Just finished the first draft of Mindkiller. And now I'm terrified. Going to wait a few days before I tackle first revision--let it sit for a bit--and I already know there's a lot to do and what to do, so that's good. No worries...yet.
What scares me is what am I going to do for the next few days!? Since school let out a month ago, I've been writing 4-6 hours a day, depending on if I decide to swim or fish in the afternoon. That's a lot of time to fill.
I'm thinking of making a bean-art portrait. Or gluing things together in a shitty assemblage. Or going to a lot of matinees. Or finally reading 2666 (after I finish Freedom). Or revising a short story I wrote a year ago.
Or I don't know what. Any suggestions?
Showing posts with label crafts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crafts. Show all posts
Freedom is like a book without many metaphors.
In the past few weeks, I've read Swamplandia!, The Illumination, and a new Joyce Carol Oates short story collection whose name I've forgotten and I've already returned it to the library so I can't check. Currently I'm halfway through Freedom, which I won't even link to.
I've enjoyed all of them, but the one that has been freeing (ha! no pun intended) to me, as a writer, is Freedom.
The book has a refreshing lack of similes and metaphors, an obsessive attention to characters' interior lives, and it occasionally tells not shows. What? Tells not shows? Yes, yes indeed. And it works, too.
Both Swamplandia! and The Illumination are beautiful books with careful writing. Subject-wise, they're closer to what I typically read and what I aspire to write--stories that are magical, lyrical, and not rooted in psychological realism. In The Illumination, pain becomes manifest as an ethereal white light; Swamplandia! follows a family of alligator wrestlers who are too eccentric to be real, plus there are ghosts (who turn out to not be real, I think).
Freedom is none of these things. It is old school Russian-style soap opera. And I love it.
While Swamplandia! was a wonderfully imagined tale, at times the story was weighted down with its metaphorical language. I was too often aware that I was reading something that the author labored over. Karen Russell sure spent a lot of time thinking about words.
And here's a confession: sometimes as I write, I am guilty of the same thing, spending way too much time thinking of the apt, poetic simile and not chugging forward with the story. And the story is king.
But with Freedom, the writing style disappears, as if the novel just sprung forth (like in the beginning was the word and the word was...Franzen?), so that what the reader focuses on is the action (which is sometimes inaction). We become invested in the jealousy and struggles and desires of the extremely human characters.
Now, I like words. Love them. I read my share of poetry. Heck, I even read and teach L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets. I understand and support the idea of playing with and manipulating language.
Freedom is teaching me that sometimes language gets in the way. Sometimes a word is just a word, and a character can just cry, not cry tears that sparkle like sweaty diamonds left strewn across a table which is draped in a black tablecloth like a shroud thrown over the casket of someone you once loved.
What's important is that the character cried, darn it. (Jesus wept.)
I've enjoyed all of them, but the one that has been freeing (ha! no pun intended) to me, as a writer, is Freedom.
The book has a refreshing lack of similes and metaphors, an obsessive attention to characters' interior lives, and it occasionally tells not shows. What? Tells not shows? Yes, yes indeed. And it works, too.
Both Swamplandia! and The Illumination are beautiful books with careful writing. Subject-wise, they're closer to what I typically read and what I aspire to write--stories that are magical, lyrical, and not rooted in psychological realism. In The Illumination, pain becomes manifest as an ethereal white light; Swamplandia! follows a family of alligator wrestlers who are too eccentric to be real, plus there are ghosts (who turn out to not be real, I think).
Freedom is none of these things. It is old school Russian-style soap opera. And I love it.
While Swamplandia! was a wonderfully imagined tale, at times the story was weighted down with its metaphorical language. I was too often aware that I was reading something that the author labored over. Karen Russell sure spent a lot of time thinking about words.
And here's a confession: sometimes as I write, I am guilty of the same thing, spending way too much time thinking of the apt, poetic simile and not chugging forward with the story. And the story is king.
But with Freedom, the writing style disappears, as if the novel just sprung forth (like in the beginning was the word and the word was...Franzen?), so that what the reader focuses on is the action (which is sometimes inaction). We become invested in the jealousy and struggles and desires of the extremely human characters.
Now, I like words. Love them. I read my share of poetry. Heck, I even read and teach L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets. I understand and support the idea of playing with and manipulating language.
