Market Street Bridge, Chattanooga
Friday, June 23, 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
lessons in exuberance (and desperation)
In the news this week I came across a story about a man who proposed to his girlfriend. At her balking, he decides to take off his clothes and streak through the street to show her that risk taking is a marvelous thing. However, this idea turns out to be rather bad, because naked proposer ends up hiding in a bush when some people walk by, and one of those people spots him, takes out a gun, and begins to fire. Naked proposer runs for his life. Yes, yes, risks are good! Not all end in gunfire! The story neglects to mention whether or not still-fully-dressed girlfriend accepts.
Also read this in my new issue of the Smithsonian on their Last Page section, where they are touting other recent discoveries that bring new light to commonly accepted ideas (prompted by the discovery of the Gospels of Judas):
"Henry David Thoreau's woodsy 19th century journey of self-discovery yielded Walden, which championed moderation in all things and a harmonious relationship between man and the environment. But then, more pages, written in his hand, were found nailed to a rafter in his cabin. 'If I am bitten by one more damned mosquito, I am going to burn down the whole forest. And another thing. It's cold out here. And lonely. Very lonely. My best friend is a piece of tree bark that looks like Zachary Taylor's head. Thank God for moonshine. And guns! Pow! Pow! Pow! Blam! Pow! Gimme a life of loud desperation!'"
And finally, the countdown to The Big Move stands at 47 days until. 47 days in which to pack, to throw away stuff I've had for no reason whatsoever (who needs a water bill not in their name that they paid in full four years ago???), 47 days to visit all the places here that I will miss, to come to a reckoning with the loss of friends, the loss of being able to not get lost in a familiar city (at least, not too terribly lost), 47 days in which to spoil my dogs rotten. Or, conversely, 47 days until I live on the coast!
Also read this in my new issue of the Smithsonian on their Last Page section, where they are touting other recent discoveries that bring new light to commonly accepted ideas (prompted by the discovery of the Gospels of Judas):
"Henry David Thoreau's woodsy 19th century journey of self-discovery yielded Walden, which championed moderation in all things and a harmonious relationship between man and the environment. But then, more pages, written in his hand, were found nailed to a rafter in his cabin. 'If I am bitten by one more damned mosquito, I am going to burn down the whole forest. And another thing. It's cold out here. And lonely. Very lonely. My best friend is a piece of tree bark that looks like Zachary Taylor's head. Thank God for moonshine. And guns! Pow! Pow! Pow! Blam! Pow! Gimme a life of loud desperation!'"
And finally, the countdown to The Big Move stands at 47 days until. 47 days in which to pack, to throw away stuff I've had for no reason whatsoever (who needs a water bill not in their name that they paid in full four years ago???), 47 days to visit all the places here that I will miss, to come to a reckoning with the loss of friends, the loss of being able to not get lost in a familiar city (at least, not too terribly lost), 47 days in which to spoil my dogs rotten. Or, conversely, 47 days until I live on the coast!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Still reading like a mad woman. . .
. . . last night it was a harrowing emotional journey through Carolyn Parkhurst's debut novel, The Dogs of Babel. The emotion was on my side, as I went from hate to love, annoyance to admiration and finally, why?
The why question stems more from wondering why a publisher would take a novel that is obviously not polished. There was such potential for a truly original piece of work (how many novels deal with a professor of linguistics trying to teach his dog to talk so he can find out how his wife died?), and instead it only showed that Parkhurst has potential. In some later chapters, the more meditative ones, her writing shines through, but on the whole there are just some strange plot twists and unbelievable coincidences that wind up sticking out. The characters are contrived and honestly, well, the wife doesn't act at all like someone who would have given the protagonist peace, which is what he claims in the beginning, and yet the author fails to show.
Why do I rail on this?
Well, let's see. Firstly it seems that a lot of books showing up on the market these days are first books by MFA grads. Likely these are the products of two to three years of intense workshopping, and after that amount of time, naturally the author would want to publish. But sometimes first books should remain unpublished, or given time to ripen with considerable amounts of revisioning. Not editing, but revisioning.
Secondly, who on earth selected this book to be the Today Show's Book Club selection? With all the millions of books out there, they select this one? I find this baffling . . . As far as books go, it is a rather mediocre read, although the author shows promise. She isn't ripe yet.
