Hi. My name is Anton Dabbs. I’m a new member of Lake Superior Writers. I’m a new writer, too. Well, new to publishing my writing. Actually, I’ve been writing poetry and memoir for a while, but it’s been mainly for myself or people close to me. Now, I’m starting to publish my work. My memoir From Turmoil to Triumph is out in February. I also have a blog and a YouTube channel, which was going along fine with a somewhat small number of viewers. Then I did an interview with Autism Expert Tara Phillips about learning as an adult that I have autism. I posted that interview and it got something like 25,000 views in the first week. It’s kept growing with views and subscribers. I found my audience.
So in just a few months, I went from sharing my story with a small group to sharing it with a much bigger group. It happened kind of overnight, but not really, and that’s what I want to share here. Because I think there are probably other writers like me who are writing for a small audience but want to write for a bigger audience. How to find that audience is beyond our control in some ways, but there are some things we can do.
Writing the Book
It started with writing the book. Realizing that I had a story to tell and I wanted to tell it. I have struggled with chronic anxiety (and autism, I found out later) my entire life. I also didn’t have the best criminal record in my teens and twenties. But I was able to turn my life around and start down a different road. I worked hard as an auto mechanic. I started my own company, Lemon Squad, which offered pre-purchase inspections on cars. I worked 24/7 for a lot of years. The company grew to nationwide status, and I eventually sold it (twice, actually, but that’s a longer story). Friends and family encouraged me to tell my story, and I was willing to be honest – so I decided to write the book. But I needed help to do it. I’m not a professional writer. So I reached out to a professional writer who helped me shape the story and get it on the page. Working with someone made it possible. They knew the craft of writing, and they knew the business of book publishing. They knew how to ask me the right questions.
Publishing the Book
For this part, I considered querying an agent, or an independent publisher, but I ultimately decided that I didn’t want to wait through that whole process. I also had the money to invest in publishing my book myself, and I could hire people to design, copy edit, and market it. So that’s what I did. I hired a graphic designer for the layout, and a copyeditor, and I went through an independent publishing platform. The writer helped me learn about the book launch and signings and getting blurbs for the cover. Basically what I’m saying is, I worked with people who knew the business and the art and could help me navigate through it.
But I Still Had to Reach Out
This is key. Because even though I had professionals helping me, it still came down to me. I contacted people for quotes directly. I called the bookstore to arrange a signing. And I focused a lot of attention on my YouTube channel. I got a GoPro and a mic and set up my office as a vlogger. I kept posting, trying to find the topic that people want to hear about. I posted vlogs on being an entrepreneur and starting a business. I posted about vehicles. I love hiking the North Shore, so there are hiking vlogs – I’ll keep posting those because I’m out on the trail almost every day. But it was the interview about getting the autism diagnosis last fall that really hit – and I realized who my audience is.
And this is important, because it’s shaping my new project. The more I walk my own path of chronic anxiety and autism, the more I learn, the more I want to advocate for mental health, and help others like me. I’ll keep writing, and now that I know more about my audience, I can keep writing with them in mind. My audience got a whole lot bigger, and I’m excited to share my story with them.
Anton Dabbs is a mechanic, entrepreneur, mental health advocate, writer and speaker. Learn more at:
What is it about words in a poem that come and leave blossoms on a page but later cry out for pruning? Could it be paper and pen must make peace instead of beating up or ignoring one another.
The meat for a healthy meal is there, but technique, seasoned nuance with steady patience and a proper night’s rest adds flavor and definition. The feast waits for grilling but all the spices must blend and have a chance to get acquainted.
The process is not linear by any means. One day it feels finished, the next morning it looks and sounds like a disaster that needs cutting, shifting and fresh turns of phrase.
Has the universe shifted and does a new day arrive differently? Does a strong cup of coffee stimulate a rebirth in morning’s light that ignites the glow of inspiration circling in slumber that brings renewal?
There are mysteries in this. The shimmering radiance that sneaks in the windows at night speaks in the morning and shout, “This ain’t right – get your butt in gear!”
With intention came observation, with observation came precise word choices. And because of the more sophisticated word choices, all that was unwritten also shone through.
Last summer we had our ‘oldest’ friends over for dinner. We have known each other since our babies were born; 10 in all! Now our babies are having babies! I finished in the kitchen, set the table and went outside to pick some wildflowers. Our garden was alive with color; I picked lupins, Black-eyed Susans, wild columbines, daisies, swamp millweed and some St Johnswort. I arranged them in jars and placed them on the table. I stood back to admire them. Something was wrong; the table was suddenly overdecorated. Our friendship is simple, not über-colorful, but natural and honest. I removed the colors, kept the wild daises, and added some ferns and horsetail grasses.
