Back from France, Part 2: Lessons from an Art Retreat

Entry to the Le Vieux Couvent Studio. Don't let the cats in!

Bonjour! Today's post is a follow-up to my last entry listing my top twelve highlights while visiting Le Vieux Couvent, a rural art retreat situated in France's Dordogne region. In this post I'll be talking about my main reason for going: the art instruction!

Ever since my first art class and subscribing to my first art magazines with their colorful ads for international painting holidays, I've been hooked on the idea of signing up for one. I remember studying intently the photos of rosy little villages set against dramatic mountain landscapes, artists at their easels capturing light and atmosphere and everyone looking so happy--probably because of the many bottles of wine, wedges of cheese, and picnic baskets featured in the backgrounds. It looked wonderful and I would spend hours imagining what it must be like to be on one of those retreats.

Now that I've had the chance to actually find out first-hand, I can report the ads are true. Everyone is happy! The scenery is incredible. The wine and cheese? The best! Did I paint until I dropped? Well, let's just say I tried; because the number one lesson I learned from going on an art retreat is, it's all about:

Inspiration, not completion.

Here's why:

1. Travel is tiring. Although we were offered the opportunity to stay home on sightseeing days, there was no way I was going to skip 29,000 year old cave art or visiting a medieval village carved into the mountain tops. Often when I got there though, I didn't have the energy to open my paints and sketchbook and begin to work. No problem: I took beautiful photographs for future reference; bought scenic postcards; walked and walked and studied the sky, the hills, the architecture. I didn't need to sketch any of it to remember it.

2. The art instruction for the retreat I chose centered on splash ink, a Chinese technique I love for its randomness and sense of surprise. Our instructor, Ming Franz, made the class easy and supportive, even fun as we ran in and out of the studio trying not to drip paint and ink on the tiling, making sure the doors were closed behind us to keep out flies and inquisitive kitties, and waiting for the results while hoping it wouldn't rain (or that no one would turn on the garden hose). We worked hard for those papers, I can tell you! But by the time I had a workable and completely dry stack of pages, I was struck by the thought of "ruining them." I couldn't think of a single thing to paint.

Sumi ink and the 4 traditional watercolors that create a splash ink page.

Dried in the sun: now to figure out how to finish. So many possibilities--

More choices, choices, choices . . .

3. It's a bit difficult for me to paint or draw in a group setting. With the exception of some long-ago pastel studies, anything I have ever produced inside an art class ranks amongst the worst work I have ever done. I need to be home in my own space to truly feel comfortable. I need to stand up, pace, view pieces from varying distances, make cups of tea, flip through sketchbooks, do laundry (setting and working to the timer on both the washer and dryer is a great creative exercise), and clean up my work space while I "think." When I'm in a group I struggle to stay still and buckle down to what we're supposed to be doing.

4. Despite the charm of my "princess room" there was nothing remotely like a desk or table and chair for me to sit at and work in the evenings. It was impossible to draw or sketch other than sitting propped up in the bed, and if you've had any experience with French pillows, you might agree they are the worst in the world. I had five, including the bolster, and each one was too heavy for me to easily lift and place behind my back, let alone shift into position. I especially didn't want to spill paint or get ink on the sheets.

Those lead-weight pillows . . .

Inside the studio: not just for painting. Drinks were served promptly at 6.00 every evening. I could move and mingle as much as I wanted!

Despite the lack of a drawing board or similar in my bedroom, I did find a brilliant alternative: the sitting room assigned to the building I stayed in. Nice and quiet, lots of room to sprawl, a view of the beautiful gardens outside, it became the natural gathering place for what they called our "pod," i.e., the other four people residing in the building with me. (There were several throughout the premises; this one was ours.)

My "pod's" sitting room; one of my favorite places to be.

Every free moment when we weren't driving, eating, or sleeping, I looked forward to what became a daily ritual: tea and madeleines interspersed with conversation and shared art tips while I and the others practiced in our sketchbooks. There was even  a washing machine in the kitchen a few steps down from where we sat, so we could do laundry while we painted--just like at home. Listening to the chatter around me while I laid down casual, loose watercolor washes in my sketchbook helped me to relax. It wasn't splash ink per se, but it followed the same principles we learned in the studio and gave me more ideas and confidence for using my papers once I got home. 

