The Literary Life: A Poet's Musings and Inspirations

354) i teach therefore i am

2012-01-27T12:20:00.000-08:00

the literary life 1/27/2012

I teach therefore I am. My existence is all about lesson plans, grading, and managing my classes. And I come across students of all stripes...from the most serious and academic to the "I can't help myself" humorists who view school as an opportunity to practice their stand up routines. I meet students who make me laugh, who make me want to burn all my poetry books, and who make comments that might be viewed as brilliant. I meet students who will write the next great American novel one day, that might invent the an alternative to peanut butter. Teaching is a mysterious and challenging vocation, but I have to say I love it. That said, this weekend has been a blur of activity...a squinting back into creativity. Poetry is number one. I can always count on the blank openness of the page to nudge me into awareness. I write therefore I am. I teach therefore I am. I consult psychics. I wear too much perfume. Some mornings I don't get out of bed until I've interviewed the ghosts.

353) i'm back yo

2011-12-29T00:34:00.000-08:00

the literary life 12/29/2011

The past few months I've been blogging at PEN as a participant in the MARK program for poetry. While that experience was rewarding, it's good to get back to my own turf, my own blog, you know. To have the time and mental space to pontificate on randomness. I can write with less pressure this way and less constraint. I can write about candy canes, purple moons, or the yellow sari that I imagine I'll wear when I visit Pakistan next. I can post an entirely blank blog. I can type in Hindi, Persian, or ALL CAPS. I don't have to meet a minimum word count or consider a particular topic. I'm a poet, writing a random poetry blog. I can own the randomness. And the feeling is delicious. So what's been new lately? I'm living a life filled with psychics and manicures. I wear deodorant. I forget to swat flies. I read my horoscope while sipping strong coffee and plan my week accordingly. This, for me, is the luxurious life. I've been dodging an existential crisis lately by listening to my conscience play the tabla. After midnight, I wish I could type faster. I don't think I'm going to have an existential crisis, but I have been walking around wearing a veil around my mind. My mind's been a conservative Muslim woman who prefers not to show her face. As a consequence I've purchased Hostess cupcakes. I have yet to eat one. The package sits on the counter in my tiny kitchen collecting dust. However, eat one I must. I feel no rage when I disengage. I like to feel passionate, you know. What else is there besides passion? Without dream-feeding the mind with pictures of inconsequential want? I want a perfect kiss. I want a dozen Rolaids. I want to blog about the cashier who gave me a perfunctory smile at Rite Aid.

352) words I'd like to kiss

2011-10-22T12:09:00.000-07:00

the literary life 10/22/2011

1) coiffable

2) permissive

3) quixotic

4) morose

5) expunge

6) avocado

7) spatula

8) liquidation

9) sitar

10) minty

11) Barcelona

12) lugubriousness

13) triumvirate

14) shadowed

15) turmeric

16) expatriate

17) snowflake

18) raita

19) agnostic

20) camus

21) geranium

22) bribery

351) the 3am poem

2011-09-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

the literary life 9/25/2011

Last night (or early this morning), I cranked out a poem. It was around 3am, and I was lying in bed having trouble sleeping. Usually I don't struggle to fall asleep. The minute my head hits the pillow, I am passing out. But last night, I felt a swirl of tightness in my chest. I may have also had some champagne in me and the glitter of a night I'd spent having fun out & about town. But the tightness felt deeper than post play weariness. I could taste the sunrise just hours away, and my mind would not stop. I thought about getting up to meditate for a few minutes, but then after tossing and turning for a while, it hit me that I was aching to write-not detach. I was aching to enter into something, to feel...to give in. My writing these days has been sporadic and irregular in its heartbeat, so it was like I'd forgotten what it feels like to have a basic instinct poem inside me. Anyhow, I got up, turned on my pink dresser lamp, and grabbed my notebook off the shelf. Getting back into bed, I reached tentatively for my pen, worried I'd feel too blocked to get more than a few lines out. But it was like some spectre had invaded my wrist. The pen moved fluidly across the page, and my thoughts settled into ink. The feeling was beautiful. I wrote a poem about my gray boots, which I haven't worn in months, but which I could see sitting there under the ironing table across from me. And it felt so darn wonderful, the poet taking root, colonizing my 3am. I would gladly give her my kidney. I can't imagine a life without this 3am madness, without kissing up to my muse. The thing is, lately my head's been a swirl of petals and pains. I green my way through the hours without taking time to think--to pay homage to the page. But last night this changed. As soon as I finished writing the poem, I felt a mosque opening up inside me. The sense of space was stunningly visceral. I tossed my notebook on the floor and sank back onto my pillow. I was asleep before a minute passed, and this morning I woke up & wrote another poem. Feeling easy is good: I am proud to be the red butterfly, crossing and uncrossing my T's, putting on lipstick before I metaphor. This afternoon, I plan to put out a little more.

350) a teaspoon of patience

2011-09-19T19:54:00.000-07:00

the literary life 9/19/2011

This past month has been fun & hectic, yet chill. I've been going out, hanging out, talking on the phone, eating lots of Indian food, and teaching. This is a good thing. However, I've been struggling to get to the page. I mean, I've done a couple of poetry readings, worked with a mentor, and scribbled occasionally in my journal, but the writing effort has been lackluster. My mentors tell me this is okay. I've spent years being an intellectual. It's okay to indulge my inner hedonist and let loose. So I get this and I'm enjoying myself. But crafting poetry is an essential part of who I am. It's not about publication or perfectionism--just me being me. I'm not sure why I've been a bit blocked, but it might have something to do with feeling comfortably numb lately. Don't get me wrong: I experience emotions, yet I can't help feeling a bit detached from things as well. This sense of detachment is something I've been chasing my whole life. I've yearned for some distance from my emotions...some space around them so I'm not clinging so tightly on to things...yet this clinging is what has galvanized me in the past to let loose on the page. So how does one write while embodying capaciousness? This is a question I've been thinking about lately. The cool thing is that I came home today with a poem humming through my mind. The ache was back. As I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I could feel myself experiencing the eagerness to rush upstairs and write. And that's exactly what I did. A poem flooded out from this comfortably numb space...but the poem felt electric...the way I'm used to feeling when I write. So I'm thinking, trust-trust. Trust with everything. And a teaspoon of patience...the moon is working its mystery. Detachment can be sexy too...it need not feel beige, but more helicopter green, with hints of orange even. Comfortably numb, comfortably new. Sometimes when I let go like this the sky opens its ceiling and the balloons come giggling down with streaks of epiphany...

349) "eating poetry"

2011-08-18T16:57:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/18/2011

So I've been on vacation the last couple of weeks, and it's been really awesome, you know. I've been socializing a lot and reading a bit and going to cool restaurants. I've also been immersed in poetry stuff--readings & workshops & the like.

In the words of Mark Strand, I feel like "eating poetry."

I've been blogging weekly at the PEN USA website. Here's a link to some of my recent posts on the writing life:

http://www.penusa.org/blog-category/mehnaz-turner

348) help me! i'm tired of getting unsolicited advice

2011-08-05T11:53:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/5/2011

So I've been going through some major changes in my life lately, and this means experiencing the emotional ups and downs that accompany such changes...feelings like uncertainty, excitement, trepidation, self-doubt, and confusion...there's this sense of vulnerability, too. And I've been more open about this with others as well, which is new for me. I'm generally the private sort. I try to keep the indecisiveness hidden. But lately, I'm expressing what's on my mind, this sense of internal conflictedness, with family members, friends, strangers, and acquaintances. I've been spilling it all. And it feels good to be authentic, you know. To let perfectionism slide.

Mostly, the experience of sharing more has been good. But there's also a negative side to it all, and that is this: many folks insist on giving me unsolicited advice. And while their intentions may be allegedly good, I mostly find it irritating.

Unsolicited advice can be welcome when someone saves you from jumping off a cliff or consuming a poisonous mushroom. However, in most cases it is annoying because it suggests that the person being given the advice is not capable of figuring things out on their own. The fact is, I value unsolicited advice less than I do advice I have sought out myself. And when unrequested advice is dished out, I find myself wondering if the speaker is pretentious or conceited. Many people assume that they're being helpful or honest by telling you how to run your life. I wonder at their audacity...I rarely find myself doing the same. I guess I find it sort of rude.

So this post is a way of venting about this cultural trend...and I'm wondering if certain types of people are more prone to getting unsolicited advice than others...maybe I am one of those people who seems to have the word, "Help me!" scribbled across the forehead. The fact is, I do appreciate the help of others when I need it or when I'm about to step on fire. I find it essential to my personal growth. But I'm ready to declare the truth of what I really feel when the advice is not solicited: please mind social boundaries and let me figure things out on my own...

Finally, this whole post on advice is making me wonder about the tradition of giving advice in a poem...this is also a delicate matter...to suggest without preaching...to encourage without being didactic...whether in person or on the page, i think it's about tone, tone tone...

347) 11 random pieces of unsolicited advice

2011-08-03T15:38:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/3/2011

1) People who frequently give unsolicited advice need to read more Bukowski.

2) Stalkers are made, not born.

3) The act of asserting one's boundaries is sacred and empowering.

4) Bacon tastes best during the month of Ramadan.

5) Changing your name frequently is a sign of maturity.

6) Redford was a Horse-whisperer...be whisperer to something.

7) Plant a garden in your mouth.

8) Be nobody to somebody.

9) Dance the kathak with your conscience.

10) Write a novel in the voice your worst quality.

11) Romanticize solitude. So here I'd like to say a bit more and add that I really enjoy spending time by myself. Solitude is healing, liberating, and rejuvenating. An artist needs solitude, needs time to chill out and hang out and stare at the sky. I covet moments of silence though sometimes I fear fully inhabiting them because solitude can also be daunting. But the truth is, it's only on the page and in solitude that I can determine what I want and embrace what I know...Writing gives the best advice...

346) 22 random observations in the spirit of independence day

2011-07-04T10:38:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/4/2011

1) Women's lib rhyme's with "This is my crib."

2) Ants are no longer oppressed

3) Students who complain about school should change their star sign to George W.

4) Unpatriotic poets smell better than patriotic fiction writers.

5) A woman who wears glasses is opium for the masses.

6) U.S. Presidents should wear more pink.

7) If you adopt a turtle, name it eagle.

8) What you write out of fear is a cheeseburger for others. What you write out of love is an impotent pig for others. What you write out of ambition is a basket of french fries.

9) Before applying for citizenship, watch Hot Tub Time Machine.

10) Laughter is the best immigrant.

11) The more you read poetry, the more poems you have read.

12) Don't pretend you like opera unless you eat hot dogs.

13) Pretend you like opera if you own a gun.

14) Wink at strangers, then sing them the U.S. national anthem in French.

15) ?

16) Ditto #15.

17) It's okay to speed a little on the freeway as long as you've spatially profiled any cops.

18) People who never drop F-bombs don't deserve peace.

19) Only the third slice of cheesecake has calories. The obesity problem is a media myth.

20) Definition of a deserter: A person who sips cola out of a British teacup.

21) Shop at Wallmart and other strip mall corporations while sipping a Frappuvodko.

22) Your wallet should contain at least twelve plastic cards.

345) i'm a freakin sloth

2011-06-12T18:28:00.000-07:00

the literary life 6/12/2011

The weekend has been joyously hectic, and it involved much socializing. It included a poetry reading, dancing, drinking, conversation, eating, and general merriment. Today I went with a few friends to the El Torito Sunday brunch buffet. The food was awesome and somehow we got pretty carried away with our laughter, so much so that the people at neighboring tables were staring at us. Later I wondered, how did I become this person, this person that people at other tables stare at with bewildered irritation...? I guess it just happens sometimes. But the fact is, I'm in the midst of transition...like a snake shedding its skin, I am also in the midst of shedding some old habits and identities. Today I'm feeling a bit sad and nostalgic about this, but not so much that I'm down. Just kinda feeling it, you know? Anyhow, the worst I can say about my mind at this moment is that I have not been my most elegant self lately. In fact, I've been silly, coyote-like, and sort of self-absorbed. I've been doing and saying things I don't normally do, and this is poetically terrifying. I didn't know I had the capacity to be so uncouth. Life is really a circus and we walk the tightrope. The thing is, most of the time most of us are not aware that we're straddling this edge constantly. And then something happens...a door opens or closes...a way of life dissolves and disappears--and suddenly we are thrown into hyper awareness. The only answer to such a predicament is poetry and chocolate. The fact is, I haven't been indulging enough in either lately. I like to eat poems and read chocolate on a daily basis. Instead, I've been flipping through magazines and slicing into steak fillets. I've been sending text messages and googling words like "manicure." I really need to learn some new vocabulary words, brush up on the history of Argentina. Creativity is my way of life--but lately I've been more of a sloth than a sophisticated artist. I didn't know such a sloth existed inside of me. I'm quite pleasingly alarmed by her presence. I'm channeling the snake, the trickster, the fool. These are not the options they recommended in school.

344) twelve random observations

2011-05-29T19:20:00.000-07:00

the literary life 5/29/2011

1) Life is best looked at sideways. If you want to be a philosopher, lie down.
2) Replace loss with passion. Enthusiasm eats nostalgia.
3) Women with long hair are better at slicing avocados.
4) You can hit puberty at any age. Even 81.
5) Books are like orphans. Bookshelves, orphanages.
6) There is the kind of sadness that lingers and the kind that opens a new door to love. Go for the latter.
7) Jazz & Blues & rap. Listen to music that rattles your conscience.
8) Reread Camus' The Stranger. Stare at the sun inside of you.
9) Naps are spiritual. Going to a church can be soporific.
10) Cook to engage the cosmos. Eat to rebel.
11) Poets who literally speak metaphorically are literally metaphorical.
12) Have a breath mint after each meal, after each blog post, each workout at the gym.

343) passionate detachment

2011-05-19T17:39:00.000-07:00

the literary life 5/19/2011

So I'm taking a poetry class through UCLA extension, and yesterday we talked about this idea of detachment in noir poetry. And as we were talking about this detachment stuff, I started to think about existentialism and Buddhism and my desire to live intensely, and I thought of how one of my main values is passion. I want a passionate life, full of love and intensity and color. Yet I also want a sense of detachment. So paradoxically speaking, I want passionate detachment...I want to embody the present moment intensely...but also elegantly...have the ability to let go of it. It sort of hit me in an intense way you know. I think it's possible to love the chaotic beauty of existence...to love it with wisdom...and maybe that's what passionate detachment is...it's the ability to kiss life on the mouth, even french kiss it, while remembering you'll have to stop eventually to take a breath. I want to enjoy both moments...the kiss and the breath...the uninhibited pleasure-filled experiencing of it and the understanding of it. In my life, I am on a quest for romance, beauty, and meaning. But really, I just want some gummy bears.

Here's a video of me reading poetry at Beyond Baroque...recently recorded and featured at Poetry LA: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dBzyX-CR_X0

342) an epiphany while at the cobalt: love is sexy

2011-05-18T00:43:00.000-07:00

the literary life 5/18/2011

While attending the open mic poetry reading at The Cobalt Cafe tonight, it occurred to me that love is sexy. I'm not sure why I had this epiphany there, but I did. I've been going to the open mic readings for a few weeks now, and it was kind of a quiet night (fewer people present than usual). And I felt sort of comfortable in the space. And I felt sort of happy to be there on my own with this little group of familiar strangers. And it was warming to be hearing poems. When I first started going to the open mic readings, I was self-conscious about my own work...and it was hard to listen to others generously. But now I've been feeling more chill there, so I'm listening better. And out of nowhere I suddenly felt this sense of love arise within me as the night passed. This idea that love is sexy. And what I mean by this is that love is sort of cooler than I thought (I've been sort of suspect of love lately). But I suddenly realized, love doesn't have to mean being moral, good, and sentimental. Love can be fault ridden and wicked. It can be witty, sassy, and playful. Love absorbs the dirty and the detrimental. Love is essential. I think it's cool to be open hearted, authentic, and straight up. I want to approach my relationships this way too. I'm a simple girl with a simple life. In poetry, I explore the complexity of existence. But sometimes when things don't go my way or crash, or I do bad things, or people around me disappoint me, I feel betrayed by love. But now I know love can be a bad ass bitch in high heels. Love smokes and doesn't mind getting dumped if that's what the universe intends. Love is fierce, not just coyly feminine. Sometimes people don't call us back and our dearest ones desert us. If we embody love, they cannot hurt us in the same way. Love is not just about doing the right thing and loving people who do the right thing. To love is to pray with sunglasses on. Love is wide because if we love our imperfections and love the difficulties presented by others to a degree...if we love their ugliness...we practice the most beautiful thing: sexiness.

341) i have decided not to procreate

2011-05-08T17:20:00.000-07:00

the literary life 5/8/2011

So I've been immersed in poetry lately...I've been attending open mic readings, giving readings, and attending workshops. I'm taking an awesome poetry writing class at UCLA with Suzanne Lummis, and yesterday I attended a fabulous afternoon workshop with Brendan Constantine...I got a poem written and last night I stayed up late and somewhere in the wee hours of the night opened my notebook and wrote again for a while. It was beautiful...the rush of writing and reading and mingling with poets is quite affirming...poetry is my home, my place of worship. It's my way of bearing witness to experience. This mother's day, I had a champagne brunch with my mom and the rest of the family...I bought my mother a bouquet of roses...since I have decided not to procreate, I had no child wishing me happy mother's day today...I'm certainly old enough to have a child by now...but at the risk of sounding nerdy, I'll say I view my poetry as a kind of progeny...it doesn't spring from my womb but it is the outcome of fornicating with my muse, so to speak...it is the consequence of some visceral impulse...so happy mother's day to me too! :) Wife of muse and parent of nonsensical rhymes. My poems bought me nothing for Mother's Day and didn't take me out to breakfast...but I think they've been conspiring all day in my notebook for a surprise party later tonight...maybe Plath, Bukowski, & Whitman (my favorite three) will show up as well for a nightcap.

