The New Year

I always make a lot of virtuous resolutions at New Year's. I don't know why I bother, except that I feel like if I don't, I'm just stagnating. I think an important part of life is always seeking to improve somehow. Hence all the idealistic New Year's resolutions.

Still, I keep the goals flexible, so I don't have to feel like a total failure for not meeting them. They're sort of always under revision, really. That's life.

Most of my New Year's resolutions focus on publishing, and most of them tank after a few months. But we'll see. I've still got that great spreadsheet off of which I can work all year, if I can make the time. That's my main New Year's resolution: I will make the time.

Cheers.

Inspiration

I had a fantastic Thanksgiving, road-tripping with my hubby to see my dad & stepmom. They recently moved to Arizona, and my dad was telling me about a fat little lizard he'd seen hiding in the garage. He thought it would make a great kids' story. I agreed. On the drive back home, waking early in our historic hotel in Durango, I wrote part of the first chapter. I finished the chapter the next day and emailed it over to him. It's a fun story to write. Yay, Dad! It's always nice when one's parents foster creativity. :)

The photo's from a hike we took while visiting my family.

Progress

I suddenly realized, in the middle of pacing all aggravated around my house, that I haven't blogged in forever. That must be what's wrong.

Ironically, I've been doing a fair amount of work on writing & publishing. I haven't felt all that creative lately, though for a while there I was writing every day; lately my focus is on getting things together to start sending my poetry out for publication.

It's not easy. Good lord, it is anything but easy. It's funny how much of a practical, business aspect there is to the publishing process. Must be why so many of us writers go unpublished in the larger market - and why blogging's so popular. (Sure works for me.)

So I created a spreadsheet practically the size of Pikes Peak of places I can send my work, what the specifications are for each place and so forth. Well, I'm in the process of creating it. The first runthrough, I identified 52 places to send my work, with the goal to mail to one each week in 2008. (My mom calls this sort of approach "eating the elephant one bite at a time.") But when I looked more at the spreadsheet and the publishing process, I found I needed to reorganize and expand the spreadsheet (I mean seriously, I thought the spreadsheets I made for our wedding were complex, but this is ridiculous) and now it holds lots more data, which I get to go back and fill in for all 52 places.

To be honest, it's sort of a nice task. I don't have to be creative, I can just do a few at a time and still feel good about contributing towards my writing career.

The next task is to review the focus of each magazine, start getting samples, making inquiries, etc., and look at what poetry fits each magazine. I also need to figure out the whole simultaneous submission thing, and prioritize certain poems for certain mags. So, not all the work of an instant, especially since I can hardly look at a poem without revising it, if only to remove an unnecessary 'the'... which is fine, since the writing can always be made better, but takes more time. (This is why I started the project two and a half months out.) I also want to develop a couple of different cover letters and my bio.

Anyway, we're on the road to progress, and glad of it. I think the spreadsheet is key. My past attempts at taking an organized approach to getting published consisted of color-coded, labeled page-tabs and far too many dogears. So any time I would want to send something out, I'd need to look it up again, mentally process the information, look for poetry that would fit that place's needs... just not really time-efficient or very appealing. (For one thing, the book is a pain in the ass to try and keep open to the right spot while you look for something on your computer. Let's talk spiral bindings, guys.) Anyway, now I have all the info in the same spot and it's easy to understand and use. Sweeeet. And if I end up not having time to work on it, the info's still usable later and easy to update, as opposed to all those forlorn tabs in an outdated reference book.

The other challenging aspect: the budget. It can only help to get samples from each place; plus, how else will I know if my work's right for that publisher? But they all cost, and they all need postage there and back, and then there's mailing the submission and the SASE. I don't know about other poets, but I work for a non-profit, and I don't have a ton of spare cash. It's worth it to budget some, though, and that's another reason for my approach of wanting to spread it out throughout the year. I figure I can start now with the samples and stay a month or two ahead with those, to facilitate my weekly goal.

Seems like a decent plan, if I can keep making the time to do it. I think it's going to work. We'll see, anyway. But you know, it's times like this when my favorite Yoda quote comes to me:

"Do, or do not. There is no try."

Shelfari

My friend Noel (whose awesome photography you can see via the link in the right column) invited me to join this new site for book-lovers called Shelfari. You can pick out all the books you love to have on your shelf, write reviews, see what books your friends have on their shelves, etc. It's actually pretty cool, in a book-geek kind of way, which sure as hell works for me.

Also, they make it easy to put it on your blog, so there 'tis, in the column to the right.

O Happy Day...

So, I've started writing the story I was posting about below, and I'm so excited about it. It's a lot of fun. I've managed to start re-establishing some good writing habits, primarily by setting aside time on the weekends. Once I started sticking to that, I found myself more comfortable with writing at times during the week, as well. We call this "baby steps". Hey, I'm just glad to be writing.

The story I'm working on is based on an old folk ballad, originally Scottish, adapted in early America, and beautifully rendered in the early 70s by the Grateful Dead - "Peggy-O". The song tells such a good story, and I always found myself picturing the scenes so clearly, that finally one day it occurred to me to write the story out.

It's an interesting experiment for me, because I don't normally have such a strong plot structure when I start a book. One of my weaknesses as a writer - and probably one of the main reasons I have trouble finishing stories - is that I often start with a vague plot idea and a strong main character, and let the story develop. This leads to a bit of a meandering tendency. (Who, me, ramble? Never!) So I've got a whole new appreciation for the fully-fleshed plotline.

What Is Left to Us: In Memoriam, 9/11/01

what is left to us

I wish you could hear me from underneath that rubble,
as I stand atop a broken heap
to proclaim your death
valid, my words falling thin across this jagged gash of landscape
barely ruffling the thick quilt of dust.
I wish you could.

I wish you could hear me
when I tell you I love you,
I miss you, your eyes, your lips, how they’d curl
over breakfast at a sly joke.
that I never knew you
but how I sobbed, how I fell
to my knees for you, your eyes
your lips gaping in fear
and that is why I am angry.
because you died afraid
innocent
as I would have died.

and what would you say,
what if you were on vacation
or thought your day ruined
because you missed your plane?
only to drop your glass later
choke out “there but for the grace of god – “
would you wait till you were alone to cry?

