Opening line

'The R on Refills lost its legs."

SHHHHH!

I bought one of those portable, flexible keyboards for the laptop to make it easier in transcribing the MS and most noticable is the lack of sound other than an odd rubberish type of sound. I am so far disconcerted over the lack of noise. It is too quiet and lacks the rhythm that the manual typewriters have. One advantage is that I can place it closer to the edge of the desk and ease the wrists. That being said, it lacks panache. It is black and fully utilitarian to the pont of being waterproof and, according to the leaflet of instructions, fogproof which would make it handy when the fog rolls into the study, or those languid days on the coast. Will it improve anything? More importantly, how will it affet what is written sinceI still spend far too much time looking at the screen and letting my spelling mistakes interupt the speed of the writing. Perhaps I remain a Luddite.

Surrealistic Dilemna

The Muse apparently possessed the new typewriter because a story suddenly developed from it. This Muse put me into a state of confusion because this story turned out to be more fun than the serious literary novel. I found myself at this same place last summer at about the same time. The story is fanciful, about letters and words slipping their moorings and dripping out of pages, pulled by gravity and seeking their source at the center of the earth from where all words rise. The problem is that I am enjoying this story more than the novel and feeling guilty in that enjoyment (please don't use this opportunity to comment on underlying Lutheran guilt). I feel sort of naughty in writing silliness or surrealism. Then I look at the writers I've enjoyed reading and find the surreal ones are more to my liking. Vonnegut, Borges (my current read), Marquez, and the like. Part of the problem may be that the section of the novel that I'm working on is realistic and less surreal, primarily because the central character of this section is realistic where the other main character "hears voices." This reminds me too much last summer's novel in a month experiment which was surreal. Or the iguana story which was plainly surrealistic. Maybe the problem is less of a problem after all.

writing machine

Yesterday I found another writing machine. This is a portable, pre-internet, nearly laptop that only runs out of energy when I do which writes in italics and the cost was less than a pack of cigarettes. Made in West Germany, the Olympic de Lux italic typerwriter has fired new sparks of creativity. Writing on it is a different experiences with a different dynamic. For example, when I write on the computer, as I am now doing, I stare at the screen and watch the letters form on the screen. These letters, however, have no tangible aspect to them. They are the result of electric sparks of some sort energizing tiny, nearly microscopic squares. As letters they do not fundamentally exist. When I type (or write with pen on paper) the letters exist in both form and physical reality. I could take the paper and cut out the individual letters with an exacto knife. Not so with the computer. As I write on the computer, as I said, I watch the letters form into words. On the typewriter I hunch over and stare at the center of the keyboard with the letters T, G, H, Y within direct view, but out of focus. By not looking at the paper I am not concerned about revisions. The errors are legion but I don't pay attention. Contrast this to the screen, where I am constantly aware of the errors, frequently backspacing to cure the problem, all of which interrupts the flow. Also on the typewrite is the click-clack of the keys, a far different sort of noise than the muted tick, tick of the keyboard. Add the ding of the bell and the call slide the carriage with the return arm and I've found a more satisfying way of writing. The only problem I have is that of transcribing from the typed page to the computer. I may try scanning the typed page into a computer file. Of course, this all may have to do with the novelty of having an italic typewriter.

Cocktails

Blame this on my previous experience as a bartender. Why blame needs to be placed is well beyond me but writers looking for an excuse out of a given behavior look for blame and try to place it on some event, person, object, out of body experience, they may have had. Of course, they may only have desired to have the experience so that they can claim blame. I am placing my blame firmly in the lap of Greg Matt, my bartender mentor. I am applying this blame to the recent upsurge in popularity of sophisticated cocktails to which I can give a hearty "thank heavens." I know this is true because the new Old Crown Coffee place has a bona fide bartender who knows his way around the spirits. He also makes an excellent Manhattan. The Manhattan, not the bartender is the real subject of this essay. He was only a sideline and he can now be ignored. The Manhattan is a delightful blend of rye whiskey, sweet (French to the cogniscenti) vermouth, a dash of bitters garnished with marichino cherries. On July 4, the day we celebrated the end of British tyranny, I introduced a friend to the Manhattan. He was caught in its allure. Even the name conjures up images of an old New York seen only in old movies like the Thin Man series (Nick and Nora, where are you when cocktail hour comes?). Now he knows what to order when the cocktail waitress comes around and asking for beer is de classe. He can look at her and say with authority, "I'll have a Manhattan, please." If he would specify rye whiskey instead of bourbon, she would realize he was a man not to be trifled with. Where the story would go from here only you can imagine and we pray his wife doesn't find out.
Cocktails are back! What next? Will pipe smoking gain social acceptance? One can hope.

