2015 may just be the Best. Year. Ever. (so far)

I admit it: I've been so busy writing fiction, I've ignored my poetry--to the extent that I didn't realize one of my poems got published over a year ago.

Back in 2012, I submitted "Lacuna" to the LDS women's magazine Segullah, and they accepted it for their last print issue. What I didn't realize is that they added it to their e-zine in February 2014. Check my sidebar for the link.

In other, even more fabulous news, my pitch for The Door to Yesterday was selected for NaNoWriMo's 2015 Pitchapalooza. If I win, I get a free 1-hour consultation with the Book Doctors, to help me hone my pitch to perfection as I begin my epic quest for a literary agent, which is slated for this spring. Please stop by Pitchapalooza 2015 and vote for my pitch. Then, you can say you knew me before I was famous.

Thanks in advance!

A late valentine

Mostly, I've been working like crazy on the latest round of revisions to The Door to Yesterday. My second group of readers got their comments to me at the end of January, and I've been incorporating their suggestions: a herculean task which has absorbed most of my creative attention for the last month...but here and there, other muses creep in and leave an offering.


Kiss

My lips against you
the crush of skin to skin
mine yielding to yours
as yours yields to mine.

A single act
becomes a metaphor:
we press together
in paradox
stronger as we
both give way.

A kiss is
love in a nutshell.

Winds of change

I've been quiet for too long, but I promise: I've been busy. Back in April I finished my first draft of The Door to Yesterday. Early in July, I had a second draft sufficiently ready to give to my initial bevy of beta-readers. While waiting for their feedback, I've been keeping myself busy by polishing my query letter and yes, migrating all book-related posts to my new blog.

Over the years I've grown too attached to this blog to give up on it just yet; if I post any poetry, it will be here, so don't give up on chicklegirl--not just yet.

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming...

NaPoWriMo? I know, I know. It's been a long time since I've actually posted, let alone posting poetry. In spite of--and perhaps because of--being incommunicado for so long, I'm quite excited for NaPoWriMo this year. For the past three weeks, I've been working on a fiction project (but that's another post) and after a very long time away from writing, I'm starting to get back into a routine again. My project is going well enough I think a month-long detour won't derail it, so I'm ready for the challenge.

Wait--did I just say that? Why yes, yes I did.

Good news

I got an email late last night from Robin at Boston Literary Magazine: "I loved 'Día de los Angelitos' and would love to have it for our spring issue - wonderful writing!"

I've rewritten "Día de los Angelitos" since I posted it back in November by revising it and combining it with another poem I wrote at the same time, on the same subject. I'll post the link to the new poem when the spring issue of BLM goes up on March 15.

One last thing to add: if you are in the market to publish your poetry or short works of prose, I highly suggest you check out BLM's submission guidelines. They're wonderful to work with, and very speedy at getting back to you about your submission; I emailed my poems yesterday morning and heard back in 12 hours. I think that's a new land speed record for the editor of a literary journal!

A day in poet's paradise

Saturday was really wonderful. I originally had two reallys before wonderful, but thought the better of it because there simply aren't enough reallys to convey how great it was; one in italics will have to suffice.

I went to an all-day poetry workshop down in Yakima with Kim Stafford, a second-generation poet and genuinely nice human being. I loved that he took the time to ask each of us attending the class what moves us to write and what we were looking for from the class and then listened and responded to each of us individually. It wasn't just touchy-feely, though; he's an incredibly gifted poet with tremendous technical skill and he shared freely from his experiences.

For this year's class I was in a relaxed, confident place, both emotionally and with my art. I feel like I've matured, particularly in my writing process and my patience with my work. Sometimes it takes a while for a poem to tell me where it's going, and I'm finally okay with that; I no longer feel the need to turn out perfect poetry right out of the gate. In fact, I recognize that it won't ever be perfect, but it will feel right when it's done.

Coming into the class with that sense was so different from last year, when I felt like the kid invited to sit at the grown-up's table for the first time, using all the wrong forks and not knowing how to make conversation but wanting somehow to prove myself. It was nice to be at ease, to relax, to mingle, and above all, to feel a sense of abundance about my writing: an abundance of things to write about, of time in which to write, and of wisdom to hone what I write into the best possible version of itself.

