The Seven Flaws in Your Mind and Spirit That Sabotage Creativity

Landscape with orange, purple and yellow with black bare tree on the rightSuccessful artists and writers–perhaps you–make conflict-free habitual use of a dominant faculty in an art form. That is, if they are painters they wish to paint without interference–conflict free. They are confident.  Hockey goalies need confidence. People in the arts need confidence just as much. They paint or write, they chisel in stone. They author books. They produce beautiful works and that is the ultimate goal of art–to add to the store of works that have beauty. Art and beauty are synonymous.

But to many artists and writers it isn’t so simple: they are paralyzed by flaws in their mind and spirit that they should beware of, but often aren’t.

 

The Seven Flaws

Lack of immediacy: Putting off something for another time–a time which may never come at all–and not doing what we know we should do creates a pattern of lazy self-indulgence.  We pamper ourselves and lose vitality. We find easy excuses and don’t demand enough of ourselves.  No one said art would be easy. If we would spend less time thinking of what we want to do and more time to what we should do, we would be much better off. Each day writers, painters, actors, and dancers who avoid taking necessary action are frittering away their artistic existence, never getting around with a clear mind to the fulfilled and happy life they might have lived.

 

Purposelessness: Sociologists have pointed to a world population that’s alienated and adrift without the solid foundation of something meaningful to believe in.  Lack of a clear idea of what exactly you’re living for is a powerful obstacle. Creatives in the arts can find meaning in their work. They can believe in it with all their heart. They are adrift no longer. When you are unbending and pursue your craft with an iron will, obstacles lose strength.

 

Aimlessness and indecisiveness: Some creatives are decisive and aim high, but others float listlessly through life without self-direction. They might want to make the most of their creative lives, but they can’t catch hold. They aren’t able to achieve anything that matters. They don’t set their sights on anything in particular, or contribute anything. There are people on this earth who haven’t accomplished a single noteworthy thing. They squander their most valuable possession: their talents.

 

Difficulty solving problems: These people wake in the morning and there the problems are. They pull the blankets up at night and there the same problems are–unresolved. While they sleep their problems, like the dawn, impatiently await them. Then the perpetual cycle begins again–days pass, months pass, or years pass, and the problems are never solved. Just as important as problem-solving is problem-finding, identifying problems in our creative  lives that hold us back which we would be better off not hiding from, but finally confronting and solving.

 

Regretting and Worrying: Some people in the arts I’ve known seemed to dwell on every mistake they ever made. And some moan about what the future might hold. When you are mired in regret you lose energy and peace of mind lamenting and bemoaning what has already happened.

When you worry you lose energy and peace of mind anticipating what might happen in the future. Either way you’re robbing yourself of the energy and peace of mind you need to make the most of your talent. Better to direct your attention away from what has happened or what may happen and to what is happening right now on the computer screen or on the canvas before you. Whenever your attention strays to yesterday or tomorrow, nudge it back to what is happening at the present moment. When it strays again, nudge it back to what must be done during this single irreplaceable moment of time.

 

Self-pity and griping: Animals don’t whine about their situation, but many people do, and it keeps them from many successes in their art. Self-pity–a dark, destructive mood that cloaks a creative person in gloominess—is an insidious inner obstacle that I wrote about in Fighting to Win. People who pity themselves believe that life has singled them out to be especially brutal to. They are enthralled with the negative. One self-pitying griper in a work team or at a party or in a room can depress the mood of the entire group. More than one relationship has ended because one partner was weary of the other person’s griping.

When you pity yourself you’re saying that obstacles have the better of you, your prospects are exhausted, and that you have no defenses left. The griper begins by griping about the little things and then graduates and gripes about almost everything–“This is all wrong, and that’s all wrong, and everything is all wrong.” Always griping they live a miserable, uncreative life.

 

Avoidance: Avoidance is giving in to that momentary resistance to doing what you know you should do. You know you should call him now, or go to see her, but when the time comes you don’t feel like it, so you don’t call and you don’t go to see her. You’re supposed to get up at 5:00 A.M. today and get a jump on your project, but that’s so inhumanly early and it’s still dark outside. So when the shrill alarm sounds you smack the snooze button. All of our lives boil down to momentary choices.  Always rely on your best judgment in the moment. Your best judgment guides you to the best choices: trust it.

 

Landscape in blue purple and blackEvery flaw is correctible. Once we are aware that flaws in ourselves that could sabotage our creativity do exist, we can set out to rid ourselves of them, beginning with taking action–doing something productive before another moment passes, not griping, not pitying yourself, not worrying, and not putting off. Then we will feel a burst of wellness in our minds and spirits.