And when I did get home, I was so ready to begin painting:

Experimenting with gouache and ink on a splash ink page at home.

I also couldn't wait to start some monochrome studies of Le Vieux Couvent for a more traditional watercolor approach down the road.

Art Graaf (water-soluble graphite) in my Canson mixed-media sketchbook.

Conté pencil on drawing paper.

Most of all I couldn't wait to start some experimental abstracts from memory, a practice someone in my pod suggested I try. My preferred mediums for that turned out to be my super-favorite Sennelier oil pastels along with Art Graaf, Neocolor II's (fancy water-soluble crayons) and Japanese sumi-infused shadow watercolors:

On the road to Saint-Cirq Lapopie.

 

Abstracted views of Cahors.

View from the bridge at Cahors. (With the help of a reference photo.)

I don't know of anything in life that ever works out exactly as planned or imagined, and "splash ink" couldn't have been a better metaphor for this particular trip. Every day I had to improvise: wearing strange clothing thanks to my missing luggage; finding my way through the rain when I thought I'd got lost in a total maze of a village where every medieval shop front looked the same; painting with with borrowed and unfamiliar brushes because the ones I'd packed were in that same delayed suitcase. Some days it seemed I was splashing too hard, others not enough. Eventually I learned to simply throw my artistic expectations into the air and let them fall where they may. A solution that in the words of my dear friend and mentor, the late artist and author Gordon Marlow, "couldn't have been perfecter."

Eat, sleep, purr . . . treats at 6.00 . . . 

Tip of the Day: Life is short--just go! (That was easy.)

Au revoir et merci, Le Vieux Couvent!

 

Back from France! Part 1

Entry courtyard, Le Vieux Couvent (LVC), Frayssinet.

Back home from France! Too soon, too quick, too much to write about. It was an amazing trip, even if some days seemed as if there was too much food (impossible to believe, I know), too much to see (all awe-inspiring), and far too many angsty-hours waiting for my suitcase . . . Air Canada managed to misplace my luggage (with many of the required art supplies I listed in my last post) for a whole nine days. However, thanks to the emergency wardrobe my LVC hosts had on hand because "this sort of thing happens all the time," I easily survived, and with an unexpected bonus when I returned to Albuquerque:

The "secret" path from my room to the art studio.

The easiest unpacking of my life: everything went right back into my closet. No laundry!

One of the many LVC gathering areas.

Which then gave me extra time to think and write about all the quirky, unexpected, and quite wonderful things that happened. There are so many of them that I've decided to write two posts: one on my top 12 happy memories, and a second post next week about the art side of the retreat. So here goes: 

The back road to the church and convent buildings.

1. Meeting the rest of the tour group. It was such a pleasure to meet up again with people I had known from an earlier trip to Taiwan, but equally special was meeting so many new friends. Our backgrounds were as varied as the many places we came from, and I absolutely loved listening to the different voices and accompanying accents around the dining table. So much so that I often caught myself saying odd phrases like, "Bonjour, y'alls," or thanking people with "gracias" rather than "merci" whenever we were out and about. Hopefully the French thought I was just one more crazy American and didn't give any of it a second thought.

 

2. Splash Ink Lessons. As I mentioned, next week I'll be posting about the art that came out of the retreat, but before that I want to say a huge thank-you to Ming Franz for making the trip possible. It wasn't easy organizing all of our tickets, rooms, individual requests, or bringing the vast amounts of paint and paper we needed every day. Without Ming, there wouldn't have been a trip and I can't imagine any of it without her.

 

Adventures in splash ink: Thank you, Ming!

 

3. My room. I felt incredibly fortunate (and a bit guilty) to have one of the best rooms in the house. It was so nice we called it "The Princess Room." What no-one realized though is that if you're going to live like a princess, you have to walk like one. If I fell over the ledge dividing my room from the doorway once, I fell one thousand times. I simply couldn't see where the ledge ended and the floor began. Eventually I got the hang of it: there is a drop--think before you fly, and I learned to hold onto the door frame before stepping into space. Awkward but life-saving.

