Month: March 2016

{fortress}

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March 25, 2016

3:26 pm

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Essay Musings, Mi Familia Loca

Under the ruins of a walled city
Crumbling towers and beams of yellow light
No flags of truce, no cries of pity
The siege guns have been pounding through the night
It took a day to build the city
We walked through its streets in the afternoon
As I returned across the fields I’d known
I recognized the walls that I’d once made
I had to stop in my tracks for fear
Of walking on the mines I’d laid

It’s Old School Friday! You know you remember this song from way back when. It was on autoplay when I was about sixteen, and my friend Molly was the world’s biggest Sting fan. She found him to be So Profound (insert eye roll), thus, she had a Sting song for every occasion. Funny how much our friends’ musical choices shape ours. I know many of the words to many of his songs by heart, even though I wasn’t the superfan. Ah, well. Sting’s largely disappeared from my world, except for a the albums left on Brainradio, one of which is Island of the Blue Turtles where this song, with its imagery of war and hearts, is found.

Anyone who has grown up with challenging parents feels the war thing a bit more keenly than most. If you grew up where voices were raised, objects were thrown or swung with astonishing accuracy – or lack of said – or if you could hear yourself breathe, from holding yourself so quiet and still, and felt like your room, in a closet, was your personal foxhole, you might know how confusing it is to wonder if …the war’s over.

And if I built this fortress around your heart
Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire
Then let me build a bridge
For I cannot fill the chasm
And let me set the battlements on fire

I used to laugh at how on Crash Course, John Green would occasionally address commentary to Me From the Past, the younger, undeniably dumber John Green who was the hapless soul who made non-logical conclusions, dork moves with girls, and in general was a git. My “Me From the Past” has never been quite so clearly identifiable a character, but she exists in my head when I think of my childhood. Especially when I think of my childhood as compared to now. Sometimes – and we all do this – we let Me From the Past be the narrator in our heads that tells Me in the Present how things are going to go down. Occasionally – frequently – my Me From the Past is just as full of dork moves and non-logical conclusions as John’s. She believes that nothing ever changes.

And, sometimes she’s right.

Negotiating a relationship with someone who consistently hurt you, consistently disappointed you, consistently told you that you weren’t good enough, smart enough, or worthy enough is tricky as hell. Now, smart money’s on people like my friend, A., who can just …not do that. She opts to have NO relationship with those family members. But, I … I have, quite frankly, guilt complexes, questions of “am I being a good person” and an inability to let go. Also, I don’t want to hurt anyone. The thought horrifies me.

(This is not, by the way, proof that I’m a good person. This is proof that I have a whisper of Machiavelli in my personality and want to retain the moral high ground at all times.)

Me From the Past stands ready, in the back of my mind, at all times. Me From the Past believes her job is to remind me of things – to supply dates and details, if necessary – so that I don’t make the same dork moves I did back then. That’s okay; I accept that she feels that’s her job. Me in the Present, however, likes to reserve the right to overrule her. And, that’s where the problem lies. How much do you overrule your past? How much do you ignore what you know as truth from situations you’ve already been in?

Then I went off to fight some battle
That I’d invented inside my head
Away so long for years and years
You probably thought or even wished that I was dead
While the armies are all sleeping
Beneath the tattered flag we’d made
I had to stop in my tracks for fear
Of walking on the mines I’d laid

It bothers me to be in my well-past-thirties, and still resentful about parts of my childhood. Our older relatives age; mine are nearing seventy. Some of those problematic people can show themselves to be lovely and affable now; storytellers, bakers of special treats, complimentary and, frankly, changelings that cause me tremendous guilt. Me in the Present wonders who these people are. Me From the Past reminds me that I know this version of these people, too. And that I’ve watched the rebounds happen over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. Me From the Past reminds me, as always, that it is best to feed these people with a long spoon. Me in the Present feels guilty and wishes she could shorten that spoon, get back within arm’s reach. This is troubling to both versions of my self.

Part of maintaining sanity is honoring Me From the Past enough to accept that her experiences are valid enough for Me in the Present to make decisions from. Me From the Past isn’t delusional. Me From the Past is young and goofy, yeah, but she is real and didn’t make overblown statements about what was, simply on a whim. But, sometimes, it’s not about questioning Me From the Past’s judgment entirely, though. Sometimes, it’s just wondering if Me in the Present can ever make the choice that Now is safe. If Me in the Present can ever say to Me From the Past “You can come out now. It’s safe to put your full weight down on your heels, and to not be prepared to run, because the land mines have all been collected.”