 

 

© 2026 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

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Poetry Needn’t Be Unreadable

A Poet’s Credo

I prefer claritydesign of pink tulips with red outlines and small yellow flowers
To obscurity,
And images with heft
To abstractions though deft,
Brevity to verbosity.

I would rather
My writing be simple
Than magnificent,
And hope never to boast
But be as modest as
An earth worm
Or mushroom.

 

The Craft of Writing

My imagination is a drawer
Where I store memories
Without end
That I link word by word by word
Magically.

 

Memory of a Conversation With Madeline

I asked her on the phone
“How are you?”
She replied:
“Danger in the air today.
I woke to morning fear,
Passed into afternoon fear,
And came to evening fear.
Unspeakable really so
I’m going to bed.”

“I was hungry
And went down to the kitchen
But didn’t have strength
To make a sandwich
And heard voices
In the walls so
I gave up and now
I’m going to bed.”

“I tried especially hard today,
Did my best
As long as I could
As I promised
I would,
But now
I’m going to bed.”

“You called at your
Lunch hour
As you do every day.
If I answer
I am still alive.”

“Danger inside me too so
Bed is where you will find me.
Bed is the place I will be.”

 

Swimming in Space

Nightly, I have been swimming in space,
The safest, serenest place,
Stroking through eternity
Gracefully, smoothly, effortlessly,
Since childhood.

Alone,
Far beneath what’s above,
High over what’s below–
Towers and cities and rivers and seas–
Gusts of silver wind I breathe.

Content, blissful,
I leave my body behind
And float as aimlessly as air
I am the air,
No destination in mind.

I am as free as I think
It is possible for me to be.
I am immortal.
I am beautiful.
I will pass this way again.

 

Judy Wazorick

We were in grammar school together.
She had a blue eye and a brown
And sat in the last seat of the last row.
She was very shy, but when I looked at her
She smiled at me.
Now I see she won’t be at the reunion,
And I am so sad because Judy Wazorick
Has passed away.

 

Captives

Sarah shakes the little boxGreen and brown bird perched on a blue twig
And out pour yellow seeds.
Jerry her little green bird,
Hops down from his perch
And eats all the seeds he needs.

Days and night he futilely pecks
The bars of his cage,
Recalling perhaps
How it was to caress the air
And fly far away.

Sarah boards the 7:10 a.m.
She buttons her coat and
Says “Good night, good night all”
To the other clerks at 7:00 at night,
Then eats, then lies in bed alone, lonely,
And like Jerry dreams of flight.

 

Gulls

Low in this sky, snowy
White, gulls pass over a field
Of yellow buttercups with flights
Of the freedom, the
Happiness, the ecstasy of winged things
That wheel around out of my sight
Toward an elegant blue lake
Where boats pitch upon silver waves
Lifted up by brisk winds.

 

Hemingway In Oak Park

Before he became the world’s most popular writer –
In the pre-Paris days when he was apprenticing–
Ernest Hemingway and his family lived in Chicago
Suburb Oak Park, Illinois as did my mother and
Her childhood family fifteen years later. Oak Park
Was part of my life–Sunday visits, and in my
Twenties there was Mayleen whose beautiful face
I recall.

 

 

© 2026 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

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Why Writers and Artists Specialize

Mining Material in One Segment of Your Experience Is A Key to Success in Writing and Art.

Scott Fitzgerald felt that successful writers have a few events in their lives that steal their mind and Path through fields with mountains in the backgroundheart and they write about in one form or another time and again. What had occurred in the writer’s life before age twenty-one is the period of their life where most good writers find their richest material. Writer after writer reports that. Exceptional writers have exceptional memories. Their talent to evoke from their memories in exact detail written images of the places, people, and events they recall is remarkable. Artists too may have extraordinary memories and paint visual images of them.

When we were seventeen for adventure and to acquire material for hopefully future careers in creative writing my friend Nick and I crisscrossed the country on freight trains illegally for six months, living the life of wandering hobos before we started college. We were shot at with bullets buzzing past our heads, and chased by police with growling German shepherds snapping at our heels, four dollars to my name. Few people have that experience. It meets the writer’s critical need for originality. You can’t forget the details of an adventure like that. They provided me with material to write a unique book of poetry I titled The Poetry of Riding Freight Trains Across America. and since then other poems and blogs about freight train travel by the two of us. An editor said: “I was hooked from the first poem about that extraordinary world of lost men.”

