My Poetry Club, meeting since 2015, has studied classic and contemporary poets (think Wordsworth and Margaret Atwood), well-known and lesser-known writers (Ferlinghetti and R.C. Weslowski) writers, but we’ve never had a real-time conversation with a… More
During author Aaron Hamburger’s June 4th reading at Third Place Books, he asked someone to stand: Emily Dietrich, his first creative writing teacher. Hamburger, author of two novels and a short story collection, said he had never thought about writing until he landed in Emily’s creative writing club at Detroit Country Day School in the late 1980s.
In September of 1987, Emily was a new teacher with a new graduate degree in English. Her first piece was about to be published in Historic Women of Michigan. She had a single class in pedagogy on her resume, but when Detroit Country Day School called the English department at the University of Michigan and recommended her, Country Day, an elite expensive school, hired Emily.
“Aaron,” she recalls, “wrote naturally, dropping right into whatever we were doing as if it were completely familiar to him. I remember feeling happy to see him–he had a great smile and sparkling eyes–when he came into the room. He joined the creative writing club and his writing appeared in the club’s publication, Spectrum.”
In 1989 Emily got married, the software development company her husband worked for was sold, and they moved to Silicon Valley. “I did not want to live in California.” A decade later they relocated to Washington where they still live. She wrote for SeattleWomen and Seattle’s Child. She ran a creative writing club at Redmond Junior High and Redmond High School when her daughter was a student there. She’s on the board of RASP, the Redmond Association of Spoken Word which promotes literary arts and poetry through open mics, author readings, and writing groups.
Years passed with no contact between Emily and Aaron until a suburban Detroit newspaper interviewed him after the publication of The View from Stalin’s Head in which he mentioned his first creative writing teacher. A distant relative sent Emily the article. Aaron and Emily reconnected on Facebook.
Aaron made room in his Nirvana Is Here book tour schedule to teach a craft workshop for Emily and her writer friends, the Mount Holyoke Club of the Puget Sound Writing Group. “We met at a member’s home in Bellevue and had dinner. Aaron brought a collection of exercises for generating ideas and vivid descriptions. He showed us how to think about characters in a different way. Best of all, his accepting, playful prescence got us talking, sharing and going deeper into the process.”
Emily’s response when I approached her after Aaron’s reading was “I’m not famous like Aaron.” Right. Not many of us are, and Aaron would probably say, ‘I’m not famous like, well, Philip Roth or Herman Wouk.’ But, if you believe the old maxim “A writer is one who writes,” Emily’s track record is proof.
The first thing she ever wrote was a poem–and that’s the genre she connects with most. Right now she’s working on a chapbook of poems she read as part of the Duvall Poetry series last year. She’s also drawn to fiction. When Ms. magazine published her essay, she decided she had “permission to work on a novel.” She completed Holding True, published in 2013 by Booktrope. She pitched a second novel at the 2016 Pacific Northwest Writers Conference, “but then Trump got elected, and I redirected my energy toward activism and resisting.” She’s found time to contribute to co-author a puzzlebook, The Conjurer’s Almanaq and writes Magentic, a blog which, yes, boasts a briliant magenta theme.
Because her husband was disabled in an accident, she is spending a preponderance of time caregiving, allowing her to enjoy books like Where the Crawdads Sing, A MAn Called Ove, There, There, Nine Below Zero, and Crazy Rich Asians.
In fact, she scurried away from Aaron’s reading to get home and reflected later on on her early assocation with Aaron, enlightened by his ficionalized story of homosexual assault (based on his own experience) in Nirvana is Here.
“I had no idea, not the slightest idea, of what Aaron had been through when I met him. I didn’t realize that our creative writing club was a safe place for him as a very recent trauma victim.” She continued,
“Reading Aaron’s novel and the non-fiction he has written about that time in his life has been intense and changed my understanding of those years. I feel so much gratitude and admiration for his work and for his way of being in the world.”
Writers Conferences—tempting ones—are all over the place: the SleuthFest in Florida; the Kauai Writers Conference in Hawaii; the Writers Police Academy in Wisconsin; the Kachemak Bay Writers Conference in Alaska. Some are subject specific; others offer a range of genres and guest faculty.
Beyond USA borders, print ads for the San Miguel Writers’ Conference in Mexico list Billy Collins, Margaret Atwood, and Barbara Kingsolver as past speakers. The elite Rohm Literary Agency in New York offers conferences abroad in Cape Town, Dublin and Paris for the respective prices of $1,550, $1,995, and $2,245, travel not included. Rohm has advertised the participation of Tom Robbins’ and Margaret Atwood’s literary agents, along with other nationally known authors.