 

Le Ledge of Death.

 

Le Princess Bed Extraordinaire.

4. Furniture Shopping in Collonges-les-Rouges.

One of my most unforgettable days was a morning spent helping one of my travel companions shop for patio furniture in the village of Collonges-les-Rouges--far more interesting than wandering around reading historical plaques: "built in 1564 . . ." Except halfway through sales negotiations, re: shipping details and what color chair cushions to choose, I suddenly DID notice a plaque. And not just one--an entire roomful straight from Albuquerque, NM. In the front of the store every wall was plastered with metal plaques and New Mexico license plates featuring Route 66 and the joys of riding a Harley down the highway. I was speechless until I was able to tell the shop owner that I and several other members of our group were from Albuquerque, leaving him as stunned as I was. He then led us outside to show where he was cooking lunch on one of the Mexican clay stoves he sold--the type of ubiquitous clay fireplace found in almost every backyard here at home. I still feel as if I were in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

 

Everything in this village was made from red sandstone.

Except for the clay stoves from New Mexico.

 

5. Kitty Boy (or at least that's what I called him). Although there were several cats on the premises (with strict instructions they were not allowed into our rooms), I've always been a push-over for gingers. Despite the language barrier (I'm assuming the resident cats only spoke French) this chaton was happy to sit on my lap and be smothered with affection whenever possible. On our last morning I just had to know what his real name was (Pierre? Jean-Luc?) but no one could tell me because it turned out he didn't actually live there--what a little cad! He'd only been visiting for the treats and attention.

 

What's for lunch? I hope it's not foie gras AGAIN . . .

I'm ready for my close-up, Monsieur Rousseau . . .

 

6. The "school bus." Which took me forever to understand was really, really for tiny school children. I'm sure I wasn't alone in thinking when we were first told a school bus would be picking us up from the airport that a school bus meant, well, a big yellow school bus. So when I saw the small white van that was to be our ride for the rest of the trip, I didn't understand. I became even more confused when I took my seat; it was so tight. Surely I hadn't eaten that much on the plane. All I could think was, "Gosh, the French are skinny. What's wrong with them?" Finally one afternoon after sitting in my usual sideways position receiving numerous bruises to my rib cage and kneecaps I saw the yellow triangle on the windshield warning oncoming traffic of les enfants on board. The other drivers must have been astonished to watch us full-grown adults tumble out when we reached our destinations.

Skinny little road just right for our skinny little bus.

Side street in Cahors too skinny even for us.

 

7. Les Picnics. The food was exactly as you would imagine French cuisine to be: first-class. Servings and courses were numerous. Wine in abundance. Presentation, beautiful. I ate every bite, usually while promising myself I would never eat again. And then dessert would arrive and my plans would mysteriously change. But despite all the country charm of the LVC dining room, my favorite meals were the outdoor picnics under the trees and with no mosquitos--ever. (Flies, yes, but they were a pretty gold color and didn't bite.)

 

One of my favorite picnic sites: the Water Gardens, Perigord.

 

8. Chaud Chocolat on a rainy day. Our visit to the mountain-high village of Saint-Cirq Lapopie was one of the days lunch wasn't provided by LVC. It was also a day when we were told families ate out and it might be difficult to get a seat at a restaurant. None of this meant anything to me because this was the day I planned to skip lunch. Instead, I went shopping for new clothes as by now I had given up on ever seeing my suitcase again. The streets were steeper than steep and we had been warned that "if you go down, remember you have to climb up." Things worsened as it began to rain. Yet up and down the cobblestones I went, my shopping bags becoming increasingly soggy with every step until I had nowhere to go but to a cafe. By this time I was also longing for not coffee, but my preferred chaud chocolat. To my dismay, when I entered the only restaurant I could find all the tables had "reserved" signs on them. Within seconds, however, no problem--a waiter took me to the best table overlooking the best view, removed the reserved card, sat me down and insisted I stay as long as I wanted. The chocolat was steaming hot and even came with a package of biscuits. Sitting there watching the rain fall and feeling so peaceful is something I will always remember.