Later that week, sitting at the dining-room table, I was editing a chapter in my novel. I leant back in my chair and re-read my work. Something was wrong; my scene felt overdecorated. I was describing a fire. I had “scarlet flames, poisons of revenge, torrefied grass,” believe it or not I even had a “howling bolt.” Don’t ask! I looked up and saw the daisies. It was as if the wildflowers had winked at me! I realised that the scene was overwhelming. The flowers got me to thinking about simplicity and how the pen best wields its power – simple, precise words and phrases. Take Louise Erdrich’s introduction of her protagonist in Love Medicine. Jean is a “long-legged Chippewa woman, aged hard.” Simple vocabulary but sophisticated choices, leaning on Erdrich’s crystal clear understanding of the exact impressions she wants to give her readers. Or Linda LeGarde Grover’s portrait of a father in Gichigami Hearts, “methodically popping beers open with a church key.” There are millions of examples but what these have in common is that the author knew exactly the impression she wanted to give. So behind simple lies precision. Behind precision lies observation. Behind observation lies understanding of intention. In the same book, Erdrich wraps five hundred years of complicated Ojibwe and American history into one neat exchange between Nector Kashpaw and his mother. Kashpaw is reading Moby Dick. His mother asks him what he is reading, Nector responds, “the story of the great white whale.” His mother replies, “What do they got to wail about those whites?” – Intention, observation, precision.
I brewed a fresh pot of coffee and rewrote the scene with intention. I wrote from the perspective of a young woman as she watched her home burn. With intention came observation, with observation came precise word choices. And because of the more sophisticated word choices, all that was unwritten also shone through. It wasn’t the scarlet flames or the torrified grass, (it was hard to let go of that word!) which the reader cared about, it was this woman’s loss. This emerged, uncluttered as I let her thoughts loose on the page. Nothing as brilliant as Erdrich or LeGarde Grover but away from complicated, clichéd dribble. All it took was a jar of wild daisies to remind me of the need for sophisticated simplification, precise observation and clear intention.
Tiffany Jolowicz has self-published: Ironwomen an insight how and why women take on the long-distance triathlon challenge and How to enjoy your first baby as if it were your fifth, inspired by the difference in the mothering experience from her first to fifth child. She recently graduated from Oxford University with a Diploma in Creative Writing and is writing her first historical fiction novel. An amateur photographer, she never leaves home without her camera, especially at dawn and dusk. Her photos have been published in Summer 2022 and 2023 The Courtship of Winds. She lives in Switzerland but visits Madeline Island in the summers.
I like to tap into what’s between my ears in a very deliberate way, akin to a brainstorming technique.
I am a freelance writer. The only commitment I have to writing practice is the one’s I make to those who are expecting me to produce for them. That is a good thing. It is very easy to hold off sitting down and banging something out that is relevant, cogent and has some value.
Dashing off something for the News Tribune in Duluth requires thoughtful consideration. I seem to have ideas rolling around in my head all the time. It’s kind of like watching the water cascade over the rocks at Gooseberry Falls. There, depending on the season of the year, it’s either torrent or trickle, but it still keeps coming. The trick is to pay attention and enjoy the majesty in high flow periods or the contemplative interludes during the quieter hours, when the water’s rush to the big lake becomes a trickle that slips through the cracks and furrows surrounding the falls. To access that flow and its potential the simple act of free association seems to work for me.
There are all kinds of ways to free associate. A tool of psychoanalysis, it’s purpose is to deepen self-understanding by looking at whatever thoughts, words, or images come freely into our minds. Using it as tool for inspiration in writing can deliver grist for the creative mill.
I like to tap into what’s between my ears in a very deliberate way, akin to a brainstorming technique. I have the good fortune of being able to look out an office window toward a wooded area adjacent to our yard. Then I take a letter size legal pad and write down whatever comes to mind. Each phrase or word will inevitably generate a stimulus or tail that can be added to, to generate further refinement for composing a viable text. After that is done, it is a matter of picking one thread and pulling on it to get the ideas for an outline and jotting them down for later writing.
None of this of course will guarantee a sterling product, but it is a start. And really, when it gets down to producing a creative piece, starting, to my mind is the hardest part.
Doug Lewandowski has walked a varied path. He was a Christian Brother, an English teacher/counselor and is a retired Licensed Psychologist. He writes a column in the Duluth News Tribune and has had a story published in the Nemadji Review and placed third in 2020 in the Jade Ring’s short story contest of the Wisconsin Writer’s Association. Another short story was recently accepted for fall publication in the Jack Pine’s Writer’s Bloc “Talking Stick.” He was a commentator for KCRB, Minnesota Public Radio in the 90s. Doug transplanted to Duluth in 2018 to be closer to grandchildren. You may follow him on his blog douglewandowski.com.
But writing is my window into my head and heart – what am I thinking, what am I feeling? How am I doing with these decades of passing time.
As a Girl Scout in the mid-1950s I received a 3 ½ x 5” diary with a gold embossed Girl Scout emblem on the forest green cardboard binding, complete with a miniature lock and key. That gift was my invitation to writing. At first, a sentence or two describing an event or the day at school, and within a few months the diary was filled. A second ivory colored diary replaced it, and it, too, quickly overcome with words. Diary expanded into journaling, a means to record events and eventually to record reactions and reflections and feelings. I was hooked.
Now in my mid-70s I continue to write daily, most often now on my laptop, as my handwriting more and more resembles that of my mother’s, less and less legible. But writing is my window into my head and heart – what am I thinking, what am I feeling? How am I doing with these decades of passing time.
