Driving through, in the midst of chaos

At the Eastfield Literary Festival with
Meg Tuite and JP Reese

I returned yesterday, late. To the right is a post-reading pic from the Eastfield College Literary Festival. It was an amazing time and, more, I had amazing company.

JP Reese (left) is a poet and prose writer; she read Wednesday night and again on Thursday with me and Meg. I had the pleasure of being there for both readings. This woman is dynamite. Read her. I learned a lot from watching her work the mic, introducing each poem with a charmingly-told, emotionally-rich story that offered the audience a private glimpse into her writing process and life, and this is such a gift.

Meg Tuite (right) came just before the reading, and though I didn't have much time with her, I was starstruck. Tuite is a flash master, and her reading was dynamic in that she had everything. Everything! Her stories covered topics and perspectives as wide ranging as the graphic nature of the dairy industry to a pondering of life and illness and strength to a humorous portrayal of a Wonder Woman admirer, delightfully awkward and endearing. Hilarious.

It was a pleasure reading with these ladies, and hanging out with them, however fleetingly. I'm always too busy. With class, work, writing, and home, I never seem to stay at the good stuff long enough. This is something I need to work on. Claiming my time. Because times like these last two days are invaluable. I'm realizing that more and more as I age: the good must be soaked in.

But as I made the long trek back from the reading, I passed the site of the explosions in West, Texas. As I drove home, I heard more news about the terrorism in Massachusetts. As I drove home, I became overwhelmed.

This week, the news has appeared an episode of Homeland. The sensationalism of the reportage has been over the top, as has the actual news and speculation. Unbelievable chaos and sadness. Who knows how to act? What to say?

The Watertown and Boston area make a strong community; I got that from the news, the people, and after unreal shoot-outs, after the Watertown community was on lock-down for a day, after his standoff on a boat with no one able to see what the remaining terrorist had on him, things are beginning to come back together. They've determined that the remaining suspect is in custody, so the town can begin to heal. But healing must be allowed to occur, and I'm not sure over-reportage is allowing that to happen.

Converse to the sensationalism of the Boston terrorism is another tragedy, the story buried here in the SW. What a horrible time for the good people of West, Texas near Waco. The explosions were were the result of a fertilizer plant malfunction that made the plant blow up, along with nearby homes and people. This accident killed and injured so many people in this small town, stealing from them their homes and possessions.

DFW Scanner on Facebook

On my way driving back from the reading yesterday, I looked for the site and didn't see it. I got stuck in traffic and distracted, began wishing an STD on the driver of the SUV that had just cut me off, then I started thinking about how amazing my life is, and how lucky I was. I slowed down, took back my mean and rather demented wish. He could have the lane.

As I drove, the radio switched from song to the host asking for residents from nearby towns (I was near Waco) to come out and donate anything they had. A caller asked if they needed clothes and the announcer replied (paraphrasing a little): Anything! They'll even need tampons, so throw some of those in, too, girl.

And though it was this one comment, so simple and a little off-center, it was this moment that really struck me. Imagine: to be suddenly be in need of such simple items.

It is now time to heal. But to heal, to support those healing, we have to empathize by asking the tough questions. Can you imagine having so little, so suddenly? Can you imagine being on lock-down in your own home, fearing your life? Can you imagine losing it all in an instant?

I can. I really can. All the more reason to soak in the truly good times.









*Donations for West are coming in from the Red Cross and local charities.
*Donations for the victims and those whose lives have been and are impacted by this terrorism can be given at http://special.patriots.com/offers/index.cfm?UUID=NEPCFDonations and many other places.

Sweet stuff

I've been posting a lot about meditation, general health and wellness, cooking more whole foods, eating veggies, exercising mindfully, etc... and I still am. But today's post is no healthy writer post. This week has been overflowing with the sweet stuff, the decadence.

My intentions were good. I brought home a single 1.7 ounce Vermont-shaped container of maple syrup for myself and quite a few maple leaf-shaped deals for friends. This was strategic thinking as the stuff is like crack, not that I've done crack, and I have very little restraint when it comes to such sweetness.

Also particularly saccharine this week is the fact that I'm reunited with my husband, who had to leave in a mad dash six hours after I got back from Vermont, who I barely got a chance to hug before having to drive him to the airport. We had three weeks apart. But yesterday, we were really reunited. We had waffles with that amazing maple syrup, took a long walk, practiced our respective art, and then went out for a healthy vegan meal followed by the most ridiculous dessert martini at SoHo on the Riverwalk in San Antonio to celebrate a friend's birthday. (I'm still feeling a sort of sugar buzz from this thing; in fact, my body might be in shock for a week. I was drinking the one on the right.)

Insanity aka the SoHo's Creme Brulee and Samoa martinis shown here.

