Cough Cough

So, for those of you who are kind enough to still follow me, you might have noticed my severe lack of updating these days.

And you may or may not have noticed that I deleted about 50% of my posts on here. It's not that I don't love you or that I don't want to share my work. It's just lately I've grown paranoid. I read somewhere that most journals don't like to publish poems which have been previously posted on blogs. Not that I've submitted anything in the last two months, but still. The poems I have left up are special for one reason or another, and I will probably still continue to post more of my creative work in the future. In fact, I need to in order to keep myself accountable. I haven't been writing a lot recently. In fact, I've really not been writing at all.

I had an idea that I should finish up the novel I'm working on (a full draft of it anyway) by the end of the summer. That just isn't happening. Life really decided to get in the way. It has a funny way of doing that, you know? At least all this life has given me things to write about. Boy, has it.

Next semester marks the beginning of my senior year in college. That means Capstone. I know I will be doing a creative project. What will I be doing? I hope I can answer that question by the time proposals are due in the fall. I'm considering poetry more and more. Something in my head keeps telling me, "Work on your prooooose." But my heart bleeds in meter. I might just be jonesing for another Bishop experience, but I can't see anything wrong with that. I'd love to immerse myself in another poet mentor and just let their work wash over me.

Dear God. Dear stars, dear trees, dear sky, dear peoples. Dear everything. Dear God.

How much better can thoughts on writing be than the ones freshly evoked when some piece of literature stirs you?

I've been reading The Color Purple by Alice Walker, and it resonated deep inside me.

"Dear Nettie,
I don't write to God no more, I write to you.
What happen to God? ast Shug.
Who that? I say.
She look at me serious."

I want to convey how these passages made me feel--what they made me think, but I'm not sure I can do that quite yet.

"She say, Celie, tell the truth, have you ever found God in church? I never did. I just found a bunch of folks hoping for him to show. Any God I ever felt in church I brought in with me. And I think all the other folks did too. They come to church to share God, not find God. "

Shug and Celie are talking very seriously in this chapter--Celie's in her forties at this point and has experienced much in life. However, she still has questions and doubts. She writes to her sister Nettie, believing that Nettie's still alive out there somewhere. Shug's character develops so much through the course of this novel--if you haven't read it, you need to soon. I could probably read it through again and just focus on Shug.

"Naw, she say. God made it. Listen, God love everything you love--and a mess of stuff you don't. But more than anything else, God love admiration.
You saying God vain? I ast.
Naw, she say. Not vain, just wanting to share a good thing. I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it.
What it do when it pissed off? I ast.
Oh, it make something else. People think pleasing God is all God care about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back."

These quotations are all from the same chapter. In my copy, it starts on page 199. A groundbreaking epistolary novel, a testament to the human spirit, a shining example of strong women in literature--of strong African American women in literature. I didn't think I would love it this much.

On Writing A Memoir of the Craft

^That is what I'm currently reading. There are a lot of things from it I'd like to share, but there are so many I think I'd break several hundred copyright laws in doing so. That being said, if you're a writer--read this book. Go out and buy it. That way you can mark it up and make personal notes to yourself. If you're someone who struggles with passive voice and the overabundance of adverbs (points to self), you need to know it. Stephen King will tell you--he's telepathic, trust me.

Another thing--"Murder your darlings" was a quote originally by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, but commonly misattributed to many other writers such as William Faulkner (by yours truly). I was informed of this on page 196 of On Writing. Oops.

One more thing--Stephen King just gave me one dollar.

I found it sandwiched between pages 212 and 213. In actuality, it's probably just the book marker from some businessman who bought a copy of this book at an airport store, hoping to alleviate some layover stress. However, I'm taking it as a personal token. The sentence this dollar was resting on is, "Get back to work on it! Hell, you're ready! You're fuckin Shakespeare!"

Please note that this is entirely out of context and not intending for me to brazenly plow my way through the manuscript. However, I'm taking it at face value anyway--this book about writing keeps telling me to write. So, I have some work to do.

Sound Advice

“Read a lot of poetry—all the time—and not 20^th century poetry. Read Campion, Herbert, Pope, Tennyson, Coleridge—anything at all almost that’s any good, from the past—until you find out what you really like, by yourself. Even if you try to imitate it exactly—it will come out quite different. Then the great poets of our own century—Marianne Moore, Auden, Wallace Stevens—and not just 2 or 3 poems each, in anthologies—read ALL of somebody. Then read his or her life, and letters, and so on. (And by all means read Keats’s Letters.) Then see what happens.”

