but then there's this:

I open up a poem draft and find a stanza I forgot writing.

I have to believe someday teaching poetry will be like writing poetry: I won't even know I got it right until later.

with mixed feelings

My time on the farm is nearing its end. The travelers begin the long trek home tomorrow morning and by Friday, I'll be back at Mom and Dad's house for the weekend before my midnight megabus ride home on Sunday/Monday.

I'm anxious to get back to my apartment, to finish unpacking & get organized before the semester begins, to see my friends. I'm not anxious to return to the city, the el, the concrete and constant noise.

And while I'm anxious to get back to real life, I'm also wishing I had another week or so here (or that I could rewind a week or so) to be more productive. Television seems to be my Achilles heel when it comes to productivity, and I have lost many, many hours to CSI reruns and other brain-draining nonsense (on the upside, I finally saw Juno, which I loved). I'm fighting the urge to turn on the crack box as we speak.

I didn't do much reading--a Nora Roberts novel, the first few chapters of The House on the Hill, a Cesare Pavese novel (still working on that one), a bit of Ted Hughes' Birthday Letters, and MacNolia by A. Van Jordan (a reread, but well worth it). Also, I don't think I ever made it to 10 pages, but definitely over five, and still working on a long poem which should get me to the goal (two weeks late). I spent a good chunk of time on my Intro to Poetry syllabus, and another good chunk of time catching up with friends...so it wasn't all wasted time. But I do wish I could get back the time I spent watching Wife Swap, at least. Oh, and napping. I did a lot of napping...too bad you can't bottle that--I think I'm going to have a sleep deprived semester ahead of me.

So, was my stay in the country a success? The jury's still out. It'll depend on whether or not I arrive back in Chicago energized and driven...or if I just pout and mope because I'm back in the city. One thing I am sure of--I'd still pick this lifestyle over city living any day of the week. So cross your fingers for me that when I go on the job market in a few years, there's a small town college looking to hire a poet.

And now, back to the to do list--not the TV.

Day 1 wrap up

Revised three poems today. Or rather, turned three crappy drafts into poems. I'd call my first day in the country a success.

I also laid out in the sun, got a little color (sorry sun-screen fanatics, I'm all about tan lines) and read a romance novel. But don't tell. I should have been reading Ted Hughes or Karl Marx.

By the way, Nora Roberts circa 1983 is phenomenally bad. I mean, way, way worse than Nora Roberts circa 2003. Apparently, even romance novelists have room for improvement.

"MFA programs are still the best way we have to make sure that people who want to become writers shut the fuck up, sit down, and spend a couple, three years writing a lot. That means something very important."

Amen.

It was only a matter of time...

before I talked myself into taking a weekday off. But it was/is much needed. I'm already on my second load of laundry, I cleaned the litter box and swept the kitchen floor, and there's lots more to do: grocery shopping, bill paying, apartment cleaning, etc. And hopefully some poetry work too.

I really admire/am confounded by "working" poets--and by that, I mean poets whose day jobs have nothing to do with poetry. I find that, sadly, I don't have the will to write (or read, or put together submissions) when I get home from work at 6 after a day of staring at a computer screen unthinkingly. I can't switch gears fast enough to accomplish anything in the short time between getting home and going to bed. And, since I'm one of those unfortunate people who requires 7-8 hours of sleep to be fully functional, I can't just stay up late.

So here I am, sacrificing a day's pay in order to feel in control of my life. Perhaps not the smartest, most forward thinking choice, but the one that's best for my current state of mind.

*

While we're talking about work... cornshake has some pretty wonderful things to say about being a poet in academia. What she says makes me feel really great about my career decisions so far.

In Praise of Deadlines (I hope)

Today is the day that I will finish a draft of my manuscript--individual poem revisions, reordering, the whole deal. Why is today the day? Because I made a deal with Jay. We're trading. Tomorrow.

I can't procrastinate any longer. I can't hem and haw about which poems belong in the ms. I just have to decide. Hallelujah.

There just aren't enough deadlines in my poetry life now that I don't have a thesis committee to please. And it'll be three years before I have a new committee, so I guess I'm going to have to start recruiting friends to be deadline givers more often.