 

Rainy day, Saint-Cirq Lapopie.

One shop wouldn't let me leave until they demonstrated how to style my new dress three ways. Only in France.

9. Before I bought clothes though, I bought a berry bowl.

I've always wanted a berry bowl and this one with a matching plate was obviously waiting for me. Handmade in Toulouse out of glazed terra cotta, I've been using it every day--not just for berries, but cherry tomatoes, rinsing spinach or draining a serving of pasta--it's a keeper!

10. Rocamadour and the Black Madonna. Prior to leaving Albuquerque I didn't pay very much attention to what our daily itinerary would be. Part of me wanted it to be a surprise, another was too busy collecting "12 plastic spoons" etc., etc. Visiting Rocamadour and the Black Madonna was the last thing I ever thought we would be doing, so it came as a genuine gift when we went there for the day. Black Madonnas have always been important to me, with a visit to Montserrat being one of the highlights of my life. As soon as I got home from this last trip I couldn't wait to re-read the memoir written by my friend Elaine Soto, My Journey to the Black Madonna. In her book she includes a chapter describing her own visit to Rocamadour illustrated with her artwork. Reading this section again added an entirely new, and shared, dimension to my feelings about being there.

Somehow I walked from top to bottom.

The main street at last.

11. Les Milandes. Another surprise was going to Josephine Baker's home, Les Milandes. You can't go to Europe and not visit a castle and this one was definitely worth seeing, especially as it had on display a full array of costumes (the banana skirt!), photographs, and furniture. The woman in the gift shop issuing tickets was impressed with the way we said "caaa-stle" as opposed to her British-inflected "cah-stle." "We wanna see the caaa-stle!" "Oh, I do like way you say 'caaa-stle,'" she said. "It's so much more . . ." Here she paused. As I was in a hurry to get inside the caaa-stle--no dilly-dallying for me--I suggested: "Jazzier?" "Voila! That's it! It's much more jazzier! Oh, I do like that too!" Always happy to help.

Les Milandes; Josephine Baker's home.

12. The Caves at Pech Merle. Were cold and drizzly and one of the most interesting--and moving--places I have ever been to. The wall art dates back 29,000 years and from the minute I entered all I could think about was how much I miss working in clay (temporarily on hold until I have a studio again). From early childhood when I was given a book on Neanderthal and Cro-Magnum cultures for Christmas I've been hooked on clay beads, bison and woolly mammoth figurines, and especially wall paintings made on damp earth and rock. Walking underground and seeing these creations was, without exaggeration, a dream come true.

 

No photography allowed so I "borrowed" from the website.

13. And one more: Swimming lessons. The two items I most wanted from my missing suitcase were my flip-flops and my bathing suit. Every day I would pass either one of the two pools and wish I could go swimming. On the day my case finally arrived it was late and nearly time for drinks and dinner but when I saw the sun sparkling on the water, I knew if I didn't take the opportunity to swim I would regret it for the rest of my life. Within minutes I was ready to go. What I had completely forgotten, though, was that I hadn't been in a pool for close to ten years. Worse yet, this particular pool was shaped like a soup bowl with rounded walls; no stairs or railings. Regardless, I thought I could just walk in (how hard could it be?) when of course I promptly lost my footing and fell ingloriously into the deep end. At the same time I immediately realized I had forgotten how to swim. Oh, great, I thought. I get my suitcase at last and now I drown. After a few micro-seconds of near-panic instinct suddenly kicked in and I found myself floating on my back, looking into the beautiful sky and thinking how perfect the whole trip had been. Just float, I told myself. Just float. And so I did.

Next post: It's all about the art! See you soon.
 

Art Retreat in France: Packing My Supplies

 

Just a few more days and then I'm off to France! My first holiday in three years: Le Vieux Couvent and a splash ink class with my friend and art teacher, Ming Franz. Along with 15 other splash ink enthusiasts, I will be gone for two weeks, ending with a final day and night in Toulouse before our flight home.

