2/05/2010 Writing
I'm writing. Cinderella reminds me that writing time is sacred time. I fear taking myself that seriously, but I need to take the process that seriously. It's crazy how much time one loses in teaching, planning workshops, attending to the needs of workshoppers, maintaining websites and answering mail, fielding grumbles whines cries love notes critiques complaints howls exploratory prods, editing, reviewing, writing blurbs, writing/answering incessant requests for letters of recommendation even from people one has met at a meeting once three years ago. Wow! Or, as they say in Mexico City, GUAU. I can see why people vanish to a cabin in Vermont. Gotta write. I forget to write in dealing with all the peripheral stuff. Must remember it's peripheral! Just: writing. Not career. Writing careers suck. Writing is the best job in the world, even if it's hard sometimes. Writing is play. Writing is lunch. Writing is a day in the woods. Sometimes, writing is the $%#@&*! treadmill. But this other stuff is a slow cascade of tapioca, covering the day like diabetic lava. Sweet, but it'll kill ya! So, back to work! Trying to make some good words for you to read!
A parting thought for today:
"When asked what I write about, I like to reply that 'about' is the wrong word, it suggests the wrong relationship. I prefer to say 'from' or 'toward' or occasionally 'through.'" --Kathleen Jamie
OK, y'all--I'm writing through. Thinking of you, even if I won't open my window when the pebbles hit the glass.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX, Luigi
The Hummingbird Review
A parting thought for today:
"When asked what I write about, I like to reply that 'about' is the wrong word, it suggests the wrong relationship. I prefer to say 'from' or 'toward' or occasionally 'through.'" --Kathleen Jamie
OK, y'all--I'm writing through. Thinking of you, even if I won't open my window when the pebbles hit the glass.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX, Luigi
2/04/2010
In my many secret lives, I do all kinds of sneaky things. One of those things is to maintain a hidden community/workshop of writers and artists. Out of this working group, a new lit journal has sprung. I am very excited about it, and I hope you will check it out.
It is THE HUMMINGBIRD REVIEW. Yeah, I'm in there. It's published by Charlie Redner and edited by warriors from the group. You can see info online at hummingbirdreview.blogspot.com. But the good news is that the electronic journal has gone into print. Yes. I like to hold an object in my hand. And now it's here.
You can get it via amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, openbooks.com. It's $10 an issue, but a little (humming)bird told me Barnes & Noble has it for $9.
They did good work--I hope you can support them. And writers/poets/artists/photographers--submit to The Hummingbird!
A Poem You Haven't Read Yet
It is THE HUMMINGBIRD REVIEW. Yeah, I'm in there. It's published by Charlie Redner and edited by warriors from the group. You can see info online at hummingbirdreview.blogspot.com. But the good news is that the electronic journal has gone into print. Yes. I like to hold an object in my hand. And now it's here.
You can get it via amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, openbooks.com. It's $10 an issue, but a little (humming)bird told me Barnes & Noble has it for $9.
They did good work--I hope you can support them. And writers/poets/artists/photographers--submit to The Hummingbird!
1/31/2010
My Fishtap colleague, the poet Frank X. Walker, edited a fine anthology a few years back called AMERICA! WHAT'S MY NAME? Now that I'm secretly cobbling my newxt poetry books together while working on Hummingbird II, I found this one. And I really liked it. I thought you might like it too. All right, I admit it--I am writing this blog to escape working on Hummingbird II. Yes, it's just like doing social studies homework.
This poem is dreamilke and mysterious, and was inspired by letter writers I saw in the old Mexican villages where nobody knew how to write. I don't know what the coins are at the end. Grace? The money they paid for the letter to be written? Or their reward? I like it that the poem did not tell me, and that I did not tell the poem.
#
There is A Town in Mexico
There is a town in Mexico
where no one ever dies, and the few
who have died did it elsewhere, then
pass through the town square
on their way to the fruit market where
hibiscus flowers bleed red nectar
into tea, mangos are free,
where alamos and olmos trees
are whitewashed halfway up
the trunk, and those few dead
our world has coughed up stop
by a bench where my grandfather
sits at a wrought iron table and
a black Olivetti and a stack
of onionskin bond. "Name,"
he says as he rolls the sheet
into the hungry machine.
