Post-MFA Writing: Doubt, and Exhilaration

During the MFA program, right around now is when people are starting to pull together their first "packet" to send off to their mentor. An agreed-upon amount of creative work (so many poems; a chapter; so many pages of prose; an essay or three); three responses to books read during the "packet period."

So, what about now?

A good friend of mine, and one of my inspirations, has continued the "packet" structure by herself since she graduated a couple years ago, and she's so inspiring both because of her commitment to art, literature, and poetry and because of her commitment to herself as the wonderful poet she is. At least a couple of my fellow graduates this year said they were planning the same.

Just as when I was a serious oboist in my teens, I realized upon passing with distinction the top "grade" that this was just a beginning, not the be-all end-all it had seemed before its achievement, so graduating the MFA seems much more the beginning of a writer's life than any sort of acme or culmination. Which is great, right? Because it means we get to continue, leaning, making mistakes, interacting with others...And yet, it's a whole new challenge. Most of us entered the MFA in the first place seeking the structure and validation it provided, the "official stamp." I could justify to myself that I was "working," on a very expensive degree, where without that I might have felt I was just playing around when I could be racking up hours of editing/translating time.

So what about now, student loan payments and all? One thing that differentiates post-MFA from MFA life is that we now have a carefully curated body of work--the thesis--which is an entity in its own right, separate from ourselves, birthed. This is true, even granted that by the nature of the MFA theses themselves are often works in progress--part one of a novel; a poetry collection that is still growing--or, in my case, an interweaving of poems and essays that begs the question whether it should go out into the world so conjoined or if in fact it contains the central nervous systems of two collections, one in each genre.
I feel that sense of obligation deeply. People have responded to my work, and more people should have the opportunity to do so, both for the people's sake and the work's sake.

Nonetheless, I feel like I've mostly been "playing around" so far, and mostly that's seemed appropriate--pressure off, and in the context of making revisions, open mind, openhearted listening all over again to what the piece wants to be. 

Then this afternoon a new poem started to come. And it was just like the first time ever. Sh**ty first draft coming out onto the page, focus, love, delight...and then doubt. What if I can't do line breaks? What if the material is either hopelessly trite or impossible obscure? Is this telling too much about me, under the surface? Etc. etc. etc. 
Worse yet, I'm one of the rare birds who actually enjoys writing critiques and has published book reviews, and has been encouraged by mentors to continue to write them (another habit I need to pick back up). I'm supposed to be a serious critic of other people's poetry. But I don't have a clue how to evaluate even this shi**ty first draft. What if everything I thought I knew is wrong or forgotten?

And my other self answers, CELEBRATE! Be in the unknowing! Being a critic [cognate with "discern," "discriminate," "crisis," (yes, and "crime")] means being very openly observant and being willing to draw distinctions based on that observation, which is far different than being an arbiter who determines how others should think/judge.

So, as a real live post-MFA writer, I'm a bit scared. But I'm also really excited. Will you join me for this dance?

In-Person Visit! Happy Solstice

As hinted at in my last post, this past week has begun a change that I would have expected to be dreadful, but has turned out to give hope that breaking down is also building up (and perhaps "Ecclesiastes" meant that all along). It's no surprise that the situation (about which I'm not yet comfortable being more specific), and its attendant message of a silver lining-and-coating, should arise around the Solstice of what's been a year of piercing upheaval, and often destruction, for most people I know. But the Solstice is also a natural bringer-together of people; an opportunity to rest in the beauty of what-is, and of the special people with whom to share both the beauty and the what-is-ness.

We love each other in my MFA program, the Rainier Writing Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University. At last count, there are three(!) Facebook groups for us, and any time I go into Facebook, the majority of posts in my feed are from RWW-ers. There are several with whom I have a special connection, and we email as frequently as our schedules allow, usually in great depth and length. I am lucky enough to have two RWW alumnae right here in Homer, whom I love and admire and somewhat heroine-worship. But otherwise, the fact remains that Facebook and email contact is not the same as face-to-face sharing of air. I know. I'm telling you something really surprising.