I'm feeling pleasantly frantic and urgent. Good for creativity.

rude awakening

Had a dream this morning that woke me up (hence my actually remembering it). It was the mother of all "crash-em-ups" as my dad likes to call the chase/crash scenes in action movies. Started with a family on an on-ramp, and I don't know what happened to them, but they all got in an ambulance and then the ambulance got creamed by a semi. Then, someone stopped to help and another semi creamed all of them. And again, and again. The whole time, some people are half hanging out of the crushed ambulance and the parts of them that are hanging out are totally unscathed, but it's clear the parts I can't see are shot. I think some dismemberment was about to happen when I thought "f*** this" and opened my eyes.

And now I'm up at 6:30 for no good reason.

I wonder if my dreams are always so destructive, or if I've just been watching too many crime dramas on TV.

*

I am hoping to spend the whole day writing. The kind of writing where I lose track of time and forget to eat breakfast and in general act like the stereotypical crazy artist. Haven't had one of those days in a really long time. Wish me luck.

*

One more thing. This is a question for you more experienced poets. When you're revising poems in a manuscript, how do you keep it all straight? Sometimes I revise poems in separate files, sometimes I revise them right in the manuscript file. Clearly, I need to be consistent. But neither way seems efficient, especially when it comes time to do journal submissions. Help!

Every other day?

I don't want to give in. I don't want to say I can't keep up with NAPOWRIMO, but it seems I'm slipping further and further behind. I wonder, if I said I was going to write a poem every other day, would I be able to meet that goal?

I used to believe my first drafts came quickly, in bursts, but I don't think that's true. #12, which is actually something like #10, (just day 12) took a good six hours to write. The one before that--the one in which I didn't actually write anything--took 3 or 4 hours. The others came quicker, but they were short, and like I said before, they were kind of boring.

The other thing that's strange about writing a poem a day is that what should be notes for a poem, or the first couple lines of a poem, has to stand in for the finished product. My sister sent me an email yesterday and said, "Is it just me, or is there a theme of confession in these poems?" Yep, sure is. I write my obsessions, and currently confessions--both in a religious sense and in a personal sense--are taking up quite a bit of my head space. But does that mean I would write several poems about confession in a normal situation? Nope. It means I would bang away at one poem about confession for several days until it said everything I wanted it to say. (with the exception of "Confession 1946," which is part of a series and would have gotten written sooner or later anyhow)

So, is NAPOWRIMO productive? Or an exercise in frustration, futility, and guilt (because I do feel tremendously guilty when midnight rolls around (or I go to bed, whichever comes first) and I haven't written a poem)?

I have written more in the last 13 days than in any short block of time since I finished my thesis. That's good. But I don't know how many of these suckers are worth revision. And if I've generated 3 or 4 drafts that are just going to take up space in my poetry folders, what good is that? I have enough shitty drafts already.

Well, I'm not quitting yet. Maybe I just need a 2nd wind.

Poof

That post that just disappeared makes me giggle, but I thought perhaps it wasn't putting my best foot forward, you know? Eh, maybe I'm paranoid.

*

Lots to do this week. Another short paper to write (hopefully not at the last minute), another set of papers to grade over the weekend, plus the usual reading and whatnot. I have no idea how I'm going to add writing two 20+ page papers to my already jammed schedule. Less sleep? Less going out (I only do it one, maybe two nights a week)? Less cooking, more takeout? Energy drinks? Less blogging (I hardly ever do that, either)? I don't know...

A friend and I were talking about priorities yesterday, and how we are not our old MFAish writer-selves in this new program. This friend has decided to let coursework drop down in importance so other, more writerly pursuits can have more time.

It seems like there's only two options: skip some of the weekly reading assignments to write, or write less and keep up with the reading. I have a really, really hard time with this. I came to grad school in the first place so that I could stop stealing time from other things for writing. But if I'm going to get my manuscript in the mail come May (my totally arbitrary goal), I need to make some time. If I'm going to do that Big Spring Submission I'm hoping to, I need to make some time. And on top of it all, I think both of the papers I'm supposed to be writing this semester could be a) conference presentations and / or b) the start of my exam lists--so they need some time and thought--not last minute, caffeine induced, muscle-cramping marathon writing sessions.

So: priorities. How to set them, how to stick to them. That's what I'm trying to figure out this week.