So why wouldn’t I, despite the perk of a conference in her own backyard, hop over the back fence to an exotic setting or a genre-specific conference? Here’s why: The Chuckanut Writers Conference is characterized by 1) low cost: under $250; 2) stellar assortment of authors and agents, twenty of them, including standouts like Garth Stein, bestselling author of The Art of Racing in the Rain and Claudia Castro Luna, Washington State Poet Laureate, 2018-2020; and 3) intriguing panels like “Seven Steps to a Strong Political Essay, “Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads: Using Imagery in Writing,” and “Novel Development: From Appalling to Polished.”
A disclosure about “Novel Development:” I was the moderator though I suggested neither the title nor the emphasis—plotting, planning, researching and developing novels. I put myself forward as a moderator because my work as a librarian brought me in touch with a writer I admire, Nancy Pearl, “America’s librarian,” and because I wanted to see how the tactics of fantasy, dystopian, and literary fiction writers would inform my process as a creative non-fiction writer. Sure, I could attend the panel, but reading and over-researching authors, especially the work of unfamiliar authors is as good as taking a university class.
The assigned panelists included Terry Brooks, an amiable individual who has written 23 New York Times bestsellers. I launched a discussion on outlining vs. not planning with two of the strategies he suggested in Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life (2004): 1) daydream; 2) Write an outline. The rest of the panel were pantsers—authors who create content, flying by the seat of their pants, though Laurie Frankel (The Atlas of Love, Goodbye for Now, This is How it Always Is) does both.
In contrast, the characters of George and Lizzie (whose names are the title of Nancy Pearl’s debut novel) took up residence in her head. “I had a basic idea of George and Lizzie and I knew the direction of the story.” Her manner of working goes like this: she gets up early in the morning, takes off on a seven-to-ten-mile walk, listening to books or podcasts. “I find that while I’m walking and not consciously thinking about much of anything, all sorts of ideas come to me; it’s basically how I figured out what would happen in George and Lizzie.” Nancy delights in the adventure of publishing her first novel at age 72, but she considers herself a reader first and a writer second.
Of reading, Laurie Frankel says, “If you write two hours in the morning, then you have to read two hours in the evening. Read books in your genre that make you want to say, ‘Omigosh, I wish I’d written that book.’ Read books that have solved the problem that you want to solve in your work. Read like a writer. Ask what worked and how; what didn’t work and why not. “
Omar el Akaad handed out a list of books relevant to the new genre of Cli-Fi—Climate change Fiction. Omar, an investigative reporter born in Cairo whose family moved to Toronto when he was sixteen, wrote three novels before his novel, American War was published in 2017. “Those first books were terrible,” he said. “I didn’t even try to publish them.” His work with Toronto’s national paper The Globe and Mail took him to Afghanistan and Guantanamo Bay and Missouri. He was struck by the “symmetry of injustice”—tear gas and armed soldiers both in Afghanistan and Fergusson. He saw civilians living in combat zones and in refugee camps. American War, the second American Civil War, takes place in the closing decades of the 21st century and shows the consequences of climate change. He observes, “I like to say that a lot of what happened in the book happened; it just happened to people far away.” When I told him I was halfway through the book, he said, “Don’t worry, it gets much more depressing.”
Tara Conklin’s novel, The Last Romantics, is also dystopian. Chapter one, titled “Year 2079,” opens with Fiona, a 102-year-old poet talking to an audience of a thousand people. The chapter ends Fiona saying “…this is a story about the failures of love…” The love and its failures revolve around Fiona and her three siblings after the sudden death of their father, the family’s financial ruin, and the mother’s debilitating depression. Tara believes that “stories navigate us through difficult times and help us understand the past and point the way to the future.”
Her comment and four other fine fiction authors gave me new ways of working with plotting (I don’t), planning (I’m a pantser), researching (enhancing my librarian background) and developing my work (chapter by chapter). Craft elements of fiction can transfer to creative nonfiction; yet there was so much more to be learned from the conference…
I do not reference the astonishing address by Sonora Jha after which the audience rose as one body to cheer her passion, humility, and insight; I do not explain how Laurie Frankel’s workshop, “Work+Magic: Strategies for Gettin’ It Done” recharged and reframed my work habits; I’ve not mentioned the poem that lifted out of me, catalyzed by poet Jane Wong‘s session on Elegies; I’ve not acknowledged conference chair Kaitlynn Teer‘s smooth piloting of a conference with many shifting parts. I’ve been to other excellent writers conferences, but Bellingham, the city of “subdued excitement” is lucky to have a writers conference sponsored and presented by Whatcom Community College and Village Books.
P.S. To hear from another writer who chose to attend this conference, read my friend Laura Rink’s takeaways here.
The novel Nirvana is Here showed up in mid-May, adding to Aaron Hamburger’s list of books: The View from Stalin’s Head and Faith for Beginners. While Hamburger will not exactly be “here” in Bellingham where I live, he will be at Third Place Books on June 4th in the Seattle area.
I’m going to hear him. When I attended the Stonecoast MFA program, Aaron was a sought-after faculty member––a sharp evaluator of both fiction and nonfiction and a critic who salted his feedback with wry observations. His attitude and approach were always about making our work the best it could be. I suspect students at Columbia University, George Washington University, and Brooklyn College where he has also taught, feel the same way.