So what a treat it was that Meagan, who now lives in Olympia but was raised in Soldotna (just 72 miles north of Homer, a third of the way to Anchorage), came home for the Holidays!

 I broke my journey in Soldotna and stayed over (thanks again to her so gracious parents); her dad took a look at the Warthog's barely functioning radiator (having noted how cold my hand was on the initial handshake!); her mom ensured I slept cozy and peaceful; I got to meet her beautiful daughter...it felt special to laugh so hard with people whom I'd never met before, the family of someone I wish I could see more often.

Special, also, to hike the beach at Kenai, the lunar landscape with 3pm alpenglow of sun sinking in the south, being with Meagan as she exclaimed in excitement, awe, fascination--variations of "Wow, this is so cool! This is so beautiful! Unique!" The sea ice with its various textures, its flattened snowflakes like feathers a cell thick, its texturing with pools and ponds frozen just as solid as the rest but with a translucency like an observatory, really is a poem-puller.

There is something so elemental about it. The temperatures were hovering from 3-9 degrees above zero, depending on which thermometer you were looking at (this morning, Anchorage at 16 degrees feels balmy by comparison). And yet it still seemed perfectly natural to lie down on this ice rock, to be against the earth's extra skin.

But even with two coats and many other layers on, that was still a rapid chill!
With gratitude and best intentions for this Solstice...

Back Home from MFA Residency, Safety Tracks, Changes A-Coming

I'm home from Tacoma: arrived to find Anchorage gray, teeming with rain, just as it was when I left. 

By the evening, when I got to Homer, it was dry and sunny, and had apparently been that way most of the time I was gone. By the next morning, though, the rain had followed me down from Anchorage and it's been just pouring ever since.

The deluge feels apt for my arrival back into this home life, after two weeks of intense, stimulating, exciting interactions with a whole cast of new friends, people whom I hope I'll know for the rest of my life. People among whom I felt safe to deliver a poem from memory, standing on my head, as part of the revelry on the last night before we dispersed.

Could anyone living here make sense of that? 

And how amazing is it, coming from that context, that this is my home?

 Everything has grown up like crazy over the past two weeks. I'm particularly pleased to see such prolific raspberries, after the ravages of the snowshoe hares this past winter--

 --many canes have even set fruit.

The re-entry into "this" life from "that" is messy around the edges, of course. I return home with many more ties to people, many more books (and a renewed anxiety about where to keep them in this tiny space) and a whole program of study ready to unfold in collaboration with my new mentor. The 'mentor assignments' were one of the most talked-about elements of the program for my cohort: for many, there was a lot of excitement and speculation about who they would end up working with in such close concert for this year. I was a little different: I didn't have a strong feeling about any possible individual. Instead, I felt sure that anyone I ended up with would be fantastic and that there were no bad choices: a pretty great way to feel. So I was delighted when I was assigned Stephen Corey, best known as editor of the Georgia Review but a wonderful poet and essayist too, whom I'd experienced by then as a compelling teacher with a whip-keen, wry sense of humor.

I have work to do, and I have support and validation for doing that work. This is probably the most important thing that I bring home with me in terms of its impact on my home life. It feels sort of apt that I saw my therapist in Anchorage right off the plane and then my Naturopath in Homer as soon as I got back. With support, I can stay on the rails. It's alarming to me that conversely, when I wasn't seeing them so often earlier this summer, I started to go off those rails.

This writing commitment is getting big--and I want it to flourish like this horseradish I planted last year, turning into a perennial, luxuriant, pungent monster.

Two-gallon watering can is there for scale.

Fall is coming. The fireweed is just about bloomed out. Red berries everywhere. The nettles are purple with exhaustion and the watermelon berries are ripe.

I see some changes a-coming: for this blog, for this life. I'm still 'betwixt and between,' so I don't have full clarity on what those changes will be but it's not exaggerating to say that the very existence and character of this blog, among other things, are up in the air. More soon when I know it.
Much love.

Greetings from Tacoma!

Greetings from Tacoma, WA! Here is my home for the next ten days or so.