Freedom is teaching me that sometimes language gets in the way. Sometimes a word is just a word, and a character can just cry, not cry tears that sparkle like sweaty diamonds left strewn across a table which is draped in a black tablecloth like a shroud thrown over the casket of someone you once loved.
What's important is that the character cried, darn it. (Jesus wept.)
New Age, New Mexico
I'm not much of a believer, especially in the supernatural. Healing crystals, auras, astrology, vibrations of the universe, positive energy, bah humbug, I say.
Which is why it was strange to find myself at a Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl healing session. Or not so strange when you consider I'm in New Mexico visiting relatives--one of whom conducts Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl healing sessions--and I'm open to new experiences.
We get to her studio, which is decked out in incense, scarves, pillows, books by Rumi, and some hammock thing that's supposedly for yoga but looks more like a marital aid. It smells good in there. There are three patients besides me.
We lie on giant mattresses with little lavender pillows on our eyes. The bowls are on the floor, surrounding us, six or seven of them. The healer places pillows under our necks and knees and I am very comfortable. Then the crystal bowl music begins! The notes reverberate in my ears, echoing on each other, sometimes as loud as a guitar amp. The bowls are in perfect harmony, wonderfully tuned. I lie there and enjoy the concert, which lasts half an hour and is unusual, like nothing I've ever heard. It ends with chimes, a rainstick, and a Chinese gong.
After is where the experience goes outside of my realm. One guy saw visions but of what he didn't say. A woman's third eye opened and it was red. Someone else saw their late mom as pure white light!
Me? My lavender eye pillow made me sneeze, so I had to remove it. I think my third eye was crusted over with dried mucus. Or maybe I don't have one. The music was lovely though.
Which is why it was strange to find myself at a Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl healing session. Or not so strange when you consider I'm in New Mexico visiting relatives--one of whom conducts Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl healing sessions--and I'm open to new experiences.
We get to her studio, which is decked out in incense, scarves, pillows, books by Rumi, and some hammock thing that's supposedly for yoga but looks more like a marital aid. It smells good in there. There are three patients besides me.
We lie on giant mattresses with little lavender pillows on our eyes. The bowls are on the floor, surrounding us, six or seven of them. The healer places pillows under our necks and knees and I am very comfortable. Then the crystal bowl music begins! The notes reverberate in my ears, echoing on each other, sometimes as loud as a guitar amp. The bowls are in perfect harmony, wonderfully tuned. I lie there and enjoy the concert, which lasts half an hour and is unusual, like nothing I've ever heard. It ends with chimes, a rainstick, and a Chinese gong.
After is where the experience goes outside of my realm. One guy saw visions but of what he didn't say. A woman's third eye opened and it was red. Someone else saw their late mom as pure white light!
Me? My lavender eye pillow made me sneeze, so I had to remove it. I think my third eye was crusted over with dried mucus. Or maybe I don't have one. The music was lovely though.
Snow Cream
There's been a revolution in Egypt, but I don't have anything new and insightful to say about it. Except it's awesome. Power to the people!
I do have something to say about Snow Cream, however.
First off, Southerners freak out when it snows. A "blizzard" came in Wednesday morning and we got about six inches. Everything closed. In fact, it's Friday and the university where I teach is still closed. Seriously. It's gonna hit 45 degrees today and the roads are, by and large, clear, but I'm not complaining. Five-day weekend!
But there's this delicacy called Snow Cream.
Mark and I went for a walk yesterday and when we came home, our neighbor, Monroe, was gathering snow in a pitcher. We made small talk for a while and then I asked Monroe why he was gathering snow in a pitcher.
"Snow Cream," he said, as if it were self-evident. "You never heard of it?"
I'm from New Jersey and Mark's from Minnesota. Both places have a fair amount of snow, but neither one of us had ever heard of or made Snow Cream. I assumed it was a Southern treat like fried pickles until I looked it up on Wikipedia. They date it to 15th century England.
Here's how you make it: Gather clean snow. Make sure it's been on the ground a few hours. Somehow that makes it purer. Put it in a big bowl and mix it up with a can of sweetened condensed milk and a teaspoon vanilla. Or you can use whole milk, sugar and vanilla. Stir it up real good and serve immediately.
