Reading Scary Stuff

I’ve been thinking about scary stories and my reluctance to read them. My fear relates to seeing years ago the movie What Ever Happened to Baby Jane. I was on a first date and just when the movie got intense, the guy I was with disappeared into the men’s room and left me alone in the dark theater with danger on the screen. First and last date, and I still don’t go to many movies. The last one was, I think, The Hundred Foot Journey in 2014. I’ve tried twice now to read Ken Follett’s World Without End, but the opening chapter involves a little girl in danger and I squirm and slam the tome shut. Sorry, Mr. Follett.

Yet, when I look at the book covers posted on various sites, I know I’m out of touch with what’s hot in fiction–murder, mayhem, betrayal and Armageddon. Not my idea of a good read. And yet–yet–I read scary non-fiction that other people won’t touch. Recently I posted a short list of climate-related books on my author FB page and people ran screaming into the night, I guess. Only one of my readers admitted noticing. We can keep the danger in fiction at a safe remove, but science–which is not fake–hits too hard. Scrapes us raw and we retreat into fairy tales. I do that too, but we have to break this habit. Climate fiction helps, some. But sooner, rather than too late, we have to consider the results of our ignorance and our guilt over what we’ve done to the earth and what it will, in return, do to us.

Get Out!

Getting out of my own way is a constant challenge. When I succeed, the world is larger, more exciting and more rewarding. Last week I wrote about my plan for devoting more time to my first love, poetry and rejoin the community of like minds. That intention, though, won’t matter unless I connect with the world beyond my desk. I am not happy as artist in a cold, lonely garret. Better to put on my walking shoes, or the art that is in me collapses like a spent balloon, no shape, no lift.
       So I announced my plea for connection with other poets and the world heard me. No, I did not stand on the front porch and shout it to the geese on the wing or the pizza delivery driver speeding past. Yet, it’s happening. Coincidence, chance, or synchronicity: “the coincidental occurrence of events and especially psychic events (such as similar thoughts in widely separated persons or a mental image of an unexpected event before it happens) that seem related but are not explained by conventional mechanisms of causality used especially in the psychology of C. G. Jung” Miriam Webster Dictionary.
       Yesterday email brought news of a poetry festival in February in Crestone, CO. That’s not the moon or Mars. I will go. It’s rude to refuse an invitation from the muses. Also yesterday, I went to Lighthouse Writers Workshop Friday 500 event. This time we visited the Denver Public Library and Dan Manzanares introduced us to the poetry of Belle Turnbull (1875-1950). Welcome Belle to my word hoard. Also, yes! Jackie St Joan, News Poetry Editor for Colorado Independent notified me that my latest submission has been accepted.
       For whatever reason or no reason at all, I’m receiving what I asked for, as if my mind is a radio tuned to the right station, my pen an app that delivers, not pizza, but poems. “Only connect! … Live in fragments no longer.”–E. M. Forster

A Plan in January

So, last blog I said I would this week reveal my writing plan for the future. First, regarding the future, Fate is in charge. What I intend, though, is this: I’m rejoining my tribe, poets, and now my mornings pages are full of old words and new insights. I’m mining for prompts two books, Tremor by Adam Zagajewski and The Notebook by José Saramago. The first is poetry, the second a collection of blog posts by a Nobel Prize winner from Portugal. I need their ideas, images, vocabulary and syntax now to be of use in a ragged world.They lead me deeper into dark and difficult places, but I manage to come out of those caves (think Plato) with sharper sight, or so it feels. Maybe I’ve mentioned a hundred times that I admire depth as well as the other joys of poetry.

Poetry should be of use, not to preach, but to connect the writer and the reader to a shared world. Ten years ago or so I took a weeklong workshop at Naropa University with poet Allison Hedge Coke. Her assignment was to put art in service to a cause. At that time my cause was our endangered food supply. I was fired up by the writing of Michael Pollan, Barbara Kingsolver, and others who highlighted the risks of taking food for granted. The result was my poetry book The Great Hunger, or in Irish An Gorta Mor. (No, I don’t speak Irish; a generous student in Galway once tried to teach me, but this short-stay visitor did not learn much Irish.)

Over coffee yesterday, I talked with Jared Smith, an excellent and experienced poet, about reconnecting to poets. He encouraged me and suggested what to read, where to go, who to know or know about. I’m also involved in writing News Poetry for Colorado Independent, a progressive online newspaper. And I have widened the lens of current events to include concerns over climate, homelessness, and racial inequality. The news is full of inhumanity and I don’t plan to preach–preaching is not the same as poetry–but I mean to put my words in service to the sad unfairness of the world and find some peace in the making of poems.

