Nautical Terms

	I have been studying sea shanties for the last few days. As with all folk lore there is much fascinating history to uncover. This subject is particularly appealing because of the connection I feel to the sea. Maybe everyone feels that? Have just about finished the piece I've been working on and really do like the way it is turning out. During my research I was very surprised to learn that quite a few phrases that I kick around regularly are nautical in origin. Take a look at this list and see if any surprise you too.

ALOOF - means to stand apart or be indifferent, but it came from the Old Dutch word loef which meant "windward" and was used to describe a ship within a fleet which sailed higher to the wind and was thus drawn apart from the rest of the fleet.
BLAZER - meaning a jacket, the term came from 1800s British slang "blaze" which meant "a brightly colored jacket" and referred to the red flannel jackets worn by Lady Margaret, St. John's Cambridge boating club.
BY AND LARGE - Today this means "in general" or "on the whole".  It's nautical origins come from the nautical terms "by" meaning to be able to sail into the wind, or close to, and "large" meaning to sail in the direction the wind was blowing, so a ship that could sail with the wind blowing from behind it or from nearly in front of it, could sail "by and large".  The first documented use was by Samuel Sturmy in The Mariner's Magazine , 1669.
CLOSE QUARTERS - Based on today's meaning of being in close contact with, it's easy to think that "close quarters" came about because of a ship's limited space.  However, the term first meant an area on a ship's decks where barriers were put to provide the crew a safe haven from which to fight an enemy.  "Close" meant "closed" and not in close proximity.
GET A WORD IN EDGEWISE - Originally "edgewise" was "edgeways" and the earliest use was "edging forward".  Today it is used in reference to joining into a conversation when one person speaks continuously and doesn't give others a chance to talk.  Nautically, edging forward was a term used to describe the small progress a ship would make when sailing against the wind by using small tacking (zig-zag) movements.
HAND OVER FIST - most often used financially to mean that someone is making lots of money quickly, this term actually may have come the action used by a sailor to pull a rope - hand over hand.  The phrase dates from the mid-18th century.
HARD AND FAST - meaning "rigidly adhered to" as in hard and fast rules, this phrase was well-known by the mid-19th century when it was defined in 1867 by William Henry Smyth in The Sailor's Word-Book : "Hard and fast. Said of a ship on shore." The term was used in reference to a ship which was firmly beached on land.
SHOW ONE'S TRUE COLORS - a phrase meaning to reveal yourself as you really are, actually came about because of the opposite phrase "false colors" - from the 17th century referring to a vessel which sailed under a flag not her own, a practice often used by pirates to gain easier access to a victim ship.
SLUSH FUND - Money put aside today, the phrase has a less than pleasant origin.  On a ship, slush was the leftover fat or grease gotten from boiled meat on board ship.  Cooks would sell this fat whenever they were in port, making some extra money - their slush fund.
TAKEN ABACK - meaning to be surprised or shocked by a sudden turn of events, the phrase originally was used when speaking of a ship.  When the wind shifted quickly so that a sailing vessel was suddenly facing the wind and its sails were pushed back flat against the mast and spars that held the sails up, it was said to be taken aback.
THREE SHEETS TO THE WIND - meaning very drunk, how many have wondered how this could possibly mean super drunk?  On a ship, a sheet is a rope.  Back in the time of sailing ships, if three sheets were very loose, the sails would flap all over the place and the ship would sail along in an awkward path much like a drunken sailor.  Thus the ship was "three sheets in the wind".
TIDE OVER -  At first glance, this would seem to be an obviously nautical term.  Today it means to make a small bit of something, usually money, last until a supply comes in, as in borrowing some money to tide you over till payday.  However, the meaning has changed over the years.  Once upon a time, ships could move under sail power, or in the absence of wind, float along with the tide, called a tide over.  One could say the floating would tide the ship over until wind came again to move it along.
TIDY - We all know what this means: in order, precise. Originally probably from the mid-13th century, tidy most likely was first used in reference to the seasons to mean something seasonal, timely, or excellent and came from "tide" in the sense of seasons or time.

