HABARI GANI?

Hope you're enjoying your Kwanzaa as much as I am.

Peace to you and yours,
---a.

COMPRENDE

I finally understand this thing about energy and like energies and the need to align oneself in the flow of right and good and positive energy. This past weekend feels like a dream.

It all started on Friday night. I was beat, tired from two twelve hour shifts back to back but knew I had to get my stuff together for Poetry and Prose night. The poet, essayist and historian John Milton Wesley came to read and break bread with us and light the place on fire. We had a full house and I have been designated the permanent host. Something happens to me when I sit in front of an audience, on my stool, collection of poems in my lap. Something takes over me when I am face to face with a room full of poets and eager listeners. Something comes over me when I am tucked in the womb of Words, thinking not about bills or doctors appointments or schedules or toilets that need cleaning .... but thinking only about the tone and inflection and arrangement of words. Something comes over a sister.

So the folks who gather with me have decided that I MUST host every gathering ... they seem to sense that I really do "fall into a zone" that makes the room feel hot and loving and good. Not a sentiment I share since I'm always nervous before I speak but hey, I'll take it.
Anyhow, the room was on fire after he read. We did a little Q & A after and John offered up some wisdom that he has gained in his 30 years of writing. One thing he talked about is the way in which poems come:


"There are poems that are crafted and there are poems that are transmitted....that just come from somewhere else, whole and complete, only needing you to steady your hand and write. Know the difference."

So much more which I'll have to post on later but for now I left with a feeling of supreme love and elation for this gift of writing.

Sunday was something else. Sunday I hit the road to Philly to be on the radio show here. I, and three other sister poets were reading on a two way talk radio format and talking about literature etc. One of the poets is a sister named Kelly Elaine Navies and if you have the anthology, Bum Rush the Page, her poem titled, Birth is in there. Anyhow the host wants us back on in January and wants me back individually once the book is published. She put me onto the owner of Robin's Bookstore in Philly who does a superb job of promoting newly published authors. It was so cool to have had that experience and see the inner workings of radio; so Divine to have exchanged cards and make these kinds of connections. She agreed that this is the kind of thing to do before you are published, not after. It gives you a solid edge.

On the way up we talked and fussed and laughed and cried like sisterfriends do when they're on a road trip. We talked about AIDS in Africa and Oprah's visit; we agreed that it's time to get to work. Personally, I've been thinking lately about using my little platform to help African women writers get published. I'm talking about soliciting manuscripts from African women writers and the whole nine. Shoot, it's not impossible. Alice Walker published J. California Cooper before anyone even knew the woman existed. I guess what I'm wanting is to give African women artists some kind of platform, certainly not what they deserve because I'm not yet working with that kind of money. But how validating is it for any artist, particularly a woman, to see her words in print? How validating is it to see that yes, I do have a voice and what I am saying with my voice is both useful and valuable. I want to do something. I have to do something. I can't keep sitting back watching a whole continent go undersea. My sisterpoet friend ended her AIDS poem with a line about being drafted into this war and I agree. I'm in. In whatever way I can help, I am in.

And so I ask, is this what they mean when they say "align yourself with the flow of good and positive energy?" Is this what they mean when they say that when you move forward and keep stepping in the direction of your destiny, Providence swings open its door to help you in any way It can? Is this what they're talking about when they say to release all doubt and worry and concern and to allow things to just Be? Is this what they mean when they say to choose your friends wisely? Is this related in any way to the notion of releasing negativity and choose joy despite whatever comes your way? Is this, I plead to know, what is meant, by Trusting?

Wishing you all the joy your heart and hands can hold this holiday season,

ANGEL

ANOTHER ADDITION

......to the links.

I'll have to find a way to get to this and I do like what these ladies are doing. Good energy out here. Really good.

--A.

TECH-FREAKIN-OLOGY

......is getting on my freakin' nerves. Serious problems with enetation's comments button. And I know it's not just my site cause I tried leaving a comment for you too and got all kinds of funky messages.