And those few dead who wander
in past sugar cane, agaves
spiked dusty jade, snapping turtles
in the spring, the burro's fence,
scratch their heads, unable
to remember their names. "Any
name will do," my grandfather
tells them: for instance, he
calls himself Hummingbird.
He calls John the Baptist
Juanito, and if Emiliano
Zapata ever came down from the hills,
He'd get a new name too. The dead
call themselves Honeysuckle, Xochitl,
Midnight Wind, Coyote.
My grandfather types. Once
they've signed the page,
they scoop a cool cupful of water
from the tiled foutain, shade
their eyes for a minute, and stare
at all those gold shining coins.
15 Things I Have Learned From My Trainer
This poem is dreamilke and mysterious, and was inspired by letter writers I saw in the old Mexican villages where nobody knew how to write. I don't know what the coins are at the end. Grace? The money they paid for the letter to be written? Or their reward? I like it that the poem did not tell me, and that I did not tell the poem.
#
There is A Town in Mexico
There is a town in Mexico
where no one ever dies, and the few
who have died did it elsewhere, then
pass through the town square
on their way to the fruit market where
hibiscus flowers bleed red nectar
into tea, mangos are free,
where alamos and olmos trees
are whitewashed halfway up
the trunk, and those few dead
our world has coughed up stop
by a bench where my grandfather
sits at a wrought iron table and
a black Olivetti and a stack
of onionskin bond. "Name,"
he says as he rolls the sheet
into the hungry machine.
And those few dead who wander
in past sugar cane, agaves
spiked dusty jade, snapping turtles
in the spring, the burro's fence,
scratch their heads, unable
to remember their names. "Any
name will do," my grandfather
tells them: for instance, he
calls himself Hummingbird.
He calls John the Baptist
Juanito, and if Emiliano
Zapata ever came down from the hills,
He'd get a new name too. The dead
call themselves Honeysuckle, Xochitl,
Midnight Wind, Coyote.
My grandfather types. Once
they've signed the page,
they scoop a cool cupful of water
from the tiled foutain, shade
their eyes for a minute, and stare
at all those gold shining coins.
1/29/2010
In my faux Navy SEAL TRX torture by our trainer the fabulous Nicki Anderson, I have learned these odd things. About writing. Believe it or not. I call Nicki "The Body Editor." When I open my writing institute, I am going to have her there. I thought these few items about physical training apply handily to the practice of writing.
1. This is a shame-free zone.
2. If you are surrendering to shame, you will not make progess.
3. It is better to do a little than to do nothing.
4. It is better to do a little, right, than to do a lot wrong.
5. What you are lifting is not weight, it is your fear.
6. What you hate to do the most is what you need to work on the most.
7. When your form slips, it is better to stop than to forge on badly.
8. When you get tired, your form slips--take a break.
9. There are two kinds of pain: bad pain and healthy pain. Feeling the burn is good. You need to know when you feel wrong, when the pain feels wrong.
10. Be consistent, but never be punishing.
11. Eat chocolate, just don't eat as much chocolate. (OK, I threw that in to make myself happy!)
12. Live Brightly. (Eat bright colors, eat brown and green, but avoid beige, avoid blanched white...but I can see that in every aspect of daily life.)
13. You are not allowed to hurt yourself.
14. Seek help when you need it: all questions are correct; don't guess when it matters.
15. Dance!
May these silly notes help you when you face that blank, daunting page/screen. I tell you, sometimes the pen is the heaviest set of weights I have ever picked up.
P.S. You can find out more about Nicki -- recently named one of the top trainers in Chicago -- at www.nickianderson.com. She's got a new book out that is really worth your time.
Mon Jour Noir
1. This is a shame-free zone.
2. If you are surrendering to shame, you will not make progess.
3. It is better to do a little than to do nothing.
4. It is better to do a little, right, than to do a lot wrong.
5. What you are lifting is not weight, it is your fear.
6. What you hate to do the most is what you need to work on the most.
7. When your form slips, it is better to stop than to forge on badly.
8. When you get tired, your form slips--take a break.
9. There are two kinds of pain: bad pain and healthy pain. Feeling the burn is good. You need to know when you feel wrong, when the pain feels wrong.
