"An unsolved mystery is a thorn in the heart."
Joyce Carol Oates uses this line in a prompt from the book, Naming the World, found here: http://www.amazon.com/Naming-World-Exercises-Creative-Writer/dp/0812975480/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1277836260&sr=8-1She suggests that you meditate on the unsolved mystery in your own life.
For me, picking that mystery was easy. The mystery was why I always felt so old even at 17. Most everyone I know scoffs at me when I tell them this; even those younger than me tell me "You're not old," aftergiving me that sideways look of "Girl, you're crazy."
One of the unsolved mysteries in my life is just this: Why is age such a big deal to me? Or, why does everyone else act like getting older isn't a big deal?
A week ago in the Creative Writing Class with my TIP students, we did a free-write on the word "Birthday," and here's where I started.
In a week, I'll be 28, and I'm not sure what to think. On the plus side, my car insurance will probably go down, if it didn't on my last birthday. But on the downside is everything else. I am really getting older now. 28 seems ominously close to 30 and 30 brings up a host of other issues, among them, "Aren't you married yet?" Or, the ever popular, "So. When are you going to settle down?" "Do you think you'll ever have kids? Do you even have a boyfriend?"
To be getting so close to 30 reminds me, as everyone else my age (or close to it) of all the I (we) haven't accomplished yet. It seems that life and all its ocurrences become like a game. A game in which my score is woefully low, and in which I always lose at least one turn.
In Scrabble, you spell out words with the tiles you draw to earn points. If the words on my board corresponded to my life as a still-27-year-old-for 7-more-days, my words would be unaccomplished, (probably impossible in Scrabble) lonely, and behind.
I always thought there were things I was going to do in my life and with my life before I got to be 18, 25, 30. I never made out a list of those things I wanted to accomplish, but I figured I'd recognize them as those opportunities came my way. But being reminded of what I don't have makes me wonder what I'm missing.
Studying in Ireland for a semester and traveling around the Britisih Isles didn't make my t0-do list, but when I was 19, I did it. At 25, I'd graduated with a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and was teaching at two colleges, bartending, and being a nurses aide. During that year, I worked harder than I ever had, and the next summer at 26, I was hired at East Carolina University, where I am under contract for the next two years.
Even though I haven't done all I've hoped to: published some of my work, written that manuscript, been accepted in a PhD program, lost the weight, found that Mr. Right, (really, this could be quite a long list) I have accomplished a lot of great things as well.
I'm an Aunt to a gorgeous neice. A two-time dog adopter. An Assistant Professor of English. A former bartender, nurses assistant, grill cook, and cashier. A daughter of 28 years and a sister for 21. In all those things I still haven't done yet, there's the potential for so much more to happen.
But a little ambition never hurt anyone. Maybe the next time my birthday rolls around (in about 360 days) I'll have something to hold myself up to. If Joyce Carol Oates is right (and face it, when would she be wrong?) than the mystery of birthdays will no longer be that thorn in my side.
Instead of a seeping wound, a birthday will be a real celebration, of all that I've achieved and all that 30 will hold. Instead of a gaping hole, I'm removing that thorn by writing more. I'll bandage it with submissions to journals and contests. Let it heal with the salve of the hard work of writing and teaching. When the time comes to remove that bandaid, I'll rip it off fast and clean, so it only stings a little. And I'll remember that scar the thorn left, that mystery, by knowing all that I already am.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Getting Started
As I complained about yesterday, getting started is one of the hardest aspects about writing, or getting back into the practice of writing, again. While I call this a Write-Along-Blog, it's been brought to my attention that I've yet to really offer any prompts for getting started again.
I know, friends, it's been very difficult for me to continue a steady writing schedule since graduating from GC&SU in 2007 (which, now that I've said it, sounds so long ago). In my attempts at applying for PhD programs this year, I thought that being back in the school setting would help me become a more disciplined writer. But now that I haven't been accepted anywhere, I've started to wonder, what kind of writer can I really be if I can't write outside of the classroom?
So, fellow writers, join me in taking the first step toward burning that habit of writing into muscle memory. Here's a few prompts to get you started. Pick one and write for at least 15 minutes. Write in your journal, a notebook, a scrap of napkin. Post as a comment! I'll blog my response after I've done my laundry and planned out my next week's lessons. Happy writing!
The prompts listed below come from a great book called Naming the World, edited by Bret Anthony Johnston, found here: http://www.bretanthonyjohnston.com/books/ntw/index.html It's FULL of exercises by well-known authors, and is organized by different elements. Point of view, Character, Dialogue, etc. In addition, the author also explains how the exercise is useful in creating a story (or part of it, anyway.)