And discipline. Following a schedule. Being diligent. Just saying no.

In that spirit, since blogging is not one of my top priorities, I'm off to evaluate my to do list.

Break-up/Break-down/Break-through

I constantly struggle with how personal to get on this blog. My first impulse: totally personal. Then I remember that I'm also hoping to someday use this as a site for self-promotion and think that I should stick to academics and poetry.

Well, that's not very much fun. And while I've never had a ton of readers, I think there's even fewer these days. Is it possible that people actually prefer my whining and introspection? Hopefully, because today, that's what you're going to get.

*

I've been sad lately. Sad about my break-up, sad about some other personal relationships that aren't/can't be what I thought/hoped, sad about being away from my family, etc. And what is surprising to me in all of this is learning to distinguish "sad" from "depressed." Having been diagnosed with chronic depression at 21 (and having self-diagnosed years before that), I am programmed to label all bad feelings: Depression. But that's not it. There's a difference between chronic and acute that I never had to learn. Right now, my sadness is directly related to events in my life, in a way that previously wasn't true.

I don't know what that all means, but it's something I'm trying to figure out. There's a lot I'm trying to figure out. Like who the hell I am after this last crazy year. This time last year, I was waiting anxiously to hear back about my PhD apps (I think I might have already heard from UIC, but I'm not sure) and everyone I talked to said they hoped I would end up in Chicago (well, maybe not everyone, but a lot of people) because small town girls like me need to live in a big city once in their lives. What? Says who? Something about being in unfamiliar territory being good for your work--a shock to the senses. Well, I still wonder why Chicago was supposed to be better for that than say, Knoxville, TN, or Tallahassee, FL (or any of the five other places I applied to). I'm way burnt-out on public transportation, smelly homeless people, and cement. Why couldn't I be someplace where a car isn't an inconvenience? Where there's grass in places other than public parks? Where you can actually see horizon once in a while (across the lake doesn't count)?

But back to the original question--how has this past year changed me? I haven't figured that out yet. I'm probably tougher, I guess, street-smarter. A little bit braver. I can do tequila shots without training wheels now, and drink PBR just as fast as anyone else sitting around Lil Joe's on a Wednesday night. I'm healthier--I quit smoking. But am I a better poet like everyone said I would be? Hell no. I haven't written a poem that I'm ready to submit since I've moved here, and it's been over six months. Maybe I've become a tougher critic. But mostly, I think being out of my comfort zone has forced me to focus on survival to such an extent that I don't know how to tap into my new/boundary-pushing experiences in a creative way.

I'm also less confident than I was when I got here, and I've never been a terribly confident person. I'm afraid to speak my mind in class because I don't want to disagree with the profs (and I usually do) unless I'm sure I can argue my side (and I usually can't), I constantly feel like I'm on the outside of an inside joke because I haven't read the right book or essay, I doubt my own abilities as a student/scholar/poet in ways that I never have before. On the other hand, I have increased confidence in my ability to teach and in my desire to teach. But the balance isn't good. Maybe that's it--balance. I can do tequila without training wheels but I can't do PhD work without them. I'm uncentered and off-kilter.

It's not all bad, though. My cohort (that's what they call the incoming class here) is amazing: lots of smart, interesting people who are as good at gossip and silliness as they are at theory and criticism. I'm heading back to Ohio on Friday for a much needed dose of family and country living. And even if I'm not doing work that I totally love, I'm being challeneged and pushed and do have some small bit of faith that eventually I will get out on the other side feeling smarter, more in control of my poetic talents, more eloquent, more prepared for my career as a poet and professor. I've never been so great at the waiting part, at the struggling through. I like instant gratification (who doesn't?) and I'm frustrated that the big changes haven't happened yet, I guess.

Still, I'm waiting for that break-through. I need some poetry to gush out of me too fast to edit. I need to come up with a kick-ass paper idea that I can get excited about researching and writing. I need to meet someone (a prof, another student?) who will click with me, my work, who will get what I'm trying to do and know how to beat it out of me. I'm freaking tired of floundering. I'm tired of writing half-baked drafts that bore me when I go back to them. I'm tired of being the new kid, the country girl who's homesick all the time, the MFA who doesn't know how to talk about theory. I just don't know how to fix any of it. I guess I'll just keep doing what I'm doing until I figure it out.

