Thankful Thursday: Running, Writing

Today I ran 30 minutes and nearly three miles without stopping.
I am beyond thankful. I am weeping with gratitude.

It's not a huge accomplishment for most people but it is a big deal to someone who has lived a life of asthma inhalers and emergency room rushes, and then, years after breathing was enhanced, a tumor was discovered and a hunk of lung removed. 

And so, running is a big deal. While my childhood was largely sickly and sedate, my adult life has not been inactive; I hike, ski and swim. Respiratory treatment has greatly improved since my first visit to National Jewish Hospital, where I lived as a child.

Still, until recently, running alluded me. I envied those lean, long runners. I wanted to experience legs and lungs working together. A few years ago, with encouragement from my husband, I started a slow jog — to the end of the street. I'd pant and wheeze and nearly cry with discouragement, and he would rally me to go just a bit more.

And then last winter my asthma flared. I couldn't run. A murky x-ray suggested infection, demanded stronger medication. This was no emergency. This was how I had always lived: try, progress, stall, repeat.

Last summer, my lungs stronger, I began to run regularly again. Encouraged by my sister, my friends at Daily Mile, and coaching from Running Mate, I have now — this week — achieved a 30 minute run without resting, stopping or stalling.

Now I realize how much running is like writing. I never really want to run but once I start a sense of wonder and accomplishment kicks in. I can do this! Each time, my body surprises me with its ability.

But, really, it never feels easy.

Writing often feels the same. Some days words flow and everything clicks. And the very next day I am stuck in the sludge wondering, How do I do this?

On the difficult runs, when the lungs shrink and the couch calls, my husband nudges me: Look how far you've come! And in the writing life, too, it helps to have friends and mentors, or just a crazy neighbor who appreciates your pursuit.

Running, like writing, like asthma, will offer both struggle and ease. I will start and start and start again. On this Thankful Thursday, I am grateful for the chance to keep showing up, slogging through, and shining on.

 

It's Thankful Thursday. Joy expands and contracts in direct relation to our sense of gratitude. What are you thankful for today? A person, a place, a possession? A story, a song, a poem? What makes your world expand?


Ignore everybody

by Hugh MacLeod

Hugh MacLeod, artist and writer, offers some sage advice:

1. Ignore everybody.

2. The idea doesn’t have to be big. It just has to be yours.

3. Put the hours in.
 

4. If your biz plan depends on you suddenly being “discovered” by some big shot, your plan will probably fail.

5. You are responsible for your own experience.
 

6. Everyone is born creative; everyone is given a box of crayons in kindergarten.

7. Keep your day job.
 

8. Companies that squelch creativity can no longer compete with companies that champion creativity.

9. Everybody has their own private Mount Everest they were put on this earth to climb.
10. The more talented somebody is, the less they need the props.
 

11. Don’t try to stand out from the crowd; avoid crowds altogether.

12. If you accept the pain, it cannot hurt you.
 

13. Never compare your inside with somebody else’s outside.

14. Dying young is overrated.
 

15. The most important thing a creative person can learn professionally is where to draw the red line that separates what you are willing to do, and what you are not.

16. The world is changing.
 

17. Merit can be bought. Passion can’t.

18. Avoid the Watercooler Gang.
 
19. Sing in your own voice.
 

20. The choice of media is irrelevant.

21. Selling out is harder than it looks.
 

22. Nobody cares. Do it for yourself.

23. Worrying about “Commercial vs. Artistic” is a complete waste of time.
 
24. Don’t worry about finding inspiration. It comes eventually.
 

25. You have to find your own schtick.

26. Write from the heart.
 

27. The best way to get approval is not to need it.

28. Power is never given. Power is taken.
 

29. Whatever choice you make, The Devil gets his due eventually.

30. The hardest part of being creative is getting used to it.
 

31. Remain frugal.

32. Allow your work to age with you.
 

33. Being Poor Sucks.

34. Beware of turning hobbies into jobs.
 

35. Savor obscurity while it lasts.

36. Start blogging.
 

37. Meaning Scales, People Don’t.

37. When your dreams become reality, they are no longer your dreams.

 

Enjoy more fun and insight from Hugh MacLeod at Gaping Void.