Hobos in a Clearing

We reach the crest of the hill at dusk.
Below us, like the camps of infantry,
Burn the scattered fires of forgotten men,
Each a separate picture.
They live in the open or in
The opulence of tarpaper lean-tos against a tree,
And migrate as punctually as geese.
They wear black–perhaps it is the soot of freight trains–
And squat on their haunches like crickets
Beside the snapping flames.
Streams of smoke trail off high into the trees
And embers flicker and fade, flicker and fade
In the harsh bite and sparkle of the wind,
And glow bronze on the men’s untroubled faces
Late into the night.

Painter Julian Levi said, “It seems to me that almost every artist finds some subdivision of nature or experience more congenial to his temperament than any other. To me, it had been the sea…In painting the sea coast I have tried to acquire as much objective knowledge of the subject as I possibly could.” Levi studied the fishermen, fishing gear, their boats and assorted paraphernalia. T.S Eliot said, “We all have to choose whatever subject matter allows us the most powerful and most secret release; and that is a personal affair.”

Literary critic Gilbert Murray wrote, “It seems to me that the writers who have the power of revelation are just those who, in some particular part of life, have seen or felt considerably more than the average run of intelligent beings. I think that the great difference intellectually between one painter or writer or one actor or director and another is simply the number of things they can see in a square yard of their specific world of creation.”

Most–not all–artists and writers strive to have an original voice. Writers ask themselves, “What do I have to say or paint that people will find interesting enough to pay X dollars to put in their bookcase or on their wall?”I always ask myself, “Did the book buyer get their money’s worth?”

To find your best creative niche you must ask yourself: “What area of my life do I know better than other artists and writers do, am fascinated by, and wish to write about or paint frequently during my life?” Claude Monet painted his beautiful garden innumerable times. Paul Cezanne painted the rolling hill he could see from his window many times. Edgar Degas painted ballerinas.

Artists I know specialize in painting clouds and others paint skies exclusively. Many artists paint landscapes and birds and flowers. They then work with that specific material, possibly for their entire lives. It is their most creative world, their signature, what we know them by.

It is not a random choice, but a discriminating, highly selective instinct, a particular order of things that has an outstanding appeal to the person. American writers Ernest Hemingway and before him Stephen Crane were drawn to men under extreme pressure where the best way out of danger was through having courage.

Strive For Freedom As Though Only You Exist

William Faulkner became great as soon as he decided that the only person whose opinion he cared about was his own.

Unless they please themselves, artists and writers will please nobody. They function best when while at work they are thinking of nobody’s liking but their own: “I alone here, on my inch of earth, paint this thing for my own sole joy, and according to my own sole mind. So I should paint it, if no other human being existed but myself…Thus I must do it, for thus I see it, and thus I like it.” (John Ruskin.)

 

© 2026 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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First Experiences of Art

“He’s The Greatest Actor in the World.”

One afternoon when I was a little boy I was playing on the floor in front of the television that my mother had left on while she went away to vacuum in another room. I was playing with my toy trucks, and as Dylan Thomas would say, I was “as happy as the day is long.” But from time to time I found myself glancing up at the T V screen and then after  a while found myself laying my trucks aside completely and getting closer to the screen and watching an old movie very intently. It was black and white (of course it had to be; they didn’t have color TV yet, and even if they did, my parents couldn’t have afforded one). And I realize now that semi-strange language the actors were speaking was British English

One person on that screen mesmerized me. I could not take my eyes off him. I found tremendous Laurence Oliver image from Wikipedia Commonssatisfaction watching and listening to him, and wanted to watch and listen all day. What was happening to me was beyond me to describe. I was young; I didn’t have the vocabulary to explain it. But I am far from young now, and still do not have the vocabulary, not because my vocabulary is deficient, but because when you see or read or hear something that is so out of the ordinary that it is almost beyond belief, you are unprepared for it and no words in all the lexicons, even the most expressive, are sufficient. That is art.

I was speechless. All I knew was that what I was feeling was jubilation, was joy. In my little child’s way I knew that on that screen before my eyes truly extraordinary things were happening and it was because of that man. My mother walked by and I pointed and touched the screen and said, “Who is that man?” And she answered. “That is Laurence Olivier. He’s the greatest actor in the world.” How did I know that? How could I tell that the man was great in his profession of acting, I was so young. But even when you are so little, true art breaks through to you, and as you can see your first experience with art you remember all your life and cannot forget, but remember the experience many times in a life and talk about it with friends.

 

“David Made a Simile.”

