First drafts from a new year

Poetry as Science

Poetry is aggregation

images and sounds and words

that pulse and settle through the day.

 

Air takes up

light and noise and scent

thinning it all into a pale blue

the spectrum's path of least resistance.

 

The poet gathers the overfull clarity of sky

and with fumbling hands

divides the colors again.

--or--

The Bleak Ordinary

The safety lights from the bridge reflected sharply up from the water in the early morning darkness,

as if determined that today was the day

the languid sun would not overcome their colors

with the bleak ordinary of daylight.

 

That mercenary, tired from wrestling the lower hemisphere,

would turn its back to the earth and burn out another day.

The air was so cold that I couldn't catch my breath

and walked gasping

 

like a landlocked tourist toeing vacation waves

or an overwrought teenager.

Push and click the door open into the office swipe the clock marks I'm here--

 

and the rush of the alarm shower hair ugh drink breakfast bringing lunch? car drive- speed- cop?- speed- garage walk cold air punch in slows

to the measured and exact hours of a day at work on a Friday. 

Happy New Year, from us :)

rkb

(for your blog, or whatever)

“Emotion can come before writing, and after writing, but it must not be present during writing.” Madeleine L’Engle in her book Walking on Water

“If the writer feels it when writing, the reader feels it when reading” - Common Knowledge

As in any pursuit, an incredible variety of emotions may be experienced while in the process of creating a work of fiction. In this little essay-thing, I'll be focusing on my two biggest ones: too strong of an emotional connection with the story itself, and too strong of an emotional connection with the characters. I will try to be as clear as possible about where I see these emotions as streaming from, and in what ways these emotions can get in the way of the process itself. 

It's probably best to begin with the most damning emotion of all: few things are as murderous to the creative process as that intoxicating epiphany that one is in the midst of creating something beautiful. This thought is often accompanied by a thrill (which is itself often accompanied by the sense that this thrill is the only requisite to continue creating that "Grand Work" which one has begun), and an intense self-scrutiny which seeks to discover the place from which this beautiful creation has, thus far, been streaming, in order to prolong the inspiration and avoid a loss of control of the process. 


Writing solely from the intoxication of an adrenalin-addled imagination however, is a sure way to burnout. As soon as the thrill begins to fade, and fatigue sets in, the infatuation with the text vanishes without a trace, and the writer is left wondering what it was that he or she got so worked up about in the first place. But most troublesome of all is this: having experienced that thrill, it's tempting to think that when one does not feel that way, one is doing something entirely wrong.

Seeking to discover the sources of one's inspiration, to lay them out in the simplest way possible to prevent them from vanishing betrays a lack of confidence in one's ability to truly remain inspired. The trouble is that inspiration is a far more holistic concept than we would like to admit to ourselves, and it seems likely that few have the necessary insight to know exactly why it is that they are writing, until after they have written.

It's understandable to wish to create something beautiful. At the same time, it's likely that if we ever do create something beautiful, we'll be unable to see for ourselves that it is beautiful. Though this thought can be terrifying, and though we can feel tempted to try to figure it all out in spite of our lack of insight, it's far worse to cut off the creative process simply because one wishes to step back and figure out why one has suddenly gotten the sense that one has created something beautiful.

Even if our intuition is correct, and we have finally written the most beautiful page or paragraph or sentence we have ever written, we will likely never discover what it was that made it so beautiful, and so we will be unable to move onward. Though every bit of writing can be improved upon, we cannot rewrite it, for fear that we will end up writing out, and losing forever that fiction's as-yet-undiscovered essence. And, depending on our degree of neuroticism, we cannot write further pages or paragraphs or sentences, for fear that they won't give us that sense of having created a beautiful thing. 


It seems more practical to tell one's self that even if creating beautiful things is one's stated goal, the creation of beautiful things is largely out of one's conscious control, dependent on a holistic and intuitive understanding of language, emotions, storytelling etc, and that the thrilling realization that one is attaining one's goals is both irrelevant, and ironically, counterproductive.