 

Thankful Thursday: Acknowledgements

When you get a book, what's the first thing you read?  The front cover raves? back cover blurbs? dedication?

I go straight to the Acknowledgements. This section, usually situated in the front of the book, often reveals an author's history and demeanor. Here, in many cases, is a listing of previous publications, writing group membership, fellowships earned, workshops attended, and even endearments.

Some writers maintain a distance, providing a straightforward accounting of publications in which the works first appeared. Others, like my friend who after 40 years of writing published her first book, gushed for two pages (in small type), reaching back to thank her grade school teachers.

I am intrigued with a writer's narrative, the thread of gratitude that chronicles a creative life.

The other day, on a long drive, I reached that trance-like state in which thoughts expand and unwind. What, I wondered, if I wrote my acknowledgements right now? What would my page include?

As I examined the turning points in my life — first job, influential teacher, kind doctor, family friend — I found a thread of people who had widened my path, lightened my heart, and energized my steps. My first "real" job, for example, offered a mentor, who later became a colleague, and 20 years later is my very good friend. And then there's the volunteer work writing with teens that stretched my heart and changed my life.

It's a great exercise, to find the thread of people and places that have pebbled your path. My Acknowledgements page grows each day, and I am flush with gratitude. 

It's Thankful Thursday! Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Please join me in a weekly pause to appreciate the people, places & things that bring joy. What are you thankful for today?


Come here often?

What's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?

No really, it's time for some market research. I need your help. In the interest of better blogging, I want to know:

How did you find me, and how will you find me again?

Do we know each other? Are we strangers connected only by this blog? And now that you are here, what keeps you coming back?

How do you read me? Through an email subscription? With Google Reader? With Blogger? With your own browser bookmark?  Or did you stumble upon this page in a website stupor (if so, happy to have you here, please have a seat, settle in).

So, do you come here often, and can I buy you a drink?

 

Begin here

Preparation

Before you write
sit and notice your breath.

Allow a gentle carousel of words
to flow in their current around you,
then on your breath
into your space of longing
where hunger lies. Become

a body of invitation and hospitality
where words are welcome, where
breath moves freely, where sparks
ignite and your own fire burns.

— Linda Gelbrich


Go deeper:
Listen to this poem at Oregon Poetic Voices.

 

Kill your darlings


Orphans, confessions and artist statements

1.
Today, I press against a story still moving.

2.
I check my email. You are never there.
I do not know who you are.

3.
This dense fist of worries, a mad distance.
Your voice in my ear, miles away.

4.
This is not warning, sign or symptom. This is the artful unravel. 

5.
I write letters in my head. Entire conversations exist in my mind.
We are fine, thanks for asking.

6.
This is how much a letter means: At the post office I can’t wait to open my mail. In the car, I tear open the envelope and enjoy a surge of floating hope: I can do this, I think. This is life, driving home, making dinner, holding on.

7.
Lived so long in gray, I’ve forgotten the taste of heat.

8.
Know your part: In this poem and nearly every poem, I say we. I say all of us. This is false. There is no collective. There is only too much of me.

9.
The postman says:
You look dressed up today
.
I showered, I say.
Well
, he says, you clean up good.

10.
I have enough ends. Tell me a story of starts.

 - Drew Myron


Kill your darlings, they say (William Faulkner, Mark Twain, and later Stephen King and many others). It's good advice. Every writer has “darlings," lines and passages that shine bright but just don't fit the current work. While I am an incessant editor, sometimes I just can't hit delete. Instead, I nudge my darlings to the curb and hope they find a home in my next poem (or the next . . . ). These are my orphans. I keep them close until they find a forever family.

Do you have orphans? What do you do with your little darlings?


You are a winner!

Following an unscientific but honest drawing — I closed my eyes and picked a name from my Women Writers Box — I am happy to announce the winner of The Voluptuary by Paulann Petersen. 

And the winner is . . .