The Taliban’s last stronghold
was once a school for girls,
you’d say, eyes calm and clear, laughing a little.
on the grounds of fecund learning
walled in, they gripped the last
few feet of Kabul
from its womb.
its sterile, beaten, exhausted womb.

when the Persian New Year came
Khatol Mohammad Zai
a female air force colonel
jumped from an airplane
floated to the earth of Kabul
Zai said
“as a representative of women
I have shown we can jump from helicopters
women can do something as good as men
even something that is so difficult”

the floating down is easy
it’s ramming an airplane
into a skyscraper
at 500 miles an hour
that’ll make you grit your teeth.
floating
from the 88th floor
did you ask yourself,
who said they could play god,
they have no right,
did you say,
it’s not their choice
whether I live or die
or were you too busy
with your own
final prayer?

the girls’ school reopened
girls peeking out of tents
on packed earth soldier-trod
the girls wait
for their gutted school
to be rebuilt.
they will have to go year-round
but just for the first few years.
just till they’re caught up.

would you say, I didn’t want to die.
yes. would you say
I’m sorry I left angry
or I wish for one last kiss –
do you watch me cry
alone in our apartment
the kitchen counter choked with memories
of cutting boards seeped with garlic
and tomatoes staining, waiting for the pan?

and I am supposed to let you go for this?
I haven’t even gotten to bury you yet.
they still can’t find you.
I got to sort through
a few hundred men’s wristwatches.
I couldn’t decide between two of them.
I just left them both there.

and how I wish you could hear me


Author's note: It's hard to believe six years have passed. We were living out in the middle of nowhere at the time, in a small city in the Mojave desert, and yet how profoundly I felt the attacks. I don't think I'll ever forget learning of it when I got to work that day, and then watching the towers fall on live TV.

I don't know if I just took it harder than the people around me, or what; but that day had a strong impact on me. It was really the thought of all the senseless deaths that finally brought me to my knees, sobbing, in front of the six o'clock news a couple days later, when they had replayed the plane crashing into the building, that terrible moment of NO!! time and time again. It was also that thought that kept me searching for all the good stories, the stories of "ordinary" heroes and the NYFD and heroic pets and all the millions of minor miracles.

As with any trauma, it took a while before I could write about it, even though I knew my 9/11 poem was inevitable. When the attacks happened, I was still working in the circulation department of the local paper, but a few months later I started working as a reporter, so I had access to the wire reports. Much of the information above is taken from AP wire reports, as is the quotation by Colonel Zai.

Should you wish to reprint, please post a comment for permission. Thanks.

the tangled web of research

O what a tangled web, indeed; this is the problem with writing historical fiction. It involves a hell of a lot of research. I've got the characters for my new story sketched out, and a plot framework, but I have so much flippin' research to do, it's ridiculous. I'm curling up with a couple of humongous tomes, which have most of the info, and just trying to take a bunch of notes. Right now there's too much information to really absorb it all, but once I've captured all the relevant info and condensed it all into one brief-ish spot, it'll be much easier to write the story with the right context.

It's still a pain in the ass, though.

I'm excited about my primary reference, though - it's a bullet-stopping book called "The Encyclopedia of Southern Culture", and it's just incredible. There's such a richly detailed picture to paint, though, that I find myself just paging through it from cover to cover, noting down everything from peanut farming to architectural styles. I thought instead of consciously trying to research certain aspects of the culture/time period, I want to keep an open mind and read anything that could help fill in gaps. Most of it's interesting, albeit a bit dry at times.

Yet another story idea

I keep finding my brain working on this new story. Haven't written any of it down yet, but it's developing nicely nonetheless. I don't know whether to be frustrated with myself that I have so many unfinished stories, or to be glad about the inspiration and using whatever motivation I have to at least produce something creative. I'm thinkin I'm going with the latter, though.

Happily, I've also been thinking some about how to finish my children's detective story. I'm so close, but I can't quite picture exactly how I want the exciting conclusion to go down. I want to have minimal violence, but I've also set it up that groups of various woodland critters are fighting each other, so some violence is unavoidable. For the most part, though, they'll outsmart the bad guys.

I keep finding myself without enough time to actually write anything, though. It's silly of me; I produced the lolcat story in four days, and about three hours of writing. I need to simply make the time. I manage to make time for plenty of other, less important things! If only I could write instead of sleeping, I'd be totally set. ;)

Teh Grate Cheezburger Liber... Liburr... Reskyoo!

Catpurr 3: Teh Mewment uv Troo

Wen Lil Kit reeched Big Smoo’s, her finded awl teh kittehs chillin owtside, unnerneef teh beeg tree dat stood rite next to teh howz. Teh naypurrhud kittehs luved dis tree, cuz it hads lotsa lawng branches, low-stretchin branches wer dey cud plae Monorail Kitteh or yodul or taek gud napz awn. It wuz also nyss cuz itz wer an owld tree an tall enuff dat dey cud ezilee klym onto teh roof an luk owt obur teh bootiful Hawayyin coaztlyn.

But her kwiklee noteizd dat teh kittehs wuz nawt hasing teh festiev happehtymes dat her spected. Big Smoo wuz paysin to an fro, a worreid luk awn himz faec. “I can’t bleev doz stoopy hyoominz sed no shares!” himz wuz sayin to Stretch, hoo wuz sacked owt along wun uv teh branches, lukkin liek a borred panthur.

Stretch yawnd. “Wut did u esspect, d00d? Mah mommeh offurd meh a pees uv brokli teh uvver dae. Dey jus crazee. Dey neber gibs us teh nommy fud.”

Tux, hoo wuz sittin nex to teh Baron awn teh branch abuv dem, snortid wif lafftur an flikkd teh Baron wif himz tail. “Coors, if we wuz awl hasing teh Baron’s mommeh, us’d be hasing teh tuna or sammon ebry nite wif dinnur.”

Baron Von Nomnomnom, hoo wuz hasing a baff, pawsed fur a meowment to add, “U furgottid teh oystirs an bebeh klamz in oyl.” Tux sat up awn himz hynd legses an swattid teh Baron in teh hed. Teh Baron iggnorrd himz, continyooin himz baff.

Stretch stretched. “Ennywayz, I sayz if us wantz it, us r hasing to taeks it. We needz a plan.”

“BANZAI!!!!!” yowlded Banzai, jumpin frum a rly hai branch daon to wer dey wuz awl sittin. “We launchin teh attak ur wut!?! Oh hai, Lil Kit.”

Lil Kit smylded. “Hae, Banz. Lissn, wut r u guiz tawkin abowt - teh hyoominz sed no shares?”

Big Smoo noddid, lukkin glum. Teh Whoppurr, hoo had strolldid up jus aftur Lil Kit, goedid obur an hedrubbed himz. “Iz okeh, Big Smoo,” purred teh Whoppurr, “we just has to be maekin a littul plan.”

“I doan want mah hyoominz gettin hurted,” warnded Big Smoo. “Dey iz gud peeps, eben if dey moastlee feeds meh teh kibbul.”

“We noes, Smoo, no worreez babeh,” sed Lil Kit. “Uh-oh, heer coemz Happycat. Wif Miss Snorgles!”

Awl teh kittehs lukked toords teh rode. “O, himz nawt gonna be so happeh wen he heerz dis,” mutturred Tux. “Bet himz wuz wantin to impress Miss Snorgles wif hao mennee cheezburgerz himz can eet.”

Nao it wuz Stretch’z turn to be standin up, an himz smacked Tux awn teh hed. “Happycat is teh nyssist cat I noes,” himz sed. “U be nyss!”

“Skoooz meh,” sed a ruffld Tux, wawkin awai daon teh branch an sittin agen wif awl teh dignitee himz cud musturr.