I also have to add, I got some of the best ever pregnancy advice from Kim. At the very end of the afternoon, he told me that his mother's doctor had prescribed for her "an hour every day spent in beauty". He said every pregnant woman needs that time surrounded by beauty so that she can pass it on to her children.

I promised Dr. Stafford I would follow his prescription.

It's true...

...that I've been ignoring my blog. One of the things I've been doing instead is experimenting with reworking and rethinking some of my writing.

Last week, I made a second attempt at starting a poetry group, and was grateful (more than I'd care to say) when someone showed. It was worth the wait. I met a local poet who teaches psych up at the college and she had some interesting insights about my poems. One thing she told me, I already knew: I tend too much toward the narrative. But instead of viewing this as a weakness, she said, "Maybe you're a poet who should really be writing stories." She also pointed out that some of the longer pieces seem to have poems within poems that interrupt or detour from the flow of the larger poem, that maybe could stand alone.

When I got home, I looked of those poems and started to experiment with pulling them apart and reworking them, both as prose and separate poems. I tried not to think of it as chopping apart my babies but rather that the sum of the parts might be lesser than the actual parts themselves. It's a challenge to think about my writing in new ways, since I'm such a creature of habit, but I'm trying to be open.

One of the ones I've been working with was "Lac De Roche", a poem I wrote earlier this spring. The middle section is a vignette about picking gooseberries for my grandmother, and in looking at it with fresh eyes, I think it can (and probably should) stand alone. Last week I tried reworking it as a short, short prose piece, and am not sure how I feel about the product. So this morning I've been trying it as a poem. I'm going to give it a test flight at a poetry open mic night this evening, down in Yakima. Wish me luck!


Gooseberry Pie: a Disappointment in Three Acts

Hidden in the tall grass
low bushes of gooseberries grow wild
along weather-silvered fence rails
their taut globes whiskery
pale-veined translucent green
warm under my fingertips
from hanging all day in the sun
my hands weave a delicate dance
through prickly branches
plucking enough to fill an old plastic bucket
and when the soft one-by-one of them
no longer plunks against the bottom
when a few unruly berries
spring over the rim
when it holds enough for a whole pie
I carry my bucket back to nana.

She measures butter, flour, sugar
leveling each cup
with the straight side of a table knife
rolls out a delicate crust
with deliberate strokes
eases it into a glass pie plate
fills it with berries
then more butter, flour, sugar
finally, she cuts and weaves a fragile lattice
to crown her masterpiece
before commending it to the oven
and for a delicious hour
the cabin walls strain to contain
the golden aroma
of buttery crust and bubbling berries.

No scent of foreshadowing
prepares me for the sour regret
of braving thorns for bitter fruit:
I suck my cheeks in hollow
after a single sharp bite of pie
poke once with my fork at its sugary crust
and leave the rest
still steaming on my plate.

Head games

Earlier this week I found an online poetry critique community that looks incredibly intriguing. Ever since I checked it out, I've been playing head games with myself: can I make the time commitment to do more revision of my work and also commit to giving honest consideration and constructive comments about others' poetry—when I'm feeling slightly overwhelmed with real life? Am I even qualified to offer constructive criticism to other writers? Am I a good enough writer to be a "serious poet"? Can I be a "serious poet" if I wasn't a lit major? Is it really possible for me to be published? Why do I even want to get published anyway? Why is this pushing all my buttons?

For as long as I've been writing, I haven't done much in the way of long-term revision on my work, unless it was required for a school assignment. Maybe a week of off-and-on tweaking at most. I think that's one of the things holding me back from being a better writer. I've always wanted to be published, and if I'm ever going to get there, this seems like the next logical step, joining a group that will force me to refine and improve my craft. The thought is both exciting and scary, and I've been hesitant to contact the group because there are several poets involved whose blogs I lurk around and whose writing I very much admire. I feel like a geek approaching the cool kids' table with my lame brown bagged lunch, too paralyzed to try and sound casual as I ask, "Can I come hang with you guys?"

But after working from this week's prompt from Writers Island ("the return"), I'm starting to think I should conquer my fears and ask to join the group. I like what I've written so far, but even though it feels unfinished, I'm not sure where or what to add.


