I remember being informed that I had a feminine style of punctuation, a tendency toward digressions (parenthetical and elliptical mine shafts sunk to dark depth in empty directions meandering as the nuptial chamber of bark beetles) and dependent upon some sort of emotional logic—all whilst shouting!
I wrote a story called "Of Genus Lie." The first line:
Half-way down the pasture hill, she looked up and saw the old woman waiting for her.
They gave me scholarship money.
1910 A.S. King abecedaries Ada Lovelace Day Australia awareness Black Helicopters Book as artifact Catch and Release chess Clarion West Cystic Fibrosis deer drawing economics Fresh Ink guns happiness history I'm not very nice identity Indexing Japan LAB rats Lessons of the week libraries literacy Lost Worlds Love Stories magpies memory Morris mortality motherhood music mystery muse mythologizing NOS Not advice not-a-review parenthood perfect editor Poetry poets random patterns scholarship science seeing shipwrecks Tarzan The Fox The Freak Observer Theory of Sentences trout voice wonder cupboards writing
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Invocation to Ingenuity
I am prepared to paint my door blue
or yellow to welcome you in.
I will not paint it red with the blood of children.
(I have my limits.)
Neither the smell of solder
nor the impression of a transistor on my sole
will make me banish you.
(I may yell out in the darkness, but I will love you still.)
Generosity you will find at my table,
Although the apples may be hidden
under the day’s junk mail.
(Use those envelopes to make your marks and draw your maps.)
Enter into us and make our hands
Help us turn copper wire into spiders.
(Or at least robotic spiders.)
Nourish our aberrations
as we nourish you,
and lead us not into the neurotypical but to a new kingdom.
Unwind my stacks and my secrets.
Find me when I am lost,
but don’t assume I want to go home.
(I am not Ulysses. The world has never seen me before.)
Ignore commands; override
directives; move the plot along.
What we knew was almost always wrong anyway.
(Especially when we had faith in it.)
Translate me out.
Send me like a drawing and disk on Voyager
or the May 4th, 1957 broadcast of Huntley and Brinkley.
(But please let me say “Good Night” before I wave goodbye,)
You know we are Nothing
and Nobody without you.
and with you--only a notion.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Tonight is the Montana Book Award Presentation and Reception.
It is going to be in the Billings Public Library*, which doesn't have the new rubbed off it yet. It's a beautiful building, purpose-made to connect books and readers. We are very proud of it.
The Montana Book Award recognizes literary or artistic excellence. Books for all ages are considered; nonfiction stands beside fiction.
This year's winner is Let Him Go by Larry Watson.
The Honor books are The Lovebird by Natalie Brown.
And Opportunity, Montana by Brad Tyer.
It blew my circuits when I heard Black Helicopters was among the honor titles—because David Quammen's book The Reluctant Mr. Darwin and Jamie Ford's Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet are the sort of books that get recognized. As for YA winners consider the caliber of these two previous picks...
...and you will know what a deep honor it is to have my book selected for recognition.
Hattie Big Sky won the year that David Quammen's book was honored...oh, and Newbery!
And The Miseducation of Cameron Post won in 2012—and Morris!
This award makes my book a part of Montana's literary heritage. The thought freaks me out, as it should, but it also makes me proud of the book I wrote.
* I was wrong about that. The reception was in the MSU Billings library. And it was a great venue. I went to the wrong library. Then I asked the librarian and got the help I needed. Naturally. Any excuse to visit the new libraryI will take.
Friday, March 14, 2014
|Lucky in the End|
It is just as the bamboos
which are suppressed by snow
begin to stand up again reviving
in the spring season.
One who has drawn this lot will
enjoy long happiness, if he
overcomes the difficulty he may
Then this fell out of my Talismania notebook.
I've written about this message previously, almost four years ago--before my first book was published. The time I received this paper oracle was one of the happiest, least difficult passages in my life.