340) "the sanest days are mad"

2011-04-28T17:05:00.000-07:00

the literary life 4/28/2011

So I've been wondering why it's sometimes hard to get exactly what you want--to have the universe conspire with you to make things go your way. I mean, isn't it reasonable to expect this? There are things I want to happen, and there are things that I expect to happen, and when they don't or can't happen, I'm perplexed, and I'm not sure how to respond. Take, for instance the fact that I want a cat and expected I'd have one by now, but I have developed allergies. I grew up with several cats. Then boom. Adulthood. And I'm sneezing around felines. This is ridiculous. I want a cat. I want two, in fact. And I also want mental clarity. It seems that my mind, being a poet's free associative mind, is always a bit hazy. I want the trees to turn purple as well, and they do not cooperate. And you know what, to add to the complexity of it all, people are unbelievable. I have complete faith in the utter mystery of average human beings. Each day, I weave in and out of conversations and interactions. Each day, I post facebook status updates and respond to emails. And each day is marked by the frenetic unpredictability of these simple communications. This is why I've decided that I'd like to be reborn as a coupon for ice cream. I think that way I just have to be worried about suffocating in someone's coat pocket and never being put to work. Frankly, I find the idea of being a coupon for ice cream to be kind of galvanizing...I mean, I'm sure I'm not the only sane person to have had this mad thought...Morrissey said it best: "The sanest days are mad..." I'd add: the maddest ideas can be sane...even sweet.

339) eleven random epiphanies

2011-04-09T12:04:00.000-07:00

the literary life 4/9/11

1) God should, like, have a facebook page, so I can message him when I need something.

2) I want to go to Paris this summer and visit Pere Lachaise and write a poem about the Eiffel Tower and wack someone on the head with a baguette.

3) I am a mammal.

4) Painting my toe nails is my way of taking control of a situation.

5) Gummi bears, hoop earrings, & a book of poems. What else is necessary?

6) Cats are superior to tourists.

7) From time to time, rebel against order.

8) Fiction writers are a different breed than poets. Fiction writers also smell different, more peachy than seductive.

9) I will never be German.

10) I will never get a ph.d. in astrophysics.

11) List making is contagious. Wash your hands after you read this.

338) the universe is sexy...

2011-04-08T15:17:00.000-07:00

the literary life 4/8/2011

I've been thinking this week that the universe is sexy...I mean look at the tulips, the stars, the hints of pink in the night sky, the melancholic sparkle of the sun. Everywhere I look lately, I see a kind of softness taking root. There's a sense that the tree branches have a touch of whimsy, a touch of play. Something is shifting inside of me. It's hard to take things as seriously anymore. Not that I don't care about the things that matter...I've just arrived at a question mark in my life, a question mark that likes to act like a comedian sometimes--a question mark that is impacting how I write poetry as well. My work is getting more experimental and more surreal---less concerned with answering a question and more concerned with mirroring the randomness of life. Is life so tragic it's comic, or is comedy the only possible response to tragedy? I'm sort of curious about the relationship between comedy and tragedy. I'm also feeling like it's hard for me to connect with people who take themselves and the world too seriously. And yet I was once a religious studies major taking myself too seriously, was considering a ph.d. in the study of God. And now I think God, actually, has more a sense of humor than I once thought...and he can be bawdy...at times ridiculous. What if you wake up one day to discover that you don't recognize yourself? What is the point of existence, of stumbling through each successive day...are we meant to understand something in particular? Every time I come back to these simple truths: we are here to witness...we are here to express our uniqueness...we are here to laugh. I have been fixated lately on the absurdity of human experience (and I don't mean absurd as in pointless, just absurd as in random). Yet there is the presence of magic that cannot be denied...yet I sense something bigger and wider than it all...yet there are moments of deep connections with beauty that are so overpowering I find my thoughts become ethereal. I was raised Muslim in a Christian country...I have studied Buddhism, Judaism, and Hinduism with a sense of fellowship. It's hard for me to belong to one tradition alone, and yet we, as humans, need to be grounded somewhere. For me this groundedness is present in literature, teaching, poetry, God, and the people I've gathered around me in this world. For me this groundedness occurs to opening up to the contradictions and embracing them. I find it in the willingness to love and take risks. I think it's most important to cultivate a sense of confidence and trust---to surrender to the world's randomness and mystery...to encourage surrender.

337) twenty-two random epiphanies

2011-04-01T18:16:00.000-07:00

the literary life 4/1/11

1) The tighter your jeans, the more spiritual you are likely to be...

2) Lavender-blueberry flavored dark chocolate can be a pivotal conversation piece at a bus stop.

3) Erika is a good name if you want to become a poet. But not if you're ethnically white.

4) If you feel like flirting, write a ghazal on your kneecap.

5) Psychics who listen to Bon Jovi are more accurate than psychics who quote Gandhi.

6) It's cliche to say it's a cliche to fall in love in Paris.

7) If you buy yourself roses once a year, you will look better in purple t-shirts.

8) The neck, if squeezed, is a soporific body part.

9) Women who wear yellow once or more a week have a higher tolerance for ambiguity.

10) A poet is a person who stirs words inside a tulip bud.

11) People who don't laugh at least once an hour make terrible cooks.

12) Buy lamps that reflect your personality. All other decorations are inconsequential.

13) Reading some prose fiction aloud to your plants will make you less sycophantic.

14) When people say "bless you", say, "That wasn't a sneeze."

15) Before talking to God, have a breath mint.

16) The whiter your teeth the darker your mind.

17) Answer your cellphone by quoting Shakespeare. If the caller laughs, propose. If there's an awkward pause, quote Howard Stern.

18) Judge people who judge you for drinking coffee. Tell them you plan to name your future son Espresso--your future daughter, Latte.

19) Listen more frequently to The Smiths, and plagiarize one of their key pieces of advice: "If you must write prose and poems, the words you use should be your own...don't plagiarize or take on loan..."

20) No blueberry or strawberry syrup on pancakes once you're over the age of seven unless you have a wart on your face.

21) Try to juggle words, yaar, from different languages in the same sentence or joomla, oui?

22) Don't prank call anyone on Thursdays. It's bad karma. Instead, live vicariously through youtube recordings of other people making prank calls.

336) the art of escaping myself

2011-03-19T21:07:00.000-07:00

the literary life 3/19/11

Wow! Three weeks since I've written. Well, the weekends have been a rush and frenzy of activity lately, and the weeks have been no different. But today, for a change, I woke up early and read Lolita. Then I made myself a cup of tea and surfed the web. Then I drove into Thousand Oaks for an appointment, after which I drove back feeling a bit depressed because my thoughts started to gather and scatter in the ways they tend to do when I actually let myself think about the chaos lurking underneath. To treat myself, I stopped for tacos before I got back home. Later, I debated whether or not I wanted to go to an evening event at school, an event which seemed like a big deal, but I did not feel personally pressured to attend. So I called my mother and chatted with her instead. I wrote a little and then crashed in bed. I napped for over an hour and woke up feeling rejuvenated. This was the blessing of the day, this assuaging nap. It was one of those "I won the lottery naps", the kinds that cats seem to boast about implicitly as they saunter past their frazzled human companions. When I was finally up, I stumbled down to the gym. A couple of hours ago, my husband and I went out for pizza & beer, followed by a trip to CVS. And as the evening winded down, I could feel this sense of sadness returning...this sense of nothingness lurking...an existential emptiness I try to dodge by diving earnestly into life...into doing and creating. But who is this woman who goes almost a month without posting, reflecting, and writing poems? This isn't me...and yet I have taken a liking to the art of escaping myself because it seems to be fun...but the irony is that I end up losing my sense of humor if I don't take the time to reflect. So the world has not seemed loving to me lately, and maybe it's because I have been aloof from it as well. And then there are bookstores closing down in my neighborhood. And Egypt, Japan, and Libya have been stirring up emotions in the headlines. And last week I attended a literary women's conference in Long Beach, which was supposed to be inspiring, but I was seated next to a woman who seemed to be the embodiment of the word "negative"; her incessant critical chatter made it difficult to listen. All in all, I'm drifting at the margins of a magic-centric mind...and I want to coax myself back to center. This week, I battled doubt, jealousy, ego, inhibition, criticism, obsession, and my own seriousness. I forgot to be the fool and cursed my neighbors for smoking too much. I lost my sense of humor. The last couple of weeks overall have been marked by too much frenetic energy. And the one thing I've been pining for (secretly) is still taking its time to manifest. The fact is, I prefer to merge fact with fiction--because there in the hyphen between the two resides my reservoir of playfulness. The imagination, in the long run, has more to offer than fact: the restaurants serve lighter portions, and the vegetarians are harassed.

335) my epiphany

2011-02-25T16:58:00.000-08:00

the literary life 2/25/11

So last weekend I had an epiphany: in a nutshell, it is that the world is magical. Sounds hokey, I know, but I felt it intensely, ya know? I felt it like a wave rising through the perfunctory clamor of my mind and soaking up everything negative. I believe in magic. I believe in the power of positive mind. Yet this week has challenged me with its surprises and hurdles. With its blush of busyness. There have been moments when I feel my faith being tested, when others disappoint me, when my wishes, small or large, don't come true. There have been moments of too much noise and negativity when I feel like the magic's waning. And then this simple thought occurs to me: girl, don't take it personally. People say and do things out of their own emotional landscape and experience of reality. Often, their speech and actions have little to do with me. And so I continue to dream. And hope and wonder. This week, a friend of mine did a medicine card reading for me. She arranged the four cards in what is known as the butterfly spread. The cards affirmed this sense of magic, but highlighted the necessity of letting go and patience. So this is what I think: I think we exist in a snow globe. When we shake things around, the flakes begin to twirl. When we enter the imagination, reality loses its hold. What happens outside the snow globe can't crush the flakes. The flakes are always there, twirling in magnificence. And yet we suffer. And yet we suffer again and again. And yet the road is long and dark and often uphill. But like an ant, I'll take it slow. Like a flake inside a snow globe, I won't let go. I believe in synchronicity, and I think the world is conspiring to lead us to specs of beauty, if we'll only put our faith in it.

334) the great cosmic cry

2011-02-16T18:26:00.000-08:00

the literary life 2/16/11

So here's what's happening: I woke up some time last month and found myself at the brink of an emotional awakening. I've been on this brink for a few weeks now--a cryptic feeling. I drive to school or teach a grammar lesson or engage in some random chitchat about "this strange weather we've been having lately"... and boom! It hits me. I can feel myself wanting to cry, dive into a novel, or write for three hours straight. Something new is taking shape inside me, something I didn't anticipate, and it's wild. And it's terrifying. Why, you ask? Well, I can't fully explain this yet. But I know it has something to do with teaching at a private progressive school for the first time in my life, sharing a space that's intimate and warm, yet conflicted. It has to do with living in the city, so packed in close together, intertwined with my neighbors, constantly surrounded. It has to do with stepping away from and back into poetry suddenly. I've been going to readings again. And I feel myself pushing through this labyrinth. It's kind of noir. It's kind of mystical. I'm reading this book about synchronicity, and I'm seeing these little signs here and there, and I'm getting this rush at times that feels like a distant cousin to love, only it's something grander, like BIG LOVE, like rainbows peeping out the gutter of my subconscious. I kind of feel like I need to cry, in this spiritual-cosmic sort of way. But I'm afraid that if I let myself be vulnerable, the tears wont stop. What the heck is that supposed to mean? I pose this question to the waitress taking orders on behalf of the universe: "I'll have a slice of pie with a side of truth and two scoops of insight." See. Something's stirring in my chest, something's fluttering. Sometimes I think it's a novel I'm meant to write, sometimes I think it's an epic poem. Then I wonder, maybe it's about breaking through the "roles" I inhabit in my life and becoming more human, somehow. Because strange things are happening: I ended up crying in one of my English classes last week while sharing something personal with my students...I ended up having an intimate conversation with my religion workshop today because one student raised her hand and brought attention to pockets of tension in the room...I ended up revealing things to friends and acquaintances that I never meant to share. I've been acting sillier in general. There's this voice in my head that keeps whispering, "speak your truth" and more than anything I want to flash it the finger. Tell it to go away. But then I'm out somewhere listening to a speech or dusting off a textbook, and I get this numinous feeling suddenly...a tingling much like love. And I want to cry or write or howl through the hugs of nothingness. I want to believe that maybe some kind of higher consciousness is taking root inside of me. A new way of relating to the world and its people. Some kind of purple vision that will help me make a necessary stand. And I need a mysterious stranger---a dark knight who sees what I cannot see---to hold my hand.

333) seek vulnerability when alienated

2011-02-10T17:05:00.000-08:00

the literary life 2/10/2011

So I've been experiencing a sense of alienation lately from the world around me...alienation that creeps up when there are awkward pauses in a conversation that should seem natural...when my family misunderstands something I mean...when my students misinterpret my intentions...when emails I've sent go unanswered, only to linger eternally in the cosmic void. I feel alienated when I creep into my shell and feel unable to climb out of it. I feel alienated when I feel this sense of being guilty somehow, of having done something wrong and not knowing exactly why. I want to put this into a poem. But when I'm in a funk like this, even writing a poem can be a challenging task. I want to watch TV or sleep for a week and start all over again. Somehow, I've been feeling more vulnerable too, and I wonder if the sense of alienation is tied to the feeling of vulnerability. This feeling of opening myself up to something authentic inside me. I want to be my most honest self, and I feel her tremble out of me. She's awkward, this honest self. In the words of Daisy from The Great Gatsby, she's something of a "beautiful soul." I've been hiding her for so long, and I'm terrified of letting her breathe. Yet somehow I feel right now that seeking vulnerability and authenticity is the right thing. I feel like I'm tired of wearing masks. Something is collapsing around me. And it's going to impact my writing.

332) seek intimacy

2011-02-05T14:10:00.000-08:00

the literary life 2/5/2011

So...with my big move closer to the city and to a new job and environment, I've realized that I have a new goal: I seek intimacy with others, with nature, and with day to day living. What do I mean by this? I mean that I'm tired of being closed off. I have this tendency to pull away and hide in my cave. I can even do this in my writing. I kind of like this about me, and it has served me well on some occasions. But I feel ready to connect more with others and share more of myself authentically. In a strange way, I think this is related to writing too. My relationship with writing has been stuck in the throat at times. I'm realizing that what I write next has to be more honest than what I've written before. Each poem...each piece more honest than the last. This is an intense realization...how much of the truth do I dare reveal? It's been daunting to get to this stage as a writer and human being. I'm beginning to see that authenticity is so important because it promotes intimacy...When we put ourselves on the line in our work and in our lives, we risk being shunned and criticized, but our connections with others are also deeper---more meaningful--and more fun! I think, in some ways, the new school community I've been a part of has taught me this because so many people seem so genuine and open--even at the risk of conflict. Why has it taken me over thirty years to realize this simple truth? The concept of intimacy plays a role in my teaching as well. The more honest I am with my students about my struggles with literature and life, the deeper our sense of community, I think. I want to feel more love and less fear. More vulnerability and less separation. I'm opening myself up to the potential for magic--in my writing and in my interactions.

331) three of my poems in mascara literary review & i'm doing a reading in february

2011-01-29T17:03:00.000-08:00

the literary life 1/30/11

Glorious Saturday! It's gone all cold and cloudy now, my favorite kind of weather. Anyhow, I'm excited to share that three of my poems have appeared in Mascara Literary review. Here's a link to the poems (you have to scroll down to read them): http://www.mascarareview.com/article/299/Mehnaz_Turner/

Also, I'm reading at an event at Stories on Friday, February 11th. Here's a link to the announcement: http://threeroomspress.com/2011/01/jane-ormerod-thomas-fucaloro-to-read-in-los-angeles/

Now, time to take a nap...

330) "i don't get poetry" and the benefits of ginger nail polish

2011-01-24T17:17:00.000-08:00

the literary life 1/24/11

I've had a lot of people tell me lately that they don't get poetry (from students to teachers to adults of different backgrounds). This is not a problem. Usually when they say this, their intent is not to be offensive. It's just a statement of their opinion. I get it. Poetry, like ballet, is not for everybody. Many view it as esoteric and deep and unnecessarily challenging. But I think some people who "don't get poetry" haven't made the effort to "enter" poetry. In other words, their criticisms are in many respects groundless. My thought is that you can't read a poem and expect it to act like a story. A poem, like a painting or a dance, is a sensory experience. It is a mood. It is an energy. You have to read it with your skin. You have to have some tolerance for intensity and for magic. On the flip side, poets can also make more of an effort to connect with their readers. But still I can't help thinking: art first, beauty first. Trust the sense of connection to follow. While some people "don't get poetry", I don't get poets who seem to entirely forget there's an audience out there to inspire--that part of the responsibility of the poet is to make poetry interesting to readers. There are too many boring poems out there (I've written my share of them). We can't forget that poetry is where innovations in expression are a priority...where beauty takes precedence ...where meaning is made in the collaboration between reader and writer... On a side note, I love the smell and taste of ginger. I think I want to make more curries thickened by chopped ginger. I want to eat ginger cookies and drink more ginger ale. I want to chew ginger gum. Maybe there should be ginger ice cream in my freezer? And ginger nail polish on my vanity? And more poems written about this marvelous tonic? Asian countries have long noted the antioxidant benefits of ginger, so thumbs up Asians. Asians also have a long standing tradition of poetry appreciation. In fact, I was reading Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche's book on Buddhist philosophy, and in one of the opening chapters he identifies poetry as an art that helps "train the mind." Training the mind is an essential practice for the well-balanced life. Poetry and ginger both seem important to our well being as humans... (oh, I just had a pleasing thought: ginger gummi bears!!!)

