mimsy and outgrabe //

a record of panic, parenting, teaching and art-making


Come to This Reading I'm Hosting. Or Not.

I'm in a weird head-space. Tomorrow I'm hosting and taking part in an event that feels much bigger and important than it really is. Maybe this is because I haven't organized a reading or participated in one for a long time, and maybe this is because there will be people there (friends, colleagues) who haven't read or heard my work before, and maybe this is because the work I'll be 'presenting' -- it's weird using that word -- is so unlike other work I've put out into the world. It's two scenes from a new play I began this summer, and it's being read by two people who aren't me, and it's a comedy, and it's not written with poetry, and it's crass in a way that makes me feel really vulnerable -- because I fear that it will be too crass for some of the audience, and really not enough for others -- I don't want to push boundaries in a half-ass way, but I'm probably going to offend some people and I just have to get over that. I'm excited for it and also dreading it. I really want to forget about my own work and listen to other people read their own poems and fiction and then chat and laugh and merry-make, and then I want also to crawl into a hole or back into my bed or maybe run away, very far away, and not see anyone for a long time.

Also, if hope is an island and I'm standing on it and all of my book submissions are a great ocean all around me, and every time I receive a rejection the waves from that ocean encroach and erode a little more of the shoreline, I'm standing currently on a patch of beach about four feet by four feet, with no trees or fauna to protect me from the sun, and I'm about to just give in to the waves and say fuck it and sink. I did this to myself by submitting my book fucking everywhere for the past year -- I knew the rejections would come in all at once, particularly since a lot of those book contests or open reading periods had the same approximate deadlines. But here I am, feeling dejected anyway. And envious. It's really difficult to hear about your peers' second and third books coming out -- people you consider your peers because, when you met them, you were more or less in the same place, in terms of a writing career -- and get back nothing but rejection on the manuscript you really hoped believed would be your first book. And so yes, anonymous chickenshit hater, I do feel like a fraud and a hack:

Yes, of course, the reasonable person in me says that I shouldn't listen to anything that's sent anonymously and by someone so obviously lazy and unimaginative, but I resent the implication that this person thinks I somehow imagine myself to be more important than I am. I've had a few poems in a few very good places, and I'm proud of that, but I'm also realistic in that they are JUST a very FEW places and they happen sporadically, like every ten years. I don't get my work accepted or published widely, I don't have even one book published after over a decade post-MFA, and I teach at a community college, which makes me a pariah in the larger world of academia and a shit-heel to those who have a well-honed disdain for writers who take the teaching route. I have no delusions about my importance in the larger literary world.

So fuck, man.

Did I say weird head-space? I meant bad head-space. I've been in a terrible mood for the past few days. Here's to hoping I get my head outta my ass some time soon.


Self-Care 2016: Now Featuring Clean-Eating, Podcasts, and Hate Mail

Hello again. It's me.

The past month or so has been filled with a lot of self-care stuff, trying to take care of areas of my life I ignored during May, June, and July while I prepared for my grad course and the script development lab and wrote up/filled out the form for my third and hopefully-final promotion. Then I went to a mini-conference as part of a leadership program at Stuffolk and they had this unit on stress and time-management -- I scored a 27/30, putting me in the high-stress-you're-gonna-have-some-serious-fucking-problems-soon-if-you-don't-knock-it-off category. I already kinda knew I was there, in that red-zone, but, you know, being one of maybe two people in a room of 20 who identified as having high levels of stress made me realize who fucking tired I am of being that person.

So, as the story goes: changes. We'll see if any of them make a difference. Some beach time with the kiddos, some household maintenance, some personal maintenance (running, yoga -- like, yoga-lite, don't be impressed -- eating cleanly and trying to figure out how to be less of a basket case most of the time). Reading. With the kids, by myself, usually at night. A lot of slow-and-steady, early-morning class prep so that I will be better able to focus during the semester. Listening to podcasts while I do the decluttering around the house or driving to the various places suburban life dictates. (I'm on season 2 of This American Life's Serial; all caught up with Hot Source, my brother-in-law's comedy show; and in and out of Slush Pile, the Painted Bride Quarterly's transparent editorial-process-as-radio-show, which is interesting and terrifying at the same time.)

A couple of days ago - a week ago? -- I received a hateful email out of the blue from an account that was promptly deactivated. It was sent to my Stuffolk address, so I suspect it was from a disgruntled former student who didn't like the grade he or she received or the way I ran my class or something I said in class that challenged his or her world view. Who knows, really. I can't imagine anyone in the larger world outside of Stuffolk would have the energy or time to send hate mail to me. 