10. Be consistent, but never be punishing.
11. Eat chocolate, just don't eat as much chocolate. (OK, I threw that in to make myself happy!)
12. Live Brightly. (Eat bright colors, eat brown and green, but avoid beige, avoid blanched white...but I can see that in every aspect of daily life.)
13. You are not allowed to hurt yourself.
14. Seek help when you need it: all questions are correct; don't guess when it matters.
15. Dance!
May these silly notes help you when you face that blank, daunting page/screen. I tell you, sometimes the pen is the heaviest set of weights I have ever picked up.
P.S. You can find out more about Nicki -- recently named one of the top trainers in Chicago -- at www.nickianderson.com. She's got a new book out that is really worth your time.
1/19/2010
Why, I couldn't have been more surprised. Folks who know me will know that I am a mystery/detective fanatic, and will rush to a new mystery book in a blinding dash. I have always said I would write mysteries if I had that talent or the smarts. Well, the editors of the Noir series from Akashic Books suggested I write a story for their PHOENIX NOIR book. "I can't," I said. "You can," the editor said. "I don't know how," I said. "Try," he said. (This sounds supiciously like sessions with a personal trainer, when she devises some new horror having to do with being suspended by straps and maneuvering your own body weight into wicked and painful positions for 150 reps. "You can," she says, as blood shoots out of your ears.)
OK, so I wrote this story, "Amapola." They accepted it. I was freaked out to be in a book with Lee Child and Don Winslow and other dark kings and queens of crime. All I'd hoped to do was not embarrass myself too much.
I got up this morning to come to work, and Cinderella said, "Guess who got nominated for an Edgar Award today." Thinking it was yet another pal of mine I could feel jealous of--damn you, David Corbett!--I mumbled, "Who?" as I rummaged around for my hi-fiber lo-cal colon blaster bread for some omega-3 peanut buttered toast. My bride said, "You."
WHAT????
The Edgar! Only the coolest award ever. Best mystery story. Are you KIDDING? I honestly don't care if I win or not; being nominated for an Edgar makes me dizzy with joy.
That's what I get for thinking I can't do something.
#
Which led to the sadder news of the day: Robert B. Parker died.
I have to weigh this. After all, it was Mr. Parker who made me a crime/hard-boiled/detective/mystery fan in the first place. The general plan of life--that things whipsaw so wildly that you stay in a constant state of spiritual/mental whiplash--smacked me right in my kitchen this morning.
I had read John D. MacDonald. The cheapo used paperback store behind Von's market had all the Travis McGee books, and my mom had a crush on that beach bum, so I read her double-used MacDonalds. I had read Chandler. But when the miraculous day came when I had to move from San Diego to Boston, I didn't know anything about Boston. So I went to the library and asked the librarians if he could recommend anything I could read to prepare for this change of life. And he said, "Are you looking for Rachel Wallace?" I said something sharp, like, "Whut?"
He took me to the mysrtery shelves and pulled down Parker's LOOKING FOR RACHEL WALLACE (duh...I tried to look like I Knew That!) and EARLY AUTUMN. "Read these," he said, with real love. "It'll tell you what you need to know."
Spenser! The world's coolest detective! I went crazy for these books. I inhaled them, then rushed back and scarfed up all the others I could find. I was hooked.
Now, as fate would have it, I'd been hired to teach Expos at Harvard. Yeah. Can you believe it? I must have been a lot smarter then than I am now. I thought it would be piquant, yet apropos, to force these top-drawer Biffs and Buffys to read hard-boiled detective books! Well, I was so proud of myself that I wrote Parker a letter and said, "They expect to be reading Dickens!" He, to my undying shock, wrote back and said, "Dickens who?" Then he suggested he come over and speak to the students.