I've wanted to take a workshop at Le Vieux Couvent ever since I first heard about it in a Domestika class during the pandemic. The course instructor posted on his website that if and when the travel restrictions were lifted, he would be teaching his next workshop there. I remember thinking about how much fun a trip like that would be and how much I wanted to go. Unfortunately, I never got there--until now when Ming told me she was teaching a class in that very spot and I couldn't wait to sign up.

And as excited as I am to finally be going to Le Vieux, there remains a certain bittersweet element to the timing. Back during Covid when I was daydreaming about painting mini-masterpieces close to Cathar country (I'm obsessed with Cathar history), my husband was still alive making great plans of his own. He thought it would be an amazing opportunity to accompany me on the trip not as an art student, but to go vintage car hunting. He had heard of a local car rental company hiring out vintage vehicles and couldn't make up his mind whether we would rent a Lamborghini or just a plain old MGB for touring the Dordogne when my workshop finished. The idea was that while we were out driving, we'd be looking for a vintage auto or motorcycle to buy and bring home for restoration. It was a wonderful plan. Except you know what they say about plans.

Obviously, things didn't work out so well. Instead of packing for two and wondering if I'd be needing a headscarf in case we ended up in a convertible, I'm doing my best to prepare for my first solo attempt at "I-can-do-it travel" without having a non-stop panic attack. To keep myself as distracted as possible, I've been concentrating on accumulating travel art supplies--both the required ones for the course and a complement of fun items for my own daily sketching.

Splash ink, or po-mo to use the correct Chinese term, requires some heavy-duty accoutrements: large sheets of mulberry paper, trays to place the paper in, jars and jars of liquid watercolor and sumi ink, and a wide variety of additional bits and pieces not that easy to travel with. Thankfully Ming will be bringing the paper and paints, but to help lighten the load we've all been asked to bring the following items for individual studio use:

• 12 plastic spoons
• 12 plastic cups
• 1 roll of Frog tape
• 1 apron
• 1 pair of rubber gloves
• plastic wrap
• 1 hake brush
• 4 watercolor brushes, flats and rounds
• 1 mixing palette 
• 1 spray bottle
  

Also required is a roll of heavy duty foil. Again, thankfully, another participant has offered to bring a roll to share with me, and I am very grateful!

So now that I have that all done, my next step is choosing the sketching supplies for my personal use outside of the class, and believe me, choosing the "right stuff" has not been easy. I have dithered and re-thought and changed my mind so many times (including the middle of the night when I jumped out of bed to add yet one more perfect pencil to the pile) I am sure one of my conclusions was to "not bring anything at all." However, I think I have finally settled on my will-not-change kit and this is it:

• A tiny tray of Daniel Smith watercolors. The set I have here began life as the DS urban "Sketcher Set" created by artist Liz Steel of only six colors, but since buying it I have added some personal favorites, including Buff Titanium and Undersea Green. 
  
• A Hannemuhle concertina watercolor sketchbook. I bought this particular sketchbook at Christmas to start a series of "Bunny in the Snow" paintings that morphed into "Bunny Goes Wild" drawings in a completely different sketchbook I won't be taking with me. (The story of my life.) The reason I chose to bring the concertina book on this trip was a) it's very lightweight, and b) I thought it would be fun to experiment with a continuous sketch that filled a single book from front to back, cover to cover, and c) it was just sitting there on the shelf, so why not? Use it or lose it.
  
• A pad of high-quality bright white drawing paper made by Peter Pauper Press. This will be for some "Bunny in France" (or any other animals I may encounter) thumbnail sketches.
  
• 3 waterbrushes: 2 flats, 1 round. Tip for traveling with waterbrushes: do not fill with water until you arrive at your destination, and keep the brush section very loosely attached to the barrel while you travel. If you tighten the sections together too strongly, the compression in the plane can lock everything up and prevent you from taking the brush apart to fill with water when you're ready to do so. Which means you will break it, like I did on a previous flight.
  
• 1 woodless pencil made in Italy that is the most expensive pencil I have ever bought in my life (and it was even at a discounted price). But it is beautiful, doesn't roll off the table, and is the best bunny drawing pencil money can buy. 
• 1 Bic #7 mechanical pencil for detail drawing.
  
