And that was an awful metaphor, but I press on.
Today marked the last day of my 7-week prep class for this stupid statewide essay, nothing more than a graduation requirement that lets the bureaucrats crunch numbers and proclaim how well our students are doing. Instead of class, though, I held my second round of 15-minute conferences with each of them. (The class only had 11, so that was easily done.) And conferences better served the purpose anyway: they had to know their score on their last in-class essay, they had to get admission tickets to the test location for their designated days, they could ask questions of me if they chose.
This marks only the second time I've taught this course--the first was 4 1/2 years ago, and I feel the same now as I did then in the sense that I can only do so much for them after a certain point. (Sound familiar?) The m.o. of this course is drill and practice, on the theory that one becomes better at writing by writing. So they wrote eight essays, all in class and all without knowing the topics in advance, in seven weeks. And all but one of the original 12 survived. I'm not sure how well I would do with that kind of intensity, so kudos to them all for making it this far.
The common course outline stipulates, among other things, that students are to write at least three passing essays (2 and 3 are both passing ratings) to get a passing grade. Well...easier said than done, sadly, at least with our students. In a mere 7 weeks, it's really difficult to make big headway, but I did see signs of it. Only 2 of the 11 wrote all unequivocally failing essays, 5 or 6 of them wrote at least one passing essay, and the rest had 2 or 3 passing essays. When I didn't see consistent progress, I did see little hesitant stop-start signs of it: perhaps fewer verb tense shifts, perhaps more compelling development now and then. Little signs are all it takes to keep me going.
But I have to say I wouldn't be sorry to see this stupid state requirement go the way of the hula hoop. One has to take it as many times as is needed to pass; after two failing attempts, one has to sign up for the prep class. If one fails the essay again, they once again have to sign up for the prep class. Repeat as necessary. It penalizes many otherwise good students and delays them getting on with their academic lives. For at least two of my students, this essay is one of very few obstacles still in their path before they transfer. It broke my heart recently to see one of my students in this remedial class poring over a calculus text for another class.
And I'm not sure what is proved by passing the essay. That you can produce safe, bland, formulaic writing?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Swimming back to shore and thoughts on the profession.
As of today, at app. 4:30 p.m., of 42 learning support in-class essays brought home on Thursday, 35 graded. I am a machine. I have really had to battle myself this round: resentment, dismay, anger at some of the most unbelievably flawed writing known to man.
I have concluded (as if I hadn't known already) that I perpetuate the system that protects me and my job. I don't know that I really expect many of these students to get better in 15 weeks, and I don't see much steady progress. Most of them are seeking to stay afloat and safe. Here and there I see a few points' improvement between assignments, but so many factors can influence that. Each assignment is a separate test of our abilities.
Most of my students (and I'm trying to be realistic here) don't possess 1) the time; 2) the discipline; 3) the self-interest to really grind it out and work to improve their writing skills. They see writing (as they see many college courses) as having to eat their veggies. It's a hoop to jump through so that they may be legitimized. They've overcommitted themselves. They don't have the leisure.
And don't I feed into that? Am I not marking the same ten errors again and again? It's been said many a time that you can't teach motivation; sadly, I don't think motivation is enough with some of these guys. I mean, it's one thing to say you want to pass; it's another to acknowledge that you have writing deficiencies that could lead to failure and to get yourself to work on them, consistently, and try to reduce them. That means doing more than what's expected.
Our college certainly feeds the monster, with its constant push for more students and its emphasis that (to quote a recent billboard around town) "You're ready." I surmise many of our students see that, equate convenience with ease, and go adrift after they enroll.
Those of you out there, what do you think? Can someone improve his writing skills in a semester--like, improve significantly, where he's writing with more confidence and with fewer annoying surface errors? What have you been able to do to facilitate that?
I have concluded (as if I hadn't known already) that I perpetuate the system that protects me and my job. I don't know that I really expect many of these students to get better in 15 weeks, and I don't see much steady progress. Most of them are seeking to stay afloat and safe. Here and there I see a few points' improvement between assignments, but so many factors can influence that. Each assignment is a separate test of our abilities.