Nirvana is Here is about sexual identity and has roots in Hamburger’s own experience. To check out the plot and determine whether you want to read a cleverly written, spiked-with-humor piece of fiction about a gay Jewish teenager who endured a trauma of the most difficult kind––rape by an older high school boy––scroll down through Amazon’s cluttered pages to Hardy Griffin’s review.
The musical group Nirvana’s been called the “flagship band of Generation X” and the band had a distinct effect on Aaron Hamburger. In 1991, he was “a nervous freshman” at the University of Michigan when a guy ran down the dorm hall yelling “You’ve got to hear this!” For Aaron, listening to “Smells like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana was
“an explosion of insolent Pacific Northwest cool into my deeply uncool and fundamental conservative world…Hearing his music was like receiving a dispatch from another spiritual plane, one that offered irrefutable evidence that there were other ways of living–and maybe other ways of loving, too.”
References to Nirvana’s music threads through Nirvana is Here. Kurt Cobain’s advocacy of gay rights impacted Aaron. “During his relatively short life and career…[Cobain] spoke with a clarity that inspired me to do the same, creating a kind of role model for me to follow.” (You can read more here.)
As for me, I paid little attention to Nirvana in the 90s. I was probably too busy saying “Turn it down!” to my children to attend to the rhythms and lyrics of Nirvana. When I asked my 35-year-old son if he knew the band Nirvana, he said, “Mom, that’s like asking an English major [me] if she’s heard of Shakespeare.”
Now, having revisited “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “Come As You Are,” on YouTube, I get it––the hard driving, powerful drumming of Dave Grohl and the raspy-voiced magic of Kurt Cobain. I see how Cobain contributed to the liberation of Aaron Hamburger and his fictional character Ari. Aaron integrated his own trauma into his novel and has advised other writers to
“Travel to dark, secret places in your work and expand your knowledge of vocabulary, grammar, and syntax so you have all the tools at your disposal to express your vision .”
But he’s not all serious. Once at a Stonecoast talent show, Hamburger participated wearing a chef’s apron and hat, and wielding a hamburger-flipping spatula. I wonder what surprises he’ll have for us in Seattle.
Every spring during National Poetry Month, the Whatcom Community College Library, sponsors a poem writing contest. Every year I’m both confounded and energized by the pile of disparate words—ten of them—that land in my inbox and charge me to make a poem. This year the words were
ardent, hour, intent, open, yearn,
mingle, keen, just, quarter, shimmer
For a moment, I considered writing about Casanova—more than a womanizer, he was a Roman Catholic cardinal, a spy, a diplomat, a violinist, a magician, and…a librarian —a bullet point in my biography as well. From 1785 until his death in 1798 he worked as a private librarian for a count in Bohemia.
What came to mind, however, was doggerel about a promiscuous rake—ardent and keen of intent—mingling hands with a yearning maiden beneath a quarter-sized, shimmering moon just as the midnight hour opened. So:
I turned to the method I’ve used for several years, looking up each word in the Oxford English Dictionary which contains alternative meanings, obscure usages and curious quotations which stimulate my imagination. The OED is the 20-volume dictionary that Ammon Shea wrote about in Reading the OED: One Man, One Year, 21,730 pages, a book I recommend.
I’m pleased that I don’t have to drag thick, individual volumes of the OED off library shelves; my wife gave me an online subscription Christmas three years ago which has become a fixture in our budget.
I enjoying finding quotes…even if I don’t use them like the dialogue Charles Browne created in his 1862 publication Artemus Ward, His Story: “‘Hast thou not yearned for me?’ she yelled…‘Not a yearn!’ I bellered.”
Yearn as coagulation of milk, “to form curds, typically after the introduction of rennet or ‘yearning’” won’t be a usage for me, nor will this definition of quarter: “any one of four parts of a body or carcass in which a human body may be divided, as was commonly done to a traitor after execution.”
Mingle means mixing things together, like voices or people (i.e. the dating site “Christian Mingle”). Merriam-Webster adds “usually without fundamental loss of identity.” (I like that!) Then there’s Shakespeare’s creative conveyance in Antony and Cleopatra: “Trumpetters…make mingle with our ratling Tambourines.” I wonder what he’d do with the modern-day parlance of real estate people who use mingle as a noun meaning “an unmarried person who shares a residence with another of roughly the same age.”
As for shimmer, I hit pay dirt (can’t resist the OED’s definition of the mining term “pay dirt,” first used in 1853,“ground ore in sufficient quantity to be profitably extracted” and the figurative application “to achieve profit or success”) when the OED prompted me to think of shimmer not just as a gleaming, flickering light, but as “A workman who inserts shims in cabinet work.”