:::Deep and heavy sigh:::

What happened to the good old damn days?

Any suggestions for a better comment system? Please email me straight up.

--- A.

DIRECTIONS

Finally finished the bio.

::: deep exhale :::

It's funny to see how much you've really done over the years; things you never think to give yourself credit for. Anyhow, three friends and I will be on Philadelphia radio next week reading our poetry and talking about writing and literature. We leave early Sunday morning and will be back late afternoon. Looking forward to a day away with the sisterpoets. Killed two birds with one stone -- bio for the radio host and bio for my book.

Pulled up the state's business registration page and downloaded the trade name registration form. As soon as I affix a cheque for $25 I will be the owner of my own publishing company. Wow.

Have the pleasure of hosting poetry again next week, at which time we'll be featuring a guest poet by the name of John Milton Wesley. Google him and you'll find he is Fannie Lou Hamer's godson and also knew Emmitt Till personally. A poet and committed writer, I'm excited he'll be coming to poetry next week.

Flying through Creative Visualization by Shakti Gawain and definately agree with the part about "like energies." Realizing that I'd wanted this for so long -- all of it -- and here it is, manifesting slowly but surely. In the last month, my mentor has introduced me to three fabulous people -- all committed writers -- something I've been yearning for, for so long. Our energies are blending very nicely and I am very hopeful for the development of meaningful relationships. (Two of the three are also heading to Philly for the radio show).

Looking at both of the book jackets, I couldn't make up my mind. Spouse said one looked too much like a Hallmark card and favored the other. Hmmm. Will have to think about that.
Need to work on the poems as they are in the layout, the line breaks are not right and also need to finish up my introduction. Another published sisterfriend emailed me a blurb for my back cover (big smile) and I'll need to forward that on to the layout artist too. So much to do, but so good.

And I am so very much thinking about her

walker.jpeg

and when she was doing the same thing at her very own Wild Trees Press.
Right now, I'm just feeling real good. Real, real good.

Be Good,
ANGEL

POETRY NIGHT

Oh the joy of poetry night. I leave on tepid feet, wondering if tonight I will be in the right space; if the poets will arrive as filled to the brim and excited as I.

Last night was absolutely grand. People came out ready and eager to hear some poetry. We had a larger crowd than our small collective was used to and we were ready. It was my turn to host. I worried about my raspy voice, just getting over a long bout of laryngitis. I wondered about the piece I had just finished, a reflection on the Vietnam War Memorial that I visited for the very first time in August 2003---a poem written to my father, a Vietnam Vet.

It was the first time I'd ever written about Nam or about my father. It was intensely personal and yet, as Poet, I bared my soul before people I didn't know. I spoke and while tears threatened to rise and fall, I knew that I needed to do it. I needed to say the words in that poem.

It's funny how things happen in Life -- how interconnected experiences are. It amazes me how easy writing becomes when you are just open to life, present, awaiting the arrival of the next gem --- looking at life as one opportunity after another. I volunteer in Kid 1's library every other Friday and stumbled upon an old Smithsonian magazine with Frida Kahlo on the cover. I thumbed through the magazine and saw two more interesting articles in it, one about the resurgence of Harlem and the other about Maya Lin, architect of the Vietnam Memorial. A power packed issue, I thought, and asked the principal if I could take it home. He said, Certainly.

I'd started this Vietnam poem back in August after visiting the memorial. The image of the rising granite walls, the names -- 58,000 names in chronological order of their deaths -- will leave you a changed woman. There is so much pain, yet so much liberation. People come from faraway places to leave artifacts, flowers, letters, wedding rings -- you name it. Behind something so tragic, there is still something so very beautiful. Somewhere behind this wall, there is a poem -- is what I told myself.