“Diminishment” – the word came to me early one morning a few weeks ago. I was writing about my mom and how over the few years before she died, she diminished. She became shorter than I; her eyesight less and less sharp; her ability to carry on a conversation more and more limited – words harder to find, losing the intent of what she wanted to say before the thought completed. The first significant marker was giving her car to my niece. She had been driving “all the old ladies” to and from church and circle meetings, but at age 90 decided they would be safer, as would all the other drivers on the road, if she gave up driving. Diminished.
Time passed; she b egan to fall and fall again and then again. A red plastic bracelet warned “prone to falling.” A cane, a walker, and finally a wheelchair. She who had been a great walker and bicycle rider was reduced to driving her shiny black wheelchair, pushing herself around. Diminished.
I supposed it all started before Dad died in 1989. He would fall; she got him up. He fell again; she got him up. But one day, she couldn’t and the ambulance was called. The ER doctor looked at this 88-year-old woman and said, “You can’t do this anymore. He needs more assistance than you can provide.” Devastating news for this highly successful, well-respected nurse. Dad agreed. She didn’t. Unwilling to accept the reality of Dad’s declining years. Once more he fell; the ambulance arrived. “For a little while until he gets stronger,” she finally agreed to moving into the assisted living facility a few blocks south of their condominium building. But he did not get stronger; he was ill, cancer creeping through his diminishing bones.
After his death, she returned to the condominium, even though Dad had firmly stated over and over again, “Don’t let her move back.” He knew; he knew she was diminishing. But, she moved back and the falling started. This time it was she falling. When asked about a healing wound above her eye, she evaded, “Oh, I just bumped my head.” But the day came when she fell against the elevator door just as it was opening for her to enter and that is how neighbors found her. Little strokes, the doctors said. She really shouldn’t be living alone; the doctors said. We need to get her into an assisted living facility, her daughters said. But never did her stubbornness diminish.
One daughter talked with her; “No.” The second daughter talked with her; “No.” Daughters talked together and with her; “No.” Months passed; falling continued. Her diminution continued until finally, there was no choice. Another fall; her pelvis broken. An ambulance finally for rehab at a care center. A nearly impossible conversation about money resulted in a “I will try it but then I will come back home.” No diminishing of her resolve to stay in her home.
I thought about all that early one morning not that long again; the word “diminishment” came to me to describe how I was thinking about Mom. Two pictures above my bed- one of her on her capping day from Swedish Nursing School with her lovely manicured nails showing on her crossed arms across her immaculate white uniform, stiffly starched cap secure on her head. The other on a family gathering day in her wheelchair, tousled hair and stained turtleneck, surrounded by her three daughters. Images of diminishment.
But, the well-worn copy of the Random House dictionary informed me “diminishment” is not a word. Even as I type, the red line shows up each time I use it. Diminution is the word – it describes the “process of diminishing, lessening, reduction.” Yes, a process, that is what I was remembering, the process of my mother’s diminishing, lessening, reduction, her diminution.
And now I see it – reflected in the mirror, this process that I am coming to understand, I see daily, I feel, I recognize, in myself, in the rotation of the earth around the sun, day by day, month by month, year by year. Sure, both hips were replaced twenty years ago, an inheritance from my father. Sure, both hands gnarled with arthritis ache on cool, damp days. Sure, I have worn glasses since second grade. But that’s just “normal,” I tell myself. No reason to think much about that, no need to cast it as any diminution.
But with this winter excess of snow, well over twice the average yearly accumulation, with two very short-legged dogs, higher and higher snow plow banks blocking the paths to bird feeders and bird seed container, I am feeling it. Shoveling out a potty path for the dogs each six-inch snowfall before the plow arrives reminds me of my rising year count. Fighting my way through the 3+ feet of snow on the back yard to shake excess snow off drooping branches of a favorite pine tree became a quick lesson in winter survival. I fell; I tried to extricate myself from snow up to my hips unsuccessfully. Three times I worked to go vertical landing on my posterior with each endeavor. How am I going to get out of here, I wondered. Girl Scout training kicked in; roll over and crawl. Two attempts and I was on all fours, maneuvering past the garden out to the plowed driveway where I could easily stand up. But, the sight of a seventy-six year old gray-haired woman decked out in snowpants, a heavy parka and knee-high Sorrell boots would have made for a You Tube video. I was humbled; I was reminded – I am diminishing.
Now there are small silver half-moons resting on each ear attached to a short wire plugged into each ear canal. Then there was the trip to the retina specialist – same one my mother visited for years to check the status of my macular degeneration. Again and again I am reminded of my own diminution.
But again and again I am reminded of the quotidian grace abounding in this creaky body. Three mile walks on Croftville Road, admiring the beautiful ice sculpture – natural and created along the shore. Three pairs of ravens return to our woods to mate, build nests and renew the raven population. Chickadees call “phoebe” to one another. Icicles form water witching prongs off the bathroom roof. A fawn and mama stroll down the driveway nibbling at bare branches. The light returns, sun rise earlier each day. Diminution is real yes, but vitality and growth and humor peek out from behind the birch next to the deck.
Yes, I am diminishing, but that isn’t the last word. But, but, perhaps the time has come to ask the hard question: how long can we maintain this lovely home in the woods? Perhaps my heart and my mind need to consult. Perhaps the time has come for resolution or at least the time has come for a discernment process especially as the what if’s start up in the 3:00 club:
What if I had fallen and not been able to get up
What if I had fallen and was hurt and Hillary could not help me get up
What if I had fallen and the snowplow hadn’t gotten through yet
What if I had fallen and needed major medical attention, with nothing available in town
What if, what if, what if.