A line came to me: “She was a shimmer.” Like a sculptor teasing art from rock, I began to chisel out the finished poem that satisfied the technical requirements for The Kumquat Challenge, a poem that I called
Two daughters remove fixtures, paint walls,
stage the house into magazine-ready saleability,
Kondo-readying us for our new condo.
Marie would be pleased with their downsizing
and the parsing of items into categories:
KEEP, SELL, DONATE, DUMP.
One son, ladder-borne, sanitizes the attic,
his gloved hands mingle with rodent deposits
and the webbed netting of spiders.
Wise to his mother’s yearning,
he, an ardent eliminator of the unnecessary,
notes the slight nod of my head, heaves
unused items destined for disposal into
his pick-up before I can change my mind.
He Boraxes rug stains into invisibility,
pilots a rug cleaner over yards of carpet,
replaces switch plates, installs a bathroom heater,
carries sofas, beds, thirty cartons of books,
erects and steadies eight bookcases,
positions furniture, mounts TVs, builds shelves,
slices remaining cardboard boxes into quarters.
Another son, rabbit-quick, hauls, unloads, organizes.
Returns to his out-of-town home. Repeats.
Posts photographs to social media platforms.
Predicts no sales. Correctly.
We settle in, make changes.
Our daughter-in-law shifts
an IKEA desktop onto table legs
which double as file cabinets.
Loaded, they are heavy; they will not open,
but she is solution-oriented, keen of eye,
a workwoman, intent on success.
She slides, just so, a slim triangle of
found wood between the floor and the drawer.
She is a shimmer.
I am a-shimmer too, caught smiling
in a glow of gratitude for adult children
who make possible the hour of our
departure from one place, one life
to another place and another life.
Anu Garg. Do you know that name? People in 171 countries do because they receive what the New York Times called “the most welcome, most enduring piece of daily mail in cyberspace.” I’m one of them.
Eleven years ago on January 8th, 2008 I heard Garg (Indian-born and raised) at Village Books. Enchanted with his deep knowledge of words and their history, I subscribed to Word.A.Day (A.W.A.D), and I bought The Dord, the Diglot, and an Avocado or Two: the hidden lives and strange origins of common and not so common words. The title was a mouthful, but then as now, I’m fascinated by the words he chooses, defines, and writes about.
Garg founded Wordsmith.org, the vehicle for A.Word.A.Day exactly 25 years ago today: March 14th, 1994. He sent out his first word, zephyr––he liked the exotic sound of it and the meaning, “a breeze from the west”––when he was a graduate student in computer science at Case Western University in Cleveland. By 2002, his success allowed him to quit his corporate job at AT&T. Since Wordsmith’s inception, Garg has sent out 3.6 billion emails and featured 5,626 words. Here’s a recent favorite of mine: throttlebottom
Meaning: noun: A purposeless incompetent in public office.
Etymology: After Alexander Throttlebottom, a vice-presidential character in Of Thee I Sing, a 1931 musical comedy. Earliest documented use: 1932
Usage: [Lyndon B. Johnson] wanted to be Vice President, both to position himself as JFK’s successor someday and because he believed that he could convert any job––even Throttlebottom’s–– into a power base.” (James MacGregor Burns, The Crosswinds of Freedom, Knopf, 1989)
Will I use throttlebottom in conversation? Probably not. Still, I like knowing that it’s available to apply to a recalcitrant legislator. Likewise, scapegut, cernuous, mordibezza, and clutchfist. Not all curious, obscure words are meant for more than an appreciative smile. Some go straight to my brain’s wastepaper basket. As a writer I might find a fun application for palilogy (the repetition of words especially for emphasis) at my critique group and once, I used alazon (a person characterized by arrogance, braggadocio, lack of self-awareness, etc.) in Words with Friends, wedging the Z onto a triple square.
To celebrate its anniversary, Wordsmith.org has announced limerick, anagram, pangram and coin-a-word contests. You know what limericks are. Anagrams are words that use the same letters, like debit car/bad credit or dormitory/dirty room. A pangram uses all the letters in the alphabet as in “Intoxicated Queen Elizabeth vows Mickey Jagger is perfection.” Garg’s coined word, linguaphile (a lover of words) made it into the American Heritage Dictionary.
Wordsmith has assembled an impressive list of judges to judge the contests Garg is offering: big names in the word biz like Will Shortz, New York Times puzzle editor, Kory Stamper, author of Word by Word, and Richard Lederer, author of the humorous classic, Anguished English. Prizes include books, dictionaries, and a tour of the offices of the Oxford English Dictionary in the UK. I had to still my heart over that last prize. I like to read anagrams, limericks, and pangrams; I don’t like to write them. Maybe I could coin a word: how ‘bout Gargfan?
Wait. Maybe I should check the OED to see if it is already a word. Results: ‘‘No dictionary entries found for Gargfan. Did you mean arghan, gangman, marfan, or sarafan.’’ Nope. Garg, no gangster he, bears no resemblance to the fiber of a South American plant, a heritable disorder of connective tissues, or a long mantel that is part of the national dress of Russian peasant women.