329) mistress

2011-01-16T11:22:00.001-08:00

the literary life 1/16/11

So yeah. It's a long weekend and I can feel the ups and downs of the previous week recede as I lounge on my glorious new bed and let my thoughts wander back into creativity. Something dreamlike is emerging in my mind, a fairytale buddhist mindscape, and it's a joy to enter this mind. It's hard to describe, but it's going to impact my writing. I've been so caught up in externals, it's nice to get back in touch with the internals. My first collection of poetry is done. It doesn't have a home, it doesn't have a publisher, and it doesn't have a "real" life yet. But it's done. I might change a few pieces around later on, but I can feel myself letting go of it. It is representative of a period in my life. Now I feel my mind turning toward the topic of love, romance, and relationship. To poems that deal with courtship, flirting, and arranged marriages. I want to write poems that are dabbed with meditation, magic, and blood. Poems that spring out of myth and sensuality. Bollywood and Hollywood. Cinderella and the Arabian Nights. I find myself caught somewhere in the myth between myths. I think the purpose of poetry collections is to explore the mind. To read a poetry collection is to enter another mind. I want to write a collection that lifts the mind into fairytale noir, into the universal concern with mystery, desire, and marriage...isn't each day just another opportunity to make a wish? Aren't we here to be mistress to something?

328) this weekend, ducks and persian food

2011-01-09T09:33:00.000-08:00

the literary life 1/9/11

This weekend, so far, has been fun. Friday kicked off with some clothes shopping and our holiday happy hour after work, which was a relaxing place to blow off some steam. On Saturday, my husband and I went for a walk around the lake, where we saw ducks and geese and coots and grebes. The sky was overcast and the temps low enough to feel cool but not uncomfortable. We saw a pair of ducks fornicate in the water near the end our walk, and the whole thing was an awkward spectacle. The deed seemed rather functional. Later we had pho on Ventura before we went home to chill away the afternoon. In the evening, we went to a friend's dinner party where we were treated to delicious turkey kabobs and Persian rice. And this morning I woke up with a poem at the tip of my mind, so I rushed out of bed and scribbled attentively in my journal. It felt like the poem had "arrived." I had not consciously summoned it. It knocked me awake, demanded entry on to the page. A poem about love. It took thirty minutes to finish the first draft. I might type it up later. I might make a paper airplane out of it. We'll just have to see. But it felt good to write like that. My goal lately has been to write at least one poem a week. And I want to send out submissions at least a couple of times a month. And I want to write with pens that give me a little attitude, that talk back. I don't like to use pens that don't have a will of their own. See what I mean? I think I'm going to go to the gym later today and pretend I'm one of those people. Those people who know how to work a treadmill and stride with purpose. People who use terms like "energy shake" and "crunches." I'm no good at pretending though. My facial expressions always reveal what I'm thinking. I could never be an actress. I do, however, want to write poems and cook meals and make it to the gym once in a while. I want more weekends like this where my competing needs are somehow all met artfully. Where there are moments of speech and moments of silence. Where words arrive on the glistening heels of the sun, and my muse seems to be in a good mood.

327) inspiration wears suspenders

2011-01-05T20:19:00.000-08:00

the literary life 1/5/11

Inspiration wears suspenders. Or maybe Rayban sunglasses. Inspiration, I think, is this personified being. It lives in the coat closet and flosses its teeth after weddings. Sometimes, when we watch The Simpsons on TV, it crouches near our feet and writes love letters. The spring semester has begun. I teach to make the weekends more interesting. Kindness, tolerance. I've been thinking a lot about these topics lately. I'm teaching a workshop on religious tolerance. And I was talking, today, about mindful tolerance. How tolerance is okay until we come up against intolerance. Then what do we do? Order Chinese food? Play hopscotch? It's a difficult thing. I want to write a poem about this. On the drive home after dinner tonight my husband suggested I write a poem about a poet in an emergency; the opening line, he said, could be, "Poetry emergency: I need a word that rhymes with cat." I don't think such an emergency has ever taken place. There are plenty of respectable words that rhyme with cat: hat, mat, and fat being the first few that comes to mind. The greater emergency is this urgency which rises up, the bilingual circus in my mind that has a challenged sense of humor. You love too much, it says, you pyaar too easily. The world is full of skunks, skunks you want to pretend smell of a dewy morning. Maybe you're eating too much ice cream. But I have faith in the Buddha's epiphany. My hand, when I hold it up with the fingers close together, reminds me of a tulip bulb. And last night I dreamt there was a snowstorm in my knee. When I woke up, the silence smelled of the tattered jeans I wore during my adolescence. Unlikely gurus never knock; they just come barging in. But we have to hold them up like our hands with the fingers close together, believe they'll preach diamond rings.

326) happiness in the new year: think about your reading and writing diet

2011-01-01T10:17:00.000-08:00

the literary life 1/1/11

Pink dogs and reindeers! A new year is upon us, and I resolve to be a more nurturing person to myself and others, a more nurturing person in my writing. I want to cook, create, and contemplate the color yellow. Last night we went out to to an Italian restaurant then attended a New Year's meditation class in Silverlake. The teaching was on cultivating happiness every day in the new year. Happiness every day in the new year? My first thought was watching Seinfeld reruns and eating chocolate covered almonds. The dharma teacher noted that this task may seem impossible, but we can at least work toward being a bit happier every day. His recipe for happiness: being virtuous. He said being virtuous leads to peace and a peaceful state of mind leads to happiness. Sounds so simple yet it can be a challenge to practice. Later, on the drive home down the 5, I thought about how I might apply this Buddhist teacher's advice to the literary life. I thought about reading, how novels and poems also inspire certain moods and states of mind. I know, for instance, that reading Jane Austen makes me feel content. In fact, reading many of the classics, the long sweeping stories of the past, makes me feel content. There's a slowing down that takes place, which settles me. I like to feel embedded in such a world, a world that is richly woven and almost nutritious. When I read too much junk, I get the McDonald's greasy chow hangover. Reading "high" literature can be akin to having a good meal. When we read, we enter the minds and energy circles of the author and characters. This likely impacts our mind more than we realize. So think about your reading diet. And think, as well, about what you write--the characters and emotional worlds you enter through your creations, and if they serve you and others in the way you intend. Awake yet? Holy Kauai! It's 2011...Here's to a laundry fresh new year!

325) lightening up: writing is no big deal

2010-12-31T01:25:00.001-08:00

the literary life 12/31/10

I had this epiphany today that writing is no big deal. In the conventional sense, that is, of chasing workshops to master it or obsessing over one's ambitions. This is how I've been feeling lately. More than writing, sometimes, I love reading. I love words. I love language. Writing is essentially my ritual way of paying respect to something I care about. It's not as all-consuming as I once thought it need be; it's not as revolutionary as I once imagined either, though it is certainly magical. It's play, it's prayer, it's witnessing. It can be at some moments a real high. But I've grown suspicious of taking it too seriously. I enjoy it, but it doesn't occupy me in the way it once did. I'm detaching from the workshop, the increasing professionalism, the need to collaborate over writing and make it into something complicated. It's simple. It's something I like to do. I hope what I write might be useful to someone else. In the meantime, I know that putting my thoughts down on paper is useful for me--when the intention is to hone my awareness or capture the essence of something. But there seems to be a writing mania out there--a web of people trying to get their voices heard. I am one of them on a basic level. I want to engage and participate in the writing world. But I feel that I'm detaching from the cacophony a bit. I feel I'm letting go, and it's beautiful. It's a relief. I write better when the frenetic world of "how can I cultivate more figurative language here" falls away a bit. Is it a loss of ambition? I don't think so. I think it's accepting the fact that I don't want to be a workaholic writer; yet, paradoxically, it is one of the important ways I experience the world. It's a lens I choose to look through to remind myself over and over again how beautiful everything is. My work is teaching literature, waking up, and contributing to my sphere of influence. With the facility of getting writing "published", it is becoming harder to distinguish the writer from the written. Everybody who wants to writes. There's an endless line of people waiting to be read. There are shelves and shelves of well meaning books and blogs (like mine) sprouting all sorts of writing advice. We want to be told we're on to something special in our work. Yet when it boils done to the jugular of it, being a writer is about you and pen, or you and keyboard. It's about the impulse and the intention behind the impulse. Ask yourself why you write. What, at your core, is the reason you seek out the page? If you are willing to sacrifice everything to be a writer, are you asking the right question? I believe the luminous writing life is one in which we create with ferocity, love, and detachment. I don't want a co-dependent relationship with writing as I once thought. I want a companionship. Gibran said of marriage, "...let there be spaces in your togetherness"; this statement might also illuminate a writer's relationship to her writing. For so many years I feared that if I let this space open up between myself and my art, my ability to create would diminish. But the space is opening up, and I feel more at home in writing than I've ever been.

324) visiting tucson

2010-12-30T13:57:00.003-08:00

the literary life 12/29/10

Back from four relaxing days in Tucson. My old university town. I read Plath poems and drank too many iced mochas. It didn't rain until our last day. Still it was desert cold and frigidly blue. After a trip to Biosphere 2, I wrote a poem about water. I thought about the lazy crawl of being a poet. Then I read a couple of philosophical essays by C.K. Williams on what it means to be a poet. He said that poetry, ultimately, is concerned with beauty, of directing the reader's attention to beauty, and in this way, it is quite like classical music. He also said that not every poem will speak to every person. Poems resonate at particular times for different people. I found this point to be very helpful. Anyhow, I woke up this morning in L.A. feeling happy to be back home. I walked down to the local market and got four bags worth of groceries. I cleaned the dishes and watched this Bollywood noir film called Manorama: Six Fit Under. I haven't finished it yet, but I like it so far. I love the idea of desi noir. I have attempted writing desi noir myself. I feel inspired to write more...Here's a link to the movie: http://movies.netflix.com/Movie/Manorama_Six_Feet_Under/70084408?trkid=2361637#height1537

323) the radical act of writing kindly

2010-12-23T16:38:00.000-08:00

the literary life 12/23/10

This morning I was thinking about the radical act of writing kindly. What do I mean by this? I mean revising our stories, poems, and essays with the goal of benefiting others in mind. I mean writing with heart and compassion. I think such a goal is simple yet radical. It's worthwhile to think about this when we revise and refine our pieces. Why am I blogging about this? Well, because yesterday while my husband I were driving back home after dinner at a neighborhood pub, he said to me: "I'm not the most literary person, but it seems to me that a piece of writing is good if it makes you feel something." This got me thinking about compassion. I liked what he said. I would add that for me beauty is also important in writing. I want what I read to be elegant, to be a work of art, even if this work of art takes me on a journey into the terrible. I just want to know the writer is sensitive to the rhythms of language. By the way, I got a new writing desk. My first real adult writing desk. It is almost identical to the Ashley desk depicted in the picture above, except instead of there being a pullout keyboard tray at the center, there is a drawer. But otherwise, it looks exactly the same. I'm sitting at this desk now, and it's foggy and the evening's settling in. We walked to a cafe down the street a little while ago, and I read this new novel I bought last weekend inspired by the life of Emily Dickinson (It's called, The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson). She's painted as quite the flirt. So far, I'm hooked to the gorgeous prose of this work. It is both compassionate and artful...

322) eat, pray, water

2010-12-20T09:21:00.000-08:00

the literary life 12/20/10

Yesterday I was simply exhausted. I hit the well. I lay in bed most of the day and read books, returned phone calls, and gazed out my window. I took a nap, then pined for a hot meal, then finally got one. I showered, rubbed Vicks on my chest, and said a prayer. Where was my energy? I'd find it back in the next tangerine I ate, the next stretch of my legs. But then at night we watched Eat Pray Love. I reclined on our recliner and chewed gummi bears listening to the film's predictable dialogue. It wasn't a bad movie, but it wasn't good either. I can, however, understand its popular appeal. I read the book many months ago, and I kind of liked the section on Italy. I kind of liked the way it is organized into three parts and short reflections, almost like blog posts. It's a story about being a seeker on a quest. And how many of us can't relate to that feeling of being in between somewhere, having regrets, and chasing after that ah-ha! moment. I can relate to that. I personally think enlightenment will come when I'm gifted the perfect pair of socks. Anyhow, Eat Pray Love is like the Bridget Jones Diary for slightly older women who still have a little junk in the trunk. The truth is, I fell into a deep sleep after watching the movie and woke up feeling refreshed. Like I've got some energy back, which (by the way) is a delicious feeling when you've been sleepwalking through life for three weeks. I also had this epiphany: the secret to happiness and the balanced life, I believe, lies in drinking lots of water. I think someone should write an inspirational book for writers all about drinking water and the creative process. It would have a chapter about flushing out the toxins to let in the best ideas, to create without bitterness. I also realized another truth this morning: it helps to have a room with a bench dining table, a room that feels open and white and old somehow. A room with framed drawings on the wall. A room from someone else's house that you can enter and inhabit. A room where you can eat, pray, and drink water. Who couldn't embody love in such a room?

321) tulips & why i bought a jean jacket

2010-12-18T18:53:00.000-08:00

the literary life 12/18/10

I want my mind to feel like the damp corner of a tulip. Vacation is here, which means plenty of chocolate. I am done with grades, with conferences, and with academentia. I want to read about Emily Dickinson over break and bake some halva. I want to wear my jean jacket when I go grocery shopping for bananas. I bought this jacket last month because it fit like a haiku. Now I have television shows to invent. These past few weeks I have been my not-myself self. I mean, there are no poems printed on the back of my knees. I shudder at the thought. My life, lately, has had too much plot. I yearn for fragments. I yearn to buzz like a bee around the spring tulip of cadence. Language is a doorstep. I don't understand people who are not marveled by words, by the symphony of consonants. I eat radishes in my spare time just to remember that verbs taste like the poetry of awkward conversations. I've had plenty of awkward conversations lately because I've been greenly exhausted. Tired is not a state of mind. It is the factual consequence of intentional labor. Now my intention is to rediscover Emily Dickinson. Today we went furniture shopping for a desk, a mattress, a bed frame, and a table. In the furniture gallery, I ambled like a ghost down the aisles. My husband said, "This is like the Disneyland for adults." I too thought the saleswoman helping us was part Donald duck. It was exhausting to spend some money. The saleswoman was animated and inclined. I could tell she was working hard for the commission. I didn't know how to tell her that too much excitement in people makes me want to paint my ears black. See, it's mid December and rainy and the world is loved best when dreamy. When the excitement is no brighter than a pink-gray morning, the humming tracks of a train station.

320) human nature is sexy--and bizarre

2010-12-11T07:41:00.000-08:00

the literary life 12/11/10

I've been thinking a lot about human nature this week. About the way stress can frazzle the best in us, ego instigate the worst in us, and doubt contaminate the pure in us. It's a strange and beautiful thing to be a human being--and yet at times a dastardly trying experience. I have, actually, had an exhausting week. I'm not sure why. I've been teaching for years, and yet this always happens: I have a week or two where a good night's rest is not enough (again and again). I feel like I want to crawl onto the sofa and watch cartoon reruns for three days. I want to be nurtured by television. But I have piles of grading to do. The thing is, I actually want to read these essays. In all honesty, I like grading. It appeals to the worker bee inside of me (and I love to see how my students think on the page). But my mind needs a break. Lately, I have felt more compassionate, nurturing, and quiet. When exhaustion overcomes me, I grow more introverted than I usually am. I've been thinking a lot about human nature this week. And black olives. I'm not a fan of them. I do, however, like the green ones on occasion. I want to write a poem about this. My black olive-phobia, my green-olive bias. I think this poem will change the world. Or it might just sit in a drawer and collect dust mote particles. Another confession: I'd like to wear more pastel shades. Did I mention that teaching is mysterious, just like writing is? I'm in my thirties, and I've been teaching for almost eight years, and I still think, what just happened? It's almost winter break, and I could wear flipflops outside. The sun is pouring down haikus. I need to get out of town for a few days, write a poem in mid-flight. I think human nature is sexy. Why? Because it's so predictable and obvious, and yet there's so much secrecy. The truth, as Buddha may have agreed, wears ugg boots.

319) salman rushdie: why we need literature

2010-12-04T07:27:00.000-08:00

the literary life 12/4/10

This week was good overall (though there were a few hectic moments), and one of the highlights was that I got to see Salman Rushdie read and speak downtown! I went with my dad on Tuesday night, and we got there early enough to eat samosas (and more) before the talk. Rushdie was an immensely inspiring speaker. I thought he would come across as arrogant and sarcastic, but he seemed more humble than I'd predicted. He's funny, articulate, clear-minded, and on the nose with his responses. He says things in such a way that make an impact. He also peppers his speech with well-selected quotes from other writers. I was engaged during his entire conversation with Reza Aslan, an Islamic Studies scholar, who asked questions related to writing and his new novel, Luka and Fire of Life (which I got signed after the reading). In the Q&A portion, Rushdie got the expected questions about freedom of speech and the whole Satanic Verses controversy, but one high school English teacher got up and asked him how he would suggest inspiring unmotivated students to engage with literature--with reading. As a high school teacher myself, I was curious about what Rushdie would say. His response was helpful. He spoke about the ubiquity of stories across cultures and communities. Every group has its stories (real or imagined). We tell stories to preserve history and memory. We imagine stories to explore the mystery of being or to inspire ourselves to be more like the "heroes" in our tales. Through our stories we weave utopias and dystopias, ponder questions, and explore different possibilities. He said that unlike other animals, human beings have stories. It is what defines and distinguishes us. To be human, in a sense, is to engage with story.

Anyhow, I came home feeling buzzed and woke up feeling buzzed the next day too. Rushdie's one of those rare gems who seems a cut above the rest. Seeing someone so confident and effortless and cogent in their speech is awe-inspiring. I found him charming. I think one of the reasons for this is because he has complete faith in his point of view (in literature) and has spent time developing this point of view. And he helped me connect to the romantic inside of me, the writer within--the undergraduate mindset. Back in college, I put literature on a pedestal. Over the years, my faith in literature has at times wavered (partly because some students seem to see less value in reading it and partly because technology has, in some cases, put reading at risk). But I remembered how wonderful a thing it is to idealize something, to believe in something. I remembered how idealizing the book in college motivated me to write and love the world. And I want to live again more consistently in that magical place.

318) dreamy simplicity

2010-11-28T13:58:00.000-08:00

the literary life 11/28/10

This image simply captures my mood today. And it reminds me of this Chopin quote: "Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward of art."