I'm a Margaret Wannabe

     Last night I went to hear Margaret Atwood speak about writing and her latest book. I am a big fan of Margaret Atwood. I want to be Margaret Atwood when I grow up. She is a remarkable woman in many ways, not the least of which is that she has achieved significant success in writing in every genre. Not many achieve that. I especially liked her confidence and sense of humor on stage. She certainly is comfortable with who she is and what she has written, and feels no need to justify or apologize for anything. She says it comes with age. I think it comes with success, and intellect. She is a brilliant woman. Her writing is backed up by that brilliance. I aspire to all of that.
     Every Halloween we have a special spoken word event here in my hometown where we read spooky poems to musical accompaniment. I always read Margaret Atwood's poem which I'll include here. As I have practiced and it for a couple of years the last stanza has become my favorite, seeming to say so much about the silenced woman in the poem, and the aspiring writer, trying to be heard. ~ Picture me with blackened eyes and a noose around my neck;

Half Hanged Mary by Margaret Atwood

7 p.m.

Rumour was loose in the air,
hunting for some neck to land on.
I was milking the cow,
the barn door open to the sunset.

I didn’t feel the aimed word hit
and go on in like a soft bullet.
I didn’t feel the smashed flesh
closing over it like water
over a thrown stone.

I was hanged for living alone,
for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,
tattered skirts, few buttons,
a weedy farm in my own name,
and a surefire cure for warts.

Oh yes, and breasts,
and a sweet pear hidden in my body.
Whenever there’s talk of demons
these come in handy.

8 p.m.

The rope was an improvisation.
With time they’d have thought of axes.

Up I go like a windfall in reverse,
a blackened apple stuck back onto the tree.

Trussed hands, rag in my mouth,
a flag raised to salute the moon,

old bone-faced goddess, old original,
who once took blood in return for food.

The men of the town stalk homeward,
excited by their show of hate,
their own evil turned inside out like a glove,
and me wearing it.

9 p.m.

The bonnets come to stare,
the dark skirts also,
the upturned faces in between,
mouths closed so tight they’re lipless.
I can see down into their eyeholes
and nostrils. I can see their fear.

You were my friend, you too,
I cured your baby, Mrs.,
and flushed yours out of you,
Non-wife, to save your life.

Help me down? You don’t dare.
I might rub off on you,
like soot or gossip. Birds
of a feather burn together,
though as a rule ravens are singular.

In a gathering like this one
the safe place is the background,
pretending you can’t dance,
the safe stance pointing a finger.

I understand. You can’t spare
anything, a hand, a piece of bread, a shawl
against the cold,
a good word. Lord
knows there isn’t much
to go around. You need it all.

10 p.m.

Well God, now that I’m up here,
with maybe some time to kill,
away from the daily
fingerwork, legwork, work
at the hen level,
we can continue our quarrel,
the one about free will.

Is it my choice that I’m dangling
like a turkey’s wattle from this
more than indifferent tree?
If Nature is Your alphabet,
what letter is this rope?

Does my twisting body spell out Grace?
I hurt, therefore I am.
Faith, Charity, and Hope
are three dead angels
falling like meteors or
burning owls across
the profound blank sky of Your face.

12 midnight

My throat is taut against the rope
choking off words and air;
I’m reduced to knotted muscle.
Blood bulges in my skull,
my clenched teeth hold it in;
I bite down on despair.

Death sits on my shoulder like a crow
waiting for my squeezed beet
of a heart to burst
so he can eat my eyes

or like a judge
muttering about sluts and punishment
and licking his lips

or like a dark angel
insidious in his glossy feathers
whispering to me to be easy
on myself. To breathe out finally.
Trust me, he says, caressing
me. Why suffer?

A temptation, to sink down
onto these definitions.
To become a martyr in reverse,
or food, or trash.

To give up my own words for myself,
my own refusals.
To give up knowing.
To give up pain.
To let go.

2 a.m.

Out of my mouths is coming, at some
distance from me, a thin gnawing sound
which you could confuse with prayer except that
praying is not constrained.

