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.

Poetry Fail

Today, we were supposed to workshop the first poem I submitted in my Poetry Writing class. This was supposed to happen a couple weeks ago, but eh, extenuating circumstances. Anyway, today got very messed up very quickly. Once the chaos subsided, it was learned everyone had their critiques for me, so I accepted them and resolved to read through them later. We went through class, work shopped my second poem (I got a lot of great suggestions), and that was that.

I got home a while ago and started browsing through the first set of critiques. One stopped me in my tracks.

I haven't been posting my poems for work shopping on here because I haven't wanted anyone in my class to see them early. I'll eventually put them up, but this one definitely calls for some editing first.

But back to that critique. The poem I wrote is an emulation of the sonnet Elizabeth Bishop wrote in 1979, just before she died. In it, I philosophize about a man gazing into a mirror, then setting himself free from the temptation of vanity by breaking it. Anyway, I use several "big words" in it. One of these is the cause for concern, and yes, embarrassment. In my mind, the Latin word for mirror is speculum. And speculum therefore = mirror. I needed another word for mirror, so that is the one I chose. What I neglected to remember is that a speculum is also a gynecological instrument. You know, that scary ratchety clampy you know?

Anyway, I was breezing through this critique. The first half was full of compliments and yadda yadda. Then I got to paragraph two. Let me quote from it for you. I won't mention the name of the person who wrote the critique to spare them any shame I might accidentally bestow regarding this matter.

"Also, on my first read, I did not know what a speculum was. I Googled it and the first image that popped up was an anatomy diagram of a woman during a gynecological exam. After seeing that, I can only think of gynecologists every time I read through your poem. I'm not sure what message you were trying to get across with the use of the speculum, or if maybe it was the first piece of medical equipment that came to mind, but if that choice was unintentional, you may want to pick a different instrument, since I'm probably not the only person who didn't know what a speculum was. Other than that, I thought your poem was great."

When I read it, I burst out laughing. And then I cringed as my cheeks flushed. And then I felt like crying. I was a failure at poetry. In an attempt to write a beautiful, artistic look at the anguish people feel by being trapped by self-image, I brain farted away any chance I had at that, leaving my poem as an awkward look at women's yearly exams.

To you, wise critic of my poem, I apologize. I was most certainly not trying to think of a medical instrument, and even if I was, I wouldn't want to choose that one. I think most women who go in for yearly exams know exactly what it is, and I have no idea why my mind forgot the second meaning.

At least it's only a draft. Right?

The Flow

"Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement." ~ Christopher Fry

I haven't let my poetry flow in a while. Sure, I've let it pour out of me, but then I jumble it around and prod it with a meter stick. I've been reading cummings the past couple days, and I never ceased to be amazed by that kind of writing. I decided the easiest way to capture the ease of sound and feeling he creates was to outright copy him. So I picked one of his to use as a starting form, and I let my feelings fill in the blanks. Then I got angry with myself for using a form at all in this instance of flow, so I moved the blanks, deleted them, added more, then put in some punctuation. cummings's symbolism through punctuation is grand, but that's definitely not what I'm trying to embody.

There's something really magical about the world after the first snow. I took a grand afternoon nap today, and when it started to snow outside, I heard my mother say as much. With a smile on my face, I drifted to sleep. When I awoke, there wasn't a thick quilt of snow. It's more of a loosely-crocheted thing. But it still quiets everything. I felt like if I stood at the kitchen window long enough with my ear close to the glass I would hear the heartbeat of the bird in our neighbor's tree.

After the First Snow

I thank you Father for this most marvelous
day: for the soaring spirits of falcons
and a gray ballet of sky; and for everything
which is lovely which is finite which is true.

The world, which had died, is alive today,
this the moon’s birthday; this is the budding
of life and mist and love and stars, and of the
phenomenon boundless earth.

How should any breathing gasping snoring
sighing being be lifted above the nothingness
of all human-stardust merely seeing doubt?

Now the eyes of my fingers are opened and
the ears of my hands are awake.