Lodestar

I shouldn’t have lived looking over my shoulder
wasted all my wishes on wanting to return to
dark warmth secure in its perfect nurture
craved comfort of steady pulse lulling me
a small island calm in a soothing sea but

like Lot’s wife I longed too much for what I lost
kept turning back to memories instead
of facing cold unforgiving truth
a shrill storming world its waves
surging on my soft sandy shores after

shedding tears enough for my own pillar
of salt I finally looked inward to find
my true beacon was able to see you did
what you knew to do and while I couldn’t
set my compass by you I could love you.

Trimming the fat

First, a birthday shout-out to my baby sister Meredith. She's a gifted writer, a lover of dogs, and an old soul who turns 19 today. I miss and love you, girl!

(Abrupt segue...)

Lately I've been trying to streamline: my household, my relationships, my schedule, my commitments, my character, my body, and yes, my writing. It's a challenge to trim away what is undesirable or unneccessary without cutting to the bone; finding the balance takes practice and finesse often beyond what I think I have. But I keep on trying, having occasional moments of brilliant success that sustain my momentum through the rest of the day.

This morning I was meditating on my efforts and the perfect analogy came to me, I think, because my brother-in-law is a meat cutter. I shop at the supermarket where he works and have come to respect him as being more than a tradesman; he's an expert artisan who knows his craft completely and always gives me the best advice about what cut of meat to use, recipes, and even what will be on sale in the near future. Maybe someday I will have that same thorough expertise and artistic skill in shaping my own life.


Trimming (the) Fat

There is the finest of lines
between being a butcher
and a meat cutter

knowing exactly where
to insert razor-edged blade
gently but firmly sever
a joint’s connective tissues
without tearing tender flesh
carving choicest cuts
rather than hacking out
shapeless chunks of meat
slicing off cartilage, gristle, bone
and finally
trimming away just enough fat
to leave a little for flavor

there is the finest of lines
between being a butcher
and a poet.

Ten signs a book is written by me

Juliet at Crafty Green Poet challenged her visitors to take a go at this meme, and I confess it daunted me... which is why I decided to face my fear and do it.

Sometimes I think I was born with a genetically imprinted need to write. My maternal grandfather penned several never-published novels and I feel like I inherited his unfulfilled dream; from an early age I've fantasized about an illustrious career as an author (and as the world's first archaeologist ballerina; it could happen).

Sadly, most of my ideas for books have been rather hackneyed and lame; the only viable one has been for a historical tome about my great-great grandfather, an architect from Maine who left his family and went to the Klondike for the gold rush (which would be a strictly academic analysis and annotation of his Klondike diary).

I'd love to have my poetry published, but have only done so twice (and it was ages ago), so the thought of an entire book... boggles my mind. But I'm willing to try a bit of positive visualization in the form of a meme.

Ten signs a book is written by Chicklegirl:

1) It's dedicated to my grandpa, Clark Cottrell, Jr.
2) It is most likely poetry or nonfiction
3) It will make readers laugh (hopefully on purpose)
4) It probably contains too many four-syllable words
5) It has lots of pictures
6) It will make readers cry (also on purpose)
7) People who purchase it will feel they got their money's worth
8) People who borrow it from the library will decide to buy their own copy
9) It is short enough to leave readers wanting more
10) It won't inspire a string of slickly-produced Hollywood blockbusters starring Angelina Jolie as a buxom archaeologist/poet/ballerina who finds the Holy Grail and vanquishes the undead with a lethal combination of free verse and grand battement

Me and santa: a retrospective

The prompt at Writer’s Island for today was to write something about how we embrace this season.

Santa and me go way back. Some years we were thisclose.

Other years not so much.

Here I still believed, but not for much longer.

In December 1976, my family had just moved from Provo, Utah, to nearby Springville. We lived in a small, mouse-infested apartment above a weight station. On Christmas Eve, I was determined to stay up and watch Santa deliver the presents I knew were coming because I had been extra good all year. I waited quietly in bed, feigning sleep until I heard my parents go down for the night and then I snuck out to the living room from the bedroom I shared with my little brother Lee. Crawling on my hands and knees, I slowly backed myself into the gap between our couch and the wall behind it. I was almost completely hidden when I felt something move next to my leg and heard a loud snap. With a shriek I shot out from behind the couch—and then realized I had backed into a mousetrap. I shoved the trap under the couch and resumed my prime position for Santa surveillance. Sadly, I fell asleep before the man in red showed up.