317) existence is magical

2010-11-27T15:05:00.000-08:00

the literary life 11/27/10

I've had the last week off, and I've spent a lot of time reflecting about writing and my creative goals. I've spent a lot of time wondering about where I'd like to go on the page. And I guess there are the practical goals like publishing more poems/a book, and then the less tangible goals like deepening my relationship to language. See, when I'm inside language, when I look at the world through the prism of words imagined, through the dream consciousness of metaphor, existence is magical. And I feel this opposing impulse within me--the impulse to become more vulnerable on the page and simultaneously more surreal. It's a curious impulse--to be real but to also be ghostlike: an apparition with a sense of humor, an apparition that sometimes takes Tylenol. But my mind works best when it's functioning in the doorway of this hybrid: does this make sense? Anyhow, I think the world is somewhat lavender-tinted in actuality. And I also believe that every baby would naturally end up uttering speech in Punjabi if left to its own devices, if left to fend for itself in say, the woods, or something. Let me vulnerable: I just got a rejection letter from a writing scholarship I'd applied to. They said there were a lot of worthy manuscripts that got overlooked but blah blah blah. This letter made me want to crawl inside a Russian novel and keep reading till I woke up Chinese. Let me be surreal: I think my hand is a snowflake and every time I write, the snowflake melts. I think when I opened that rejection letter, the snowflake melted but the melting wasn't a release nor a kind of alchemy taking place. It was a melt of defeat. I think I've been tiptoeing around my poetic life these past few weeks. Why? I'm not sure. The creative process is mysterious. But then I woke up today thinking in Punjabi, strangely. I always think in English. And the words were a reminder to wink at the page. I mean, seriously, when I take writing too seriously, it blocks my creative flow. So I filed that rejection letter in a coat pocket and googled "asparagus." And I thought, I'm going to play with words today. And I felt all Bollywood-Sappho-like and tipsy. And I felt alive and sort of magical.

316) why read poetry?

2010-11-21T17:17:00.000-08:00

the literary life 11/21/10

Why Read Poetry?

"We read fiction when we want to kill time. We read poetry when time is killing us."
~Kay Ryan

This is a striking quote. But I also think that we don't have to think of poetry in such serious terms. I turn to poetry for consolation and inspiration; however, I also turn to it for entertainment and escape (T.S. Eliot's book of cats comes to mind). On the flip side, I don't just read novels to kill time. I also read them to aid in my moral and psychological development as a human being. I don't like to box up genres this way...because people are complex and turn to books of all kinds for all kinds of reasons...

315) off for break & 12 words that I think are sexy

2010-11-20T13:32:00.000-08:00

the literary life 11/20/10

So great to wake up on a Saturday morning and think, I have a week off! I woke up and read some more of Madame Bovary (about 100 pages left to go). And I worked on a poem. I drank tea then some coffee and walked down to Whole Foods for a breakfast pastry. I took a nap then read some of my poems, thinking about where to go next with my manuscript in progress. The last couple of months I've been focused on teaching and the demands of a new job. I love this new environment, so the work, while challenging, has been engaging. In the meantime, writing's been that thing I turn to during frenetic lunch breaks or squeeze between laundry and grading on the weekends. Writing's been that thing lurking in the background. I feel it's more my shadow than my flesh lately, and I hope this week to get into it, to send out a few poems. The thing is, I think about writing every day. Something has been swimming through my mind lately--an awakening or transition. I can sense my creativity driving down the street, figuring out where to park. I can sense it slowing down and putting on its indicator light. Something sensual is forming. Speaking of sensual, here are 12 words that I think are sexy:

1) Silhouette

2) French

3) Sachet

4) Mince

5) Assuage

6) Ink

7) Train stop

8) Petticoat

9) Embrace

10) Signature

11) Cranberry

12) Blanket

314) David Ulin's The Lost Art of Reading

2010-11-14T13:10:00.000-08:00

the literary life 11/14/10

I went to the bookstore last night and picked up David L. Ulin's new book, The Lost Art of Reading: Why Books Matter in a Distracted Time. As an English teacher, bibliophile, and poet, the title immediately spoke to me. I've written on this topic myself, and as a teacher, I'm always looking for arguments concerning the benefits of reading--arguments I might raise in class when my students begin yawning or pouting about having to read another classic like Frankenstein or To Kill a Mockingbird because they deem its language or sentiment has little relevance to their current lives. Ulin contexualizes the act of reading within the digital age, and his book wraps up beautifully, evoking emotion, and reminding the reader that in an "age of distraction" reading a novel can be an act of "resistance" because it encourages us to slow down, connect, and develop empathy. I love the way Ulin writes because while the opening and closing of his book connect and formulate a clear and specific thesis, the long middle is a ride through the labyrinth of Ulin's mind, where memory, research, and analysis intersect, where the leaps between paragraphs are often surprsing and poetic. The setting of his work is the mind. I read Ulin's essays and books not only for the interesting topics he discusses but to enter his mind, to see what it feels like to be in a mind that is working out an argument through a sea of complexity. When I was in the PEN program, I had to read Ulin's The Myth of Solid Ground for one of our author evenings; I got the chance to meet him, which was cool. As for criticisms of the book, I have a couple: one, Ulin seems to come down hard on high school teachers, who are presented as making students hate reading by analyzing, for example, the symbolism of a piece of writing. I had a couple of inspirational teachers in high school, and while teachers should be mindful of their practices, I think Ulin over-generalizes his criticisms. Two, his book does not discuss the pleasures and benefits of reading poems and short stories. How can the lost art of reading not at least present a section mentioning these forms? Still, the book's an engaging read and argument. I could not put it down.

313) i don't want to feel like an ignoramus

2010-11-07T10:05:00.001-08:00

the literary life 11/7/10

Let me toot my own horn for just a second: I feel like an accomplished person. I have a B.A., and two M.A. degrees in the humanities. I have a teaching credential. I'm starting my fifth year of full-time teaching. I've won a few poetry writing awards. I've traveled to over twenty countries and studied multiple languages. I read about 30 books per year.

And yet, quite frankly, I often feel like an ignoramus.

The thing is, the more I read and learn and experience, the more I realize that there's so much to read and learn and experience. There's a lot I don't know and will never know. But what troubles me more is the glaring gaps in my basic knowledge. See what happened is that I often napped through high school. I didn't wake up fully until my junior year in college, and by that time I was past most of my formal general education. I was on to reading and studying what I wanted. I was on to specifics. So I know enough, for instance, about the poets I love. About South Asian diasporic writers. About Islamic history and feminism. I know things about Sufism and certain writers I have read and reread, like Jane Austen. I'm versed in Existentialism. But I want to know more about the basics, the stuff I slept through earlier on.

To use a metaphor, I feel that while I am well acquainted with a few cities, I'd like to have a better picture of the map in general. So here's what I've decided to do:

1) I'm going to read some basic history books. I'm starting with Kenneth Davis's Don't Know Much About History, which seems like an apt title. It's a general overview of American history, a book which is not shy about introducing a critical point of view.
2) I'm going to read the literary classics I haven't had a chance to read yet. I read Dostoevsky's The Idiot this summer. Now I'm reading Flaubert's Madame Bovary.
3) I'm going to look up more words I don't know. I have an above average vocabulary. But I'm typically lazy about looking up unfamiliar words unless it's for a poem I'm writing. I want to change this.
4) I'm going to keep a reading response journal where I reflect, on occasion, about what I'm reading. I need to write to retain what I read.
5) I'm going to exploit what I learn in poetry. In other words, while filling the gaps in my knowledge is the main reason I'm going back to the basics, I can also use what I learn in my poetry. Just this morning, for instance, I discovered that during the early days of American settlement, there were hardly any women in Jamestown, the first U.S. colony. Thus, in 1619 a ship of 90 maidens arrived so the men could "buy" wives, which they did for 120 pounds of tobacco. The tobacco was supposed to pay for the women's journey. This fact totally surprised and amused and engaged me. I want to build a poem around it.
6) Finally, by watching the news more, I want to link what I learn to what's happening now.

A few years ago I asked myself this basic question: which is more important, knowledge or wisdom. My answer was definitely wisdom. I have spent many years working on personal development, reading psychology books and religious texts and reflecting in my journal about the meaning of life. And while I still believe wisdom is more important, I'm coming to see that knowledge can be empowering, instructive, and useful for many practical reasons. I am a woman of ideas, but facts and details bear significance as well. I used to think I became a poet because I love ideas more than facts. But poetry, ironically, has inspired me to get back to the basics, to learn the details. To pay attention to the world in a way I hadn't anticipated. I yearn to know more. I guess it's true what they say about teachers: I am a dedicated life-long learner.

312) authenticity in life and poetry

2010-10-31T11:15:00.001-07:00

the literary life 10/31/10

During this weekend, a time of costumes and masks, I've been thinking a lot about authenticity--how powerful it can be to embrace, share, and express who we genuinely are. I think when we feel melancholic, it is often due to the fact that we are not making choices that reflect our core self. So I want to make the coming months about becoming aware of my choices in life and in writing. And I want to be authentic.

I think a good poem is authentic. It is true to its writer's vision of the world. Authenticity makes a poem powerful, makes a person charismatic. I want to cultivate the following qualities in my poems, authentically:

1) Humor
2) Heart
3) Sensuality
4) Edginess
5) Whimsy
6) Flirtatiousness
7) Discipline

What else? Well, I started reading Madame Bovary last night. I just finished reading Sting's memoir last week, and then I've been kind of flipping between books trying to decide what to read next. Of course, I wish I had the time to read everything: spiritual books, poems, novels, mysteries, short stories, history books, and philosophical stuff. But with teaching and cooking and living and all, I only have so much time. I like to have three books going at any one given time. For now: a poetry book, a novel, and a history book. I'm kind of into history lately. I sort of wish I knew more facts about the past. It's been a while since I've done this kind of reading seriously. And I've also wanted to go back and read some classics that I either never got through before or haven't read. So Madame Bovary it is. 30 pages in, and I'm liking it a lot. Here's one line that struck me in particular from the novel so far, a description of the shopkeeper bringing in the cake at the Bovary wedding at the beginning:

"Since he had just opened up shop in the district, he had done his best to make a good impression, and when it was time for dessert he personally carried in a wedding cake which brought forth a chorus of exclamations."

A chorus of exclamations. On a perfect day, wouldn't it be lovely if a piece of writing we wrote solicited a similar reaction? Don't we all, in some secret place, write for such a chorus?

311) chocolate

2010-10-23T19:33:00.001-07:00

the literary life 10/23/10

Rainbow in chocolate...I think there's a poem in that...

"God gave the angels wings, and he gave humans chocolate." - Anonymous

310) i need a new journal; poetry news

2010-10-23T19:19:00.000-07:00

the literary life 10/23/10

This morning I woke up and thought, I need a new journal. Mine's the fancy kind. It's leather with fine paper. The cover's got a picture of a black cat, "Tournee Due Chat Noir." It's cool and all. I'm only about thirty pages in. But I'm not feeling this journal. It's too thick, and it's no spiral, so it's hard to fold back the pages and write on it. I think it's interfering with my creative flow. I've been writing poems, but I haven't been writing enough. Or I haven't been writing from that place where alchemy happens. I've been grunting out poems of cynicism or unnecessary intensity. I want to write more from the heart, from a surreal place, a place of dream consciousness. I blame the lackluster writing, in part, on my too fancy journal. I've got this ordinary one I bought from a drug store. It's part of the hot chocolate series. I'm gonna try writing in it for a while...so we'll see.

What else? Well, I read at Beyond Baroque last weekend. I'd gotten an honorable mention for my poem, "Bitter Water." It was cool to read there, but I was unexpectedly the first reader, which made me blink a bit. Still, it was fun to get out. The crowd was big and responsive. I also got a letter from ABZ Press this week. I had submitted my collection of poems to their first book contest, and it turns out I was a finalist. Didn't win, but it was cool to be on their short list. Gave me a buzz. Made me think, hey, if I keep at it, some day...

Well, it's dinner time. Just went for a walk and a small shop at Whole Foods. Gonna bake some chicken and boil some couscous. Gonna wine and dine.

309) TGIF & more

2010-10-15T17:21:00.000-07:00

the literary life 10/15/10

So this week was busy. Busy to the max. I had commitments in the evening, and when I didn't, it felt like all I was doing was grading. The best moments have been having dinner with my husband or driving to work, a 30 minute trip during which I've been listening to everything from Sting to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Music, I find, is an inspirational companion. My classes are good but unruly the last couple of days. There are camping trips coming up, so it seems as though everyone is living for a break. A break. I'm ready for one myself. But I'm liking my new job. I'm excited to teach, but what "to teach" means is something I'm not quite sure is easy to define. As a teacher, one plays many roles. I've been doing this teaching things for several years now, and I'm still not quite sure what it is. I haven't written much. I plan to this weekend. Maybe I'll write a poem about sugarcanes. But I crave to read more or something. Read what, I'm not sure. Poems or stories. Or maybe I just want to listen to some music really. Or meditate. Or be my most authentic self. Yes, that last idea sounds good. I speak now, authentically: I want to take a nap.

308) some thoughts on humility

2010-10-09T08:41:00.000-07:00

the literary life 10/9/10

So I found this quote on humility this morning, a quote which really struck me. Here it is:

“The truly humble person cannot be humiliated.” ~ Donald Klein

Ahhh...the "truly humble person." Interesting idea. I've always thought that humility in our culture is under-appreciated. There's this idea that confidence is the key ingredient for success. Yet I go back and forth between these embodiments of self. Which is more important, confidence or humility? I think on an external level, people respect confidence more. Yet at the same time, humility doesn't have to mean just modesty or meekness. It can also mean strength: humility can be seen as a higher expression of confidence. I liked how humility was described in an article I came across recently entitled, "Humility: The Most Beautiful Word in the English Language" by Bruna Martinuzzi. Here's an excerpt:

"We often confuse humility with timidity. Humility is not clothing ourselves in an attitude of self-abasement or self-denigration. Humility is all about maintaining our pride about who we are, about our achievements, about our worth - but without arrogance - it is the antithesis of hubris, that excessive, arrogant pride which often leads to the derailment of some corporate heroes, as it does with the downfall of the tragic hero in Greek drama. It's about a quiet confidence without the need for a meretricious selling of our wares. It's about being content to let others discover the layers of our talents without having to boast about them. It's a lack of arrogance, not a lack of aggressiveness in the pursuit of achievement."

_________________________________________________________

I aim to embrace this kind of humility because it is empowering, and it leaves less room for "humiliation." The idea of letting others discover who we are without announcement is a form of surrender I find to be a relief. I feel this view of humility is something I would like to embrace in my life as a teacher and as a poet. Sometimes I get caught up in the noisy world and find myself shouting out, "Look at me! I can do this!" But I enjoy the moments best when I let myself enjoy the crowd itself, when I speak not to glorify the self, but glorify being.

307) shame; oh, & I won an honorable mention!

2010-10-08T17:27:00.000-07:00

the literary life 10/8/10

Got caught up in the whirlwind of life, teaching, and family stuff this week. Glad it's Friday, so I can slow down and take a breath. But I have a lot of grading to do and chores to catch up on, so I wont get to slow down for long. Still, I hope to find time to meditate and be in the moment. Anyway, the week went well, but I ended it on a shameful note. In other words, in the midst of a conversation I realized that I was being a bit of a hog, and someone called me on it, and then I felt ashamed. I know I'm being vague here. I guess I don't want to reveal the details about this. I just want to say that sometimes when we are overly ego-driven, it is obvious to others, and when others call us on it, it's natural to feel ashamed. I feel a bit embarrassed, but then I'm kind of glad the incident took place. It was sort of a gift. An awakening. Something's shifted inside me, and an openness has taken over. A curiosity. Sometimes--maybe too often--I am the clown, "desperate to please" (to quote a character from an Aimee Bender story). I'm not sure why this happens. But it's a reminder to detach and let go.

P.S. I just found out recently that I won an Honorable Mention for one of my poems in the Beyond Baroque poetry competition. I'm really excited for this bit of good news. It's for a poem called "Bitter Water", all about chocolate. Here's a link to the announcement: http://www.beyondbaroque.org/news.html

306) poets and rock stars

2010-10-02T08:58:00.000-07:00

the literary life 10/2/10

So I've been listening to a lot of music lately. I go through phases. Sometimes it's a little and other times it's a lot. I think the reason for my recent revived interest is the fact that I drive about an hour a day (to and from work). And I love listening to music in the car. At home I listen to mellower stuff like classical music, but in the car I'm willing to turn up the volume and rock out, so to speak. Let me name drop a little: I've been listening to Sting, Cake, The Doors, Nirvana, Morrissey, Tori Amos, The Strokes, The Stone Roses, and Pink Floyd. I've listened to Robert Plant, Davide Bowie, and Paul Simon. A wide assortment of stuff. And it's been inspiring to me as a poet. I've been thinking, poets and rock stars have something in common at the creative core. There's a kind of intensity, craziness, and freeness to both art forms. And I've been listening to song lyrics more closely--with my poet mind. Working full time, I'm busy grading, teaching, and lesson planning during the week. I don't always have time to read poetry on a daily basis. So music, in a way, provides an engaging substitute, which keeps me connected to some poetic vibe. This has made me rethink my early years--during high school and college when I read some poetry but not enough. Still, I was heavily into music during this time. And I was really into lyrics. So I was, in a way, "reading" some poetry through music all along.

I think I want to write some poems inspired by music, by rock, and by artists I love. I'm not sure exactly what I mean yet, but I want to meditate some more on this connection. I mean, poetry is not typically meant to be sung and recited to a musical background. It's meant to be encountered on the page. And the bank account of a successful poet doesn't typically measure up to bank account of a successful rock star. Poets and rock stars are, in the end, different animals. But poetry is also a performative art where voice and intonation are important. Like a song, it can be empowering to speak a poem aloud. And poets, like musicians, are passionate people--willing to be eccentric. So I've decided I want to bring some rock and roll vibe into my poetry life: I've decided I'm going to take voice lessons next year to become a better performer of poetry. I'm going to keep listening to music and buy some more CD's. I'm going to read some biographies/autobiographies of rock starts. Last month I read a biography about Tori Amos. This week I started reading Sting's Broken Music about his early life leading up to The Police. I'm only on page 30 or so and Sting's already quoted four or five poets. So I think: crank up the volume and sing along. Writing a poem has got something in common with writing a song.