This prison has now become your home
A sentence you seem prepared to pay
It took a day to build the city
We walked through its streets in the afternoon
As I returned across the lands I’d known
I recognized the fields where I’d once played
I had to stop in my tracks for fear
Of walking on the mines I’d laid

And if I built this fortress around your heart
Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire
Then let me build a bridge
For I cannot fill the chasm
And let me set the battlements on fire

The one thing Me From the Past and Me in the Present agrees on is that, so far, not even the UN has managed to collect all the landmines after wars from sixty years ago. Nobody ever collects all the landmines after a war. And, you’ll NEVER KNOW ‘TIL THEY EXPLODE.

Is it discounting Me From the Past’s experiences to want so badly to believe in change? Me in the Present is always afraid of being looked on as a cynic… but sometimes, you are what you are.

I’m pretty sure someone wrote a YA novel about this…

Stirling Castle 192

{Mills College YA Contest: the next “now”}

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March 22, 2016

11:51 am

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Essay Musings

So, I’m one of the judges for the annual short story contest for my alma mater, Mills College, an urban liberal arts school which has a rich history (since 1852!) of educating women in the Bay Area. I’m the sole judge in the YA section, and I’m looking at graduate and undergraduate stories. Upper and underclassmen have to be judged separately, of course, and I realize I’ve been… stalling.

It’s funny – I don’t hesitate when I’m judging for the Cybils Awards, but somehow, knowing that these works are entirely unpublished, and that the writers are not just putting their words, but their hearts out on their sleeves causes me to …well, slow my roll a bit. In order to stop myself flailing, I’ve come up with the trick of reading the first paragraph of …all of them, in no particular order. And noting which ones stand out.

photo-8

I’ve never been a proponent of ALL of the writing rules – you know, “write what you know” “kill your darlings” blah, blah, blah. I’ve ignored the rules, the ones that talk about the first chapter/first lines, not writing in first person (or doing so), writing disconnected from the internet, use a thesaurus, always stop when you’re in an action scene and want to keep going — I’ve pretty well ignored other people’s maxims, and put aside their Artist’s Way, their Bird by Bird, their If You Want to Write. Not that these people don’t have a lot of good things to say – they do; they’re brilliant. But, I find that I’m generally paralyzed by good advice – because I cannot take it all. However! I am now learning that when one is creating short stories – or at least short excerpts – the rule about the first three-to-five sentences? Applies. For me as a judge, examining just those first few sentences or opening paragraphs really shortens the flailing period significantly. First sentences — first paragraphs, really — count. They arrest and engage, or allow you to look away. I don’t want to look away from something that’s grabbing me with rising stakes. Obviously, I want to know more.

However, it’s not a guarantee of a good story — not in any way. The writer still has to get through the middle and the end of the novel, after a sterling beginning. It’s a frequent argument, in my writing group, about where a story starts — and there are always people prescriptively – but lovingly – trying to suggest, “You know, I think you should start the story THERE!” as if the previous six chapters you’ve written are full of nothing much of importance (and hey – they might be) – so a first paragraph doesn’t mean I won’t get bored later, definitely not. However — it certainly ensures my interest now. And “now” is all you’ve got to hang onto. Until the next now. And then the next.

*goes back to reading about a missing sigil in a spell, and the ensuing shenanigans which will result*

{p7 poetry friday ♦ sedoka form}

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March 4, 2016

6:47 am

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Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters

Not to be confused with the math game Sudoku, the poetic form Sedōka is also mathematically based, but it’s a words-and-numbers logic game, rather than being numbers alone. It’s best described as shadow poetry; conceptually parallel, echoing the same syllable length as haiku, but in a different order. Inasmuch as a haiku is syllables organized as 5-7-5, the Sedōka is 5-7-7. Each grouping is a standalone stanza, but joined, they complete the stanzas complete each other.

