True quote of the day...

"17. Omit needless words."

--The Elements of Style, Strunk and White

Strunk's brief advice - in keeping with the nature of the rule - has made it through numerous revisions, including that of White's, maintaining the concise nature of his 1918 edition text. People still live by this rule. My high school AP English teacher would simply write "#17" next to entire paragraphs in our papers, and thus we would know: too wordy. Alas, so much easier said than done.

I love editing the work of others, but sometimes editing my own work is nigh impossible. We silly humans grow attached to the words we see as the most intelligent and appropriate ways of expressing ourselves. We are blinded by our affection for our clever minds. We make perfect sense to ourselves, and any confusion is due to the reader's ineptness. Right?

As Stephen King so blatantly put it in On Writing, we need to "kill our darlings." Maim that which we love. Push it so far to the edge that we hardly recognize it. Take it too far and then bring it back. An easy enough principle, but I often find myself stuck, saying I can't possibly edit the piece down any further. It's always untrue. Instead of settling, I need to sacrifice my brilliance and thus my pride for the sake of the words, the story. It's all about the story, anyway. So take out those unnecessary words. Your writing will be stronger for it.

[Prose#6] Furrowed Brow

I glanced in the review mirror last Monday and realized it was never going to go away.

For some reason, this revelation was shocking to me. It was a normal Monday commute, summertime sunshine lighting up the Oregon sky, as clear as a summer in the Pacific Northwest can possibly be - such a contrast to the rain this region is known for. The sun is already up and at'em by the time I start my drive to work, iPod on shuffle, my favorite songs filling the interior of the car.

Warding against squinting through the sunlight bouncing off of street signs, I wore my favorite pair of sunglasses - Aviators, gold frame. I'm not one of those girls that spends a lot of money on clothes. But sunglasses - now that's different. I usually get my sunglasses beyond cheap at thrifts stores, and I struggle getting rid of any of them. This fact explains the seven pairs of sunglasses I have roaming about my station wagon.

Sunglasses on, I glanced in my review mirror. I saw, just slightly above the nose piece of my sunglasses, a crease in my brow. I've always had that crease right between my eyes slightly left of center. But today, it popped out at me as being particularly indented. And permanent. This wasn't any delightful and delicate brow furrowing. No, it was a deep furrow, deep enough to plant seeds in.

My face is a frowny face. It just wants to frown. I've been told I have a lovely smile, but timidity and thoughtfulness were always its biggest foes. This goes back to infancy. From the photos, I look to be deathly seriousI did so, but I didn't carry a smile on my face to just throw out willy-nilly. Part of that could be due to being incredibly sick as a young child and living with great pain for the first two years of my life. But even today, my best friend told me that 1) my face at rest looks annoyed, and 2) that when I narrowed my eyes in thought, I was incredibly intimidating. My dry and sarcastic sense of humor don't help the situation too much.

But for some reason, I didn't realize how permanent the creases would be. For some reason, I figured I'd fall in love or something and smile so much that the brow creases would cease to exist. Instead, I'm sitting at a stoplight, trying to contort my face so that the line disappears. I smile. Nothing. I lift my eyebrows and smile. Oops, too high. I balance it out just right so that the crease is slightly less noticeable, but it's still there. Plus, my face feels like it's been glued on.

I started getting sad. Frowning, actually. It's just going to get worse, and all of a sudden, I'll find myself the scary old lady that looks mean. I don't want to look mean! I want those wrinkles around my mouth that say I've smiled too much freely over my life and look at what it's done to me! I want to have wrinkles in the right places. And hopefully they won't show up until after my 25th birthday.

Once I put my eyes back on the road as traffic started to break up, I took my attention off of the mirror and more on the deeper situation. I realize that I wanted my face to reflect who I am - a loving friend, a kind daughter, a laughing spirit. And someone who frowns when she thinks or when she cracks a joke. I can't do anything about the lines that are there already. They inform my character, who I am both around others and by myself. But, if I want the grandma wrinkles, born out of love and many free smiles, then I need to start earning them. There's no better time than now, I thought, as I pulled into work and greeted a co-worker getting out of a minivan with a huge grin.