Author David J. Rogers as a young childOne day in the third grade my favorite teacher, Miss Gross, standing in the front of the room, started reading something I had written. She had had us describe something that had happened to us, and because I loved to run and was the fastest running boy in the neighborhood I wrote about running while playing football. I heard her read (very dramatically) my words: “They tackled me and I fell to the ground like a blob of jelly coming out of a jar.” “That is what is called an image, the basis of poetry, an art. David made a simile.”

“So, I’ve made a simile,” I thought. “Isn’t that something?” Then walking home after school, I got to thinking that I could make similes all the rest of my life.

So, why did I write this blog? Because, you see, my experiences in front of that TV screen and in that classroom made this tribute to art seem necessary and inevitable. My need to go on creating art and making similes like the real writer I would one day become started with those early experiences.

 

© 2026 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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When Writers’ and Artists’ Lives Are Simple

Clouds over blue water

You hear so much yapping about a career in writing and art being a hard life. Shoveling coal for a living is a hard life, but when you are doing what you were put on earth to do with your life–and that is to write or paint–your life is simple, for then you have answered the most crucial questions of all: “What shall I be? “What shall I do? Then you ask, “How do I do it” and that is your craft, that is your art.

My blog is intended for writers and artists. Three million Americans identify themselves as writers. 2.7 million Americans identify themselves as artists. Of course, the blog also reaches millions of people in foreign countries who also identify themselves as artists and writers. To date my blog has been looked at by four hundred thousand writers and artists, the majority Americans, and others from even the least populated mountain and island kingdoms.

 

 An Example of What Happens to Writers as Their Lives Unfold: The Opportunities that Appear

I will use myself as an example of a writer whose career over many years I can describe. It may be of value to writers and artists to compare to their own careers. Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life is my best and my favorite book. It was written to help people. The main beneficiaries of Fighting To Win are discouraged people—broke, out of work, disappointed with their career or life, etc. Fighting to Win lifts them up.

Many people–probably most– struggle to find direction for their lives, but some people know from their earliest years the life, the career, they will pursue. I began writing professionally at eight–$25 for a story published in Jack & Jill. I didn’t know then that eventually in my career as writer I would, as many writers do, evolve into writer/poet/book marketer/public speaker/blogger. I decided on the way home from school on a rainy day that my goal when I grew up would be to be a writer so I could write beautiful words like “lovely,” “sea-faring,” and “proficient.” That goal has never changed through the publications of twelve books that are not self-published.

Ninety percent of a writer’s talent is inborn. That’s why writers needn’t attend the Iowa school of writing, but are generally self-taught. Some writers who write surprisingly well when they are very young are prodigies. There are artist prodigies too that draw and paint beautifully like much older artists. They master perspective when they seem too young to have mastered it .Mozart was a music prodigy, composing at four. Baryshnikov was a prodigy in ballet. He was the greatest dancer of his era because he could leap highest.

An early blooming prodigy can perform something before being taught to do it. For example, a young writing prodigy can write a story that has a plot, characterization, themes, tension, mystery, a strong conclusion though they have not been taught those features. The remaining ten percent of a writer’s expertise is skill and technique that comes from study, a ten percent separating great from good, and a phase that introduces the need for hard work, even among the most naturally-gifted.

As in every field, sweat-and-toil hard workers out-perform  lazy or listless workers. You cannot rely on natural talent alone to bring high success. Without drive and intelligence–however naturally talented you are–you will not go as far as you could.  Each day writers and artists should hope they have talent and tell themselves. “Today I will be energetic. Today I will be focused.”

A career in the arts is in keeping with my Welsh heritage. The Welsh entertain each other with stories and songs. I completed three degrees in American literature and taught Self Development in a university graduate school. At age twenty I had a short story published in a major literary journal. At twenty-one, a highly-regarded writing teacher said of my paper, “Teachers wait their entire career for a student who can write like this.”

I knew nothing about publishing and sent the entire manuscript of Fighting to Win to a publisher who called me and said they wanted to publish the book. I asked what kind of changes they wanted made and they said, “None. The book is a perfect book.” That statement soured me. Surely no book in first draft form is that good. I wanted a more demanding publisher who would encourage me to write my best. I turned the offer down. Having some doubts about the book I wrote an entirely new draft, starting from scratch, consuming a year.

I made an agreement with an excellent literary agent. I owe him a debt of gratitude.  He was energetic and honest, and placed my book Fighting to Win with Doubleday. After the success of Fighting to Win, another publisher said they wanted me to write a book for them. “What do you want me to write about?” I asked. They said, “Whatever you want.” So I wrote Waging Business Warfare for Scribner’s publisher, a book that The Wall Street Journal said would change the way companies do business. Both books climbed the best sealer charts. Fighting to Win was also a best seller in Sweden. Waging Business Warfare in France and Japan.

