Failing Often Means I Keep Trying

I’ve loved words since I fell in love with my very first picture book at age 2–Prince Bertram the Bad by Arnold Lobel.

Prince Bertram even kind of looked a little like me.

Well his hair, anyway.

 prince

And falling in love with poetry happened a little while later, when I discovered a flood-stained volume of Kipling’s poems in my neighbor’s trash.

 kip

I read the poems aloud, and though I didn’t understand much at age 3, I felt their rhythms were a kind of magic. A musical incantation calling forth life.

But sometimes, these days, my head is too full of words.

Overwhelmed by news and media.

 too many

And I crave something creative to do with my hands that doesn’t call for words. 

hand bulb

So, some of you may know I was thinking about taking up crochet or knitting.

Something to do with my hands while watching Netflix that is more productive and less caloric than feeding my face with salty snacks.

Plus, pretty blankets.

crochet vs knit

Well, 17,000 hours of watching YouTube how-to videos later, and lots of salty snacks along the way…

I have officially failed at both.

Really, I gave it lots of effort.

Even sought real life advice from experts.

fail 2

But it’s something to do with my lack of manual dexterity.

An inability to tension the yarn.

Who knew it would be that hard?

Not me.

tension yarn

So what did I do?

I researched aids to help tension the yarn.

I discovered 5 different aids and tried them all.

Didn’t help.

fail 1

Now, I’ve always kind of known I’m a klutz.

Never could jump rope without getting tangled up.

I trip over invisible bumps in the sidewalk.

If there’s even one bit of ice, my foot finds it–and boom–down I go.

fail 3

But I refuse to give up all hope.

Stubborn that way.

Or maybe stupid.

Or determined.

Oftentimes, I can’t tell the difference and just keep plodding on.

And that’s a kind of success too.

fail 4

So, I’m coming for you afghan loom.

Who can’t twist yarn around a little peg, right?

Gonna find out.

afghan

I’ll check back in with you guys with or without afghan.

Let you see the results of this next try / fail opportunity.

Wish me luck! Please. I’m gonna need it.

Ideal many life failures thomas edison Google Search

 

 

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The Road Paved With Rejection

Rejection never gets easier. Not for me. I know rejection is the more likely outcome whenever I submit a completed poem or fiction piece or essay.

If for no other reason, than because of the sheer quantity of writing being submitted everywhere. Publications have limited space and unlimited selection. It’s a numbers game.

Rejection Just Ahead Green Road Sign with Dramatic Storm Clouds and Sky.

But when rejection comes, it always feels personal. Even though I understand from a rational standpoint that it isn’t. I feel like I am being told I suck. I don’t matterNothing I do matters. I am the worst writer in the world. Maybe the universe.

As an editor myself who has to parcel out rejection–something that hurts as much as receiving it–I know rejection is about the taste of the people choosing. And their mileage may vary from my own.

Rejection is subjective. Taste is individual. Not absolute.

Editors’ differing aesthetics, their biases, having to read the thousandth dead grandmother poem that month. And their grandmother is in the hospital. And she may not live. Or maybe that editor just discovered their father cheated on their mother with a person who has the same unusual first name as me.

Whatever the reason, rejection still hurts. And for me, it’s a physical pain as well. A blow to the chest, making it hard to breathe. Which makes sense according to MRI research. Rejection lights up the same areas in the brain as physical injury. There’s a great article on the TED site by psychologist Guy Winch that talks about this: Why rejection hurts so much

guy_winch_ted_dawn_kim_rejection_120615

The good news is, once I catch my breath, I’m ready to try submitting again. Mostly because of the voice in my head. Thankfully, that voice belongs not to me, but to my very first poetry mentor, Ottone “Ricky” Riccio, who taught at the Boston Center For Adult Education for several dozen years.

Ricky said, “Don’t call yourself a poet until you’ve received a thousand rejections.” What he really meant was that success at submitting doesn’t make you worthy. Passion for writing makes you a poet. And if you have enough passion that you’ve submitted a thousand or more times, you’ve got what it takes.

By these guidelines, I can call myself a poet many times over. Thousands of rejections.