Gargfan: what do you think? I’m a fan. Anyone else?
P.S. For more about how Anu Garg uses his created vocation as balm for his mom, see https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/19/…/solver-crosswords-child-becomes-parent.html
Cradle Rolls, Rabbit Holes, Serendipity & Obliquity
I discovered my mother’s 1908 decorative Cradle Roll certificate, a document that had foundered, unexamined, while boxed in my last two garages. Squelching embarrassment, I reveled in the new information it provided: that my grandmother was my mother’s “guardian;” that she and my mother were living in Bakersfield, California; that my grandmother––never a church-goer in my lifetime––had associated herself and her about-to-be adopted daughter with a Methodist-Episcopal Church.
Thrilled to obtain this information. I brought the treasured certificate and my latest bio-memoir chapter (Untold, in progress) to my critique group. One member after supplying feedback, suggestions, and edits, per our group’s process, said, “What’s a Cradle Roll?” Another said as she has before, “I’d like to hear stories about how you research.”
First, let me say that my writing has never been so derailed and distracted as when I researched Cradle Rolls.Do you want to know who created cradle rolls, and when? No problem. Two sisters, both Sunday School teachers, in Elizabeth, New Jersey in 1877. What good is a Cradle Roll? Well, sometimes they’re used to establish births—which is exactly what I believe my father did in order to procure a passport for my mother.And…what about those Presbyterian scholars in New Zealand who write about cradle Rolls?
Wait a minute, nobody wants such far-away facts, but I’m going to tell you anyway. In 1907, one Kiwi Presbyterian noted that women in the Women’s Christian Temperance Union were involved in “some rather quaint activities,” i.e. Cradle Rolls, “a mystic but motherly-sounding venture.” The spokesman was certain that the purpose of Cradle Rolls was to get mothers to sign up their children and commit to bringing them up as abstainers.
I love that kind of incidental trivia. With my family history/memoir writing project, I’ve found myself with fistfuls of well-researched irrelevancies that struck my fancy and possibly noone else’s. But you know what, I don’t think I can change. Heavy revision is required and/or finding places for extraneous material––like in this blog: a justification for serendipitous searching.
Let’s start with rabbit holes. You know what a rabbit hole is: a cavity dug by a rabbit which she claims as her home. Today, the destination for human rabbits, thanks to the Internet, is not often home. Investigators hyperlink into distracting labyrinths from which escape is difficult, arriving at information often unconnected to original questions.
As Alice discovered when she tunneled into her fantasyland of anthropomorphic characters, rabbit holes are a metaphor for entering the unknown, for broaching something stranger than imagined. Lewis Carroll’s book was published in 1865, long before a subculture called hippies appropriated psychedelics to amp up their view of the world.
Sagacity, now there’s a word to embrace! Wouldn’t we all like to be known as discerning, intelligent, and having an aptitude for investigation?
Is my related pursuit in this paragraph intelligent, an apt investigation? Maybe. Anyway, it’s a rabbit hole that fascinates me: Walpole met Horace Mann just once, but he maintained epistolary contact with him for 45 years and penned more than 4000 letters to a variety of other correspondents. Called “perhaps the most assiduous letter writer in English,” his correspondence has been published in thirty-eight volumes and also exists in a difficult-to-navigate digital compilation at a Yale University Library: http://images.library.yale.edu/hwcorrespondence/)
I’ve also found justification in another word: obliquity. I take Merrill-Webster’s definition into account––“deviation from moral rectitude or sound thinking”––as well as the Oxford English Dictionary’s “Divergence from right conduct orthought”––but I prefer the interpretive application given by systems engineers:“Obliquity is a theory that proposes the best way to achieve a goal when you are working with a complex system is to take an indirect approach instead of adirect one.” (www.searchcrm.techtarget.com). The best way. Yes, I think it is.
I value cogent, relevant, well-constructed prose. My bio-memoir’s end goal is truth and understanding, big concepts that have guided the discovery of obscure information and the construction of chronology—i.e. my family history. I have a high tolerance for segues; in fact, I have a preference for them because they help me figure out the world that my ancestors lived in.
Also: way back when I said my writing about cradle Rolls had never been so derailed and distracted…not true. Derailment and distraction are the curses of the curious and undisciplined, fellow-traveling qualities in every manuscript I produce.
And one more rabbit hole: Wanna know more about those New Zealand scholars–– theologians, historians, clergy and students who meet four times a year and start their meetings with “drinks and nibbles.” They’re called Presbyterian Research (https://preshist.wordpress.com/nz-presbyterian-research-network-2/)–– a collaboration between Knox College and the Presbyterian Church of Aoftearoa (the Maori name for New Zealand). Or, check out their (non-scholarly) 2010 piece on and reproduction of Cradle Rolls on their website: https://preshist.wordpress.com/2010/08/20/the-cradle-roll-and-its-ephemera/
Rabbit holes can lead the researcher Down Under. I’m happy about that.