And so I started the piece back in August and as I always do with poetry, I write what is there, what comes and I put it aside. No poem I've ever written has been done at the first sitting. I knew I'd revisit it when the time was right and when there was more to say. I am always comforted by my belief that poetry is spiritual in nature, at least for me, and that my spirit will give the words to me in right time. That time came yesterday, after reading the piece about the building of the memorial and all the criticism that sister Lin endured during the commission. I finished the poem and carried it with me last night.

There wasn't a dry eye in the place after I read it. I wrote it for Daddy, a man I never knew; a man separated from my Mom by war and thousands and thousands of miles. A man who resisted war until the very last moment, on his way to college but drafted into a battle not of his own like thousands and thousands of young men his age. Audience members came to me after and wanted to know: where is your book? don't you have a book of poetry? Others affected by the war thanked me for saying what I said.

And so this is what war does: it separates families, it causes hearts to bleed and yearn and question and wish. War kills and war makes people, on both sides of the equation, suffer. But poetry, poetry is the river, it is the balm and the salve. Poetry is both the confession and the prayer. It is the bent knee and yet, the folded hands. Poetry is the hope for things not seen; it is faith in the power of the human spirit. As brother Haki Madhubuti says:

To be touched by living poetry can only make us better people.
The determined force of any age is the poem, old as ideas and as lifegiving as active lovers. A part of any answer is in the rhythm of the people; their heartbeat
comes urgently in two universal forms, music and poetry.
for the reader for the quiet seeker
for the many willing to sacrifice one syllable
mumblings and easy conclusions
poetry
can be that gigantic river
that allows one to recognize
in the circle of fire
the center of life.

***And yes, the poem will be added to the book ***

Be Good,
A.

HOW DO YOU DO IT?

I was thinking yesterday about all the days that have passed since I really started writing seriously. I remember all the questions I used to ask published writers and how star-struck I was back then. How do you write: computer or long hand? When do you write and how do you make the time? Should I outline? Do you outline? Why? Why not? What equipment do you use? Dixon Ticonderoga #2 Soft or #2 Medium? All of it then seemed so important—such prerequisites before I could begin. What I know now, many years later (significantly less star struck, if at all) is that writing is 50% mastery of craft and 50% mastery of the knowledge of self. One needs to know how one’s own mind works and what brings pleasure to the Self.


Writing is so very individual. Sure, there are literary devices and rules one must learn. Show vs. Tell. Pacing. Dialogue. Start with action. Vivid imagery. Active not Passive Voice. But on the flip side, what is most important is the enjoyment of the process itself. Why do something that gives you such angst and worry and tension? What I’m getting at is how different we all really are and how there are few hard and fast rules when you get right down to it. Never has this been more apparent than now, as I read what some published writers have had to say about revisions. This from the recent convergence of all my magazines and newsletters this past week:


The reason to perfect a piece of prose as it progresses—to secure each sentence before building on it—is that original writing fashions a form. It unrolls out into nothingness. It grows cell to cell, bole to bough to twig to leaf; any careful word may suggest a route, may begin a strand of metaphor or event out of which much, or all, will develop. Perfecting the work inch by inch, writing from the first word toward the last, displays the courage and fear this method induces. The strain, like Giacometti’s penciled search for precision and honesty, enlivens the work and impels it toward its truest end. A pile of decent work behind him, no matter how small, fuels the writer’s hope too; his pride emboldens and impels him.
----Annie Dillard, Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft


Why do you prefer to polish your sentences as you write?