It's supposed to have the consistency of ice cream. Mine didn't. It was like cold sweet milk. It melted as soon as I stirred it. I followed Paula Deen's recipe to the letter. Maybe I didn't add enough snow. I think you need a wheelbarrow of snow.
And now most of the white stuff has melted and what's left is old and dirty. The Snow Cream's moment has passed.
I wonder if they've ever heard of Snow Cream in Egypt?
I do have something to say about Snow Cream, however.
First off, Southerners freak out when it snows. A "blizzard" came in Wednesday morning and we got about six inches. Everything closed. In fact, it's Friday and the university where I teach is still closed. Seriously. It's gonna hit 45 degrees today and the roads are, by and large, clear, but I'm not complaining. Five-day weekend!
But there's this delicacy called Snow Cream.
Mark and I went for a walk yesterday and when we came home, our neighbor, Monroe, was gathering snow in a pitcher. We made small talk for a while and then I asked Monroe why he was gathering snow in a pitcher.
"Snow Cream," he said, as if it were self-evident. "You never heard of it?"
I'm from New Jersey and Mark's from Minnesota. Both places have a fair amount of snow, but neither one of us had ever heard of or made Snow Cream. I assumed it was a Southern treat like fried pickles until I looked it up on Wikipedia. They date it to 15th century England.
Here's how you make it: Gather clean snow. Make sure it's been on the ground a few hours. Somehow that makes it purer. Put it in a big bowl and mix it up with a can of sweetened condensed milk and a teaspoon vanilla. Or you can use whole milk, sugar and vanilla. Stir it up real good and serve immediately.
It's supposed to have the consistency of ice cream. Mine didn't. It was like cold sweet milk. It melted as soon as I stirred it. I followed Paula Deen's recipe to the letter. Maybe I didn't add enough snow. I think you need a wheelbarrow of snow.
And now most of the white stuff has melted and what's left is old and dirty. The Snow Cream's moment has passed.
I wonder if they've ever heard of Snow Cream in Egypt?
Of Pots and Men
Warren Mackenzie is my father-in-law. To most people, that means nothing. Just some dude. To those into crafts and pottery, however, Warren's the man.
And when I say the man, I mean it. Warren's a living legend. He has pots in the Smithsonian and the Met. He's big guns. Big pots.
The first time I visited him and Nancy, my husband's mother, back in 1998, I was so nervous I had crying fits in the upstairs bedroom. Then I drank too much at the dinner party--the Mondales were there, fer chrissakes, Walter and Joan Mondale!--and spent the next morning sick in bed. Okay, more than the next morning. It was an embarrassing episode I'd just as soon forget.
Point being, the whole scene was a little too heady for this working class gal from Jersey. Here were real-life artists, internationally recognized artists, whose home was filled with art. And I grew up thinking Hummels were the shit--and I'm not dissing on those adorable figurines. Just a point of contrast.
Over the years, I've stopped crying and over-drinking. Because it's not about me (gasp!). It's about them. Also Warren and Nancy are such warm and open humans, it's hard to be nervous around them. And I've learned a lot from them--about being an artist, absolutely, but also a good human being.
1. Work every day. Warren is a star at this. He's in his pottery every day because he's a potter. That's what he does. About five years ago he was diagnosed with silicosis, which is a lung disease caused by inhaling clay. It slowed him down at first. Not anymore. The dude is 86 and you can't even tell he has it.
2. But it's okay to take time off if family's in town. Work is important--no doubt. But people are too.
3. A drink or two in the evening never hurt anyone. My husband Mark and I visited over Christmas, so there were lots of parties. Did I mention Warren is 86? Did I mention he can drink me under the table? He even drank the curd-like, old and skanky Baileys. It was so thick it wasn't cream anymore. It was cheese. He and Mark also sat around one night and drank absinthe. One time I had a shot of that stuff and immediately got a headache.
4. Dessert never hurt anyone either. Especially chocolate ice cream.
5. Sit down and eat your meals together. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, if possible. Don't watch television or stand up at the sink. Put flowers on the table. Listen to your jaws pop.
6. When you're having a dinner party, get everything ready hours in advance. I learned this from Nancy. Do as much as you can--even set the table! It saves heartache. Also, no one really cares about the food. It's not a contest. They're there to be with you.
