Literary Roundup: Friend Edition

Hi friend! How are you? I miss you, probably, but if I've never met you, well then thanks for reading my silly little blog.

On the personal front, life is improving. I realized last week that I was drinking way too much caffeine. I have since cut it in half and despite the terrible headaches in the morning, I'm feeling so much better. Like, beyond better. Turns out, caffeine produces anxiety and fucks with your sleep. Duh, Laura. I accomplished a number of things this week that I have been putting off.

Good news on the job front: I got a call about a tutoring job! I would teach writing to small groups of kids in grades 1-5. Fun! I also applied to work at this little cafe down the street, so hopefully I will be able fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a barista.

I also finally ventured over to Books & Bookshelves, which specializes in books of poetry. I can't tell you how awesome this store smells. Old books + wood furniture = Nose Heaven. They also have a large collection of beautiful paintings. I bought a book by San Francisco poet Michelle Tea and I chatted up the employee, David Highsmith, also a poet and he gave me his book for free! Really nice of him. The furniture was surprisingly affordable, so Sal and I might venture over there this weekend to look at some headboards.  The store is now officially carrying copies of Weave Issue 06. They also have readings there, so I'm considering holding one for Weave.

Speaking of Weave, people are really talking up the latest issue on Facebook this week. There is lots of contributor love happening, which is great. I love when contributors find one another online and form mutual admiration societies. So cool. Also, this week we posted book reviews by poet (and friend) Thom Dawkins. Go read and then buy some books

Ok, what else is happening in my literary world this week?

Well, classes started up at Chatham and it's strange to not be a part of it. Grad school was over so quickly and now I keep finding articles that examine the value of the MFA. I have opinions on this. I will share them someday. In the mean time, read this fun piece by fellow Chatham alum Robert Isenberg, called "The Vanishing of Sombrero Man." He wrote this in our literary journalism class. It's cool to see it all finished and published.

Rattle wants to give you free books. All you have to do is write a review. Sweet!

The fall issue of A cappella Zoo is out. Online version coming soon. Somehow I missed the spring version (maybe it was that whole thesis-writing thing...) but I hope to read it later today and belatedly share some goodies with you.

That's all for this week, as I'm behind on blog reading. I started a new writing project, so I've been focusing a bit more on that. I hope you all have a fantastic long weekend. Enjoy all the fruits of your labor. Eat some BBQ. Read a book. I leave you with pictures of awesome people reading and a picture of me and Lindsey during her visit last weekend.

The Crickets Say Hello

I've been kind of quiet this past week. I almost feel settled. Settled into my apartment, the weirdness of moving and starting over.

I went to a party last night. At this party, I met some cool people. Hopefully they will be my friends. They are all writers, which is cool. One of them danced up on me. Like, hard. I blushed, then giggled. My boyfriend did not dance. He generally doesn't, but that's ok. I dance enough for us both.

I spent a long time talking about submissions with a new friend. I worry that perhaps I went a bit overboard, got a little soap-boxy. "You need to just submit everywhere!" "Rejections are normal, get used to them!" "Submit submit submit!" "Wanna see my awesome spreadsheet?? I'll pull it up here on my smartphone..." Yeah. I drank some drinks and then danced to Mariah Carey's Fantasy after that. It was more fun than me speechifying.

I got a super nice rejection from PANK yesterday, after only two days. They were impressed with my writing and want to read more. That's nice to hear. Especially after the super bland form rejection I got from this other journal after waiting five months.

On my desk is an index card with a list of words. I might use these in a poem. I have been thinking about writing another sestina and I wanted to gather some words together that deal with the domestic. Would you like to add some of these to my list?  Here it is below. Yes, I know I spelled camouflage wrong. Unfortunately, index cards don't have spellcheck.

Literary Roundup! Goulash-Style

Well, everyone is back to school this week for the most part. I am sitting at home taking turns sending out job applications and weeping over my Master's degree.

We're cooking up some delicious goulash over at Weave. It's smellin' good. So many astounding submissions. I think this issue might just be a plump and juicy one. Also, collaborations abound! Expect to see some new things happening soon. Yay for being cryptic!