2017 in Review

This weekend many of us will look over our shoulders and see what’s behind us, not what’s stalking us, but what we have accomplished, other than staying alive. Mostly, I think of the work I’ve done. Keeping a positive attitude so that I don’t shred myself to tatters over what’s left undone. So, let’s see what I have accomplished:

Finished and launched a third novel, Invisible Juan; had eight poems published in a variety of venues; coached an enduring group of eight other writers; maintained my poetry output with the help of a weekly critique group (thanks, Gamuts); led a workshop or two, one for the News Writers of the Colorado Independent; participated as an invited guest in the seasonal poetry reading at the Loveland CO Museum; read more good books than I can list; posted a few reviews on Goodreads; wrote regularly with two groups of friends, one the Free Writers, the other a women’s group; maintained this weekly blog; had Providence reviewed in Publishers Weekly; spent many productive hours in libraries and coffee shops with my pen in hand; started yet another novel (what am I thinking?) and met regularly with my climate fiction partner to share ideas and information on writing and publishing.

Thanks to my followers for sticking with me here, on FaceBook, and on Twitter. I’ve learned from you, taken your presence as encouragement, and your discernment as a measure of my skills. Feel free to jump in here and let me know how your year of writing has gone. Next week, let’s set some goals for 2018. HAPPY NEW YEAR.

One-Hundred Word Story

The newest issue of Poets & Writers is on my desk, liberally underlined and already a little creased. Useful, as usual, and challenging. Of note is Grant Faulkner’s article “Imagination Under Pressure,” in which he recommends writing in sprints and in limited ways. Limited as in exactly a 100-word story. Gauntlet thrown, news article recalled, dream images accepted as prompt. Here’s my attempt at the shortest of short stories, exactly 100 words (not counting the title).


RESCUED

At sunrise, Ed awoke. As the forecast had promised, the air was biting cold—not so easy then to die of hypothermia. His bladder demanded relief, stomach rumbled, mouth felt like dryer lint. Poor Marcia had insisted he hike with his survival pack, now pillowed under his head, a water bottle, beside him in the sleeping bag. Body heat had prevented its freezing. The slip of water over his tongue reminded him of coffee, suggested one more day with hot, black coffee. Okay then. He would tie his Day-Glo scarf to a branch and let the search drone find him.

Now I’m Annoyed

Some times I’m slow to recognize an insult when I hear one. Not so long ago I was shopping for holiday gifts and the woman in front of me at the register, whom I know casually, asked me if I make much money from my writing. I grinned and answered her. I answered her! Robotic courtesy. Well, damn, would you ask anyone else whom you know casually what they earn at whatever they do? Do you question the clerk at the register or the server in the diner, the barista? How about the FedEx or UPS driver? Of course not, it’s no one’s business what they make. It did not occur to me at the time to be offended, but I should have been. My income is no one’s business but mine, my banks, and my creditors.

This time of the year I get cranky about money because of the constant pressure to buy things, the sale junk that clogs my email, Face Book, Twitter, mailbox. No, I don’t resent giving gifts to people I love, taking the time to discover what will please them, anticipating their joy with just the right present. But I’m so numbed by the endless ads for things I don’t want to buy that I didn’t even feel that rude question when it came at me like an arrow right in the wallet.

Writing is my work; I expect to be honored as an honest worker, but I don’t expect people to pry and judge my worth by the numbers. Some of the best writers we have ever known earned little, some nothing; some of the worst have made millions. The gauge of good writing in not monetary; it’s the freshness and precision of language and imagery, the surprise in the story or the depth of the poem; it’s the humor or the passion or the grief. An insight. It’s the making something new out of our tiny alphabet, our only raw material. It’s a gift beyond price and money is not the reason for the season. Nor is it the reason I write.

What Inspires Me

TWISTED TREES

It’s easy to praise

lush trees weighted

with fruit or flowers

but the true test

of love is to trace

skeletal silhouettes,

stripped of their leaves

by the wind.

What remains—

the endurance of bark,

exposed, the wisdom

of bare branches

to carry less

of winter’s weight.

   Karen Douglass

Photograph used with permission from Kit Hedman, photographer.  Thanks, Kit.

December’s Diary

When I was twelve years old, I found my late grandmother’s diary, one of those with only a few lines for each day. What I saw was not important. What was missing could have been very important. Gram died when I was seven, and to this day, decades later, I wish I had known her better. Even my memories of holidays are sketchy. That diary was a lost opportunity for me. And a few years later the old family house burned, and her history became hearsay.

At this time of the year many of us fret over the busy buying season, lose sight of the personal routines that otherwise soothe us. For me, of course, writing is all the more a relief and a solace. And this year I plan to bracket each day with writing. I won’t give up morning pages because they are now a vital form of clearing my head. And I will add a reflection of each day in this busy, potentially distracting month.

This morning I pulled from my stash a small red notebook with a little white snowflake and wrote on the first page my intention to capture what I can for this month. I’ll write about the traditions, the expectations and the disappointments. I may tuck in pictures, holiday cards, even ads that reflect the commercialism of the season. The view may widen to public issues, or narrow to my emotional reactions to whatever happens. I may write about decorations or potlucks, worship or worry. Whatever comes is fodder. And at the end of the month I’ll slide that small notebook into an envelope, label it, December Diary 2017, and set it aside.