But what ifs aren’t good enough for this process. Where does the deliberate thought process of head come into play and where do the sensitive issues of the heart intersect and how do the two play together?
Start with the numbers: 11, 1.5, 5, 150, 76, 0, 0, 0, 0: 11 miles east of town, one and a half miles up from the highway on gravel roads maintained by a private road association, five acres of woods, 150 inches of snow, age 76 with zero intensive care within 150 miles, zero surgical services within 150 miles, zero geriatric services within 150 miles, zero home health services within 150 miles. No assisted living, a care center at risk of closing for lack of staff. A retiring doctor looking to move to a new area with adequate senior health care. Friends looking at options elsewhere in the state to enable productive and healthy aging. A metro area doctor in conversation observing, “I know about your situation. One of my classmates from your local clinic has talked with me.” The data is in. Aging in place in Cook County is a fantasy. Or at least a reality I can’t quite fathom.
But what about the heart: morning light in the bedroom windows moving from the north wall to the south wall as the days lengthen minute by minute. Chickadees and finches collecting around the suet feeder, ruby-throated hummingbirds celebrating fresh sugar water in the plastic tube hanging from the pin cherry tree at the edge of the deck. Mama and baby deer strolling down the driveway snacking on fresh green shoots. Lynx screaming across the back yard tearing through the open screen tent in the early morning hours. Sneak peeks of the big lake as the leaves begin their fall descents clearing sightlines through the thick forest curtains. But then there is the 250+ mile back and forth from Grand Marais to St. Paul. When is that drive just too much – either for us or those drivers with whom we share the freeway? Can you feel the struggle? Reason tells me to let it go, start planning for the big move to St Paul, the big move to sell, the big move to give thanks for twelve wonderful years in this little house on the hill. But my heart is hanging on, resistant. The struggle is underway. Resolution will come. ‘Tis the time for patience, compassion, and acceptance of realities. ‘Tis the time for writing. Diminution and quotidian graces abound; celebrate both and live the ambiguity for now.
Carol Mork is a retired educator, pastor and community organizer who moved to the North Shore in 2011. She and her partner live on five acres of woods, east of Grand Marais with two adopted senior shelties. Writing is her avocation; as a pastor she had several articles and curricula published and continues to be involved with writing circles.
I reflected on those times that I had attempted to write in the past. I wondered why it was suddenly so much easier to put my story on paper.
When my book, Outwit the Workplace Bully, was published in January of 2022 it was not the first time I had attempted to write about my experiences with workplace bullying. Although, I knew there was power in my story, I struggled to put my thoughts on paper.
Let me share a little about my experiences for context. During my career, I’ve had two encounters with workplace bullies. In 1996, I went to graduate school at a large, public, university. I took a position as a research assistant. Quickly, it became clear that my supervisor did not like me. I was regularly humiliated in staff meetings, blamed for team errors, and punished with extra work. After several months of witnessing this behavior, a senior research assistant shared that the behavior was a known pattern with this supervisor. Each year the supervisor selected someone to “pick on.” This year, that someone was me. I left my program early and did not go on to complete my degree.
I thought that this graduate school experience would be an anomaly in my career. I was wrong. Years later, I encountered a different, more covert workplace bully. In my second experience, a coworker, whom I considered a friend, told lies, and spread rumors about me to company leaders. Why? The reason became clear when I was threatened with demotion and my bully became my boss. By silently destroying my reputation, the bully made a case for their ultimate promotion.
These two scenarios are vastly different examples of workplace bullying. Both experiences had lasting impacts on me personally and on my career. They stirred strong emotions when I thought or talked about them. After my second experience, I felt a calling to write about it, but I struggled to write coherently. Thoughts and emotions spilled out into a tangled mess on paper. The writing helped me process, but it was NOT ready for public consumption.
I started drafting my book in April of 2021. By November of 2021, I had a completed, edited, and formatted book ready for publishing. I reflected on those times that I had attempted to write in the past. I wondered why it was suddenly so much easier to put my story on paper. I concluded there were three elements that came together at the same time—I found the right format, the right amount of time had passed, and I was authoring this book for the right reasons.
Finding the Right Format
My first attempt to write my story was in fiction form. Some of the incidents were “stranger than fiction” so I figured the story might be more believable as a work of fiction. Fiction also allowed the cover I needed to protect both the innocent and the guilty. I had read a lot about writing fiction, but my lack of experience with the format led me to quickly abandon this route.
Several years later, I took a memoir workshop sponsored by Lake Superior Writers. I thought perhaps this was the format that would allow me to share my story in a coherent and meaningful way. In the workshop I learned about the key elements of a memoir. One, it needed to be true. Two, it needed to have a transformation. Three, it needed to tie to a universal experience to which others could relate. Well, my story was true. But, at that point I didn’t see a transformation. Plus, I believed my story was so unique that I didn’t think it would be relatable to others. I set aside my goal of putting this story to paper.
