Special People, and Why I'm Not a Food Blogger (1)

I confess, it's hard for me to compose blogs on the road More precisely, it's hard for me to publish them; I usually compose at least two or three in my head. The drive up to Anchorage yesterday was blissfully uneventful for a winter Anchorage run. The winter expansion and contraction of the earth ruptures the heck out of tarmac, though, and there were long stretches with no snow on the road where the full extent of new potholes and cracks and chasms could be test-driven. My car "had my back" the whole way, and I wished I could have avoided more potholes in return, poor little wheels.

Apparently it's also hard for me to publish my long-ago-composed posts about why I'm not a food blogger, nor to write a recipe-oriented post, as promised for so long. Let me start like this. It gave me such a thrill to drive into town, head to Barnes and Noble, and pick up a copy of the newly released novel written by the friend with whom I was staying the night!

SO amazingly cool. And when we get together, the "food" we talk about is that which comes out from inside of ourselves, for which we get hungry if we don't write for a day (unmilked again!), that nourishes the soul--yes yes, the Greeks would for sure classify us as cicadas, feeding off the sweet dew of inspired voice... 
Yes, an opportunity to spend some time with Cinthia--and with her lovely partner and characterful four-leggeds, is always precious to me. I leave with a small treasure within myself whose brightness I can rub for days to come.

Since that's where my juice is, it's not surprising I haven't been using my writerly passion on food. Honestly, I haven't been using my creativity in general on food very much, which may be a shame as I do have significant creativity in the area, and I'm currently blessed with a big kitchen with running water. But here's a good example of how I fail as a food blogger.
Exhibit A

Cauliflower roasted in spices on a bed of greens with parsley garnish.

It looks lovely, doesn't it?

Exhibit B

The same ingredients, minus the green surroundings and garnish, dehydrated for two days.
Now admittedly the green garnishes do a lot to prettify the dried-only-by-roasting version; my hand is, frankly, hideous; and my photography skills are a little less deplorable in the first photo. (Which, btw, is another reason I'm not a food blogger. I don't photograph my food in a lightbox with a high-level camera. I pretty much point and shoot.) But even admitting all those things, these little niblets do not look so appetizing, do they?

I'm not going to sell them to you as Cauliflower Popcorn! What I will tell you is that they are delicious in an oily, salty, nutritional-yeasty way (which, NB, I do not call "cheezy" with a 'z'...); that they linger in your mouth so your mouth asks for a repeat of the taste. I will ask you to consider that whereas a head of cauliflower can fill a 9x13 roasting pan, once it's been dehydrated for two days it won't fill much more than a pint-sized Mason jar. Two tablespoons of olive oil on a head of cauliflower doesn't sound like much; it isn't much over a 9x13 pan. In fact, you have to really stir to get all the florets coated. Spread over a volume that fits in a pint jar, two tablespoons of olive oil, which does not dehydrate down, is a lot. Such a different mouth-feel, then, and a whole different niche in the eating experience; think garnish sprinkled on soup rather than part of the soup itself; think little appetizer nibbles rather than crudites. Nothing like popcorn whatsoever; another whole iteration of the salty-oily-dry snack. (Plus I don't really like popcorn and I do like this!) The process is exactly the same as that for making kale chips; cauliflower and kale are, in fact, different cultivars of a single species; this is just an extension of the same idea.
I will tell you that the first time I made them, I set the jar outside, which effectively meant "in the freezer" and that I really enjoyed the additional crunch so imparted; that I recoiled in horror at the realization that I was also enjoying the texture and mouthfeel of the frozen oil, and decided never to make them again. That I am now about to make my third batch (albeit over a period of almost six months (wow, it's been that long I've been carrying this post around!!)).