“O hai ebrywun!!” Happycat wuz vry happeh. “Miss Snorgles, is u alreddy noesin awl teh naypurrs? U has met Lil Kit... owr hoast, Big Smoo, fanx fur hasing us obur, Smoo... an teh Whoppurr, howz it goin, Whop... Banzai, himz a littul crazee, wach owt!... O hai Emo Kitteh, wut u doin awl teh wai obur der agenst teh tree? Dat’s Emo Kitteh... Dis iz Baron Von Nomnomnom, owr rezzydunt burd wacher, an obur der iz Tux. Hai Tux!”

“O hai, u guiz,” reeplyd Tux. “U gawts enny grate ideeyuhs fur gettin teh burgerz awai frum dese hyoomins?”

Happycat syyd. “I noed it cuddn’t be dat ezzee,” himz sed. “I wuz hoepin, tho.”

Miss Snorgles wavedid her tayl. “Can’t we jus rub agenst der legs an act awl sweety-pah? Mah daddeh alwaiz gibs meh teh nommy fuds wen I does dat.”

Lil Kit kownted to three to keep hurself frum smackin Miss Snorgles. Dis wuz wai her hayted floofy spoyld gurlee-kittehs.

Teh Baron koffed. “Well, mah gud frenz, we has estab... estabbl... figgurd owt dat purrswayshun woan’t get us teh burgerz, an owr lolfren Big Smoo has askded us nawt to be hurtin himz hyoomins, so us must needz be usin teh trickuree to gain dese burgerz.”

“Heer, heer,” sed Stretch, onlee haff-sarkastiklee.

Banzai jumpd bak an forf atween a cuppl branches. “Eggzactlee. U sed it, Baron! We needz a plan uv ackshun.”

Big Smoo jus shook himz hed. “We’z has to has teh split-sekkind tymin,” himz sed. “Nawt liek we cans cook teh burgerz owrselfs, wif owr lack uv opposabul thumbs, an dey onlee puts teh cheez awn it neer teh end.”

“I has an ideeyuh,” sed teh Baron. Awl teh kittehs leened klosur. “Wut us’ll do iz...”

* * *

“Mmm, Cheez, those burgers smell awesome!!” sed Melissa. “Are they almost ready?”

“Yeah, couple more minutes,” anserd Cheez. “Just need to put cheese on some of these burgers and let it melt a little.”

“Great,” DMarie sed. “I’m starving!”

“Tofuburgers coming through!” called Tofu, holdin teh plaet up hai as her woav thru awl teh peepul. Her reeched teh grill an startid puttin dem awn teh vegemetarian seckshun. Cheez putted teh last slyss uv cheez awn a partikoolarlee joosy-lukkin burger, den startid transfurrin teh finnisht burgerz to a beeg plattur.

Suddenlee, a stranj noyz maedid ebrywun luk ups at teh roof. “Isn’t that the new neighbor’s cat? Miss Snorgles, or something?” Tofu askded Cheez.

“WTF? My cat’s up there, too!” cryd Meno, jumpin ups frum her seet an wawkin closur to teh eeves. “Whoppurr, what are you doing?”

Teh too kittehs wuz growlin an hissin at eech uvver, bof krowched neer teh ejj uv teh roof, adbannsin an retreetin wif sharp swats toords deir faecs.

“Oh my god, my cat’s totally going to disembowel that fluffy-ass Persian,” Meno said, cuvverin her faec wif her handz an peekin owt frum betweens her fingurs.

BonzoGal wissulld. “Gonna be a catfight!” her sed. “We could turn the hose on them, or something – that would make them stop.”

Cheez, hoo wuz wachin teh kittehs wif a luk uv disbleevs, snapped owt uv it wen himz herd dis. “That’s a good idea, but our hose is busted.” Himz lukked arownd. “HEY!!!”

“Run fur it u guiz!!!!!” sed Tux, leepin off teh plattur wer dey wuz awl stelthilee gavvurd rownd, pikkin owt der burgerz. Himz jump maeded teh plattur oburturn, sendin burgerz an kittehs flyin ebrywer!

“Dammit Tux!!” sed Big Smoo, pikkin up himzself teh beeg joosy burger dat Cheez wer plannin to eet. Himz clampded it in himz jaws an ran fur it, mutterin arownd teh burger, “Now mah nommy burgerz gotted awl durty.”

“For the love of -” Tofu startid to sae, interrupptid bai –

“BANZAI!!!!!1!!!!!!!1!” skreemed Banzai, leepin off teh roof onto teh pikanik tabul, oburturnin teh buns an lettus an materz an condy... condi... catsup an musturd an stuff. Nao ebrywun skreemed an skattured, sum cuvvered in teh fud dey’d so recentlee lukked forwurd to be eetin.

“Sweet baby Jesus!” cryd Cheez. “What is wrong with these freakin’ cats?!”

It tooked Banzai three wyuld leeps to reech teh burgerz. Miss Snorgles an teh Whoppurr wer alreddee runnin awai wif der cheezburgers. Der wuz still wun cheezburgr left! Banzai skiddid arownd an faecd teh hyoomins, hoo wuz awl starin at himz wif teh luks uv disbleevs. “AWL UR CHEEZBURGERZ AR BELONG TO US!” himz crowed joifullee, pikked ups himz burger, an streeked awai wif teh uvver kittehs into teh gavurring dusk.

Teh Grate Cheezburger Liber... Liburr... Reskyoo!

Catpurr 2: Noos, Nip an Napz

Lil' Kit wuz owt nomming her own brekkies dat meownin, but herz brekfrist caem frum arownd teh trash canz at eech howse. "Commeer," sed Lil' Kit, pownsin awn a mowsie. Teh mowsie gabe a terryfied skweek an traid to run awai. Lil' Kit wuz hasing lotsa fun playin wif teh mowsie, so muches dat herz din't eben notiss Big Smoo walkin toords her.

"I iz teh Kween Kitteh, an u bettur be mememburrin dat," Lil' Kit told teh mowsie. Big Smoo lol'd, startulin herz, an her let teh mowsie goes. Mowsie skampurrd awai in a blur as Lil' Kit turndid to Big Smoo.

"O, so nao u r buyin meh brekkeez, is dat it, beeg boi?" her sed. "I wuz hongree!"

"I sawry, Lil' Kit," Big Smoo told herz. "But I'll deffnly be maekin it ups to u dis ebenin. Mah peeps be hasing a BBQ!"

Lil' Kit's yello eiz gleemd. "A BBQ?!! Wif burgerz?"

Big Smoo noddid, pleezd wif himzself. "Wif CHEEZburgrz. An bakun!"

Lil' Kit likkd herz lips. "An I kin coem?"

"A-coorz!" Big Smoo sed. "I iz needin ur halp to get teh wurd owt, ackshulee. Kin u tell teh lolkittehs awn dis sied uv teh blok? An I'll tell teh lolkittehs awn teh uvver sied. Dey sed its a reel blok partee an I doan wanna miss ennywun."