In 2007 Paul Nelson and Lana Ayers launched The August Poetry Postcard Festival (APPF). Participants pay a small fee, with the intention of writing a postcard poem a day to each member in their assigned group of 31 poets. htpps://www.paulenelson.com/august-poetry-postcard-fest/
As one who sent postcards to friends and family, plucking touristy designs from loaded racks in places as diverse as Pismo and Prague––before Snapchat, Facebook and Twitter decimated that bounty––I wondered: how could I write to thirty-one people I didn’t know? Questions (a happy constant of my former profession as a librarian} about those in my assigned group, beset me.
What could I find out about the person on my list with an address in Nagoya so I could write a relevant poem? Where was Nagoya anyway? What unusual places could I learn about? Were there academics in the group? What interesting jobs or hobbies did they have? Were their political views similar to mine? Did we have friends in common? And, what unexpected discoveries would come my way and stimulate the birth of my thirty-one poems?
I used all the popular tools at my disposal––Facebook, LinkedIN, Goodreads, Google, Google Images, web pages, blogs, Amazon, and, as a last resort and with great discernment, Rate My Professor and Wikipedia. I plundered databases that required subscriptions or access from a library: Britannica, WorldCat, the Oxford English Dictionary, and Ancestry.
I spent an average of 2 to 2½ hours researching––one-sided and uninvited as the process was––before I flash-typed a poem and pasted it onto purchased postcards.
When no information could be found, I let surnames drive the poems, Lark, for example, and the German translation for King. On one desperate occasion, I extracted material from the library building plan of the poet’s city. Surely I could make a poem out of enchanting references to “flamingo pink shelves” and the name of the library’s first land donor, Thatcher Magoun.
Facebook’s yield was highest, but digging through other data sites produced satisfying tags for poem-making. Imagine my pleasure when I found
- an expat who spent time in Nagoya, was a member of the Japan-based “1000 Poets for Change,” and took first place in the 2015 Vancouver (WA) Haiku Invitational
- a poet’s place of residence was not only Joseph, Oregon but also called Hah-um-sah-pah, Oregon
- a Ph.D. from Kent State whose Google image depicted a purple-clad professor against a backdrop of brambly branches and a brick building
- a poet whose job in marketing was to “develop win themes and client pain points” (what does that mean?)
- a poet’s letter forwarded to political leaders questioning 45’s mental stability
- friends in common: Nancy Pearl, “America’s librarian,” and, surprise! my daughter-in-law’s sister, Shanna Noel, a Bible illustrator with her own line of Hallmark cards
- a naturalist, who rambled through New England wetlands and forests and, a teacher for a nonprofit who gave classes on banding birds
- one poet’s list of 548 books on GoodReads including the piquantly named Proust & the Squid
- a participant who ordered her postcards from Estonia
- the discovery of the existence of a Poetry Pole (address: the Path of the Mailman) in parched Yakima
- a maker of story quilts, born within 22 months of me who attended two of the colleges I did and was connected to the same church denomination as I
When I told my wife I’d found a participant’s birthday on Ancestry, her accusative tone was undisguised: “You’re stalking people.” So I wrote a poem for Poet #3 who had “wren” in her email address and whose poetry personified a “walkyr,” (Obs. “watchful, vigilant”).
Indeed, I am. I own it/A digi-stalker/a Googling people gawker/a LinkedIn and Facebook talker/discovering in the public locker/a punk rocker, a sweet talker/ a paster caulker, a d. trump mocker/or a Steller Jay squawker/ limericking sleepwaker/ and today, a wrensong walker.
Read Digi-stalker, Part II to find out what happened when I sent that poem off to #3 on my list. Meanwhile, believe me when I say, I no longer embrace the lines that sprung from my pen right after I signed up for APPF:
Of poems epistolary
to a stranger
I am wary.
When I first learned that Your Heart Is A Muscle the Size of a Fist was the selected book for Whatcom READS 2018 (five author events, March 8-10), I’d never heard of Sunil Yapa. Learning about talented, engaging authors is one of the beauties of a county-wide book club.
By now, Sunil, is back in the “little farmhouse” in Pennsylvania that he shares with his dad, “where I will let my beard grow long and try to write another book.”
Yapa, raised in Pennsylvania by a Sri Lankan father and a mother from Montana, had not planned to be a writer. He’d majored in economic geography, taking classes at Penn State from his father, Lakshman Yappa.
“I assumed I’d follow in my father’s footsteps, kinda like taking over the family hardware store, but a month out of college I knew I wanted to write.”
After graduation in 2002, he and a friend took a week to come up with ideas for self-employment. No “regular jobs” for them. His friend wanted to buy luxury cars in Texas and sell them in New York. Sunil thought it would be fun to hawk posters out of the back of a truck. He prevailed.