Most of my students (and I'm trying to be realistic here) don't possess 1) the time; 2) the discipline; 3) the self-interest to really grind it out and work to improve their writing skills. They see writing (as they see many college courses) as having to eat their veggies. It's a hoop to jump through so that they may be legitimized. They've overcommitted themselves. They don't have the leisure.
And don't I feed into that? Am I not marking the same ten errors again and again? It's been said many a time that you can't teach motivation; sadly, I don't think motivation is enough with some of these guys. I mean, it's one thing to say you want to pass; it's another to acknowledge that you have writing deficiencies that could lead to failure and to get yourself to work on them, consistently, and try to reduce them. That means doing more than what's expected.
Our college certainly feeds the monster, with its constant push for more students and its emphasis that (to quote a recent billboard around town) "You're ready." I surmise many of our students see that, equate convenience with ease, and go adrift after they enroll.
Those of you out there, what do you think? Can someone improve his writing skills in a semester--like, improve significantly, where he's writing with more confidence and with fewer annoying surface errors? What have you been able to do to facilitate that?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Why won't Johnny read (a/k/a my blood is semi-boiling)?
Came across today's post by Miss Kitty and I shook my head in sad, sober acknowledgment.
I have cut way back on reading assignments in all my classes--even lit. classes, which I seldom teach anymore because...I got sick of students not doing the reading. I'm not a sociological expert so am genuinely wondering why so many of mine still don't do it, even with the constant threat of quizzes and other grades.
One answer is they have not made a lifelong habit of it and therefore see no need to start now; perhaps this is part of the strategy to skate by. Another answer for a smaller set of them is that they have an undiagnosed learning disability and it's painful and/or difficult. A third answer is they never had parents or teachers who emphasized its importance. A fourth answer is that they simply don't see the importance of it, or the joy of it, and that's most discouraging of all.
Yet another answer is that they don't make the time for it, and reading requires time and space and attention and isolation. Having taught college success last fall, I know that words make their way into our brains at a slower pace than TV images into our eyes.
But now to ditch fairness mode, I'm pissed right along with Miss K. I wanted to reach through the monitor and smack those students upside the head. My equivalent experience is also from a lit-based class, when I'd assigned "Paul's Case" by Cather for the first time and had made careful notes and discussion points, and had prepared a quiz just in case. And in fact, I'm sure I'd announced the possibility of a quiz the previous meeting.
So I gave the quiz at the beginning of class, saw how few were writing, and started seething. Made it through 10-15 minutes, getting responses from perhaps three or four students, and adjourned early without going on a rant. We went on to the next story the next time, and they were still responsible for "Paul's Case" on the final exam.
God, how good it felt to end class early because I was pissed at them and to not try to slog through the mud like a good soldier.
I guess many students will continue to not read for eternity, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't stiil require it. As for me, I don't assign as much as I probably should. If I taught only one or two courses a term, you can bet I'd require a metric ton more.
I have cut way back on reading assignments in all my classes--even lit. classes, which I seldom teach anymore because...I got sick of students not doing the reading. I'm not a sociological expert so am genuinely wondering why so many of mine still don't do it, even with the constant threat of quizzes and other grades.
One answer is they have not made a lifelong habit of it and therefore see no need to start now; perhaps this is part of the strategy to skate by. Another answer for a smaller set of them is that they have an undiagnosed learning disability and it's painful and/or difficult. A third answer is they never had parents or teachers who emphasized its importance. A fourth answer is that they simply don't see the importance of it, or the joy of it, and that's most discouraging of all.
Yet another answer is that they don't make the time for it, and reading requires time and space and attention and isolation. Having taught college success last fall, I know that words make their way into our brains at a slower pace than TV images into our eyes.
But now to ditch fairness mode, I'm pissed right along with Miss K. I wanted to reach through the monitor and smack those students upside the head. My equivalent experience is also from a lit-based class, when I'd assigned "Paul's Case" by Cather for the first time and had made careful notes and discussion points, and had prepared a quiz just in case. And in fact, I'm sure I'd announced the possibility of a quiz the previous meeting.