On the anointed day, I was out on the street in front of the building waiting for him to come. I was wearing white sneakers, blue jeans, and a Harris tweed jacket. Parker came ambling along wearing, yeah baby, white sneaks, blue jeans and a Harris tweed jacket. He stopped, looked me up and down, and said, "I love your fashion sense." I cracked wise in a Spenserian mood and said, "We maintain a dress code at harvard." Haw haw.
Mr. Parker spent hours with the students and their pals and other fans who had snuck in. It was very generous and hilarious good fun. Later, he signed my stack of hardcovers, and even books for my mom. When I told him, "I've read all your books," he corrected me. "Don't tell a writer that," he said. "What we wanna hear is, 'I've BOUGHT all your books.'" I said, "I've bought all your books." He smiled. "That's what I wanna hear!"
He also taught me that, when faced with a stack of books, and he was in the position by then to be faced with stack after stack of books at signings, he couldn't think of anything witty to say after about 100 books. So he scribbled something vaguely round and letter-like that looked like well-wishes. Then he signed his name. So I have a stack of Spenser books that look like they might say Enjoy! or Huzzah! or Tally Ho! in vaguely Sumerian script.
What a strange day. That one and this one. Thanks, Mr. Parker, for the joy of reading all those amazing hard boiled books. And thanks for putting a little seed in my mind that got me this amazing nomination.
I'm still working on Hummingbird's Daughter II, and believe it or not, there are detectives in one section.
XXX, L
Count 'Em
OK, so I wrote this story, "Amapola." They accepted it. I was freaked out to be in a book with Lee Child and Don Winslow and other dark kings and queens of crime. All I'd hoped to do was not embarrass myself too much.
I got up this morning to come to work, and Cinderella said, "Guess who got nominated for an Edgar Award today." Thinking it was yet another pal of mine I could feel jealous of--damn you, David Corbett!--I mumbled, "Who?" as I rummaged around for my hi-fiber lo-cal colon blaster bread for some omega-3 peanut buttered toast. My bride said, "You."
WHAT????
The Edgar! Only the coolest award ever. Best mystery story. Are you KIDDING? I honestly don't care if I win or not; being nominated for an Edgar makes me dizzy with joy.
That's what I get for thinking I can't do something.
#
Which led to the sadder news of the day: Robert B. Parker died.
I have to weigh this. After all, it was Mr. Parker who made me a crime/hard-boiled/detective/mystery fan in the first place. The general plan of life--that things whipsaw so wildly that you stay in a constant state of spiritual/mental whiplash--smacked me right in my kitchen this morning.
I had read John D. MacDonald. The cheapo used paperback store behind Von's market had all the Travis McGee books, and my mom had a crush on that beach bum, so I read her double-used MacDonalds. I had read Chandler. But when the miraculous day came when I had to move from San Diego to Boston, I didn't know anything about Boston. So I went to the library and asked the librarians if he could recommend anything I could read to prepare for this change of life. And he said, "Are you looking for Rachel Wallace?" I said something sharp, like, "Whut?"
He took me to the mysrtery shelves and pulled down Parker's LOOKING FOR RACHEL WALLACE (duh...I tried to look like I Knew That!) and EARLY AUTUMN. "Read these," he said, with real love. "It'll tell you what you need to know."
Spenser! The world's coolest detective! I went crazy for these books. I inhaled them, then rushed back and scarfed up all the others I could find. I was hooked.
Now, as fate would have it, I'd been hired to teach Expos at Harvard. Yeah. Can you believe it? I must have been a lot smarter then than I am now. I thought it would be piquant, yet apropos, to force these top-drawer Biffs and Buffys to read hard-boiled detective books! Well, I was so proud of myself that I wrote Parker a letter and said, "They expect to be reading Dickens!" He, to my undying shock, wrote back and said, "Dickens who?" Then he suggested he come over and speak to the students.
On the anointed day, I was out on the street in front of the building waiting for him to come. I was wearing white sneakers, blue jeans, and a Harris tweed jacket. Parker came ambling along wearing, yeah baby, white sneaks, blue jeans and a Harris tweed jacket. He stopped, looked me up and down, and said, "I love your fashion sense." I cracked wise in a Spenserian mood and said, "We maintain a dress code at harvard." Haw haw.