Books for writers, my suggestions

On with the list.

The first one I recommend getting when money is available (at more than $40 new, sad to say) is the Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus. This book has done more than any other to pull my ass out of difficulties in the revision stage. While I may not use the suggested synonym, it sparks an idea or a thought or a word that improves the piece at hand. It is an investment better than a dictionary. As far as other dictionaries go, I have little advice. If you want the king, then a Webster's Unabridged makes a great doorstop, bookend, and has words you'll not find elsewhere. Another one I find handy (out of print as far as I know) is the Follett Vest-Pocket 50,000 Words. This one has no meanings but gives the proper spellings. It's a great pre-computer resource for editors that has saved this poor speller from embarrassment. I know the computer can do much, but as I teach my students—spell-checker will betray you.

For the mechanics of writing I'll give you two: Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss and The Elements of Style by Stunk and White. The first is a lot of fun, but be aware that she writes from a British English point of view and the punctuation is a bit different. The second is the standard by which the other grammars are judged. The illustrated edition has wonderful, sophisticated illustrations.

Writers need inspiration. A couple of my favorites you already have, If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. Ueland is the one I frequently reread when I need a boost. Despite being a bit dated (after all she wrote it before WWII) she speaks to me as a dear friend would. Two more I strongly recommend are Why I Write from George Orwell and The Triggering Town by Richard Hugo. Orwell gives great lessons on clarity. His six rules are worth the price of the book. (You'll have to find them in the book yourself.) Hugo looks like it is written for poets but his use of places for inspiration and subject matter apply to all writers. Three other similar books are The Writing Life by Annie Dillard, Negotiating with the Dead by Margret Atwood, and The Faith of a Writer by Joyce Carol Oats. These three take very different approaches to writing and approach it in different styles but are worth listening to.

Annie Dillard shows up again in Living by Fiction. I'm mentioning her in offering books on writing fiction. My favorite on fiction writing is John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist which I've marked, tagged, highlighted and glossed in the margins countless times. To these I would add the classic Aspects of the Novel by E. M Forster. I should tell you that these don't provide recipes for good fiction. They open doors to your method of writing fiction. For sheer fun (or an absurd challenge) consider No Plot? No Problem by Chris Baty who shows the way to write a novel in 30 days. Yes, it can be done because I've got a rough draft of a novel written in that time. For a couple of recipe type books The Writers Journey from Christopher Volger gives the mythic outline that undergirds the vast majority of plot lines of books and movies. His diagram on p. 8 could easily be used for an outline. I've thought of using it for a quickly written novella of about 30-40,000 words. Writing the Novel by Lawrence Block is another one that works through the writing process one step at a time. In the end, however, each writer finds his or her own way.

Before I get to my final suggestions I need to comment on the reading suggestions made by all these writers. I take them very much to heart and have struggled to read many of them. The suggestions given have become my curriculum and I have found their recommendations as solid as any other reading list. When the same author is mentioned more than once, like Melville or Greene, I pay attention. I haunt the local used bookstores for copies of their suggested authors. Learning to read like a writer has been a chore for me. I went through Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose in the hope of instant insight. She helped some and gave directions to more books to read. I only wish I had more time to read.