7. Trust that you have greatness inside of you. This is the big one. Warren is a utilitarian potter, meaning he makes a lot of pots, mostly for everyday use. Mark and I eat off his work daily. But with each firing Warren sets a few pieces aside for museums. The pots that sing. When asked how he creates those pots, he said he doesn't worry about it, because he doesn't set out to make a great pot, just one that's useful. He said to trust that there's something inside you, something simultaneously human and divine, that will come out in the work. When you find a pot that exhibits the ineffable, then you've made art. It's easy to pick the functional pots from the brilliant pots. The brilliant ones glow from within. And yes, I'll say it: Just like him.
Parenting: Why Breeders Rule
Some psychologists have revised Maslow's Pyramid of Needs--and it has stuck in my craw. Here's why.
The original pyramid had self-actualization at the top. You take care of your basic needs--shelter, food--then you get love and respect and self-actualize by doing what gives you joy: running, teaching, macrame, writing, baking bread, yoga.
But the revised pyramid puts parenting at the top! In fact, the top three are mate acquisition, mate retention, and then parenting.
I don't doubt that many people find self-actualization in parenting. The soul-crushing love, the willingness to put your life before another's. But not me. In fact, I made a choice to remain childless. My husband and I have been married eight years and we didn't reproduce. Not that I don't love children and my many friends with adorable sprouts--I do! I'm no child-eating witch.
But the new pyramid implies that one can't be truly happy without reproducing. And, for that matter, finding a mate. That seems reductive, breeder-centric, biologically based. And insulting.
I'm 43, so it's way too late for me to be truly happy, according to the new pyramid. Nevertheless I'm happy with the decision I made. I don't miss the children I didn't have.
Here's a suggestion: Let's revise the Pyramid again--and put banana cream pie at the top!
The original pyramid had self-actualization at the top. You take care of your basic needs--shelter, food--then you get love and respect and self-actualize by doing what gives you joy: running, teaching, macrame, writing, baking bread, yoga.
But the revised pyramid puts parenting at the top! In fact, the top three are mate acquisition, mate retention, and then parenting.
I don't doubt that many people find self-actualization in parenting. The soul-crushing love, the willingness to put your life before another's. But not me. In fact, I made a choice to remain childless. My husband and I have been married eight years and we didn't reproduce. Not that I don't love children and my many friends with adorable sprouts--I do! I'm no child-eating witch.
But the new pyramid implies that one can't be truly happy without reproducing. And, for that matter, finding a mate. That seems reductive, breeder-centric, biologically based. And insulting.
I'm 43, so it's way too late for me to be truly happy, according to the new pyramid. Nevertheless I'm happy with the decision I made. I don't miss the children I didn't have.
Here's a suggestion: Let's revise the Pyramid again--and put banana cream pie at the top!
Rocking Writing Prompts
My friend and colleague Monda blogs a lot--at No Telling and Fresh Ribbon. Plus she teaches writing and is a mom and a grandma and is also the faculty adviser for the award-winning UCA journal Vortex.
As if that's not enough, her third blog, Easy Street Prompts just made Writer's Digest list of 101 Best Writer's Sites--at number 3, no less.
Monda is an inspiration, wickedly funny, an excellent hall-mate, and my hero. I'm also JEALOUS of her! Which is high praise indeed. Check out Easy Street for some rocking prompts.
As if that's not enough, her third blog, Easy Street Prompts just made Writer's Digest list of 101 Best Writer's Sites--at number 3, no less.
Monda is an inspiration, wickedly funny, an excellent hall-mate, and my hero. I'm also JEALOUS of her! Which is high praise indeed. Check out Easy Street for some rocking prompts.
Can MFAs write good books?
I've never blogged about another blog post before--but I've been thinking about this one all week. It's the post about MFA programs over at Editorial Anonymous (one of my favorite blogs).
Basically, EA said that having an MFA doesn't make you a good writer--but more importantly, an MFA won't make you write books for which you'll get paid.
The comments section is full of people either defending or deriding MFA programs--but EA's not talking about the MFA. She's talking about publishing--and the chances of an MFA grad writing something that a wide audience wants to read. She's talking about money.
On that score, EA's right. Lots of MFA graduates are writing for other writers and academics, other MFAs. And she's right that those books won't get published by big presses. Because they won't make money.
But there is an audience for experimental and L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E poets, for slice-of-life quiet short stories, for surreal flash fiction, for novels that are long on words and short on plot.
