Manna

"But does she feel it's still necessary, is the question." Quoted from a very dear friend when I was asked if I write.

Yes. Yes I do.

"lacking the quality or quantity required; insufficient for a purpose"

I was poking around and saw that there is a poetry class at the college I graduated from in a time slot I can make between my work and being a mom/wife. And then I realized that, if I went, real people that I would have to physically see would be reading my work. I would likely run into my old adviser - actually, I would probably seek him out just to say hi, and the words would just start falling out of my stupid head when he'd ask if I still write, and despite my anxieties I'd tell him about this blog because my head often belies my fears.

Once, I was abstract painting on canvas with colors I thought were nice, and the result was so disgustingly terrible to me I had to throw it in the dumpster outside. Even before doing that, I had to completely destroy the canvas lest someone see it and link it back to me.

This is how I feel about my writing.

I thought this blog would be better than what it is. I had high hopes that it would spur me into writing, and then for the content of the blog, I would write about the process. I've tried - I have a whole bulleted page with topics to write about and now that I'm actually cracking at it, I have nothing to say. I don't know how the writing process works - for myself, let alone generally and in a way in which I could explain it to others. What the hell was I thinking?

I'm actually reflecting on what I thought was a grand idea so many months ago and chuckling to myself. This doesn't even sound anything like me, or like something I would do. I suck at directions - note the entry with the mystery recipe card.

I don't know. I fucked up a little, I guess. But, I am writing. And I love it. I love this project so much, it's the best concept I have ever had and if I can get down on paper even close to what's rolling around in my head, I think I might actually have something here.

And one extra minute

My inspirations through this new writing project are Stephen King for style, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez for concept.

Just a few minutes

I had time to write, oh lord, I had time to write. I'm not even going to tell you about, because I still have more time to write, but I did want to share this snippet and also open it up to criticism. At first glance I don't like the movement of it and there is a slight awkwardness and I'm not in love with all words choice.

Oh, but also - I made it through my first section of dialogue (not shown here,) and it wasn't absolutely terrible. It's not great, and it's a close cousin to bad, but it's not terrible. I feel like I've ripped the band-aid off, at least.

Mrs. Perry holds the bundle out to Helen and for one dreadful moment Helen thinks Mrs. Perry is going to unravel the blanket she will have to look at what is inside. Helen squeezes her eyes shut and when she reopens them, Mrs. Perry is holding a loaf of bread in a dish towel. She doesn’t seem to notice Helen’s brush with panic and places the loaf on the counter near where Helen’s hands are still resting. She twitches them away and stuffs them into her apron pockets.

See, quite rough. But I got it out of me, at least. It had just been sitting there, spoiling in my brain, for weeks. Fuck. That felt good.

Historical Ficton // Creative Non-fiction

I have a new writing project that's been taking up my time. It's not even a little bit poetry but it might include some poetry. It's to be in the style of Michael Ondaatje's The Collected Works of Billy the Kid mixed with Stephen King mixed with a history book. It's proven to be relatively emotionally disturbing so far so...that's a good thing?

The main character is a town and based off the town I currently live in but am suddenly moving away from in 30 days. I did not know I'd be moving when the inspiration hit and I got pretty deep into things. Furthermore, the places I'd like to sit and think, and the people I'd like to talk to for fodder, I have no time for since you know, packing and moving.

Sigh.

Little surprises

I have a tendency to write thoughts down in random places and thus forget these scraps of paper in random places. I picked up Theodore Roethke's On Poetry & Craft tonight and found a little poem I wrote for my husband when I was clearly very drunk (he asked me how I knew I was drunk when I wrote it, and my answer was simply, "penmanship.")

I came by this book in early 2012, and would have had to have written this before I became pregnant with my daughter, so I can feel safe in narrowing when I wrote it.

I truly have no memory of it, but I found it to be a sweet little surprise and I'm happy to have decided that it was a Roethke kind of night.

Unnamed Poem #1

I've always had a 
single heartbeat.

I'll tap to the tune of your feet
and your heart'll tap
to mine.

Together we tap tap
and we're just fine.

Hold my hand-holding hand,
off we go to meet the band.

Summer, 2012

The one about editing

So I've been putting this post off for a while because writing it meant that I would have to actually do what I have been dreading - editing some of my pieces. To be fair, it's not like they're getting worse just sitting there, untouched, in imperfect form. It's not like putting off weeding the garden or painting the house. I'm not going to open up a poem and find that the sentences have slumped sideways or rogue words have wormed their way in between my carefully chosen vocables. 

Right?

Now I'm not so sure. When I began scribing everything into documents I felt warmed up, like I had just stretched and was ready for a run. Then I got busy and kept putting off editing and now I've gone cold. I've brought up my editing worksheets several times in the past few weeks and immediately found more important things to do, like check the mail. Again.

Recently, I've kept in my bag Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. She suggests (actually, she mostly demands,) that you free write in a fantastic fashion. The more disjointed, erroneous, and gibberish-filled your sheet of paper becomes, the better (I guess?) I'm certain there's something to this method, but it's still completely not me. Lists are me. Orderly structure is me. I feel if I just go writing willy nilly then I will miss something important because I hadn't been carefully considering all angles.

So structure it is.

For the next few weeks I'm going to focus on one piece that I have been relatively happy with since it's original form. I have a lot to say about it, but for the sake of the aforementioned structure, I'll start with editing.

But not today. I'm still not warmed up yet. I'll include the piece here and in the subsequent posts, rip it limb from limb for my own pleasure.


Gardening for Children

That night we searched for the most fertile land.
We each had a shovel
and a basket of baby things for either
a little girl,
or a little boy.

It was dawn when we began to dig.
Sinking spades into dark dirt
hoping to find one, swaddled and sweet.
She’d be perfect; a sunrise child.

When by noon we hadn’t found her,
we knew we were doing something wrong.
“You can’t dig up a baby,”
he said, despondent.
Staring that the ground,

I pushed around dirt with my foot, sullen.
He threw down his shovel and walked away.
I didn’t stop digging because
I still had all these things,

For a little girl,
or a little boy.

Fall, 2010