It just seems a natural thing for me to do. If I make an approximation in this sentence, then how is the next sentence that confronts me going to be accurate or precise? Understanding that in this incredibly complex object that you’re trying to create, everything must ultimately, organically resonate into everything else. The flow of the narrative must maintain a deep and complex rhythm to it, so to let the sentence at hand be less than it fully can be right now, if I worked hard enough at it, makes the next sentence and the next and the next impossible to write with any precision. Things just get less and less precise or they take directions from which you will never be able to retrace your steps to another more wonderful possibility.
----Robert Olen Butler, Writers Ask




When I wrote “May” it was a different experience. I spent a month completely rewriting it and rewriting it and rewriting it, which for me, then, was a very long period of time. And once I started revising it after that conference, where Pam Houston gave me all that encouragement, I probably spent as much time, again, revising, and that was a lesson to me. I also discovered that, God, I enjoy revision. In some perverse way, I just love cutting the piece to shreds and saving what’s good in it. It’s odd, because a lot of the stories are about mining, and it seemed to me that writing is a lot like mining. Looking for that one nugget, you go through a lot of waste rock to find that one thing that’s gold. And so I hadn’t sent it out. Actually, I think people send things out too early.
----Roy Parkin, Writers Ask




A final revision is only final because you have a deadline and can take no more time over it. Or because you are so sick of it that any more tampering would produce diminishing returns. There are no rules.
----Lynn Freed, Writers Ask





Do you have the language in your head?

Yes, if I have the narration, I have the language. So I get that all set. Then I have a really hard time starting. I’ll write the first 50 pages of a book 20 times, but once I get going, once I have the voice right and the narrative right, the characters in place and the start is right, I go pretty cleanly. When I finish a chapter, I go back and polish it for a couple of days and then go on to the next one, I do not get to the end of a book and then start a second draft....When I type that last sentence of the book, that book is extremely close to the book that you will see in the bookstores. I do it as I go along. I can’t go onto the next part until the last part is right.
----Ann Patchett, author of Bel Canto



I am solidly between Robert Olen Butler and Roy Parkin. I absolutely love revision. The knowing of what’s there but the cutting away, the refining and the finding what’s good, what’s valuable. The search for the one right word to make it better. The reading out loud of the dialogue and asking, “Would a person really speak like this? No, cut it and go back.” And though I feel the shitty first draft that Anne Lamott speaks of has definite value, I can certainly understand where Robert Olen Butler is coming from. As I work on my own piece here, cutting and cutting this opening prologue and chapter one to get it just right I do see it getting much more solid, much clearer and certainly final. The prologue and the chapter one have both been through ten revisions already. What would be the value of running through the whole novel again only to not have it absolutely perfect. What would be the value of moving on to the next chapter, the next scene, taking myself out of this moment, this space where the characters are only to have to come back to it and pray that the Muse will conjure up the same feelings I am feeling at this moment?
It doesn’t make sense to me.

But as I said earlier, it really is such an individual decision. For some people, it is so important—and downright crucial—to see the numbers change. Chapter One. Okay, now I’m on Chapter Two. Next week, goody! I’m on Chapter Five. But for some, progress is defined by the fact that a section is finished, that it exists exactly as they intended it to be and that it is strong enough to hold up the next chapter and the next chapters to come.


Much the same with outlining. Some people can’t think unless they have a roadmap in front of them. Others, perhaps less visual, would be stifled to death with something written out from A-Z and just really need more creative room. That is what this is all about isn’t it?


Yes, it’s all individual and one has to find what works for them. Find out how their own mind works best. And then just do it.

Be Good,

ANGEL

REARRANGEMENTS

I got to thinking yesterday about re-arranging this blog. I'd been surfing for a while and stumbled on some really well organized blogs over on typepad. I must say while I do like the layout over there I have neither the time nor the energy to go through all of this set-up again. I mean, to me, this "self learning HTML" is major, major waste of novel writing time. The learning curve is not a curve, let's just put it that way. At least not for me.

Anyway, one of the interesting blogs I ran across was broken down into general life issues and then novel issues and then poetry issues and then the whole business of publishing and I thought, Now gee, that's a good idea. Perhaps I should take this blog down and split it in two. Have one page for just life issues and another separate page for writing issues.

Hmmmm. Now we're cooking with gas, I thought.