Jill Hardin

Thanks to all for playing, reading and writing.

Don't let the poetry love end with this drawing. Purchase The Voluptuary here.

Learn more about Paulann Petersen, Oregon's Poet Laureate, here and here.

 

Thankful Thursday: Hey kiddo!


Happiness is not what makes us grateful.

It is gratefulness that makes us happy.

— David Steindle-Rast

 

It's Thankful Thursday!

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise.

Please join me in a weekly pause to appreciate the people, places & things that bring joy.

This week, I am thankful for:

Kiddo, as a term of endearment

Phone calls with family

Invigorating exercise

Epsom salt baths

My coffee, conversation & play-with-words friend

Insurance companies that pay their bills (yes, this actually happens!)

The low light of autumn afternoon

The word simper 

Genuine smiles

Hush, as in reverence

 

It's Thankful Thursday! What are you thankful for today?


Fast Five with Paulann Petersen


We write to discover, to define

— moment to moment to moment —

who we are, who we are becoming.

This happens as we write.


Because a few direct questions can offer insight, I'm happy to present Fast Five — short interviews with my favorite writers. Life may be short but who doesn't have time for five questions — and a chance to win a great book?  (To win, simply post your name and contact info in the comments section. See details below).

Paulann Petersen, Oregon’s Poet Laureate, is a former high school teacher and author of five poetry collections and four chapbooks. She has led workshops and given readings in hundreds of places — from Powell's in Portland to Omsania University in India — and in nearly every nook and cranny of Oregon. A Portland native, she is a member of Friends of William Stafford and organizes the annual Stafford birthday readings. Petersen’s most recent book is The Voluptuary, published in 2010. 

You are an accomplished poet and teacher, and now Oregon's esteemed poet laureate. What do you know now that you didn't know when you first started writing poems?

I know now what I couldn't have possibly known when I began writing poems: how the process itself would buoy and sustain and inform my life.  We write to create ourselves, to discover, to define — moment to moment to moment — who we are, who we are becoming. This happens as we write. Not until I was immersed in the process could I begin to realize its potent effect.

You've been called a writer of embodied poetics, and have said, "I believe in body poems, poems that rise from the body."  Would you please elaborate?

A poem is a creature of sound. A poem comes to us, all poems come to us, through the oral tradition. Yes, a poem has a certain life as mere text on a page. But that life as text is only a fraction of the poem's complete life. A poem can't assume its complete life until it's been given voice.   

A poem has a sound form, it's comprised of a sequence and combination of sounds. A poem has musical devices. A poem has kinetic energy. A poem has risen from the physicality of its maker, and it speaks to the physicality of a listener.

For me, writing a good poem means writing an embodied poem.

You've written five full-length poetry books and taught hundreds of classes. What makes a poem work?

Sound form. Compression. Line integrity. Unpredictability — a little or a lot. A sense of incipient recklessness. A sense of conveying something that's coded in the blood. These make a poem work.

A good poem is a vehicle for transformation. It transforms the listener/reader as she or he hears or reads it.  A good poem, in the process of its making, transforms the poet.

Of all your poems, which is your favorite? Why?

Hmmmmm. I avoid hierarchies when I can. Vertical structures are dicey at best. (Best. There's one of those vertical structure words!) So picking a favorite poem: that's a dicey proposition. But there are two poems that I read frequently when I'm giving readings. And both of them sonically and conceptually feel right to me, even after repeated readings. They are among a group that feel like embodied poems, time after time.  "Appetite"  and "Bloodline." 

Bloodline

The moon is wet nurse
to roses. She suckles
each soft-mouthed poppy.

Blame her for menses.
Rail at her for the craving
to binge and purge.

Please her when you choose
to delay the day for planting,
biding your time
until night has fattened
her silver torso. Praise her
when the fleck of seed
poked down into damp dark
takes hold and swells.

Any girl-child is always
her offspring.

Upbraid her for your daughter's
sass and door-slams,
that hot hurry to be what most
differs from you.