Here's a few getting started from Joyce Carol Oates:
1. "An unsolved mystery is a thorn in the heart." This is the opening line of a short prose piece you are to write, meditating upon an "unsolved mystery" in your own life. You may wish to fictionalize.
2. A miniature narrative consisting of a single, very supple sentence.
Another:
Make a list of 5-10 significant "firsts" and as many "lasts." Choose the one which you find most compelling or can remember the most about. Write 500-1000 word description using sensory detail. Set it aside for awhile, then return to it with fresh eyes and add details you've remembered. It then asks you to add in the layers--the "So what." factor.
4. Start with this line from Frank O'Hara:
"Last night the moon seemed to say something."
I know, friends, it's been very difficult for me to continue a steady writing schedule since graduating from GC&SU in 2007 (which, now that I've said it, sounds so long ago). In my attempts at applying for PhD programs this year, I thought that being back in the school setting would help me become a more disciplined writer. But now that I haven't been accepted anywhere, I've started to wonder, what kind of writer can I really be if I can't write outside of the classroom?
So, fellow writers, join me in taking the first step toward burning that habit of writing into muscle memory. Here's a few prompts to get you started. Pick one and write for at least 15 minutes. Write in your journal, a notebook, a scrap of napkin. Post as a comment! I'll blog my response after I've done my laundry and planned out my next week's lessons. Happy writing!
The prompts listed below come from a great book called Naming the World, edited by Bret Anthony Johnston, found here: http://www.bretanthonyjohnston.com/books/ntw/index.html It's FULL of exercises by well-known authors, and is organized by different elements. Point of view, Character, Dialogue, etc. In addition, the author also explains how the exercise is useful in creating a story (or part of it, anyway.)
Here's a few getting started from Joyce Carol Oates:
1. "An unsolved mystery is a thorn in the heart." This is the opening line of a short prose piece you are to write, meditating upon an "unsolved mystery" in your own life. You may wish to fictionalize.
2. A miniature narrative consisting of a single, very supple sentence.
Another:
Make a list of 5-10 significant "firsts" and as many "lasts." Choose the one which you find most compelling or can remember the most about. Write 500-1000 word description using sensory detail. Set it aside for awhile, then return to it with fresh eyes and add details you've remembered. It then asks you to add in the layers--the "So what." factor.
4. Start with this line from Frank O'Hara:
"Last night the moon seemed to say something."
Friday, June 18, 2010
Starting from Scratch
Hello followers, all 6 of you, and my Momma.
I know this is only my second post, but I'm somewhat frustrated with blogging. Already. I follow a few blogs of friends, and they all look so professional and well done. Currently, the coolest thing I thought I could do with this blog was put up the picture of my niece Maddie, playing in the pump water. But it's huge! All you savvy bloggers out there, tell me, how do you make your blogs look SO good?
Now, on to writing. While I intend this blog to focus mostly on creative writing and what I've been producing this summer, I also hope to use it for some personal nonfiction as well. I've been loving reading others' posts about their lives and their daily going-ons. But somehow, when I'm writing, things don't seem to come out as well as I would like.
In the last few days of teaching Creative Writing at Duke's TIP Program, (for gifted and talented middle-schoolers) I've felt more like a beginning writer than I have since my first workshop in college. While I'm housing the information about technique, lessons, lectures about poetic form and the differences between prose, poetry, and prose poems, there's definitely something my students have that I don't.
Certainly, it's age. I've got at least 13 years on most them and 15 on some, and with my 28th birthday rapidly approaching, age seems to be the biggest indicator of the differences in our writing processes. But is it really time that separates their kooky story ideas, vocabulary, ("ghetto-fabulous" and "swagger"--in all its variations, ie: "swaggasarous") their willingness to take risks, their race-car-fast imaginations, and their pure passion for writing? When we grow up, how much of those do we lose?
Maybe it's not just me. Maybe others have experienced this as well--a loss--not of love for writing, but for the practice of it. I'm a whip-cracker when it comes to writing in our class room. They write for 10-15 minutes in their journals every morning on a given prompt. They've written at least 5 poems in form, free verse poems, character sketches and scenes. They love it. They take their journals outside on breaks, they take them with after class and write during free time. They write for another hour after dinner during evening study. We have tell them to leave their work in the classroom and have fun!
I don't remember the last time I was so disciplined in my practice of writing, though it's something I've preached in class both at TIP and at ECU. "Develop a writing schedule. Stick to it. It will be hard at first. If you miss a day, the next three days will be even harder." For me, writing every day has become like a diet. Or rather, a "life-style change." Every morning, if I don't have something to write on the board, look up on the internet, or get ready for class, I try to do the free-write with my students. At the very least, I can get 15 minutes in a day, and I'm hoping every day will become easier. And I think that's where the chasm between myself and my students deepens. I never used to have to try so hard to write.
