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.