So I gave the quiz at the beginning of class, saw how few were writing, and started seething. Made it through 10-15 minutes, getting responses from perhaps three or four students, and adjourned early without going on a rant. We went on to the next story the next time, and they were still responsible for "Paul's Case" on the final exam.
God, how good it felt to end class early because I was pissed at them and to not try to slog through the mud like a good soldier.
I guess many students will continue to not read for eternity, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't stiil require it. As for me, I don't assign as much as I probably should. If I taught only one or two courses a term, you can bet I'd require a metric ton more.
The (partial) return of Mr. Mopey.
It's not a big deal, actually: just got kinda ticked at my afternoon class for not doing their homework, or rather, because 4 of 10 people did their homework. I asked how many were burning to go over it, and no one said a word, so we moved on. I stayed professional and buried my anger, and soon enough we talked about apostrophes and it passed.
So I'll have to close another loophole when I teach this course again. It's a prep class for a statewide proficiency test of sorts--it's in two parts, reading and essay, and I teach the essay portion. All students who eventually graduate from this system have to pass the test. It doesn't affect GPA or the ability to register for most other courses; it's just a stupid graduation requirement.
So the majority of these students are in the prep course because they've failed the essay at least twice; a few take the course voluntarily, simply for the extra practice. It's a not-quite-half-semester course, and we're almost done. And we're at the point now where they write an essay in class every time for four straight classes, and they're a little weary.
Or maybe they just didn't find verb forms and verb tense enthralling topics today. Nor, maybe, did I. No biggie, right?
That said, they've actually been my most enjoyable class this semester. These prep classes can be hit or miss, especially since so many who have to take them are resentful that they haven't passed the test yet and that they have to, essentially, get drilled for 7-8 more weeks on things they've never been much good at.
Before this spring, I'd only taught the course once four years prior, and as then, I feel that after a certain point there's not much more I can do to help them. If they're in the same ruts at the end, it's up to them to seek help. Right? Is this thing on?
So I'll have to close another loophole when I teach this course again. It's a prep class for a statewide proficiency test of sorts--it's in two parts, reading and essay, and I teach the essay portion. All students who eventually graduate from this system have to pass the test. It doesn't affect GPA or the ability to register for most other courses; it's just a stupid graduation requirement.
So the majority of these students are in the prep course because they've failed the essay at least twice; a few take the course voluntarily, simply for the extra practice. It's a not-quite-half-semester course, and we're almost done. And we're at the point now where they write an essay in class every time for four straight classes, and they're a little weary.
Or maybe they just didn't find verb forms and verb tense enthralling topics today. Nor, maybe, did I. No biggie, right?
That said, they've actually been my most enjoyable class this semester. These prep classes can be hit or miss, especially since so many who have to take them are resentful that they haven't passed the test yet and that they have to, essentially, get drilled for 7-8 more weeks on things they've never been much good at.
Before this spring, I'd only taught the course once four years prior, and as then, I feel that after a certain point there's not much more I can do to help them. If they're in the same ruts at the end, it's up to them to seek help. Right? Is this thing on?
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Post-AWP, part 2: Wednesday evening QB.
My good friend (and AWP companion) seabird78 makes this comment about AWP on her blog, and I have to say it sets me straight. It is indeed refreshing to see so many little/medium mags surviving and even thriving, and one really doesn't have an excuse not to send work into the world.
I have a feeling that the bellyaching I did a few posts ago wouldn't be there if I'd been more productive with my writing the last year or so. But wishing it were otherwise doesn't do me much good.
And it occurs to me I let the conference swallow me up even when I wasn't at the Hilton. And it further occurs to me I've felt like this at many a conference, AWP or otherwise. And that I'm not alone. The grass is always greener on the other side of the ballroom.
I just keep telling myself that 1) it's impossible for 95% of poets to make a living doing only that; 2) those poets who are successfully published and have some name recognition are pretty busy much of the time, just in different ways from me; 3) the pleasure comes in the doing and that I need to get back to it. And I will, come Friday.
But how easy to envision publication and audience and "success," whatever that entails. Of the seven deadly sins, y'all, envy's mine and you can't have it.
I have a feeling that the bellyaching I did a few posts ago wouldn't be there if I'd been more productive with my writing the last year or so. But wishing it were otherwise doesn't do me much good.