305) synchronistic vibes between people

2010-09-25T04:42:00.000-07:00

the literary life 9/25/10

Are there synchronistic vibes between people? In other words, can we sense quite accurately when someone we enjoy talking to feels the same way about us? Conversely, when someone rubs us the wrong way, do they pick up on our irritation? I guess it depends. Sometimes I fall into friendships that I'm happy to let fizzle out, but it seems my acquaintance is eager to pursue a connection. Then there are times I'm the one eager to pursue, and it's a my friend giving me the cold shoulder. And yet, in some cases, friendships don't work out because of different lifestyles and schedules despite there being a reciprocal connection. Human interaction is a complex, mysterious thing. In part, it's because we're all coming from different places, values, and desires. It's hard to really define. But I'm talking about connections at the energy level. What a relief it is to befriend someone who's on the same wavelength--where the exchange seems equally balanced and equally enjoyed. I think this exact feeling can be hard to find and is thereby precious. The instant click happens for me when I can relax around a person, feel like myself, make jokes, and say whatever I want without feeling too inhibited or judged. Many times I can tell right away if this is going to happen with someone. But I'm stumped when I want to feel relaxed around someone, and it doesn't happen. When I think, this person's freakin awesome, but I don't know what to say to them. I wonder, why am I struggling to be myself here? This is when I think it's an energy thing. In some cases, giving it time opens the door to greater connection; in other cases, the friendship fizzles out before it has a chance to begin. But I'm fascinated by process, the roadblocks to connection because from a Buddhist point of view, shouldn't we feel at home anywhere, with anyone? But then there's karma too, and maybe when we don't intuitively connect with someone it's because there's some past life baggage or some other psychological block there that hasn't been worked through. Or maybe that's just the way things go. Still I'm yearning these days for more authentic interactions, with my family, friends, students, and peers. I'm not entirely sure what I mean by this, but one thought is that I want to be more natural in my daily interactions and not force connections where they aren't happening. In other words, relax with what comes up and listen both to myself and others with a kind of openness I sometimes don't. I think that some people are easier to connect with for all of us and others more challenging, but we can still be authentic wherever we go (maybe even accepting awkward connections as a kind of authentic connection). I may write a poem about this.

304) awesome quote on positive quitting

2010-09-14T20:25:00.000-07:00

the literary life 9/14/10

Time to change direction? "Employ the power of positive quitting. Most of us view quitting as something negative, but it’s not. ‘Winners never quit,’ we’re told, when, in reality, winners quit all the time: choosing to stop doing things that aren’t creating the results they desire. When you quit all the things that aren’t working for you, when you quit tolerating all the negative things that hold you back, you’ll create a positive ‘charge’ in your life as well as create the space in your life for more positive experiences." -- Jim Allen

303) huh?

2010-09-14T12:47:00.000-07:00

the literary life 9/14/10

So the week's started, and it's only Tuesday and already busy! Lots of lesson planning, teaching, and grading. The school I'm working at is awesome; however, when it comes to writing these days, I'm thinking, huh? I see the page and think, lesson plan? Or I don't know if I have time for the page. The first month after summer break is always a transition. I have less energy to really read poetry, and when I get into bed at night, I'm drowsy after sentence three. I'm thinking I am going to start to schedule some time to do some reading/writing in the afternoon, when I get home from work. I always think, let me get my teaching stuff done and my home chores done before I get to my literary life. But later I'm usually tired. So I think I'm going to switch things around the next few days and see how that goes. Other than that, I'm trying to be kind. I've decided I don't like being nice and I hate it when people describe me as nice. Nice = doormat. Just because someone's polite doesn't mean they can't assert themselves and don't have boundaries. So I'm gonna go with kind. Oh, and I want to write about obsessions. Not mine, per se, but what it means to have obsessions, which we all do really. I want to explore this topic in a poem or something. Anyway, signing off for now. Enjoy the sky today. Eat a mango. Juggle some figs.

302) i read at skylight tonight

2010-09-12T21:19:00.000-07:00

the literary life 9/12/10

So I read at Skylight Books tonight in L.A. to celebrate the release of Strange Cargo, an anthology of writing by former Pen Fellows. Here's a link to the release: http://www.penusa.org/node/144

Anyway, the reading was good. I hadn't done a reading in public since March/April, so it was important to get out. It went well. The audience laughed at my poems, and several people were kind enough to come up to me afterwards and say something encouraging. One woman, however, another former EV, marched up to me right after the event and told me I had read my first poem too fast for her liking (I read three poems in total). She was kind of smug about it too. I probably did read too fast, but I thought it was crass of her to mention it right then, right after the event when I was still enjoying the buzz of having read my work in public. Is it wrong for me to think that's rude? Did she think she was being helpful? I was struck by how writers can become editors at the wrong moment, probably due to some personal agenda. I'm open to feedback and improving my performance, but I think there's a time and place for critique as well as a time and place for support. So besides that, it was nice to get out, and I feel like getting back in the swing of doing more readings. It's a reminder of the community of the writing life--how big and wide and vulnerable it is.

301) know thyself

2010-09-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

the literary life 9/10/10

This past week was busy. I started teaching at a new private school, and I was preparing materials all week long. I've gotten busy again, so busy that I haven't written as much as I would like. It's hard, at times, to balance life and writing. But this is because my job at the moment is new. I'm still learning my way around. I did, however, meet with a poet friend for dinner on Wednesday night, and we ate cheeseburgers then did some writing (even though we were at a bar!), and then we were invited to another poet's house to read submissions for a local poetry contest. I read a lot of poems, and I learned a lot about the submission process. With many entries, I saw the effort on the page, but I didn't feel the fire. Reading for this contest I was reminded that poetry writing is very difficult. It's not just about being able to write well, but being able to write honestly. It means cultivating a voice, expressing conviction, and having an ability to speak from some place far below the surface. Some poems had the spark, but a lot of poems didn't, and this surprised me. I had expected I'd be reading a few misfires, but overall, I was expecting a lot of stunning work. The truth is, stunning is so hard to accomplish. What separates a decent or average poem from a luminous poem? There's an X-factor, something disciplined yet intoxicating in the writing. It's impossible to teach but I believe possible to learn. I think a good poem reflects talent and effort, but also how much reading the poet's done, how much he's interrogated his own place in the world. Socrates said, "Know thyself." When I read a poem that doesn't shine I can't help wondering, has this poet taken the time to figure out who she really is? Has she reflected on why we suffer? Through reading for this contest I learned that I must interrogate my view of the world constantly. I must read voraciously. I must revise ruthlessly.

300) my poem publshed at waw

2010-09-05T18:33:00.000-07:00

the literary life 9/5/10

I'm excited to share that my poem, "Whoever Loves Me," is September's poem of the month at Writers at Work!

Here's a link to the poem: http://www.writersatwork.com/sept10.html

Here's a link to WAW: http://www.writersatwork.com/

299) I believe in

2010-09-05T08:54:00.000-07:00

the literary life 9/5/10

i believe in...

1) beauty. ("sometimes awful things have their own kind of beauty"--A Single Man).

2) accidental kisses.

3) being socially awkward.

4) using the word "brilliant" instead of "awesome."

5) seeking authenticity.

6) driving nowhere.

7) kindness as the only option (this includes kindness to ourselves). sometimes kindness can seem cruel.

8) poetry that pricks.

9) poetry that softens.

10) overcoming hurdles with chocolate.

11) thinking less and doing more.

12) having fun.

13) ironing my clothes.

14) understanding that overly argumentative people seek contention because they need the stimulation. they have boring minds and fear being ordinary.

15) seeking intimacy with fear. everything boils down to this one emotion. everything that happens--all the conflict (big & small)--is rooted in this.

16) cultivating love.

17) reading a novel that's thick and deep and slow and meaningful to you over and over again. each time you read it, it will be a different book.

18) returning.

19) sleeping with your eyes open.

20) being the fool.

298) the art of listening

2010-09-04T01:35:00.001-07:00

the literary life 9/4/10

This week has been busy. I've started a new job in education, which has inspired me to re-assess a lot of my ideas about education--or rather--to reconnect with ideas I used to have about it when I was initially encountering pedagogical perspectives in grad school and considering more theoretically what it means to be an effective teacher. I'm moving from a traditional public school setting to a progressive independent school setting. The switch is warming--and it's demanding more of me intellectually, which is awesome. I can feel my mind stretching as a consequence. I've been doing a lot of listening this week--in meetings, in workshops, and in informal conversations. And I've been hesitant to speak up because I'm still figuring things out.

This whole week has made me think more about the art of listening. Listening is an art: it takes patience, openness, and flexibility. It's so important to growth and self-understanding. Talking can be difficult, but once we're comfortable in a place, it can become too easy. We have this idea of our fully formed self--our grounded and tested sense of our values--and sometimes it can become harder to listen. Maybe, if I was teaching again this year at the old high school, I would not be listening as well as I am right now (though I've had my moments of defensiveness--moments I think, I don't know if I want to hear this--but something has kept pulling me back to openness). The cool thing is that all this external listening has inspired me to retreat during this long weekend and listen for my internal voice: to listen for what I value, what I want to teach, who I'm willing to be in the classroom. This is what I love about listening: through opening ourselves to others we not only cultivate the ability to connect, but galvanize our determination to understand who we are. Listening is an act of social justice, a willingness to consider transformation--and it begins in community.

I think all writing is a form of listening. It's an act of stepping out and stepping in. When I sit down and write a poem, I'm attempting to listen to something within intensely. I'm practicing a dual art.

297) thoughts on ambition

2010-08-29T15:19:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/29/30

I've been thinking this week about ambition because this summer's been one long struggle with personal ambition. Dictionary.com defines ambition as "an earnest desire for some type of achievement or distinction, as power, honor, fame, or wealth, and the willingness to strive for its attainment." This sounds good in theory. Isn't life about finding one's passion and then pursing it with devotion--to strive to attain something one desires seems universally human. So why have I been thinking about this lately?

I've been thinking about this because I don't feel as ambitious as I once did. This has concerned me. Maybe it's part of the aging process or maybe it's a consequence of life experience or maybe I need to be eating more chocolate or something. All I can say is that I feel less ambitious, and it's a new feeling, so it feels like an adjustment. At first I thought I was feeling down, but now I'm sure it's just a mental shift of some sort. It's not that I don't want things and I don't appreciate the experience of success. I do. And I want to write and publish poems; I want to teach, to be speak my truth, to be liked, and to fit in. There's so much I want. But it doesn't feel like ambition. Maybe it once did.

Ambition, I think, has a competitive edge to it. Ambition is something more than desire--it might be a graver attachment to outcomes, to reputation. It seems more calculated. I've grown to see it as superficial. I mean, I want superficial things, like better shoes, but I guess what I'm saying is that it's possible to have desire without excessive attachment to desire. It is possible to embrace goals without feeling driven to succeed. If I feel driven, I feel the drive to be less driven. And it's a peculiar feeling.

I'm less performance focused and more mastery focused. I want to be a better writer so I can be intimate with beauty, for the pleasure of giving something my practiced attention. I also want to master reading more for the same reason. I think now of Shakespeare's play, Julius Caesar. Brutus claimed that he slew Caesar because Caesar was ambitious. Noble Brutus claimed to be more concerned with the greater good of Rome than his own prestige. Perhaps we all have a Caesar and Brutus inside of us--the part of us that seeks power and the part that wants to do the right thing. Both Caesar and Brutus were guilty of attaching too much and both met tragic ends. Both were coerced by something--be it an internal weakness or an external conspiracy. Both suffered.

If ambition worked, it's end result would bring joy and happiness. But often it brings more hurdles, more problems, more unease. I realize this is what I'm getting at: I used to think being ambitious would lead to happiness. Now I find that happiness is less about "success" in an ambition and more about being true to the moment. All summer long, my inner Brutus and Caesar have been at odds with each other. I think, should I go after glory or work to achieve global good? Both are, in the end, ambitious goals. Maybe what I've wanted is to give myself the space to embrace my own little happiness. How radical of me. How ridiculous. It's laughter I'm after. It's permission.

296) what is noir and why i love noir as a poet/writer

2010-08-28T12:22:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/27/10

What is noir? According to my research and meanderings on the web, the term originates in relation to film, to characterize movies like Pickup on South Street and Chinatown. In literature, I've always associated noir with the mystery genre, which I enjoy, but reading up about noir helped clarify that it isn't really a genre but a "tone or mood or attitude." This means that noir cuts across genre, from science fiction to literary fiction to mystery. Poems can also carry the noir mood. As a poet and short fiction writer, I often embrace the noir mood. I view it as a world in black and white, a world in shades of gray, a world of snappy dialogue and existential moments where obsessive/conflicted characters negotiate the struggles in the great abyss. I view a story in the noir aesthetic as story that either centers around crime or is embedded in an urban anonymous setting where crime and conflict spark the background. It's dark, but there's room for humor. Why do I love noir as a mood and attitude in poetry, fiction, and film? I used to think it was because it epitomizes the cool--and maybe that's part of it--but I think it has to do with the philosophical uncertainty that informs such a world. I find noir writing to be elegant, engaging, and voluptuous. It doesn't usually present a crass world (I don't appreciate overly violent literature, for instance). But noir somehow unravels the aesthetic power of the profane. It can present a beautifully empty world or a morally questionable world--a world where meaning is created in the moment, where characters are haunted by something intangible. And maybe I also appreciate noir because I live in Los Angeles, the home of noir. Somehow, noir is appropriate to the cluttered sprawl of Los Angeles, the slow traffic and coastal fog. Somehow, I am at home in it.

295) an awesome poetry quote

2010-08-25T16:11:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/25/10

I went to the UCLA Writers' Faire this past weekend, and I attended two inspiring panels on poetry writing. Suzanne Lummis, who teaches poetry workshops through UCLA Extension, read aloud a quote from Slake Magazine on the importance of reading poetry. It's just a breathtaking piece. I definitely recommend reading it. Here's a link to the quote: http://slake.la/features/promise-of-meaning

What else? I've started some training workshops in preparation for my new full time teaching gig at an independent high school in Santa Monica. It's going well, and I'm meeting wonderful people. Lots to do writing-wise and work-wise in the coming weeks!

294) a solitary day in Ventura

2010-08-20T14:41:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/20/10

This is technically my last week of vacation. I get busy next week with trainings and workshops in preparation for the new school year, so yesterday I decided to treat myself to a vacation day: I drove up the coast to Ventura and spent some time on the beach, walking on the boardwalk and inhaling the salty air. I read a bit and wrote a bit. On the drive up, I listened to a CD of Buddhist songs/meditations, so my mind was clear by the time I arrived. Then I had some Thai food for lunch, and walked up and down main street to do some shopping. Later I drove to the newer part of town and visited the Barnes and Noble and did some more shopping. The drive back took almost an hour, but it was well worth it. I realized that we all deserve solitary vacation days from time to time. Often I end up using this found time, when my husband's working and I'm at home, to write. But it felt awesome to pry myself away from my writing desk and be somewhere beautiful, where the weather was cool. It felt awesome to be outside, to be people-watching and loosening my grip on things. Something is shifting with my take on writing. It's central, but it's not everything--it's not the only thing that makes me happy. I mean, writing poetry is a routine that defines me, but being a poet also involves living poetry and seeking out the world's inspiration. I enjoy writing best when it is part of a balanced life.

293) put down humor: why i dislike it

2010-08-19T02:08:00.001-07:00

the literary life 8/18/10

So I'm getting back into my routine of reading Buddhist texts and meditating, and I've been thinking about right speech lately, one of the key Buddhists teachings. In my opinion, put down humor is not right speech. It is very much wrong speech. I witness this all the time, but I've grown to dislike it immensely, especially when I see people I love being ridiculed (which I recently did at a get together). It can be extremely harmful to the person everyone is laughing at, and it promotes a lack of social etiquette. I think put down humor, one of the main tools of sitcoms and popular comedians, is just plain wrong; and it is immature; for the aggressor, it's a form of inflating one's ego and asserting power over others, often to make-up for low self-esteem. Comedians can at times wield too much power, and when this power is reinforced through insulting-comic remarks, I find it toxic. I firmly believe, as one author notes, that "rudeness is the weak man's imitation of strength." And I also find the need to point this out to people more and more these days (for instance, as a teacher in the world of education). People might think I'm being "over-sensitive" or "overly serious", but I don't find this kind of sense of humor funny anymore, and when I do, I know it's the immature part of me that is laughing, not my highest self. Over the years, to be one of the "group", I have participated in this kind of humor, though it has been injurious to myself or others. But lately, with greater awareness, I find such behavior ethically questionable, and I feel the need to speak my truth rightfully and say at times, "Hey, you're being rude" or "Please be respectful." The thing is, we live in a culture that seems to promote the idea that taking offense to "humorous put downs" is somehow weak. The best so-called response to put down humor is to say something equally rude back or to act like one is unaffected. Well, to heck with that! I feel it's partly a political and humanistic mission on my part to promote positive speech in our society. This is one reason I'm a poet: because I believe in the power and importance of beautiful speech, of raising language to its highest level and hopefully, in the process, of reminding others of their own potential for eloquence--the significance of saying things precisely and honorably. This is not to say that poems can't be invectives. But I like funny poetry where the humor is wry, laughing at life, not mocking, laughing at the expense of someone. An article in Psychology Today makes a distinction between negative and positive types of humor: http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/200606/whats-your-humor-style

So if you haven't already, think about the place of humorous put-downs in speech and writing: what can you do to promote right speech in life and on the page? I love to laugh, and I am proud of my sense of humor. And in my life, though I regret it now, I've cracked my share of jokes at the expense of others. But I'm going to make an effort to do this less--if at all (though I am human and bound to slip at times). Still, I am proud to say, that on average I use humor to laugh at the absurdities of life--to entertain at the expense of no one--not myself, not others.

