Poetica Magazine

A few years ago I graduated from an MFA in Memoir program. I was an older student and a working writer, and had already put in a great deal of time culling through my past. But I wanted that degree along with the discipline of enforced deadlines to finish my memoir.

Two years went by with an extraordinary amount of time--or at least what felt like it-- discussing trauma, abuse, abandonment, any and all suffering for childhoods lost. As a daughter of Holocaust survivors, I held my own...for a time. After a few months, lethargy set in. I was ready to wrap up the past, send it off to Addressee Unknown and begin something fresh, alive.

And so, not surprisingly when the two years were up, thesis completed, I did not have a finished book. Nor did I hunker down to the task of turning that thesis into a book. Instead, I made bows.

Really. My friend's daughter turned two, and I reached into my bag of creativity--a bag (as opposed to baggage) that contains my love of writing only as an addendum to numerous other talents comprising my life. For two-year old, Maude, I took black velvet fabric from the back of the linen closet, folded here, poufed there, added feathers, beads, and voila--two hours had gone by, while I was wondrously consumed by the present moment. And...Maude had a bow! 

I carried on, making bows in tulle, organza, satin, silk, you name it; I purchased polka dot and striped ribbons to sew around them, purple feathers for here and there, and crazy clips. My bow mania went on for months. What gratification, remembering the thrill of making products I could touch, not only read.  I forget my myriad creative loves too often, especially when caught up in the business side of writing, or the compare side. As in: someone I know will have a book, or two; someone else (from my MFA program!) an essay in a highly regarded journal. I get envious and forget that I'm a fabulous knitter, cut my own hair, bake supremely delicious banana muffins.

As writers--as mere mortals--we ask so much of ourselves. At least, I do. I love the days when my creative process is the true reward, the gift that sucks each moment dry. Woven into those moments is my greatest life.  

Thanks for reading JWorld Cafe, The Poetica Magazine Blog

Sandra Hurtes, Guest Blogger

Sandra Hurtes' essay collection, On My Way to Someplace Else, is forthcoming this fall from Poetica Publishing.