Ricky didn’t place much value in the hierarchies of literary publishing. He encouraged sharing your work, but getting it out into the world any way you could. He suggested students take a handful of magnets and post poems on the refrigerators in the appliance section at Sears.

Ricky was an early proponent of self-publishing. Way before print-on-demand came into being. Many of his photocopied, hand-stapled collections stand among my all-time favorite poetry collections.

dealing with rejection

In my heart, I know sharing work matters. During my childhood, growing up in harrowing conditions, poetry saved my life. It still does. Every day.

As a child, I saw how people who’d suffered loss, and tragedy, and all kind of hurt, wrote about their experiences in poems. Across distance, time, gender, culture, these folks spoke directly to my wounds. They lived to write about what they’d been through–a testimony to survival, and likely, even thriving.

I’ve come to believe that our words reach those who need them most. However that happens–whether publication in a literary journal, or in the community newsletter, or posting online.

Poetry is my spiritual practice. Getting work into the world is a necessary part of that practice. Rejection is a piece of it as well. And the hurt. So I rest, take some deep breaths, and keep on. I hope you will too.

heart road

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Time Travel Coming Soon!

Some of you know that I’m a huge time travel enthusiast–reading about it, watching movies, delving into the scientific possibilities. 

delaurian

And I’ve always wanted to write a time travel novel.

Well now I finally have!

It’s a romantic adventure called Time Flash: Another Me.

There are no DeLoreans, but there is a wacky scientist.

And a possibly-magical cat.

tt quote smith

I’ll be releasing my novel soon.

Stay tuned for more details!

 

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In Praise of Philip Levine

I am so excited to have just received my copy of Philip Levine’s posthumous collection,                                                 The Last Shift.

I am savoring reading his words, which have always affected me so deeply.

His very first poem in the collection, “Inheritance,” moves me to tears, especially the last few lines.   The poem is about a watch and other items Levine, as a child, coveted of his grandpa’s. He used to sneak into his grandpa’s room and look at the objects.

Here’s how the poem ends:

 

…I could call them

“Infinite riches in a little room”

or go cosmic and regard them

as fragments of a great mystery

instead of what they are,

amulets against nothing.

phil l

I met and spoke with Philip Levine only once, but the memory of his humbleness and humanity will stay with my whole life.

I wrote an elegy for him the year he died (2015), but never presented it anywhere.  My verse adopts Levine’s practice of the 9-syllable line (mostly), a syllable off from what the ear is used to with the more common English 10-syllable line, giving the overall composition an uneasy bearing or forward momentum.

 

A Simple Truth    

in memoriam for a great poet

 

I imagine Philip Levine time-

shifting in Trafalmadorian

fashion to 1936 where

he is an angel-on-the-shoulder

weeping as Lorca is tortured, then

murdered; to Fresno State his first year

teaching where on a lunch break he sits

with a student reciting Roethke;

to one April in Detroit, the mud

Biblical, men milling, cued up

for news of work that never arrives;

back to the mills, haunted as the men’s

eyes who labored there, understanding

one human being is everyone.

 

And how many more lives than the six

million hearts stopped by Hitler does he

daily visit with his words?  Grass, boats,

dust, wind, the darkening skies, two sons,

a brother, the loves declared, unnamed

desires that were answered not by

their aims, but by the simple truths, small

red potatoes, melting butter, salt.

 

The book is open to the first page

yesterday. Tomorrow is always

the fourteenth of February.  And

today it is 1941

five minutes to 8AM, sweet Phil,

Billy Pilgrim, this day never ends.

 

Yes, oh yes, it is enough to say

what you can, the gift of transcribing

ordinary suffering into

extraordinary joy, your name

hangs in the brilliant morning air, a

feather, eyelid of a magpie, closed.

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Reading for Delight

Here’s the thing. I’ve come clean previously on this blog about my depression since the 2016 election and the state of our country and the world. I’ve recently managed to pull myself out of the dark depths, but it takes every ounce of practice and resolve to stay afloat. Self care is hard, especially when we need to be putting positive energy out into the world.