*

And just for good measure--here's my "F-you, Chicago" song (and when I say Chicago, I mean my whole new life, just so you know. I'm over hating the city, for the most part (besides what I mentioned above).)

Retail Therapy

I went to Target today...my first non-grocery shopping excursion in Chicago...and bought new shoes and new sweaters and spent way too much money. And I just wrote a poem I think I like. Also a first since I moved to Chicago. Coincidence, or direct connection? I guess we'll never know.

In the Light of Morning

Okay, so yesterday I was in a black hole, or I was the black hole, but today I'm feeling much better. Last night was exactly what I needed--a nap, home cooked dinner (mashed potatoes!), and some quiet time. Jen, I'm sorry I didn't make it over, but being alone for a while was essential to my fragile psyche.

Jeannine mentioned in my comments that it's good to hear a comp teacher talking about not liking her job (I'm paraphrasing here), so let me say a couple things on that. On the good days, when I can see the light of understanding turn on in my students' faces, I love it. That's why I think teaching a subject I love will be okay--or why I hope so--but let's face it: comp is not my forte. Sure, I am a nearly professional academic writer, and I've always enjoyed (in a sick sort of way) the process of writing term papers. Unfortunately, being able to do something doesn't always translate into being able to teach it. I haven't figured out yet how to explain my thought process in a way that's helpful, and I find formulas stifiling, so I often struggle with how to get what I want from my students--even how to get my students to understand what I want from them. Also, I was trained in a writing center, and I prefer (and think I'm better at) working one-on-one with students. In a tutor-tutee (heehee) situation, I can cater what I say to that student's needs, to that student's subject, etc. You can't do that with 25 at once.

I also struggle with a class that has no actual subject matter. My boss is a critical pedagogist (I've talked about this before, but don't feel like finding the entry to make a link) which basically means that the comp classroom is a place to talk about injustice and empowerment (this is admittedly a vast oversimplification) and those are two things I really would prefer not to talk about. I try to direct the discussion and the reading to things that are less volatile--relationships, college as life experience, identity, learning, etc.--rather than the popular topics of politics and controversy, patriarchy and racism, etc., etc. I'm not allowed to have my students write literary analysis, so there's really no point in having them read what I would enjoy reading and discussing...so I try to make it work with the essays we have in the text book. But I'm not engaged, and they can tell.

The last--and probably biggest--issue with teaching comp is that the students don't care. Comp (to the best of my knowledge) is the only class everyone takes, regardless of major. Sure, there are history requirements, and math, science, etc., but I think most of those requirements have a couple of different options. But everyone takes comp, and 95% of them hate it. They think it's stupid, a waste of time, remedial, etc., and it is really, really hard to convince them otherwise. In my largest class-25-I typically have anywhere from 9 to 15 people present on any given day. That wouldn't be so bad if it was the same group every day, but the class is often completely different on Tuesday than it was on Monday. So, I repeat myself constantly. I make a plan that requires some sort of homework but the people who got the assignment don't show up and the ones that do are unprepared. I've given up on making them prepare for class ahead of time--I just let them read or free-write or whatever in class because otherwise I just get frustrated that no one has done what I asked.

And then they sit and stare. Or text. Or whisper to each other. Or sleep. All things I did as a student, so I can't be too mad, but jeez, it's hard to ignore. Allow me to take this time to apologize to all the profs I've disrespected in my life--I understand now! At any rate, even if I'm having a good day, if I'm convinced that my class plan is brilliant, when I come into class to find three of them sleeping, 8 of them with cell phones in their hands, and two of them whispering in the corner, I want to run from the room crying.

There is a silver lining, though. I have one class this semester that totally energizes me. It's a small class, 14 students, and the attendence is pretty good. They talk to me, they ask me questions, they do their homework. If every class was like this one, I would love my job. But very few classes are like this one and most days, it's not good enough to erase the stress of trying to entertain and teach at the same time.