One medium-sized head of cauliflower
Two tablespoons each: extra virgin olive oil, nutritional yeast, chili powder.
Pinch of salt, up to a half teaspoon (depending on how much is in your chili powder)

Break the cauliflower into florets. Put the spices and oil in a bowl with the cauliflower and stir everything together--you can massage with your hands, or use a wooden spoon.
Now, Either
Roast in a 350 degree oven for approx. 45 minutes
Or
Dehydrate. Start at 145, turn down to 118 after the first couple hours. Let dehydrate until they are fully dry and crispy--depending on your locale's humidity, this will take something around two days (!)
If you don't have a dehydrator, you could try the oven, but it would have to be a very low temperature oven; otherwise you'd end up with, well, roasted cauliflower!
I might add that whereas it's easy to dress up the roasted cauliflower, as in the picture above, it's the caulflower chips that actually need more help presentation-wise. They've been my guilty pleasure eked out over the past several months because I haven't been able to come up with a way to present them visually to people I know, except in some underwhelming way like sprinkled on a salad. Presentation's just not my forte, and were I a food blogger, it should be.
And finally, for a really good example of passionate, practical, flexible food blogging from an avowed cauliflower lover, you should take a look at Amber's blog

OK. How did I do? Are you grossed out by the very concept, or do you get that it's something delicious in an odd, quirky way you might enjoy too?

Talking, Pictures

The willows are budding...

..and Bidarki creek falling to the beach is making icicles of cathedral grandeur...

I sent in my fourth of the five packets for the second year of the MFA program. Can scarcely credit I have only one more to do. This one was delightful to me, as I'd had the space, with Phil gone, with the house-sitting, to focus and get excited about my work. It feels somewhat like the picture above--falling, falling; but with such a sense of uplift. A pointer to my new life. I also read a poet about whom I'm excited in a full-blown epiphanic way, more than I have been even about my very favorite poets. His name is Andrew Joron. He writes speculative lyric, and he is auditory! I get it! And he did things around words and alphabet that I'm doing in my work right now, so there were lots of spooky coincidences. I'm in awestruck admiration, and also avid to make a connection with the poet and share enthusiasms. Now, a day or so of busyness, and then back to the writing and work...until an Anchorage trip next week.

"Why is Roxy barking so ferociously?" one morning when I'd let her out. Here's the view from the bedroom window, what she was reacting to. Moose's butt. She thinks moose are for barking at, which is scary at times. 

Do you see the moose in this one? Bedded down. They are everywhere at the moment.

Sometimes all you need to do is show someone a picture. I always seem to have all these auras and epiphenomena (ephemera?) I need to include radiating from the picture. See how monochrome all these pictures are. See how each of them is subtly colored, each with a different shade and cast. Oh, and I try to speak that, in real time talk. No wonder I stammer and backtrack.

Siri is teaching me to speak, it turns out, far more than the other way around. I'm surprised by how quickly I can type on that tiny iPhone keypad with one or two fingers, but it is awkward, put mildly, and makes everything sore very quickly. So I dictate my texts and dates and to-do lists almost exclusively. Even with the time correcting Siri's mistakes, it's quicker. I'm learning to speak slowly but not too slowly--this is a speech recognition system that recognizes words in context and too much space will lose that context. On the other hand, I have to leave more space between the words than I would ordinarily, not run words together; I have to be precise about my front and back vowels, avoid affricating t's and d's at the ends of words...Not only is Siri teaching me to talk; also making me even more self-conscious about my own pronunciations. 
But if you're saying something to a speech recognition system that's going to start anticipating the next thing you'll say, accurate transcription will be more likely if you say something predictable. Yikes, what does that say about our communications with one another? Do we WANT to be predictable? I think I need to stop this right now. Sometimes when you go through and correct, Siri will offer its own correction. And sometimes this alternative would be more predictable than what it originally offered. I was dictating a text saying that I was booking Roxy to get her hair clipped (so she wouldn't have icicles in her eyes all the time), and this was transcribed as "I'm f***ing her to get clipped..." I was horrified. Yes, there's a bit of prude in me, which is why it's so scary for people when I actually curse. How did Siri come up with that in the context? When I went to fix it, I was sweetly offered "booking." Siri, you're a twit!