"Ebrybuddee kin coem? How bowt dat Emokitteh dat alwyz annois u?" Lil' Kit ast slilee. Herz liekded Emokitteh but herz noedid nawt menny uv teh uvver lolkittehs did. Himz wuz a craibebeh, dey seds, but himz wuz alwais nys to her an shayrd himz fud wif her if her caem arownd at teh meeltiem.

Big Smoo sighd. "Yah, I gess Emokitteh too. Himz bettur nawt crai, tho."

Lil' Kit shrugd. "Fish gotta swimz, burds gotta flai, Emokitteh gotta crai."

Big Smoo lol'd agen. "Is troo. Hai, u wanna go play in teh nip patch reel kwik befoar us starts maekin teh rownds?"

Lil' Kit stood an stretchd. "Shoor. Tho I has dowts bowt how kwik it'll be."

Shoor enuff, dey wer rollin arownd beein silleh in teh nip patch fur kwyt a wiul. Lil' Kit gawt a kays uv teh gigguls. Big Smoo finlee crawld owt an sed, "Dat wuz too muches fun! Now I iz awl hongree agen."

Lil' Kit pwnsd awn him. "O, u wud sai dat! Big Smoo, Big Smoo, ur a tummeh-boi itz troo..." her startid singin.

"Kuttit owt!!" Big Smoo sed, an dems ressuled fur a minut befoar Lil' Kit skrambuled awai agen.

"Hmph. Defensif kitteh is defensif," her sed, hasing a diggnifyd baff.

"I iz nawt defensif. I wuz jus playin," sed Big Smoo. "Hai, der's Baron Von Nomnomnom. I'z gunna start spreddin teh wurd, k? U gonna tell awl teh kittehs dat lif obur der?"

"Yah, doan worree babeh. Wut tiem shud I tell dem coem obur?" Lil' Kit had stawpd haffwai thru her baff, distraktid bai a passin flutterbai.

Big Smoo shrugd agen. "Well, it iz Caturday, so dey kin jus coem obur ennytiem. But teh BBQ's fur din-dins. O hai, Baron! Gess wut r u hasing fur dinnur tonite?" Big Smoo wuz off, hailin teh Baron, hoo wuz a cuppl howzis awai wachin teh burdeez awn himz lawn.

Lil' Kit laffd at Big Smoo. Teh Baron haytid teh interr... intur... bein bovvurd wen himz wus wachin teh burds. 'I fink I'll goes an see Stretch frist,' her thot.

Shoor enuff, her fownded Stretch rite wer esspectid, hasing a napz awn teh wall arownd himz frunt yard. Himz wuz stretched owt rly lawng, wif himz paws hanging daon offa teh wall liek a monorail kitteh. But wen himz herd Lil' Kit's noos, himz wuz so essyted himz deesydid to halp her spred teh wurd.

Bai teh tiem dey'd tawkd to Emokitteh, Banzai, Miss Floofy an Teh Whoppurr, Stretch an Lil' Kit wer bof reddy fur a riggul in teh catnip pach an a nys lawng nap. Stretch staggurd owt uv teh pach. "I bettur be gettin hoem an see bowt mah befoar-napz lunch," himz sed.

Lil' Kit rolld obur awnto her bak an stretched owt her pawz. "K," her sed. "I fink I will has mah napz riiiite.... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

Lil' Kit kinda noedid her wuz nappin too lawng, but teh nip wuz such a nyss plaec to nap dat her din't caer. Suddenlee her wakedid ups wif a gasp an stood ups. "O noes!" her craid. "I can has too much sleepytiem? I gotta git to teh partee!!!"

Teh Grate Cheezburger Liber... Liburr... Reskyoo!

NOTE: Continuing our ICHC theme, I had a lolstory idea. I basically have the story mapped out, but it takes a while to write in lolspeak, so I'm going to have to publish it in installments. :) I can has copyright, k? Must ask teh purrmishun to republish! Fanku.

Catpurr 1: Big Smoo's Brekkies

Big Smoo started himz Caturday jus rite, bai rollin himz tummeh to teh skai an hasing a nyyyyyyss lawwwwng stretch. Den himz baffd himz faec, liek a gud kitteh, an strolled into himz hyoomins' rum.

Himz hyoomins, Tofu n Cheez, wer still hasing der napz, liek Big Smoo noeded dey wud bees. Himz jumpt up awn teh bed, an wif serpryzin graes fur such a beeg kitteh, gentlee klymbd onto Tofu's tummeh. Big Smoo, a Mayn Koon, wuz so beeg dat hasing himz paws awn Tofu's tummeh put himz faec rite in frunt uv herz.

Nao in pozishun, Big Smoo startid teh purring. He purrd jus a lil bit at frist, den gawt lowdur an lowdur, til awl himz floof wuz vibraytin wif teh purrz. Jus liek Big Smoo, wen Tofu woked ups, she streeeeetchd, den opind her eiz. Herz brown eiz lukked strate into Big Smoo's green eiz. Tofu smyld.

"Big Smoo, you're the best alarm clock ever," her sed, usin bof handz to gifs him a rly gud rub bhine teh eerz. Big Smoo purrded eben lowder in apurrsheyayshun. Den, as Tofu stretchd agen, Big Smoo hopped awnto teh floor, lukkin bak at herz as he strolld ober to teh door.

"We can has brekkies nao?" him asked. "I wud liek a littul bakun, mahself. If ur feelin ups to it."

Tofu slolee gawt outta bed, steppin into herz slippurrz. "OK, ok, I know, it's breakfast time." Her yawned. "Thank god it's Caturday!" her sed, as dey walked toords teh kichin.

"U sed it, bebeh!!" Big Smoo aggreed. "Hae, dis iz a wiuld ideya, but hao bowt sum chzburger ommylets?! U maeks dem so nommy!"

Tofu bendid daon an gabe himz moar skriches. "OK, you big baby, I'm working on it!"

"O SWEET!!! R u sirius?!! Mommeh, ur teh BESTEST!!!!! Dis iz gunna be so grate!" Big Smoo ran ober to himz fud dish. Himz faec fell, tho, wen Tofu pulled owt teh saym owld kibbul. "But... u sed..." But der wuz no mistaykin teh sownd uv teh borin, neerlee-pleh kibbul bein porred into himz bowl.

*sigh* thot Big Smoo. Himz stared at himz mommeh fur anuvver sekund to maek shoor dis wuzn't sum meen joak, den startid eetin. *nom nom nom*

Smoo herd himz daddeh get outta bed an coem into teh kichin. "Man," Cheez sed, "we've got a lot to do if we're gonna have that barbeque tonight."

Big Smoo wuz instantlee alert. 'BBQ? WTF??!!!!' himz thot. 'Dey be grillin?'

"I know," Tofu agreed, "we've got to get all those burgers thawed out, and I need you to go to the store and get more fries and cheese."