How do we, as writers, know when we are ripe? I still cannot tell from my own poetry what poem is actually worthwhile and which belongs in the trash. (Okay, sometimes the trash ones are glaringly obvious.) While I was reading this book last night I kept thinking, if only she and I could discuss this point here, and see how she would rewrite this aspect. . . So much potential.
And so I fear writing fiction myself. So much potential, but what if you reach your potential and find it isn't half as good as you'd hoped? So much easier to be a critic. So to Carolyn Parkhurst, wherever you are, keep on keeping on. The next one is the one to shoot for.
. . . last night it was a harrowing emotional journey through Carolyn Parkhurst's debut novel, The Dogs of Babel. The emotion was on my side, as I went from hate to love, annoyance to admiration and finally, why?
The why question stems more from wondering why a publisher would take a novel that is obviously not polished. There was such potential for a truly original piece of work (how many novels deal with a professor of linguistics trying to teach his dog to talk so he can find out how his wife died?), and instead it only showed that Parkhurst has potential. In some later chapters, the more meditative ones, her writing shines through, but on the whole there are just some strange plot twists and unbelievable coincidences that wind up sticking out. The characters are contrived and honestly, well, the wife doesn't act at all like someone who would have given the protagonist peace, which is what he claims in the beginning, and yet the author fails to show.
Why do I rail on this?
Well, let's see. Firstly it seems that a lot of books showing up on the market these days are first books by MFA grads. Likely these are the products of two to three years of intense workshopping, and after that amount of time, naturally the author would want to publish. But sometimes first books should remain unpublished, or given time to ripen with considerable amounts of revisioning. Not editing, but revisioning.
Secondly, who on earth selected this book to be the Today Show's Book Club selection? With all the millions of books out there, they select this one? I find this baffling . . . As far as books go, it is a rather mediocre read, although the author shows promise. She isn't ripe yet.
How do we, as writers, know when we are ripe? I still cannot tell from my own poetry what poem is actually worthwhile and which belongs in the trash. (Okay, sometimes the trash ones are glaringly obvious.) While I was reading this book last night I kept thinking, if only she and I could discuss this point here, and see how she would rewrite this aspect. . . So much potential.
And so I fear writing fiction myself. So much potential, but what if you reach your potential and find it isn't half as good as you'd hoped? So much easier to be a critic. So to Carolyn Parkhurst, wherever you are, keep on keeping on. The next one is the one to shoot for.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
on the shelf
The Red Tent, Anita Diamant
Excellent book, just finished at 2 a.m. last night. Had to keep reading it - very compulsive. It sat on my bookshelf for over a year before I had time to consume it, and consume I did.
A Personal Matter, Kenzaburo Oe
Also fairly amazing stuff, but I bet a lot of impact is lost in the translation from Japanese to English. Still it manages to successfully keep the reader at a loss for justifying humanity, wondering what humanity is even out there, and still hoping despite the odds. . . I admit it was also a page turner for me (although it took a few chapters to get really into caring about this character who isn't particularly likeable), and stayed up the previous night in thralls.
The Art of Fiction, John Gardner
This is a reread for me. I am finding it to be interesting the second time around, and just as helpful as it was the first. I have to admit I don't retain this sort of stuff well, and rereading criticism and theory is a must for me. This book was used in the one undergraduate fiction writing workshop I ever took, and it was about the only useful thing to come from the class. More on this below....
Collected Sonnets, Edna St. Vincent Millay
A book so old, it is out of print (although in poetry, shelf life seems to be less than a bag of pork rinds). I am currently still perusing because I find, as I do with all rhyming iambic pentameter, myself speaking and writing in a sing-songish manner, which necessitates reading this in smaller doses. Does anyone ever read an entire book of poetry straight through anymore, or am I the only one who does this? At any rate, with the popularity of the chapbook returning, perhaps there is some sort of trend going on. I am finding these poems to be dated, but one can say that of almost any dead writer I suppose. I want to like these poems more than I do - I feel that there is more to them than I am getting out of them, and I recognize that St. Vincent Millay wrote in the sonnet for the sake of the art form itself, but in places, so many places, she holds back in what could have been a stronger image/phrase/sound, all for the sake of the form. (In some of the sonnets she does manipulate very marginally the form, but since most of her sonnets are series poems, they all have that manipulation, making it still, somehow, restrictive.) In thinking about this, and about how other poets sometimes stay within set limits and manage to do so successfully (although that is a very objective matter), I think that she was also very limiting in the images she used, the language (including very odd syntax to get the rhyme or syllable as the line dictated), and overall arching themes. I guess I just don't see the mastery that I expect from her poems that other sonneteers hadn't already accomplished, making her poetry less exciting, and therefore, moot.
