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Tag Archives: chapbook

Lovesick Girl Puke and Other Wails

06 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

amwriting, brother, chapbook, goals

My brother comes upstairs for a visit with me almost every morning now bearing gifts of coffee from the usual place.  This morning he opened the door and, instead of a good morning, he greeted me with “How do you write?”  It came rather out of nowhere. He had many questions and I don’t know why these thoughts came to him. It doesn’t matter, really.  This is quite an about face from the “why bother journaling” he spat at me many months ago.  He wanted to ask if I have a secret yearning to write a novel.

I explained between sips from my “Witch’s Brew” mug that a phrase will come to me while doing the most mundane things like washing dishes, folding laundry, or driving to work.  And the period I did the most writing was also the most heartbreaking time for me. I confessed that most of those poems can’t compete with what is considered “literature” and I probably shouldn’t submit them for literary chapbooks, but I’m not giving up.  He asked why do I care what “literati” think, suggested that I’m aiming too high.  I don’t expect him to understand the complex voices in my head that fight over what I write, how, and for whom.

I told him this is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and I have no desire to participate in writing a novel at this time. I have a few flash pieces that could be developed into something bigger, but I haven’t chosen to do so. Not a goal right now.  (Well, knowing what’s NOT a goal does help to establish what IS, hmm?)  But just the act of discussing these things with him was stimulating and helpful. And I do believe my next chapbook submission will be called “Lovesick Girl Puke,” will be read by the teenage demographic, and that’s all right with me.  Kidding…not kidding.  

Chapbook Manuscript Blues

07 Monday Sep 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

chapbook, Chuck Wendig, goals, poetry

This morning, it’s the kind of feeling you get when you look at the garden you tried to grow and see that it’s quite a mess. I mean, it was half-hearted, really. You meant well, but you didn’t give it everything a garden needs to really look like something that was destined for the cover of Lawn & Garden. But is that what you really wanted? To be on the cover? Or did you just want to spend some time outdoors, away from a computer screen or beneath fluorescent lights, hands covered in earth instead of axle grease? What was the thinking behind tearing open a spot of land on the side of the house that sees a lot of sunlight, making rows and dropping in seeds? What were you thinking when you watched for shoots to rise from the earth, hoping to see tender green, when all that arrived was breathless, pale strangers?  You brought water and weeded intermittently, as you were rather preoccupied. (At least, not as preoccupied as last year, but that’s a tale meant for some other garden.)  So here you are with an ugly tomato and a green pepper that would certainly be finalists for Ugliest Vegetables of the Year.   You wash the dirt off the tomato, sprinkle on a little salt, and take a bite of pulpy seeds and firm skin. The land yielded a veggie good enough for you, but not enough to share with anyone else. Was it worth the effort? Does the land speak to you loudly enough to encourage you to try again?  Will garden and gardener establish a bond and create (a poem) good enough to share?

This morning, it’s how I feel about what my writing life looks like thus far. I look at the pretty box labeled “Poetry” and know deep down I’ve got no business compiling it and sending it off for review.  I feel like a woman at the starting line, waiting for the submission deadline gun to go off knowing I am surrounded by real runners whose heels I am going to study all the way to the finish line, and once I get there I’m going to be drop dead on the line, calling out for my inhaler and a beer, saying “Tell me again why I got into this thing?”

I ask myself, can I create, magically spin a pile of poems that resemble art in time for the deadline? Can a writer “art harder” and win?  How dare I even think about opening that earth and dropping in a seed, or stand on the starting line? I’m going to dare because nothing will grow otherwise.  Wish me luck.  Wish me Truth. Wish me Authenticity. Wish me Art, muthas!  

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