And it occurs to me I let the conference swallow me up even when I wasn't at the Hilton. And it further occurs to me I've felt like this at many a conference, AWP or otherwise. And that I'm not alone. The grass is always greener on the other side of the ballroom.
I just keep telling myself that 1) it's impossible for 95% of poets to make a living doing only that; 2) those poets who are successfully published and have some name recognition are pretty busy much of the time, just in different ways from me; 3) the pleasure comes in the doing and that I need to get back to it. And I will, come Friday.
But how easy to envision publication and audience and "success," whatever that entails. Of the seven deadly sins, y'all, envy's mine and you can't have it.
What I'm doing to stay busy.
Here's what being out of town half of last week got me: four stacks of essays. One I finished up this morning at school, the next one I got started on tonight at home. The other two will probably wait until this weekend. Oh, and actually there's a fifth set which will probably wait until next week. Sheesh. One of my colleagues said long ago, "We aren't teachers, we're pack mules."
Luckily, the stack I'm working on now is in-class essays, which don't get as much written commentary, as are those to come this weekend. But it's a net effect, a piling-up effect, after a while. Again, sheesh. It's a blessed thing that we don't have research expectations, because who has time for research teaching 27-32 credit hours a year?
That said, I plan to work on poems this Friday whilst my car is getting a once-over. No essays for me, no sir. I've been doing a lot better today and yesterday about containing my resentment over not having time to write--and I'm making me some gd time.
What I'm reading now: Letters to a Stranger, a reissued lone volume of poems by Thomas James, who killed himself in '74 not long after its release. Apparently his work is in "deep conversation" with Plath (so says the intro), and I can see it in places, but he has his own thang going on. He has a knack for pithiness, which I dig, but he also has this way of pulling out the most unusual but fresh comparisons--the familiar made strange, but fresh.
Luckily, the stack I'm working on now is in-class essays, which don't get as much written commentary, as are those to come this weekend. But it's a net effect, a piling-up effect, after a while. Again, sheesh. It's a blessed thing that we don't have research expectations, because who has time for research teaching 27-32 credit hours a year?
That said, I plan to work on poems this Friday whilst my car is getting a once-over. No essays for me, no sir. I've been doing a lot better today and yesterday about containing my resentment over not having time to write--and I'm making me some gd time.
What I'm reading now: Letters to a Stranger, a reissued lone volume of poems by Thomas James, who killed himself in '74 not long after its release. Apparently his work is in "deep conversation" with Plath (so says the intro), and I can see it in places, but he has his own thang going on. He has a knack for pithiness, which I dig, but he also has this way of pulling out the most unusual but fresh comparisons--the familiar made strange, but fresh.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The end of alone?
Persuasive piece from yesterday's Boston Globe about technology and connectedness, both real and virtual. As for me, I take it all with several grains of salt. I don't know if it makes me more or less connected, but I do know it sucks up time that I should spend on other pursuits.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The top of my head blown off.
I'd be remiss, though, if I didn't mention how blown away I was by Mucca Pazza on Friday night. They played as part of the Literary Rock 'n' Roll event at AWP, after readings by ZZ Packer, Joe Meno, and Dorothy Allison. This is another (outdoor) performance of theirs, and doubtless a whole different vibe than a huge ballroom of non-rhythmic writer types.
The audio is a little distorted, and the video doesn't convey their full brash joyousness, but believe me when I say I've never seen anything else like them, ever.
The audio is a little distorted, and the video doesn't convey their full brash joyousness, but believe me when I say I've never seen anything else like them, ever.
Post-AWP: Saturday evening QB.
Got home from Chicago about two hours ago, knackered and in serious need of networking detox. Not that I went to AWP to network per se, but one cannot go and not get caught up in the hobnobbing. Before lunch today I ran into a colleague where I teach who confessed that he wished he could leave today instead of tomorrow; he looked like the crush was beginning to get to him, too.