Of course, I may change my mind tomorrow.
The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien
Halfway through. So many things different from the movies. . . and I specifically waited until after seeing all the movies because I know that if I read a book first, the movie never lives up to it. I am starting to wonder if it may have back fired on me this time though.
Workshops, etc...
Well, my schedule for the next semester is set, and I am fairly ecstatic about it. I will be taking a fiction workshop, and here is where the excitement twinges. As mentioned, I had the misfortune of being in one that was horribly disappointing, and soured me on them after that. I know it was 100% the fault of the instructor, and I wonder how on earth this woman ever managed to get herself hired in the first place. (She seemed to have thought out an awful lot about the internet pornography industry in a very small scene in one of my pieces which I am not sure is redemptive or a further sign of her instability.) That aside, I am carrying this ambivalence with me. Fiction has always been the core of my writing desires, but being waylaid by poetry has been the best thing to happen to me in my writing life. I think of writers like Woolf and Faulkner, who I think manage to blend the rhythm and beauty of poetry into prose, and I feel that that is the caliber to aim for.
But I have trouble thinking in terms of short stories. Always have. My mind thinks novel length, always has and always will. (From one extreme to the other here, no chance for middle ground.) I am hoping that this workshop will redeem my earlier experience, or solidify it. We shall see!
As for moving, I did find a place that I am happy about. Living alone. Ah, the sheer loveliness of it all.
Excellent book, just finished at 2 a.m. last night. Had to keep reading it - very compulsive. It sat on my bookshelf for over a year before I had time to consume it, and consume I did.
A Personal Matter, Kenzaburo Oe
Also fairly amazing stuff, but I bet a lot of impact is lost in the translation from Japanese to English. Still it manages to successfully keep the reader at a loss for justifying humanity, wondering what humanity is even out there, and still hoping despite the odds. . . I admit it was also a page turner for me (although it took a few chapters to get really into caring about this character who isn't particularly likeable), and stayed up the previous night in thralls.
The Art of Fiction, John Gardner
This is a reread for me. I am finding it to be interesting the second time around, and just as helpful as it was the first. I have to admit I don't retain this sort of stuff well, and rereading criticism and theory is a must for me. This book was used in the one undergraduate fiction writing workshop I ever took, and it was about the only useful thing to come from the class. More on this below....
Collected Sonnets, Edna St. Vincent Millay
A book so old, it is out of print (although in poetry, shelf life seems to be less than a bag of pork rinds). I am currently still perusing because I find, as I do with all rhyming iambic pentameter, myself speaking and writing in a sing-songish manner, which necessitates reading this in smaller doses. Does anyone ever read an entire book of poetry straight through anymore, or am I the only one who does this? At any rate, with the popularity of the chapbook returning, perhaps there is some sort of trend going on. I am finding these poems to be dated, but one can say that of almost any dead writer I suppose. I want to like these poems more than I do - I feel that there is more to them than I am getting out of them, and I recognize that St. Vincent Millay wrote in the sonnet for the sake of the art form itself, but in places, so many places, she holds back in what could have been a stronger image/phrase/sound, all for the sake of the form. (In some of the sonnets she does manipulate very marginally the form, but since most of her sonnets are series poems, they all have that manipulation, making it still, somehow, restrictive.) In thinking about this, and about how other poets sometimes stay within set limits and manage to do so successfully (although that is a very objective matter), I think that she was also very limiting in the images she used, the language (including very odd syntax to get the rhyme or syllable as the line dictated), and overall arching themes. I guess I just don't see the mastery that I expect from her poems that other sonneteers hadn't already accomplished, making her poetry less exciting, and therefore, moot.
Of course, I may change my mind tomorrow.
The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien
Halfway through. So many things different from the movies. . . and I specifically waited until after seeing all the movies because I know that if I read a book first, the movie never lives up to it. I am starting to wonder if it may have back fired on me this time though.
Workshops, etc...