The dogs are teaching me to talk, too. Alone (otherwise) in this big house, I'd rather not talk, but I talk to them, and some of it they definitely understand, good things like "Wanna come to bed?" and "Ready to load up?" as well as things like "Lay down!" (they understand that better than "lie down," which shows that this verb "lay" has extended its meaning in contemporary English). They are keenly tuned to body language, but because they have certain biases, they anticipate (like Siri), not always accurately. They are very very biased toward outings and food. 

Back to the bluff as envoi--some of those icicles are at such interesting angles, especially toward the top left. A frozen weeping mane... 

What Remains, What Gets Left Behind

Hello everyone! Mornings here are becoming so light, and with some light still in the sky at 6pm, the sense of curfew, of having to hurry home, is eradicated. It's snowed us into black-and-white again this past week, but with the influx of light, the black and white are merely the poles upon which color plays.

I've been the dog-auntie for almost two weeks now, the denizen bedizening this beautiful big house--yes, I do feel gaudy and extravagant here! I've written about that before. 

More important, I've been very much by myself. Not completely alone, with writers' groups, meet-ups, appointments, chores and errands, etc. But by myself. On my own cognizance. And you know what? 
It feels so good!
Phil is still in Tucson, until the end of the month, and is likewise having a great time. I'll be up here through the end of March.
I've been writing and working and writing and pulling things buried in my notebook out like pieces of worked rock from an archaeological dig, finding that I can now move forward with the myriad blocked drafts. Well, maybe they were blocking a draft, and now the wind is in a different corner!
More on the draft and the different corner later.
For now, gratitude, with caution. It is such a joy to be writing. It is such a joy to be in what is mostly a very low-stress situation. Yes, this house's driveway, sheer and straight with a hairpin at the top, is notorious, and has been especially challenging with all the recent snow. But it got plowed and sanded this morning after I called for help--there is help at hand. And with my competent car, I got in and out over and over, my anxiety and stress about it diminishing every time. And yes, the dogs are demanding and one of them whines and sometimes yaps in the car, which drives me crazy and makes me scared for my driving...oh and my goodness, sends me back to carpools in grade school with one or another parent going ballistic over the noise we were making. Those parents' age now myself, I feel the role reversal with sickening clarity. But if you hike the dogs well in the morning, they're less demanding the rest of the day, and that even enjoins a welcome regular beach hike upon me.

But otherwise, the great majority of stressors are simply not present. Being alone most of the time feels restorative and agreeable, even if I'm not writing or working every moment.

And there's the caution (i.e. what happens when things get more stressful?), together with the observation that it's easy to ignore a problem in one area if you're feeling good in every other. Great thanks to ML for helping me with both those observations. And so, I have recommitted to a regular and adequate sleep schedule after a week or so of not sleeping much at all, in recognition that (a) I was simply getting exhausted and (b) much more of that and inevitably I'd start being crazy. And so, I am grabbing a hold of my physical self, puzzlement as that is. I haven't been "keeping it up" very well, through some sort of negligence; small differences being hard to see, they don't convince that it's necessary to do anything different. Plus, as I said, I feel so good--orders of magnitude better than other times I've left too much of myself behind. But the meds need something to ride on, and plumbing the limits of that in exploration would be a fool's errand; negligence would be criminal.

So, what remains? What gets left behind? The questions framed by a living space and situation familiar but utterly estranged from my normal home, with the possibility of moving even farther afield. And I've been talking for ages about changes to this blog. Writing, poetry, this blog remain, for sure--they might even be the foundation. Or the magic carpet. Seeking more outlets for my writing, submitting my work--those things fell by the wayside some when I got sick last year, but I've been solicited to write some book reviews (which I love to do) in a couple places, and am getting inspired to start submitting my creative work places again. 