I just returned from the AWP conference where there were literally hundreds of small and university presses whose missions are to publish writers whose books will never be picked up by Random House and turned into HBO series.
But they don't care! Small presses don't offer five or four figure advances. Hell, the author would be lucky to get three figures, and usually, the writer takes a percentage of sales and that's it. And that's okay with them. Because they're not writing for the big score. They are teachers, mainly, and they write what interests them.
Allow me one example: one of my favorite small presses is Slack Buddha. I visited their table at AWP and came across my new favorite chapbook: Sonnagrams. Each Sonnagram is an anagram of one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. The sonnets are in iambic pentameter with the ABAB rhyme scheme, but there are some wack-ass contemporary references involving Ben Stiller's feet. It's hilarious and you can read a sample here.
Anyway, the point is that Sonnagrams is never gonna win the Pulitzer. It's not for everyone. It's not gonna get published by a big New York house. But I loved it! And it's a book, by gum. An honest-to-god book.
Three cheers for the small press! Keep the flame alive.
PS: Another of EA's points was this: If your work has a limited audience, like Sonnagrams, don't even bother with an agent. Find your audience, write what you love, and they will love you back.
Basically, EA said that having an MFA doesn't make you a good writer--but more importantly, an MFA won't make you write books for which you'll get paid.
The comments section is full of people either defending or deriding MFA programs--but EA's not talking about the MFA. She's talking about publishing--and the chances of an MFA grad writing something that a wide audience wants to read. She's talking about money.
On that score, EA's right. Lots of MFA graduates are writing for other writers and academics, other MFAs. And she's right that those books won't get published by big presses. Because they won't make money.
But there is an audience for experimental and L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E poets, for slice-of-life quiet short stories, for surreal flash fiction, for novels that are long on words and short on plot.
I just returned from the AWP conference where there were literally hundreds of small and university presses whose missions are to publish writers whose books will never be picked up by Random House and turned into HBO series.
But they don't care! Small presses don't offer five or four figure advances. Hell, the author would be lucky to get three figures, and usually, the writer takes a percentage of sales and that's it. And that's okay with them. Because they're not writing for the big score. They are teachers, mainly, and they write what interests them.
Allow me one example: one of my favorite small presses is Slack Buddha. I visited their table at AWP and came across my new favorite chapbook: Sonnagrams. Each Sonnagram is an anagram of one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. The sonnets are in iambic pentameter with the ABAB rhyme scheme, but there are some wack-ass contemporary references involving Ben Stiller's feet. It's hilarious and you can read a sample here.
Anyway, the point is that Sonnagrams is never gonna win the Pulitzer. It's not for everyone. It's not gonna get published by a big New York house. But I loved it! And it's a book, by gum. An honest-to-god book.
Three cheers for the small press! Keep the flame alive.
PS: Another of EA's points was this: If your work has a limited audience, like Sonnagrams, don't even bother with an agent. Find your audience, write what you love, and they will love you back.
Crafty Christmas
There's no reason to spend a lot of money on presents during this recession, especially if you're crafty.
Full disclosure: I'm not particularly crafty, not nearly as crafty as my friend Julee. She's really good. But I never let lack of mastery stop me. For example, I'm no Slash, but I still play guitar in front of people, and I enjoy it immensely.
Here are a few gift ideas for the craft- and wallet-challenged.
My husband is a gar expert and a lot better at the visual arts than I am. This year he made a batch of gar-art or gart. He cut up a bunch of wood he had lying around, bought a few tubes of paint and viola. You don't have to paint fish! Paint whatever you love.
One year we went to a party where everyone had to bring an ornament. We made ours out of an old spark plug that we cleaned up and added tinsel to. The part you hang it with is just a twist-tie. It looks great and was cheap too--and anyone could do it.
This one is for the advanced crafters. My brother-in-law is a painter, a real painter of landscapes. Last year he made everyone in the family these tiny paintings of mossy rocks.
This next one has a naughty word so if you're easily offended, stop reading! A few years ago a dear friend of mine made me this needlepoint. I put it out every year, but sometimes I hide it when someone sensitive comes to call.
And don't forget, there's always jams, cookies and breads. This year I made a batch of homemade rocky road chocolates for my father-in-law. No photo though, because we already ate the ones we didn't send.
Don't let capitalism rule your holiday! Go make something.