• 1 thick lead sketching pencil for shading and because I bought it on a trip to the Metropolitan Museum in New York years ago it carries happy memories. (I bought a few of them in case you were wondering how one pencil could last so long.)
  
• 1 Koh-i-noor Magic pencil. These pencils are indeed magic. Several shades of color all combined into one lead, they are super fun to use whenever you want to quickly add some color to any kind of sketch.
  
• 1 gray shading flexible fiber tip pen. (Confession: I don't really like this pen, but it seemed a good opportunity to use it up and toss it before I go home. My hope is that I will actually grow to like it and discover all kinds of interesting uses for it. Maybe.)
  
• 2 #8 black Gelly pens. I love these pens in all their colors, but black seemed the most sensible for this trip. I am bringing two so that I have one for writing as well as drawing.
  
• 1 double-hole pencil sharpener so that I can sharpen both my large and regular-size pencils.
  
• 1 black eraser. I try not to use an eraser but sometimes they are a life-saver. Black erasers are my favorites.
  
• 1 glue stick. Besides being handy for pasting ticket stubs, fortune cookie wisdom, and any other strange little bits of ephemera inside my sketchbook, the ability to collage or simply paste a clean piece of paper over a failed sketch is one of life's great creative miracles.
  
•  2 binder clips to hold my sketchbook flat.
  
• 1 six-inch plastic ruler to help with my terrible sense of perspective as well as possibly helping me to draw straight lines. (Or that's the hope at any rate.)
  
• 1 zippered pouch (made from recycled soda bottles) declaring my eternal love for cats. The pouch is small but big enough to hold absolutely everything other than the sketchbook and pad.

Because I will also be writing as well as painting, I'll have this cute Moleskine cachet journal handy featuring a Van Gogh sunflower study on the cover. A friend recently brought it home from Europe for me and it's a great reminder to stay loose, stay happy, and stay creative every day! (Thank you, Sue!)

 

Tip of the Day: Seize the day. Go for it. Just do it. Yes--and all the other clichés you can think of. They're true. They're real. They're the best advice ever. So what are you waiting for? Whether it's starting your novel, buying your first sketchbook, or wanting to travel to Siberia--take the leap, because . . . if not now, when?

Freewriting on a Sunday (or Any Day You Can!)

Albuquerque Morning; watercolor crayons and indigo ink

It's Sunday morning and I'm doing my best to recreate an earlier life: walk to the museum, buy coffee, write to a prompt.

Once I sit down, the background noise holds a familiarity that is good to write to: the coffee machine hisses, children run around the lobby, people stand in line and can't make up their minds what to order: quiche or a chocolate croissant? The cafe tables, as always, are unbalanced, their legs too short on one side and the floor is tiled. The only difference between then and now is I am alone; my writer's group disbanded long ago. And that's okay--writing is a solitary activity and I've learned to be comfortable with solitude.

And just like in the past, I've got a handful of prompts: magazine photos and snippets of text. What to choose? I place everything face-down on the table and pick a few at random before turning them over and surprising myself with the myriad of possibilities. I set the time (how about forty minutes?) and I begin . . . flash fiction, essay, poetry, new chapter for a work-in-progress . . . ?

Whatever I end up writing, though, isn't half as important as the fact I showed up. I did what I set out to do. And that's the beauty of freewriting: taking the time, making the effort, and being perpetually surprised at how much I can write even when I don't really want to.

I can't say enough about freewriting. Ever since I first read (and re-read) Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones and followed her advice on the topic I've been hooked. Here's why:

1. Freewriting is good for absolutely everything: short stories; novels; memoir; screenplays; poetry, even business correspondence. You can't go wrong with a "don't think, just write" first draft.

2. Breaking freewriting sessions (or anything else for that matter) into timed segments makes me far more productive than when I force myself into hours and hours of non-stop work--which never really works. Note: If you don't like the pressure of a time frame, going for several word- or page-count sessions is equally effective; 500 words per session or 3-5 pages are doable goals.