But as I was driving down the road (you know, that time when all good and worthy thought comes rushing into the brain) I realized that for me, the two are not seperable. One does not and cannot exist without the other. My writing is a natural extension of my life, the things I see and hear and taste and experience. Free form blogging here, whether about love lost or abuse or some political issue gives me the space I need for my creative work and more often than not, is the launching pad for many of my poems and short stories. I realized that life---my life at least---is not compartmentalized. One thing seems to always flow into the next. I've stopped yearning for that "room of my own," realizing that my children's natural invasion into my life is what sensitizes me to write in the first place. Who gave a damn about sunsets when they were 19? I certainly didn't. Sure they were nice....nice.....such a passive, non-descript word.....but I didn't care to search for the word azure or vermillion. Trees were just trees back then but now they are.... Mommy, but what KIND of tree is that?....well, not just trees but Oaks and Firs and Maples and Spruce. The sky is no longer just blue but the color of washed denim and droopy plants are not just droopy anymore rather yellowed vines that hang like tired, weary arms. The wind does not just blow but it roars and charges like an angry beast. So you see, as I am today, replete with so many different roles, I do not see my life as a set of files rather a pile of papers scattered on the desk, all relating and very necessary to one very important story.

I guess I'll be leaving the blog as it is.
Blog. Blah-g. Someone needs to come up with a new name.

Be good,

ANGEL

P.S.--If you missed today's Diane Rehm Showwith Harry Belafonte, you missed a damn good interview. Order the tape.

COME ON IN

The pleasure of good old time wasting. Wandered around yesterday and stumbled on two more committed writers, both of which I'll add to my links. I like her commitment to writing and he had really good advice about this editing place I'm in so I'll add him too. Lots to say about something I read yesterday by Annie Dillard about revising but I'll post that later.

Back to the cutting board,
ANGEL

GIVING IT UP


One long, white blanket. Chilled air. Snow drifts. New flannel lounging pants. A time for settling in, reflecting.

It seems I've been travelling through so many emotions lately. Not my own but others. Emails and blogs and essays. Fear. Loathing. Hate. Sorrow. Loss of faith. Trepidation. Melancholy.

The sources: lovers, editors, agents, friends, would-be-friends, society in general.

The common thread: control.

I'm reminded of an essay I read almost two years ago. Oprah Winfrey, in one of the early issues of her magazine, reflected on the time in her life when she was trying so hard to get the role of Sofia in the Color Purple. She was anchoring A.M. Chicago at that time and was called in to audition. In the movie, Sofia was married to Harpo and since Harpo is Oprah spelled backwards, Winfrey took it as a sign that the part was made for her. Two months went by and she didn't hear a word. When she called she received the classic "don't call us, we'll call you response," but what her inner woman told her was "they don't want you because you're too fat." She ran off to a workout retreat and set about trying to lose 30 pounds in two weeks. One day at the spa, while running around the track all alone, it dawned on her that it would take a downright miracle for her to lose thirty pounds in two weeks. Crushed, she went back to her room and started crying and singing that old spiritual, "I surrender all." Somewhere between the crying and the singing a member of the retreat staff told her that she had a call. "Someone from Hollywood is on the line." It was Steven Spielberg asking if she could be in his office the next day to audition. "And by the way," he said, "if you lose one pound you could lose the part."

She says her life changed dramatically after that. Not because she got the role but because she decided she would never again allow herself to be so attached to an outcome. "Running around that track, I realized my worth was not defined by outside circumstances, by what I did or didn't have. I realized that all I can ever do is try my best and know that that is enough. And then I must surrender."

What I get from this is the giving up of control. The process of allowing something else, something far outside of herself, to control the way she saw herself, her present and her future. Now, I'm sure someone will argue that Oprah's billionaire status enables her to make such choices. I would argue not. First off, she wasn't a billionaire when she made that movie. Secondly, money has nothing to do with state of mind. Rich stupid people abound. Lonely rich people abound. Depressed rich people abound. It boils down to belief systems and what you chose to believe, what thoughts you choose to dance with. I choose to believe that we do have choices about our thoughts. Yes, the brain has some very intricate pathway for establishing thoughts but once they are present we do have the choice of harping on them or moving on.