 It's hard to imagine that two people have to share a room this size during the school year. Between my food stash and my book stash, I'm definitely spread over both desks, and my clothes are spread out on the bed I'm not occupying.

Yesterday and today have been mostly 'meet and greet,' but we've been treated to two amazing readings already also. And workshops and classes start in earnest tomorrow, bright and early. I've been running the last two days, getting to know the surrounding area a little, and recognize that there may not even be time to do that so much. My cohort is filled with interesting people who are as excited about this as I am. The 'returning students' are friendly and welcoming.

This is all going to be happening so 'immediately' that I don't know how much I'll be able to write about it. We have a breather on Thursday, so I'll aim to update then.

I'm aiming to be well-prepared but relaxed with the food thing, but found the opening catered dinner very stressful tonight--the combination of hordes of  unfamiliar people and cheese-covered salads at every place setting tripped one of my switches for a moment there...

On a more positive note, I had bought some gluten free granola bars made with gf oats, a little apprehensively as I wasn't sure that even gf oats would work for me, and it seems to be fine!

Back home, I packed pretty light. I found that computer case at the thrift store and used it as a carry-on for my clothes--slightly awkward and not perfect, I may shop at the thrift store again for a better space arrangement!

 Of course, now I'm here, I'm not sure that I brought enough clothes. I've been handwashing with "bronners" already.

I should introduce "The Warthog!" This little sweetheart is the new addition to our family--'our new car!' We got her when Phil's nephew and his girlfriend came up so that they could have transportation, and our next set of guests, and maybe winter driving for us. She gets great gas mileage, and check out those udders behind the back wheel! (They're just drips of expandable foam but I'm calling them udders.)

Yes, she's a rusty tub, but we have some sandy ideas for clearing her up. It's funny how now that we have her, I'm noticing cars just like her all over Homer. Subaru is a ubiquity up in AK: they work very well there, but most people have the newer and bigger models. Proud, we are!

Thanks for reading!

Blogger Identity: It's All GOOD and Four Book Reviews

I know I promised to talk a load of rhubarb, and I will do so soon.

However, I want to take an interlude to reflect an important lesson I learned from my last post, and specifically, from a response to it by Mindy, and to share how that has helped me to tie up some questions with which I've been wrestling for some time regarding blogger identity. I also want to share some books I've been reading recently: four books, four different genres--novel, poetry, essays and raw food recipes.

First: the lesson. Mindy was baffled by my story about the triggering conversation with Phil, because I hadn't contextualized it as being a part of my eating disorder recovery/journey, and it seemed to her like I'd reacted to a compliment in a bizarre way.

To me, this was a wonderful lesson, both as a writer and touching the issue of blog identity. We should always be specific, give a context to the story and make explicit the purpose of telling the story. When we assume that our reader is smart and empathic, it behooves us to give her/him a framework within which to gather all the nuances and implications we're offering. As it was, I told the story from the side of my mouth, so to speak, because I'm still working out how to talk about that topic in a way that is interesting, potentially helpful to others and not triggering.

From here on, I intend to talk about sensitive things clearly and without fudging.

As for blogger identity, that discussion, together with this selection of books I want to review in a moment, cements my recent conclusion that it's all good! I can post several recipes per week and other food-related chat and still write a poetry blog. And vice versa. And body-image/recovery-related stuff, and nutritional research, and Alaskana, and gardening/homesteading: let's have it all on the table! Which means, I don't have to fudge anything and I don't have to think "Oh, I should be elliptical about this because my blog's not really supposed to be about that." This blog can be about anything that seems compelling and fascinating and worth sharing, and it may just so happen that words and food top the ratings most of the time.

OK? Good. Now to the books. The ground we're about to cover should amply illustrate this broader definition of 'blogger identity' I'm easing into.
First: a novel.

Two of the book clubs I'm a member of picked Abraham Verghese's Cutting for Stone for this month or next. Since it's a 600-pager, I know that the few of us who double-dip book clubs were glad that both clubs picked it!