'An pikuls!' Big Smoo thot, tryin to send teh sykik brainwaevs to himz mommeh. 'Uuuuu neeeeed pikullllllls.'

"There was something else, too," her frownded. "I just can't remember... oh, I know!"

'Whew!' Big Smoo wuz rleeved.
"We need mustard and ketchup," her sed. Her opinnd teh frijamureratur doar an stayrd insied.

'Dammit!!!' thot Big Smoo.

"Oh, and pickles. And - yeah, probably some BBQ sauce, too," Tofu sed. Cheez leened arownd her to luk in teh frijj.

"Is there anything we actually don't need?" Cheez asked. Tofu smakd himz awn teh arm.

"We've got the burgers, buns, lettuce, all that stuff," her sed.

'No bakun?? Hyoomins has teh stoopy,' thotted Big Smoo.

"No bacon?" asked Cheez. "I'll pick some up."

'Gud Daddeh,' Big Smoo purred.

"K, sounds good. I'll call everyone and see who's coming over," Tofu sed.

'O yesh, an I needs to be puttin teh wurd owt!' thot Big Smoo.

Hatching Plans

Well, I sold two more books of poetry at the market last week. I feel like I've got some momentum I can build on - plus, we acquired another office in our suite, so aside from using it for work, I can also use the space to organize and work on magazine submissions. Very exciting stuff.

I've found myself getting better about making time for the things I want to do, instead of trying to find time. It's much more effective. I've been able to make a good amount of time available to work for my BB's business, while working more than full time at my day job and investing time into producing stuff for the market. The next step is to consistently make time for my writing and for pursuing publication.

Of course, there are only so many hours in the day... but it's all well worth doing. I'm going to print some more chapbooks this weekend, and possibly put together a new one. Someone asked me for a business card at the market, so I feel like I should probably put together a marketing website PDQ!

The Joys of Publishing

No, that's not sarcastic. I get so much satisfaction from self-publishing. I've done a lot of it, giving chapbooks away to friends and family, but this summer marks the first time someone's paid me for my poetry. I have sold two, count 'em, TWO chapbooks at the local crafts & farmers market this summer! I'm over the moon. For some reason, getting payment for a chapbook makes me feel "published" more affirmatively than when I hand them out for free.

It also makes me want to take another stab at sending my work out for publication. Here are the problems with trying to get published in the commercial world: 1) there are a million other people trying to do exactly the same thing, and a limited market; 2) it's incredibly labor- and time-intensive to prepare the submittal; and 3) you end up having to spend a fair amount on postage, supplies, and readers' fees or samples of the magazine in question.

Really, what you're seeing here is one end of a perennial debate with myself. It takes a massive investment of resources to try to get published. But it's worth investing the resources. However, being a notorious procrastinator, plus busy with work and other activities, I rarely get past square 2 or 3. I've submitted a few things in my life, and besides the time I spent as a journalist, I'm getting published currently as a columnist in a regional pet magazine - but it's scarcely enough to call a resume. I crave national publication! :) The worst of it is that I know exactly what I need to do, I just haven't made the time to do it... yet.

Still here!

It feels like it's been forever since I blogged... Largely because I've been spending all my computer free time over at www.icanhascheezburger.com. Man, oh man - wayyyy too much fun.

Of course, the big topic for my first post since reading "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" has got to be the fact that I loved this book. It wowed me even more than I was expecting. I read it twice, that first weekend that I got it, and have since started on the happy ritual of reading the entire series sequentially.

It's kind of bizarre to think that I can finally do that. I so clearly remember finishing the first book, seven years ago when I first started reading the series, and thinking of when the day would come that I'd have read the entire plotline.

And what a plotline... I'm not going to spoil anything, but I will say that I admire Rowling so much. She told the story incredibly well, and it was such a daring story. Well done!!! So much of what happened was unexpected. Almost all of it felt very real. There was one small part, in the first chapter, that I questioned, but it's insignificant in the face of Rowling's achievement with this series. *raises glass*

And may I say, I am so glad that pretty much none of my predictions came true! :)

I Can Has Langwij Evalooshun?

One of my favorite classes in college was an amazing seminar on linguistic anthropology that I took my senior year. If you've never heard of it before (I hadn't, until I read the class description), it's basically the study of how culture and language co-create each other. Really interesting stuff. And once you start looking for it, you can see examples all over the place.

One example that's really intriguing can be seen on one of the world's funniest websites, www.icanhascheezburger.com. The photos themselves are funny, and the captions are generally hilarious, but the key to the humor is the use of a written dialect that's evolved rapidly. I've heard it called "Ingrish" but it's generally known as "lolspeak" or "kittehspeak". One of the major components of lolspeak is that it misspells or shortens words frequently. Other facets like distinctive syntax and verb tense are characteristic as well.

But thanks to a group of regular participants, the dialect's gone way beyond the nuts & bolts of language, developing referential slang, sayings/proverbs, and both spoken and unspoken rules. The website even offers different resources like a dictionary and usage guidelines.

Others will advise as "noobies" begin to join the culture. A great example is a response from regular poster "Turkeyburger", to a criticism of this photo caption from a new fan. The noobie suggested that the top line was redundant given the look on the cat's face.

Turkeyburger replied, "Redundancy is a fairly large part of teh lolspeak funneh. A fairly regular style of capping a pic like this one would be simply to state
“Serious Cat…is serious.”
It is just that intentional stating of the obvious, and for that matter, repeating it that makes up a large percentage of the humor.
After all, frequently the point is to write what we feel a cat would be saying in a given pic, and let’s be blunt here–I think most of us would agree that cats generally don’t have brains (or at least common sense) in bukkitfulls. I’m not trying to put them down, but we are talking about a creature that finds the inside of shoes obsessively fascinating, will run back into a dangerous situation that it just had to be rescued from, and willfully eats moths and spiders. There are many people who would not consider those to be redeeming qualities in a pet. Then there are the rest of us."*

Even during instruction, humor is the focus of the culture, which makes it both a remarkable stress relief for its addicts (and I am among them), and a generally friendly and welcoming community to all who want in on teh funneh and love animals.

It's not often you get to see language evolve right before your eyes. At first, I just found it all quite funny, but then I started noticing how complex and surprisingly formalized the language was. Some deplore lolspeak as a degradation of language, but hearken back to Shakespearean dramas or Elizabethan novels, and the lengthy paragraphs in which people spoke using rather more words than was really necessary and constructing grammatically elaborate sentences. Ahem. See? That barely approached the standards of formal language of a few hundred years ago, but in today's world, it's a run-on sentence.

Language is always going to evolve. As long as culture keeps evolving (which it will, as long as there are people alive on the earth), its Siamese twin, language, will continue to change as well. The two are inextricably intertwined, reflecting each other in interesting ways, revealing nuances about the subculture that a dialect serves.