Long ago, the moon decided
on a pathway against the route
stars take. No one else
would dare to walk
the black sky backward.

- Paulann Petersen


I'm a collector of words. What are your favorites?

I'm smitten with noun lists. I use them when I'm teaching writing workshops (workshops designed to generate new writing from participants). One of the noun lists I give to participants contains nouns I took from my own work. I often remark that I couldn't have a noun list that didn't contain blood, magpie, magnolia, ink, salt, skin and moon. 

Bonus Question: Is there something distinct about an Oregon poet? or Oregon poetry?

Oregon poetry, like Oregon itself,  is characterized by remarkable variety.

Oregon is mountains, ocean, high desert, rain forest. It's the hotsprings in Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge, the Church of Elvis in downtown Portland, pelicans on Klamath Lake, herons in oaks Bottom on the Willamette. Oregon is abundance; it's variety, vast and gorgeous. Our state teaches its poets inclusiveness and gratitude. Oregon encourages a wide embrace, and its poetry does indeed have a very wide embrace.

Another distinction: my bet is that there are, given our total population, as many good poets per capita in Oregon as anywhere on earth.


Meet Paulann

In Waldport, Oregon
Saturday, October 15, 2011 at 2pm
Waldport Community Center, 265 NW Hemlock St.
Free

In Medford, Oregon
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Oregon Book Fair
Free

See more events on Paulann's website.

Win this book!

To win The Voluptuary by Paulann Petersen, add your name and contact info in the comments section below. Feeling shy? Email me, add 'Book Drawing" in subject line:  dcm@drewmyron.com

Your name will be entered in a drawing, and the winner announced on Monday, October 17, 2011.

 

 

Thankful Thursday: All the small things

Today I live in the quiet, joyous
expectation of good.

— Ernest Holmes

Don't sweat the small stuff, and it's all small stuff, they say.
Do give thanks, for every small thing, they say.

So, is the small stuff a pebble in the shoe, or a flower in the sidewalk crack?

It's all attitude, in gratitude and in life. On this Thankful Thursday, I share my appreciation for the small things:

How to Make A Living As A Poet
The fact that this book even exists makes me happy. The inspired ideas (poet-in-hotel residence, blurb-for-pay) and author interviews are quirky and fun. And the author, Gary Glazner, founded the Alzheimer's Poetry Project, so he clearly has a good heart.

 

 

Killer horoscopes
I've had some poetic and powerful astrology lines this week:

Go to a park and gawk.

You could lead a beautiful revolution, if you wanted to.

The more you indulge, the worse you'll feel.

(After reading the above-mentioned book, it occurs to me that I would be an excellent horoscope writer. In fact, I've written a squall of horoscope poems. Want your own? Zip me a line.)

Trader Joe's Oatmeal Cookie Recipe
Found on the back of the oatmeal bag, this recipe is fantastic, and it fits all my baking criteria:
- Cheap
- Easy
- Produces a gluten-free treat without sandpaper texture or cardboard taste.

Gingham
I love a deal, and I love clothes, so it's only natural that I love a great second-hand store. This week my $10 fashion find is small red checks with three-quarter sleeves. This could easily go fashion disaster so I'll minimize the bumpkin with heavy doses of camel or black — and call it country-modern.

 

It's Thankful Thursday! Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Please join me in a weekly pause to appreciate the people, places & things that bring joy. What are you thankful for today?


Lift a line


Go ahead, lift that line. Take it. Use it as your own.

I know, I know. We've been taught "Do not steal."  But I'm breaking the rules and I'm giving you permission to do the same. I gather lines from magazines, horoscopes, and even phrases of poetry and prose. I cut them out, or write them down, and paste them in my journal. I use the words of others as my own springboard. Try it!

There are rules, of course. Well, just one: You must attribute. You gotta give credit to whom and where it's due.

Comb and cull: Thumbing through a magazine the other day, I was drawn to a photograph of a woman wearing a mid-thigh skirt, paired with over-the-knee socks — the very same outfit I wore on my first date with my now-husband! (I loved those socks and felt a bit racy wearing them). The image, and the memory, struck a chord so I clipped the words beneath the photo: I Am The Coat. There's gotta be a poem in there somewhere.