Or is it, Lord?
Maybe it’s more like being strangled
than I once thought. Maybe it’s
a gasp for air, prayer.
Did those men at Pentecost
want flames to shoot out of their heads?
Did they ask to be tossed
on the ground, gabbling like holy poultry,
eyeballs bulging?

As mine are, as mine are.
There is only one prayer; it is not
the knees in the clean nightgown
on the hooked rug.
I want this, I want that.
Oh far beyond.
Call it Please. Call it Mercy.
Call it Not yet, not yet,
as Heaven threatens to explode
inwards in fire and shredded flesh, and the angels caw.

3 a.m.

wind seethes in the leaves around
me the trees exude night
birds night birds yell inside
my ears like stabbed hearts my heart
stutters in my fluttering cloth
body I dangle with strength
going out of the wind seethes
in my body tattering
the words I clench
my fists hold No
talisman or silver disc my lungs

on you as witness I did
no crime I was born I have borne I
bear I will be born this is
a crime I will not
acknowledge leaves and wind
hold on to me
I will not give in

6 a.m.

Sun comes up, huge and blaring,
no longer a simile for God.
Wrong address. I’ve been out there.

Time is relative, let me tell you
I have lived a millennium.

I would like to say my hair turned white
overnight, but it didn’t.
Instead it was my heart;
bleached out like meat in water.

Also, I’m about three inches taller.
This is what happens when you drift in space
listening to the gospel
of the red hot stars.
Pinpoints of infinity riddle my brain,
a revelation of deafness.

At the end of my rope
I testify to silence.
Don’t say I’m not grateful.

Most will only have one death.
I will have two.

8 a.m.

When they came to harvest my corpse
(open your mouth, close your eyes)
cut my body from the rope,
surprise, surprise,
I was still alive.

Tough luck, folks,
I know the law:
you can’t execute me twice
for the same thing. How nice.

I fell to the clover, breathed it in,
and bared my teeth at them
in a filthy grin.
You can imagine how that went over.

Now I only need to look
out at them through my sky-blue eyes.
They see their own ill will
staring them in the forehead
and turn tail.

Before, I was not a witch.
But now I am one.

Later

My body of skin waxes and wanes
around my true body,
a tender nimbus.
I skitter over the paths and fields,
mumbling to myself like crazy,
mouth full of juicy adjectives
and purple berries.
The townsfolk dive headfirst into the bushes
to get out of my way.

My first death orbits my head,
an ambiguous nimbus,
medallion of my ordeal.
No one crosses that circle.

Having been hanged for something
I never said,
I can now say anything I can say.

Holiness gleams on my dirty fingers,
I eat flowers and dung,
two forms of the same thing, I eat mice
and give thanks, blasphemies
gleam and burst in my wake
like lovely bubbles.
I speak in tongues,
my audience is owls.

My audience is God,
because who the hell else could understand me?

The words boil out of me,
coil after coil of sinuous possibility.
The cosmos unravels from my mouth,
all fullness, all vacancy.

      And this is something she wrote in 2006 that is very interesting, followed by a link to a couple of her books. The first one shown is her current work, and the second is one of her books on writing that I haven't read, but intend to read next.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/02/09/AR2006020901725_2.html

Brand New Radio Shew!!

     Brand spanking new lap top. Back in business, so to speak. Got one submission out in the last week, and received one reject letter. I guess that can be construed as breaking even.
      Have been a bit distracted from writing with lots of side projects. One big one is the launching of my (with my co-producer Terry Farish) brand new radio show called Seacoast Journal, which will be featured several times a week on WSCA 106.1 LP FM. It is modeled a bit after story corp and features interviews with colorful characters living and working and playing in this neck of the woods. If you live in another neck you can stream our program live over the web at www. portsmouthcommunityradio.org. We've been working on the show for about a year so riding the airwaves finally is kind of exciting. The show will be similar in style to my newspaper column, but you'll be able to hear the sounds of our fair little city too.
      Have also been putting an inordinate amount of time into my reading this week at Beat Night, at a much loved local venue. I have decided to share a set of cancer poems, mine and others, in large part because one of the band members (we read to improv music at this reading) is in the throes of a battle with cancer and I'd like to honor his fight. A couple of the pieces I'll be sharing are from the book shown below which is an anthology that I am published in.