In the bigger picture, of what my persona, my life, my living situation is going to look like, of the depth of my relationships with the people closest to me here, how they are going to be...well, bigger picture, bigger questions! I'm feeling some urgency to demonstrate that I can manage by myself, with some fey ebullience in the "Of course I can" direction.

I've left so much between the lines in this post because I don't even know how to talk about a lot of this right now. Hopefully what I've left out won't be left behind. Feel free to ask me if you have questions--you know how willing I am to be frank one to one.

Meanwhile, of course I'm going to be fine, when I am sleeping in the master bedroom with this pile of pups...(and let it be noted--I've watched dogs (these and others) many times before, but this happens to be the first time they've decided to sleep with me, and I've been ok with it).

Happy Chinese New Year; Beginnings

Happy New Year! Yes, New Year, new look! And since this is just part of my experimenting phase with the what and how of the blog, there may be more cosmetic changes. It's just one new beginning. Meredith's was the first blog on which I saw a similar change, and then I found it on several more that same day. It's time, with gratitude for the inspiration/reminder.

from  http://tinyurl.com/asy56nz

I didn't make any kind of resolution/intention/goal/orienting-of-self-in-universe post around January 1st, or at all this year yet. I knew I'd be getting a second opportunity. Today is Chinese New Year's Day, although celebrations began about a week ago. The beginning is not always the beginning. This is also the Year of the Snake, the year in which I was born. The Chinese zodiac goes by lunar years rather than months, so the animals recur every twelve years. This is the fourth Snake year of my life, including the year I was born. The annual cycle also maps to the Chinese elements. I was born in the year of the Fire Snake; my brother, who was born when I was twelve, is an Earth Snake baby; my friend's son born in 2001 is a Metal Snake baby, and this is the Year of the Water Snake. Well, being surrounded by water sounds like a tricky proposition for a fire person!

I ran my date/time/place of birth through a Chinese Astrology interpreter and was given, among other things, a decade-by-decade analysis of how my fortune/well being would be; the "Rise and Fall Chart" of my life. 
Source

Age	0	1-10	11-20	21-30	31-40	41-50	51-60	61-70	71-80	81-90

The Blue Bar stands for the beginning Luck Level when you were born. Each Red Bar stands for the Luck Level for 10 years. When you are in luck, the Red Bar is longer than the Blue Bar. Your good marriage should be in the longest Red Bar or a longer Red Bar period during the marriage age. Your career should begin in a longer Red Bar too. Usually, you can find two consecutive longer Red Bars together, which are your best 20 years.

Well, that didn't work so well. It looks great in my 'writing' place, but not so good published. If you care, you can click where I put "Source" above and see it. Important points: my 31-40 decade, which I'm in the middle of now, is just about a flatline (and I thought my 20's were worse than now). 41-50 looks somewhat better but still poor, and the remaining decades look great, although you have to wonder if they've just been put that way because I won't be there to see them--why else would there be so many of them and so much better than any preceding?. The admonition is not to start anything important, like a marriage or a work vocation, until you have two good decades in a row. I don't get that until I'm 51! The beginning is not always the beginning.

It's always fascinating when astrological-type stuff matches up with what one's experiencing in life. But given that the descriptions of a Fire Snake's personality scarcely describe me (extroverted, charismatic, judgmental, guarded and suspicious (really?), ruthless in pursuit of success (really??))* I'm reminded to take all with the requisite seasoning. In so doing, I avoid considering any of the predictive stuff explanation or excuse, just like it's being increasingly understood that genes are not inevitable predictors of health manifestations. I had this new science of epigenetics explained to me succinctly and unassumingly by my parents' dentist, mine as a little kid; when I went to see him on a visit back there once. He commented that my teeth were in really good shape. I said I was grateful for it, reminding him that he'd warned me as a teenager that both my parents have issues with their teeth and I should take care. "Genetics isn't a blueprint, he said, "It's just something that may be more likely to happen. You still have control over how things turn out."
*For those of you who don't know me, extroverted is not the same as manic, and I'm not always manic. I'm decidedly uncharismatic. I'm not guarded--in fact, I'm notorious for talking poop with complete strangers. Well, if you read this blog you've seen how transgressive of normal "OK to talk about" lines I can be. And I seem to self-sabotage rather handily when it comes to desire for success, although that is changing.

