mimsy and outgrabe

11.13.18: Just logging this here, as one does when one keeps a blog that tracks one's writing process: I've reached a weird, uncomfortable place with the poetry manuscript. Here's a list of my ridiculous fears/problems: I fear I've jinxed myself by calling this collection of poems a manuscript. I've written myself into a weird space with the narrative arc. I don't know where to go next. I'm not having as much fun writing the poems, which tells me they probably aren't good. Part of this is because my mind feels pretty divided. Feeling like I should be grading instead of writing really squashes creativity. Blergh. Little Miss Kindergartner is learning to write. 11.15.18: Feeling better. Did some whining in the above notes, got that out of my system, and then managed to write another two poems I kinda like. So. In one of my "I-don't-know-what-to-write-lemme-look-over-what-I-already-have" moods, I noticed that since September, I...

At the end of last week I attempted to create a small writing group that will meet once a week during the summer -- to do NOTHING but write. No workshops, no craft talk, just gathering in the semi-comfortable chairs of the local library for three hours, away from the messy houses and the kids and the talking spouses, and attempting to get words on a page on a regular basis. Everyone was in, excited, ready-to-go . . . and then no one could meet this Wednesday. (Including myself, because I fell ill YET AGAIN (read: another/thesamethatwon'tgoaway stupid sinus infection) and had to ply my system with antibiotics.) 1) I am falling apart. 2) I fear this is a sign of things to come. Both my falling apart (more), and the inability of the writing group to get together. Still, we'll see.  On Tuesday I saw an amazing reading of an equally amazing play by Boo Killebrew, this year's winner of the Leah Ryan's Fund for Emerging Women Writers. The acting was incredibl...

The past two weeks have been filled with grading, emails, web site updates for the festival, and other school business that has consumed my thoughts and my time constantly -- when I'm not panicking about giving labor birth, that is.  Last week I thought I might be going into labor, but it turned out that I just had a stomach bug. Strange, I know -- but apparently the signs of early labor can mimic those of the flu. That was fun! I had to cancel some classes and deplete my already-insufficient stock of sick leave, so now I'm in the process of pleading with HR to allow my office mate to donate sick time to me -- all so that I have enough days to finish out the semester.  Otherwise, I'm going to drag my postpartum ass back into the office in May for five days and grade final exams .  . . because fuck the system, that's why. They don't want to grant us maternity leave? Fine. I'll do what I think is unprofessional and pedagogically disastrous and return fo...

Today it's difficult to get out of bed. It's raining outside, and I'm exhausted (coming down with yet another cold), and the dog makes a good nappin' partner. But I shall get out of bed. There are children to be wrangled, assignments to be graded, and a class to be taught. Into the rain I shall go. I received an email yesterday that says the deadline for turning in our sabbatical reports is March 15. This is either a saving grace or a trap . . . I was prepared to have my report ready for March 5, but now I have ten extra days! I realize that the probability of using those 10 days to create a stronger, better written report and/or have more of my play written is very small, but I know I'll take them nonetheless. I'm not turning anything into the committee until I absolutely have to do so. I've written two poems this week and yesterday I sent out another submission, after having received a rejection that freed up some poems for sending-out. Those are good ...

This week, Bernadette Geyer and Molly Spencer both blogged about being a parent who writes . . . or being a writer who raises children . . . I'm sure we could get into a semantic argument about which designation is more appropriate, or should be more appropriate, but I don't have time . . . I have to write before the kids get up! (Har, har, har . . . crash of symbols/cricket chirps.) I've been wanting to post something here for a while, but life/children/school and yes, my writing got in the way, and that's something Spencer speaks to in her blog post , which is kind of an answer or addendum to what Geyer posted over at She Writes . I was really, really sick last week -- not deathly so (as my tired joke about the plague would have you think), but enough to make everything other than the most basic tasks seem terribly unimportant. Even still, because I'm neurotic whether or not I'm infected with some savage virus, I woke up early every morning to write and...

I met Danny Hamilton when I was a dweeby little undergrad. Now I'm a dweeby college professor, and he's still friends with me. Go figure. Sometime in the far-off or not-so-far-off future, we're going to collaborate. And it's going to blow your little minds. Water Source in the Sky (1 hour painting)