Writer or artist, you have to distinguish yourself from the crowd. You have to get known.  I’ve had many appearances in the national media on publicity tours and on my own. The books and my name became known in North America and foreign countries who purchased rights. I discovered that I am a good interviewee for marketing books, which is really sales. I have trained people in selling technique. The goal of a writer marketing to the broadcast media is to be invited back. Ideal is when the host of the show says “Call whenever you have something you want to talk about. We’ll put you on right away.”

Having written a book that becomes known by the public changes the author’s life forever. If you’re an author you’d better like the book since you and it from the publication date to the end of your life will be inseparable. You will be known as “So and so, the he author of….”   

A New York publisher, I didn’t know, head of a major house who “had read everything,” generously called me out of the blue to tell me  she had read Fighting to Win and found it “One of the  two or three best books of any type–prose, poetry, biography, history, arts etc.–I have ever read.”

Then I took on a new career: public speaking in auditoriums in North America and Europe to audiences of thousands about their self-improvement, based on the content of Fighting to Win. I discovered a talent for public speaking to large audiences that I wasn’t aware of. Long ago I was afraid of public speaking, but now I enjoy it as much as I do writing, and the income is impressive. Many speakers/writers earn more money from speaking than from writing.  The writer who can also speak is lucky. It is quite a shock to writers accustomed to working alone to find themselves on a stage addressing three, four, five thousand people who have come to hear an author’s wisdom.

Later I began this blog, designed to stimulate thinking about the important roles of writers and artists, especially those who hope to excel, a goal I share, placing emphasis on research and prescriptive how-to advice.  I wanted to think of every aspect of writers’ and artists’ work life and write something practical to aid them. Each blog is an essay pertaining to the life of writers or artists–their necessary knowledge, their moods, their challenges, their discouragements, and so on. My most popular post is “The Characteristics of Creative People.” There are now 141 essays.

A major change in this writer’s life was turning, later in life, from writing prose to writing poetry. Since then there has been a stream of publications of poems and great joy. I wrote a book of poetry about  adventures I had at seventeen when for six months I lived the life of a hobo hitching rides on freight trains: The Poetry of Riding Freight Trains Across America.

Philip Roth said eventually people won’t read novels anymore because with such busy lives, growing busier, they don’t have the many hours needed to read a novel. A poem can be read in a few minutes.

Gold and white clouds on a blue sky

In Bliss

When you spend thousands of hours working hard over many years as many writers and artists have, and think of your craft all the time since childhood, writing and painting and other arts are the simplest  tasks of your time here on earth. Dancers find a similar joy in dancing, actors in acting. When unhindered, such craftsmen write, paint, act, and dance in bliss.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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Writers and Painters Are Inspired by Spiritual Moments

I think every writer and every painter has been inspired by rivers or mountains or valleys or such sights of the natural world. This post tells the tale of a bird.

Blue mountains with trees, cloudy sky, river and grassEvery writer and painter has in their memory at least one moment and one thought or image that captures their imagination and provides inspiration for their work. Every writer and every painter reading this post remembers such a scene and such a pristine, unforgettable moment that occurred in their youth, middle age, or old age.

They return to the scene innumerable times in their imagination where a storehouse of words and images are kept because that scene and that moment are breathtaking. However long they walk the earth they will never forget that day, that moment.

Spiritual Moment: Bird Rising From a Field

I was out in western United States, 1,500 miles from home. I had been thumbing car rides and boarding freight trains starting from my Midwest home in Chicago. From travel I was filthy with dirt, dust, grease, and cow manure from box cars, flat cars, and coal cars, and why should I care? I wasn’t trying to win the heart of a lovely dark-haired girl with a captivating smile. I was alone and I was on the road where you rely on your brains and your luck under circumstances when life is arduous.

I don’t remember where my traveling buddy Nick was, but he was not with me. He might have gone on to New York. I don’t remember because it was a long time ago. We were seventeen, just out of high school, in a period of a few precious years when we humans have a hunger for experiences we’ve never known because we are granted the pleasures, the adventures, and the intrigues of life so briefly.

The Bird’s Ascent

For a long time as I waited for a ride from the first car to stop there was no movement anywhere in sight–just total stasis, and no cars on the road at the moment I saw the bird. There were no sounds, just silence. I felt no loneliness as you often feel on the road alone, and no fear at all though I was far from home and young and had a treasure of only four dollars in my pocket to sustain me. Where would I eat and sleep tonight? Tommorow night?

