Writing Is My Drink and My 26-Minute Memoir

This summer I had a few precious weeks of more open-ended time that I could spend writing. It was quite terrifying and I felt the pressure to produce after long stretches of go-go-go work and home life. I knew I had to find a way to avoid the self-sabotage of frittering away that all-too-rare time.

In moments like these I cling to my collection of "writer's self-help" resources. One of my go-to books has been Writing Is My Drink by Theo Pauline Nestor. I was particularly inspired (once again) by her description of breaking through a terrible block writing her graduate thesis after reading Virginia Valian’s essay “Learning to Work” from Working It Out: 23 Women Writers, Artists, Scientists, and Scholars Talk About Their Lives and Work. I discovered this long out-of-print book in FIT's library while developing my Creative Imagination honors course over a decade ago. I am so happy that Theo has provided a PDF of Valian's piece on her site.

At the end of one of the chapters Theo gives a prompt for a "26-Minute Memoir" and directs readers to her website for more information. I did the exercise and decided to email Theo my piece, even though she hadn't published any new ones since 2015.

Lo and behold, a few weeks later, Theo wrote back and said she had been thinking of posting them again, and wanted to start with mine!

This morning, on the brink of the Fall 2017 semester, as I prepare to lead my department and teach my students (and support my son, who is now taking classes there), I got an email from Theo with a link to my piece on her website. I am even more terrified--of what it reveals about me as a person, and of what it means to me as a writer. Now I really have no excuse not to do the work. I am learning, thanks to Theo, Virginia, and many others who have done it before me, and to my students who will just be starting this adventure next week.

NaPoWriMo 2017, Day 10 (skipped some)

Passacaglia

I still make inside jokes with you
even though you don't get them
strings wavering

The moon is a bright tired thing
everybody thinks they own
night buzzes along

Salt water was your favorite
so cleansing, the passages
crisp folds marked

Hold the bow lightly
technique finally perfected
doors fly open

NaPoWriMo: Lost My Mojo

This year for the first time I thought I'd try NaPoWriMo--National Poetry Writing Month, writing a poem a day and posting on my blog. That lasted until the 15th, at which time I took the weekend off (busy with kids and such) and then never got back to it. Maybe I went to too many poetry readings--this National Poetry Month was a killer! I focused too much on the online class I'm teaching now (yes, while on sabbatical) and the 3 I'll be teaching during the summer session (argh). Bobby needed attention, Stella's IEP meeting happened, and life intervened. In short, one thing led to another, I got out of the habit of lowering my standards and steeling myself to draft and post a poem every day. I kind of started to forget what it felt like.

On the plus side, I'm happy with having drafted 15 poems so far, and I think I'll try to eke out a couple more before May is upon us. Anything that gets me stringing words together is a good thing. Stay tuned, folks!

"I CAN'T!" Notes on resistance in life and writing...

Resisting the paparazzi. July 4, 2014

My darling daughter, Stella, is twelve and a half now, prone to the vagaries of tween moods and whims, with a little extra spice from the "typical" stubbornness commonly exhibited by people (especially adolescents) with Down syndrome. When she is asked to do something and doesn't want to, which happens with alarming frequency, she has taken to protesting, "I CAN'T!" in a voice harsh with impatience.

I know how Stella feels. There are so many things I "should" do--or even "want" to do--that provoke serious resistance in me. Whether it's exercise, or eating right, or the proverbial cleaning my room, I feel like I'm twelve and a half and find myself having to be my own parent--or, worse, just giving in to the "can'ts" and not doing anything.

Writing, unfortunately, is one of these things. Although I identify as a "writer" and a "teacher of writing," and there is nothing like the feeling of being lost in language and in the flow of creation, I admit that I do not always see putting words on the page as a fun and exciting activity.

beating the retreat....again

It's hard to believe that it's been over two years since I last visited the Bon Secours Spiritual Center in Maryland. This is the third time that I've created my own "retreat"--this time I intended to spend a lot of time writing, but I've been distracted by various emotional upheavals and just life in general. I've been here since Monday afternoon, and yesterday I finally just decided this was my vacation and I would do my best to chill and enjoy this beautiful place. Just a few days left until the fall semester starts at FIT, so I'm taking it all in while I can.

P.S. My mom just went into the hospital with pneumonia and is on IV antibiotics. Last week the kids and I stayed with her and Dad in Ohio, and she started to feel sick at the end of our visit, but has gotten worse since then. Thoughts and prayers appreciated!

weekender

NOTE: It is perhaps unsurprising that I originally drafted the following post LAST weekend and am just finishing and posting it now.

I haven't posted here in awhile (again). Mostly it's because I've been doing other things, but there is always the shadow of blogger's block. I still don't know what it's about, exactly. Partly it's the same as regular writer's block, but the other part of it is the public nature of blogging. I have a link to my blog on my email signature, it's on my facebook page, it's the first thing that comes up if someone googles my name. So there's no way I can really hide here, unless I have some "restricted" posts, and I don't really see the sense of that. If I have something to say that's private, for a small group, I either just write in my notebook or send an email to a couple of friends.