Starting from scratch, starting over, has been like going for a run after a year of eating potato chips and watching TV. (As if I would know what going for a run feels like). At first, I'm full of optimism. "Yeah, I can do this!" Soon after, I start to flag. "God, this is hard. Who thought this was a good idea, anyway?" (That comment is for running.) If I've managed to stick with it for the 15 minutes I promised myself, I feel good. I congratulate myself, pat myself on the back. Probably reward myself with ice cream.
The next day, I am in PAIN. Muscles I didn't know I had are screaming, "WTF!" And it's that way for writing too, not just literally the pain of tendonitis in my wrists after writing by hand for 15 minutes straight, but also the places in memory that I didn't remember existed in the first place.
Katherine Karlin in her great short story "Muscle Memory," found in New Stories from the South 2009: The Year's Best, describes it this way: "Then, lo and behold, one day I just did it. Simplest thing in the world, like I'd been doing it all my life. It just takes time to burn a new habit into your muscle memory is all." It does take time. Time and pain and bad writing before I can burn that habit into memory.
As an effort to begin turning habit into memory, I offer an unfinished Pantoum, unofficial title of:
Peonies--A Pantoum
In the wooden hutch the ghost rests,
in the chiming of the clock
wound nightly by blue-veined hands
and woken early each morning, a shadow
in the chiming of the clock
the bells of sound pealing and empty
and woken early each morning, a shadow
held softly as pink peonies in a green-glass vase.
The bells of sound are pealing, but empty
in the dining room where we play cards.
Grandma holds them as softly as pink peonies in a green-glassed vase,
just cut from the dewed garden.
In the dining room where we play cards,
that ghost floats between us,
cut from the dewed garden
he grows in our words and sighs.
That ghost floating between us
buzzes and hums
his approval grows in our words and sighs,
then hides between coffee cups and the good silver.
He buzzes and hums
with each chime of the clock
then hides between coffee cups and the good silver,
Each bit of his shadow wound nightly by blue-veined hands.
I know this is only my second post, but I'm somewhat frustrated with blogging. Already. I follow a few blogs of friends, and they all look so professional and well done. Currently, the coolest thing I thought I could do with this blog was put up the picture of my niece Maddie, playing in the pump water. But it's huge! All you savvy bloggers out there, tell me, how do you make your blogs look SO good?
Now, on to writing. While I intend this blog to focus mostly on creative writing and what I've been producing this summer, I also hope to use it for some personal nonfiction as well. I've been loving reading others' posts about their lives and their daily going-ons. But somehow, when I'm writing, things don't seem to come out as well as I would like.
In the last few days of teaching Creative Writing at Duke's TIP Program, (for gifted and talented middle-schoolers) I've felt more like a beginning writer than I have since my first workshop in college. While I'm housing the information about technique, lessons, lectures about poetic form and the differences between prose, poetry, and prose poems, there's definitely something my students have that I don't.
Certainly, it's age. I've got at least 13 years on most them and 15 on some, and with my 28th birthday rapidly approaching, age seems to be the biggest indicator of the differences in our writing processes. But is it really time that separates their kooky story ideas, vocabulary, ("ghetto-fabulous" and "swagger"--in all its variations, ie: "swaggasarous") their willingness to take risks, their race-car-fast imaginations, and their pure passion for writing? When we grow up, how much of those do we lose?
Maybe it's not just me. Maybe others have experienced this as well--a loss--not of love for writing, but for the practice of it. I'm a whip-cracker when it comes to writing in our class room. They write for 10-15 minutes in their journals every morning on a given prompt. They've written at least 5 poems in form, free verse poems, character sketches and scenes. They love it. They take their journals outside on breaks, they take them with after class and write during free time. They write for another hour after dinner during evening study. We have tell them to leave their work in the classroom and have fun!
I don't remember the last time I was so disciplined in my practice of writing, though it's something I've preached in class both at TIP and at ECU. "Develop a writing schedule. Stick to it. It will be hard at first. If you miss a day, the next three days will be even harder." For me, writing every day has become like a diet. Or rather, a "life-style change." Every morning, if I don't have something to write on the board, look up on the internet, or get ready for class, I try to do the free-write with my students. At the very least, I can get 15 minutes in a day, and I'm hoping every day will become easier. And I think that's where the chasm between myself and my students deepens. I never used to have to try so hard to write.