True quote of the day...

"So I draw because I want to talk to the world. And I want the world to pay attention to me.

I feel important with a pen in my hand. I might grow up to be someone important. An artist. Maybe a famous artist. Maybe a rich artist.

...

So I draw because I feel like it might be my only real chance to escape the reservation.

I think the world is a series of broken dams and floods, and my cartoons are tiny little lifeboats."

--The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-time Indian, Sherman Alexie, pg. 6


I can't tell you how many times someone my age or older has said that this 2007 juvenile fiction book is great. Even as I was checking it out, Charlie the librarian said, "This is a great book." I was curious as to why everyone was raving about it. Needless to say, it is a great book. It balances precariously within the tone of an adolescent: alternately funny and sad, pathetic and witty, angry and giddy, afraid and lustful. Not only does it capture a teenage boy's mind, but it also addresses the beauty and the pain of living on a reservation as a Native American in a time when all men are supposed to be equal and the cycle of destruction on the rez continues to tear lives apart. It is honest and hopeful all at the same time.

ANYWAY (I'm into capitalization for emphasis these days), this quote from the book struck me. Junior is a cartoonist. He draws to express himself. He's a 14-year-old Native American boy stuck on a reservation with no future in sight. And somehow, he grasps hold of hope and won't let it go. Somehow, he feels like he is destined for more than becoming an alcoholic like his ancestors before him. All of us, we're the same way. We want the world to listen to us - hello, Facebook/Twitter/Myspace. Even blogs show our desperation to be heard by someone outside of ourselves. We need to be able to grab onto our lifeboats, to work at the things that help us keep our heads above water. Those are the things we need to be investing our time and lives into, because we'll need those investments when the dams break and the rains fall.

Basically, I need to get off of my butt and do something.

[Poem#24] Winter Walks

I would hear the second step creak
as 6:30 came to life. A split second with sleep

in my eyes, a decision. Somedays, I ignored
his whisper at my door, though the squeaky

old hinge announced his arrival with a high-
pitched whine. Then he tromped back down,

as quiet as he could on wooden floors with a bad
leg, an uneven pattering down the stairs.

Other days, somehow, I rolled off the sheets,
grabbed a sweatshirt and socks, not speaking to him

as I followed him to the entryway, damp
still with muddy, melting boots, and listless

mittens. I grabbed the heaviest jacket and driest
gloves, dallying just a moment in the heat

of the indoors. Outside, the air cracked
with the before-glow of the anticipated sunrise

and the foggy coldness that created smoke
in our mouths. The chain jingled around her big head,

her coat equal to the challenge of the Alps or
the South Dakota drifts. All three, we walked in silence

down a road paved with gravel - at least I recall
no conversation - the horizon stretching to infinity,

not impeded by mountains or hills. I covet those frigid
mornings where I couldn't wait to return from a

walk with my father. I swear I wouldn't
take them for granted now.

True quote of the day...

"I am dreading the publication for it will be impossible not to mind what is said. I have exposed my heart to be shot at."

-- J.R.R. Tolkien, concerning the publication of The Lord of the Rings.


I wrote this quote down my freshman year of high school, on my mom's pastel floral notepad, while reading a biography of Tolkien for a school report. It has always stuck with me, always been around to remind me that others are taking the risk. Tolkien was looking at publishing this novel he had been working on for a decade. Anyone who has read the book (all three volumes) knows it is not merely a novel; it is, in fact, a world - with mythology, languages, folk songs, and geography. No wonder Tolkien was nervous! This world was his life's work. I'm sure at certain points he felt like he spent more time in MiddleEarth than he did in England. At the end of it, he gave it up to be lambasted by critics. Every harsh review was another hole in his heart.

And yet, what if he hadn't? What if he had, very neatly, stowed his thousand-page opus in a trunk in his attic? It would have been safe from the slings and arrows of critical opinion. But it would have affected no one. Been read by no one. Loved by no one. What, dear friends, is the point of that? Sure, he could have felt impressed with a job well done. But its impact would have been simply a fraction of what it could have been. What it is today.