So, supposing this decade of mine is as horrible as that table above suggests, it still doesn't mean I need to be in purgatory. In spite of the tendency created by the relevant positioning of planets and atoms (in which I do believe, btw), I can still move into self actualization, become a writer who is well-read and well-loved, continue to find ways to support myself that are meaningful and that utilize my particular and unusual expertise ("ruthless pursuit of success?"). I can come to a more peaceful place with the health issues that partially define the shape of my life. Most important, perhaps, I can create for myself a good definition of what is well being, success, happiness. Is there any more beautiful perspective on light than from the bottom of a well?

Happy New Year! And shaping up to be a(nother) year of immense change in my life. I don't yet know exactly how all the details are going to work out, but already, as misaligned and misbegotten and sick unto death as I have sometimes felt in recent months, I'm also already being fed from plants raised in that compost. Opportunities have presented themselves, offering completely new directions, and I am exploring them with open mind and heart.

Yes, last year I was also fixated on the "beginning is not the beginning" thing with my attempt at a "fifty first weeks" series. As a writer, and as anyone with spiritual inclinations, it's virtually essential that there be not just one starting line. And so, over and over, I mull on the first word of Genesis, b'resheet which means, not "In the beginning," as usually translated, but "In a beginning." One of many possible beginnings. The quantum version of the Bible! And meanwhile the oral tradition most in my head, that of the Homeric bards, comes in with the invocation to the Muse at the beginning of The Odyssey--to tell us of these things "starting from some point or another." So, in the context of a song/story/performance, a beginning can be made at any point in the story. We think of that more as a lyric impulse nowadays, but narratives structured that way are usually the ones I find most compelling. 

Why this is all so important to me is that the final year of my MFA program is heaving into view, which will be my thesis year. In the past month I've been getting clarity, at least in outline, on what that thesis will be. And the major theme, metaphor, story, lyric construct--yes, all of these, from which its stories, poems, reflections, notes, memoir--yes, all of these--will suspend is that of crossings, of passage, of movement from one place or time or inner or outer to another. Yes, it's all huge-picture excitement at this point. But--especially in a decade of anni horribiles such as I'm supposed to find myself, the only way I could possibly feel as much excitement about this project as I do is through belief shading into knowledge that there is no single beginning.

I'm writing about myself because that's what I don't-know most intimately. There are many other things this blog could be "about." I have a tongue-in-cheek and rueful yen to start including food posts if there is interest. And book reviews! I love to do those. And all the Alaska stuff, of course, and travels elsewhere in the near future...

Delayed Gift of Found Hearts (and Why Feathers Isn't Going to Do It All)

In addition to my goodie-making vortex in the run-up to the Holidays, I was also frantically collecting heart-shaped rocks. Every beach hike, I'd get back to the car with my pockets around my ankles and a couple more in my hands.  As I found better or more intriguing ones, others in the stash would get tossed, to lie somewhere as innocuous rocks, absolved of their role as heart with all its metonymic and metaphoric extensions.

I was so busy collecting the rocks, I didn't really think through how I was going to present them to their recipients. So, since I ended up being absent for the whole of the holidays, the hearts remained on the counter. I only gave two away that already had clearly intended recipients.

So, here they are on the counter, and since I'm house-and-dog-sitting, which gives me the sense of distance to allow me to spring-clean the cabin, it was time to move them.
A commemorative team photo:

Quite a motley team, united by a shape, or just the hint of it, that, for humans, speaks to depths of connection.
I found three more after taking the team photo and after having dismantled the flat montage:

The middle one is so big and weird, and the one on the right could be a foot almost as well as a heart. Had you ever imagined the heart and the foot as being similarly shaped? What metaphors could that tread out?
Some of the rocks are big and ugly, but still hearts.