292) spiritual power and why poetry matters

2010-08-17T08:45:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/17/10

I woke up this morning with a sinus headache. I woke up with a sliver of frustration at a few personal issues that have been bothering me lately. Anyhow, I wrote a journal entry after I got up and made my tea, and this really seemed to loosen up my thinking. I thought about how this summer has been fun but frenetic, and how I've lost my center a bit at times and what gets me back there is spiritual power, spiritual strength. And what gets me to spiritual power is reading and writing poetry. And this awakening, so needed yet unprofound, had a profound impact on me. See, I majored in religion. I am happiest when I remember the world as mysterious and numinous. Poetry, it's shape and intention, mirrors this mystery. I believe the thing that makes us most happy is being authentic and expressing our authenticity. For me, this is poetry. When I lose touch with this center, I suffer. Poetry is my practice, my religion, and my way of being. I feel as though the past few weeks I'd gone out for a walk and gotten lost. I'm finally back home.

Also, I listened to an inspiring lecture on why poetry matters by Mark Doty. Really worth hearing. Here's the link: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21722?utm_source=poetsupdate_081710&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_campaign=content&utm_content=doty_lecture_whypoetrymatters

292) some good writing advice

2010-08-15T22:36:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/15/10

"relax and write"
-----Pema Chodron

291) twelve random, totally subjective observations on the writing life by a thirty-something poet

2010-08-14T13:34:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/14/10

1) It is okay to take revenge in a poem so long as no one you know is implicated and the end result is beauty.

2) One should treat chocolate cravings religiously, like callings from the muse.

3) If possible, postpone your desire to pursue a post-graduate degree in writing until you reach thirty, even better, forty. Best: fifty. If you must be in school, get an M.A. in nutrition or history or botany. It will expose you to language you can use in your writing, and you can still write in secret while you're doing your M.A., feeling charged by the idea of it as an affair. If you're thirty and still want to write, then you'll have lived a bit and loosened up a bit. If you are forty and still want to write, you will have suffered more and wizened-up. If you're fifty, you'll be in your prime for an MFA. If you absolutely must pursue an MFA in your twenties, read some non-fiction recklessly--like a biography on John James Audubon, a book on the history of pomegranates, or a dissertation on the future of skunks. Eat at Denny's once in a while. Write a poem on a grocery store receipt. Socialize lovingly with friends who work in a cubicle. Wear flip-flops. When you near fifty, consider getting a second MFA in a different genre.

4) Consult your horoscope while making important writing decisions. It will help you lighten up.

5) Never go too many months or years without writing. Keep at it routinely. It can be crap. It can be just journal entries. But keep the habit of writing alive.

6) Commit to publishing less and reading more.

7) Become the most curious person you know.

8) Know that passion is the most important thing, but be passionate with some sensitivity and some restraint. Passion is more essential than prosaic things like having "a writing routine." I know, to be a writer you've gotta write. But passion, when cultivated and nurtured like a tulip, when combined with maturity and insight, will get you to the page.

9) Take advantage of found time to write, like when you spring awake at 3am or are waiting at the doctor's office. Become a found time writer.

10) Read recklessly. Write selflessly.

11) With your writing, focus on bringing attention to the word, not on you.

12) Don't let your heart harden. Interrogate the cool. The world can feel like a rocky and untrustworthy place sometimes where the majority seem self-absorbed and selfish and agenda-driven. In such a world, we are pressured to protect ourselves from continual "threats" to our well being and self esteem. Even writers turn into critics. Do the inner work to stay open, generous, and compassionate to the world around you. Being kind doesn't mean you can't be brave, you can't be strong. It has become trendy to apotheosize the clever, to be different, and to emphasize one's individuality by wearing orange-trimmed shoes. But what if we, as a culture, are wrong? What if defining ourselves as specifically as possible wont buy us happiness? What if being too clever keeps our writing superficial? What if joy and progress are located in embracing the opposite: in being the fool and accepting the self as a work in progress, defined day by day, through simple choices?

290) kate braverman: "writing as a criminal act"

2010-08-14T03:27:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/14/10

So I spent some time recently googling and reading up on Kate Braverman because I've heard a lot about her; she's both a fiction writer and poet. I read her poems online and watched video clips of her reading her work and discussing the writing life. She adores Plath. She believes in alchemy, writing as an act of discovery that transforms a work into real authentic being. She advises the writer to view the page as three dimensional, a place where they "sculpt" out characters/settings. Writing, according to my reading of Braverman, should not be imposed on the page, but formed in cahoots with it: the page should "talk back." She sees genre distinctions as a patriarchal perspective on writing. She doesn't care about "distinctions between categories"; she just cares about "brilliant writing." She thinks we have enough writers, but we need more great readers of literature. I'd like to read more of Braverman's work. She's intense, intimidating, and inspiring to read. I think taking a workshop with her would be like walking through fire. Here are some quotes of interest clipped from various interviews with Braverman to get a sense of writing philosophy:

1) Is there a fine line for a woman writer between writing about controversial issues and relying on shock factor?

Women are not allowed, by The Corporation, to inhabit the page as they truly are. They must think and act as conventional women. They can be professors or the wives of professionals, but they must engage in traditional female roles. If you can appeal to a special interest group, lesbian or of denoted race of ethnic status, you are permitted some slack. But actually white women are quite inhibited on the page, restricted. That's why I'm teaching "Experimental Fiction: Improvisation and Related Criminal Activities." Women simply don't have the attitude of ruthlessness required, the stamina, arsenal of weapons. For women, writing is supposed to be a refined activity, like something done at a desk with a lavendar pen, a love letter, perhaps. I refuse. (from Zulkey.com. Read the complete interview here: http://zulkey.com/diary_archive_060906.html )

2) Should writers be modest?

Writers must be everything and modest doesn't even make my long list. Fearless. Ruthless. Willing to die for it. Write like a criminal. Embrace your female criminality to have the same repertoire of writing options that men do. Writers engage in acts of crime. Break and enter. Trespass. Confession. Exhuming the dead. Stealing. Identity theft. Assumed names, aliases. Lies. A real woman writer doesn't write or live like an ordinary woman. How could she? (also from Zulke.com)

3) Why do you think you are repeatedly drawn to dangerous subjects in your work?

The conventional does not amuse or sustain me. I must have thrill. I need it for my work. I have a scientific perspective and recognize in a way most artists don't that we are living in post-historical times. It's a historical singularity. We are the event horizon. The ordinary laws, expectations, rewards, admonishments, taboos, borders, all the fundamental assumptions are irrelevant. As a character says in my San Francisco Noir (new Akashic anthology, edited by the above mentioned and ever charming Peter Maravelis) story, "The Neutral Zone" -- my most recent and most truly, shockingly autobiographical story, it shocks me -- "Human perimeters are collective background razor wire. We're too hip for that shit. It's residual static from a Baptist radio broadcast in Mississippi. Irrelevant and obsolete." Danger and criminality are the most taboo subjects for a woman. This is forbidden male-only land. In my relentless attack on the male dominion of literature, which consigns female characters to be teachers, wives and nurses, I am obsessed with gaining entry to their citadel. I am a guerilla fighter and I don't accept the Geneva Code. (from a Bookslut interview. Here's a link to the complete interview: http://www.bookslut.com/features/2006_02_007804.php )

4) What advice would you give to an unpublished aspiring writer?

Ask yourself, young writer, if you want to spend 30 years incarcerated with yourself, engaging in brutal self-examination, autopsying yourself on a daily basis with little chance of entering what used to be the writing life. Do you want to starve, work at other jobs to support your full time writing, deform your relationships, and erase most of the world around you because it doesn't serve the page? One must select out so much to keep connected to what Lorca called the dark sounds, it's like giving up citizenship and voluntarily entering incarceration. When I came back from pre-collapse Russia, I noted (in my Time interview) that in Russia, they put their poets in labor camps. In America, we put them in limbo, where they create their own labor camps. Do you wish to be a resident of a gulag? (also from the Bookslut interview)

5) Did you choose it or did the profession choose you?

You can’t choose to be a writer anymore than you can choose to be a gymnast or painter. It isn’t a choice, but an ineluctable inevitability. You can attempt to choose to be a writer, but if it doesn't open in an act of alchemy, you will fail. There is a process where the page reveals its infinite complexity. It’s not a flat surface but three-dimensional, with an audio track, scents, seasons, an entire substrata of sound and cadence. The page is a unique kingdom, vast, mysterious and eccentrically indigenous. It's like a dance, you do some and it does some. To have the page open itself, to shed its skin and allow you to autopsy the living and the dead is an inexplicable experience. Most writers do not have this experience, this star-hewn brassy vertigo, and their writing feels like work rather than elation and communion, discovery and revelation. Most inflict themselves on the page, without recognizing it is the embrace and caress that must occur for acts of passion and abandon, for books that matter, for blood books, built from your own molecular structure. (from an interview at Bella Online, the full link is here: http://www.bellaonline.com/articles/art40060.asp

6) Q. In a world where poetry is considered nonessential to even many cultured persons, what do you see as its role? Does the world need more poets?

I think the world has the right amount of poets. More people would turn to poetry if the poetry that was available were more exciting and spoke more to their lives rather than the anemic, base, listless, redundant poetry that apologizes and hates itself. People do read poetry in times of crises. Writing has a healing power. But in all times, there are few real poets. (from an interview with Tropic of LA Time Magazine. The full link here: http://www.katebraverman.com/timemagazine.html )

Here's a link to Braverman's website: http://www.katebraverman.com/index.html

writing short stories

2010-08-14T02:07:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/9/10

I've been warming up to the idea of writing short stories, but it's been a challenge for me to take the plunge. Still, I'm starting to feel like I have no choice. Over the past few years I have committed myself to writing poetry exclusively for the most part, but the call to write fiction has been quietly emerging as well, only I've been unwilling to admit it. This thought occurred to me after my Ellery Queen noir story, "The Alphabet Workbook", got accepted for publication by the magazine. It was such a thrill because I genuinely love reading stories, and I genuinely enjoyed writing the piece. However, I have struggled with the idea of opening up to fiction writing because there seems to be something sacred about devoting one's life to poetry, immersing oneself in a single genre. Then it occurred to me that there are a lot of writers who have written both poetry and short stories and have done so very well, better than most novelists who experiment with poetry. The first names that come to mind are Edgar Allen Poe, Jorge Luis Borges, Dorothy Parker, James Lasdun, and Raymond Carver. Couldn't I look to such writers as mentors for inspiration? Maybe I could gain pleasure by writing fiction too? Is it so terrible to expand my creative horizon?

What are some reasons why I like the idea of writing short stories?

1) I love reading short stories almost as much as reading poetry.

2) Like poetry, short stories are marked by brevity and intensity and awakening; some stories can be written or read in a single sitting.

3) Short stories are demanding, just like poems are; I am less inclined to the novel, or long form, because it is so time consuming, and the expansive length makes perfectionistic revision a real challenge (for someone like me who takes a lot of time revising).

4) One can be experimental with a short story just as one can be experimental with a poem; short pieces are open to randomness, eccentricity, and quirkiness.

5) I work full-time as a teacher, something I greatly value; working on short pieces (in poems or prose) is a wonderful complement to the teaching life without taking up too much time. I like the idea of being a practitioner of what I teach, and I do teach short story writing.

6) Writing short stories is a great way to learn how to write fiction; in the future, if I ever want to write a novel, I'll have a lot of practice to lean on.

7) I love the artistry of the short story form--in a short story partially formed ideas can be expressed and the narrative can rely on suggestion, just like in poetry; I really had fun writing "The Alphabet Workbook."

8) Writing a story is a great escape. I love inventing characters who live in the world.

9) Writer Steve Almond has some convincing reasons for writing short stories, which can be accessed here: http://www.mobylives.com/Almond_story_lover.html

What are some reasons why I like the idea of working in two genres: poetry and short stories?

1) When I'm stuck in one form, I can rely on the other. When I'm bored in one form, I can take a break and experiment with the other. Poetry writing is like having a friend that appeals to one aspect of my identity. In writing short stories, I make a new friend, one that appeals to the side that loves characters, plot, suspense, and dialogue.

2) I want to believe that experimenting with fiction will make me a stronger poet: sometimes I try to work out my fiction impulses in a poem, but though it is possible to write a narrative poem, a poem is not prose, a short story. I feel letting out my fiction impulses in prose will help me reserve poetry writing for true poetic impulses.

3) I'll have something to turn to when I experience a less inspired spell with poetry. Although people say that if you're not feeling inspired as a poet the best thing to do is read poetry, I think it is also helpful to write in a different genre. When I work on a story, I begin to miss poetry. I feel inspired again. It is, after all, my home center.

4) I think it will make me happier as a writer. Having worked in one genre seriously for a few years, I sometimes feel like I begin to take writing in that genre too seriously. Working in two forms might help me lighten up because it opens me up more options and more play. If I get a poetry rejection, for instance, I can turn to fiction for a couple of days and vice versa.

5) Writing short stories is a non-threatening way of opening up to a second genre. I have written short stories and they don't interfere with my poetry writing.

6) Many poets experience the need to write in a second genre when they are not writing poetry.

Many poets tend to write essays or other non-fiction pieces. I like the idea of short fiction as a companion to my poetry writing.

A year after pen, my thoughts about writing are evolving. In pen, I was tied to a certain genre, and I defined myself by this genre. I still do: poet Mehnaz. This will always be me. But I am opening up to the possibility of expanding this identity, of being a writer of the short form (poems and stories, maybe even essays along with this blog). I see myself writing short because I feel it's a way of staying loyal to less is more, staying loyal to the sentence, the line, and the use of precise diction. It's a commitment to art. Working in different genres allows me the opportunity to talk to writers in different genres, which feels liberating. And I hope it will make me a stronger teacher because I'll have a better knowledge of the challenges of writing in more than one form. I open my mind up to a few months of discovery. I'm excited to see where this leads me.

289) today's overrated writers?

2010-08-14T01:26:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/14/10

Been busy with socializing and my online poetry writing class, so I haven't posted in a few days. Anyhow, the instructor of my wonderful poetry class posted a link to an article entitled, "The 15 most overrated contemporary American writers." Needless to say, it's controversial. Take a look and see if you agree:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/anis-shivani/the-15-most-overrated-con_b_672974.html

281) npr killer thriller list

2010-08-08T23:01:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/8/10

NPR fans have helped create a list of the top 100 mystery/thriller/suspense novels. As a mystery junkie, I was excited to see the list. I can refer to it when I'm looking for a good read. Here's the link: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128718927

280) sylvia

2010-08-08T02:25:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/8/10

I watched the movie, Sylvia, tonight about the life and poetry of Sylvia Plath, her stormy relationship with Ted Hughes, her depression, and her suicide. The movie was good, not great, but still impactful. I think it could have paid more attention to the aesthetics of film-making. Still, I wanted to see it because somehow I neglected to watch it when it came out a few years ago, and I've been reading Ariel. The poems are exquisite, haunting, and as one character in the movie put it, "almost frightening." I'm in love with Plath's work. I've read Ariel a few times, but each time I brave the collection, I find a new set of poems. This time I wanted to focus on Plath's innovative use of language. I also noticed that despite the darkness, there is a kind of bitter black humor in the poems as well, which I hadn't noticed before. Anyway, this whole topic of artists, depression, and suicide troubles me. I am aware that depression can be a side effect of having a creative mind, but I strongly believe that creative expression emerges out of a healthy mind, a mind that is engaged and curious. When we write while depressed, don't our best pieces inspire us to push through the depression, even fleetingly, toward light? Yet Plath was a genius who struggled with emotional instability. I wonder, had she lived longer, if she would have made friends with her depression. Anyhow, I want to read the Journals of Sylvia Plath, a book I bought many years ago, but only skimmed. I'm anxious to learn more about Sylvia. I want to write a poem inspired by her.

279) huntington library: our many selves

2010-08-02T16:27:00.000-07:00

the literary life 8/2/10

My husband and I visited the Huntington Library in Pasadena today, which is an awesome spot in the city (but away from the city). I'd never been there before, and I was surprised at how much this place has to offer in terms of Japanese/Chinese gardens, tea rooms, art galleries, and historical samples of literary and scientific publications. It was both humbling and galvanizing. Like my husband, I'm an old soul. I prefer tea in the afternoon and a walk through a quiet garden. I'm an avid reader and writer, and being there I could tap into the part of me that likes to retreat from the world, that is easily inspired by reminders of history, the literary greats. While eating buttered scones with jam, I almost felt like I was in Europe, except the center wasn't too crowded because it's Monday. I thought about how when I write, I'm trying in each piece to make sense of the tangle of trees and concrete and books and people and tastes I encounter each day. I thought about how much, in the history of human evolution, has already taken place, and how we cannot begin to fathom the impact of our latest developments: the Internet, the medicines, the psychological epiphanies. This little lucky world, at times so devastating and destructive. At times a hotbed of hysteria. This little world, with its assuaging gardens and haunting casualties. Somehow, being amid such beauty today, I was touched by the yin and yang of it all, and how this feeling is difficult to articulate, but it presents a puzzle worth writing about. Writing for me is the only homeland, as many authors have observed. Writing is that place of energy, hope, and discovery. It's a way to harmonize the competing energies of the world, the competing drives of the self. It's a way to harmonize our competing histories. Some days, I am hungry for it all. I want to read all afternoon. I wish I could simultaneously express my various selves: the artist, the teacher, the baker, the detective, the soccer player, the homemaker, and the historian. I wish I could be it all. Real life is not so open. There are limits. But I was reminded today to take advantage of each moment and not to dwell too long over the mistakes. The world of fiction, of persona poetry, offers us a chance to express our many selves--to experience the lives we have not yet chosen and cannot choose--or to better understand the ones we have. Writing is a form of connection and conversation. Seeing all the historical writing samples today, from Bukowski to Byron, I thought, here's one reason to keep writing: to be part of a conversation on the page that has been going on for centuries. To dare to take part in such a conversation. What audacity really? What courage?