Mr. Parker spent hours with the students and their pals and other fans who had snuck in. It was very generous and hilarious good fun. Later, he signed my stack of hardcovers, and even books for my mom. When I told him, "I've read all your books," he corrected me. "Don't tell a writer that," he said. "What we wanna hear is, 'I've BOUGHT all your books.'" I said, "I've bought all your books." He smiled. "That's what I wanna hear!"
He also taught me that, when faced with a stack of books, and he was in the position by then to be faced with stack after stack of books at signings, he couldn't think of anything witty to say after about 100 books. So he scribbled something vaguely round and letter-like that looked like well-wishes. Then he signed his name. So I have a stack of Spenser books that look like they might say Enjoy! or Huzzah! or Tally Ho! in vaguely Sumerian script.
What a strange day. That one and this one. Thanks, Mr. Parker, for the joy of reading all those amazing hard boiled books. And thanks for putting a little seed in my mind that got me this amazing nomination.
I'm still working on Hummingbird's Daughter II, and believe it or not, there are detectives in one section.
XXX, L
12/23/2009
Count your blessings, as the old aunties like to say. Every day can feel like church to me at any second, so I am keeping a running blessings-tally at all times. Lest I forget that 18,000 children a day starve to death. Lest I forget that I have a roof, a floor, a bed, a stove and TV. Lest I forget that I can afford to give good food to dogs and cats. Lest I forget that no death squads are coming for me or my family, that no-one is coming to torture us. Lest I forget the snow is pretty, a hassle when I want to fly out or wneh I have to shovel, but doesn't mean I will lose fingers or toes...or will freeze to death on a Chicago corner.
I made you a promise that I would kick off the Save the World Tour at the end of this bad year, looking toward 2010. We have been lucky so far in our efforts. That stuff is below, a couple of postings back. You can check it if you want. But we have been able to continue using my small career to goose charity events. That's good. We were able to send Pastor Von (Across the Wire, By the Lake of Sleeping Children) a couple of g's. Today, I'll surprise Negra from those same books with unexpected Christmas $.
Von tells me that in 50 years on the border, the missionaries have not felt fear...until now. Poverty, despeair, madness is in the eyes. The Big Fear that grips Juarez today is spreading like a toxic spill, puddling in gutters and canyons, flooding valleys, seeking the low points as it drools across the landscape.
Read all about it! http://pastorvon.blogspot.com/
Wanna help? Well, Von has a website, you can go look and read and think about it. I'd say, $5 is better than $0. Maybe you can help out. www.spectrumministries.com. They have good pictures there.
We went to Fedd My Starving Children again. I'm happy to say it's a major Naperville desitnation. People may not always have the extra $5 to give, but they have arms and hands and feet. They can pack food. This time, we managed to pack 19,000+ meals. Last time, it was 23,500+.
fmsc.com.
Fishtrap is running out of money, too. fishtrap.org.
What do we save? Kids? Arts? Animals? Trees? Water? Darfur? The homeless? The economy? The environment?
Rather than getting overwhelmed, I am thinking about the possibilities here. If My small family, with nour scant resources (yes, OK, I'm doing great--but not compared to the Stephen Kings of the world, or the MacArthur genius-grant winners, or the movie stars), but if we can sit back at the end of our hardest, saddest year and tally up the many substantial changes for the good we have been able to wring out of it...why, the possibilities are endless.
Even a good review placed at the right time, in the right place, can help a writer's career path. A good class, taught well, can reach a sorrowful student and open a small window of light. A thoughtful gift at a difficult moment might offer hope, and who knows what the next day might bring. There was a time, not that long ago, when I was at the end...nothing. Nothing at all. At the end of my rope? Well, I was planning to hang myself, so yeah. Funny how cliches make sense when you get to their roots.
But I didn't. Wanted to see what would happen. The cynic in me wanted to see how bad it could get. It's like working out: the trainer tells you this one is going to hurt, and you laugh, because you can't believe life gets this sucky, but you want to see if you can take it. Look what happened! Everything happened, that's what.
I just showed up and went to work.