 Some are small, and variously shaped. The bottom left one is actually a shell rather than a rock, and I feel a particular tenderness for it, how it's hollowed out, like half a hazelnut, like a prism.

 This one has that three-dimensional thing going on, and you can only see that it's a heart at a specific angle. Hearts are elusive sometimes. Sometimes, rocks don't know what we want them to say.

Some of them are simply, ineffably beautiful. No need for words (except a gentle curse of my lack of skills; I would love to have this picture flipped 90 degrees).

I've rambled on about found objects so many times here. These rocks are not only found but invested with special significance. There's something godly about a world in which that is possible; in which a small piece of the planet can ride in your pocket, or sit on your desk, and remind you of the precious cargo you carry within yourself, or of a precious other with whom you dance. Or, in which caressing one of these rocks can feel erotic in its sensuality. This underlying godliness is what this blog is named for.

As I'm spending more time alone (with the dogs I'm watching), I feel spaciousness. I like being by myself, even with all the other beings and noises. For a long time, I felt like I was in a tunnel, or on a runway. Now, I'm looking out through a door.
Time is still tripping me up. I'm forgoing many things in favor of writing-time and work. Email conversations are dragging because I'm taking longer to answer. My blog-citizenship has become less constant. I'm staying up late and getting up early. And yet, when I make it to the page, which is still a tardy arrival sometimes, with all the mechanics of being in a different place and taking care of the dogs, I make an excited scatter of starts and bursts as disparate as all the "hearts" pictured above, with no obvious direction or connection. They are all connected though. That little ulterior heart shape.

Speaking of ulterior, imagine the waves bonding to the sand like this.

Thank you for the feedback about the Feathers. I'm thinking photos will remain a necessity even if I don't remain living here. And comments are just a sine qua non, even if only one person comments. Thinking I should just do without them was a backhand way of putting myself down that was also impolite to potential commenters.

Teaching Siri my Name, and my First Feather.

I am trying to teach Siri my name. It (she? he?) is calling me "əla ," not quite "Ella;" the fudging schwa of the first vowel affording my whole name barely two moras--almost a monosyllable. We haven't been properly introduced. I don't like it when someone starts using my name without introduction; it's a virtual guarantee they'll get it wrong. Even with introduction...
For the rest, click here http://feathe.rs/201302041959


My first "feather," as I experiment with possibilities for this blog's future. (My blog, mini-me, parallel life.)
I hear the request not to get rid of pictures, so this one may not ultimately work out. I also very much appreciate the dialogue possible with comments. However, I like the clean simplicity.

Feedback?

Seven Lessons from a Visiting Writer

Last night (Wednesday night--as the light palpably returns, it's easy to burn the candle at both ends), Boise based fiction writer Alan Heathcock gave a reading and informal talk at the college. It was the easy informality of a small town's dedicated community of writers who all know each other; also the special intimacy of a small audience. The roads, rain upon snow upon ice, prohibited many from venturing out. 

From Alan's website. He doesn't really look like this at all. He has much more beard, but also a bigger, more expressive mouth. Different hat and glasses too. He looks much younger than this photo.

From finding out about the event to showing up to the event itself to the bar afterward to going home, working late, and digesting, I felt enriched. Aside from Alan's engaging candor, immediate sincerity, unabashed passion, which produced an easy familiarity of conversation despite the fact that I believe none of us, Alan included, are particularly gregarious people...aside from feeling like we'd been gifted a new friend, I felt I'd gained some important lessons.

