 130 of them were Italian immigrants), Atterrando (my book of poetry that I self-published with Epigraph Publishing), Abramo e Agata (book-length manuscript of poetry focusing on the Italian P.O.Ws in Lordsburg, NM during WW II), and my memoir (book-length manuscript of mixed genres--poetry and prose). Except for Atterrando, all my other manuscripts are very much "works in progress"--in other words, I am not ready to send them out to publishers or to consider having Epigraph publish them for me. And they are all in various stages of neglect or a kind of cycle of me paying attention and then making a pile and leaving it there for months and months. I work on it for a few days and then I tell myself I will get back to it, but I don't, and the pile sits there, neglected, abused, dust floating on it and settling down. And what am I doing during all this time?

When I was in graduate school, I never missed a deadline for papers and for submitting my creative writing in workshop classes. I never submitted a paper late. I finally completed my dissertation despite having to work (high school teaching) full-time and being a single parent. I was doing more in my day to day life than most of my graduate school peers were doing. I had to work to pay my bills and raise my child. And there were other issues/problems, etc. along the way--what we call "life"--child custody/child support road blocks, the stress and the responsibilities of teaching full-time, the lack of support from family and so on, and so on. All and more just got in the way. I learned that if I was not a "student" facing a deadline, I just would let the work molder until all that was left were disconnected ideas and words here and there in piles.

When I would finally get to it, I felt lost as if I was reading work from a stranger. I had lost the thread, the road map I had held on to in my mind. I was not able to withdraw from the world every day into my writing studio and write all day and someone else would show up with tea and cookies or let me know that "lunch was ready." But here is the thing. Even when I have the time (like I do now in my life), I still do not take that time. Why? I still do not have any clear answer on that. 

I could say that growing up in an immigrant, working-class family, I learned that work was important, necessary, and everything else (including creativity) was not as valuable. In fact, no need to nurture or protect creativity at all. We have to put food on the table, pay the bills, and behave as responsible adults. I still think about the daily sacrifices both my mother and father did just so I could have food to eat and clothes to wear. Somehow, from when I was very young, I was connected to and really committed to creative work. But no one was there to encourage me, to send me off to some arts camp. Every creative act I did came from my own determination, my own belief that my life only mattered because of my creativity. So there I was wanting to be an actress, or a singer, or a writer, and off I went to college determined to spend my time around other creative people and I did that for years while I worked at jobs I hated, and struggled to even pay my bills every month. But I never stopped believing in my creative work. 

Graduate school almost broke me. Having to write an academic dissertation almost broke me. And yet I survived. I finally was able to read a novel for the joy of it (it was Poisonwood Bible) and I slowly went back to my creative writing. Teaching high school for so many years almost broke me. But I never gave up on my poetry. Once I was finally able to teach at a university, I was back to writing a great deal because I wanted tenure. Because with every publication I knew I was closer to becoming a tenured professor. I was that responsible "student" again meeting deadlines and respecting the demands of my job. I wrote poems and creative nonfiction and starting working on longer works--like my Dawson, New Mexico poems. 

And now that I am tenured and last year was promoted to full professor, I am drowning again. I don't have job pressures regarding getting my work published. It all has to come from within, and that is where I am at now with several neglected manuscripts and me moving the piles around and around like some kind of dance. I need to settle down and get to work. No one else can write what I want to write in my voice. I hear that from my ancestors . . . If not me, who will do it? All the voices will disappear. If I do not finish that poem about my mother and her sisters, no one else will write it. 

Now I am wandering around in the dark ocean, feeling my way around creatures, not able to see most of the time, and wondering if I will ever reach the surface. What images will be collaged, layer on layer, until something else emerges? What voices will take over and finally be given space and time for their stories? If not me, then who?

"I'm a mermaid! I can swim," she cried, "so the game's up." Her dress was torn across, and peace being established, she fetched a needle and thread and began to mend the tear.

"And now," she said, "be quiet and tell me about the world; tell me everything that's ever happened, and I'll tell you--let me see, what can I tell you?" . . .

                                                          Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out

 

La Befana Hekate

The day before Christmas Eve, And like every year for decades I think back to my childhood with my parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, and my only living grandparent, Grandma Rinaldi.

I spent some time researching La Befana yesterday because I am very interested in her pre-Christian presence. I have images of La Befana in my home along with statues. She has always been there in the shadows for me. My mother used to talk about La Befana quite often-- memoires of waiting for La Befana's visits on the Ephipany. This was in San Giorgio del Sannio, Campania, Italy. It sounded magical to me, and I was always drawn to her, but I was never interested in the Befana who was stripped of her powers, and her connection to the dead. She became that old woman who regretted not visiting the Christ child, and spent all her time trying to find him. I did not care for the christianized Befana who is no longer Judgment. I knew there was more to Befana than what was being presented to us in children stories and toys.

In her book. Encyclopedia of Spirits, author Judika Illes states, " Befana may predate Christianity and may originally be a goddess of ancestral spirits, forest, and the passage of time." In the blog post, "La Befana: Christmas Witch, Goddess of Ancestral Spirit, fascist propaganda (& Befanini recipe and spell)" (radicisiciliane.com) describes a dream where Befana identifies herself as "Hecate Befana." As I researched more, I learned that Befana is older than Father Christmas, Santa Clause, and even St. Nick. I was connecting with a primordial goddess who is so old, we are not even clear about her origins.

So finally, I have accepted that this time of year is not a "happy" or "jolly" time and it never has been for me. With Italian immigrant parents, we did not focus on Santa Claus. We did spend time tending to the graves at that time of year. And the house was filled with my mother's memories of Italy and my father's memories of the Great Depression.