278) lahiri and merwin: writing short

2010-07-31T14:38:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/31/10

So I'm halfway through reading Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth, and I have to say it's one of the most moving collections of short stories that I have ever encountered. I've read four of the eight stories, and they each seem to focus on family conflicts between parent and child, between couples, and between siblings. It's a complex collection and so emotionally resonant that I've swallowed back tears on more than one occasion. The fact that she's a writer of South Asian descent, I'm sure, makes a difference in my sense of connection with the characters (who are mainly of South Asian origin), but I don't believe it makes an enormous difference. The stories examine universal concerns with such clarity and perceptiveness that I half expect the characters to leap up and walk off of the page, drinking their cups of tea. Lahiri inspires me. I think she's brilliant, which makes me wonder about her writing process.

I also just finished reading Merwin's latest collection of poems, The Shadow of Sirius, which I started on my trip to Hawaii but stopped reading for a while with the move taking up so much of my time. It's a good collection--very quiet. And it focuses on the transitory nature of things, as well as the contrasts of being, such as light and dark. At times I wanted something more concrete and personal to latch on to; but the pieces are short and comforting. Anyhow, reading poets and short story writers, I am inspired by this whole idea of writing short. I think short pieces carry an intensity, a possibility for mastery that is less evident with longer works. Yesterday I went to the local Borders and came across a book on writing by Flannery O'Connor. Taking a seat on a stool, I read her chapter on short story writing, and she discussed how a short story is about character and describing something dramatic that happens to this character. In a short story, the writer should aim to reveal some aspect of personality. Yet it's important to root the reader to a world that feels realistic, a tactile world that resonates a complexity. A multi-dimensional world. Lahiri's stories are by no means flash fiction. In her latest collection they span 30-50 pages each, sometimes more. The length is enough to draw one in and let one live in one place for a while, but short enough to maintain intensity. I can see myself exploring short stories more as a poet. There seems to be something both these forms share, even if it's just a commitment to intensified language, to brevity.

277) brilliant

2010-07-28T11:45:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/28/10

Average will not do. Today I seek brilliance. A good line's not enough. Neither is a decent line. I want my imagination to coax me somewhere new, somewhere ivory, somewhere the clouds have purple teeth. Average will not do. Brilliant is young, is fearless, is whimsical. Brilliant shines because the mind is open to shine. Do I say this to put pressure on myself, on others? Not exactly. I say this to be political, to demand more of myself and other artists. I say, anyone who's literate, intelligent, and willing can pen a collection of poems or stories these days, can formulate a novel. Anyone can get published or self publish. This opens up the world's creative potential but makes it harder to distinguish the writer from the written. A commitment to excellence makes things difficult. Makes us work harder for each piece. Makes us wonder, why am I writing this? What makes this piece essential? How can I inspire myself to find my own inner wealth? In the age of more is better, I believe more rigor is essential. To be an artist, write to be your best you, to make the page shimmer with the most brilliant colors you have to offer.

276) poet on the move

2010-07-25T23:21:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/25/10

Haven't posted in a while; spent the last few days moving and didn't have Internet access. We moved from Thousand Oaks to an area closer to the city in Los Angeles because my husband and I have new teaching gigs. What a labor intensive task! I like our new apartment. It's more compact than the last one, but it has character, and it's still quite comfortable. It's a city apartment--more modern. We ride up an elevator to our floor. We park our cars in a garage. We no longer have a washer dryer in our unit (we have to walk down the hall to use a shared one). And we buzz people into our building. Our old apartment complex was open and hilly and wide. In our new space, there are restaurants and markets within walking distance, which I've never had living anywhere. I wonder how moving from the suburbs to the city will impact my writing? The act of moving itself has already had some impact. For instance, I had to sort through clutter and donate some books to the library, and in doing so I had to reckon with changes in my identity over the past few years. I donated some of my grad school texts, acknowledging that that period in my life is over. I hung on to my poetry books, writing craft books, fiction books, and mystery novels. I hung on to my cookbooks. I've reduced my religious studies and Mid East Studies texts. And there's something liberating about this. It's true that letting go can be an act of healing, of committing to the present.

Some cool creative things I've done over the past week:

1) Attended the 2010 PEN EV finally reading at the Hammer (Some awesome fiction writers read their work, including Simone Kang, who is an amazing short story writer).

2) Wrote in my journal every morning.

3) Met with a group of women to discuss writing/creativity.

4) Unpacked boxes and decorated our new home.

5) Meditated and read Buddhist books, trying to channel my inner mystic.

6) Used the word "faith" six times in conversation.

7) Participated in an online poetry writing class through UCLA extension.

8) Read fiction/poetry sitting on the ground of my new living room.

275) i'm a poet, not a saint

2010-07-19T13:14:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/19/10

So I went to the Ventura County Book Festival on Saturday at the Crown Plaza Hotel. I attended a panel on the future of poetry and poetry in the 21st century. The discussion was interesting. One speaker, Sandra Hunter, discussed how poets should be grateful to slam poets for popularizing poetry. She said, we may not like slam poets, but we can acknowledge they do a fair amount to promote poetry among young people. Then the discussion shifted to this idea of poetry healing the world. Another speaker, Suzanne Frost, said that she believes in a humanitarian poetry. But she also suggested that being too conscious of this fact in the act of writing might inspire bad art. The speakers encouraged emerging poets to be aware of the history of poetry and to reflect a consciousness of this history in their writing. One woman in the audience suggested that literary journals should be donated to doctors' waiting rooms, so people encounter poetry in the every day. I thought this was a cool idea.

Anyway, the whole discussion about the humanitarian aspects of poetry, which many people in the group seemed to embrace, got me thinking. I mean, I believe many of my poems embrace humanitarian values, but I don't think writing a "dark" poem contradicts such values (which I thought is what the discussion implied). Writing a dark poem can be an act of defacement that ends up affirming the power of the good by illustrating the consequences of the bad. When it comes to psychology, the human subject is a paradox. This is why mystery stories, in part, interest me. Because they are a space to explore the dark side of human consciousness, not to indulge in it for gratuitous reasons, but to unmask it and thereby understand it. I also want to take imaginative leaps in my writing. So if I write a poem in the voice of a culprit or of someone emotionally unstable, does that make the poem uncouth (i.e. unpoetic)? I ask because there seems to be this idea circulating in some circles that poetry is sacrosanct, that while it may embrace sad and melancholic moods, it's not meant to be "vampire" dark or "Gothic" dark. But thinking back to the early, oral tradition of poetry as storytelling, which included bloody epics such as Beowulf, I can't help thinking that poetry has been written and should be written to embrace the full spectrum of human drama. To be honest, when I read too many wild iris poems or sunset poems or ocean surf poems, I feel a bit stir crazy (not that I haven't written such poems myself). I guess what I'm getting at is that I'm a poet, not a saint. I experience a wide gamut of human emotions, and sometimes as a poet, I want to take fictional leaps in my writing because they help me embrace a wider truth. Like a good short story, I think poems can disturb and entertain in the fragmented aesthetic of the poetic form. Edgar Allen Poe and Sylvia Plath come to mind.

Here's what I'm getting at: a good poem can offend. I think writing an "offensive" poem is actually making a political statement about the form itself, saying a poem does not have to be a religious or spiritual product, a poem does not have to climb mountains. Poems can be sacred, but they can also be profane. They can focus on the darkness we witness on the ground or in the chambers of our imaginations. The presence and acceptance of "dark" poems, I think, will make the nature poems more essential by contrast--will help us view the more "sacred" literature in a new way. "Dark poems" are sacred too because they help us confront weakness and fear, and may inspire us to seek out the good. WRITING IDEA: this week, think of a writing totem for your inner dark side. Write a "profane" poem inspired by this totem. See how it feels. Give yourself permission to offend (you don't, after all, have to show this poem to anyone). Ironically, this might permit your poems to get lighter, to be more human, to embrace a greater sense of humor.

274) back from kauai

2010-07-17T09:19:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/17/10

Got back late last night from a vacation in glorious Kauai. What a beautiful Hawaiian island! Exiting the airport, the setting unexpectedly reminded me of Pakistan, my family's home country, because it was green, humid, and there were roosters roaming around the street aimlessly. In Kauai, the roosters own the street. It's pretty fantastic to see them as you drive around the small island. It's also legal to feed them anywhere, so we bought some feed and tossed it out the window. The vacation was, in a word, inspiring. We stayed on the beach, swam in the ocean every day, went boogie boarding, snorkeling, and horse riding. We got to see a turtle swimming in the ocean and pet an octopus. We lay in a hammock and gazed up at the stars, which are more clearly visible on the island. We drove up to Wimea Canyon and the Napali Coast (spectacular view)! We ate traditional Hawaiian foods like Puka dogs and an assortment of grilled meats at a "traditional" Hawaiian Luau (the Luau was at the Hyatt, so while it was awesome, it was probably not the most traditional; still it overlapped with our stay). Anyway, I wrote three poems on vacation and finished reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, a novel which I'm going to be teaching this fall. Then I started an Agatha Christie mystery, Cat Among the Pigeons (so far, so good). Coming back home feels good, feels delicious. It's always good to be back amid the familiar; however, I want to hang on to that island spirit as long as I can, hang on to the red dirt of Kauai. Being in a tropical environment affected my writing, helped me loosen my grip on my writing. I thought about it more from the heart and less from the head. It was therapeutic. I thought about how important it is to spend time by the water, eating up the sun. I can still feel that ocean breeze. The island flirts with your senses. When I wrote, I felt 18 again, in a good way--without any blocks or intellectualisms to consider. I wrote because I needed to flow, because I wanted to respond each day to all the lush beauty.

273) anger

2010-07-11T22:38:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/11/10

What makes me angry?

forgetting to speak my truth
when the team i'm supporting loses the world cup
spending too much time in a noisy crowded place
budget cuts on public education
traffic when the temps are three digits
critical/condescending attitudes
traveling by boat (i get seasick)
bp oil spills
people who copy other people (for example, in the same social circle, copying someone's hairstyle or creative path or ideas)
boring poems (i get angry both at myself and the poem--i'm not always sure if it's a reading or writing issue)
excessive materialism
when you order decaf coffee and it's too cold or stale (decaf's gotta taste good too)
plagiarism among students (have had to deal with this issue as a teacher)
undercooked steak
knowing exactly what i should've said or done AFTER the fact
immaturity
self-absorption (though I can be guilty of this myself)
bullying, teasing, or use of intimidation
papercuts
feeling indecisive
disneyland
extreme opinions
gender stereotypes
& more

WRITING IDEA: Think about what makes you angry, the big and small of it--the ridiculous and the serious. Jot down a list of twenty things that come to mind. Then pick something off your list and write a poem about it.

272) how to "compete" positively as a writer

2010-07-08T16:13:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/8/10

I went to Barnes and Noble this morning where I perused a copy of Psychology Today while sipping coffee in the cafe. There I came across an article entitled "I Coulda Been a Contender" by Abby Ellin, an MFA graduate. Ellin puts forth some interesting arguments in this piece about how to compete in a positive way. For example, she claims that "excellence in others expands our sense of possibility" unless we're too wrapped up in the "negative knot of self-comparison." She believes that in order to avoid the trap of negativity, artists should remain "self-referential", competing only with themselves. It is fine to be moved by the successes of others, but we shouldn't fall prey to comparisons with others. In her article, Ellin quotes Lopez, a psychologist who explains, "Self-referential people ... care about their own performance, not how they measure up compared to that guy over there. They don't attach themselves to super successful people. They can get the boost, but they don't see that person as a reference point or competitor." Consequently, self-referential people "are more hopeful than those who see everyone else's path as possibly better than [their] own." According to Ellin and the thinkers she interviews, how then should writers achieve their goals? By having goals in the first place, honing their strengths, and doing the day to day "real focused work" of creating, which may at times be "mundane." She argues that hard work and persistence are often what "separate the contenders from the victors." I like this point because it reminds me that competing is not about trying to outdo someone else. In truth, it is "about living up to the best you"--competition, so to speak, with yourself. Competition with whatever it is you struggle against: negativity, laziness, indecisiveness, or lack of faith. All in all, I think Ellin is suggesting that "competition" is itself a flawed value because it focuses the attention on external things that matter much less than we think in our development as artists and can actually inhibit progress. Conviction might be a better value for the writer working to tap into his/her creative potential; it shifts the focus to a more fruitful locus of control: the internal. This way, the successes of others become reminders to do our best. I think this concept is also something I can use in teaching, a way to remind students how to compete productively and more positively.

271) brendan constantine

2010-07-07T19:31:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/7/10

Here's a link to three poems by Brendan Constantine:

http://www.moondaypoetry.com/brendanconstantine.html

Really great stuff. I especially like "One Million Years BC" (it's the second one down).

270) postcard poetics #2: do poems grow on trees?

2010-07-07T10:38:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/7/10

My husband took a photo of this unique tree at the USC campus last week. As we walked around the main quad, I searched for poems, fragments of lines to enter my mind, while my husband clicked away at his camera. Later, looking at this picture, I couldn't help wondering, do poems grow on trees? It seemed a strange question to ask, but I did not ponder it long. Immediately I decided, yes, they must. Poems do grow on trees, and they're as ubiquitous as the sun. It's just about grabbing the leaf of an idea at the right time and trusting our own eccentric inner tree. This tree will go through its seasonal cycles. At times it will be lush, and at others, it will seem barren and mirthless. I used to think that writers go through the birth/death/rebirth cycle of writing, and during the death phase of creativity, no poems will come. Now I've revised my view of this notion--I believe poems grow on trees no matter what the season, no matter how dry or barren the climate. The spring poems may gush out, joyous or ample. The winter poems, in contrast, may be fewer, less open hearted, but they are equally important and willing to emerge. It's about adjusting our inner tree to the season. So now it's summer, and these days the mornings have been unusually foggy. Still, it easily gets humid and at night the chill is no winter chill. It's a lonely, dislocated summer cold--an immigrant from another season. I channel my inner tree, say, I know there are dozens of poems hanging off your branches. Let me close my eyes, and think: are you sending gray July poems, poems with threads of blue sky and mosquitoes? The tree seems to nod as I picture it. Silence, the tree says, is noble and endless. Pick up that pen. Give me twenty minutes of your day.

269) girl with the dragon tattoo

2010-07-05T11:13:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/5/10

I just finished reading The Girl with The Dragon Tattoo this morning. The ending of this mystery novel evoked emotion...in a good way...a cathartic way. I recommend the book. It's suspenseful, but it takes about 150 pages to really get going though I enjoyed it right from page one (the whole thing is about 600 pages long). While reading the book out in public, I had a few different people tell me they tried the book but couldn't get past page 100. I'm not sure why...but I felt like I cared more about the characters at the end of the book than I did at the beginning, though the characters are somewhat static. The novel's setting appealed to me. The book is, however, disturbing. It seems like the negative reviews of this book have faulted it for the imperfect characters and twisted violence. Some have found the book predictable and a waste of time. I think the book is social criticism about violence, victimization, and the flawed world of journalism. While this is a well plotted and decent mystery, what makes the book unique is the title character, the girl with the dragon tattoo.

On a side note, I am excited to say that I have been officially blogging for a year now. I began this blog on July 4th, 2009, and I'm still at it, posting a few times a week on average. It's been a great outlet to have this blog, a way of voicing my thoughts about the writing life, connecting with other writers, and responding to literature. I'm glad I've kept at it...

268) postcard poetics #1: why write poetry?

2010-07-02T18:59:00.000-07:00

the literary life 7/2/10

I have been writing poetry since my early teens, somewhat seriously since the last decade, and quite seriously for the past four years. I've participated in workshops, readings, and fellowships. And since January, I have been wondering why I'm putting in all this effort. I mean, poetry can exist without me. There are thousands upon thousands of people expressing themselves in verse every day. Each year, dozens of new chapbooks, anthologies, journals, and collections enter the market. There's hardly time to read everything that's out there. So why write? Here are a few helpful reminders:

1) Because in the writing world, writing poetry is political. Writing short is political.

2) Because despite everything that's out there's, it's not enough.

3) Because something you write might find someone when they most need it

4) Because to write a poem is to engage with the mystery of being, beauty, and existence. It galvanizes curiosity.

5) Because it's an imaginative way of bearing witness to experience.

6) Because poems are fun.

7) Because if you feel the call intensely, you have been offered a gift.

8) Because each poem you write lights a small candle in a dark room.

9) Because it's the oldest form of storytelling.

10) Because writing poetry is magical and through it we enter the world of dream consciousness, that perceptual hyphen between reality and imagination.

11) Because I believe every writer has an ideal reader. Writing for this one person, if no one else, is enough reason to write.

267) coffee or tea?

2010-06-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

the literary life 6/29/30

This morning I woke up and had my usual cup of tea: PJ Tips shipped from England. A strong cup of tea. And as my English husband would say, a good working class cup of tea. So this morning while watching Japan and Paraguay work it out during penalty shoot outs in the World Cup, I spilled my tea. It was quite an artful spill actually. It created a Rorschach print on my carpet. And what did I see in it? I saw that I should be drinking coffee. So that's just what I did. I got up, cleaned the mess, and made myself a cup of Jo, which I didn't spill. It tasted good too. This morning, coffee seemed to be a better bet. No mess, no sitting tensely at the edge of the couch wondering if Japan would win as I wanted. No watching one misfired kick change the tone of the day. Sipping my coffee was an effortless ritual. But the tea, it caused a spill. It generated a story, became an external clue to my internal state. Which experience did I prefer? It created a quandary in my mind. Would I rather go with what I wanted though it had an unpredictable outcome, or was I better off with an easy second choice? Then again, I've spilled my coffee at times too. At least with tea, the stains come out easily. Anyhow, all this coffee/tea speculation made me wonder about the weight of small things, how large even the small decisions can be in the long run and how much they're actually dependent on chance. Here's what I realized: every outcome is a matter of choice, luck, and perhaps, if you believe in it, a bit of faith. This choice, luck, faith triad can have an impact on the execution of a morning vice, a soccer match, or the fate of a writing project. It matters less whether you prefer drinking coffee or tea. What matters is which cup you have more faith in.