Well, my schedule for the next semester is set, and I am fairly ecstatic about it. I will be taking a fiction workshop, and here is where the excitement twinges. As mentioned, I had the misfortune of being in one that was horribly disappointing, and soured me on them after that. I know it was 100% the fault of the instructor, and I wonder how on earth this woman ever managed to get herself hired in the first place. (She seemed to have thought out an awful lot about the internet pornography industry in a very small scene in one of my pieces which I am not sure is redemptive or a further sign of her instability.) That aside, I am carrying this ambivalence with me. Fiction has always been the core of my writing desires, but being waylaid by poetry has been the best thing to happen to me in my writing life. I think of writers like Woolf and Faulkner, who I think manage to blend the rhythm and beauty of poetry into prose, and I feel that that is the caliber to aim for.
But I have trouble thinking in terms of short stories. Always have. My mind thinks novel length, always has and always will. (From one extreme to the other here, no chance for middle ground.) I am hoping that this workshop will redeem my earlier experience, or solidify it. We shall see!
As for moving, I did find a place that I am happy about. Living alone. Ah, the sheer loveliness of it all.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
a long post
Hmmmmm. The trip to North Carolina was a mixed nut bag. In early preparation for my move to attend UNCW, I thoughtfully arranged a self guided trip to visit my new city and get acquainted with the different areas of town, etc. All the things that anal people do when they are faced with a situation. (I swear, I am going to be stripped of my title as ‘poet’ when the full extent of my need to be thoroughly organized is finally understood. Have you ever met an organized writer? Perhaps this paranoia of mine comes from having spent the past three years under the most, umm, lax, poet mentor ever.) So, highlights of the trip are below, categorized. (I know, I know!)
The actual drive. . .
Is eight hours! Eight! Most people understand how the freeway works, but let’s face it, some have yet to discover what the passing lane is for. Umm, passing? This problem is most prevalent in the stretch from Chattanooga to Atlanta. Since I drive in Chattanooga every day, I can safely assess that it is the Chattanoogans who have the difficulty with this particular issue. Grrrrrrrr.
Wilmington. . .
Also has some road issues. Like, there are only four main roads that span the entire city. This causes traffic. All the time.
But. . .
It’s Wilmington, and it’s really fantastic! I spent 90% of my time trying to figure out where things are and getting lost. I’ve been lost every way it is possible to be lost. Including the exact second I got off the highway into downtown, where the streets have no name, but highway markers. Very confusing to my sensibilities. After almost nine hours in the car I was ready to find my hotel, take a shower, eat something. As I finally conceded I was lost, utterly, I pulled into the parking lot of some steak joint, and a bird crapped on my front window. A huge crap. We are talking the kind of crap where you know that bird hates you, is aiming, and chuckling as it flies away. I felt very welcomed. It was a moment I considered chucking in everything and running away to live life as a secretary again, dreaming of having James Spader as a boss.
UNCW. . .
Is an amazingly gorgeous campus. I can only imagine when it is packed with students. The most striking thing about it is that it is truly an expansive campus, with charming brick buildings and lustrous lawns everywhere. Trees that drip with leaves, and this sense of earthiness that permeates the air. It is also blessedly flat. Anyone who has trekked Cardiac Hill on the campus in Chattanooga will appreciate this statement. However, it is so large that I am betting one would have to drive to make it from one end of campus to another if they had a class.
MFA folk. . .
Are incredible so far. I say ‘so far’ because when things are this amazing you know there must be a catch. Like, in the second week of the program they’ll introduce their tradition of slaughtering young baby lambs and sticking their heads on poles and dancing in the faculty office while wearing togas made from the torn pages of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and listening to Barry Manilow. (I’d be fine until the Manilow, of course.)
Disclaimer. . .
Uh, they don’t really do that. I don’t think. And I am a raging vegetarian. I remove spiders from the tubs, and walk over ants. Swear.
Apartments. . .
Do not allow, in any case, for people like me. Doesn’t matter. In fact, forget even trying to rent a house. There is just no possibility within a reasonable budget to find someplace that will accommodate. I actually knew this going in (same problem at current location which is why I had to buy). However, houses are kinda expensive, and I am not really into collecting them, so I suppose I shall have to make do. My mother, the saint, is going to pet-sit for a few years for me. I consider it a good faith payment on her part for when she becomes in need of elderly care. She is merely ensuring that I won’t dump her off at some government run facility that ensures all residents are equipped with a long stick during meal times so they have a fighting chance against the roaches. Damn her.
The beach. . .
Yes, there is a beach. No, I didn’t get to see it. This is likely a good thing since it would have guaranteed another several hours of being lost, trying to find the road back into town. Sigh.