I enjoyed posting this shit to social media and having my friends and allies defend me, although after a while it just felt uncomfortable and self-serving and left me thinking that maybe my hater had, to a small degree, a point. (I.e. Here I am doing it again! Haha! The hilarity!)

Well done, hater.  Well done.

Still, I'm comfortable enough with myself that I can have misgivings about my actions but not consign myself to "mindless and despicable." I know I'm neither of those things. Most of the time. I mean, look, hater-buddy, I'm having a hard enough time getting my contemporaries to read my poems. Why would I imagine anyone would read them a century from now? 

(On that note, my beginning-of-the-year full-court press on the book publishing world has resulted in a month of fairly steady rejections. So there's that.)

Anyway, he loves me. So there.
All this is to say that I'm in a weird place. Feeling calmer -- which may be a result of the elimination diet (I begin reintroduction of "trigger/allergy" foods today so THAT might change). Feeling also a little sad, sometimes a little ambivalent. But thoughtfully, if that makes sense. And feeling also a little restless. Not in a mid-life crisis way -- which would be right on time, actually, as I turn 40 a few weeks from now -- but in a I'd-like-to-see-some-kind-of-fucking-payoff-for-my-efforts kind of way.


Conference & Script Development Lab Recap (Subtitle: Real Actors Really Read My Play! And Other Things I Did at Writing-Nerd Camp)

This summer has been motherfucking intense. 

I'm not complaining. (Yes, you can breathe a sigh of relief.) I'm just trying to accurately describe the period of time in which I required my squishy, ill-used mom brain to be suddenly very active this summer. (I'm in year three of coming off those pregnancy hormones -- fingers crossed that maybe my brain will return to full capacity by the Christmas season.)

July's Southampton Writers Conference and its Script Development Lab was extremely useful and productive. (So yes, I'm glad I listened to A. and didn't back out. Don't tell HIM that, though.) My experience with the Script Development Lab this year was really outstanding -- not least because of the feedback provided me by the dramaturg assigned to my play (William Carden of the Ensemble Theatre Studio -- who is brilliant and lovely), and its actors and director, but also because, perhaps, I came to the conference with a piece of writing that is working, in ways that previous drafts have not worked. I felt affirmed, or rather, justified -- justified for those hours and days I set aside in June to work on the play while the kids were with my babysitter, justified for those early mornings, justified for all of that time I dedicated to my play when I felt like I should have been working on completing my A-form for promotion.

And yeah, it feels good when you see some return on your efforts.

Despite the time I spent writing in June, however, I couldn't quite finish the first act before the initial table reading -- which is why I approached the conference with such trepidation. But despite having an unfinished script, the table reading was -- at the risk of sounding hyperbolic and like a complete rube -- transformative. Instead of a straight reading of the play, all the way through the script without stopping, Carden allowed the actors to ask me questions about the characters and my vision for the play (which I suspect was particularly useful since they were working with an unfinished script) and sometimes directed them when he felt they were reading a scene or lines in a way that worked against what I'd intended. 

It was so interesting -- I loved the experience of watching a director at work with actors and a script (especially, I must admit, with my script). And I so appreciated the care and regard that Carden took with my work before he'd even arrived at the table reading -- he'd read my last spastic despairing post on my blog and came prepared, I'm guessing, to talk me down out of the rafters. It was, honestly, just nice to be treated with respect and like I actually belonged at that table. For so long I've felt like a fucking imposter or poseur for writing a play, and at this point -- particularly when I was so close to just giving up on the whole project -- it was really important to hear that I have something worth pursuing. 

That's it, I guess. I didn't (don't) need an abundance of praise or hand-holding but I did (do) need to hear that this long, long, LONG exploration of the verse play hasn't been completely in vain.  

The conference was good for two other reasons, too.  One, I used every spare moment of time engrossed in the generation and completion of the first act -- this time a first act that actually prefigures and imagines working in tandem with two other acts. The rapid revision schedule and deadline that followed the table reading required me to focus, write, and rewrite in a way that I haven't in a long, long time. The day before my second draft was due, I spent over eight hours in the library working. My vision was blurry by the time I left and I nearly gave myself a migraine from all of the coffee I consumed, but I managed to complete the first act of the play in a way that feels right -- albeit a little underdeveloped (but that, hopefully, can be corrected after I complete the other acts). 