So I find, once again, that AWP has inspired contradictory and ever-warring feelings within me. The dizzying array of panels, sessions, readings, and one-on-ones is a joy to see, yet more and more I'm convinced that this conference is for publishers, editors, and grad students, and not for the average workaday writer striving (in my case, grasping) at his craft. (It could be that the sheer tonnage of offerings is what makes me say that.) Even if it is for that person--and there were several delightful panels I went to that seemed to have craft and that person in mind--it's just as much, if not more so, a place for contacts and networking. My fiancee makes the case that marketing is important, too, and I know she's right, but marketing is icing on the cake in the poetry world, by and large--it's not a money-making proposition.
So I found myself wandering from ballroom to conference room, book table to book table, feeling a little overwhelmed and honestly, a little jealous. At the same time, I talked to a few of the small-mag editors, two of whom had just launched their independent mag last fall and had high hopes for it. I and a friend lingered for a while at the Sport Literate table, where we had a nice conversation about baseball poems and such. And I got energized to submit again soon, and I was thrilled, in a way, to see there's such a presence and passion for the written word.
But after it was all done, and I said goodbye to my friends outside the Hilton, zipped up my jacket, and jumped into a cab, I felt like crying. Mostly I felt bad about ignoring my duty to write, and it was all I could do to shake this nagging impostor syndrome. It was like how Joe Christmas walks past all the front porches at the end of Light in August, wanting to be included but feeling forever an outcast. And I wish I had the gift of gab more often, the ease of chatting it up with editors and publishers. The fact that I made myself linger at a few tables and talk for a while was nothing short of amazing--but all the same, what I wasn't saying was "Take my poems--please!" And I realized that sounded like groveling, and then I felt bad for feeling the need to grovel.
Here's what I believe, and I discussed this at length with my friends over lunch. AWP can be fun and stimulating, but it's a distraction from what we all need to be doing, and that's creating. The marketing and publishing happen if they're meant to happen, and a lot of stars have to align. Until then, one has to take pleasure in the work. That's where life is.
So I find, once again, that AWP has inspired contradictory and ever-warring feelings within me. The dizzying array of panels, sessions, readings, and one-on-ones is a joy to see, yet more and more I'm convinced that this conference is for publishers, editors, and grad students, and not for the average workaday writer striving (in my case, grasping) at his craft. (It could be that the sheer tonnage of offerings is what makes me say that.) Even if it is for that person--and there were several delightful panels I went to that seemed to have craft and that person in mind--it's just as much, if not more so, a place for contacts and networking. My fiancee makes the case that marketing is important, too, and I know she's right, but marketing is icing on the cake in the poetry world, by and large--it's not a money-making proposition.
So I found myself wandering from ballroom to conference room, book table to book table, feeling a little overwhelmed and honestly, a little jealous. At the same time, I talked to a few of the small-mag editors, two of whom had just launched their independent mag last fall and had high hopes for it. I and a friend lingered for a while at the Sport Literate table, where we had a nice conversation about baseball poems and such. And I got energized to submit again soon, and I was thrilled, in a way, to see there's such a presence and passion for the written word.
But after it was all done, and I said goodbye to my friends outside the Hilton, zipped up my jacket, and jumped into a cab, I felt like crying. Mostly I felt bad about ignoring my duty to write, and it was all I could do to shake this nagging impostor syndrome. It was like how Joe Christmas walks past all the front porches at the end of Light in August, wanting to be included but feeling forever an outcast. And I wish I had the gift of gab more often, the ease of chatting it up with editors and publishers. The fact that I made myself linger at a few tables and talk for a while was nothing short of amazing--but all the same, what I wasn't saying was "Take my poems--please!" And I realized that sounded like groveling, and then I felt bad for feeling the need to grovel.
Here's what I believe, and I discussed this at length with my friends over lunch. AWP can be fun and stimulating, but it's a distraction from what we all need to be doing, and that's creating. The marketing and publishing happen if they're meant to happen, and a lot of stars have to align. Until then, one has to take pleasure in the work. That's where life is.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
It's time for an intervention.
I have requested one-on-one conference time next week with, let's see, four students from one learning support section; another student requested one-on-one time herself without prompting. Interesting, in that this section is shaping up to be delightful to teach but chock-full of weak writers.