This week has also been filled with literary sweetness. Here's a glimpse:

• The release of The Istanbul Review, VII, in which I have a longer piece of fiction. (The shipping is high for those in the U.S., but this publication is available on iTunes and will soon be available on Kindle as well.)
• The release of Versus, by many of my favorite poets who are all writing on a list of topics that, well... I just can't wait to read this book.
• Two acceptances recently, one of which was in Monkeybicycle, one of my long-time, all-time favorite online publications.
• Oh, and I finished a new flash piece I'm quite fond of this week. 

With the sweet, there is always the difficult. I'm off to reconcile a few writing dilemmas:

One is in a short piece I wrote. As I began the piece, I found the character came to life quickly and seemed to fit a particular name but the name was also somewhat awkward and jarring to the flow of the piece which is very important to me. My writing has to be read-out-loud friendly. But, my dilemma is whether I should keep the character with the name that seems most appropriate and get over my style obsession or compromise her initial portrait for style's sake. I'm leaning toward the latter, but I'm still unsure.

Also on my agenda, writing-wise, is another new character. Like Wallace (a character that recurs in my work and will be a highlight in my novel), I have a new character that seems to want to appear and reappear in my work. His name is Rattle, and two of his stories have been picked up already. I am very eager to see what people think of him. My dilemma here is, if I allow this character to grow and emerge through different short stories, should I also give him a voice? The difference with Wallace is, I always tell the story through his POV or a close third-person narration. Meanwhile, I have written all of Rattle's stories in first person, but never from his perspective. I guess that will be a question better answered when the publications come out, but I am excited about this guy. He's still mysterious enough to me to write quite a bit more about.

We'll see how it all works out. Such writing dilemmas are a good thing. They mean my gears are going. VSC really got me back into the writing swing. And if there's such a thing as residency addiction, I think it's already kicking in because I'm already thinking about my next (month-long) residency, and how I can make this happen. There has to be a way. Focused energy allows so much. It really does.

Before I sign off, I thought I'd share this because this blog is about my writing journey. Below is a taping of my reading from KGB. The awesome Michael Dickes took the footage, and Joani Reese delivered the MP4. If it doesn't work, sorry. I noticed I say um a lot when introducing my work. I guess that's why it's good to tape these things... Anyway, it's really dark but the sound is good. Once I get into the reading, I stop saying um, promise.

Read here is "Getting There" which appears in PANK and a short essay about my Grandpa Homer and a falcon that originally appeared in Narrative Magazine as "Columbus, Ohio." I had so much fun in NYC. Invite me back, NYC!

Have a good week all!

What a healthy weekend looks like around here

Writing and Other News:  

I'm thankful to be feeling better this weekend and more, I'm beginning to catch up on work, so I'm feeling much better creatively. I wrote two really bad short stories, one in a waiting room and another as my husband drove me to a mega gas station (more on this later); somehow I think the stories will evolve to their desired state if I let them sit and simmer a while. I like the characters. Also, now that I'm feeling better, I plan to return to my larger works that really just need polished and submitted. But one thing at a time...

If you live in San Antonio, and you're a pre-teen, teen, or have a teen, come out to the Parman Branch San Antonio Public Library on Thursday. I'm leading a Junior Journal Writing Workshop, and I'd love to see you. I've done this a few times, and I can guarantee, we'll have fun.

Personal and Of Interest (or Not):

I almost skipped the blog this week, but I couldn't keep such a magical experience to myself. Okay, maybe magical isn't the right word. And maybe you'll read this and think, Damn, why didn't you just take a week off, Jen?

Well, I was feeling better Friday, and my rehabilitation was welcomed, perhaps even catapulted, by the butterfly migration. I didn't see as many of the small monarchs this year as I did the year I moved here, but I had been looking out. As you may know, I wrote a short story about this migration which made me even more invested in the swarms (I've researched the migration quite a bit). I really thought they flew on by while I was sick, or that I had missed them at work; but while walking my dog Friday, there they were, flying around my ankles and ducking around the flowers by my apartment. This was magical, and seeing them made me feel the lightest (emotionally) I've felt in two weeks. That said, this is not the magical experience of the week but a mere prelude.

Here's the magic: I went, for the very first time since moving to Texas, to Buc-ee's. I'm sure it's been said before, but Buc-ee's is the Wal-Mart of gas stations, only more Wal-Mart than Wal-Mart. We pulled into the mega station, and Chris was cut off by a truck. He yelled at said truck's driver, but when I looked up and saw there was a pig in the truck bed, I told him to calm down. You can't yell at a man hauling a pig. We had to wait in line for gas (cheap gas - it was worth it), and then we took a deep breath and parked. We followed the crowds, headed for the front doors.