The haiku-like form allowed several of us to race and just begin to work on them right before the deadline. Unfortunately, sometimes the shorter the poem is, and the tighter the form, the harder it is to be happy with it! When I’m stuck, often poetry I already know begins to ring in my mind. This one came from Whitman’s “Out of the cradle, endlessly rocking,” and the images of a fractured lullaby and a disquieted wandering nagged at me. I love the direction it’s going, but I’m not convinced that this is my best work – it’s hard to pack much of anything – for me, anyway – into such tight forms. I left the poem untitled, as the 1950’s era ad jingle seemed to suggest too much to some readers, and I wanted to let you draw your own conclusions. Anyway, the point of the exercise is to FINISH, so:

Sonoma County 178 HDR

A blanket of foam
Unfurling hypnotically
The surf roars a lullaby

♦
Home is the sailor.
Landlocked. Sleepless; he listens
As the wind shrills sharp like gulls
2015 Benicia 54
the poetry seven

There are more pithy little poems from the Poetry Seven littering the landscape. Laura’s was written in Taco Bell. No, really. ♦ Sara, caffeinated, nonetheless managed to settle in, after a few jokes. ♦ And Andi’s back with a little poem to bring on the Spring. ♦ Tricia stopped by with a little background on the recent space return. ♦ Finally, Liz continues to be adored by her dog.

More Poetry Friday submissions can be found at the Teacher Dance blog, and stay tuned for another ekphrastic poetry series from the Poetry Seven next month… a ceiling fresco from the University of St. Thomas in Minneapolis.

{behind the curve}

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March 2, 2016

7:59 am

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Musings on Extemporanea

Probably the worst time to start blogging about how you’re sure you’re going to be a crap writer, forever, is not the *four week mark after your new book has come out. Probably not. Nonetheless, that’s where my head is today, and sometimes all the nice things people can say to you, about your skill with voice, your turn of phrase, your sympathetic characters, etc. does nothing for you but flare up your case of Imposter’s Syndrome to epic levels you can’t even. Oh, sure, you like me today, but my fear is, even as you like me for what I do, I will no longer be able to do it. I have freaked myself out of being able to write a coherent paragraph for pretty much weeks. And so it goes.

Social media – in my case, Twitter – sometimes makes it worse. Social media is like that first time you had dinner at someone’s house as a child, and realized that other people used place mats or were allowed to drink juice or water with their meal – or were required to drink an eight ounce glass of whole milk. You opened your eyes and thought, “Huh?” and “Ohhhh.” Social media is like listening to other people’s families converse and realizing that there was a different way to argue, one which doesn’t require raised voices and fingers pointing, but maybe slammed doors or intense and terrifying spaces between words, or silences deep as the Mariana Trench. Social media – for me – is like experiencing adolescence all over again, in terms of hearing articulate people, people you like and respect model social mores and voice opinions you hadn’t considered, and realizing anew that you are very, very, very, very, very, very different, SO different from Most People.

… Social media is Other Voices, and Other Voices can sometimes make you doubt yourself, and your voice, and your purpose and your mission, ’til it’s a Wednesday morning and you’re sitting in your sweatshirt-maybe-dress and leggings and wondering to yourself, “How can I possibly write Young Adult fiction when I’m pretty sure I was hatched by surrogate aliens on another planet? How can I even have a voice? How am I supposed to relate when I was born so behind the curve?

I am reading Chimamanda Adichie’s first novel, THE PURPLE HIBISCUS, which was pubilshed in 2003. Chosen specifically because the book has a fifteen year old protagonist (and because the author is a person whose words I greatly admire), I am reading it for characterization and voice and asking myself what distinguishes this writer’s voice and this character from young adult literature from the American point of view, what distinguishes it from my perspective, and from books I’ve written, from experiences I’ve had. I’m also asking myself where my experiences and the main character’s overlap, where my experiences and the author’s experiences intersect. There’s a lot to unpack in this reading, and I’m enjoying myself. But, I’m also still hearing the statement that one of my writing group peeps said the other day, which was essentially, The more I am connected to the web, the more things I read which convince me that I probably shouldn’t write. Please note that this isn’t a cry for help as much as an acknowledgement: Sometimes I think like this, too. Is my voice …necessary? Is every story truly important, really? Is writing merely self-indulgent?

I am still figuring it out. Tune in maybe next week when I’ll perhaps have some answers.

*PS – I made myself wait a week before posting this, on the off-chance that this was Just A Mood and the feeling would pass. I’m not so intensely despairing and have been able to write again, thanks for asking. Having someone refer to me as being in the “entertainment industry” was what kind of jarred me, and put me off, I think. “Entertainment” doesn’t feel to me like what I do. The word seems to connote a luxury, a fribble-job in a serious world that has serious and major needs (mainly to be rescued from politically-directed INSANITY at this point). Trying to figure out where one fits in light of this is the key.