There have been more difficult times. The Talismania notebook documents one of them, a span of several years (about 2001 to 2005). It was a time when I felt flayed, every nerve was exposed. My relationship with the physical world was difficult. My relationship with my own imagination was even worse.
Reading those entries, I don't think they reveal my desperation. There are diagrams for preventing frost heave in foundations, process notes for several paintings I made and have since destroyed, my theories of indexing. Or maybe they do: how desperate does a person have to be to dwell upon frost heave at the foundation of imaginary houses?
Most of the book, though, documents my troubled relationship with language.
This is on the first page...
If you eat a fish
and you lift out the bone
in one delicate comb,
that's how it is to be a poet:
but for the stray spine
found in the mouth
and rolled out by the tongue,
a monstrous discovery
in the meat.
* * *
The stray bone
stops the talking
and then the word come
I think we should all agree that the above is an embarrassment to me. Of course it is: I'm completely exposed in those words.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Monday, February 24, 2014
Secretly, I hope this isn't my last book, but I admit there is a good chance this book might be the end of me.
I'm revising it, and it's a tough row to hoe.
So I'm avoiding it.
By reading period newspapers.
And I'm learning lots of things-- like "Stamp Flirtation."
I will never be able to afix a stamp without pause.
Surely, most stamps ought to mean nothing but "business." But what have I been saying in ignorance?
I've put stamps on
I never was good at flirting.
Now I'm going to go and do some actual revision.
Monday, February 17, 2014
The quiz* reports I should “Stop writing now before it is too late to turn back.” Good to know.
Here are some reasons why I’m not a “born writer”...
• I don’t rewrite commercials, movie endings, of television shows while watching them.
First, there is the honest fact that I don’t write endings anyway. Ask any person who has tried to edit me.
Second, the very idea sounds like a profound waste of time. Rewriting commercials?
Third—and most likely to lose me friends—“’shipping” is a stupid way to read.
• I didn’t decide to become a writer in my early teens. My life and my brain just weren't that organized.
• I don’t especially love the feel of a keyboard or a pen. I’m a very tactile person. I like touching my physical environment. Both typing and writing with a pen tend to be dull, repetitive experiences. I like writing with a brush, a sharp stick, or a dipped nib much better as far as tactile sensations go. They are not so useful when it comes to submitting novels to editors, however.
• I don’t find quotes about writers and writing especially compelling, although I do find a certain aphoristic sort of quote enjoyable...
“Nationalism is an infantile disease. It is the measles of mankind.” –Einstein
“The more you learn about the dignity of the gorilla, the more you want to avoid people.” –Fossey
• • I can’t blame my bouts of crankiness on lacking time to write. I am frequently cranky for a multitude of reasons. And as far as the idea that “creative juices...not released...fester and create moodiness and anger” goes, I have a multitude of ways to create. I am constantly McGyvering the world. It’s what I do.
• • Being a writer isn’t my fantasy job. The more I think about this, the less sense it makes to me. For one thing, I had different, unattainable childhood aspirations: astronaut, cowboy, Thor Heyerdahl. For another, I know enough writers to know that their lives are distinctly their own, as original as their books.
• • I don’t find writers’ biographies and memoirs more interesting than those of other sorts of people. Personally, I like to read books about explorers and inventors and criminal lunatics. There is some overlap with “writers”—I’ll grant that.
• • I don’t wish I was watching a movie based on a book I’d written. I think film and books are very different ways of telling stories. Some of my favorite books defy being made into film because the language--the way sentences are made and words sound--resists being translated into scenes. If I wanted to tell a story in film, I’d learn how to write a screenplay and learn the grammar of cinematography.
• • Having lived as myself for my whole life; I’ve had many opportunities to notice that the lives of others aren’t mine. I’ve met many intelligent or diligent people who haven’t been successful. Or maybe they were, by their own measures, which are the only measures that matter.
- - -
* Okay, we all know these quizzes are a waste of time, but bear with me. I do think this promulgates a number of wrongheaded ideas.
And I have no idea why blogger inserted extra bullet points. I probably told it to, but ?