There were kolache samples being handed out near the entrance, fresh pies, three fountain soda machines with odd phrases (chewy ice indeed!), Buc-ee himself in stuffed form to the left and right. There were walls of sauces and nuts and spices.

When I first moved to Texas, I remember a friend telling me that I had to go to Buc-ee's. She explained that it was a gas station but also an experience, and once you've gone, you can say you've oriented yourself in Texas. Yesterday, I had my orientation. I saw cowhide coasters and cowhide flasks, cowhide wall-mounts and cowhide scarves. The workers all seemed thrilled to be there, and when I made a purchase, my purchase was gushed over for a good two minutes by a sales associate (I can name the purchase because it is, of course, a Christmas gift). At what other gas station can one have such an experience?

Look, I make it a point to try to make the best of wherever I am, but me and Texas don't get along. We just don't. I don't like beef, I don't decorate with cowhide, and I refuse to wear belts that will set off TSA alarms. It's not my thing. But, Buc-ee's was an experience. As my friend said, if you come to Texas, you might as well orient yourself.

Now that I've shared my magic, I'm going to bed. I hope to work well with others at the day job. I hope to have a good turn-out at the library, and I hope I can stay healthy, catch up more, and really find time to write again. It's going to be a long week, but I'm thinking a good one. I hope it is amazing for you as well.

Broad Strokes / The Poetry of Place

Ohio:

When I think of my hometown, I see the small cow pastures that I would drive by on my way to work, that signaled the edge of OSU’s agricultural school on Kenny Road. It was one of the first roads I ever drove, long and straight, leading from Grandview to Upper Arlington. It was the way to my mother’s apartment, the way to avoid 315. It was the way to Half-Price Books and Caribou, where I first felt the privilege of being a college student with my very own laptop and homework to do. It was the road to the apartment I would share with my husband before he became my husband, when we owned a small blue parakeet—the muse for my first published essay.

Vermont:

The benefit of silence. The mountains were so beautiful that it seemed ridiculous I could awaken to them every morning. The drastic differences, American lifestyles that could sell the dream. Vermont is where I found myself overstimulated as an MFA student, where I studied literature and writing for two years. Here were people who lived in nature, with so little concrete, without loud screaming and sirens and men hanging out car windows asking 'to get that number'. Artists. Trust funds to student loans. Remarkably talented people. ABCs. A professor who asked me how I possibly got in; I never stopped asking myself that same question. (I had catching up to do.) The mountains helped, close and unlikely friendships helped. The beauty of it seemed so distant from me, and yet now a part of my memory—a thing that can’t be taken, memory. Enlivening.

Texas:

Building a life with my husband, working harder than we imagined we’d have to in order to pay off student loans: the next bubble. Texas is filled with memories of Ohio; calls to family. Pictures from Vermont; emails to friends. A community I feel slightly unable to understand. A town hall meeting that condones guns for self-defense. Volunteer work. News stories of border wars. The honor of teaching. The students who amaze and inspire, who constantly challenge.

The longing to go somewhere else, where I’ll better fit; the bills that keep us here. A beautiful family that makes location matter less. A husband, who encourages me to write. Friends who teach me about astrology, fiestas and magic. God peddling couples at my door each weekend. The best food of the three states; a second language; breakfast tacos; a proud town of transients, traditionalists, soldiers, students and those looking for work. A nice stop.

The promise of somewhere new.

Written for "The Poetry of Place" -> hosted by Walter Bjorkman -> language / place carnival

Just Another Firery Redhead

[ahhhhhhhh.....]

I like to consider myself a rationalist, someone not privy to emotional outbursts or reactionary thought.  I like to think I can balance my experience with education and make informed decisions rather than simply living through what others might perceive as my destined journey through life.  But as much as I like to say these things, I am a firey person, from my red hair and temper to my unrestrained drive toward achievement.  

When I moved to Texas two years ago, to a small apartment complex in San Antonio between two mega churches adorned with signs like "He determines your path, it's up to you to follow" I worried I would not fit in.  Only a few days in my new home, a neighbor who was drinking a can of beer as he walked his dog approached me to introduce himself (yes, a version of this scene came up in a piece of fiction).  We exchanged few words of introduction before he asked me if I had accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my own personal savior, and when I told him I was agnostic, he kindly explained that I would come around, we each come around in our own time.  I nodded and said that anything was possible, and we parted ways politely as I thought to myself, "This man's head is in the clouds."  From that day forward, the dude made me uncomfortable because every time I saw him, he preached at me.

When I began working at a local community college, I met who is now one of my most valued friends.  We were both writers, which gave us easy rapport.  We began a small writing group and as we began to hang out more, she revealed her fascination with Astrology, explaining that she was a water sign, an easy friend for firey signs like myself.  She asked if she could do my chart, and when I hesitated, she said it was just for fun.