Starting from scratch, starting over, has been like going for a run after a year of eating potato chips and watching TV. (As if I would know what going for a run feels like). At first, I'm full of optimism. "Yeah, I can do this!" Soon after, I start to flag. "God, this is hard. Who thought this was a good idea, anyway?" (That comment is for running.) If I've managed to stick with it for the 15 minutes I promised myself, I feel good. I congratulate myself, pat myself on the back. Probably reward myself with ice cream.
The next day, I am in PAIN. Muscles I didn't know I had are screaming, "WTF!" And it's that way for writing too, not just literally the pain of tendonitis in my wrists after writing by hand for 15 minutes straight, but also the places in memory that I didn't remember existed in the first place.
Katherine Karlin in her great short story "Muscle Memory," found in New Stories from the South 2009: The Year's Best, describes it this way: "Then, lo and behold, one day I just did it. Simplest thing in the world, like I'd been doing it all my life. It just takes time to burn a new habit into your muscle memory is all." It does take time. Time and pain and bad writing before I can burn that habit into memory.
As an effort to begin turning habit into memory, I offer an unfinished Pantoum, unofficial title of:
Peonies--A Pantoum
In the wooden hutch the ghost rests,
in the chiming of the clock
wound nightly by blue-veined hands
and woken early each morning, a shadow
in the chiming of the clock
the bells of sound pealing and empty
and woken early each morning, a shadow
held softly as pink peonies in a green-glass vase.
The bells of sound are pealing, but empty
in the dining room where we play cards.
Grandma holds them as softly as pink peonies in a green-glassed vase,
just cut from the dewed garden.
In the dining room where we play cards,
that ghost floats between us,
cut from the dewed garden
he grows in our words and sighs.
That ghost floating between us
buzzes and hums
his approval grows in our words and sighs,
then hides between coffee cups and the good silver.
He buzzes and hums
with each chime of the clock
then hides between coffee cups and the good silver,
Each bit of his shadow wound nightly by blue-veined hands.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Poetry Deuce
At the beginning of my Intro to Creative Writing class at East Carolina University, we did an exercise in imitation and "scaffolding" a poem called "Consolations after an Affair" by James Tate. In such an exercise, the author imitates the structure of a sentence, the imagery of a line, and even the parts of speech used in the poem to be imitated. (Try also, "This is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams.) The full step-by-step exercise can be found in the text "Teaching Creative Writing" by Heather Sellers.
Here is the first version, penned in January 2010.
"Consolations for a Winter" (After James Tate's "Consolations After an Affair.")
The grass is waving to the ground
it is welcoming the spring
which will arrive later than they hope.
There are peacocks with feathers
dancing to slow mandolins.
They suppose music is love.
Trees and pine straw crackle in the winter cold
snapping like broken legs.
I don't need a hard shoulder
to comfort my failures.
A bear lumbers through empty fields
like an old truck firing up.
I can smell snow in the air,
on this borrowed farm.
Today, on the first day of Creative Writing class at Duke TIP, I did the same exercise with my students. These 12, 13, and 14 year old students really wrote some amazing poetry. They already have a great grasp on imagery, metaphors, and simile. Most of them didn't like doing the exercise because they thought the poem we imitated was "weird." Remember, you can imitate or scaffold any poem you like. Pick especially a poem that imitates rhythm, sound, language, or diction that you enjoy.
Here is the first version, penned in January 2010.
"Consolations for a Winter" (After James Tate's "Consolations After an Affair.")
The grass is waving to the ground
it is welcoming the spring
which will arrive later than they hope.
There are peacocks with feathers
dancing to slow mandolins.
They suppose music is love.
Trees and pine straw crackle in the winter cold
snapping like broken legs.
I don't need a hard shoulder
to comfort my failures.
A bear lumbers through empty fields
like an old truck firing up.
I can smell snow in the air,
on this borrowed farm.
Today, on the first day of Creative Writing class at Duke TIP, I did the same exercise with my students. These 12, 13, and 14 year old students really wrote some amazing poetry. They already have a great grasp on imagery, metaphors, and simile. Most of them didn't like doing the exercise because they thought the poem we imitated was "weird." Remember, you can imitate or scaffold any poem you like. Pick especially a poem that imitates rhythm, sound, language, or diction that you enjoy.
Here's try two. Same exercise, sort of different poem.
"Consolations for a Ghost"
The floor is opening up to the ceiling
who is yawning like a train,
loud enough to creak the walls.
There are pictures of grandpa climbing telephone poles
that cling to the smell of smoke.
They know how houses age.
For them, heat in July
is shelter and seeking.
I've discovered I don't need
The shadows of a ghost to linger beside me.
A bear lumbers away
like a slow, crank engine.
I can taste the cold of January
from the winter field I love.
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