One of the things I'm most looking forward to if / when I go to UIC is that I won't be teaching in the fall; instead, I'll be taking a course called Teaching College Writing that will allow (force) me to make a new syllabus and 15 weeks worth of plans for both comp 1 and comp 2. I wish I would have had this class already. I mean, we had Practicum at Akron, but it ran in tandem with my first semester of teaching, and another thing my boss is fond of is planning a class one day at a time--allowing what happens in the classroom to dictate what I bring to the table. For someone like me who has trouble with uncertainty and likes to plan everything (even what time I'll take a shower and what I'll eat for lunch), trying to run a class day by day is agonizing. Yet I've never had the time/discipline to plan ahead. So, English 555 at UIC, here I come. Maybe after that I'll feel better.

I think most of us who want to be teachers are very idealistic. We want to share our love of something with others, we want to make people understand why what we do is valuable. But no one tells us how hard it will be to do that. I've had a couple of students say things like, "Wow, your job is so easy," and I just want to strangle them. Are you serious? I think about teaching about 22 hours a day. I dream about it. I start teaching at 9:55 in the morning and I'm usually still grading or reading or planning something when I go to bed at 11. I spend my weekends catching up. And I'm never caught up. Part-time instructor my ass. Granted, I take breaks on those 13 hour days to make dinner, talk to my friends, get coffee, etc., but still, I'm usually talking about work. Every other job I've had got put away after 5, or at the end of a shift, but not this one. Nope, I'm a teacher 24 hours a day. And that's hard, because what I really want to be is a poet.

Don't worry--I'm still writing. Just not with the veracity I was before. I've written about 6-8 new poems this semester, and that's not bad (about 2 per month), but it's not great either. And for the first time in 3 years, I'm not reading 2-3 books a week. I'm lucky if I read 2-3 a month. I miss it so much, miss being a student, being able to say "I'm a TA, everyone understands that teaching isn't my first priority." That's why I'm looking forward to starting a new program. Someone, please force me to read and write every day!

The Universe is Telling Me

to shut up and write (something other than a blog).

Kelly, who always has something thoughtful & true to say about the writer's life, posted this advice for writers:

Do not allow yourself the luxury of excuses. This is the tough love part of the show. This is the part where I say this to you because I want you to achieve your dreams. There is *always* an excuse not to write. Every poet and writer can create a thousand reasons they aren't writing. There are a thousand reasons not to go back to school and get your MFA. There are a thousand reasons not to finish your book, your poem, your essay. There are a thousand reasons not to carve a space in the day for you to write. We all have busy lives with or without kids, with or without jobs, with or without sadness, with or without X. Writing is choice. If you want to write, you'll find the time. No excuses. And remember, you're loved.

*

I was talking to one of my office mates the other day, and we were discussing how another of our office mates likes to work with the door shut. How stifling that can be when there are 2 or 3 people in a small room. But then she said, "but sometimes, I have to close the door so I can write. Because I can't just not write."

I can't remember the last time I felt that way. Which is strange because I started on this long, MFA-seeking path because I felt that way every single day.

Once I learned that writing isn't about inspiration (okay, some days it is, but most days, it's pedal to the metal, fingers to the keys work), I stopped feeling the urgency. The ideas will still be there when there's time, I said, I have to finish this paper for my lit class, I have to grade these essays, I have to do 12 loads of laundry because I've got nothing left to wear. I didn't think they were excuses. I knew the writing would get done--it had to. I had a thesis pending in the distance, and it was always on my to do list.

So now, today, this first semester post-MFA, there's no more thesis on my to do list. There is a line for "send out ms" and a line for "start new project," but there isn't a line for "write new poems."

Teaching is an energy vampire for me. One hour of standing up in front of a room is like 4 hours of quiet time at my desk. By the time I'm done teaching for the day, I feel like I've run a marathon. I know--a lot of people (say, high school teachers) teach three times as much as I do in a day, and they still manage to get things done. But I'm also very slow at transitions. Takes me a long time to get used to new things, and this semester, I am still not used to being a full-time (I don't care what my title is, this is a full load) instructor.

So, that's my excuse. The one that isn't good enough. And maybe, just maybe, if I sit down to write every day, that will pump the energy back into me. Maybe, just maybe, if I go back to the root of how/why I'm where I am today, I will learn to love being here.

* Update, 11:22 p.m. - After a two hour meeting, grading, teaching, and two hours of conferences, I managed to come home and write five pages of prose! That's the whole page, margin-to-margin. It really can be done!