When I say "weak," you have no idea exactly what I mean. One student with whom I'm conferencing next week has so many problems we won't have time to cover them all in 20-30 minutes. Her first essay is a microcosm of the most common problems, but all lumped together: sentences that don't hold together, inexplicable punctuation, random capitalization, missing verb endings, wording that just doesn't make sense. Spelling, too, though that's hardly the worst sin.
We have a writing lab on campus, and I'm steering all these guys toward it. They have to pass an exit writing sample at the end of the semester, and writing like this ain't gonna cut it.
When I say "weak," you have no idea exactly what I mean. One student with whom I'm conferencing next week has so many problems we won't have time to cover them all in 20-30 minutes. Her first essay is a microcosm of the most common problems, but all lumped together: sentences that don't hold together, inexplicable punctuation, random capitalization, missing verb endings, wording that just doesn't make sense. Spelling, too, though that's hardly the worst sin.
We have a writing lab on campus, and I'm steering all these guys toward it. They have to pass an exit writing sample at the end of the semester, and writing like this ain't gonna cut it.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Adventures in meme-land, the return.
Okay, here's the latest meme from seabird78. The idea is that you comment on this entry, and I get to ask you five questions, which you answer in your journal, and then I comment on your entry, and you ask me five questions, and the cycle begins.
1. What made you choose poetry as your primary artistic medium?
Because I liked it when I heard it, because I'd taken two great poetry-writing classes as an undergraduate, and...I don't know, just because I thought I might be decent at it. More specifically, this poem was one of the first poems I ever read which made me think, "Wow, I want to write something like that." And because I always opt for the difficult way of doing things.
2. If you could sing only one last karaoke selection, what would it be and why?
Just one?? We'll go with "An American Trilogy" by Elvis. It would be suitably grandiose for my exit.
3. What is the best live concert you've ever seen?
Ooo, toughie. In no particular order: Elton John pre-throat surgery in '86, Sam Bush in the mid-90s, Bob Dylan (thrice), Elvis Costello in '99 and '06, Lucinda Williams (last show of the Car Wheels tour in '98 or so), and John Hiatt with his band (solo he's great too, but he's a different person with his band). I gotta give props to Kingsized, too, who will be playing at our wedding reception; they always put on a solid, straight-up, fun show.
Inexplicably, I've also seen Aerosmith twice, and those shows were more loud than memorable. Like, really loud.
4. Do you plan to stay in Atlanta permanently?
Unless forces greater than me dictate a move, yes. My soon-to-be wife is here, my life is here, my job is here, great restaurants, great friends, etc.
5. What is something you like that might surprise me?
1) The humor of Jeff Foxworthy; 2) Smokey and the Bandit.
1. What made you choose poetry as your primary artistic medium?
Because I liked it when I heard it, because I'd taken two great poetry-writing classes as an undergraduate, and...I don't know, just because I thought I might be decent at it. More specifically, this poem was one of the first poems I ever read which made me think, "Wow, I want to write something like that." And because I always opt for the difficult way of doing things.
2. If you could sing only one last karaoke selection, what would it be and why?
Just one?? We'll go with "An American Trilogy" by Elvis. It would be suitably grandiose for my exit.
3. What is the best live concert you've ever seen?
Ooo, toughie. In no particular order: Elton John pre-throat surgery in '86, Sam Bush in the mid-90s, Bob Dylan (thrice), Elvis Costello in '99 and '06, Lucinda Williams (last show of the Car Wheels tour in '98 or so), and John Hiatt with his band (solo he's great too, but he's a different person with his band). I gotta give props to Kingsized, too, who will be playing at our wedding reception; they always put on a solid, straight-up, fun show.
Inexplicably, I've also seen Aerosmith twice, and those shows were more loud than memorable. Like, really loud.
4. Do you plan to stay in Atlanta permanently?
Unless forces greater than me dictate a move, yes. My soon-to-be wife is here, my life is here, my job is here, great restaurants, great friends, etc.
5. What is something you like that might surprise me?
1) The humor of Jeff Foxworthy; 2) Smokey and the Bandit.
Monday, February 2, 2009
AWP is nigh.