I read it our first couple days in Oregon. I couldn't put it down (except when I really had to)! It's a fascinating epic grounded in Ethiopia but with tendrils in India, the Middle East and the USA (and, more distantly, Scotland), spanning a period of time from the 1940's to the 2000's. It has the slow pace and freight of a 'big novel,' with retellings of single events through the eyes of different characters. The characters are engaging, and the high population of unusual foibles in them somehow seems quite believable: I never felt that I had to suspend disbelief for the sake of the story.

The medical history and details were utterly fascinating to me, and since I'm lucky enough to be pretty familiar with quite a lot of Indian cultural stuff, seeing it framed in the exotic Ethiopian context was even richer. The turbulent history of Ethiopia through that time period provided a backdrop to the events of the book: together with specific medical problems of the area, this enriched, rather than hijacking, the plot.

There were a few infelicities of language dotted around here and there, but I know I'm super-picky about that kind of thing, and given the sheer mass of words, I forgave them (although I wish an editor had caught them!)

One last thing: Phil really enjoyed it too, and we have very different taste in books.

Moving on to Poetry...

Erin already posted a review of Nickole Brown's Sister a couple weeks back, warning that you wouldn't be able to put the book down. I concur: I read it at a sitting a couple days ago, and then started rereading immediately. Nickole was one of the faculty at the recent Writers' Conference here, and gave some wonderful advice, especially about style, revision and editing. I was lucky enough to get to talk with her some about my own work, and hope to continue a connection with her.

Aside from the meticulous visual presentation of each poem (an aspect of poem-revision that she really opened up to me: as I'm always saying, I'm not visual, and it's a revelation how manipulating the white space can do things for you)...aside from this, I was enthralled by the compelling onward drive of the narrative linking the poems together, yet mesmerized by the crystal, crucial lyricism that pervaded each one. I was also inspired by the courage the poems embodied. Peggy Shumaker gives the advice to "write what you think is taboo:" a squeamish injunction, and one Nickole fulfills in a tour du force of bluntness, provocation and mystery.

Essays next:

Our friend Lynn loaned me her copy of Lia Purpura's On Looking. Purpura is on the faculty at PLU and I'm planning to take a class with her at the Residency this August. She's a poet and translator as well as an essayist, so I'm particularly excited to connect with her.

These are meticulously detailed introspections and external observations, lyrical and fractured: gorgeous use of language and many unorthodox sentence structures. So many little things nagging at the corner of your eye: so many surprising disorientations she takes the time to evoke, beautifully, that I thought I was the only person who saw or thought about. It's one of those books that arouses a real feeling of kinship in me: that despite her different location, her different circumstances, many of which are made explicit during the essays, she is speaking for me. As me.

Finally, raw food recipes! I'm coming late to the game on this one...

...it was months ago, if not a year, that I recall many reviews of Ani's Raw Food Essentials on blogs I read, but when I found it on our library's "new books" shelf, I was glad to borrow it and take a look. It's been a while since I've had a big fat recipe book to leaf through.

I haven't tried any recipes yet--it's been barely a day, and I tend to read these books through like novels first. I love her attitude, energy and philosophy. I don't agree with everything that she says about different foods' merits and demerits, but that's probably no surprise. I do admire how the book is organized, with easy adaptations and morphs of one recipe into another, or 'accumulator' recipes, where several recipes are combined. Also, the emphasis on easy-to-source ingredients.

Here's my little complaint, though: why are raw food recipe books so often so poorly edited? It drives me nuts: per my 'blogger identity' conclusions above, readers--and writers--of raw food recipe books are just as smart, well-rounded, educated and deserving of well-edited books as anyone else! So why is this very well-written book by a very smart person made to look less professional because of shoddy editing? The most egregious example (so far): the top of p.31, the first page of a new chapter, contains a paragraph that begins in mid-sentence and has no relation to the facing page (a title/intro page) of any kind. There are other little typos too. In a recipe book, precision is reassuring.

If I had all the time to do all the good in the world that I wish I could do, and had not financial constraints, I would throw myself around a bit trying to put this right.

Do you have any major pet peeves that set you off like this? Any book recommendations, or 'must-try's from Ani's book?
Have a great Holiday Weekend!