The Work

I've been thinking about writing today--the actual work of it--and realizing that as a poet, I don't do much of it. Poems either come quick or a couple lines at a time over days or even weeks. I spend more time revising, and I usually do that in chunks of several poems at a time. In any given week (the last 3 or 4 excluded, since my brain has been on vacation) I probably spend less than 4 hours actually writing. I wonder what would happen if I tried to do it on a more regular basis. I tend to think I would stare at the screen and not get much more done than usual, although my post-Bisbee blitz from last August sort of proves otherwise.

This is a major difference from when I considered myself primarily a fiction writer. When I first sat down to try to write a novel (this was about 6 years ago), I spent every free moment at the computer. I wrote 80 pages in a month--and I was working full time. Now, I never finished that draft, and I doubt I'll ever go back to it since the writer I was at 21 is not the writer I am today, but it shows me that I can produce pages, words, pretty quickly if I put my mind to it.

I wrote the outline for a memoir this past semester for my Non-Fiction class, and I've been thinking about fleshing out that outline. But I don't know if I want to commit myself to that kind of project. I could easily spend 6-8 hours a day hacking away at it...and then what would happen to all my other projects? I'm all for multi-tasking, juggling, keeping my plate full, but I feel like a prose project would become all-consuming, and aren't I, after all, supposed to be finishing this poetry manuscript I keep freaking out about?

*

I met a friend for beer yesterday and we talked writing and academia...and I freaked out a bit. K has a PhD in something else and is working on her MFA in poetry, so she knows all about the life of the grad student and academic. She's been on the job market. Defended a dissertation. She re-opened my eyes to the un-glamorous side (okay, so academia isn't really glamorous from any side, but she talked nuts-and-bolts) which I had been ignoring while going through the application process. I am so, so glad that I finished my apps before I had this conversation, because if I had had it before, I might have talked myself out of it entirely.

I want this, I do...but sometimes I think about sitting in my office with my books and my poems and forget about the politics, the creepy MLA hotel interviews, the committees, the hoops. I forget about being poor. The conversation yesterday reminded me of these things, and now I'm thinking, "It wouldn't be so bad to go back to HR."

AAARRRRG! Why can't I ever make up my mind and then stick to it? Granted, I'll be back to gung-ho in a week or so, but right now, I'm flailing. Good thing the wheels are already rolling.

The Essential Delay

The other day, my brother-in-law asked me if I was writing. It was one part artist-to-artist (he's a musician) "how's work?" and one part parent asking "did you clean your room?" or "did you check your oil?" I'm sure I'll be hearing this question a lot, since the great fear is that MFAs stop writing when they finish their programs.

I answered with: "a little, not much...well, I've been writing in my journal." Actually I've written two poems since school let out, so I'm not so terribly far behind. I, like Jeannine, am more of a wait-for-inspiration poet, so I don't feel like I'm slacking off because I haven't been glued to the blank page lately. But the question got under my skin. Maybe I should be trying harder, forcing inspiration instead of waiting.

But then there's this--I can't find the article so I can't give direct quotes, but I believe the piece was written by Donald Murray, one of the few composition scholars I can really stand behind, and he wrote that what many people call writer's block isn't. He calls it the "essential delay" and explains that when experienced writers aren't writing, it's not because they don't have the ideas, or the inspiration, it's because it isn't the right time. People need time to process information, to do mental cataloging, and to deal with the internal editor before they sit down with pen and paper (or laptop and blank screen). A writer can sit on an idea or project for a week, a month, until the last possible moment before the deadline, but they're not procrastinating, they're processing. I love this idea. (I apply it to my academic writing all the time--I need a lot of time to think about my research before I can come up with a good, arguable thesis.)

Maybe it's just a fancy, academic excuse. But I'm sticking with it. For me, the essential delay is in this transition between my thesis and whatever comes next. Like a rebound relationship. I'm afraid that anything I start now won't stick. I need to finish, I mean really finish my thesis--to the point where it's no longer my thesis but a manuscript I'm circulating--before I can get serious about project #2. So no, I'm not writing much these days. But that doesn't mean I'm not thinking. That doesn't mean the poems aren't writing themselves in the back of my mind right now. There's not a lot of new work piling up on my desk, but that doesn't make me any less a poet than I was this summer cranking out 10 pages in a weekend.