P.S. It was a nice surprise this morning to wake up and find that Steven Torres at Nasty. Brutish. Short had written a positive review of my short story, "The Alphabet Workbook", recently published in Ellery Queen.

Here's a link to the review: http://nastybrutishshort.blogspot.com/search/label/Mehnaz%20Turner

266) how do we keep pouring out the right words?

2010-06-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

the literary life 6/27/10

Last night I woke up at 2am and couldn't go back to sleep right away, so I got up and wrote a couple of poems. Then I skimmed through two thick folders of typed up poems, poems I'd written several years ago in college and the early years of graduate school. It was daunting to skim through this stuff. I was sort of nervous because usually when I go through my old writing, I think something like, huh? But I saw that while these old poems were at times effusive and cliche, I was working on a voice all along. And what I write now stands on the shoulders of what I wrote then. And what I write in the future will stand on the shoulders of the work I'm doing today. Yet seeing the quantity of poems from my past--over three hundred typed poems that I never really tried to publish, that I don't intend to try to publish, that might contain four or five hopefuls I can revise for the future--I wondered, how will I keep pouring out the right words? For the first time, I sensed a fear gnawing inside me: are we born with a limit of what we can produce? What if I get stuck? I have definitely written A LOT in my journals. But as a publishing poet, I am just emerging...At times this past year I have felt stuck. Maybe just for a few days, but still it's intimidating because I didn't used to get stuck. The words just poured out. What do I mean by stuck? I mean I'm writing but I'm wanting more than what emerges. I want to push the writing further. I'm demanding more of my work. I don't want to crank out a tired cranky poem. I don't want to rewrite the same old poem. I want to arrive at something novel when I write--a new insight, a fresh image, or a playful construction of words. It may be on the usual themes that interest me--but I want to sense evolution. Yet it's hard to get at this every time, while the need to write is as frequent as ever. The need is urgent, consistent. This is what I was thinking about at 2am when I wrote two pieces that produced something, but nothing I wanted to type up. Nothing that excited me too much. Nothing that that seemed to say, you've made a leap over a new hurdle here. Just words taking up space, emerging from a habit--a habit I need. Words walking round the same old block. What does it mean to write a poem at 2am that neither inspires the writer nor demands to be followed through? How do we keep the river of creativity full? How do we make the leap from tried to new? Maybe I will go back and look at the poems again. See if there's something there I want to tease out. Maybe I will write a fresh poem this morning. But I'm feeling comforted, if nothing else, by sharing my thoughts on this post. I'm remembering that I have actually experienced before, this sense I'm standing at the doorstep of a new awakening. Something my subconscious wants me to cultivate in my work and my conscious mind is struggling to perceive...maybe when I sleep at night, I will pay closer attention to my dreams.

265) poetry in the digital age: rita dove

2010-06-25T15:27:00.000-07:00

the literary life 6/25/10

Cool post/video by Rita Dove on poetry in the digital age. The title of the article: "Aspiring Poets Need Not Live in Paris." She gets at the importance of reading poetry--not just listening to it at a reading...

Here's the link: http://bigthink.com/ideas/17736

264) simplicity and creativity

2010-06-25T13:51:00.001-07:00

the literary life 6/25/10

The less I plan to do creatively the more productive I am. When I focus on less, I accomplish more. Why is this? Why do I forget this? As soon as summer vacation started, I felt mentally bombarded by ideas, by the too many different ways I could fill the time. Then I remembered, I focus better when I commit to less creatively, when I let projects emerge organically. Here's a link to a zen habits post on "how simplicity can help creativity":

http://zenhabits.net/how-simplicity-can-help-creativity-briefly/

263) spent the day in santa barbara & with writing memories

2010-06-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

the literary life 6/22/10

My husband and I visited our old apartment near Santa Barbara today, the one we lived in while I was a grad student at UCSB, and he a full-time employee at a company in Carpenteria. It was a nostalgic day, the feelings bitter-sweet. We mused over our memories of the three years we spent there, from 2000-2003. Despite the glorious blue sky we stared at every afternoon while living in SB, there were issues: the graduate program at UCSB wasn't the best fit for me, and my husband struggled to enjoy his job. However, we lived by the beach and loved the foggy mornings. So today we focused on what we dig about Santa Barbara: we ate fried fish at the Beachside Cafe, walked down the pier in Goleta, drove to State Street and strolled the length of it, buying sweet strawberries and cherries at the Farmer's Market. Later we took a nap on the beach and read in a cafe. It was a lovely summer day. However, my heels ached a bit because I'd worn the wrong shoes (they were kinda tight). So I bought a pair of flip-flops, which seemed to vastly improve my experience on foot. As we approached the Coffee Cat cafe for a shot of espresso, I told my husband this: if the ten years I have spent so far in southern California were a monopoly board, the Coffee Cat would be the "GO" space on my personal board. It's where I feel I started the journey because the first summer we spent in SB I temped at the Courthouse downtown, which is right across from the Coffee Cat. At the courthouse, I used to type birth certificates into a computer, but every lunch I'd walk over to the Cat, buy a cup of brew, and work out a poem. It was June 2000. I'd listen to my headphones while I typed, and I'd go to the public library to get books on tape, like Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones. All I thought about at work was writing. My job was repetitive enough to let my mind roam freely. I had been writing for years, but I'll call that my first prolific summer as a poet. I wrote poems every day. I wrote poems in my journal, on grocery receipts, on courthouse recycling. I wrote poems about palm trees and loneliness and the taste of coconut. I wrote with a kind of religious fervor, which surprised me, and for the first time I dared to submit my work. By the Fall I had a poem printed in The Santa Barbara Independent, and I'd been selected as a guest reader for the San Luis Obispo poetry conference that October. My writing? Well it was probably too effusive and cluttered with adjectives. It mostly sucked. But I felt I was growing as a writer. I could literally feel my creative mind stretching. I was so inspired by my small successes that I actually submitted a manuscript to some first book award for poetry I'd seen in Poets & Writers. Imagine that! I laugh to think of it. The poems were written in a rush, typed, and hardly revised, but I proclaimed them finished. I had a very small poet-critic/editor inside then. I read some poetry but not enough. And I wasn't talking or listening to other poets yet. I didn't associate the word "craft" with poetry. I'm sure attending a workshop would have been a rude awakening for me. Still I'm glad I had that summer--a summer I was a devoted solitary poet ignorant of academic perspectives on the art of poetry. A summer I was thriving in a kind of romantic love for writing. I wish such a summer for every writer. This summer, I am such a different poet. I'm still solitary in much of my work, still in love with writing, but I am open to collaboration now and my writing life has baggage. I've discovered that the joy of writing is also accompanied by its less sympathetic twin, pain. I've come to see how suffering is part of the process. And I'm reading more than I'm writing. I'm often extremely hard on myself. And as far as the monopoly board goes, I'm somewhere between chance and Connecticut Avenue. But until our nostalgic visit today, I'd forgotten how instrumental that summer was in setting me walking the poet's path.

262) my debut in ellery queen mystery magazine!

2010-06-21T17:31:00.000-07:00

the literary life 6/21/10

I'm excited to share that my short noir story, "The Alphabet Workbook", is appearing in the August 2010 issue of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, which is now available for order. The story was originally written as a poem that I fleshed out into something longer. What a week! Here's the link: http://www.ereader.com/ebooks/b110672/Ellery-Queens-Mystery-Magazine-August-2010/Dell-Magazine-Authors/?si=59

261) "running" into rumi: the mystical poet

2010-06-20T07:58:00.001-07:00

the literary life 6/20/10

Yesterday I did the usual: watched the world cup and completed some chores. I left home later in the day to send out some poems and run errands. On my drive, I saw a car with the license plate, "Rumi", which I thought was an affirming sign since I had poems going out into the universe. I remember writing a paper once on Rumi in grad school. It was on Rumi's influence on the American imagination. He's one of the best selling poets, and The Christian Science Monitor a few years ago named him THE best-selling poet in America. I can see why. He speaks to the spiritual seeker looking to embrace unity in contradiction. His message transcends religious differences, embraces the mystical. Still, Rumi's story could not be written without the help of Coleman Barks, his most popular translator; nor without the help of the Indian self-help Guru, Deepak Chopra, who quotes him routinely in his books, even edited a collection called, The Love Poems of Rumi . One of my favorite Rumi quotes, one I've kept in a journal for years is as follows: "Let the world go. Holding it we never know ourselves, never are air-born." This quote reminds me to forget myself and focus on what's in front of me. A beautiful insight! Anyhow, seeing the Rumi license plate made me nostalgic for grad school, for my early twenties when I first discovered self-help and healing literature, and I thought I could escape mental negativity. I really believed it. Life's challenged my resistance to suffering. I now accept life is difficult, that moments of mental freedom are precious but fleeting. Still, I miss the young woman who didn't know, who once believed reading the right poem could eat up one's inner darkness forever. I still believe poetry has the power to inspire change and insight. I still believe in the possibility of nirvana. It's been a long time, however, since I've read a book on Islamic Mysticism, opened up my mind to Sufi thought. What does it mean to be a mystical poet? It's about using poetry as a tool toward enlightenment or awakening. Kind of like Haiku writing. It's not just about art or beauty or aesthetics. It's about arriving again and again at the doorstep of truth. Rumi's poems have an advice-giving quality to them. I want to sit down later today and write a poem with mysticism in mind.

260) Artwallah 2010

2010-06-16T11:21:00.000-07:00

the literary life 6/16/10

Artwallah 2010 in Santa Monica is fast approaching. I plan to attend this weekend. A few years ago, I read my work in the poetry panels at Artwallah. I read on three separate occasions. Being part of Artwallah was a huge support to me when I was first decided I wanted to share my work publicly. They're an awesome venue for emerging and established performers of South Asian origin. If you're around, be sure to check it out. Here's a link to info about the event/tickets: http://artwallah.southasianartists.org/

259) part-time writer wearing poet-goggles full-time

2010-06-15T20:42:00.000-07:00

the literary life 6/15/10

It occurred to me in a midst of a conversation I was having today about writing and the literary life that I'm a part-time writer. Part-time. I have always viewed writing as an essential aspect of my identity, but I don't aim to do it full-time. Writing is a part of me, but it does not own all of me. What a relief! I mean, I've been aware of this before and blogged about this before, but today this hit me on an intense level, ya know. Because while I've had months where it seems like I'm constantly thinking about writing, most of my life I've been on a part-time schedule with written self-expression. So why is this good news?

It's good news because I feel less daunted by the whole deal: publication, using words like "revision", and the slush pile. I also feel less envious of writers forging ahead, ascending the glamorous ladders of the publishing world. It's good news because I accept and acknowledge that writing is a kind of ritual I practice routinely, yet I don't want it to consume everything. I've been feeling this shift in me arising for a while now--from the obsessive writer I was years ago to the more well-rounded writer I am hoping to become.

What do I intend to gain from acknowledging that I'm a part-time writer: to aim for publication with more detachment. To read more for pleasure, simplify my writing goals, and compare myself less to writers who seem to publicly dominate the writing world--who are prolific. With the responsibilities I choose to embrace, I organize manuscripts at a slower place because I write part-time. I do, however, want to wear my poet goggles as frequently as I can. It's a great joy to view life, no matter where I am, through the aesthetically bent lens of poetry. More than writing full-time, trying too much to plant myself somewhere visible in the writing world tomorrow, I want to remember to view the world, full-time, as a poet would. To view writing poetry as a way of blinking out what I see. A form of impermanence with meaning. A response to beauty, complexity, and uncertainty. Publication happens when it happens. The time for gratitude is now. I want to enter each moment both literally and metaphorically. To personify the moon.

258) my poem, "punjabi", published

2010-06-14T10:09:00.001-07:00

the literary life 6/14/10

My poem, "Punjabi", was recently published in the Journal of Pakistan Studies. It's about my lack of fluency in Punjabi, my family's colloquial tongue. I speak Urdu and English, but I never learned to properly speak this regional dialect. To read the poem, click on the following link and scroll down to "poetry and prose": http://www.pakistaniaat.org/issue/view/368/showToc

257) ahhhh, summer

2010-06-13T16:17:00.000-07:00

the literary life 6/13/10

Last week was busy. I had to pack up my classroom, proctor finals, grade research essays, and attend graduation. It was also sentimental since I plan to move to the city this summer and start a new teaching job in the fall. At graduation I felt like I was graduating myself since I've spent four years at the high school I'm leaving. But now it's time for a rest. This weekend is the start of my 10 week break, a break I'm really looking forward to. I want to watch the World Cup, make fresh lemonade, read novels, and revise my poems. I want to rest and meditate and organize my closet. This summer I want to remember the sun as expressed in the words of Henry Ward Beecher, "[It] does not shine for a few trees or flowers, but for the wide world's joy."

256) from Glissant's Poetics of Relation

2010-06-05T05:35:00.001-07:00

the literary life 6/5/10

"This is why we stay with poetry. And despite our consenting to all the indisputable technologies. Despite seeing the political leap that must be managed, the horror of hunger and ignorance, torture and massacre to be conquered, the full load of knowledge to be tamed, the weight of every single piece of machinery that we shall finally control, and the exhausting flashes as we pass from one era to another--from forest to city, from story to computer--at the bow there is still something we now share: this murmur, cloud or rain or peaceful smoke. We know ourselves as part and as cloud, in an unknown that does not terrify us. We cry our cry of poetry. Our boats are open, and we sail them for everyone."

-----Glissant

255) dreamy white

2010-06-04T06:23:00.001-07:00

the literary life 6/4/10

I would love to spend a morning in this room to write poems all over the furniture, walls, cushions, and curtains. Could such work be published in a chapbook? Could I cite it in my resume under "Recent Publications"?

Then again, a white room is a powerful thing--poetic on its own: "White is not a mere absence of color; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black. God paints in many colors; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white." -----Gilbert K. Chesterton

254) at home in the world.

2010-06-03T16:33:00.001-07:00

the literary life 6/3/10

This morning it was cloudy, but it never rained. I know it's summer, but I'm inspired by rainy weather. Why? Because rainy weather makes me want to write. I guess I see rain as a healing symbol. I've always struggled with place in my writing: do I belong to a town, city, or country? It's hard for me to choose, to pledge allegiance because I've lived in so many places. I locate myself in weather. I locate myself in moods, in sky-aesthetics. When I see clouds, I feel I'm looking at a great blanket stretched across the sky. Everything goes soft, and it's a kind of relief. When the weather risks emotion, risks vulnerability, I am also willing to be more vulnerable in my work--in my writing. I am at home in the world.

253) writing and solitude: a form of engagement

2010-05-29T06:58:00.000-07:00

the literary life 5/29/10

I've been thinking about writing on a more philosophical level this week, the hard work that goes into a single poem or story, and how this labor is traditionally a solitary one. Delicious solitude. I enjoy the balance of writing and teaching--of talking about literature with others and then expressing my own thoughts in solitude. I enjoy the spell of reading a long book or cooking a thick meal with a little opera playing in the background. But what is solitude? And why is it almost a necessity for some writers, thinkers, creative types? I think solitude is refreshing and galvanizing. It's not loneliness. Loneliness, the pain of feeling alone, can occur in company. For some, it is more likely to occur among others. Solitude is the luxury of spending time by oneself, so one can hear one's own thoughts and awaken. What does it mean, then, to write in solitude? Writing is essentially a form of creative communication. It involves others--even if those others are merely imagined. Perhaps writing can be a way of transforming loneliness into solitude--a form of escaping alienation by beautifying it or transforming it through work. Or it can be a means of deepening one's solitude--a form of engagement. The end result is the creation of a beautiful object: a poem, a work of art, or a story. I see spending time alone as a political statement, whether the end result is a work of art or not. Solitude is essential. It should not be feared or confused with loneliness. If I were the leader of a noisy country, I would make spending some quality time alone a week mandatory.

252) olena kalytiak davis: a poet of intensity

2010-05-23T15:58:00.000-07:00

the literary life 5/23/10

While entering grades today, I decided to listen to an NYU podcast recording of a poetry reading by Olena Kalytiak Davis. I was unfamiliar with her work before, so I was totally blown away when I listened to her read. She dropped a few f-bombs while she spoke, and seemed to digress when she talked, but her thoughts on writing are on target, and when she reads, her voice resonates. She writes beautifully---like a modern day e.e. cummings and with such musicality. Her aesthetic is striking and memorable. I'd like to order one of her collections and read more of her work.

Here's a link to one of her poems entitled "sweet reader, flanneled and tulled" published in Poetry Magazine: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=179218

Here's the NYU page where you can listen to her reading/talking (scroll down about halfway): http://cwp.fas.nyu.edu/page/podcast

251) writing with compassion

2010-05-22T21:44:00.000-07:00

the literary life 5/22/10

So I've been in a writing funk for a couple weeks, and then today the weather in my mind began to clear. I actually had a couple of hours this morning to sit and read and write and stare into space. It felt good. Daydreaming, a sense of space, is essential. A sort of literary serenity took hold of me today. I could focus while I read, and I wrote from the heart when I opened my journal. I think the most important and most complex thing is to write with compassion. This is so difficult sometimes, especially when the mind gets stuck in some negative or heavy cycle of thought. We need to go deep then to find our hidden tenderness. And when I say write with compassion, I don't just mean having compassion for the narrators, characters, and people who populate our imaginations: I mean writing with compassion for ourselves, the process, the eloquent solitude of the endeavor. Loneliness and negativity are easy. It seems braver to risk the page lovingly, devotedly.

250) look up and your writing will flow

2010-05-19T06:43:00.001-07:00

the literary life 5/19/10

“The world is but a canvas to the imagination.” — Henry David Thoreau