That's my plan. It's foolish. It's naive. But I say: dare to be naive. dare to be ridiculous. Show up, go to work, think about all the small clues, and Save the World. One tiny drip-drop at a time.
When I told Von I was worried about publishing Across the Wire because it might make unwelcome waves for him, he said: "Never be satisfied with ripples."
We're goin' on vacation now. I'll tell you how we figure out the Sacred Lift-Offs while on a cruise. Ain't a saint 24/7--ain't even a saint once a week. Just a servant. Might drink some of that demon rum.
"Are you hearing me like I'm hearing you?
I'm seeing waves breaking forms on my horizon,
Yeah, I'm shining.
I'm seeing waves breaking forms on my horizon,
Lord, I'm shining." --The Chemical Brothers
Here's to 2010. Give thanks. Put out your hands. I'm reaching for you now.
Shining,
L
I made you a promise that I would kick off the Save the World Tour at the end of this bad year, looking toward 2010. We have been lucky so far in our efforts. That stuff is below, a couple of postings back. You can check it if you want. But we have been able to continue using my small career to goose charity events. That's good. We were able to send Pastor Von (Across the Wire, By the Lake of Sleeping Children) a couple of g's. Today, I'll surprise Negra from those same books with unexpected Christmas $.
Von tells me that in 50 years on the border, the missionaries have not felt fear...until now. Poverty, despeair, madness is in the eyes. The Big Fear that grips Juarez today is spreading like a toxic spill, puddling in gutters and canyons, flooding valleys, seeking the low points as it drools across the landscape.
Read all about it! http://pastorvon.blogspot.com/
Wanna help? Well, Von has a website, you can go look and read and think about it. I'd say, $5 is better than $0. Maybe you can help out. www.spectrumministries.com. They have good pictures there.
We went to Fedd My Starving Children again. I'm happy to say it's a major Naperville desitnation. People may not always have the extra $5 to give, but they have arms and hands and feet. They can pack food. This time, we managed to pack 19,000+ meals. Last time, it was 23,500+.
fmsc.com.
Fishtrap is running out of money, too. fishtrap.org.
What do we save? Kids? Arts? Animals? Trees? Water? Darfur? The homeless? The economy? The environment?
Rather than getting overwhelmed, I am thinking about the possibilities here. If My small family, with nour scant resources (yes, OK, I'm doing great--but not compared to the Stephen Kings of the world, or the MacArthur genius-grant winners, or the movie stars), but if we can sit back at the end of our hardest, saddest year and tally up the many substantial changes for the good we have been able to wring out of it...why, the possibilities are endless.
Even a good review placed at the right time, in the right place, can help a writer's career path. A good class, taught well, can reach a sorrowful student and open a small window of light. A thoughtful gift at a difficult moment might offer hope, and who knows what the next day might bring. There was a time, not that long ago, when I was at the end...nothing. Nothing at all. At the end of my rope? Well, I was planning to hang myself, so yeah. Funny how cliches make sense when you get to their roots.
But I didn't. Wanted to see what would happen. The cynic in me wanted to see how bad it could get. It's like working out: the trainer tells you this one is going to hurt, and you laugh, because you can't believe life gets this sucky, but you want to see if you can take it. Look what happened! Everything happened, that's what.
I just showed up and went to work.
That's my plan. It's foolish. It's naive. But I say: dare to be naive. dare to be ridiculous. Show up, go to work, think about all the small clues, and Save the World. One tiny drip-drop at a time.
When I told Von I was worried about publishing Across the Wire because it might make unwelcome waves for him, he said: "Never be satisfied with ripples."
We're goin' on vacation now. I'll tell you how we figure out the Sacred Lift-Offs while on a cruise. Ain't a saint 24/7--ain't even a saint once a week. Just a servant. Might drink some of that demon rum.
"Are you hearing me like I'm hearing you?
I'm seeing waves breaking forms on my horizon,
Yeah, I'm shining.
I'm seeing waves breaking forms on my horizon,
Lord, I'm shining." --The Chemical Brothers
Here's to 2010. Give thanks. Put out your hands. I'm reaching for you now.
Shining,
L
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