So, what do you think? Is the "essential delay" a fancy excuse, or does it happen to you, too?

Uvula and a mystery poem

The uvula is a body part I don't want to think about. It's supposed to just kinda be there, you know? Unfortunately, whatever little virus I have has decided to attack it. My uvula, that is. We've all heard of tonsilitis, right? Well, uvulitis is pretty much the same thing, and I think I've got it. Something tells me I should go to a doctor. But I'd rather not. Instead...strawberry ice cream for breakfast, baby!

On the upside, I can breathe through my nose again today.

*

No plans for the weekend. And I'm contemplating being really anti-social on new years eve, too. I don't know if even I am recluse enough for that, though.

*

Yesterday, I was going through my word files, getting ready for my LWS (little winter submission), and I found a draft I don't remember writing. And when I read it, I didn't remember what it was about. And it was good. I mean, it needs work, but there were some really cool lines in there, and I don't have any recollection of writing them. That's never happened to me before. Now...how to revise a poem like this? Since I don't remember the impetus to write it to begin with, I could go in any direction. But I'm stumped.

*

Starting to worry about money again. I don't do very well with budgets when I don't have the money in my hands. When I was a waitress, I would come home and divide out my tips: 60% for bills, 20% for food, gas, etc., 10% savings, 10% fun. Even if I only came home with $10, I would split it up. And I always had enough...except when I did my taxes and found out I would have to pay instead of getting a return. Anyhow, these days, with direct deposit and debit cards and online bill payers, I am not so careful. Maybe I need to cancel my direct deposit and start hiding my money under the bed.

*

Is it bad that I'm already getting anxious about my PhD apps? I've been done with them for a week and I'm already dying to know the results. Oy.

Brain Eraser

As you all know, I'm a reluctant fan of romance novels. Well, my sister Carla decided it was time to introduce me to Laurel K. Hamilton, expert in all things slutty and supernatural. Apparently, this woman spits out 500 page novels faster than I can write a poem. And they are slu-u-ty. Anita Blake, the main character in a series about vampires and were-things (not just wolves, we're talking werelions, wererats, and even wereswans) has a harem of about six men, all with various supernatural powers, whom she has to sleep with every few hours or she (and certain members of her posse) will die . She's like an orgasm vampire.

So, Carla told me this book was full of smut, but I had no idea! Gee-zus. I'm starting to worry about her.

The real problem is that Hamilton clearly never took a fiction workshop (tongue waaay in cheek here). She has this god-awful habit of using "she made it a question" as a speech tag instead of just "she asked." And she uses the same word like, five times in a sentence instead of using synonyms or even pronouns. On the upside, there are no heaving orbs or other ridiculous euphamisms for breasts, but there are a few unfortunate "manhood" moments. Another thing she should have learned in workshop: cut any unnecessary characters. This book, which is, like I said, almost 500 pages, details just one 24-hour period. But there must be 150 characters. Okay, so it's a series, and the book I read came right in the middle, so maybe if I were a fan, I wouldn't have been so confused, but really? Do we need 18 vampires, three wereleopards, and 4 humans introduced in every new paragraph? Worse yet, for the 10 or so main characters, she starts storylines that she never brings back up, except, and this is probably the worst part, in the last three pages which read like Anita Blake's very own blog. Which wouldn't bother me if Hamilton had set it up that way.

I freely admit that most of my criticism is coming from jealousy. This author has a long list of publications, a huge fan base, and surely a very large house with an awesome office. Makes me wonder why I agonize over every word and line in a poem that will never get me paid (thinking about Wendy Cope now) when I have enough romance novel expertise to crank those puppies out and maybe find a way to pay back my student loans.

But jealousy aside, I am also frustrated with what seems to me to be simple laziness. Or a rush to get another book on the shelves. Why not take some time to tie up loose ends, line edit out some of those awful speech tags and repetition, and create something that has both mass appeal and shows an attention to craft and detail? Is that so much to ask?