Years went by. I started to share my story with close friends and family members. As I shared, others told me about their own workplace horror stories. People began coming to me to ask for advice on dealing with difficult people, ineffective leaders, and toxic workplace behavior. I began to realize that my experience wasn’t so unique. I had lessons to share. The right format was in the form of non-fiction/self-help. I mind-mapped my concept and eight lessons emerged that would eventually become the chapters of my book.
Finding the Right Time
Early on in my attempts to write about my experience, the emotions were raw. Inside, I held a raging mix of anger, sadness, embarrassment, disappointment, and grief. I needed the time to let some of those emotions subside. I needed the time and distance to be able to reflect on what happened and how I might grow from the experience. As a writer, my urge to put pen to paper with all these emotions was a healthy instinct. Writing in the moment was helpful to me, but I was in no condition to be writing for others.
More than a decade had passed since my second experience when I started my book. I had moved on to a better place in my career. I had done hard emotional work to be able to rebuild my confidence, heal emotionally, and forgive those involved. Even more importantly, I had reflected on all the positive that had emerged since I had left those situations behind. Some of the positives include going back to study for my master’s degree, meeting new friends, and moving into a career path I’m deeply passionate about. Time needed to pass for me to uncover the good and discover the lessons that I needed to learn from my experience. This time for reflection and learning ties directly into the final topic—finding the right reason.
Finding the Right Reason
My first attempts to put my experience into words were born out of a desire for revenge. Even though I knew that I would be masking the identities of the aggressors, I wanted people to understand how I had been wronged. I was hurt and embarrassed and I wanted to prove that I wasn’t the incompetent professional I was painted to be in both scenarios. During the memoir workshop, I remember the instructor saying that memoir couldn’t just be your story. Memoirs had to have a payoff for the reader. How would the reader benefit from learning about my story? At the time, I couldn’t see through my emotions to reach others. I couldn’t teach them lessons that I hadn’t yet learned. Once I discovered the lessons from my own story, and I approached the writing with the goal of teaching and helping others, the words flowed onto the page.
My two experiences with workplace bullying were some of the most difficult and traumatic times in my career. Today, I can say with confidence that I have gratitude for my experience. I wouldn’t be who I am today without those experiences. I wouldn’t be doing the work I do today without those experiences. I certainly wouldn’t be able to call myself an “author” without those experiences.
Are you are wrestling with your own emotional story that you keep trying to put onto paper? Maybe you haven’t found quite the right reason to share your story yet. Or maybe more work needs to be done to fully heal and let go of emotions. Keep writing. None of it is wasted. It moves you closer to the right format, time, and reason to share your truth with the world.
Dawn is an author, speaker, and the founder of On the Rise Development, LLC. As an advocate for thriving workplaces, Dawn has dedicated more than a decade to helping leaders and employees grow in their careers.
When she’s not writing, you might find Dawn capturing family memories in a scrapbook, losing at a game of Hand and Foot, or cheering for her niece and nephew at the ballfield or ice rink. She resides in northern Minnesota.
The move fired up my imagination and I started writing in earnest. That step opened pathways to settle down a restless mind and helped to keep life in some kind of balance.
I have always been a reader. Worlds created in books were fascinating and adventure-filled for a twelve year old growing up in the mid-fifties. Life was pretty mundane. Only so many softball and pickup basketball games with Kenny and Mike across the alley were possible. An occasional excursion to the Como Park Zoo on bikes to look at Sparky the Seal might break up a summer day, but there was still a lot of time to kill when I wasn’t in charge of two younger siblings. So, I read.
I went through a lot of horse books and fondly remember King of the Wind, The Black Stallion and Black Beauty. Eventually I moved on to the richer writings of Robert Heinlein and Arthur C. Clarke, that explored places we can only dream of; books with tightly written plots and interesting characters. They fired my imagination and ignited an interest in places outside the windows on Thomas Avenue.
I started to live in my head a lot more. In many respects that was not a good thing. We all need a balance in life between fantasy and actually doing something. Fortunately, going to college provided that outlet.
I had thoughts of being a biology teacher until I ran into a Calc and Chemistry wall. I had no clue how to make it through them, so I bailed and chose to be an English teacher with a theology minor. At that time, creative writing was not an option. There were very few MFA programs in 1965. I put my time in teaching in a secondary classroom, doling out scraps of grammar and discussing a lot of contemporary literature. Continuing my own education, I ultimately ended up with a background in psychology that moved me from education to clinical, mental health work. But I never gave up the love of reading or turned off the ramblings of a wandering psyche.
Eventually, after an extended stint as a school counselor, I wrapped up my career by teaching English again in an alternative school after a thirty year interlude. The move fired up my imagination and I started writing in earnest. That step opened pathways to settle down a restless mind and helped to keep life in some kind of balance.
When I had some dead time in my work day, I started writing a short story. As the narrative developed, the lives of other characters in that world emerged and I had to give them voice. What resulted was a book that told a tale of a small town in central Minnesota from multiple viewpoints. Like many rural burgs, the interactions of the players overlapped and interacted in a dynamic way.
I started thinking about the how and why of the creative process and found a lot of similarities with what happens as a therapist when there are moments when we touch the numinous. Along the way I found a multitude of explanations for the roots of creativity, from mindfulness to neurobiology that produces layers of meaning and insight. While the process gives no clear answers as to how it all comes together, the question remains, where does this come from and how is it all interrelated?