Two, I completed the last of my graduate credits required for promotion at Stuffolk by taking a workshop with the playwright Lucas Hnath. From Hnath I learned a lot about the teaching of dramatic writing, which will -- hopefully -- translate well when I return to the classroom in the fall. I learned a good deal about the possibilities in dramatic writing, too. Just reading Hnath's plays is an education in itself -- they are wonderfully unexpected in terms of structure and movement and he does gorgeous things with language and the rhythm of spoken speech. 

Lastly, I emerged from the workshop with the beginning of a new play -- something wholly unrelated to poetry, and comic -- incredibly crass -- and fun. It sprang from an assignment, which is never a place I imagine good art coming from, but continues to surprise me as a viable source (the sow poems in my book MS sprang from an "assignment" I gave myself after a long period of not-writing). Not only is this new play something that I'm interested in pursuing and developing further, it's a good reminder that when writing my verse play, I need to have more fun. Less despair, more excitement and daring. I need to remind myself that even though the verse play is a drama, and a heavy one at that, there are so many playful, surprising things I can do with its structure and images (both in language and on the stage). 

Right now, I'm in a period of post-conference stillness. I'm not writing at the moment (this post would be the first non-work related piece of writing that I've done since mid-July), but I needed a little breather. Time to think. I've been trying to do some self-care stuff, and not get too wrapped up in work OR writing for a short while, but that's been difficult. The last week in July I had to attend another conference, for work, so I haven't exactly been sitting around eating bonbons. (Mmmm . . . bonbons. I've been on an elimination diet for food sensitivities for about two weeks, too, and bonbons and wine sound fucking awesome right now . . . nevermind that it's early morning.)  I'm going to take a little trip to Virginia tomorrow and see my family, whom I haven't really spoken to all summer because of my crazy schedule. I'm gonna go squeeze my nephew and chase my niece around. It'll be a nice change of pace before I return to fall semester prep, and hopefully a good last hurrah before I return to my writing projects. I don't mind taking a breather, but I really don't want to lose momentum, you know?


Writing Process as Hangover: Berate Yourself, Hydrate, and then Push Through It

My latest blog posts have felt so solipsistic, particularly in light of the fucking chaos and violence in the world that has always existed but seems, thanks to irresponsible and inconsistent mass media coverage, as if it's escalating inordinately of late -- but I'm keeping up with them as a record of my writing process, which is useful in hindsight but feels something like a giant, unrelenting hangover right now. 

Sometimes Twitter provides catharsis.
Part of this headache-like pressure is very much due to the upcoming script development lab. I told A. earlier in the week that I was thinking of emailing the program and asking them if I could switch from the script development lab to a writer's residency, and he was of the opinion I should just stick with the original plan. He can probably sense that I'm a gigantic coward and that I don't want other people -- particularly people who know what they're doing when it comes to drama -- to read and critique my early work, or work that feels early even if I've been writing it piecemeal for the better part of a decade. He can also probably sense that it's better for me to face my fears instead of just slumping into despondency. It's not even the tough, nasty critique that I'm afraid of -- it's the noncommittal, polite critique that happens when people don't really have any strong reaction to your work at all in either direction: that is truly horrific.

A.P.'s suggestion for writing a treatment of the play -- a la screenwriting and adapted to the process of writing for the stage -- was a fucking good one and it's helped tremendously. It took a few days to get my head out of my ass, but I managed to sit down for a few hours and think through the plot and character development of this play. Something finally clicked. For the first time I began to see a clear development beyond the first act -- I've been stuck in the first act for years -- I've been rewriting the first act for years -- and I suspect this may have been the most significant progress so far. 

The result, however, is that I need to drastically reconfigure my first act (major cutting, adding a through line, re-imagining entire scenes to reflect that through line, etc. ) just to get to the second act and also -- if I'm going to truly commit to this script development lab -- so that I have a workable script for the actors and dramaturg who'll be giving my play their time and effort. 

I have six days before the beginning of this conference, and six scenes outlined for the first act that need to be developed. Basically, one scene per day over a holiday weekend with only one day of babysitting (today) which is also filled with meetings BECAUSE OH MY GOD PEOPLE ARE SCHEDULING MEETINGS RIGHT UP UNTIL THE VERY LAST DAY WE ARE CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED TO BE AVAILABLE. 

So . . . the odds are in my favor, yes? 

I think I'm going to rename the subtitle for this blog something like "rants and tantrums about writing and academia" because that's what it's turning into. 

I'm a gem, I really am. 