The second problematic emotion is too-keen of an empathetic connection with one's characters. Obviously, since we are writing them, if they are to be well-rounded, we will have to utilize many different aspects of our own personalities, and in doing so we will understand where they are coming from. But the goal of writing fiction (that one wishes to share with others, of course) is not to have an inner experience, but to give one. Since the individual reader's response to the text will vary dramatically between readers, and different parts will stand out to different readers, it seems rather narrow-minded to think that more readers will feel that sense of connection if we feel it first.

Personally, I find absolute identification with my own characters to be both emotionally draining and self-indulgent. As before, once one has written something that one feels encapsulates an aspect of one's soul, it's hard to go back and rewrite it, for fear of destroying the essence of the writer's own sensation of connection. 


I see the goal of fiction as illusion. The more the writer writes from a place of pure emotionality, the less his or her own emotions and desires are sublimated into something more complex, and the more his or her hand shows through, and the more the illusion is broken. Storytelling is not about self-expression, but about telling a good story.

However, I like to hope that a good story told well will inescapably capture the uniqueness of the writer's own personality and voice. In a way, self-expression is inescapable. We need not worry about fully embedding ourselves in the personalities of our creations.


James Daniels

Little feminist

Just a quick link for you today: this video warmed my heart. I hope my (future) (possible) kid is exactly like this.

rkb

What I've Been Up To---and other things you don't care about.

Does getting a job, going through three interviews, dressing professionally, and teaching for ten days make you a teacher?

Dang, I hope so--then I could be considered something other than a "Sales Associate."  I could print business cards with:

Amanda McConnell
Teacher Extraordinaire

At this VERY moment, I'm in one of the labs.  My students are working on their short story finals.  At least one boy--excuse me--young man, is going to be writing about a zombie epidemic.  He scooted his chair over here to ask, "Miss McConnell, can you have someone die?"

I said, "Of course you can."

"Well, can it be gory?"

"Oh yeah," I said.  I smiled.  "Definitely."

He seemed to pretty happy about that, and is now talking about his ideas with the guys around him.

I teach two senior classes, two junior classes, and one sophomore class.  The seniors have as much enthusiasm as a patient at a dentist office, so I'm not sure how to read them.  Fun fact, I have some repeat students from last year (I did half of my student teaching at this very school).  At first they gave me some strange looks, wondering where they'd seen my mug before.  Now it's just nice because I remember their names.  Juniors are my favorite class so far; they, for the most part, like to interact with me, even if I have to yell at them to shut up once in awhile. I can't help but grin when they tell me they are having more fun in my class than the normal teacher's class.  I haven't been universally accepted, but if the worst thing I do while I'm here is make students participate, then I think I'm doing a good job.

My sophomores are a different story... Well, let's just say it's not my favorite class.

Students have for some reason opened up to me.  That's not something that has to do with me.  I'm a big goof in most of classes; I guess my main strategy throughout this experience has been honesty.  They know when I forget something; they laugh when I crack jokes about the lesson or myself.  Maybe that's endeared me to some of them, I'm not sure.  A dash of sarcasm hasn't hurt my cause either.

What has surprised me the most is the fact that I'm no longer nervous, for the most part, in front of a group of thirty students.  I worry that I will have enough material for a whole ninety minutes, but I don't worry about them hating me.  Go figure.  Maybe I have more confidence in myself than I have previously thought...

... Okay yeah, that's not right.  Probably divine intervention.  Some sort of deus ex machina thing.

I'll leave you with this little interaction I had one of the first lessons here:

"I want you to, on your piece of paper, write three of your personal character traits.  So, for my three I'm going to write on the board that I am.... an introvert.....  an animal lover.... and stubborn."  Here I explained why those things applied to me.  "Now, write your three traits and explain them to me in a beefy paragraph."

One student raised his hand.

