Gary Lutz Strikes Again

Two more interviews from Gary Lutz:

http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2011/12/13/gary-lutz-on-%E2%80%98divorcer%E2%80%99/

http://thefiddleback.com/_webapp_4159108/An_Interview_with_Gary_Lutz

The End of Cursive

Growing up, I could not wait until second grade to learn how to write in cursive. I would hear whispers passed down through the grades of how the letters all connected to form seamless words, about how adult it all looked, how important it all felt.

I recently came across a box of papers from elementary school. Within the pile were pieces of that delicate brown paper with the light blue and pink lines. On the paper was my fresh and careful cursive, corrected with red pen tracing the line where my "e" should have looped and how my "k" should have looked. I remember how accomplished I felt when I learned to write "like an adult." How independent I felt knowing I had two options: print or cursive. Up until second grade, I only had one. But now, now I had two.

And so my heart broke a little when I found this article on CNN's website:

http://newsfeed.time.com/2011/07-06/typing-beats-scribbling-indiana-schools-can-stop-teaching-cursive/?hpt=hp_t2

Writing is important. Any writing. Whether it be a check or a story, a card or a yard sale sign. Using your hand for that movement and purpose allows you to become intimate with yourself and your language.

So write. Please. Feel the curves of your language.

A Letter I Received

Last fall, I submitted my thesis manuscript (pared down a bit) to several chapbook contests. Three, in fact. One was rejected, one was lost and never to be heard from again, and one response came in last week. I placed second and will be getting a chapbook of poetry published by Liquid Paper Press (aka Nerve Cowboy). It should be printed by the end of summer. Although this doesn't mean I've been actively writing, it does mean that my past writing has found a home and potential ears and eyes. Vollmer and Jakiela even expressed interest in teaching it in their classes. How wonderful it would be to have students discussing my poetry? Reading it, digesting it, finding themes and hammering out their likes and dislikes of it. That the goal, really. To write it, of course, but to also have it reach its intended audience. The fact that my sentimental poems have been identifiable to a complete stranger, enough to want to see it produced in a larger quantity, means it's more than self-sentimental poetry. It's relatable.

Right before I found out about the chapbook, I decided to get back in gear with my writing. I contacted two fellow writers who graduated with me last spring and scheduled a workshop with them in August. I now have two deadlines for which to write and submit poems for workshop and I am feeling much better about my progress. In the coming weeks I will be fine-tuning the poems I've written over the past few months (barely any), and writing some more for the workshop. So the chapbook letter was some added motivation that felt just about right.

The title of the chapbook. I Fall in Love with Strangers.

Here I Am

I've been swimming lately, due to some tendinitis in my foot, and have been stealing the techniques of the more-professional swimmers in the other lanes. I'm thinking of taking some swimming lessons, not because I don't know how to swim, but because I don't know how to swim properly. My legs wiggle a bit too much and my arms flail inaccurately. Also, I do not have a proper swimsuit for exercise laps. The one I have is frilly and covers as much of me as possible (which means it has a long top and a long skirt). The first day I swam, my left strap came undone. This happened to be right when I was approaching a group of small children, there for their weekly swimming lessons. Good times.

As far as writing goes, I haven't done any. At least not in any large quantity. I have a few grandma poems, and started a series of poems about my boss, who hates Pittsburgh for the silliest reasons (one of which is because Pittsburgh houses have basements). I take notes when I visit my grandma, who always gives me great poem lines, but I have to disconnect after I recognize them as significant or else I start to cry. And who wants a visit from a crying granddaughter?

But I'm getting back to writing. I hope.

In the meantime, I'm learning to dislike Emma Woodhouse. She's just too . . . shallow? Girly? Insignificant? Something. But kudos to Jane Austen for making me feel something toward her. Even books aren't the same to me anymore.

La Muse

I am currently staying in the South of France for three weeks for the purpose of writing. However, I am not writing. Instead, I am reading, napping, and eating way too much bread and cheese.

I am land-locked in the small town of Labastide Esparbairenque, which is 1.5 hours from Toulouse and 30 minutes from Carcassonne. During the day I open my windows to let some warmth in (the house is from the 12th? century and holds the cold very well), and end up killing various kinds of insects that find their way into my room. Once a week I am driven to Carcassonne to wander around and buy groceries. Then it's back to my room at La Muse, which is a nice room -- spacious and tiled -- but not a room that I am managing to write in.

In fact, here is my sitting room:

It's odd, how I avoid writing. At home, I write because I have to, for school mainly, and I have a small amount of time that I can schedule in that writing. But here, I am choking on free time, and still, I avoid writing. My head occupies different space over here, and I find myself thinking about different things or nothing at all. I came with the goal of writing more Russia poems, which was a large chunk of my thesis. There were holes in the story though, so I've been trying to fill in the holes to complete a manuscript that will hopefully become a chapbook. Turns out, I write worse when I'm in France. Go figure.

Anyway, here is the view from my sitting room:

Now that right there, that is beautiful.

It Do, It Really Really Do

In which I fall in love with fashion and its crusaders:

http://www.thestylerookie.com/

Ramblings

Working on the sixth day of being snowed in, as I'm sure many others are in this area. I keep shoveling my car out, hoping to stay one step ahead of this snow. I'm nearly done reading The Remains of The Day, which is one of the books for my teaching fellowship/independent lit class. I haven't had a literature class in a long time in which I really enjoyed the required books. I've loved every book in this class so far -- Great Expectations, The Fox, and now Remains. But this book is amazing. The main character holds so steadfastly to his duties that he willing gives up all emotions that come naturally to humans. But in doing so there exists, under the surface, a character whose emotions far exceed that of an average person. Repression at its finest. Maybe.

I've also been half-heartedly doing some research for my papers. But mainly I've been trying to get my poems in order. I really have no clue what I'm doing in that area. I think I just pretend half the time. I borrowed an alumnus' thesis to study her poetry. My director compares me to this former student a lot, which is very flattering, but after reading her thesis, I feel more defeated than ever.

My roommate and I, while waiting for the snow to start the other night, decided to get some beer. There's a great mix-n-match shop not far from our place. I usually choose beers based on their labels, and I must say I really outdid myself this time. Various kinds of beer by Dogfish Head, Great Lakes, and Bell's. All dark, all excellent. Now if I could just find the exactly right ending for this prostitute poem.