P.S. OH, and because I ignored my blog for so long, I forgot to post the following as a record that I've actually accomplished something during the past few months:



The Black Mood and Blue Funk of Post-Deadline

I took the week off from writing. More or less. It began promisingly with a lunch date with A.P. to discuss our projects (his novel, my play) and then took a big nosedive from there. After last week's frantic and frenetic push to meet deadlines (the A-form for my final promotion, a somewhat-workable draft of the play for July's script development lab) I think I needed a solid break.

Not that I can afford to take a break at this point. The graduate class (and script development lab, and conference) begin July 6. I'm going to have to use this weekend, and next week, to get some serious work done.

I guess there are two things that left me needing the break and also just kind of deflated me: one, I turned in my promotion paperwork and instead of feeling elated and happy because it's (supposedly) the last time I'll have to go through this process, I felt deflated and weary. And then I found out that my application was far less substantial (like, it probably weighed 3 lbs less) than a colleague of mine on another campus. I *know* we're not supposed to compare ourselves to others but goddamnit how realistic is that? Most days I think I'm pretty confident and pleased with my work and how I've performed throughout my career, but maybe I'm at the edge of burnout again because I kind of wanted to send an email to the Executive Dean's secretary suggesting she just dump my pages directly into the shredder.

And two, when I met with A.P. we spoke at length about Act One and also about how I see the act working inside the larger three-act play, and A.P. had a really good suggestion for an exercise that might help me work through plot and character development and push me towards actually finishing this fucker. But in the hours that followed our conversation, as I chewed and mulled over what he'd said, I just kind of sank, feeling like I never should have shown anyone this work until it was a complete draft. In, like, you know, the year 2035.

The thing is, I know that feeling is bullshit and I just need to keep going. I know this project should be a play: the idea "arrived" as a play, and I've never been able to envision it any other way. The problem is that I don't fucking know how to write a play. I teach that shit, but it turns out, I don't have a clue how to do it myself. This is compounded by the added challenge of writing in meter, and I get the feeling from A.P. 's feedback that I'm just not good at it. (I don't think he was trying to tell me that directly, but it's the feeling that remains). Despite putting in a solid month or more of real, earnest work and believing I'd made some good, productive changes and meaningful progress, *now* I feel like I've just been treading water all this time. Scribbling. Writing crap.

Additionally, A.'s been dealing with some stuff of his own, work and life problems and frustrations. It's been a tough week overall for our little household.

There was a bright spot: Little Miss Talkalot was recognized at her fifth grade moving-up ceremony with the Principal's Award and a state award for student achievement (service to others, academics, etc.). She won those awards all on her own, for being pure, unadulterated Little Miss Talkalot, full of perpetual sunshine and energy and a willingness to engage the world and make it a better place, and not because of anything A. or I did -- but it was gratifying all the same to realize that we haven't fucked her up or gotten in her way, and that she feels secure and loved enough to help others thrive, too. It was a tiny signal from the universe that, to some degree, we're doing *something* right. And so that helps, I guess.


The Blergh Chronicles, Volume 485, No. 6,437

This week the "mini-sabbatical" ends and two major projects are due: a finished, revised/revamped Act I of my play, and the A-form, my last application for my final promotion at the college.

Things are not going well with either project. I have made the tiniest dent in my A-form and I haven't worked solidly on the play since last week. The weekend was spent hyper-involved in the domestic sphere, shuttling kids to parties and playdates and working with A. on making our house, and our yard, look less tenement-like. 

THAT hasn't really gone well, either, in that we have a bunch of half-started (or half-finished, if you like) projects scattered all over the yard(s) and house -- felled trees that still need to be cut into logs and hauled outta here (and no one wants ME playing with a chainsaw, people); about 7 yards of mulch that needs to be distributed between tree beds and flower beds; weeding, lawn-feeding; laundry -- always laundry, particularly with Vampire Toddler's 16 costume changes a day; a broken garbage disposal; a bathroom that still lacks a ceiling; and clutter, clutter, clutter (paper, toys, books) that desperately needs to be removed from the house. Basically, I should just invite the Salvation Army into my home and ask them to take whatever they want. 

I'm giving serious thought to whether or not I should even apply for promotion this cycle. Everyone at work acts like we should apply for promotion exactly when we're eligible because that's how you make more money, particularly when it comes to retirement, but I don't give a fuck about the money at this point. It's the least of my concerns. That may not be smart -- it's not like we're living in luxury with three kids and a disaster home to maintain -- but I'm feeling really apathetic about rehashing the last five years of my life where work is concerned. I did the work, and I'm done with it, and I don't have an interest in selling myself to people who really don't know me and when it comes down to it, don't give a fig for the projects to which I've dedicated the bulk of my time and energy over my career.