     Here is a little something that I found interesting.

http://www.neabigread.org/books/dickinson/radioshow.php

The democratization of publishing

     As a writer, and as someone who has recently taken on the gig of promoting the work of self-published authors, and just as someone who finds the world wide web akin to the the invention of the first printing press, I have been thinking a lot the last year or two about the democratization of publishing. I love hearing it referred to as a revolution - a bonafide one where the people really have taken back the power held by so few for so long. It is amazing how much things have changed in so short a period of time, and how there is no end in sight to the revolution. It just keeps steamrolling forward, and it's happening by the power of the pen, so to speak. Writers have made this revolution happen. It is thrilling to be part of the surf pack riding out this killer curl.
The democratization of publishing | The Daily Caller - Breaking News, Opinion, Research, and Entertainment

Tea for Two: Richard Haynes Jr. 'Heritage Keeper' | SeacoastOnline.com

My column;

Tea for Two: Richard Haynes Jr. 'Heritage Keeper' | SeacoastOnline.com

Writerly Life

     Have been getting a fair amount of work done the last week. Fair, not great, but still, rewarding. Friday and this afternoon I enjoyed a couple of absolutely glorious writerly life afternoons. The former a meeting with a client, whose book of poetry I am helping to promote, and we had a lovely lunch meeting on the deck at a beautiful waterfront restaurant that has great sentimental attachment to me. And today, in celebration of the end of summer, I moved my office to the beach so that my daughter and a friend could have a last day at the beach. All so very pleasant, and making me feel so very thankful for my blessings. To be able to do what wants to do for work is gift and I appreciate it very much.                                                                                                           Have also made a lot progress on the launching of my new local radio show. This should be happening very soon as it has been in the works for a good year. I will post all of the details as soon as the launch date is set.                         Speaking of launching, I wrote a short story recently about my son, my firstborn, moving on. This just happened and was a somewhat traumatizing event for me. Not sure what I'll do with that. Am also thinking about a couple of other things I want to get started on and as soon as both kids are back in school I'm sure I will get more writing done...

The Belle of Amherst

     What an exciting day! In addition to my baby turning fourteen, as of this afternoon there is a very real possibility that an outstanding artist will be illustrating a picture book I have been working on for several years. Just a possibility at this point, but it may happen, and my little book is so much further along than it was yesterday. It feels that all of my little fledglings are preparing to leave the nest. I'll keep you posted.     
     This past weekend I went to see a local production of the one woman play The Belle of Amherst written by William Luce. It was a bit mesmerizing to see and hear Carol Davenport portray Emily Dickinson in such a believable way. She really looked the part right down to her slight size. The only thing she didn't nail was a Massachusetts accent. The set was also remarkably authentic. A final charming touch that deserves acknowledgement is that the actress brought Emily's black cake she had baked herself for the audience to enjoy, and it too was excellent. Here is an excerpt of another actress interpreting Luce's script. I'm afraid this show added to my bucket list substantially. I'd really like to perform this show one day. What a feat that would be.

Jonathan Franzen: Great American Novelist

     While pedaling at the gym this morning I read the following article in Time. It's the cover story this week. I confess I haven't been much of a fan of Franzen, but am definitely rethinking that stance. There were a number of things mentioned in the article that really hit home with me as a struggling writer. Particularly his position on getting work done; he enters, at 7 am each day, an empty rented office he has removed all distractions from including any possible link to the Internet. The Kirkegardian observations about busyness as avoidance of not just work, but unpleasant real life realities, was a bit of an eye-opening slap upside the head for me.  I am an extremely busy person who gets far too little writing done.
     I attach a link to the article here for you in case you too are in the mood for a bit of self-flagellation.

Jonathan Franzen: Great American Novelist

Barflies, rejoice: It's Charles Bukowski's birthday

It's Bukowski's birthday, so I'm sharing two links related to writing; the first about him, the second by him. Each a little gift for us to unwrap. This should be done with a glass of wine, and a toast to Chuck.