[Poem#23] Eva

I said, "No problemo," and turned to return
the file to its proper placement. He,

former Spanish major, corrected me,
"It's problema." As it happens, problems

in Spanish are feminine. He chuckled,
deflecting, "I didn't say it" and turned back

to his computer. I think back to dear
Eva, the world's first mujer, the cause

of problems being female, or so history
has painted. Could it be her fault

when all she wanted was a fruit
that would taste like heaven
in a garden not built to last?


(first [hopefully!] in a series about every [maybe?] woman i come across in the Bible)

[Prose#5] Dancing

"Dancing almost always turns out to be a good idea." --Anne Lamott

Coming from a good Baptist family, dancing was a rarity in my house. Formal dancing, anyway - I have humorous images of my minister father busting loose in the kitchen of our house to Elvis, twisting like a good Christian boy never should. My younger sister and I were never put into ballet classes as children, though this could be due less to our church denomination and more to the lack of potential; I speak for myself, mainly. Around middle school, my sister tried out for cheerleading and was mildly encouraged in this by my ever-supporting parents, as long as all tempting body parts were covered at all time.

I surely can't place all blame on my parents. I was a shy, chubby girl, with little understanding of her body: how it moves, what it does, the power in its cords. Not much has changed, as I often find myself with bruises from misjudging the distance between my desk corner and my knee. Because of this lack of awareness of spacial relations (something on which I score low in any standardized test), I do my best to stay away from any sort of dancing whatsoever.

Yet, in high school, I found myself breaking this norm for - what else - the attention of a boy. A good friend of mine, one of those dangerous theater types who often breaks into song and/or dance for no apparent reason, was taking a swing class as part of a local community theater. One summer night, after a bowl of ice cream and some laughter on the wooden deck, he offered to teach me a few steps. Because this boy was cute and unbelievably confident, he wore down my flimsy defenses - for what girl would actually object to a boy's hands in hers, arm around her waist, with little chance for any funny business while doing a legitimate dance style?

He pulled me to him, and all words I had were spirited away by the nearness of his body. The teacher was patient as he imparted his wisdom to me, demonstrating the most basic rock-step. Nervously, I tried to wrap my mind around the new motions, wanting to pick them up quickly and impress him with my gracefulness. Unfortunately, neither want was realized, as it took me try after try to master even the simplest step and even once it was "mastered," there was little grace - instead, there was uncertainty, which threw off the rhythm with each slight hesitation. I was thinking, analyzing, trying to understand the physics of each motion. Until he looked at me, our faces too close together, brown eyes glimmering with faith in my elephant-esque feet, and said, "Stop thinking so much."

The key. Once I turned off the temples, let the beat and the horns and the bass rush through me like a wind, and trusted in my confident partner to lead me, I was dancing. The motion became something other, something more than feet moving in sync - instead, it was a like an energy that pulsed with the rhythm of the music, coming in even as physical energy was being exerted. No wonder there are so many photos of people laughing while dancing. That rush takes you by surprise, picks you up and lifts you to a place where you feel the physical connection with your partner and also a physical connection with yourself, with every molecule of your being vibrating in time with the beat.

When that boy moved on from my life, so did my brief stint as a swing dancer. More often than not, on the ever-present dance floor at weddings and reunions, I am awkward, using my mind to evaluate how I look and who is looking at me. I'm not good at letting another lead, and I am not good at dancing alone, even within a crowd. But every once in a while, the stars align and I trust my partner to carry me away. Then I feel that unique energy flow in and out, creating a homeostasis within and without, and I laugh with delight along with every molecule I possess.

True quote of the day...

"'I remember years ago watching the commercial folktale-tellers in a Cairo bazaar. All writers ought to have observed this ancient practice of oral narrative -- all critics likewise. Getting the audience, I remarked, depended not at all on preaching and philosophizing but very much on baser tricks of the trade: in short, on pleasing, wooing, luring the listeners into the palm of one's hand.'" --John Fowles (via Ted Kooser)

This is from Kooser's book on writing poetry titled The Poetry Home Repair Manual. Probably one of the most discussed ideas in poetry and in writing in general is that of the reader. How much say does the reader have on a certain piece of art? Does a reader (usually an ideal reader) need to shape the writing, or is artistic integrity (whatever that means) more important than pleasing a certain population?