I suspect that the gift and scourge of the creative mind comes from the same place that made someone walk up to me recently at an outdoor concert and ask, “Do you remember me?” And I did. The person continued, “You saved my life.” This was someone I had worked with as a clinician in the mid nineteen eighties.
Another time, when I had a chance to talk about the book I wrote, several people who commented on my writing said, “ When I read your book, I cried.” And this was not the first time I’ve heard that.
We can theorize about how it all happens but these interactions are a mystery, seeded by a gift that is given. and we become a conduit for things we have no clue about. Be grateful for the bequests you are assigned, and keep hammering out the words.
Doug Lewandowski has walked a varied path. He was a Christian Brother, an English teacher/counselor and is a retired Licensed Psychologist. He writes a column in the Duluth News Tribune and has had a story published in the Nemadji Review and placed third in 2020 in the Jade Ring’s short story contest of the Wisconsin Writer’s Association. Another short story was recently accepted for fall publication in the Jack Pine’s Writer’s Bloc “Talking Stick.” He was a commentator for KCRB, Minnesota Public Radio in the 90s. Doug transplanted to Duluth in 2018 to be closer to grandchildren. You may follow him on his blog douglewandowski.com.
I learned to embrace the irregularities and appreciate the end result. Perhaps I need to do more of that in my writing. Ignore the wiggles and blips and just let the words come. Sort it out with color later.
It’s been a dry year for writing. After steadily plugging away on my book for over four years, I came to an abrupt halt. At first, I put it down to my usual summer slow-down, the season when I prioritize family, cabin, friends and the outdoors over sitting in front of a laptop. But I failed to get re-energized all through the fall and winter and felt lost, drifting without that goal and sense of productivity. I had to do something.
It was a writing friend who pointed me down a new path. I’ve always had an interest in sketching and was intrigued when I saw a distant cousin doing “journal sketching” years ago. The idea stuck with me, so when my friend recommended Jane LaFazio’s online class Sketching and Watercolor: Journal Style I took the plunge.
The class included six lessons, one released every week for the students to work on independently. I ordered her list of supplies and waited eagerly to begin.
Week 1: Fruit. I watched her video, read all the instructions, and looked at her examples. Could I really do this? Setting pencil to paper, I took a deep breath and began to follow the outline of the fruit in front of me. This was a rough draft, after all, and I could always hit delete and rewrite it.
Pulling out my permanent ink pen, I traced my pencil lines. There was no going back here, each stroke of the pen was a final statement – a sentence I could no longer change. But it went surprisingly well and I forged on.
The final step was all new territory to me. I opened up my new set of inexpensive watercolors and stared at them. Now I had to mix colors, blend shades and capture the nuances of light and color. I still have a lot to learn about writing scenes, and this felt the same way. I needed to make this come to life, now with water and paint. With Jane’s reassuring voice in my head, I applied my brush strokes as best I could.
For the journaling aspect, Jane encouraged us to frame our paintings, to add words and context to the composition, and to sign and date it. She was right, it added the polish my timid start needed, the final edit to complete the story.
Now it was time to share my work. The final step was to post my painting on our class discussion page with a note about the experience. Just like reading my stories aloud in writing workshops and hearing others read, this became a valuable learning experience. We all opened ourselves to exposure, gave feedback and encouraged one another on this journey.
Week 2: Leaves. Who knew there were so many colors of green in the plants around us? Jane taught us to mix colors, to layer them on the paper and reveal the veins in the leaves. I reveled in the new techniques, but lacked material in our bleak Northland spring that had not yet sprung. Just as story and plot have evaded me as a writer, I had to get creative and find alternate ways to express myself. This time, foraging in the refrigerator and a tub of spring greens I found inspiration.
I liked these small compositions. I was not overwhelmed by a large expanse of white paper, and a complex layout. They were a manageable size, something that could be accomplished in one or two sittings. Just as the magazine stories I have continued to write this year while my book lays fallow. Short projects that were contained and manageable.
Week 3: Straight to Ink. Now this was a scary concept, drawing with no safety net. Committing immediately with no recourse. Sort of like those writing prompts I’ve done in classes. Write about the color Red for five minutes. Don’t look back, just keep writing.
I found that this technique forced me to keep my eyes on the subject more, and trust my hand to follow its outline. The longer I kept at it, the bolder I became. I learned to embrace the irregularities and appreciate the end result. Perhaps I need to do more of that in my writing. Ignore the wiggles and blips and just let the words come. Sort it out with color later.
Week 4: Flowers. I was learning to like sketching and painting nature. It’s very forgiving in its irregularities and loose symmetry. But my grocery story bouquet contained some brilliantly colored blooms, impossible to replicate with my student paints.
I queried Jane. “How do I make hot pink?”
Her reply, “You can’t. You need specific colors like Opera Pink to get it.”
Clearly my toolkit was lacking, so I researched the more professional paints she had recommended for those willing to pay the price, and pressed Order.
Perhaps this was like hiring a writing coach. When I found myself unable to navigate the divide between writing short magazine stories and the manuscript for a book, I sought to increase my toolkit. She guided me through exercises to grow my skills, to learn new techniques and put me on a course to continue working on my own.