Barflies, rejoice: It's Charles Bukowski's birthday

http://therumpus.net/2010/08/happy-birthday-bukowski/

Celia and Me

     Oh man. Rough week. My firstborn had minor surgery, moved off to college, and some type of evil virus has invaded my lap top. I thought for awhile I might have lost a great deal of my work. A writer's nightmare. But after a few hours of excavation I think we have retrieved most of it. Haven't been able to save the laptop yet. It needs professional help.   
     Friday night I did get to go out, and attended a play. Well, more of an educational one woman show really. It was at a small theatre in my neighborhood and it was about the life of Celia Thaxter. I was excited to see this show because Celia has been a strong influence on me, and I was studying her work long before I made the decision to become a writer. Here is one of her poems, followed by one I wrote about her influence a couple of years ago.

ALONE
by: Celia Thaxter (1835-1894)

HE lilies clustered fair and tall;

I stood outside the garden wall;

I saw her light robe glimmering through

The fragrant evening's dusk and dew.

 

She stopped above the lilies pale;

Up the clear east the moon did sail;

I saw her bend her lovely head

O'er her rich roses blushing red.

 

Her slender hand the flowers caressed,

Her touch the unconscious blossoms blessed;

The rose against her perfumed palm

Leaned its soft cheek in blissful calm.

 

I would have given my soul to be

That rose she touched so tenderly!

I stood alone, outside the gate,

And knew that life was desolate. 




Crossing Over




I remember my other life

though it seems like a dream

about another woman;

when I was Goody Gordon.

 

We bought the rundown

little white house in Maine,

as close to a seaside cottage

as we could manage.




On moving in day

I nursed the the first baby

in the backyard and happily

planned our forever there.


And for the next decade

I tried so very hard

to be Donna Reed

making a wonderful life.

 

But it was Celia Thaxter

who kept calling to me;

come and smell the sea rose,

tickle your toes in the tidal tow.

 

Dance away dainty days of

rock hopping and inking poems
in our prettiest penmanship,
but I ignored her until

 

we became riddled with tumors

the wallpaper unfurled, and

our little house and the twin towers
caved into smoky soot and sadness




and there just wasn't any point

in being Goody Gordon anymore.

So at last I lay you and Donna to rest

and took Celia's slender hand.




Skirts flapping in the chilly winds

we walk the beach, creating

a new imperfect life that is

filled with wonder.

The View From Here: Lynda Barry : Poetry Documentaries : Video : The Poetry Foundation

I'm not quite sure how she did it, but she convinced me that I need to work on memorization.

The View From Here: Lynda Barry : Poetry Documentaries : Video : The Poetry Foundation

Maybe Moby?

      "Moby Dick can be read as the world's best how-to book." - Robert Pinsky
Interesting posit for a poet to take. What do you think he means by this?

Rules for Writers

     Got a semi-acceptance this week, which I'm only semi-excited about. Will post more about it when all of the details have been worked out. Also made a big decision about one of my children's book projects that I have been trying to move forward for quite awhile, and spent some time reworking that manuscript. I really think it's finished now! Got one press release out. Attended a monthly meeting called Writer's Night Out that I haven't been able to get to for a couple of months, and chatted with a few other writers about the rules that they do and don't live by. These socials are always quite interesting. Every one there always seems to want to know the same thing from the others ~ how do you make this life work for you? I wonder if we aren't looking for some simple rules for success where none really exist?... Also got a little work done promoting the book that is a new little side gig of mine, and a little volunteer work done lining up next year's featured poets for the Portsmouth Poet Laureate Program.
     It was Woody Allen who said two interesting things about success that I think are highly applicable to writing;

"If you're not failing every now and again, it's a sign you're not doing anything very innovative", and

"Eighty percent of success is showing up."