Anyway, lately I've been remembering the words of Dave Smith, who with Claudia Emerson led the workshop in which I was a fellow at Sewanee last summer. Dave really held my feet to the fire, but it was something I needed. I'd submitted a manuscript of work-in-progress (something that most of the fellows don't do, for some reason, but I thought I'd take advantage of having a thorough reading by some experts, free of charge). After my hour-long conference, I read the three-page single-spaced letter Dave had written--it was more like an essay directed to me individually, engaged, elegantly-written, and incisive. At the end, I broke down and cried because he had hit the nail on the head--not so much about the poems themselves (although his comments were useful and on-target) as about my commitment to poetry.

I think the "serious" poet is not competing against stand-up comics but against the great poems in our language. To bear that burden of competition is a killer weight, but if a poet is not trying to do the best possible work, how is he/she different from the literary week-ender?

That, dear reader, is the question, and underlying that is another series of questions: am I destined to be a "week-ender"? what would I have to do to be "serious" about poetry? something's gotta give, but what?

At the end of the letter, Dave wrote:

I think you can be a very entertaining poet, especially reading to small crowds who have every reason to like not being challenged; or you can be both entertaining and much better, the kind of poet whose language has resonance and durability.

He went on to name some poets (all women, of course) he considered "non-week-enders" and the list included some of my personal heroes and one of my close personal friends. That was when I cried. Yes, I want to do what these writers have done. What has been stopping me? Why, if I consider my writing so central to my life, do I always give other work, the work that is for pay, more legitimacy and thus more of my energy? How can I change this?

If I don't get a handle on this I'll never have a second book. I'll never finish the memoir. I'll always be a might-have-been, an also-ran, a "but she had so much potential." I'm working on finding another way.

snow day

The only reason I can even post this is that FIT is closed (along with the NYC public schools) due to "inclement weather." We've got a snowstorm on our hands and, although at the moment it looks like it may be petering out, it's dumped several inches already and is supposed to leave us with up to a foot on the ground.

Bob came over to take the kids out sledding. So here I am, just you, me, and my computer. I have so much to talk about, but I just can't bring myself to write much. I don't know what it is--some of my "stuff" is not suitable for public consumption, but mostly it's just too daunting to shape and craft and wrestle with words right now. I've written dozens of emails for work, done some Facebook status updates, exchanged some messages with friends. Maybe I'm worded out. I'll keep trying, though. I promise.

logos, ethos, pathos....

Actually, I don't plan to discourse on the three rhetorical appeals in the title, above. But I do find it positively pathetic that I haven't blogged here in over a month! I've been posting at the Red Hen Press blog (rather sketchily) and doing a lot of other stuff, mainly fixing up the apartment so that, after six months, there are finally more actual pieces of furniture than cardboard boxes. The place is starting to live up to its potential.

I've also been baking a lot of pies. And eating them. More about that another time.

back on track

It's time I reminded myself how essential writing is to my general well-being. Not just because it can be therapeutic to "journal," but because writing is my medium, my passion, my vocation, the art form I am trying to master or at least practice consistently.

While I haven't been posting here, I've been reading other blogs and marvel at the consistency and clarity of these writers. One of them, Big Little Wolf's Daily Plate of Crazy, is like a magazine with posts that are funny, touching, helpful, and cogent every day.The author D.A. Wolf's post from yesterday is amazing in articulating the fear of not being able to articulate. I have read few accounts that are so honest and accurate about writer's block, guilt, grief, fear, self-recrimination, being overwhelmed, the power of rage to sidetrack us, and trying to parent--because we haveto parent--despite it all.

It's hard for me to put my inchoate thoughts and feelings into a form that I feel comfortable sharing with "my public" (however small that may be). It's not just about privacy and self-disclosure, it's about the writing itself, the feeling that it must be of a certain level to post here, and the inability at the moment to put in the time or effort that it takes.

Right now, it's crunch time at FIT (as in most academic institutions), and for me that means a desperate attempt to catch up on the seemingly insurmountable responding and grading that the students in all four of my writing classes need right now. It doesn't help that I've been dealing with a difficult Personal Situation (sometime I'll post about it on my new blog, which hasn't really started up yet) that has sucked up my energies and added to the sense of behind-ness.

This morning, looking out at the trees outside my "study" (first ever! my own little alcove for working, writing, dreaming, filing--urgh) and the brick two-family attached homes across the street (so like the one that houses my second-floor apartment), I actually got out the pink spiral bound notebook I'm supposed to be using for the erstwhile morning pages. I had been gearing up to write about the Personal Situation, to explore, get down, and somehow unravel all the roiling, looping thoughts and feelings that have washed around my brain for awhile. Yes, it helps. Yes, as I always tell my students, I discovered things I didn't expect to. Yes, it is a key to health and peace and productivity.

But yes, Stella is home from school for the fifth day this week--she has been suffering from a nasty cold, and I thought she needed an extra day to recover--so I could very easily be waylaid. Right after I put Bobby on the bus, I poured my coffee, went to my desk, and started writing. I put aside the dozens of students waiting for my comments on their poems, essays, and short stories--the screaming, steaming pile of guilt, and wrote. I knew I would be much better able to concentrate on the teaching if I got this out of the way first. I had a good hour or more before I heard her footsteps.

I have to keep at this process no matter what. I must prioritize it again, start over with the good intention, daily if possible, we shall see, we shall see.

Now to my students! (who are wonderful and have been extremely patient)