Here’s a remedy:
I love this journal.
Here’s a remedy:
I love this journal.
What Ruth Bader Ginsburg said: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/06/30/ruth-bader-ginsburg-write_n_5544111.html
When I first started working on Doors of New Jersey, I felt compelled to apologize for writing about women. For years, I’ve avoided writing emotionally, because I was told early on that emotions and sentiment make for bad writing. Let’s not pretend that emotion and sentiment don’t go hand in hand with a stereotype of female writing and the female perspective. Let’s not pretend that the ruling in this case was just, or fair, or appropriate, or good. Let’s not pretend that writing about women isn’t important, or that women’s rights are not an issue.
Father sleeps like a black cow in the middle of the highway at night. Night is a calendar without knowledge of boxes.
– Samantha Schaefer
From Issue 20 of TYPO, this poem is the kind of poem that makes me want to go write. It seems like it comes from a larger manuscript, maybe? Unless I’m just wishing that into evidence. I want to read more.
Listen: the snowfall
makes a wounded sound.
Flicker of teeth, flicker of teeth.
– Claire Hero
I’m spending my morning rereading—three books are on their way to me for review, so I’m waiting for some new poetry to read and until then, reacquainting myself with my own bookshelf.
Today: Juliana Spahr’s This Connection of Everyone With Lungs, Claire Hero’s Sing, Mongrel, Cynthia Arrieu-King’s Manifest, and Joanna Solfrian’s Visible Heavens, which I’ve had for years and just realized I never read.
I’ve been trying to write a little journal-like thought at the top of the page in my writing journal, an appetizer for my brain for each day that I sit down to write. I just now realized I should have been blogging those. Here’s today:
Today is my birthday! 7 minutes to write. I spent most of my time this morning reading poems in lit journals, because I feel most like writing when I’ve been reading. I wasn’t super in love with anything I read today, though. A week ago I read a Sasha Fletcher poem in Big Lucks and that was the last thing I was gaga about. I have a few books coming to me in the mail, to review, but otherwise I think I’ve read almost every book I have already.
HA. It’s hilarious that I just said that. There’s no way that that’s true.
And then I wrote. So it seems useful. I’ve always needed a small push to get started, so it’s good to know that about myself and work with it, instead of against it.
I’ve been waking up at 6am every morning, either to go for a run and or to write. Somehow I never seem to actually sit down to write until about 40 minutes have passed. I’ve had this problem my whole life—time moves wrongly in the early morning, episodic, feeding the cat and making tea inexplicably separated by ten minutes while I just stood very still.
I’m still glad to set aside the time, but I’m not sure if I can sustain this schedule. Mornings are time-weird, lunch breaks I’m even more zombie-like, afternoons are spent sighing and prone, and my eyes start closing around 9:30pm.
In other news, I just loved this poem by Sasha Fletcher. I will be looking for this book.
A poem of mine is up in Sundog Lit’s new issue! It is very exciting because I like this poem, even though I wrote it several years ago and it got rejected a lot, and now it finally has a home. Also, it’s next to Shane McRae poems in the table of contents, which makes me flap my hands a little.
Tomorrow I’m going to spend some morning hours just sitting around and writing whatever. I’m embarrassed to say that it will be the first time in a while that I’ve done this. I keep falling asleep at 9:30, and spending my days at work, and spending my days off going to Ikea, but tomorrow! tomorrow is the day.