     Here are a few links that I wanted to share; my latest column about a woman who knows how to get things done, Janet Fitch's rules for writing from the LA Times which I found instructive, and a very interesting site for bibliophiles that a friend shared with me yesterday.

http://www.seacoastonline.com/articles/20100804-LIFE-8040305

Janet Fitch's 10 rules for writers

http://fivebooks.com/

Prickly Pear Poetry Project

       I've been wanting to post something for awhile about this ~ The Prickly Pear Poetry Project. That is the name of the non-profit I co-founded in 2008 with my friend Kyle Potvin. She and I met at local poetry readings and in time discovered that we both read and wrote a lot of poetry about cancer. Kyle is a breast cancer survivor, and I have lost several people including my husband to cancer. We talked a lot about how helpful this particular poetry had been and continues to be, to both of us, and we agreed that we would like to help other people who have been affected by cancer find the solace in it that we did. So we created a 2 to 3 hour workshop that we offer to anyone interested at hospitals, clinics, cancer centers and churches. These workshops are always powerful testaments to artistic expression as therapeutic for body and soul. We read poems to the attendees and then lead them in writing exercises. Sharing is always optional but most people chose to read their work, and some pretty amazing things happen. Please let anyone you know in the medical community that this workshop is available. We offer it free to anyone who would like to participate, and ask the facility to provide an honorarium to cover our expenses if they are able to pay. You can find us on Face Book too. Here is an example of a poem I wrote in one of the workshops that resulted from a writing prompt.


The Oncology Ward

The hall of oncology
feels like the corridor
to another alien place,
the exit sign so literal.
Tubes and hoses help
to hold you here,
while bells and buzzers beep
over gently asked questions
that doctors deflect
while the taste of regret
takes hold and chokes.

copyrighted material, please don't use without permission.

     Below is a link to the book that got me started on this path shortly after my husband's death nine years ago. I since got to meet Donald Hall. He was nervous about giving a reading so I didn't want to bother him with my Prickly Pear story, but I would like him to know. Maybe I'll get another chance...
     My next post will be about my trip to the Emily Dickinson Museum.

Book Geek Vacation Day

I'm taking a road trip on Friday to visit the Emily Dickinson Museum at her home in Amherst, Massachusetts. In preparation (aren't my vacations rather geeky?!) I have been reading two new books I was thrilled to acquire. One is a biography, discussed on NPR with the author in the following link. It looks like it isn't going to be a particularly enthralling read. The other I think, is. I started it last night and by page forty had been completely seduced by the author Jerome Charyn.  His premise is brilliant, and it looks like so too is his execution. A novel called The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson. I'd like to write more for you now - tell you what I have and have not accomplished, but I want to go read my new book... http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1133921

Sassy

     Last night Joan Baez was in town, and while I was at home feeling sorry for myself for missing the show I dug out this piece I wrote the last time I saw her perform. I do hope that my writing has matured at least a little bit since then. The demographic for this publication was 55+, and that also comes across in it.

Joan Baez: Still Sassy at 67

Published by Seacoast Media Group, December 2008

     For the last few months I had been thinking about writing a piece about the large number of famous people who turned 50 this year, especially in the entertainment industry. That little boy pop stars Donny Osmond and Michael Jackson had 50 candles to blow out kind of blew my mind. And it is impossible to be unimpressed with how four hours of physical training a day looks on Madonna at 50. I’d been thinking that reaching the half-century mark was a milestone worth mentioning.

     That was until I went to see Joan Baez perform at Berklee, and I realized that those little whippersnappers don’t deserve a mention. Not yet anyway.

     Born in January 1941 Joan is deservedly known as one of the foremost folk singers and songwriters of the century, but really is a much broader talent than that. She is also well known for her social activism, and once said, “Action is the antidote to despair.” As with all true artists, her work has always been an expression of her beliefs and passions, and she has even been jailed for hers. Though for the first time in her professional life she recently endorsed a candidate for president (guess who), she is still a serious pacifist and her fire is not fading. She says her direction in life was shaped when she met Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. at a Quaker meeting in 1956.