Week 5: Shoes. I found great fun and inspiration in the shoes my fellow students chose, and how they rendered them with ink and watercolor. Students ranged from novices like me to those with obvious artistic talent, and I learned from every one of them.
Clearly this was why my writing coach instructed me to read every book in my genre that I could get my hands on. I learned what worked and what didn’t. What made me want to keep reading, and what caused me to quit reading some books.
I dove into my own closet first, then succumbed to the cuteness factor of my grandchildren’s footwear. Sometimes it’s the subject matter itself that makes a creation shine, whether it’s in print or paint.
Week 6: Man Made Objects. This lesson incorporated techniques for drawing to scale, maintaining symmetry and the artistic license in choosing what details to leave in or exclude. I stumbled on a bottle of Amaretto in the pantry. It contained plenty of challenges for getting the proportions right, and I worked through Jane’s methods to complete my drawing. But the thought of replicating the bumpy texture of the bottle and the shiny glass was daunting, so I set it aside. When I completed painting a kettle and teacup, that first drawing taunted me, daring me to complete it. I accepted the challenge.
Sometimes stories don’t go well. Chapters just won’t work. I’ve found that if I leave them alone for a while, rather than using blunt force to push through them, the answer becomes more clear. Or my confidence surges. And the end result is greatly enhanced. So it was for my Amaretto.
I have completed my class, but not my painting. I have a lot of practicing to do, especially mastering those finicky watercolors. I found that I look forward to these art projects, and they can absorb a whole morning or afternoon just as writing did in the past.
I went into this new venture hoping to stimulate my creativity, to open that side of my brain hoping it would spur on my writing as well. If I had my way, I would marry the two. Use my ink and color to illustrate my words. But I’m not there yet.
The biggest hurdle with my book is that I cannot see the true thread, feel the message I am meant to be sending, the audience I seek to serve. Learning to draw and paint hasn’t solved that for me, but clearly it has taught me many transferrable lessons. So for now, I will continue my new art and wait for the words to come.
Molly Brewer Hoeg returned to her hometown of Duluth in retirement to resume her love affair with the Big Lake. She writes for regional and national magazines, favoring stories connected to her passion for active outdoor pursuits. She has a book in progress about the months spent bicycle touring with her husband, which she calls her “forever project.” You can follow her adventures on her blog, SuperiorFootprints.org.
We know he would want us to continue forward. He’d want us to keep writing. The WORST thing we could do is stop writing.
James O. Phillips
In mid-April of this year, the Tunnel Fire engulfed more than 16,000 acres northeast of Flagstaff, Arizona, prompting the evacuation of more than 700 homes. One of those homes was that of Jim Phillips, a long-time member of the speculative fiction writers’ group of which I’ve been a part about fifteen years. Jim joined the group when he used to live in Duluth, Minnesota, and was a member of Lake Superior Writers. After he retired, he moved to Arizona, where he lived alone with two cats for at least half a dozen years. His nearest relatives lived several states away.
After the evacuation ended, a neighbor noticed that Jim’s Jeep was in the same spot it had been before the evacuation. Concerned, the neighbor apparently called the police to do a welfare check on Jim. They found him dead of “natural causes.” He had been dead for several days.
It was during this time we were supposed to have our monthly Zoom meeting to discuss our writing. We hadn’t heard from Jim about his availability for the meeting, so we delayed it until we learned more about his status. It just seemed weird to have a meeting without him.
We were aware of the evacuation and thought maybe he left his home so fast, he forgot to take his phone charger or something. That would be like him. My emails and texts to him remained unanswered, which was unlike him.
There are two other women in our group besides me, Linda and Lacey. Linda is retired and had a bit more time on her hands to investigate what was going on with Jim. Lacey has her own blog (Lacey’s Late-night Editing) and wrote a post that goes into detail about the events, should you be curious.
Linda doggedly tracked down information about Jim and called me when Russ and I were on vacation in Yosemite National Park to deliver the sad news. I was shocked, to say the least. We knew Jim had some health issues, but he had seemed fine the month before when we met via Zoom.
Like I told an acquaintance recently, Jim just “up and died on us with no warning.” It was disconcerting, and it took me several days to get out of my funk, even though I was surrounded by the unsurpassed natural beauty of the park. I found comfort in that beauty.
I’ve become a fan of Spotify and its various music mixes. A song called, “Resist the Urge” by Matt Sweeney popped up in my Daily Mix during vacation. Although I don’t agree with the song’s encouragement not to grieve someone’s death (you need to feel all the feels!), I do like the lyrics that say, “If you need reminders, look around at what is huge and wild and there you’ll see the way . . . I may not be there bodily, but in the wind, I’m here.”
Jim enjoyed hiking and getting out in nature. He often regaled us with tales of his hikes around Arizona. I felt he would approve my turning to nature to grieve. There wasn’t even a funeral for him that we could attend to share our grief. Not even an obituary we could find online. However, Jim started a speculative fiction group in Arizona and a member wrote a post about him (with Linda and Jim’s sister’s assistance). It’s fitting and such a good remembrance of him.
I especially appreciated this comment in the post: “The writing communities of Duluth and Flagstaff will fondly remember Jim for his scientific curiosity, love of all things science fiction and horror, his wicked sense of humor, his keen editorial eye, and his promotion of the Oxford comma.”