If they'd read closely, the naysayers would realize they need not fear the world going to hell in a handbasket - at least, not because of ICHC... The regular posters are all highly literate and include a massive variety of music, movie and literary references in their comments. Many will step out of kittehspeak to share a serious thought or one that's complex enough to be difficult to boil down into lingo. Like the several thousand other dialects in English, lolspeak can exist side by side with it; in fact, understanding the formalities of English is essential to getting much of the humor, with lolspeak playing off the formal rules to maximize its humor.

Not to suck all the fun out of it, of course. In lolspeak, "Im on ur intrnet, analyzn ur dyalekt. Iz sillee but kewl. Kthxbai."

* Source: http://icanhascheezburger.com/2007/07/19/i-are-serious-cat/#comments

For the Record: My Harry Potter Predictions

I want to get this out there before the much-anticipated seventh book comes out (anybody else feel like Christmas is coming this Saturday?). Having reread the series many times, and again recently, I have a couple of ideas about what Rowling might do.

I think Harry and Voldemort will probably kill each other; if Harry survives, he'll be deeply maimed somehow and his survival will probably be thanks to Ginny, Ron and/or Hermione. I also think Hagrid and Neville Longbottom are the most likely candidates for the two people close to Harry who die.

I think there's a small possibility that Snape will somehow be responsible for Voldemort's death, with ambition to become the head Dark wizard in his place. I'm also betting that Voldemort's death involves fire. I have to admit, I just can't see Harry using the Avada Kedavra curse.

Driven but unfocused

Indeed. I want to write, but I can't focus my attention on any of my current works-in-progress. Nor does the thought of starting something new appeal to me; I'm more in the mood to finish something, made rather more difficult by the lack of focus. Literary malaise is such a bitch. I should follow my own advice and use some of the writing exercises below (I should, but I probably won't).

Speaking of writers - which we were, right, ultimately - last night I finally watched the new Beatrix Potter movie, "Miss Potter". I thought it wonderful, myself. Renee Zellweger did a great job portraying Beatrix; the other actors were good too, but obviously a lot depended on her role and she really carried the movie. It was lovely.

I also think it could be partially responsible for my current malaise. I long for Beatrix's innate productivity. Living in England in the Lake Country would be nice, too. :)

Summer's Literary Malaise

Or make that my-laze... I've just not been able to get into anything since my Harry Potter rampage. (Next scheduled HP rampage: July 10th.) I've delved into "The Kalevala", the Finnish folk epic, and Barbara Kingsolver's new book, "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle", but I'm more in the mood for fiction. There's something about the summer heat that makes me crave a good, strong plotline.

Did a little more work on my children's mystery tonight. It's been a few months since I last worked on it. I keep thinking each chapter will be the last, or I was anyway; I'm now thinking it'll be another two chapters. It's a little darker and scarier than I'd originally intended, but I like it. We'll see what happens on the edit.

I had an interesting conversation the other day with an acquaintance who has the happy job of editing books. She said it's good to get some articles published, just by way of establishing some publication credits in a somewhat wider market than, say, poetry, lit or children's books. Good tip. Time to get back into creative nonfiction mode...

Crazy for Harry

I resisted reading the Harry Potter series for a long time, but when I finally caved, I caved big. I devoured all four books then in print, promptly pre-buying each new release as soon as possible. I admit it: I'm a total freak for Harry Potter. I'm already getting excited about the seventh year, coming out July 21st, although I've also started mourning the end of the series. I know Rowling's going to put out an eighth book of some sort, but it won't be the same. Honestly, I've been both excited about and dreading the day ever since I first read "The Sorcerer's Stone".

Anyone who enjoys childrens' books, and imaginative settings, has to love Harry Potter. I don't see how you couldn't. J.K. Rowling writes brilliantly, and her characters are fantastic. She does a great job of roundly portraying even the most minor character.

I have this tradition of re-reading the series on occasion, and most especially before the next one's due out. I realized last night, after finishing "Division Street", that with as little time as I have to read these days, I'd better get started on Harry. I got as far as pulling the book off the shelf before I got involved in something else and before I knew it, the next day had dawned without reading a word. Case in point. In fact, what am I doing writing?!

Thoughts on Division Street: America

I'm about two-thirds of the way through Studs Terkel's "Division Street: America", and it's so good. Very thought-provoking; it features interviews on civil rights, American race and class struggles like gentrification, and the changing world at a time when people's views on the world, civil rights and class were evolving rapidly, and more pressure was being brought to bear on these issues socially.

One thing I've noticed more about this book than Studs' others is the juxtaposition of interviews. At times, he'll put highly contrasting viewpoints one after another, each as certain as they can be that everyone sees things the way they do. It may be these shifting contexts that make this feel more like a vast ethnography of all of Chicago's microcosms, rather than straight oral history. It's more about how people's perceptions of the rest of the world, rather than what people do, which seems to be more the focus of much of his other work.

Regardless, as usual, it's going way too fast. One of the things I love about Studs' books is that they're easy for busy people to read, but they're so good that I find myself unable to stop reading. Another nice problem to have.

Research Block

Man, I've got it bad, and that ain't good. So much research to do, and so little time. I barely have time to read or do any of the writing exercises I listed below. The thought of having to do the research is so daunting that I don't even want to start, yet I don't feel like I can write more of the story 'til I've done the appropriate research.

I had great momentum on this story until I hit the really big research bit. I dove right in, got a good start, then just plain ran out of steam. I should really re-read the story, so I can get excited about it again. Sometimes I just go ahead and write, but it's frustrating knowing I'm going to have to go back through later and fill in so many gaps. This is why professional writers have research assistants. I have a cat. He's very cool, but not so great with the details on rural life in the 1950s South. I have a great lineup of books assembled that I think will help flesh out most of the missing detail, but good lord, there are a lot on the list. Ah well, it's a nice problem to have, I suppose...

Much Of A Good Thing

I'm taking a break from the Vonnegut binge. As my friend so aptly pointed out, he's a lot like a truffle, and I've gorged as much as I can appreciate for now. It's interesting how differently he reads now than my last marathon Vonnegut binge, which was about 9 years ago. He's still phenomenal, I'm just realizing how my own perspective on life has changed. I suppose that's not a bad thing.

It's tough trying to decide what to read next. Like the bumper sticker so wisely says - "So many books, so little time." (And really, what wisdoms are there outside the bevy of bumper stickers used to express our innermost thoughts and beliefs?)

The Finnish mythology is definitely calling me. I also have a lot of good books I need to read for research for my own book. But I'm sort of hankering for Thomas Pynchon's "Mason & Dixon", one of my all-time favorites. Still, it's another saga, and I'm sort of liking the idea of something more brief.

There is a Studs Terkel book I bought a while back and still haven't read. I love Studs - if you've never read "Working", may I strongly suggest you navigate over to your favorite bookseller's site and purchase it right away. The one I'm going to read is "Division Street: America", his first book. Aside from "Working", my favorite Studs book is his most recent, "And They All Sang". It's a remarkable work, whether you're into oral history, music or American history. Studs Terkel is a national treasure!