The world of riding freight trains is dangerous, populated by many dangerous men you learn to be aware of. If something were to happen to me and I were to die in this unforgivable way of life no one would ever know what happened to me. My parents would grieve for their lost boy the rest of their lives. But I felt safe there that day; every feature of that day was perfect: a perfect day. The setting around me was like a painting–there were fields of unmoving wheat as far as I could see that were gold in the sunlight, the sky an indigo blue. The purest white puffy clouds drifted westward on a breath of wind.

Behind me and to my left there was a crackling sound and the cry of a bird. I immediately turned and looked in that direction. It was a big bird, larger than a hawk–pitch black in color, the wings shiny–with bright vermillion on the underside of the wings. The bird rose slowly out of the field, its wings fluttering noisily as if crying to the wheat, “Let me go. Let me out.”

field of wheat in front of a row of trees in the background and a light blue skyThen there was a sound of a wind thrashing the wheat fields, rippling the fields in great waves like breakers tumbling upon a beach. Looking, listening, alone, no fear, feeling joy, free, that was the loveliest moment in my life. Only I had seen the bird. There was no one near enough to see it, only I–the bird with the flaming red wings coming from out of the field against a background of no other movement but the wind-blown fields, and no one else on earth to witness its flight.  I now in a car bound for California saw in the bird the beauty that from childhood a writer is always hoping to convey in their writing, the beauty a painter always hopes to paint.

Here is my poem that is inspired by that bird:

Mystical Bird

I admire rising from the field before me
A magnificent black bird whose wings open wide
And show a brilliant vermillion on the underside,
That shrieks with delight as it takes flight.

To live as happily as I wish I might
My soul must be
As a bird that rises joyfully
From fields of gold.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

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The Prettiest Woman in the World

Sidney
Is the prettiest woman in the world.
No other woman can compare with Sydney–
Her eyes, her face, her body, her voice,
Her every feature appealing and without an imperfection,
Her hair in particular, long and black as ink.
The moment I think of Sydney it is spring in my heart.

When she walks with me her body sways as
Gracefully as a willow. The chill of evening–
Night falling–the moon glow–is her loveliest hour.
I adore Sydney’s simplicity of manner in everything,
With her gentleness, delicacy, and refinement,
And her intelligence, wit, and charm when she speaks,

For that’s the impression
Sydney, whose beauty is beyond expression
In every language but a poet’s, makes upon me.

Oh, if only Sydney loved me.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

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F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Crack-Up no

Photograph of F. Scott FotzzgeraldF. Scott Fitzgerald’s (1896-1940) writing was the major interest in his life. From grade school to his death nothing was quite true to him unless he had written about it. He was a fine writer, and his writing was always about himself or people he was intimate with. As a result his life was inextricably bound up with his work and his life with his kooky and attractive wife Zelda was an interest in itself. He lived a colorful life and a disastrous one with Zelda. They lived like fairy-story hero and heroine, filling newspapers with reports of their wild life-style. Much of the disaster of their lives were of their own making. Fitzgerald is called the creator of the Jazz Age which began with his writing best seller This Side of Paradise at the age of twenty-four, making him rich, his goal for writing it. The book became the voice of the younger hedonistic, thrill-loving, post-World War I generation.

Fitzgerald felt that a person such as himself was happiest if they were rich and had acquired the trappings of wealth and were living “the good life.” In his earlier adult life Fitzgerald saw the “improbable, often the impossible come true. Life was something you dominated if you were any good. Life yielded easily to intelligence and effort. It seemed a romantic business to be a successful literary man.” (Arthur Mizener.)

Fitzgerald felt he could not have chosen any other profession although in the writing trade “you were forever unsatisfied.” In the nineteen twenties the big problems of his life seemed to solve themselves, and if the problems were too tough he ignored them. He strove to make a lot of money from his writing novels and dozens of short stories that were immensely popular, as he did in the early and middle parts of his career. Fitzgerald always lived well beyond his income, troubling his editor Maxwell Perkins for many advances on earnings. He was often confused between writing just for the money and writing high quality literary work. He had a keen understanding of public literary tastes and could profitably write both.

The Crack-Up

Fitzgerald wrote three magazine articles frankly describing his crack-up. His friend Ernest Hemingway advised him against writing them because, he said, they would make Fitzgerald appear weak. The fear of appearing weak was a concern of macho Hemingway, but not of Fitzgerald. Rare is writing so honest about one’s psychological and spiritual problems as Fitzgerald’s revelations in those articles.