"What I mean by a beefy paragraph is that it's five to eight sentences."

Groans and moans.

"C'mon, people.  This is simple.  I'm giving you plenty of time."

I sat down at my desk after making sure everyone was writing.  One student in front of my desk looked up at me.

"Are you sure you're an introvert?" he asked.

"Kid, what you don't know is this is all an act."

M&y

I'm running- or, at least, jogging- for President

Or at the very least, a candidate nomination. That's right, people, this person: 

                   Look real close, and you can see who I voted for in the last national election! 

could be the next leader of the free world. (Note that this photograph can also be used as a visual aid for how to vote, in the event that you are unsure of how to vote and/or live in the state of Florida.) Goal: achieve the Independent (or Libertarian, or Scientologist, whomever will have me really) party nomination for 2012 presidential candidacy. Of course, I have created a summary of my platforms for interested and civically engaged persons (i.e. anyone who is still reading). 

Platforms:

1. I will be the best-dressed President in history, not only because of the extended options culturally available in terms of wardrobe to a female president (see skirts, dresses, the occasional skort to keep it interesting) but also because I plan on dressing exclusively in "PowerWear", the high fashion clothing line based on the former Libyan leader (let's all agree that's a very generous noun) Gaddafi's histrionic style. 

                         The devil wears... well... that has got to be his own brand, right?

2. I will mandate a reworking of the national anthem to a simpler, more catchy version, preferably with lyrics that Christina Aguilera can remember. Rebecca Black will be hired to produce the song and accompanying video. 

3. I will forgive all student debt, regardless of whether or not it apologizes, or means that apology from the heart. 

4. I am the only openly declared pro-hat candidate, and I will continue to support the free wearing of hats by men, women, members of the LGBT community, and children alike. Here I am pictured with some of my hat-enthusiast constituents-- YOU CAN JOIN THIS MOVEMENT:

                                  Cover your heads. Cover America. 

5. I will make a mix cd for every voter (pending changes in DRM once I assume office) that is guaranteed to include at least one Black Keys track and no Nickelback songs whatsoever.

6. I will overcome the hostility and division within our current administration, beginning with mandatory field trips for all members of Congress. This is including but not limited to a trip to Goodwill in which they will all have to choose outfits for each other and then wear those outfits until a bill is successfully signed into law.

7. I will address the national fiscal crisis by implementing cost-saving and revenue-generating ideas, such as leasing out Camp David on weekends for hosting parties. Discounts will be available for any parties with open bars; no parties that require guests to wear costumes will be accommodated. 

Look for my campaign launch coming soon with chalk on a sidewalk near you. 

rkb

Lighting Up

You crouched close to show me your technique

and I was thrilling at our night of debauchery

and your pursed lips.

We laughed around mouthfuls of smoke.

Frustrated matches flamed out from between my cold novice fingers,

scattering onto the concrete like wasted snowflakes

that no child tried to catch on his tongue.

Finally, you pulled me over to crouch behind a truck,

my hands triangling and yours

lifted close to help. We lit up.

You suggested we walk because I was cold,

the suggestion helping more than the action.

Words dripped like ashes and left meaning glowing and protected like the cherry.

I didn’t like you much at the beginning of the night,

but once the cigar freed your tongue

you dropped bits of truth into the air

and that I liked.

Our group wandered the parking lot like vagrants,

worrying the ladies closing up shop

with little more than our presence

and slanted laughter.

The nicotine stung my lips for hours later

reminding them of the touch

of the cigar

and the smoke settled into my clothes to mark

the night on me. 

rkb

Interview

Today I had my first round of interviews at a high school for a teaching position.  It would only last three weeks, but it may turn out to be something if I'm able to impress.

Anyway, I'll keep you posted.  I didn't do abysmally, but I'm not a good judge of myself (who is?).

-M&y

**EDIT**

Tomorrow I have my second round.  Anxiety is continually building.  I'll post later if it's a KO.