Let words work: I recently read "Resume of Failures," an essay by Kim Stafford that appeared in Oregon Humanities magazine. One particular line grabbed me, and I used it as a writing prompt. The line became my title. Here's the work in progress:

You may think failure is your story *

Let’s say you see us. Our conversation does not stumble or stalk.
There is a lilt in my voice, brightness in his eyes. You see wide
smiles, hear quick laughs. You’d say, happiness.

You wouldn’t know we spend hours pressed against water —
rivers, lakes, sometimes oceans, tears — studying
rain
to understand cement skies and uncertainty.

Every graveled edge is for sale or forgotten. There are no bargains.
All appearances are flimsy replicas, cheap wine in plastic cups.
I’ll pay extra to feel full-priced joy.

* A line from an essay by Kim Stafford, Oregon Humanities, Spring 2011.


Try this: 
Lift a line — from anywhere, anything. Can't find a line? Use a line or phrase from this post. I'd love to read what you create. Share your work here.

 

Build a new dictionary


lex·i·cog·ra·phy

noun
1.  the writing, editing, or compiling of a dictionary.

 

Word lovers, please join me in building a new lexicon. Ink and Famine is redefining the world — and it's great fun. 

"A new world demands a new lexicon," explain the anonymous lexicographers heading the redefinition revolution. "Each round we choose four words to interpret in as many new poetic iterations as we please."

Readers are encouraged to submit their definitions in poems of seven lines or less. Every week (or so), a selection of entries are posted, along with four new words.

The last round of words included carapace and caravan. I didn't know the definition of carapace  so I looked it up in my trusty, albeit traditional, dictionary, and then rewrote what it means to me in the form of a lune (3-5-3 words):

car·a·pace

[kar-uh-peys] 

mildewed shame carried

in my body's every dark

and secret cell.                  


And I reinvented caravan, as a haiku (5-7-5ish syllables):

car·a·van

   [kar-uh-van]

a reckless train rams

anger against intellect

into endlessness        

 

Isn't this fun? Now, it's your turn. Go to Ink and Famine — and redefine the world.


Cut, Consider, Create

Little Did She Know She Would Relapse

On the surface, there is nothing
but style and a suspension of
modesty. I stay sort of ugly.
My lashes are the only things still
looking good. I feel awful that
I feel so awful.

I climb slowly to the top of the hill.
Air thins. Sound expands.
There are more questions than tools
or instruction.

From this vantage, a ribbon of fog
hugs the horizon and it strikes me
I have it all wrong. I shift my thinking:

                     Is confusion also truth?


I like working with that impossibility.

 

- Drew Myron
A Cut-Up Poem with lines from Paris Review, No. 198
and More magazine, October 2011.

 

As I've mentioned before, I love Cut-Up Poems. When my writing feels stale and my thoughts routine, the cutting process invigorates. With a Cut-Up poem, you borrow words and phrases from other sources. With each extraction you create opportunities for words and ideas to jump and explore. With draft and draft, words are rearranged and rewritten so the final poem bears little resemble to your first clipped lines (eliminating the chance of plagiarism).

How to Make a Cut-Up Poem:  Take a work-in-progress poem or journal entry and copy lines onto a clean sheet. Cut apart the lines with scissors. Now mix the lines and arrange in a new order. Throw in additional lines from assorted books or magazines. Play around, shift lines, discard some and add others to make your own poem.

This process sometimes yields good poems. More often it breaks the routine and opens the door for the next good poem. Whether writing prompt or powerful new poem, it always feels good to exercise the writing muscle and produce new work. 

Try This:  Cut-Up my Cut-Up Poem! I'd love to read what you create. Please share your Cut-Up Poem here.


Thankful Thursday: Hi there, stars

Writing poems can help kids [and adults] shift the way they see themselves, especially if they're feeling sad, walled-off or different from others. In poems, being different is an asset; we don't have to think of ourselves negatively. Our idiosyncrasies are like prizes. It's freeing to express our one-of-a-kind-soul. 