     Joan moved to Boston at the age of 17 and spent only one year studying music, more in small clubs and coffee houses than at university, before she became a hit at the 1959 Newport Folk Festival. By the time she played Woodstock (when she was 6 months pregnant) she was already well known. It was a thrill for me to hear her sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot which was one of the songs she performed on the Woodstock stage. She has been at it ever since, and told us, “It’s crazy that I’ve been up here for 50 years, but it’s crazier that you’re still there.”

     With all due respect to Madonna, I honestly think that Joan Baez has never looked more beautiful than she does now, and that it is a natural beauty that can only come with loving your age. There is a healthy elegance about her that clearly radiates out from her center, where her remarkable voice also originates.

     She says she no longer has the full 3 octave-vocal-range she is known for, and while her voice has certainly deepened with age, she was nothing short of amazing when she performed for 90 minutes for us, on her feet the whole time, giving her band a break but never taking one herself, and graciously responding to two standing ovations.

     She has perfected her stage show, knowing exactly how to communicate with her audience; how much to give to them and ask of them, how to make them laugh (her Dylan impression is a hoot!) and cry. And even how to lead them in song, as she did on her final number, an acapella rendition of Amazing Grace that she led us in singing along with her, like the most devout choir director. As when I heard Odetta sing House of the Rising Sun acapella I was moved in a way that defies articulation.

     It felt like I had just participated in the quintessential aging hippie experience, as I filed out of the auditorium behind a white haired gentleman using a cane, and dabbing tears from my cheeks. It was the only concert I’ve ever been to, and I have been to many, where the only thing I could say after was “Amen.”

     Lest you think you have little in common with this 67 year old political and pop-culture icon, know that she is adjusting to being a grandmother, and that she is currently living with and caring for her 95 year old mother. Amen to that too.

Duotropes and Pearl Earrings

     Yesterday morning, after a leisurely workout at the dojo, I was having a brunch meeting with a couple of local poets, (yeah if I complain about my life you should e-slap me) both very accomplished writers. We were doing some of our annual planning as board members for the Portsmouth Poet Laureate Program. But, as poets will, we got off track a few times, and during one of those side discussions, I received a great tip that I think is going to make a big difference for me. Maybe you all already know about it, and were keeping it a secret from me! I have reached a point in my amateur writing career where getting organized is paramount, and it has become hard to keep track of what I am sending out, and when and where it was sent. Turns out I can do all of that at Duotrope, a website designed for writers that offers a submission tracker among other things. I am going to begin using it today and will report back in a few weeks.

     After going to hear Paul Harding speak about his Pulitzer Prize winning novel last week, I embarked on A Tracy Chevalier personal reading kick that has been sheer summer pleasure for me. (I have gotten some writing done in between reading fits.) As soon as I finished The Virgin Blue, which I actually found exciting to read, I grabbed a copy of Girl With A Pearl Earring. Though I saw the movie years ago I had never read the book. Chevalier really writes the way I want to. I would like to hear what others think of her work.

A Matter of Style?

No Dear T. ~ just this:

"Thank you so much for sending your work to Crab Creek Review. We received over 2,000 poems for our Ekphrastic Portfolio and chose less than 1% of these poems. The number of submissions exceeded our wildest expectations. Please know that we read your work with great care. As writers ourselves, we know the considerable undertaking it is to send a submission out into the world. We are sorry that we can't take all the strong work we read and wish you great success in placing your work elsewhere."
     Actually got two of those emails as I had submitted two poems. Once you get used to them they are not so bad. I take them as confirmation that I am getting my work out there and at least some of the time, it is getting some consideration. Hopefully the rejection was more a matter of style than substance. Over the last week I did get a couple things out, including one short story that is locally based historical fiction that another author agreed to read for me as I am concerned with historical and geographical accuracy and he is a subject matter expert. I also signed on to a new mini-gig that I am very excited about and have put a few hours into this week. I'll explain in detail when I formally announce it in an upcoming post. Fell behind in most of my work really, and have a lot of catching up to do. My kids have been extra needy the last week, especially the oldest who I am preparing to send off to college. That takes a lot of parental energy when the kid is a foot-dragger. And I just don't function well during heat waves. Yesterday afternoon I took most of the day off and started a new book that I chose just for pleasure. It really did feel like guilty pleasure to do that. And it really was an indulgence since most of the books I have been reading for the last year have been assigned to me in one way or another. A few nights ago I went to a reading given by Paul Harding who just won the Pulitzer for his first novel Tinkers. I wasn't a big fan of the book, and felt like I was the only one who wasn't. It even made me question my literary legitimacy. I really liked the guy, enjoyed his reading, and recognized the originality of the work, It just didn't capture my attention. The truth is I like stories more like the one I'm into now; The Virgin Blue. I'm a big Tracy Chevalier fan. It's just a matter of style I guess, but I do wonder what it says about me as a writer. And in closing, this silly test I took yesterday on FaceBook said my style is that of Dan Brown whose work I have not studied at all.