For seventeen years things went on marvelously well, and then at thirty-nine Fitzgerald suddenly realized that he had cracked up. He said you can crack up in the mind and can crack up in the body and the nerves. His crack-up was in the nerves where he said there was “too much anger and too many tears.” He said that he had been living a long time “not caring much, not thinking about what was left undone, or of his responsibilities.”  He had a sudden instinct that he must go somewhere and be alone for a while. He wrote, “I didn’t want to see people at all. I had seen so many people all my life.” He was seeking “a certain insulation from ordinary cares. I went away and there were fewer people…I felt tired and slept dozens of hours or twenty -four hours at a day.” Sick, he made lists, “hundreds of lists of happy times, baseball plays, popular songs, of pairs of shoes, of women he liked, “and then suddenly, surprising, he said, “I got better.”

In reflection he began to realize “that for two years of my life I had been drawing on resources that I did not possess, that I had been mortgaging myself physically and spiritually up to the hilt. I realized that in those two years…I had weaned myself from all the things I used to love.” He saw that for a long time he had not liked people. He felt that even his love for those closest to him was only an attempt to love them, but was not love. He became bitter about everything he encountered or thought about day and night.

In the article “Putting it Together” Fitzgerald said, “In a real dark night of the soul it is always three ‘o clock in the morning day after day. At that hour the tendency is to refuse to face things as long as possible by retiring to an infantile dream– but one is continually startled out of this by various contacts with the world. One meets these occasions as quickly and carelessly as possible and retires once more back into the dream, hoping that things would adjust themselves by some great material or spiritual bonanza…But as the withdrawal persists one witnesses the disintegration of one’s own personality.”

Fitzgerald said “It was strange to have no self–to be like a little boy left alone in a big house who found he could do anything  he wanted, “but found there was nothing he wanted to do.”  In a final reflection on his ordeal, his crack-up, Fitzgerald wrote, “A man does not recover from such a jolt–he becomes a different person and eventually the new person finds new things to care about.”

Fitzgerald’s Death

In 1937 Fitzgerald was sick and unable to write and no longer earning royalties. He turned to Hollywood’s film industry. He died at   forty-four a modestly paid Hollywood screen writer of mediocre movies. Many critics consider his The Great Gatsby the great American novel many writers have striven to write. The Great Gatsby surprised the literary world by being more substantial than anything Fitzgerald had written before.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

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Motivating Quotes for Writers and Artists

 

  • “Painters and poets alike have always had license to dare anything.” (Horace)
  • “The incurable itch of writing possesses many.” (Juvenal)
  • “He is the greatest artist who has embodied, in the sum of his work, the greatest number of the greatest ideas.” (John Ruskin.)
  • “The excellency of every art is its intensity.” (John Keats)
  • “Great artists need great clients.” (Artist I.M. Pei.)
  • “It seems to me that the writers who have the power of revelation are just those who, in some particular part of life, have seen or felt considerably more than the average run of intelligent beings…The great difference, intellectually speaking, between one man and another is simply the number of things they can see in a given cubic yard of the world.” (Gilbert Murray.)
  • “High but not the highest intelligence, combined with the greatest degree of persistence will achieve greater eminence than the highest degree of intelligence with somewhat less persistence.” (Catherine Cox.)
  • “I think if you’re going to write, you’re going to write and nothing will stop you.” (William Faulkner.)
  • “It is the nature of man to rise to greatness if greatness is expected of him.” (John Steinbeck.)
  • “The essential factor of development of expertise is the accumulation of increasingly complex patterns in memory.” (Andreas Lehman.}
  • “Gifts like genius, I often think, means only an infinite capacity for taking pains.” (Jane E. Hopkins)
  • “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon one can never resist or understand.” (George Orwell)
  • “It is through art and through art only, that we realize our perfection; through art and art only that we can shield ourselves from the sordid perils of actual existence.” (Oscar Wilde)
  • “If I set out to sculpt a standing man and it becomes a lying woman I know I am making art.” (Henry Moore.)
  • “The whole function of the artist in the world is to be a seeing and feeling creature; to be an instrument of such tenderness and sensitiveness, that no shadow, no hue, no line, no instantaneous and evanescent expression of the visible things around him, nor any of the emotions they are capable of conveying to the spirit which has been given him, shall either be left unrecorded, or fade…The work of his life is two-fold only; to see, to feel.” (John Ruskin.)
  • “I am just a man in the position of waiting to see what the imagination is going to do next.”(Saul Bellow.)

Rainbow in sky with clouds above a thick row of trees and water

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

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Four True Close Calls

My Life in Jeopardy Again

I’ve had numerous close calls,
Starting in childhood when the fire
Department rescued me
And the neighbors stood
On their porches and cheered,
Then being saved from
Falling off a mountain cliff.
Then many other close calls that make my
Wife shudder to hear me talk about.
I could write a book about close calls.