It looms. It's a three-day orgy of readings, panels, boutiques, a bookfair, and hanging out with dear, dear friends. All I'm sayin' is I got $800 travel money from my department, and I'm using it. Reading the schedule is like walking through a ginormous buffet--so much food, so little room--and I am resolved to not let the buffet consume me.
Anyone out there going? What readings/panels are whetting your appetite? I know I'm keen on seeing the session with Stephanie Brown. If you don't know her work, check out this short three-parter from the NEA site. A poet friend calls her "one mean mother."
Anyone out there going? What readings/panels are whetting your appetite? I know I'm keen on seeing the session with Stephanie Brown. If you don't know her work, check out this short three-parter from the NEA site. A poet friend calls her "one mean mother."
Slumdog and writing again.
Slumdog was one whiz-bang ride. It was thrilling in spots, sobering in others, even hilarious at times. And I got all excited again watching that Indian version of Millionaire with the unctuous host (is that for real?)--who would have thought it possible? Oddly, with its genre-blending pyrotechnics, it reminded me of what Baz Luhrmann tried to do, less successfully, in Australia.
That said, I wish I'd liked it more. It kept me at a distance, somehow, and I think the wham-bam editing was the reason--it was so kinetic at times that I was just holding on for dear life. Another reason, I admit, may have been our 10 p.m. viewing after (for me) three glasses of wine and fried chicken. But something made it seem like an exercise--elaborate and artful, and involving, but an exercise.
Yesterday I sat at this here desk (after shutting down, unplugging, and putting away my laptop--out of sight, out of mind) and wrote in pencil for two hours on a newly purchased Office Depot note pad. I didn't have much purpose behind it except to get back to that nonthinking, intuitive side when the words kinda go through me like a sieve. And I got there a couple of times, esp. when I was simply describing how full and awful I felt after that third glass of wine, trying to make me feel again what that was like. Before and after that bit, I was mostly writing about writing, writing about how I didn't have anything to write about, but sure as shit, the first five minutes passed and I got on a mini-roll.
Then I took a break and proceeded to try to write a poem about last night--nothing ambitious, just a few lines on overindulgence, sloth, bitterness--and cursed, crossed out lines, got angry, and declared the afternoon, nay the day, a waste. But of course it wasn't, even after I ripped up the pages and tossed them in the recycle bin. I had to write that in order to write something else. If it's the start of something else, something bigger, I'm confident enough to know I can get to that place again. Just as likely, I'll go somewhere else next session.
But I hope that was the beginning of getting back into...something. For about 10 minutes there, I was back in that great place of generating words without "monkey mind." And this is a different feeling from the memoir writing I did last fall, more animal and elemental somehow.
That said, I wish I'd liked it more. It kept me at a distance, somehow, and I think the wham-bam editing was the reason--it was so kinetic at times that I was just holding on for dear life. Another reason, I admit, may have been our 10 p.m. viewing after (for me) three glasses of wine and fried chicken. But something made it seem like an exercise--elaborate and artful, and involving, but an exercise.
Yesterday I sat at this here desk (after shutting down, unplugging, and putting away my laptop--out of sight, out of mind) and wrote in pencil for two hours on a newly purchased Office Depot note pad. I didn't have much purpose behind it except to get back to that nonthinking, intuitive side when the words kinda go through me like a sieve. And I got there a couple of times, esp. when I was simply describing how full and awful I felt after that third glass of wine, trying to make me feel again what that was like. Before and after that bit, I was mostly writing about writing, writing about how I didn't have anything to write about, but sure as shit, the first five minutes passed and I got on a mini-roll.
Then I took a break and proceeded to try to write a poem about last night--nothing ambitious, just a few lines on overindulgence, sloth, bitterness--and cursed, crossed out lines, got angry, and declared the afternoon, nay the day, a waste. But of course it wasn't, even after I ripped up the pages and tossed them in the recycle bin. I had to write that in order to write something else. If it's the start of something else, something bigger, I'm confident enough to know I can get to that place again. Just as likely, I'll go somewhere else next session.
But I hope that was the beginning of getting back into...something. For about 10 minutes there, I was back in that great place of generating words without "monkey mind." And this is a different feeling from the memoir writing I did last fall, more animal and elemental somehow.
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