I write like
Dan Brown

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Brazing beautiful bridges

     Here is my column, from this morning's Portsmouth Herald. Jeanne is the youngest person I have ever interviewed for my column which I have been writing for five years. Despite her youth she still qualifies as someone who has been here a good long time and who has been contributing to creating community. Those are the local people that I like to talk to and write about.
     Jeanne Givens: Brazing beautiful bridges SeacoastOnline.com and here is a photo of her with her sculpture that the paper couldn't print.

Monday Morning Emilyzing

      Looks like I'm going to share most of the Emily Dickinson information that I am studying myself these days. Can't seem to help myself. I don't know if she is making the news more lately or if she is just making my radar more lately because of my renewed interest in her work. It would be hard to believe that she was always the subject of so much current discussion. Either way it is a wonderful legacy for a poet. I find it quite remarkable. In the link I share below she is being discussed by her current predecessor in popularity, Billy Collins.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128272101
     I have had a couple of new developments with my own poetry in the last couple of days; I had my first paid poetry reading which was very rewarding to do, even though the crowd was not really a crowd. I also entered into an agreement with artist Frannie Schwabb to exhibit an ekphrastic poem I wrote last year with the painting that inspired it, in an art show to be held in the fall.
     Here is a little something that is helping put my Monday morning into perspective;

For Each Ecstatic Instant


by Emily Dickinson

For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.

Rabid Foxes and Library Love

     Even though I missed my quarterly book club for writer's meeting at my local library last night (a continual stream of problems at home grounded me again) I can't say how much I appreciate my library. A decent library was one of the major reasons why I moved to this town and am willing to pay terribly high property taxes. All libraries are struggling right now, and in many ways their struggle is worse than ever. Here is a hideous example of what they are up against;
Fox News Attacks Chicago Libraries 
     This kind of sentiment is reaching the masses, and that is a scary thing to me. Certainly it is true that libraries will have to change with the times and if you actually visit libraries you can see that they are. Willingly and enthusiastically.
      Take a look and go get a book. Your library needs your support, and is probably air conditioned!

God Bless America

    Three submissions out this week, and I'm calling it quits. So that's one for each day that I'm taking off. If I can. I need a holiday, but I have a hard time not working. So I'm telling myself (and you) ~ Let the games begin. Problem is I think I'm too tired for the games! Ah well, I can always read on the beach which I think would do me a world of good. I am struggling with Tinkers right now, but more about that another time.
     I did want to share this link to an article about food writing among other things. I have an unfinished cook book project, and an unfinished memoir project, and found myself enthralled by the talk of the trend of merging the two. It's an intriguing idea that I've been thinking about all afternoon. I haven't read this book, or any of his others. Does anybody have any opinions?

      http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jun/19/anthony-bourdain-food-writing

Craftsmanship

     I have been a fan of John Irving for a long time. In fact he is one of the few authors that I have remained a fan of for a long period of time. Most authors, and readers for that matter, change over time, and we move on to other affairs of the mind or heart. While in my 'hood we consider Irving a local, I really don't think that my enduring interest is about that. Or about his robust good looks and engaging intellect though in all honesty these are probably contributing factors. I think it's about his writing. I found this brief interview with him thought provoking. He makes an interesting distinction here about the difference between being an artist and a craftsman. My problem is that I am not sure that I understand the difference. Give it a listen and see if you can help me out...