Since we couldn’t attend a public funeral, my writer’s group decided to hold a ceremony of our own. Last weekend, we gathered in Willmar, Minnesota, (the halfway point between all of us geographically). We had lunch together and then made our way to a state park north of town, where we hiked a short way on a trail (“Trail J,” for Jim). We found a small grove of oak trees and ventured off the trail to sit among them. I’m sure Jim would have approved of the location.
We shared our collective memories and feelings about Jim. We all were grateful for the visit we paid him a few years ago in Flagstaff, where we all gathered for several days. We visited the Grand Canyon and met with the writer’s group he had organized there.
As Lacey so aptly said in her blog post, losing a writing friend is different from losing a “regular” friend:
There is a part of me, a deep and essential part of me, that these three — now only two — people know more intimately than anyone else in my life. To share your writing with another, especially in its formative stages, requires a great deal of vulnerability. And from that vulnerability comes a trust that rivals the trust I have in my husband, my best friend, or my mom. Because time and again, they have proved themselves worthy to be allowed into my inner landscape, the world of my mind that is shared only sporadically with those I share my “real life” with.
Losing one of the few people who I consistently trusted with that part of myself is no small thing. And grieving it is no small task, especially when it is tied up so closely with the very thing I have turned to throughout my life to process everything else. But it’s the only way forward.
Jim provided a unique viewpoint on our writing that no one else will be able to match. Besides that, he was just an all-around good person. Even though he died alone with his cats, the ripples from his death reverberate through our lives, and it’s going to take some time to recover.
I couldn’t write any fiction for about six weeks after his death. When I did try, my output was only half of normal.
I’m okay with that. It’s going to take time to get over this.
When we met in Willmar, we didn’t bring any writing to critique. We’re saving that for our next meeting in August, when Lacey will be in Duluth (from her home in South Dakota). I suspect this meeting will be difficult without Jim, but we know he would want us to continue forward. He’d want us to keep writing. The WORST thing we could do is stop writing.
So, we will keep moving forward, keep putting words to paper. Keep hoping they are worthy.
We’ll miss you, Jim.
Marie Zhuikov is a novelist, science writer, and poet from Duluth. Her blog-memoir, “Meander North” is due out this year from Nodin Press. She is a long-time member of Lake Superior Writers. For more information, visit marieZwrites.com.
While personal reading choices will vary depending on need and diversions from other commitments, we will occasionally hunger for a return to the space where renewal and new ideas are generated.
While I have many “favorite” authors, including Arthur Clarke, J.R.R. Tolkien and Frank Herbert, I also have a writer/philosopher who pushes me to reflect every time I pick up his book published right after the Second World War – The Plague, by Albert Camus. It provides a safe harbor for me to anchor, to stop for awhile to replenish and consider why I’m here. I come back to it every so often to see and learn from it about my own life.
Camus was an existentialist philosopher. Existentialism looks at the problem of human existence and considers the subjective experience of thinking, feeling, and acting. Existentialist thinkers frequently explore issues related to the meaning, purpose and value of human existence. In The Plague, people are dying from a slow insidious virus that invades a seaport in Algeria. The population is ordered to quarantine at home as the main character, a local doctor, labors around the clock to save victims. Sound familiar?
Heroism and acts of shame are ever present in the narrative, illustrating the selfishness of some and altruistic efforts of others who toil for the greater good. As the physician works tirelessly during the spread of the disease, he ponders life’s absurdity and risks.
When we return to a work of literature that entertains and inspires, it can also be an object lesson in why we write. There is nothing more affirming or rewarding than having someone tell you how they were touched by what you wrote. While I have published only one book, hearing someone say, “I was camping in the Quetico. It was raining and I read your book. I cried.” And another, “I wasn’t tired, so I thought I’d read your book that was sitting on the night stand, hoping it would put me to sleep. I stayed up till I finished it.”
These are real world examples of how to connect with another person. Getting there demands commitment and a kind of faith in ourself and a healthy respect for the process. While our finished products can be enjoyed in a few days or hours, moving down the road from inspiration to hours of thought, writing and editing in no way ends. Never mind finding someone to publish it!
There are all kinds of reasons to write and always a risk of going “philosophical” and getting lost in the weeds somewhere. Every writer takes a philosophical stance or in some instances a religious perspective when they write. We tie our lived experience together in loosely structured bundles, take a position on them, and then articulate our own vision.
While personal reading choices will vary depending on need and diversions from other commitments, we will occasionally hunger for a return to the space where renewal and new ideas are generated. It is a place that allows time for seeds to be gently planted and nurtured to fruition.
Doug Lewandowski has walked a varied path. He was a Christian Brother, an English teacher/counselor and is a retired Licensed Psychologist. He writes a column in the Duluth News Tribune and has had a story published in the Nemadji Review and placed third in 2020 in the Jade Ring’s short story contest of the Wisconsin Writer’s Association. Another short story was recently accepted for fall publication in the Jack Pine’s Writer’s Bloc “Talking Stick.” He was a commentator for KCRB, Minnesota Public Radio in the 90s. Doug transplanted to Duluth in 2018 to be closer to grandchildren. You may follow him on his blog douglewandowski.com.
Lake Superior Writers 