My birthday is August 16th, I am a Leo.  My firey nature causes me to act, sometimes act out, and it gives me a certain drive that I must be careful to reign in from time to time, she said.  She told me I was destined to travel and use creative expression as a means toward spiritual enlightenment.  I said, "OK..."

When I write, I don't think rationally.  I just go for it.  In other aspects of life, I try to plan and make informed decisions before I act.  In writing, I simply dive in, head first.  So, I reasoned, my chart was believable enough, though still vague enough to dismiss as blanket forecasting.  Nonetheless, I became interested--in a rational way, mind you--in Astrology, namely to figure out why my friend seemed so interested.  She seemed, I thought, a person with her two feet on the ground, and the way she studied the subject intrigued me.  

Astrology and Astronomy were not always exclusive fields.  In the time of Aristotle, there was nothing fantastical or short of scientific to the study of stars, even for the purpose of forecasting.  "There are cycles we cannot deny," my friend once said, upon returning from a weekend Astrology retreat, in which she spent two nights watching the stars and discussing the science behind Astrology in New Mexico with a group of like-minded practitioners.

"That's true, but why do you think you can predict anything based on a system that leaves so much room for error.  Astrology doesn't take into account the conditions a person grows up in, it doesn't reflect genetics or psychological shifts, evolution or even how a person's spirituality may change their way of living."  I said all this at once, the challenging statement was one that had been festering and growing since she'd read my chart months before.  I had found myself beginning to make connections (I sit in a room and no one takes the chair next to me until all others are occupied--this is not a personal thing, it's because you are a fire sign, my friend had said, people respond to your energy.  It's intimidating, even if you do not appear to be).

My friend is a water sign, one who will, according to Astrology, adapt easily to change and balance out fixed signs like fire with an open mind and easy-going spirit.  She tells me we were destined to get along.  Out of sheer rational curiosity, I have begun to study the Astrology with my friend, and although I do not fully accept it as a science, there are undeniable patterns. The fire and water, earth and air signs all have tells, and it's almost comical how often my friend will whisper a person's sign to me upon meeting them.  If the person seems good humored, she'll ask him his birthday, and maybe it's luck but she's been right each time.  

Whether or not Astrology is an outdated and often gimicky science (see your daily horoscope in the paper), there is an undeniable correlation to the patterns of human behavior and the alignment of stars.  I am not saying I'll get my chart read again, nor am I saying that I won't.  I'm not saying that Astrology should still be considered an area of science that is indistinguishable from Astronomy, but I will say that I've come to realize that rationalism is only so helpful.  In many ways, what I considered faulty about the notions of destiny and emotional drive is wrong with the stance of utter rigidity--thinking I can research any one thing enough so that it only has one side.  The world isn't that simple, and so when I see my neighbor now, who still tells me about his personal relationship with God every chance he gets, I don't feel so uncomfortable.  I just listen because their is some basis for every belief.  Whatever balance there is between fire and water, there must be between air and earth as well.  And as a person who chooses not to define my own belief system, who am I to say otherwise?

The Value of Local Writing Groups

A few weeks ago, I posted a mock-plea for a mentor (mock, that is, unless anyone wants to take on the role).  A few months before that, I posted a worrisome rant about leaving graduate school and, consequently, an accountable and invaluable community of readers and writers who were guaranteed to be there.  Apparently I need writers around me all the time or I panic.

It's probably no surprise that I am part of a writing group in San Antonio, a hodgepodge of talented writers, who contribute varied perspectives and advice while also producing an eclectic mixture of submissions.  We meet every month (we all have day jobs, and even this is stretching it), but it's only after graduating that I realize how valuable this small community of writers is to my own development and literary peace of mind.

Groups like this don't always work so well.  I've heard horror stories about friends joining groups that are harsh and competitive or worse still, filled with people-pleasing hacks who are only there to stroke egos over fattening coffee drinks and scones.  So, for all my whining and worrying about not having a paid community, I've neglected to mention what I do have--a dynamic, albeit small, group of serious writers, honest reviewers, who keep me going.

If you don't have a writing group, I highly suggest finding one.  Like the love of your life, the psychologist who isn't crazier than you, the best friend or the well-behaved dog, it might take a few false starts to find that perfect group, but they're out there.  Believe me.  One place to find writing groups in your area is on Meetup, especially if you've recently moved or are unaware of the writing community in your area.  Another option is to find online writing groups, such as those on Goodreads.

My group came together slowly.  At first it was just me and a friend trading work.  When we took a writing course on flash fiction, the teacher's style intrigued me and I invited him to join.  From there, one by one, people began to show interest and just like that a writing group was formed.  But this doesn't always happen, sometimes it just doesn't work, or other members are not as invested as you, and so it's always a gamble.  But it's worth it to try.


[what does that frog have to do with anything?]