Some final suggestions. The first has nothing to do with writing but everything to do with communication: Conversation by Theodore Zeldin. I was so struck by Zeldin when I heard him on the radio that I pulled over and wrote the information. He discusses the need for bona fide communication. It's a short book, hard to find, but worth the effort. The second suggestion concerns where a writer writes, hence the title: A Writer's Space. Eric Maisel considers the need for writing space, a located place where writing takes place. Too often there is the assumption that writing can take place anywhere. This is not true. Maisel points you to the importance of the place from which good writing comes. I'm leery to make the third suggestion because it doesn't quite fit with the rest of the books on the list. This is Break Every Rule by Carole Maso. I was introduced to this through a class I took last year and am rereading now. Maso causes me to rethink the process and product of writing. She raised a critical question for me, one that I have as yet to answer: What is my creative and artistic goal? Her book is about as far from a how to as you could find. In rereading it, I am drawn more and more into her questions.

I hope this helps.
I offer these writers because they have helped me. One remarkable aspect about writing: those distant and those dead can continue to talk to me . I only hope that I can add to the conversation.

W

 

The Art Museum

Today I played hooky from morning writing and went to the refurbished art museum. I needed art, and Thursday is a free day.
Contemplating a work by T.C. Steele brought me to the question of why? Why work so hard and so long to produce a relatively small piece seen by a few who make a point to view it. Or in my case, stumble upon it since I wasn't searching for Steele's work. From the practical side, what function does it serve? It can't be eaten, can't provide shelter, can't provide jobs, can't aid in reproduction. It has no purpose and still the city of FW and many contributors recently spent a large amount to give the work a home with excellent lighting, proper climate control, and opportunities to be seen by a few. Why? And why did Steele (and by extension all the other artists) work so hard at producing art? Then the question got pointed around to me. Why have I been spending the summer writing a novel? I could have received a full adjunct teaching load at IVY Tech and receive the immediate monetary reward. I could have made many repairs to the house, repainted the living room, developed a better garden. I could have built another boat (wait, the boat isn't practical). Instead I opted to add more to the novel in progress. Why? Because the characters in the novel need me. They need me to tell their story and tell it truthfully and bravely. And I need them. I need them as an expression of creativity. Why create? Because we are in the image of God.

The poem that remains unpubished

Poem number 25

Now the end and my mind
has emptied itself. frankincense (Sinatra songs no more will
the end) is near and so I face the venal curtain. reverberate through the random pathways of the skull be neat skill, beneath the blood between the cortex cerebellum. it might be called not that I care I want to be done.
Referee, get on with the nothingness; I cherish the word that is (used).
more pop songs learned in eighths grade. never guava when I try to make them go away all they do is hove back like dragnonflied blue birds.

I will die of broken midnight

I will die of broken midnight
For Cesar Vallejo

I will die of broken midnight
when a sallow moon pulls the neap tide of light
from my telluric side.

I will die ready for breakage,
a cracked cup or mug or teapot
cracked with stains of words.

I will die of pulpit and conflictions
the swelling of convictions
compounded with an overactive doubt.

They will bury me under words
spoken by strangers
bearing putrid dichotomies.

Pilgrimage to Metronome

We meet to climb the wooden pyramid
Seal the trunk looks on
We lay packs to backs
Balance on twin legs
Libra holds her balance out
Blinding yes to shutter the storm
Of charlatan ghosts
Ticking, clicking the meter’s heart
Weighed in the balance
Lacking psychic paths of metronome
Scale the unlit see
Dark yardsticks the light
Winding the salty taste of blood
Upon the fishmonger tunes.

Vallejo inspired, I suppose

The Stupor that Dulls
after Vallejo

The stupor that dulls the edge of hope,
that grinds to pulp the stillborn word,
that stultifies the worker’s hands
to motionless stumps;

The stupor that slowly drains the pus of youth
and leaves dried blister skin,
that refuses to kill but keeps alive
futility like the unwed bride;

The stupor that steals love from love
and leaves a hollow vowel to echo
against the chains of its own heart;

The stupor that leaves the dead undead
to continue lives of muted discontent
so muted it sloths to bed night
after dreamless, restless night;

The stupor that envies the stiff-eyed man
who stares out over the park, over the drive,
over the promised lies of satisfaction
absorbing nothing;

The stupor that sits in the open garage door
in stained undershirt, in aluminum lawnchair,
smoking cigars and drinking whiskey highballs
as leaves blow unnoticed around the feet.