Speaking of fish. . .
According to the phonebook, there are more fish markets than grocery stores. This is a town that has its priorities straight.
Another disclaimer. . .
By ‘raging vegetarian’ I meant I get enraged when people question my ethics on eating fish. I eat fish. It is a difficult thing to explain the depth of thought that goes into my vegetarianism. At times I am a vegan, at others, I eat fish. This is a wholly different post, at a later date. Promise.
Final thoughts. . .
Include the impending homesickness that I will actually feel upon leaving. Nervousness at teaching. (What were they thinking, letting me do that?!?!?) Guilt at the pet situation. Excitement at being truly on my own. Rapture at being able to write so much.
The actual drive. . .
Is eight hours! Eight! Most people understand how the freeway works, but let’s face it, some have yet to discover what the passing lane is for. Umm, passing? This problem is most prevalent in the stretch from Chattanooga to Atlanta. Since I drive in Chattanooga every day, I can safely assess that it is the Chattanoogans who have the difficulty with this particular issue. Grrrrrrrr.
Wilmington. . .
Also has some road issues. Like, there are only four main roads that span the entire city. This causes traffic. All the time.
But. . .
It’s Wilmington, and it’s really fantastic! I spent 90% of my time trying to figure out where things are and getting lost. I’ve been lost every way it is possible to be lost. Including the exact second I got off the highway into downtown, where the streets have no name, but highway markers. Very confusing to my sensibilities. After almost nine hours in the car I was ready to find my hotel, take a shower, eat something. As I finally conceded I was lost, utterly, I pulled into the parking lot of some steak joint, and a bird crapped on my front window. A huge crap. We are talking the kind of crap where you know that bird hates you, is aiming, and chuckling as it flies away. I felt very welcomed. It was a moment I considered chucking in everything and running away to live life as a secretary again, dreaming of having James Spader as a boss.
UNCW. . .
Is an amazingly gorgeous campus. I can only imagine when it is packed with students. The most striking thing about it is that it is truly an expansive campus, with charming brick buildings and lustrous lawns everywhere. Trees that drip with leaves, and this sense of earthiness that permeates the air. It is also blessedly flat. Anyone who has trekked Cardiac Hill on the campus in Chattanooga will appreciate this statement. However, it is so large that I am betting one would have to drive to make it from one end of campus to another if they had a class.
MFA folk. . .
Are incredible so far. I say ‘so far’ because when things are this amazing you know there must be a catch. Like, in the second week of the program they’ll introduce their tradition of slaughtering young baby lambs and sticking their heads on poles and dancing in the faculty office while wearing togas made from the torn pages of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and listening to Barry Manilow. (I’d be fine until the Manilow, of course.)
Disclaimer. . .
Uh, they don’t really do that. I don’t think. And I am a raging vegetarian. I remove spiders from the tubs, and walk over ants. Swear.
Apartments. . .
Do not allow, in any case, for people like me. Doesn’t matter. In fact, forget even trying to rent a house. There is just no possibility within a reasonable budget to find someplace that will accommodate. I actually knew this going in (same problem at current location which is why I had to buy). However, houses are kinda expensive, and I am not really into collecting them, so I suppose I shall have to make do. My mother, the saint, is going to pet-sit for a few years for me. I consider it a good faith payment on her part for when she becomes in need of elderly care. She is merely ensuring that I won’t dump her off at some government run facility that ensures all residents are equipped with a long stick during meal times so they have a fighting chance against the roaches. Damn her.
The beach. . .
Yes, there is a beach. No, I didn’t get to see it. This is likely a good thing since it would have guaranteed another several hours of being lost, trying to find the road back into town. Sigh.
Speaking of fish. . .
According to the phonebook, there are more fish markets than grocery stores. This is a town that has its priorities straight.
Another disclaimer. . .
By ‘raging vegetarian’ I meant I get enraged when people question my ethics on eating fish. I eat fish. It is a difficult thing to explain the depth of thought that goes into my vegetarianism. At times I am a vegan, at others, I eat fish. This is a wholly different post, at a later date. Promise.
Final thoughts. . .
Include the impending homesickness that I will actually feel upon leaving. Nervousness at teaching. (What were they thinking, letting me do that?!?!?) Guilt at the pet situation. Excitement at being truly on my own. Rapture at being able to write so much.
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