 

When You Grow Up In Chicago

Chicago is the home of great
Financial institutions and universities, but
City at nightWhen you grow up in Chicago as I did
You coexist with gangsters. You know their
Names and nicknames and you
Read the papers about them and hear about
Them, or they live in your neighborhood.
Chicago is the city of neighborhoods.
I dated a famous gangster’s sister–a lovely girl–
But her family lived in shame. Her brother was
Slain because he double-crossed other gangsters,
His body found bullet-riddled as double-crosser’s
Bodies usually are.

 

Here are four close calls I’ve had.

 

In a North Side Chicago Bar at Two A.M.
Gangland Killer

In the bar at 2:00 A.M. on the fading
End of a magnificent summer night that had been warm
But turned pleasantly cool like a breath of October
Were four people who had nothing in common:
A waitress, a bartender, a drunk man, and I.
The waitress and I were twenty-two or three then,
She was pretty, her complexion as fresh as clover.
Her periwinkle blue eyes made you recall a sky you once saw.
Both of us were as care-free as the magic of our youth,
She younger than wherever her life would lead, I not yet
The writer I would soon be. We never knew each other’s name.

She was fearless when she said to
The surly drunk man everyone all night had been afraid of
And kept their distance from because he seemed to be
A dangerous man, “Sir, I can’t serve anyone who has
Had too much to drink. Do you understand? ”
She had manners. She was a nice girl.

The drunk man then spit in her face and I
Went over there and chastised him, saying to him
That he must apologize to her,
That in civilized society you don’t spit on people–I said,
“That’s something everybody’s supposed to know,” and he
Cursed me and growled that he now intended
To kill me.

Pissed, I stood in front of him and said,
“Go ahead pull out a gun right now
And shoot me.” He cursed me again and furiously
Stormed out the front door. Then the bartender
Said to me that I had picked the worst possible man
To antagonize: “When he said he would
Kill you he really could. He is a murderer.
He tortures and kills people. That’s what the man does.
That’s his profession. This is serious.
He’s in that car at the curb waiting for you to
Come out. If I were you I wouldn’t plan on
Living a long life.”

The waitress and I hugged goodbye, never
To see each other again, then slipped
Out the back door and down the dark alley
Laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation–
“How will we explain this to anyone?”–
Running for our lives.

 

Freight trainWhen I was seventeen I rode freight trains across America for six months for the sake of adventure, living the way hobos live, and had close calls daily, my life continually at risk.

 

 

Nature’s Cruelty:
The Bitter Cold of Night

Cold settles savagely on Utah’s
Great Salt Lake desert late at night.
I had reached the desert by freight train
After a scorching day,
The red sun pulsating in the sky
Like a throbbing heart. The temperature then
Fell precipitously. Then there was an ice storm.
Then nothing to warm me, exposed to the open air.
How in the unspeakable cold of interminable night I suffered,
Hoping not to freeze to death by morning and be
Found in a boxcar as stiff as a six-foot plank of wood,

 

Shot at, Chased By Dogs

When my freight train reached Kelso-Longview
The railroad police were waiting,
Holding the leash of a German shepherd
In one hand, waving a gun in the other.
Shouting and running, I, youngest, running fastest,
Hobos leaped or fell from the cars and dashed
In every direction, chased by the cops
Firing their weapons everywhere.
As I ran I laughed at how out
Of my element I was, far from Chicago, and how ludicrous
The whole scene must appear–a hundred
Running hobos and bulls, men firing revolvers,
Other men praying not to be shot,
Ferocious dogs snapping at my heels,
Shots grazing my head.

 

Milk: The Ordeal of Thirst

The freight train we caught hadn’t stopped
Going on three days and our canteens
Were empty. We were worried about water.
We had never been as thirsty.
We were losing hope. How long can a
Human live without water? When would
This train stop, free us, and let us live?

I fell asleep in the heat and dreamed
That I opened the refrigerator
At home and saw every shelf loaded
With bottles of milk.

Waterfall with water that looks like milkThen in a second dream
I saw waterfalls of milk spraying
And roaring down like Victoria Falls–
Streams of milk, rivers of milk–

An ocean of cold milk. My friend asked if I was
Still alive and I answered that I was.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Milk.”
“Milk?”
“Milk.”

The train stopped
And I jumped off onto ground.
I found a providential water pump
And filled our canteens–the
Stream of water from the pump
Pouring over my boots.
We drank the foul tasting
Egg water and found it life-saving.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

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