New word I learned this week: swale. n. a hollow or low place, especially a marshy depression between ridges. (I learned this word from reading poetry. It has made an appearance in a poem of mine now too.) That's a sexy word, right? Mm.

At the bottom you find a slideshow of pictures from last months InsideStoryTime reading. I have this months, but they are not uploaded yet.

Now, onto the Roundup for this week! (or however often I write these...)

Good things happening on the Interwebz. The new issue of Pedestal is up and it's a doozy. These twelve poems are all super different, but also dark, creepy, specific, grand, and just plain good. Some of them have an audio, which is awesome. Two of my favs: Wendy Miles' poem "Still Life" (you MUST listen to her lovely voice read this poem) and Adam Hughes' "Love Poem" which is weird and includes cats in blenders, but it works because of all the detail and tiny moments. I never realized how the crackling of shrimp shells does sound a lot like ice crackling. These two poems are really different, but I love that I found them in the same journal. I must also shout out to Christopher Shipman's "Ruins" simply because it deals so well with the death of elderly family. Such a tough topic to get into while avoiding the overly sentimental. Kudos.

I bought some new books this week. Looking forward to reading Sarah Sloat's new chapbook Excuse me while I wring this long swim out of my hair from Dancing Girl Press. I also got Gregory Sherl's Heavy Petting from YesYes Books. Both of these poets have had work in Weave, so I'm a bit biased, but I'm really looking forward to reading these.

Roxane Gay writes about happy endings over at HTML Giant. D. Gilson writes about submitting and queerness on the Sibling Rivalry Press blog. And finally, for the book lovers out there (all of you, I hope), here is some bookshelf porn. I can't only imagine how many weirdos are going to find my blog because of that link.

Happy reading!

Reading and Waiting

Lots to say this morning. My brain is full. So is my belly, full of coffee and eggs.

The floods back in Pittsburgh put me in a weird mood last night. Sad. Sad about the woman and her two daughters, drowning in their car filled with water. I have that nightmare. I take solace in the hope that death must have a pleasant moment when it finally arrives.

I can't dwell there too much or I won't get anything done today.

I'm reading The Color Purple right now. I have never read it before. I got it a day ago and I'm about halfway through already. I'm normally a slow reader, and oddly, I'm taking even more time with this book. I'm stopping a lot to write down lines that speak a plain truth. Like Hemingway says, "Write the truest sentence you know." Alice Walker writes them, one after another. If you haven't read this book, I urge you to head to your library or local bookstore, find a copy, and read it. Today.

There are so many books that I haven't read yet. I always feel this way, especially when I compare myself to other writers with English degrees. Or to introverts. Or speed-readers. Once I was talking to my friend Heather about reading to her son. She mentioned how nice it was when she had time to sit and read something silently on her own, how she could finally read faster than speaking. I didn't understand what she meant. I asked her, you mean, you don't read the words silently in your head? And she explained that she reads quickly, groups the words, skips parts, but still grabs the words. Sal reads like this, too. When he and I read an article together on the computer, he's always scrolling too fast and I have to catch up. I try to skim when I read sometimes, but nothing sticks. I'm a terrible skimmer. It just means that I end up dropping the few words I do manage to catch. I have to go back and start over. I feel like I'm always catching up.

I'm also reading The Portable MFA. It's a free download from Amazon right now. The authors really complain about MFA programs. I agree with a lot of their points, but mostly it validated my MFA program. At least for someone like me, who made the most of the community-building and friendship-strengthening and free-time-and-space. All of our workshops were built on craft too. And developing a vocabulary of craft.

I like the point they make about teaching writing. They disagree with the statement, "writing cannot be taught." Writing, like any creative expression, has craft. You don't become a classically trained pianist by having a teacher sit you in front of a piano and bang away with no direction, no history, no technique, no theory (their example). This made me laugh. Of course, there is craft! Writing has craft. There is also, of course, another element involved: passion. You can't teach passion. Or creativity. You can't teach creativity. However, you wouldn't expect someone to become a writer, but refuse to give them paper and pencil or teach them the alphabet. Why do we not see the tools of writing for what they are? Do we want them to be a secret? What are the benefits in making these things mysterious?