So off they went, traveling for two-three months each year for ten years, all across the country, working twelve to sixteen hours a day, “selling posters of Britney Spears to 18-year-old girls.” Sunil earned around $10,000 per year––”enough money to live abroad, but not enough to live in the U.S.”
He went to Chile and began writing Fist, a novel about the World Trade Organization’s meeting in Seattle in 1999 which occurred when he was in college. “I wasn’t brave enough to go then,” but he was impacted by a picture of a woman bleeding from a baton beating. He wondered what prompted her to be in Seattle, fighting for policies affecting people she didn’t know.
He wrote the book in seventeen countries over six years. The first draft was 600+ pages. And his computer, containing the completed manuscript, was stolen from his hotel room in Chicago.
His response: for three months he propped himself up on his father’s couch, perfecting the art of Netflix-binging and watching almost every basketball game that aired. But the book pursued him, so he re-wrote it. He reduced the total number of characters from sixty-five (!) to seven and did not allow himself to use prior notes.”That would have been like taking dictation from an earlier, dumber self.” At the conclusion of his rewrite, Sunil concluded:
“Losing it––that writing by a clever young grad student–was a gift.”
One might wonder why a clever young grad student didn’t back up his manuscript.
In Chile, where he started and finished the Fist, there was no internet, so he stowed his laptop in the oven (yes, the oven!), and never had a problem with theft. When he returned to the United States, he didn’t want to overburden his father’s printer by generating 600 pages and then, as he traveled to Chicago, he thought a hotel room was a safe place to leave his computer.
The rewrite, which took six years, paid off. Sunil’s agent sent the book out on a Friday to twenty-five editors. On Saturday morning, his agent called. “Can you be in New York on Monday?” Lee Boudreaux, who had stayed up all night reading Fist, wanted Sunil’s book to launch her imprint for Little, Brown, and Company. She liked the dynamic plot, and the language—”urgent, dynamic, inventive, surprising, unforgettable.”
I also was enchanted by the book’s language (although I would have preferred less profanity). Consider this bleak but lyric passage in which 19-year old Victor is beaten.
He felt the batons battering him like hail, a shot to the kidneys that exploded like a star…He was glad to have done what he had done. To have wandered the world. To have loved his mother when she was alive. Even to have joined the people here today…he had raised his voice to a good and true human pitch..but now he knew all along…This had been the plan. To stomp the breath from his belly until he breathed no more. They wanted to erase him and all that he was from the face of the earth. And he was going to let them.
Violence is hard to write and hard to read. Fist is a novel, yes, but Sunil says “two-thirds of it happened. It’s important, to tell the truth.” Though he did not attend the WTO, he did the same kind of in-depth research as another Whatcom READS writer, Daniel James Brown (The Boys in the Boat).
As a librarian, I love that Sunil referenced his childhood in this way: “I love libraries. They were my refuge, my church.”
Sunil examined twenty archived boxes of photos, signs, handwritten testimonies, and amateur video and audio recordings in the basement of the library at the University of Washington. In one of the boxes, he found the title of his book on a woodcut by activist-artist Dalia Sapon-Shervin.
“There it was, Your Heart is A Muscle the Size of a Fist. Just right. And I was lucky. The editors let me keep it.”
The cover of the hardbound edition, issued in 2016 is bright yellow with bold, informal font. “I think the publishers chose yellow,” he said, “because nobody can remember the title or my name, but they do remember a yellow cover with a bold design.”
You might wonder why I chose to abbreviate the ten-word title of his book with Fist, one of the three nouns in the title. Fist identifies the protest, the principle storyline for the book, but the most important word in the title is Heart because this book is about empathy, courage, and love.
You might also wonder why I’ve called Sunil by his first name instead of the more usual, journalistically correct, last name. Because, after asking him questions at two events and having him sign my books, when I stepped to the microphone at the Mt. Baker Theater, he addressed me by my first name.
And don’t we all like to be recognized?
Several months ago, I was having lunch with two friends I hadn’t seen in a while. Both were retired librarians with new avocations: one is a potter, the other writes local history. The local historian, after learning that I had a blog, said, “Well, what do you write about?”
Unsorted past subjects flittered through my mind––the briefcase I stole from an Uber driver; Zyxt, the curious word, I found in the OED; a remembrance of author Brian Doyle. Before I could puncture the silence with something pithy my friend, eyebrows raised, offered, “Life?”
“Well, yeah,” I muttered. Undeterred by vagueness, she asked for the blog’s address.
Last week, following the examination of the first draft of Eyes Wide Open, a member of my critique group, said, “What’s the objective of your blog? What’s it about?
I said what one should not admit. “I’m not sure.”
I should think deeply about that. Or at least write an elevator speech to stave off palpable silences. Life. Hmm.
The Huffington Post Complete Guide to Blogging says
“It’s perfectly fine to write about your life and experiences…and there’s no need to apologize for it…but if you want to take your blog to the next level, though, it helps to have some sort of theme to the majority of your posts.”