One thing that really helps me is reading for delight. Books that transport me to another world–a world in which the awful things that happen are resolved, and justice prevails. It may be fantasy, but it does give me hope.

Two books which I read recently that have been pure delight, are The Plot is Murder by V. M. Burns and Ghosts in Glass Houses by Kay Charles. Both are cozy mysteries, and in cozies, the world is better at the completion of the story than at its beginning. If only real life was like that!

plot is murder

So much to love about the first book in Burns’ Mystery Bookshop Series. First, is that the lead character  Samantha is a bookstore owner! What writer doesn’t fantasize about that? Second, is that she’s also a writer, writing her own mystery. So there are two mysteries happening concurrently in the book. But what really makes this book special are the senior citizen cast of characters that help Samantha investigate the mystery. They are quirky and fun and lively and radiate joy. I want to be any of them as I head toward Medicare age. Frankly, they not only make me smile, but give me hope for my future.

ghost in glass

Kay Charles’ book is all about voice. The main character Marti is snarky as all get out. She’s sarcastic and funny as she deals with her quite dysfunctional family, some of which are dead and appear to her as ghosts. Haunt and harass her is more like it. The story is all about redemption of one’s sense of self and that too is empowering. This is also a first in a series, and I look forward to the protagonist becoming more and more comfortable in her ghost-seeing skin as the series continues.

Literary fiction that explores the depths of human suffering is a necessary art that informs and inspires. And the beauty of the language can bring delight. But right now, I need more humorous delight in my life. And I am very grateful to authors like V. M. Burns and Kay Charles who brighten my spirits. That is a necessary art as well.

 

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Poetry Check-In

So I’ve been doing this research thing for my next poetry collection.

Finally managed to finish reading the first book on my list.

It was a slog…

but I did get some great quotes for epigraphs

and as poem-starters.

 

scary

 

Promised myself at least 3 drafts of poems a week.

Well, now I have 9 poem drafts from this book.

Will any of them grow up to be real poems?

That remains to be seen.

Stay tuned.

 

 

 

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Out into the world…

progress report

 

Met my submission goal for the month of February.

 

Here’s what I sent out into the world:

1 personal essay

1 short story

5 poems to a contest

7 poems to several venues

1 application for a writing class

 

I’ve seen other writers set a goal of 100 rejections per year. I’m going to aim for 180.

 

That means I have to submit at least 15 individual things a month.

 

If I get rejected every time, I will easily slide into my goal.

 

But what if someone says yes?

 

Well then, good problem to have. I’ll just need to keep writing and keep submitting new work.

 

Either way, rejection goal, here I come!

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Poetry Publication Goals — First, some good news

First the good news–my first poetry acceptance of 2018 to a very small local journal called North Coast Squid. The poem was one I have been working on a very long time and felt very attached to. I’m so glad to have it find a home with a local print journal. I’ve only lived in Oregon a little over a year, but I’ve felt the literary community was closed off to me. Now, it feels like one door has opened. Perhaps more will follow.

Squid-5-Cover (1)
I’d like to submit more poems this year than I did in 2017. My depression and angst over the state of our nation got the best of me last year. Not only didn’t I write much, I also didn’t send much out.

I do have a backlog of poems I’d like to get into circulation. Some are speculative, some political, some more autobiographical. I’m planning on having one day each month where I focus on getting poems out.

Wish me luck!

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In Research Mode

I’m in the research phase of writing poems for my next poetry collection.

My last 2 collections were written after a long sojourn into research:

Red Riding Hood’s Real Life

RedRidingHood

&

Four Quarters: an homage to T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets

4q

Right now, I am reading and taking notes, but not writing any poems. At least not yet.

Maybe that’s because the current book is kind of boring. I am still going to plod through it. Hope the next one will be better.

I don’t write all my poems this way. It’s only when I am working with a theme, especially one way above my head, that I do this.

This collection has a science theme.

Until I write a whole group of acceptable poems, I am going to be slapping myself on the forehead, saying, “Why do I torture myself this way?”

Maybe I like the challenge. And I do enjoy learning more about topics that interest me.

But sometimes the research phase is overwhelming.

 

 

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