It's almost September. I have to send out 9 submissions before the months end to get caught up. I have poems to revise and send, but I'm just not feeling it. I've got too many others that I'm waiting on. Waiting on for over six months. I wish I were more patient.

Some Thoughts on Blogging in the Writing Classroom

I came across this blog post (via Google+) about what blogger and professor Amanda Ann Klein has learned after two years of blogging (wow, I said blog a lot there). There are some excellent realizations from Klein in this post like, "blogging teaches you that your words are not gold" and "it's you, not them," meaning, your readers don't put pressure on you to blog, you do, and mostly they just want something to read, so stop obsessing about it and write!

I also like "blogging makes you a better writer" and "blogging makes you a better thinker." They are the same thing, really, related and refined versions of one another. Writing = Thinking. Thinking = Writing. I love the idea that often, you don't know what you are going to write about until you start writing. But what does writing begin with? A thought. So we write that thought down, and connect it to other thoughts that we have along the way.

"And after writing for a while I would start to see what it was that I wanted to write about — what my argument was — and this would then guide my research."

Yes! This has happened to me so many times when I blog (or when I write in general). It happened yesterday when I wrote this sad little cry for help or encouragement or a kind word. I wrote an essay about my mother breaking her arm, but by the third or fourth draft, I realized it was also about my divorce.

This puts that whole "just sit down and write" thing in another perspective, the advice that you need to sit and keep writing until you get to a point. Maybe that point is on page five or fifteen. I used to think that all the stuff you wrote before that point was then thrown out. But Klein helped me realize that it's much more complex. Those words won't go to waste. You might use them somewhere else, just not on page two. Or you may learn a lesson in editing or radical revision, even, and that is part of writing (back to the lesson about your words not being gold). Writing is messy at first, because our thoughts are messy. But that's one reason why we write. To make out thoughts less messy. To look at them. Mess them up again. To make them visible, tangible even. Move them around and see what emerges.

I had this philosophy class my second year of college. It was at a community college. Some my most memorable professors are from that year. This philosophy professor was great and I wish I could remember his name. He was a former preist, I think? Which is strange, because I went on to have a nun-turned-agnostic-trans-man World Religions professor.

But I digress. In this philosophy class, we discussed how language began as a tool that humans made, but now this tool makes humans. It affects our physiology; our noses and mouths and tongue and lips have evolved over time to have millions of little muscles that shape our ability to speak. Our thoughts, well, those are words now, and often our memories are words. I wonder if this is why we can't remember things from before a certain age, because we were pre-language. Our thoughts become words. They are, in this way, controlled and limited by our language.

But by writing, we can, in a small way, becomes masters of our thoughts. I say "master" and not "control" because those are different ideals. Control implies blind-authority, whereas mastering, well, there is a authority, but it's more skilled. As Masters of Our Thoughts, we can coax them out, perhaps even accessing other functions of our brain, make connections between images, symbols, feelings, and our word-thoughts.

Well, I just went down a writing-thought-philosophy-rabbit-hole, much further than I intended.

My other favorite point she makes is this: "Blogging teaches you that you need to do things in your own way — in a way that fits the way you live and the way you think — or you will never feel satisfied."

Truth.

Blogging (or writing) sucks when you feel like you have to. But it's awesome when you feel as though you must write or something terrible will happen.

All of these points I've made now bring me back to the title of this blog post: blogging in the classroom. Can we, as writer-teachers, use blogging in the classroom to teach our students these lessons? Would it be the same if we forced our students to blog X times a week? The reality is that we must make them write, because that's the subject of the class. And it doesn't have to be blogging. Journaling could work in a similar way (of course, it's less public and one could argue that audience plays a big part in the blogging). But I wonder, how can we recreate these lessons? Would it take two years? Can it be condensed into a semester?

Maybe the answer is that we can't recreate it. Students might just have to learn that part on their own. Maybe we just need to give them some tools for writing and send them on their way after three and a half months. Hope for the best. But I can't help but wonder if there is a way to transfer Klein's lessons to the writing classroom.

What do you think?

Jobs, Dreams and Charlie Sheen's Tooth Enamel

I'm on the floor. You gotta scrape me off of it these days. I showered today. I sent out three last ditch job applications. Mostly hoping against all-logic that someone will believe in me and my little-cv-that-could.