I saved this essay and put in my dream journal for times that my confidence wanes. The times when I am so encumbered with thoughts about my writing path: will the book be picked up? will I sign with the agent I really want? will I get the contract that connects my point A to my point B? will the children do well in their own lives? will they succeed in school and go off to the fantastic colleges I envision for them? will....will...will.

I think about how easily we slip and give our control away. We slip it into the hands of lovers, we hand it to the people in charge of managing the work we do. As artists, we give it away to to readers and listeners of our work: if they don't understand it and don't accept it we feel rejected and we question the worthiness of our toiling. We look to publishers and agents to accept our work for publication and when it isn't, once again, the world feels bleak, the days are empty, the nights are long and cold.

I say that we must cease, stand still and look at what lies in the palms of our hands. Beautiful lives; lives filled with promise and hope. Lives filled with bright and colorful imaginings. In our hearts are stories and songs and poems waiting to burst forth. There are inventions and discoveries awaiting. There is love to be received and love to be made. There is a newness waiting in the wings for yet the chance to just be. I say that we must stop giving control to things outside of ourselves. If the lover leaves, well then we must cry but we too must know that we are still special and beautiful and worthy of being loved. And we must first do the loving to ourselves and with ourselves before we look to someone else to give it to us. If the publisher of a journal does not want our work, then we must find the publisher that does and if one still does not exist after significant searching then, well, we must be the publisher of the work ourselves. Whether that means publishing it on a blog or in a chapbook or in a novel: resources abound in getting your work out there. If the music you make sounds like a wounded animal to someone else, then find another person to listen to it. And if one does not exist, you be the one to listen.

My argument is that we give our control away far too often and in so many ways, without even knowing and by the time we look around at what's happening the situation is disastrious. We are left bereft, questioning, doubtful, worried. We look around asking why me?; focusing more on the answers than the questions themselves.

After reading Oprah's piece many times I made that decision for myself as well. This year, I decided to move forward with publishing my chapbook and today, though it is not in my hand, I do have a completed cover (the graphic artist who's working with me has come up with a beautiful, beautiful cover and layout), I have a wonderfully affirming introduction written by my mentor, I have a solid preface that speaks to how I have come to be a writer and artist and I have a collection of poems and three strong short stories that definately show my best effort. I am the founder of the Poetry and Prose Literary Arts Collective and I have pulled together a group of poets who are really talented and committed to art and bringing poetry to the people. We'll be heading up to Philly next month to be on a radio show, reading our work and speaking about contemporary literature. I'm making some excellent revisions on this novel and seeing it in new ways that I hadn't seen when I started. I have learned a great deal. Am I rich and famous? Far from it. But I'm not allowing that fact to control what I do, what I submit, what I publish, what I dream.

I am even becoming more patient with my children. I'm not worrying about the math with Kid 1 anymore and the potty issues with Kid 2. I am not worrying about their destinies because I am not allowing Fear to control the way that I see them; what I know they can do and what they are good at. Life is one day at a time and we will handle it all, one minute at a time.

I'm making better choices about the company I keep. For a long time, I'd put up with people just for the sake of having company. No more. I've learned never to give anyone that amount of control over me. Relationships last as long as they are supposed to and though it's so damn hard to say goodbye to people we love (men and women) it's all part of the cycle of life. I have come to understand this thing about seasons.

So I guess what I am saying is that one must look at the things that cause distress and ask: why I am I giving this situation control over me? Why am I allowing this "Thing" to pull me down and out? Why am I not submitting my work? Why have I stopped writing? Why am I staring at a blank page? Why am I waiting for someone to discover me? Why am I not doing the things I need to do to move myself forward? Who is in control?