Level One is for me. I’m a dabbler. I go for whatever turns my head, catches my fancy, and then I stylize my sentences to avoid clichés that have to do with fancifulness and head-turning. I often land on words. Take, for example, the word “blog.”
I don’t like the word blog, but Peter Merholz, its creator, enjoyed the word’s crudeness, its dissonance, and its rough onomatopoeic proximity to vomiting. (Yes, he really made that connection.) Why didn’t Mr. Merholz, way back in 1999, keep his mitts off a noun that has such unpleasant sound siblings: bog, fog, agog, hog, clog? He couldn’t; the base word that he shortened was “Weblog.” Merholtz attributes its success to the creation of a new platform for publishing blogs:
“Blog” would have likely died a forgotten death had it not been for one thing: In August of 1999, Pyra Labs released Blogger, and with that, the use of “blog” grew with the tools success.”
Merholtz’s truncation of weblog took off and he has achieved the ultimate fame: he and his word are enshrined in the Oxford English Dictionary.
But, I ask you, can a serious writer use the term blogger as easily as a guy with a chainsaw who’s a logger?
Apparently, lots of readers would rather read a blog––and writers would rather write them, than, say, chop a log––because there are over 2,000 Huffington Post bloggers who initiate constant conversations 24 hours a day.
I’ve accomplished neither the deep thinking nor the elevator speech, but I did come to the same conclusion as the individual inadequately designated as “Marty” on the Brainy Quotes website, who said, “I think the word ‘blog’ is an ugly word.”
If you’ve made the slog through this blog, thank you.
P.S. Anybody know a logger I could interview? After all, the precursor to blogs (columns–before they went digital) were printed on paper derived from wood.
About to check my field of vision, the ophthalmological technician, dressed in tall Frye boots, leggings, and a stylish, geometric-patterned sweater, spoke in a calm voice: “I’m going to tape your eyes open. I’ll be gentle,” she said as she stretched each eyelid to an unnatural height and positioned my chin on a cup, leaving me staring into a white, moon-like orb.
Even though the image of Svengali, whose pupil-less eye sockets terrorized me as a child, invaded my consciousness, I didn’t squirm and I followed the technician’s instructions to squeeze a button whenever I saw flashing lights in that strange capsule into which my head was thrust. The lights were star-like bursts, some up, some down, some in the middle.
Fifteen minutes later, she rewarded me with “Good job,” and a little aside: “Men can be such babies, especially those old guys whose eyebrows get all bushy. They’re the worst.” Then, she guided me through a labyrinth of small offices to one where I was instructed to wait for the ophthalmologist/specialist who would see if my orb-staring results qualified me for blepharoplasty and ptosis repair.
Definition to come––it’s something to do with one of the cosmetic miseries of aging.
I ended up waiting for twenty minutes, plenty of time to scrutinize the office where I saw…
…Pamphlets, like “Granulated Eyelids––what it is, how to treat it at home.” [Why, I wondered were eyelids an “it.”] And the alliterative “Flashers and Floaters–what they are, when to call your doctor.”
...Eyeball charts with words like carnucle, lacrimal puctum or bublar conjunctive which made me wonder why some words (eyebrow, eyelid) on the chart were unworthy of Latinate designations. My favorite terms were inferior meatus and turbinate. Sounded like a slab of sirloin ready to season up for the barbecue.
…and mysterious machines that I had time to explore via Google, right then and after the appointment. I began to wonder: when my regular eye doctor gets his new office next year, will he enter “ophthalmology equipment,” click on Dogpile.com and be beguiled by the money-saving ad “get a phoropter for only $799”? Will he check out the “Opthalmology Synergetics Instrument Kit” whose price is unlisted but is likely expensive?
Retinal cameras, bimodular indirect ophthalmoscopes, manual keratometers, tonometers––I learned about all of them. I don’t like words that have to do with sharp objects around eyes, so when I got to Slit Lamp, I was glad for an interruption: the doctor slid onto a stool to tell me in complicated language that meant: your eyelids aren’t droopy enough. Insurance is unlikely to pay. She’d submit it anyway, just in case. “However,” she said, “the surgery could be done privately in my office for $5500.”
No thanks. I don’t want to pay for blepharoplasty (plastic surgery on the eyelid to remove fatty or excess tissue, aka ptosis).
When I have my next regular eye exam, which also includes chin placement on sophisticated equipment, and I need a stronger prescription, perhaps I will purchase glasses as a droopiness distraction and cultivate a different image. Tortoiseshell, maybe, as long as they’re not made from the shell of real Hawksbill turtles as they were in the 1920s. Online, I saw one pair called “Brain Trust” and another hornrimmed variety designed for the “hipster-geeky look.”
Yeah. That’s me alright. A hipster-geeky septuagenarian. At least I don’t have Svengali eyes.