By Christmas 1977, I was a jaded eight year-old chaperone for my nattily suspendered-and-plaid-pantsed brother (clearly still a believer).

Over a decade later, I became even more jaded when my mom took my youngest sister and I for Santa pictures at Northgate Mall in Seattle. I was a college freshman, and she was a year and a half. We camped out in line, sandwiched for what seemed forever between other people's toddlers melting down. At last it was our turn. I sat on Santa’s lap, and Meredith sat on mine. Right before the photographer snapped our picture, nasty old Santa copped a feel. Yeah. I waited for the flash, then shot him a dirty look as I whisked Meredith away as quickly as possible. All I could think was, at least better me than her.

Last year when Jimmy was three, Jim and I had The Santa Talk—you know, the one where we discussed whether we should inflict belief in Santa (and the inevitable emotional trauma at its termination) on our children. It had been long enough since the perverted Santa imposter incident that I didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand. Eventually we decided in favor of a guilt-free Santa Claus, a benevolent Kris Kringle with no naughty-or-nice strings attached.

In the end, I’m glad Jim and I could agree Santa had a certain magic integral to our own childhoods—a miraculous magic of hope, humor, giving, and possibilities—and that we want our kids to have it, too.

Birds, bees and other creatures

During the past week I've been rereading Dandelion Wine, a novel by one of my favorite authors, Ray Bradbury. More on that some other post. In the preface, Bradbury discusses his creative process. He talks about going back to memories of childhood and picking a visual or a word or a smell and starting with that, then seeing what unfolds. I've been ruminating on his idea and this morning, my own inspiration hit me.

The "F" word. I know, I know—it's an unlikely muse for someone like me, but hear me out.

It was 1977, and I was in second grade at Fauntleroy Elementary School in West Seattle. Fauntleroy was down the hill from where we lived at a rental house on Donovan Street, the house with the lilacs.

The school closed in 1981. The last time I was there was for Ruth's wedding reception, five years ago. Behind the school, the playground was a ruin of twisted steel, patched here and there with decrepit rubber mats, like so many peeling bandaids vainly trying to hold together the hopelessly cracked asphalt. The still-handsome brick building space was rented out to a day care, a dance school and private events.

In 1977, though, Fauntleroy throbbed with life, the pulsing blood of school children pumping reckless through each arterial hall. My second grade teacher, Mrs. Crawford, was an awe-inspiring woman with silvery blond bobbed hair. More than once she chastized me for losing myself in a book at the beginning of class, only to surface, startled, in the middle of the Pledge of Allegiance.

One crisp morning as I was hanging my blue and yellow parka in the coatroom, I heard it whispered. Scandalized sniggers. Later, as I sank behind the wide wooden expanse of desk, exhausted by lunch recess, I heard it again, from the scalawag seated just to my left. I turned and whispered it back, but even then my voice had the (unhappy) ability to project, and I quickly found myself facing the stern visage of Mrs. Crawford. With a single look worth a hundred lectures, she dispatched me to the principal's office.

Mr. Richardson and I were already well acquainted, and he gestured for me to be seated on an uncomfortable wooden chair in front of his massive desk.

"So?"

I abjectly explained that I had said something bad, and told him what it was.

"Do you know what that word means?"

I shook my head no.

"I'm going to send you home, and when you get there, I'd like you to tell your mother what you said and ask her to explain to you exactly what it means." I was dismissed.

The quarter-mile walk home up the hill was especially long that afternoon. Mr. Richardson must have called my mother because she was forearmed with a pencil and notepad. She started with the obligatory brief remonstrance about the unsavory nature of the "F" word. Then my mother—the daughter of a nurse who would one day become one herself—segued perilously with "When a mommy and a daddy love each other," and launched into a detailed clinical description of human intimacy, complete with anatomically correct drawings, to scale.

Fascinated, terrified and disgusted all at once, my eight year-old eyes never looked at boys quite the same. Or my own parents, for that matter.

I'm thinking when the time comes to have The Talk with Audrey, I'll probably skip the pad and pencil.