Searching for the Duende

I continue to try, and here's another attempt.

We’re not unique
although we try
with ink, piercings, clothes,
some try hats,
wanting to be like Jesus
genus idiomaticum
an event unto itself
special in the world.
The random clutch
of father’s sperm and mother’s egg
never happened before
or so we think.
Don’t look at cockroaches,
they breed the same.

Wither the Words?

It began as a dot on my earlobe. I thought it was a drop of dried blood, or a black fleck of dust and didn’t think anything about it. The next time I looked in the mirror I saw more flecks making a line out of the ear canal and down the lob, like ants following a line. The flecks were larger and more distinct. I wiped them off and looked closely and discovered the flecks were tiny letters, serif letters, smaller than agate print, but still letters, independent of page or print, and very real. I swabbed out the ear canal and tried not to think anymore about it.
As I ate breakfast I could feel them. My wife asked, “What’s that coming out of your ear?”
“Nothing,” I said, wiping the ear with my napkin. I glanced at the napkin and realized the letters had grown larger, with sans serif mixed with the serif.
Since I couldn’t go to work with letters coming out of my ear, I stuffed cotton in my ear, hoping that would soak them up.
That only worked for an hour. The tickling inside the ear drove me to distraction. I wanted to (to be continued).

Another attempt at poetry

The bear and Christ seek the same
shredding of the ego.
The bear is Christ under a different name.
(Neither has a name, Christ
means anointed, a title, Jesus
an afterterm. He should go by son to track
an unnamed father ghosted in holiness.)
To whom shall I pray for poetic help
a nameless bear, an unnamed God
when both desire the same—
to shred the ego.
I can’t cast down my own idol,
a fearing deadful sacrifice.
Death comes on Christ bear’s pawprints
hallowed claws of blooded fur and flesh.

Into the jaws of bear

Here's my latest attempt at modern poetry. Am I getting closer?

I.
On the other side of ego the bear lives.
On the other side of ego—off the cliff
that takes the step of faith to leave.
One foot presses out to egoless space,
the other foot remains, anchored and groan
into the rock, the foot and rock are one.
Ego tendrils grow up around the leg
over the arm and clutch the hand,
holding hands in strangling grip.
To get to the bear the leg must break
off the foot and chop the hand.
No step
to the bear is easy.
The hopefull bear looks up.

II.
If I break off my leg,
the lifeless, granite one,
will it grow back?
When I step to the bear
will he restore the ripped off limbs?
Or teach me to dance
a one-footed hop to the sound of one hand clapping?
Or will I bleed out minerals from the stump
proving my heart of stone pumps
dry grit of boulders
through veins and arteries of rock?
Dead volcanoes.

III.
Purple chips the rock-foot, granite ankle,
cracks the flesh, the bone, the mineral
veins running through the mountain.
Shuddering quake. Purple dissolves the rock.
Water into crevices freezes, flakes the stone
to harmless Indian artifacts, elf-bolts,
imagined battles. Fissures grow
as my cock crows the day’s betrayal.
Jesus knows no more.

IV.
Soren, Soren, take my remaining hand. Together
we step off and soar to bear’s mouth,
into the teeth, around the tongue,
blessed holy tongue of grace and truth,
a beacon light of uvula
(vulva’s phonemic sister).

V.
Light ursine entrails calls.
Blindly through the past and ever green,
the evergreen pure and lively
against the shallow brown.
Jaws of life, a road 500 long, they’re dead.
Don’t look glowering at corpses. Hang them
in heaven’s vault within the stomach lining.

VI.
Naked thighed, wetly within the bear;
Soren’s stayed in waistcoat and pantaloons behind.
Costumes of ego dissolved in sunset digestion.
Let my naked prayers be heard,
digest me, please. Skin worn off
by cilia’s work, then muscle, fat, and bone.
The bear remains.