3. I love prompts. I've written about this before, my last post for National Poetry Month being one example. Prompts save time--no more thinking about what to write--and they don't have to be snipped from magazines or other printed materials. How about choosing an item from your handbag, or writing about a person, animal, object, or piece of artwork right in the area you're sitting?

4. Freewriting gives me a great sense of daily accomplishment. My favorite quote from Dorothy Parker is: "I hate writing, I love having written." While I'd never say I hate writing (because I don't), there are, of course days, I'm not particularly motivated, or I'm too preoccupied with some kind of boring energy drain (e.g., taxes) to sit down and write. Which are the very times that I need to sit down and write. So I do--even if it's only for fifteen minutes.

5. Freewriting has given me what I can only describe as an attitude of "joyful discipline." It's something I've learned to extend into a wide variety of creative pursuits, from gesture drawing and watercolor play to making memory-wire bracelets. Working with a dedicated focus inside a set time frame really boosts my energy and desire to create, and without making me feel the time spent is some kind of horrible homework assignment.

6. I get to use supplies, supplies, supplies! Freewriting by hand is essentially about mark-making, expressing how you feel or think at any given moment in the most honest way possible. To really get those feelings out, try using: giant sketchpads, glitter gel pens, exquisite fountain pens, fancy leather-bound journals, purple ink!

 7. Freewriting gets me out of the house. Writing in cafes, the park, and of course the art museum is more than inspiring, it's fun. Conversely, if you have to go somewhere, e.g., some dull appointment where you have to wait for hours before you're seen, freewriting can make the time go more quickly and enjoyably.

Tip of the Day: No prompt? No problem! Whenever you're stuck, tired, or can't lay your hands on a single magazine, you can always fall back on Natalie Goldberg's elegant go-to: I remember. Fifteen minutes, people--no excuses--keep those pens moving!

April is Poetry Month 2025

Seeds From a Birch Tree. Gouache on black paper.

Inspired by the haiku how-to book of the same name by Clark Strand.

April is once again Poetry Month (yay, April!) and this year I'm prepared with not only a new notebook, but a list of prompts culled from my standard go-to: cutting words from old magazines and pasting them in my notebook.

I wanted to share my list with you so here we go: 30 prompts, 30 days, let the fun begin!

1. Singular vision
2. We never disagree
3. She knew her history
4. She made me think of things I hadn't thought of
5. Too many old houses
6. A mix of items
   
7. Other fascinating personalities
8. I have my daughter
9. I was looking for a . . . 
10. I don't know what . . .
11. Wisdom old and new
12. Stop and stair (sic)
13. Root and branch
14. The future of cool
15. Into a white box
16. Dares to be different
    
17. The bedroom walls
18. Seeing stars
19. Aesthetes of all orders
20. The unrivaled
21. Unlock
22. A sinuous house
23. The end of hospitality
24. It snowballed from there
    
25. Out of town
26. Stone scraps
27. Skin is a scent
28. Convert
29. Until I see . . .
30. Each room feels . . .
    

Prompts can be used in any way you like: as titles, themes, a line to be used just once, or repetitively as part of a ghazal or pantoum. One of my favorite techniques is to choose one prompt as a unifying overall title for a chapbook and then write each daily poem as part of a connected whole. 

Whatever your method, keep in mind that just as there are no right or wrong ways to use prompts, there's no "correct" way to write a poem either. Even the rules to create a sonnet or villanelle can be bent or outright broken if that's what's calling you. And don't just limit yourself to what you think "looks like" a poem on the page. Some of the best poetry I've ever read has been in the form of "prose poems," little paragraphs that look--and sound--like some of the best flash fiction you'll ever read. The whole point is to not worry about results but to sit down and . . . write. Wishing you a wonderfully word-filled month ahead!

Tip of the Day: Poetry prompts--or those used for any form of writing--don't always have to be text. Some of my favorite prompts have been visual, especially when I've used established, or famous works of art as starting points. Writing based on a painting or sculpture is known as ekphrasis. If you'd like to learn more, here are two posts from the past I wrote on the subject that I hope you'll find helpful in your April Poetry Journey: The Art of Letting Go and Ekphrasis, Anyone? Stay inspired!