— Susan Wooldridge
Poemcrazy, Chapter 26

On this Thankful Thursday, I am grateful for the fog lifting, the rust flaking, and the rediscovery of Poemcrazy: Freeing your life with words.

Do you know this book? I hope your copy is as tattered and loved as mine. Equal parts encouragement and exercise, this gem had gathered dust on my shelf until the other day when a friend and I met to talk and write.

We were both feeling laden with life. We joked that we knew a hundred words for grey. We joked that we were rusty with our writing. After a time, we laughed our way out of our dread and onto the page. We flipped through Poemcrazy and, like a tarot card, landed on Chapter 26: Hi there stars.

And with that we were lifted. We could write again.

Thank you poemcrazy. Thank you friend. Thank you rust. I love the way you flake away.

It's Thankful Thursday. Joy expands and contracts in direct relation to our sense of gratitude. What are you thankful for today? A person, a place, a thing? A story, a song, a poem? What makes your world expand?


Submission Season

Harvard Review


Ahh, September. Kids return to classrooms while writers return to computers. In the literary world, September starts the unofficial Submission Season. Writers send their work into the world, hoping to catch the attention of editors, publishers and agents.

As with all things, there is protocol. There are rules. Recognizing that "submission guidelines can be vague, especially for those new to the submission process," the Harvard Review offers a handy how-to guide.

 

Thankful Thursday: "I'm not a poet"

Photo by Shreyas Panambur I like poems by people who aren’t poets.

After a summer of writing workshops — both attending and leading — I am reminded that I like poetry best in small groups. I like the circle of new names. Each of us offering ourselves on the page, like a date, a gift. We are gathered in an effort to make things matter.

I'm not a writer, they'll say, before reading their work. Huddled together in hope, we lean in, eyes open to the words, to the room’s reverent hush.

I’m not a poet, they’ll say between umms and ahhhs and throat clearing. The voice shakes, a hand trembles.

When done, the reader will fix eyes on the page, and then searching, will look to us in a pause between nod and praise. A half-smile of gratitude appears, a bit of disbelief, a rush of relief.

I don’t usually remember the poem, can’t recall lines or even a passage. It's the cracked voice I know, the tremor, the space between the last word and the first applause.

Always a poem is a victory. The writer saying I am.

 

It's Thankful Thursday. Joy expands and contracts in direct relation to our sense of gratitude. What are you thankful for today? A person, a place, a thing? A story, a song, a poem? What makes your world expand?

 

Be the teacher you needed

Job Description
  - for the apprentices

Be nourishing as damp spring soil,
tenacious, faithful as seed buried there.
Be quick, clear as water in a freshet,
determined to go the distance to the sea.
Be solid, dependable as river rock,
smooth and malleable to stream flow.
Have a preference for order &
the ability to laugh during chaos.
Whisper to the bully,
"I don't want to crush your spirit,"
to the shy, self-conscious one,
"I love your socks."
In a world of straight rows
facing the chalkboard, intercom, flag,
Make a circle, listen, sit near the light.
Magician, custodian, queen and scholar,
Remember when you learned to speak Portuguese,
remember the play — no part for you —
Remember the loneliness of the beginner's path,
and be a beginner again —
and again — because you are, will be,
with each new circle, in very lighted space.
Be the ladder, be the lighthouse,
be the lightning bug.
Be the open heart, an idea unspooling.
Be the teacher you needed
that winter your grandfather died,
and the next year when you walked-on to Varsity.
Know yourself as essential,
your students, most important.
You will give and give and give.
No one will witness
your six hundred close judgment calls a day,
but your students will remember
notes in your handwriting
written in the margins of their young lives.

- Ann Staley

A poet based in Corvallis, Oregon, Ann Staley has been a teacher for over 40 years. She has taught grade-schoolers to grandmothers, and has worked in five Oregon school districts, two community colleges, two public universities, and two private colleges. Her first poetry collection, Primary Sources, was published in August 2011.