Ode to Used Bookstores

Is there anything better than a used bookstore? I confess, I get excited when I see a crowded parking lot at a big-box bookstore, thinking of all the folks inside whose minds are about to expand. But go into a used bookstore and breathe the peaceful, slightly musty air of the last repository of America's intelligent culture.

Maybe it's because my mom's a librarian, but I find the very presence of books soothing, let alone that wonderful smell in an older library or bookstore. To me, it's the smell of books waiting to be read. Or as Homer Simpson might say, "Mmm... books. (drool)". Okay, or he might not, unless the books were covered in chocolate sauce. I need no such additional temptation.

I recently found a great used bookstore in Colorado Springs, called The Bookman, at the corner of 31st Street and Colorado Ave. The owner was really helpful and kind, and the selection was fantastic. In less than 30 minutes, I was back out the door with a collection of poems published in the New Yorker over 50-plus years, two books of essays by T.S. Eliot, a Vonnegut book that I'd loaned out and was finally replacing, and a thick tome of Finnish mythology. Y'know... a little light reading. I was practically euphoric that I'd come away with such a haul.

I don't think it's just the eclectic inventory that I love, or the out-of-print or hard-to-find editions. I think it's the soul of the books. They've already got personality. Sure, a new book is fun to make one's own, but a used book can inspire great speculation on its former owners' lives, and evokes the feeling of being part of a larger tradition.

Props also to The Renaissance Book Shop in downtown Milwaukee, which for me was one of the highlights of our Thanksgiving road trip. This is one of those incredible bookstores that upon approach, you aren't entirely sure is open, but upon entering, you find yourself in freakin' Biblio-Paradise. Six floors and two buildings of books, books, and more books, the lopsided wooden shelves reaching to the tops of tall ceilings, huge boxes of books stacked in the aisle waiting to be shelved. A word to the wise: use the buddy system, or you'll never leave the store. Make sure you take someone with you who will want to leave in an hour or so, just to ensure you remember to eat again that day.

For the Love of Translation

I'm not fluent enough in any other languages to translate very well, myself, but I'm slightly obsessed with comparing translations to find the best one. Anyone who loves books from other cultures has got to do a little work to make sure they're finding the best rendition of their favorite works.

I realized this most emphatically during my sophomore year at Sarah Lawrence College, when I was reading Tolstoy's "War and Peace" for a class with my favorite professor, Fred Smoler. My fellow classmates and I were absolutely loving the book, devouring it; it was for a lecture class, and everywhere you went on campus, people were engrossed in it.

A vacation break came while we were reading it, and during my drive back home to North Carolina, I stopped by my dad and stepmom's then-home in Annapolis to visit for a couple days. I forgot my book when I journeyed on to NC, but I knew Mom had "War and Peace" on the bookshelves at home. (As a child, I'd sometimes stared at the immensely thick tome and wondered when I would read it.)

So my first night home, I pulled the book off the shelf and curled up on the couch to enjoy it. After I realized I'd read the same paragraph ten times and not retained a word of it, I thought to look at the translation credits. Sure enough, it was a different person than the translator of our version, which is Ann Dunnigan (Signet Classic, 1968). If you've ever tried to read "War and Peace" and found it as enthralling as eating sawdust, I urge you to pick up Dunnigan's translation and discover one of the greatest classics in literature.

In other cultures, if you like Eastern literature, Red Pine is an incredibly talented translator. He has an extensive body of work, and his version of the Tao Te Ching is remarkable.

Favorite Writing Exercises

I've been taking writing workshops for nearly 20 years now. As you can imagine, I've come across quite a few good writing exercises.

Why do writing exercises? Creativity is like a muscle; frequent use keeps it in good shape. You'll be amazed at how easily the words start flowing when you get into a writing "workout routine". Other times, writing exercises can help you work through a tricky bit, when you can't quite figure out the problem but you don't like a sentence, word, line of poetry etc.

"Yeah, yeah," you're saying. "We've all heard the recommendation to write at least 15 minutes a day, but even when I can find the time, it's hard to get into it." The problem could be that you're trying to be too focused. Muzzle your inner editor, and just let the words flow without worrying about getting them right. You'll be amazed what great stuff comes out.

DISCLAIMER: I am a total hypocrite. I don't write every day, unless you count email and work. But writing every day remains the goal.

Some days, you may want to write in a line completely different than your current work in progress, just to keep your brain from stagnating over the subject.

Every exercise has a thousand variations. This is just a general road map.

Writing Exercises

When (character) woke up this morning, little did he know...
...destiny was about to bring him:
...he was about to make the most amazing realization:
...his worst nightmare was about to come true:
...his lifelong dream was about to come true:
...during the night, his pet had:
...his (family member) was about to arrive on his doorstep:
...he would meet his future spouse that day:
...his significant other had already left him:


Describe in detail (character)'s...
...favorite chair
...kitchen table
...closet
...bedroom
...yard/garden
...hometown
...first/current car
...first/current pet
...first time drunk/high
...first/current crush
...first kiss
...first sex
...first breakup
...most embarrassing moment
...greatest triumph
...recurring dream
...very good or very bad day
...favorite or most hated chore
...favorite or most hated teacher
...favorite or most hated food
...favorite or most hated holiday
...favorite outfit
...sunglasses
...treasured piece of jewelry
...favorite shoes
...favorite alcoholic beverage/drug
...favorite work of art
...favorite book

Describe the first time your character's best friend met his significant other.

Describe a parent-teacher conference between your character's parent and his favorite or most hated teacher.

Describe where your character dreams of traveling. What would he do when he got there?

If your work-in-progress has a word, phrase, sentence, paragraph etc that just doesn't feel quite right, but you can't identify why, use this exercise from phenomenal poet Suzanne Gardinier, from whom I took an amazing workshop in college. Take that item (a line of poetry, in my case), start a new document or get a fresh piece of paper, and write an entire page (or poem) just about that item. Expound to your heart's content, then take the best parts of the result and work them back into the original document.

A Little Prehistory

I owe it all to my mom, really. She's a librarian. She retired this past November, but in some ways librarians are like Marines; once a librarian, always a librarian. Some of my fondest memories of spending time with Mom are of reading together before bedtime. Sometimes she would read to me; sometimes I would read to her. It was great together-time. (By the way, I don't care how old you are, you need to read "The Pushcart War" if you haven't already. It was our all-time favorite.)

I learned to read when I was three years old. I've always been fascinated by words, and the fact that they could be captured by these markings on a page seemed like magic. I still remember the first book I read by myself, "The Wolf and the Seven Kids". It was during free time in preschool one day. Surprised the hell out of the teacher - I still remember the look on her face when I walked up to her afterwards, held up the book, and said, "I read this."

Sometime in the next year, I learned that books were written by people. I think this again was thanks to my mom. Before that, I'd assumed books were just there, like trees and cars and people. To find that people created books was like being struck by a lightning bolt.

Close upon the heels of that epiphany came the realization that I was one of those people who created books. Brimming with the certain knowledge of my destiny, I ran into the kitchen. "Mom," I said, my voice urgent. "I know what God wants me to do when I grow up." (My notions of God were a lot more clear-cut at age four.)