This advice comes from Elizabeth Bishop in a letter she wrote to "Miss Pierson." According to the book One Art: Letters, "The identity of Miss Pierson , obviously a stranger to EB, is unknown. The editor is grateful to James Merrill, whocame into possession of this letter in Amherst at a book-signing event, where he was given a copy by a man who disappeared before explaining how he acquired it. It bears EB's full signature."

I'd like to think that mysterious man was a time traveler and that "Miss Pierson" is an error because of handwriting and that it actually said "Miss Kristin." I've been reading a lot of poetry, seemingly all the time. I tried to imitate Keats and Bishop, and it's turned out quite differently. I read ALL of bishop and then her life, her letters, and so on. However, I've not read Keats's letters yet.

All things considered, I'm pretty pleased with my progress. And I'm also very sad. I had to let Elizabeth die. Again. The last word she ever wrote was "affectionately." Polite until the end.

A Reminder

I was going through the poems in the packet from my New England literature class and stumbled upon "For the Young Who Want To" by Marge Piercy. I now have it tacked to my bulletin board as a reminder of what I should do if I want to keep being me. The more I think about my future, the more I agree with the ideas in this poem. I'll post it here for you all to see.

For the Young Who Want To
by Marge Piercy

Talent is what they say

you have after the novel

is published and favorably

reviewed. Beforehand what

you have is a tedious

delusion, a hobby like knitting.

Work is what you have done

after the play is produced

and the audience claps.

Before that friends keep asking

when you are planning to go

out and get a job.

Genius is what they know you

had after the third volume

of remarkable poems. Earlier

they accuse you of withdrawing,

ask why you don’t have a baby,

call you a bum.

The reason people want M.F.A.’s,

take workshops with fancy names

when all you can really

learn is a few techniques,

typing instructions and some-

body else’s mannerisms

is that every artist lacks

a license to hang on the wall

like your optician, your vet

proving you may be a clumsy sadist

whose fillings fall into the stew

but you’re certified a dentist.

The real writer is one

who really writes. Talent

is an invention like phlogiston

after the fact of fire.

Work is its own cure. You have to

like it better than being loved.


For those of you, like me, who don't immediately know what phlogiston is, here's the definition: a nonexistent chemical that, prior to the discovery of oxygen, was thought to be released during combustion.

Also, here's an interesting blog post from Penelope Trunk Brazen Careerist about grad school: http://blog.penelopetrunk.com/2011/05/09/what-you-can-do-instead-of-grad-school/

First Poem for Mia

I decided a while ago that I should write a poem about my adorable niece Mia, who is now teething. This is what came out. The pets in that household have no idea what's coming. She can stand on her own, and when she can walk--look out.

Lullaby for the Sentinel

Climber, curl up and dream,
close your weary, feline eyes;
around your lair, Baby prepares
a startling surprise.

Dearest Climber, sleep while you can,
just coalesce,
for soon Baby will pull up to stand
and clamp her teeth to your distress.

Peace and calm will both be yours,
Climber, don’t be blue.
Bite-free days are coming soon—
but you must rest before they do.

I Think It's Time

Edmund Spenser, I owe you an apology. I might not dig Calidore, but after giving you a few more chances, you're alright. In fact, your sonnet form is really pretty awesome. In lieu of all my protests and badmouthing, I wrote you a sonnet. Yes, it's stolen from one of yours. And yes, it mocks you by using archaic spelling. I said you're alright, OK? You're still not my favorite person. I'm working on the whole friends with dead poets thing. We might get there one day. I'm sure you'll wait.

No Hard Feelings, Eddie

See! how the steadfast bard doth depraue
   my modest verse with derisive scorne:
   and by the poem which I vnto him gaue,
   accoumpts my selfe his convict all forlorne.
The poem (quoth he) is of the conquerors borne,
   resigned them by the trampled as theyr meeds,
   and they therewith doe poetes brows adorne,
   to chant the grandeur of their exalted deedes.
But sith he will the triumph provocation needs
   let he accept me as his steadfaste thrall,
   that his famed score which my skill exceeds,
   I may in finesse of honor blaze ouer all.
Then would I decke his head with brilliant bayes,
   and heap the earth with his auspicious prayse.