Last night's reading at the Coop went fantastic! Susan and I had a great crowd. George was as gracious as always. I wish I hadn't been so nervous during the whole event. The next time will be easier. Thanks to everyone who attended and gave their support.
Which brings the next and completely disconnected topic. Spring break is here and I'm postponing the stack of papers to grade. I'm going to devote the time to write my own papers. Real poety. The weather is cooperating and the shed will be warm enough. I'm thankful for the time and look forward to what can be produced. All will be informed as it's delivered.

ENGL 024

My fantastic 024 class needed to be introduced to a blog. I'm showing them how to set it up. Say hi, class. Be sure to comment on this blog to get extra points.

Sailing, sailing, over the bounding main...

After a long wait, Duckworks, an online magazine for boat builders published "Down to the Sea in Ships". Check it out at www.duckworksmagazine.com. I've been waiting for months to see it online. It seems so long ago since I wrote it. I started to re-read it but I began seeing flaws, better ways to say it, etc., This is what it means to let it go, I suppose. Good-bye little story! Have a great life on the internet! Be well, be read, be enjoyed! The magazine has a very dedicated readership of back-yard boat builders. Now I need to figure out how to place it in the CV. This also gives new drive to get other stories out.

A tad ticked

Ticked at the FW paper that lists subsidy press publications along with legitimate press publication. For those who try to write and get published through regular channels have a rough time of it as is. Then they ran a release for "new authors" which should have been an add instead of an announcement. Pity the writers who show up and find they have to pay to get in print. And yes, I've heard of Thoreau and Grisham and all the other "successful" self-publishers, but that doesn't make it any less than a scam. Warn writers of these places before they end up in POD hell.

Accepted-I hope

Grace? Dame Fortune? God?
My first novel, a YA fantasy has been accepted by a small press--Blue Pomegranate Press. They're a start-up with a focus on Lutheran fiction, so my book is a perfect fit. No advance, but 20% royalties. Limited press run (OK the editor and his wife make the books by hand.) He has a marketing plan and has tapped into enough interested folks to buy.
This is in the early stages. More later as it develops.

From prose to poetry

A statement of the obvious: Prose and poetry are different. This mind-shattering verity hit me while I've been trying to compose a poem for an upcoming class. In prose, I could catch the wave of the story line ride the crest from one part to the next. The narrative would become alive as the characters gave it life. Composing this poem has involved more wrestling with the words. Through poetry the importance of a give word takes on a new importance. Each word bears many facets to the work, like the sound and shape, the history of use, the denotation and connotation, its ethnic and cultural heritage. Anglo Saxon or Latinized Old French? Concrete or abstract? Rich or poor? A recent migrant word or an ancient word with rooted meaning? A native or alien word? Hand-cuffs, manacles, shackles, restraints all do the same thing but use the word and see the difference. No neutrality exists.
For the poem I'm working on I have a beginning and an end. First line: St. Joe bleeds his martyrdom... Last line: Fort Wayne drinks up, unknowing. The middle has yet to be written, and that is what I'm wrestling with.
It will be written on time, to be reworked.
This poetry experience should be a good one.

Busyness

I've almost finished a basement renovation project: doing the room from top to bottom with new ceiling tiles, fresh wall paint, and laminate flooring to mask the error of asbestos tile. The task has held my focus through Christmas break and nothing else got done. It was a way of keeping distracted in activity. I have a habit of distraction. One of my favorite websites is Duckworks, an online magazine for amateur boat builders. I keep checking it because they are going to be running one of my stories. At least that is the reason I delude myself with. The truth is, I spend far too much time looking over boat building projects in the fantastical hope that I'll build one. I went so far as to buy a set of plans. Why the obsession? Perhaps a childhood dream of having a boat, the romance that comes with a boat. A boat symbolizes freedom, regardless of size. Of the two I built two summers past, neither hold more than two people and each carries freedom in its hold. The lone fisherman in a boat on a lake is different than a fisherman on the bank casting a line from shore. The one on the shore is land-locked, tethered to the earth. The one in the boat embraces the fluidity of freedom and can follow the water course wherever it leads.
Looking over boat plans also keeps me from other work, work avoidance, avoiding what else I could be doing, which includes writing. But writing is also a way of freedom. And I want to be free.