Mom looked surprised, then tolerant, as adults often do when kids make their life-changing discoveries.

"What's that, honey?"

"He wants me to be a writer."

She half-suppressed a smile. "Oh! Okay, honey."

"I know it, Mom. That's why I'm here," I insisted.

"Okay, Ann. Be a writer."

The Never-Ending Story?

Ever have a story that just won't go away? It could've lain dormant for months, you've nearly kissed it good-bye, and all of a sudden, WHAM! A character pops into your head and says something pithy that sends you on a desperate hunt for scratch paper, regardless of where you are and what you're doing.

Those darn characters. No consideration at all, I tell ya. The worst is in the shower; writing with soap works so much better on cars than it does on bathroom tiles. Especially if you use liquid soap.

I've been working on a story for, oh, a couple of years now. (In ink - much more permanent than liquid soap.) I like the story, and I'm absolutely devoted to the main character. He can be a tease sometimes, hanging around on my mind without particularly offering any great insights or the abovementioned pithy comments, but I keep researching the times and settings of his life and kept plugging away at the writing. I thought I'd made a pretty good draft of Part I, and then the new Thomas Pynchon book, "Against the Day", came out. Reading it, I just wanted to shred my Part I into a million tiny pieces.

What a fool I was for pursuing such a linear plotline! What was I thinking, using omniscient third-person narrative so restrictively?! And on, and on, and on. Dammit, Pynchon, you're a genius, but that long shadow of yours sure can be a bitch when it falls directly on my feeble attempts at literature.

Eventually, I got over it, remembering that every story has its own best plotline and narration. Whew! What a relief. Beware comparing yourself to the writers you love; you really are your own worst critic.

But I think self-criticism is something that happens to writers when our brains aren't occupied enough with the actual work of writing. I probaby wouldn't have been nearly so self-flagellant if I'd actually written anything for my story within the few months previous to reading "Against the Day". But I hadn't, so I was already feeling somewhat unworthy, research aside.

The trick here is to celebrate the daily victories. I mean really, when you work a forty-hour-plus job, and with all the other demands on people's time, just be happy that you even have the energy to think about writing. Pat yourself on the back for doing some research. Reward yourself with chocolate for doing a ten-minute writing exercise. Did you actually write some of the story? Good lord, go out and get laid!

Okay, so I'm exaggerating for comedic effect. But the point remains. I'm not going to berate myself anymore for not having the Great American Novel written and published by the time I'm 30. I'm just glad that I'm working on a story at all. Let it take years, if it has to; this character rocks!

The Best Day Ever (The Wedding Poem Post)

One of the most incredible ways I got to bring my writing into my practical life was for our wedding. Sure, all my childhood dreams involved the "til death us do part" rote, but when it came down to it, I discovered that I couldn't possibly get married with another's words.

Thankfully, my now-husband agreed. Well, he wasn't quite as self-righteous about it, but he was cool with me writing our entire wedding ceremony. Woo hoo! Talk about a captive audience. I knew no one would dare facing the wrath of my mother if they got bored in the middle of it and wanted to walk out.

It was a ton of fun to write the ceremony; my stepmom helped with research on different wedding traditions from relevant cultures - largely Irish, German and of course American. Writing it was by far one of the most fun parts of planning the wedding. (At one point, I probably would've said one of the only fun parts, but happily Time has dimmed those memories.)

Among other ceremony components, I knew I wanted to include a reading of a love poem I'd written for my Best Beloved. But when I got to the point of deciding which poem to include - and after nearly seven years together, there were a lot - I found that none of them were quite what I wanted to say on this occasion.

So I wrote a new poem.

Here it is, in all its copyright-protected glory. (If you want to use it, just post a comment to ask.) Thanks and love to my maid of honor, Kate, one of my best friends from Sarah Lawrence College, who gave a really good reading of it during the ceremony.


true love

how to put words around the truth of love
the looks, the smells, the small private joke
how to say what we are, what you mean to me –

my own tongue is too clumsy.
let the stars put it into words for us.

let the wind sing the truth of love
as it whips round the corners of our home,
battering against the walls
behind which we curl, in shared sleep.

let the curving road, sun-dappled, disappearing under our car
say where the path of love may lead.
who knows but we may best know love
changing a flat tire by the side of the road.

and perhaps it is the impossible definition of love
that makes us all long to know it,
for the only chance
to understand love
is to live it.

let the next adventure take us
where it will, my love

I will go with you.

At the Very Beginning, There Was Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut gets credit for this entire blog, little though he'd want it, were he still alive. Am I the only one still mourning Vonnegut's death? Surely not. I bet John Irving's still pacing his halls, if no one else.

When I heard the news, I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. I focused on finishing the new Pynchon book as fast as possible, so I could start 'tribute reading' all the Vonnegut books I had. (Neither easy tasks, by the way. Have you seen the new Pynchon? It could stop a bullet! Likewise, tribute reading a prolific writer like Vonnegut is not a task for the faint of heart.)

So now, a week or so and a Cat's Cradle, Deadeye Dick, Player Piano and introduction to Breakfast of Champions later (with many more books yet to go), I am forcibly struck by the absence of the love letter I never wrote to Kurt Vonnegut. It was the force of this realization that drove me to start a blog, so I could tell the online world how much Vonnegut meant to me, since I never told him while he was alive.

Vonnegut is probably doing triple axels in his grave right now, assuming they buried him wearing ice skates and he's somehow magically online reading this post. I can just imagine him: "Good Lord! Why are you cluttering up the collective consciousness with odes to an absurd, deceased writer?" Maybe he'd quote a relevant Bokonon poem, or maybe he'd just say, "Hi-ho."

Regardless, here it is:

O Greatest of Kurts,

This letter's been a long time coming. Half my life ago, my hands cracked open the cover of "Breakfast of Champions", and when I closed the book again, I was changed forever. I suppose part of my love for you will always be the fourteen year old who was so astonished to find that somebody else out there found the world as funny and pathetic and hopeful and sad as I did.

I think that's where your greatness lies - and don't scoff, because you truly are a great writer. Your books are incredible, the way you interweave humor and pathos, effortlessly, naturally, with a brutal harshness and a sweet poignancy.

It is remarkable. It is, in fact, purely Vonnegut.

Maybe that's what I admire the most - that your style can't be imitated, and you imitate none other. Maybe it's the honesty that shines through your work, even as you protest that everything you say is untrue. Maybe it's the kinship I feel reading your mockery of mankind's pretense that we're better than human, and your celebration of the fact that we are, after all, only imperfect, blundering, frail, self-delusional humans.

Really, that's all we need to be. Thank you for pointing it out, again and again and again. Thanks for all the laughs, the sorrow, the catharsis. Thanks for being you. I can't imagine a world without you, but thank god you wrote all you did, because even after your death, you are still in the world with us.

I love you, Kurt Vonnegut. You are greatly missed.