I've had similar thoughts about finishing this act of my play and participating in the script development lab at Southampton. I have a half-written first act of play in metrical verse (that may or may not hold up to scrutiny) about an old lady who's losing her mind. How's THAT for a hard sell? At the very least, I have more of an idea of where the play will go, but writing in verse -- and trying to approximate something that might actually be poetry -- is far more time consuming than writing in prose, and behind it all I'm afraid I'm just spinning my wheels creating an epic theatrical disaster. 

On top of this, The Boy was doing boy-things on Friday and with all of his frenetic boy-energy he crash landed on his little arm and after resting it all weekend it's STILL hurting him and I'm afraid my morning is going to be spent in a doctor's office and possibly traveling to some other location for x-rays. 

Ultimately, how the hell am I supposed to get all of this done and is it all even worth it?

People ask themselves that question all the time, and about bigger and more important things. Ultimately, I'm a boring privileged suburbanite with first-world problems. I'm mired in pessimism at the moment and that makes me even more boring. Sorry for the yawn-fest post. And for being self-obsessed. I mean, Orlando. Bigger things. More important things. My own concerns are petty and ridiculous, you know?

I'm going to go call our pediatrician now.


Mini-Unofficial-Summer Sabbatical & Other Attempts to Finish What I've Started

I managed to work on my verse play every day of last week, so something is going right. On Tuesday I created a schedule wherein I outlined the parts of Act I that I will revise or create in order to have a complete, working draft that I can submit to the Southampton Theatre Festival in early June; the schedule itself had to be drastically revised on Sunday when I discovered I'd taken nearly six days to revise one scene.

I am not a fast writer nor a prolific one. I'm trying to come to terms with this. Even when I have more time than usual, like I do right now, while the older kids are in school still but I'm not teaching classes, I can write at a snail's pace. It doesn't mean I'm not working -- in fact, I believe I've spent more hours writing over the past week than I have, collectively, over the past year -- but much of the working consists of trying lines, words, whole stanzas and then scratching them out and starting over . . . or staring at the page as I rehearse the lines in my head. It's . . . not exciting, to say the least.
I don't know why I need three notebooks to write. I just do.

It feels really rewarding, though, even though I can't exactly see the rewards in terms of complete pages. I just feel better being actively engaged in my play, in my work, and I'm fairly satisfied that I've kept distractions at a minimum. I deactivated my effbook account last week when I realized I use it far too much like a crutch . . . Can't find the right word? Let's check Facebook! Can't figure out how to resolve this scene? Let's check Facebook! Stupid, I know -- and pretty good indication that I have, like, zero self-control or self-discipline. I realized that if I'm already a slow writer, it certainly won't help to lose myself for 15 minutes to 1/2 hour increments in social media a couple of times a day.

I've felt less pressure, too, being MIA from the effbook: I was a member of two (or maybe three?) different writers groups on there and it was -- in hindsight -- stress-inducing to see people posting constantly about submissions and acceptances and publishing. I'm sure it felt worse than it actually was, but it did make me wonder: if everyone's constantly submitting, when are they writing?

Not that I want to spend all of this post now focusing on effbook -- but it DID connect me with a lot of interesting writers and supportive peers, so it's not all bad. It's just bad when it's constant. So -- at some point I'm guessing I'll return, but for now I'm breathing more easily and feeling glad that I'm better able to focus on working.

All in all, my absence from this one piece of social media (albeit a really distracting piece), coupled with my ability to spend several hours a day working on my writing, feels a little like a mini-sabbatical. Which is an awesome feeling, since I won't be officially eligible to go on sabbatical until 2018. (Boo.)

Mini-unofficial-summer sabbatical has also given me more time to read. Currently, I'm reading Aracelis Girmay's The Black Maria -- it's really moving and beautiful; her writing evokes in me a deep admiration and awe and also a little despair. It's not exactly envy, but it does have to do with someone else's work making me feel or acknowledge my limits and capabilities as a writer. I know I'm a very different kind of writer than she is -- but I wish, sometimes, I had some of her lyrical grace. It's a kind of wistfulness, I suppose.

And now I'm going to leave the blog so that I can go back to working on my play. I have one more scene to revise (or really, start over completely, as I discovered this morning), and then three whole scenes to create from scratch . . . now that I've decided Act I needs to go in a completely different direction than the one I created in 2014's draft.

That's right. 2014. I've been working on this thing forever -- and I know that most (smart) people would read that as a sign to move on, that perhaps this isn't clicking and so maybe I should just give up . . . but I'm really fucking stubborn. Like, really fucking stubborn.