Lesson (1): Pay attention to news sources in the local community. I heard about Alan's visit from my friend Lynn in Anchorage, and that's not the first time she's tipped me off to a Homer event. Because I'm the round-up coordinator for the literary blog 49 Writers, I tend to presume, nay, expect that people will feed me any literary happenings in town to put in the round-up. Turns out many people in town consider 49 Writers a source for statewide rather than local literary information. "Well, it's advertised on the radio, it's in the newspaper, there are flyers up at the Library," they say. I don't listen to the radio or read the newspaper; some days I don't make it out of the cabin and its immediate surroundings. I'm woefully disconnected to local newsfeeds, and I should have my feelers out for events to post, rather than assuming I'm at the center of the web and will be fed announcements, neatly cocooned like flies. Speaking of the web, the local newspapers are well represented online, so there's really no excuse. A new habit for me: pay more attention to what my friends are doing. So, be where you are, and pay attention.

But, lesson (2), be willing to expand from your "local" zone. Alan was raised in urban South Chicago, but he says that during his MFA, he received consistent feedback that his stories set there seemed inauthentic, largely because of reader bias insisting that he was not from that demographic. "Write what you know," they would always say. Alan performed his marvelous full-body face-scrunched-open shrug--well, it is what I know... But, he listened, and began setting stories in rural Indiana, where his mom was raised, and things began to fall into place in terms of audience response.

But (3) insist on your own sense of what is right--he gave some examples of instances in which he would not compromise, particularly in the context of a movie adaptation of a story, and also underscored the importance of knowing who you are, including your family of origin (he read some stunning excerpts from the journal of his great-great-great-great-great grandfather); of getting to know the pulse of your own creativity, the way things come out of your mouth.

Therefore, (4) be proud of what you send out into the world! He said it was easy, during his MFA,  to feel like he was in a race, with huge pressure to rack up publications. So, he sent something off, and the thing got accepted, but when it came to galleys he was horrified. He had no pride in the story whatsoever, didn't want anyone to see it ever, is still ashamed of it, says "don't read this." Thereafter, he published just five more stories over the next dozen years. And now his collection Volt is out (and has won a Whiting award, which is no small thing, but which he barely mentioned). If he's going to publish a story, he wants to be so excited about it that he'll be standing up (again, with one of his wonderful physical postures) and proclaiming, "You gotta read this story!"

To get to that point, (5) when he's starting work on a story he tries to get all the words down asap, all the bare bones structure and start-to-finish through-line, and then he goes back and does the hard work on it so that every single sentence feels "correct." He doesn't analyze in great detail this sense of correctness; he keeps going back to instinct, which is also belief in and respect for oneself, which is about developing the most finely tuned ear, and a gut response to your own voice. 

At the bar, we talked with more hilarity and less restraint about his writing habits and our own, and one additional message that struck me (6) was the value of getting into the piece of writing (no matter the genre) with your whole self. Full body, more than chewing a pen or scratching a hole in your head. As I've suggested a few times, one of the most impressive things about Alan is his full-bodied self, especially when he talks; even more especially when he reads. He moves with the narrative as if miming a map of the story. When he reads, it sounds like he's singing the Blues--his voice so melodic, the cadences of his phrases so much the theme and variation of a Blues riff--bo daa daa daa-bo daa daa -- bo daa daa daa-bo daa daa -- -- -- bo daa daa daa daa dabodabodaboda bo daa daa. 
Yes, he said in explicit words that we're all "eggheads" (guilty giggles) but that we need to get into it in a more felt way. But the fact that he not only said it but did it was the amazing thing.

One final, wonderful lesson, (7), and this is about parenting, but is also hugely inspirational to anyone, parent or not. Alan shared that he has a sixteen-year-old son who is an extremely talented musician--jazz piano and singing, already somewhat in demand, likely to be competed for by the top music conservatories rather than the other way round. Family members are asking what his "fallback" career plan is, because music should just be a hobby, of course. Alan told (miming with his body, of course) of his absolute insistence that there is no fallback plan. If his son wants to be a musician, that's what he is aiming at, full body, full mind, full spirit, and that is what he is going to believe in, and that is what he is going to do. What are you talking about, "fallback plan?" He is, and is going to be, a musician.
I restrain myself from further comment, and offer, simply, a standing ovation.