For centuries, my ancestors struggled and made sacrifices at this time of year. Having to store food, caring for their animals. A time of suffering and of sacrifice; a time of death and rebirth. Who would survive the winter? Who would starve? And my primal self has known this; deep in my bones the dance of loss and rebirth is always there. It is a time of silence, a time to withdraw, a time to listen to the dead.

from James Joyrce's story, "The Dead":

"Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."  

A Published Poem: "Moon, Ocean, July 1944"

 

Here is the poem that was published in the literary arts journal, Open Doors Review: A Literary Magazine in Italy, Issue 5, 2023. Recently I learned that issue is no longer available online, and that pdf that was sent to me of the issue is no longer available. At some point the journal will have all the issues accessible online, but I am not sure when.

Moon, Ocean, July 1944

I close my eyes and then open them,

and she is still here, moon light hitting the wall,

asking me to remember her name

every night, every night and

all I hear is the wind outside.

The sheep are gone,

left yesterday with my father to Lordsburg.

He talked of prisoners and guns,

“Don’t talk to any of them. They won’t understand you.

Don’t smile at them. If you look in their eyes,

they will take your soul.”

“Like the Lady?” I ask.

But my father does not answer. He pretends not to hear.

His voice keeps repeating the same words,

it is his argument of his life,

the rules we follow,

but it is not the voice of the Lady

who is glowing in my room,

through the small mirror,

I almost see her face.

If I stand in the middle of the room and

look across at that small window,

I see the moon out there, heavy over the mesa,

weighing down on all of us,

while everyone around me is sleeping.

I am alone and the world here is barely breathing.

The Lady asks me to crawl into the ocean,

leave behind the shore, whatever land I know and go deeper,

but I am a desert girl and I don’t know how to swim.

That is okay,

the man who smiled at me,

that is okay he seemed to say as he walked by and said, “Mi scusi.”

He offered me a hand to guide me and he won’t let me drown.

He was born near the sea and a volcano.

He will not let me drown.

I look at him and he sees me

riding wave after wave,

he is only trying to return

to his mother, his sister, his mother tongue,

he does not look back at me,

as I walk between shore and the dark.

So Rough A Messenger

 

Here is my second chapbook of poetry, published by Finishing Line Press. It is also out of print, and yes, I would like to get this reprinted and available for interested readers to purchase. 

Long Island Girl

 

Here it is. My first chapbook of poetry that was published while I was a graduate student at the University of New Mexico. Malafemmina Press published it in a series of chapbooks by Italian American women poets. It is out of print. I would very much like to reprint it. 

My Memoir Is No Longer A Memoir

I have a new website, www.carmelalanzawriter.com, and I feel good about how professional it looks. And it is easy for me to make changes and updates on it. Instead of working on my poems that need revising, I am spending time on my website. Not sure if that is a good thing? I have an option to start a newsletter on my website and am still trying to figure out how to use it. 

I am slowly understanding that my memoir should not categorized as a memoir. It does not fit the mainstream idea of a memoir book. I see my life story as the skeleton of the book, but it is a mix of genres (poetry and personal narrative), and it is not linear at all. It also does not focus on a specific time in my life or a specific problem that I survived. I took an adult learning class on "writing a memoir" and as the instructor discussed the various types of memoirs, I realized mine did not fit in at all.  I also realized that I was writing without even considering who my audience would be. 

I have been adding poems to the manuscript and it seems my ancestors have been taking over. The Atlantic Ocean is also there as a force, a presence, and a connection to my ancestral line.

La Venefica: The Medicine Witch

 

According to the book, Witches and Pagans: Women in European Folk Religion, 700-1100, La Venefica was an herbalist but a "poisoner." This was going on around the 8th century but also continued into the 1400s where midwives were often viewed as "murderers" and "poisoners." For some, there needed to be a clear distinction between what was "good" and what was "evil" so veneficus had its opposite, beneficus, "one who is beneficent." 

I have started a new poem, "La Venefica," that I plan to include in my poetry manuscript, Abramo e Agata. At this time I plan to adding it to my section of poems that are narrated by La Madonna dell' Arco, one of the Black Madonnas of southern Italy but who has devotees around the world. In my poem, I am connecting La Madonna dell'Arco with La Venefica, the one who heals and the one who destroys. La Madonna dell'Arco is the voice who comes through at the beginning of my book.  So in the first section she is the narrator. The voice is primal; the Great Mother; Anima Mundi; the World card in the tarot. 

When I started working on my manuscript and my central narrator, Abramo, a young Napoletano, who is a POW in Lordsburg, NM, I saw him praying  to and worshipping La Madonna dell'Arco, whose sancutary is in Sant'Anastasia, a town at the foot of Mt. Vesuvius, within the municipality of Naples, Italy. I imagine my nonna, Grazia Napoletana, as a young girl going to that church. I have no evidence of that only what I imagine. Only what I create in my poetry.

When I first saw images of La Madonna dell'Arco, I was drawn to the scar on her face. immediately knew, could feel that She understands suffering. A young man lost his temper and threw a ball at the La Madonna dell'Arco's painting and her left cheek started to bleed. The bleeding eventually stopped, but the scar is always there. The young man was convicted of blasphemy, and was hanged. There is no fairy-tale ending to this story. No one was forgiven. The harshness of that story seeps into the devotion of this Black Madonna. People who suffer, who experience violence, illness, possession of evil spirits, near drownings, etc. all go to Her for healing and protection.

Follow me in this dance,

across the ocean,

the desert,

the swamp,

the dungeon,

the prison,

we will find the bones

in the cave.

I promise,

but that is not all of the story,

and no word will be

created for this,

what is left,

now and forever,

the humming of the bees,

the silence.

from my poem, "Dark Moon: La Madonna Promises"