The truth is, this academic-job-nut must be made of titanium or tungsten or Charlie Sheen's tooth enamel. It's not just hard to crack; it's impossible, really. But if I do find some kind of magical saw or jackhammer fueled by fairy dust and the dreams of poet-teachers everywhere, I will sneak into that little crack so fast. I will teach the crap out of Critical Thinking & Composition or Developmental Reading. If I get a freshman comp class, well, I will click my heals as I walk onto campus each day. My students won't know it, but they'll be free-writing and peer reviewing and revising revising revising all over the place, but they will just think, "Wow, who knew writing and learning and listening and reading and speaking could be this much fun?"

Yeah, that's my little dream. It's a good one to hold onto. It fuels me when I read course descriptions like, "In this workshop, we will explore the dynamic properties of ice cubes and it's effect on culture and politics in our own writing." Yeah. I don't even know what that means, but it might be cool. Who knows? Would I fit in that department? Sometimes I feel so un-California-like. I just want to help people find the tools to be become good writers.

When things get really tough, I imagine my ideal classroom...

There is a big round table in the middle. Or maybe it's shaped like a caterpillar, with different types of chairs and exercise balls and stools and things to sit on. The walls are lined with books and journals and magazines and books. The latest technology flows seamlessly among small, independent workstations and group collaboration tables that always have paper and notebooks and pens and pencils and a center for bookmaking and skill-share corner for students to learn how to do things or teach others to do something they know. We'll have Mandatory Writing Hour thrice daily, where everyone writes and edits and writes and writes some more. Oh, and snacks. There will be delicious snacks. Class will last all day, but no one will mind because it won't feel like class, it will feel like we are engaging with ourselves, the page, each other, books, history and....

Well that was a fun little fantasy. In reality I'll get a room in a basement with desks that are bolted to the floor. And it will be hard, because teaching is hard. But I can still dream. When I'm not writing cover letters with words like "encompass" and "theory," I'm thinking about this perfect classroom.

Things have gotten really tough this past week. There were lots of meltdowns, questioning my life-path, and why, oh why, was I subjecting myself to this kind of torture? Because teaching is what I do. Just like writing. They are connected. Even if I could sit in a room and write all day and have people bring me food and never leave, I wouldn't. Because, 1) I'd get bored pretty quickly and 2) I'm sure whatever I write under those conditions will be god-awful. Awful Waffle kind of awful. For serious. I'd get out there and teach and engage and write and learn and write and teach...

But, on another, more personal note, I'm pretty lonely. It probably has something to do with the fact that I don't leave the apartment  much. I always have something to do and it's easiest to do it at home. At least my apartment is familiar. Outside is just so unfamiliar.

I really need a job.

Literary Roundup: How do you call your loverboy?

I've got so many chills today. From sexy, sexy poems. Also scary, still, hauntingly violent poems. And from an amazing article in praise of Patrick Swayze's sweet sweet hip thrusts.

Online journal qarrtsiluni has a poem by Ruth Foley called "If You Want Me" and it is a must-hear. Hear? Why, yes! They do a short podcast with each published poem featuring the poet reading their own words. Ms. Foley's poem and voice bring out the sad layers in this narrative.

Next up, we have Quartier Rouge, a quarterly literary video journal, from the lovely ladies of NYC's Poetry Brothel. These lady-poets have lots of lace clothing and male suitors. And for good reason. The Brothel features one-on-one poetry readings (think of it like a class-up, poemified, lap dance) at their performances. Now you can hear and see their alter-egos reading their words. Reading isn't quite right. It's more like a conversation where you can't possibly think of anything to say, because they are speaking. And when these poet's speak, you listen.

Finally, a happened upon this analysis of Dirty Dancing and why it is the greatest movie of all time. Writer Irin Carmon argues that Dirty Dancing is pro-woman, pro-sexuality, and pro-choice. Baby is ultimately a strong young woman who works hard and comes into her own in this story, which doesn't shy away from tough issues like class, race, abortion and sex. Plus, I learned that Patrick Swayze was the son of a ballerina and a cowboy. Now that's just begging to a poem, right?

All of these words are calling to you: Come here, loverboy...