For one, it depends on the type of writing you are doing. Obviously, a piece of journalism needs to fit the reader of the magazine or newspaper - otherwise, it will a) stick out next to the tone and topics of the other pieces, and b) cause people to skip over your article. Some writers would be fine with that; I don't think magazine editors are quite as fine with giving writers about whom their readers could care less space in their limited pages.

Poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction is slightly different. Especially poetry - people tend to simply write what they feel needs to be said, often just obeying their own mind and heart without much regard to the reader. Some writers function this way quite effectively, but, as Kooser mentions, most poets need to start out with a great sense of their reader. You can be as opaque as you wish once you are a well-established poet, but often poetry needs to be accessible to a certain population of people in order to make one well-established.

It's a hard line to toe, because on the one hand, you want to be able to create freely and without limitations. On the other, in order to become a professional, there must be limitations. There are line limits, word counts, and content suggestions made by editors that cannot be ignored. So, then, the balance: write for the type of people you want to read your work. Write to please them, but only so much as you please yourself. I don't think there's anything wrong with simply writing things for yourself, but you cannot expect others to necessarily enjoy it unless you have thought about them and their responses to your work.

This may seem to take the passion and heart out of poetry in general, but I think of it simply as another element to the craft. It's important, as important as line breaks and sound phrases.


Speaking of readers, I'm going to be writing a piece here in the next few weeks that has a very specific reader. There's a contest author Donald Miller is doing about living a better story, with the winner getting flown to Portland for his conference this fall. I'm hoping a selling point for me is the lack of airfare necessary to get me to Portland. Unless he wants to hire a bitty plane to fly me from Newberg to Portland...I wouldn't say no to that (or maybe I would...). Anyway, it's a fun challenge to do something specific. Plus, I would love to go to this conference!

True quote of the day...

Haters abound. If you’re not being criticized, you’re not doing it right, you’re only playing in front of family and friends.
Hate intensifies the bigger you get, especially in the Net world, where everybody gets a voice. There is no protection.
Wander into the world and experience the slings and arrows, toughen your skin.
- Bob Lefsetz

I won't say where I got this quote, but let's just say it was tweeted by an embarrassing public figure and I am pathetic enough to have picked up on it. And yet, there can be wisdom over twitter. Some background: Bob Lefsetz is a music industry icon, apparently, a harsh critic of the details of the music business.

He's right, you know. Still, it doesn't make it easier. My skin is very thin, even though I want to be rubber. I want that criticism - often perceived as personal slights - to bounce right off, not affecting me in the least. But at my very core, I want to be loved. Because of this fact, I focus on pleasing others at all costs, when my core really needs me to be true to my artistic nature. Whatever that looks like.

There's nothing wrong with playing in front of family and friends. You probably won't change the world, but that's okay for some people. Me, I'm not looking to change the world. I am looking to pierce hearts - not every heart, because some are too hard for me, but hearts of strangers. I want someone to love my work not because they love me, but because it speaks to them. I have so many people in my life who support what I do, but my safe haven is too much so. The world is there for me to wander into.

I'm coming back, slowly. I'm coming. Please wait for me.

hiatus slowly dissolving...

hello my patient readers.

Well, I'm not back entirely, mostly because I'm just bloody exhausted right now. These last three weeks have been absolutely beautifully insane with change and transition. I've been around a lot of people, most of them who I love beyond belief, but I am just tired from the social interaction. But hopefully with the dying down of social situations, I'll have more time to sleep and to write. I'm a tad rusty, so please be patient. I have a lot of mental blocks to overcome, but I'll be back. I think I'll attempt some prose here shortly. I'm a little wary of poetry at the moment. Too burnt out, I think. I don't have the power to fight Resistance all the time.

To Do List:
--revisit Divine Right's Trip essay and FINALLY send it off again
--preorder Writer's Market/Poet's Market?
--letter to Donald
--contact Jeff
--reflect on Kooser's poetry book
--read. anything. something. good Lord.
--ignore the telelvision/hulu/Buffy