Unsettled – Moving, and Deciding When Poetry is Worth the Pain

There’s a kind of energy that comes from not knowing where to go next. The discomfort of being, technically, emotionally, and physically “unsettled” can make you edgy, uncertain, but also forces you to reevaluate what’s important to you, where you’d like to go, what bothers you about your current situation and imagining what a better situation would look like.

As I may have mentioned in previous posts, we’re going through a move, in town, but still, a slow process. We’ve now sold the house, and are living in it for the next couple of months as renters as we shop the crazy real estate market for a house without too many downsides. Because what is really important? What are you willing to spend money for? Is it a garden, built-in bookshelves, seclusion, a quiet neighborhood, convenience, safety, a neighborhood where things are “happening?” Sometimes shopping for a house feels like a reflection of where we are in our lives right now. We don’t have kids, so we don’t need a sprawling home; Glenn works too hard and I’m not able to do as much gardening and landscaping as, say, an acre of land might require, and besides, land is so expensive! Where do we picture ourselves in five years, in ten? Will we still be here? Will Glenn want to keep this particular job at this particular company? Will we have friends in a different part of town, will we be as enamored with this or that neighborhood then? I know we’re moving because doctors have said I’m not going to recover stair-climbing ability – but what else do I need to worry about?

Another thing selling the home did was make me think about my student loans, those outstanding debts that seem like they will be outstanding forever. Student loans niggle at the back of my brain, reminding me I don’t make enough money, I don’t have a steady job anymore, remind me of the expenses that are part of being a poet that really, I can’t afford. I think about my dream of getting a (probably impractical) Phd someday. Where am I going with this whole poetry thing, anyway? I make some money freelance writing, editing, teaching, and other sort of piecemeal things, but from my books? I hardly make enough in a year to buy our groceries for a month. It’s discouraging. Then I think: maybe I should do something else, something steady, something that pays the bills. My health is pretty regularly not great, but I could do something from home, maybe go back to tech or marketing writing – a grind, not inspirational, but steady and monetarily rewarding.

Being an artist of any sort requires sacrifice, and it’s not always just your sacrifice – it’s your spouse, your kids, your friends and family that have to sacrifice the time and money you might otherwise have that’s devoted to that art. Is that sacrifice worth it? As a poet, I have to say, I don’t always know the answer. Rejections are many and payment is rare; poets, even when they win significant prizes, do not usually become rich and famous, or even gainfully employed. I am older than when I started, and not just in age, but in reduced expectations and increased cynicism. But there is a part of me that still loves reading and writing poetry for its own sake, and that part of me won’t give it up. It’s impractical, it’s often unrewarding, but it is something I’m passionate about and, just like visual art, makes me happy to be around.

Yesterday I went to a coffee shop to meet and talk shop with other writers, to take stock of what we were trying to accomplish, what we had accomplished. Then I came home and read poems I loved from my first time in college, in my twenties – Margaret Atwood, Louise Gluck, Rita Dove, Susan Musgrave. Times like this afternoon are very important to my sense of “what I’m doing with my life” – that even though where I live is impermanent, the state of my health impermanent (as well as, sadly, as I’ve seen lately, the state of my spouse’s health), and often writing is a lonely and discouraging venture – we are not alone in our pursuit of our art, we are not crazy for wanting to be published, read, recognized, and paid, and one of the most important things we can do as writers is encourage each other along a rather rocky path as our lives change and our paths veer wildly. Writing is something we take with us wherever we go, at any age and income, something we can hold onto, our way of interpreting and interacting with the world. Buying an MFA (one route to a writing community) may be expensive, but it is free to go and meet a friend and exchange manuscripts, talk about rejections and acceptances, or talk to a writer you admire and ask advice. As I try to find a house, define what I want going forward personally and professionally, I hold on to the fact that writing can make a difference in my life, in others’ lives, and that we can help each other out along the way.