I'm a fan of "low" culture, or pop culture, or whatever you want to call it. I love top 40 pop music, cheesy chick flicks, reality TV, talk shows, celebrity gossip, etc., and I don't think it's impossible to appreciate these things at the same time that I love a well crafted poem or novel or memoir. But I think the people who create the stuff with mass appeal have a responsibility to do it carefully. Hamilton is a pretty good writer--I didn't hate the book, and for probably 2/3rds of the time I was reading, I was caught up enough in her story telling skill to ignore or forget the craft issues, but as someone who appreciates good writing, I'm disappointed that Hamilton (and her editors/publishers) didn't take the time to make the book as well written and it is entertaining.

Thus, it is my solemn vow that when I become a best selling romance writer, I will not resort to heaving orbs, throbbing manhood, tacky speech tags, or lazy prose. Amen.

Always running late

Ages ago, Talia tagged me for some quotes by writers about writing. I haven't had much time to look, but here are some that have smacked me in the face from the pages of my journals:

“The work of art which is most ‘worthwhile’ is the work which would need a hundred works of any other kind of art to explain it. A fine statue is the core of a hundred poems. A fine poem is a score of symphonies.” Ezra Pound, Vorticism

“The story behind each word must be told so there could be no mistake in the meaning of what had been said.” Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony

“A poem is never a put-up job, so to speak. It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is never a thought to begin with.” Robert Frost

"...save yourself from these general themes and seek those which your own everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, passing thoughts, and the belief in some sort of beauty--describe all these with loving, quiet, humble sincerity, and use, to express yourself, the things in your environment, the images from your dreams, and the objects of your memory." Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

"Just once I'd like to hear a writer tell the truth about why he can't deliver. Just once I'd like to hear someone say: no words. The reason no one says it is because when there are no words, nothing will save you." Betsy Lerner, The Forset for the Trees

"Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy... a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you're brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink." Stephen King, On Writing

Some of you might snicker at the King quote, but despite his mass market appeal, On Writing is one of the best books I've ever read.

I reserve the right to add or delete quotes as I see fit.

Happy 4th of July.

Just another manic Monday

Yesterday, at my best friend's bridal shower, there were a lot of teachers around (elementary school teachers) and they were all getting calls that their schools would be closed today. The kids have to walk to school, and since the wind chill is -20, they don't have to go. I have to walk to class! Why isn't my school closed??

I'm exhausted from planning the shower and putting it together yesterday. I don't like telling other adults what to do (I'm the youngest child and used to deferring) so I was very tense about "being in charge" of the whole thing, and I'm just drained. I would really love a day off. Instead, I have to brave the artic tundra for freshman comp, thesis meeting, and brides-maid-dress fitting.

Speaking of my thesis meeting...I just came across some interesting advice on putting together a chapbook (which is the goal of my 1st semester of thesis hours) over at B00k of Kells. She said:

If I have any advice for other poets working on a chapbook, my mind returns to my class with Ann Spiers:

1) Focus on a strict theme or telling a story
2) Look at your chapbook and instead of taking poems out to make it stronger, start with your strongest poems and write the ones that are missing.
3) Write, Revise, Repeat.

Let the story or theme emerge in your chapbook then focus on it completely. Decide what needs to be written and when it comes to poems you’re not sure are strong enough I follow this advice—when in doubt, leave it out.

This sounds like wonderful, thoughtful advice, but I'm a little terrified by it, especially that strict theme or story, since my family series seems to be unravelling rather than growing. I guess I'll just cross my fingers and start typing.

Thursday's Random Thoughts

• This tiny bit of poetic success I'm having is addictive...and very motivating. Suddenly, it is so much easier to put things in the mail. I just wish there was more time!
• I've got two new poems in the works. Neither of them are about my family. Not sure what to do with that in regards to my thesis. I'm thinking sections, but we'll see.
• In the last two weeks, I've been introduced (reintroduced?) to Gertrude Stein, H.D., and Marianne Moore. I am finding I'm not a huge fan of imagists/modernists, but I'm trying to find the merit, because obviously hundreds of very smart people think they were great poets. But, I'm excited because soon we will be talking about Plath and Sexton, and they make me happy (in a very sad sort of way).
• I have a couple of hecklers in my comp class. They sit in the back row, whisper, and giggle. I am pretty sure they are whispering and giggling about me. I'm trying to pretend I don't notice until I figure out a way to shame them into behaving that doesn't make me look like an insecure fool.
• I am having a corn dog and leftover rice for dinner (time to go grocery shopping!)