Writing, Spinning, Flying

Do you still need wings when you're spinning in a circle? You better bet you do, because once you've (been) spun around enough times to have no idea which way is up, let alone north, you're going to tumble--the "petal" in "centripetal" means seeking. Seeking the center. You'll need your wings like petals to help you seek the center without making an impact crater in it. To finesse your landing so you don't land on that centipede.

In this place you can come across a tree doing "chair pose"--or is it a diplodocus climbing out from its burial?

Several times this week I've forgotten where I live. As in, what state do I live in. A state of in between, to paralyze--I mean paraphrase--a line in a poem about birds.

As an editor, in between just as much so as I am as translator. Lately I've been editing with the Chicago Manual of Style open, and Merriam Webster's also, and a clean tab in my browser to check names, facts, dates, and any other thing that might be mentioned in a piece. (Yes, MFA-ers, for you too!) Perhaps I always should have, all along, not just some of the time. I skip back and forth between these arbiters of rectitude, the idiosyncrasies of the writer, the idiosyncrasies of this reader, which call into question the very concept of rectitude, of a ground to land on when you stop spinning. An "idiosyncrasis" is literally a "personalized bringing-together-of-things-into-rapprochement". I said "literally," not "literarily." Terra incognita, new and strange. And presumably that's what we're interesting in producing when we aim to produce writing of the best quality--not a museum piece to be peered at through darkish glass but writing that lives and engages and sparks and changes and is changed by its readers. In amongst--since "between" properly refers to two things--in amongst other editors, torrents of submissions arriving daily, the intersubjectivity of what's good and what isn't, the reality checks from one another...Always between what I refuse to call a slush pile (following Stephen Corey's lead) and Stephen (the editor in chief) himself.

I find myself pulled ever more into the meta-level business of "talking about literature," which at its best is useful--a well-written review lets a lover of books know what's good to read by means of a good read--and at its worst is flakey gossip and name-dropping. Reviewing books and editing them are allied pursuits, no doubt. I find myself in the dilemma of how much to "give" when I'm writing a review. For example,if a writer raises a concept or image that could be explicated in terms of one of my most treasured, original nuggets I'm saving for some of my very best work,do I give up that nugget to talk about the writer's work? And when the work is done, when does sharing stories shade into inappropriate gossip? Writers talk about each other all the time. It can also be fun to talk about mistakes in writing. But I don't ever want either to mock or to be otherwise off color. I'm hoping a certain rock I ride will help me distinguish what is and isn't appropriate to talk about in this connection.  

Meanwhile, not only is it making me a better writer; I'm actually writing more, even as busy as I am. Spinning in a circle on first one wing then the other -- testing --poetry --prose -- which is the better vehicle for my thesis? Should I ditch both and become a helicopter instead, write my thesis in a salad spinner of words? I find I need both of them on both wings or else I end up spinning in a circle of petals and centipedes. The question is whether poetry or prose gets to drive. Can you believe it's still not clear? The arbiter is going to have to be the feel of the thesis, as if I know what that is. And "know" gets too much emphasis... What about you guys? Do you know what your theses are yet?

These topics--the Georgia Review and Athens, the editing, the book reviewing, the choices as writers and readers--to be continued.