A Draft (!) and my mother to thank for it

I had convinced myself there would be no time for drafting this week. Thanksgiving on Thursday. No school on Wednesday. Appointments on Tuesday. That left today for holiday shopping and, most important, for purchasing pie plates. I am the pie-maker for our California family Thanksgiving. I take this responsibility very seriously. And my pie plates are too shallow and insufficient in number to feed the crowd. So, I thought I'd run up to the College Town to buy pie plates today.

My mom said no.

She said for-heavens-sake-buy-some-foil-pie-pans-at-the-grocery-store-and-go-to-the-library-to-write.

Mom, you rock! I took your good advice!

So I went to the library and got set up to work by my favorite, sunny window. I then promptly fell asleep, deep enough to dream. Then I woke up and got to work.

My process for the last two weeks or so has been to read a couple pages of Carolyn Forche's long poem "On Earth" from her collection Blue Hour. I read, scribble down phrases and words that seem to be important, and make notes about what I think might be going on in the poem (I am never sure as there is very little narrative or connective tissue in this poem). Then I take the words and mix them up with some of my favorite words, and draft lines. Since last week, I have been writing the lines in on my post-it notes for the twenty little poetry projects.

I continued that process today, never expecting to go toward a draft with it, but the Mail Order Bride began speaking. She said, Kind Sir / I am a map / You may unfold me. She said, Make our bed / A prairie a nest / For our bones / Their hushed mingling / Come to me in the hour / Of fading thresholds. Kind of a forward gal, isn't she? I worked slowly, as has been the case for all the MOB drafts, going back and forth from my notebook and the computer, culling lines and images from the post-it notes, sometimes adding, sometimes taking away. I ended up with a draft of 53 (yikes! that's a ton for me) very short lines. The draft ends with a question: Kind Sir how will I know you? Which, in my opinion, summarizes the mystery that is marriage in seven words :).

So, today I learned a few things. One is that we all need people in our lives to support our life's work, to keep us on the road when we tend toward the ditch, to remind us of who we are and what's most important. Another is that you can draft a ton of lines in just a few days if you're willing to stop by your desk between loads of laundry, sinks full of dishes, boo-boos to kiss, and peace treaties to negotiate (or between whatever activities fill your days). And lastly, that a catnap by a sunny window at the library is the very definition of bliss.

Now I will go home and be a happy baker of pies. And a poet, too.

Rack 'Em and Stack 'Em!

Way long time ago (in my life, this means "before the kids were born"), Husband and I were watching a home decorating show. Don't ask me why. We obviously had time to kill. At any rate, this show was interesting because it was devoted to resolving differences of opinion between spouses/partners on how to decorate their home. This episode featured a couple who couldn't agree on how to configure their guest room. They wanted to have room for their four grandchildren to sleep over; they also wanted to be able to use the room for other purposes (perhaps as a den or office? I can't remember) when it was just the two of them.

The husband wanted to "rack 'em and stack 'em!" -- in other words, he thought bunk beds were the obvious answer. The wife preferred the day-bed-with-trundle-plus-Murphy-bed approach. The husband must've said "rack 'em and stack 'em!" fifty times in the half-hour segment.

Later in life, when Husband and I had a several things, not the least of which were children, to rack and stack, we took to calling out to each other "rack 'em and stack em!" Yes, we find humor wherever we can.

At any rate, I'm thinking of rechristening our little house the  Rack 'Em and Stack 'Em House. Because of the shortage of space here, there are many, many things which are put away on top of other things, which are put away upon other things, which are in turn put away on top... well, you get the idea. If Anyone (I won't name names) decides to, say, rearrange the fragile system of racking and stacking, we end up without a place for certain crucial objects. Such as the coffee mugs. Or the T.P.

I decided last week I need to take a similar, rack 'em and stack 'em approach to my writing life. In other words, I need to find a stack of hours for writing, and a stack of hours for other stuff like being a mom and running a household. If I don't keep the stacks separate, if I don't arrange them just right, then something loses its spot. And, of course, writing is always the thing that gets muscled out of the stacks of time.

So, starting this week, I started racking and stacking. I started three dinners on Sunday, so I wouldn't need to spend as much time in the kitchen during the week. I set aside a stack of mornings as work days. Yes, work days. I have actually spoken these words: "I can't do it on Tuesday because I work that day." I've stacked up my errands and household duties for attention on other days, at other times. This probably seems like no big deal to many of you who have been balancing work and home responsibilities for years, but since I have just recently entered the phase when parenthood doesn't require my constant attention, I am learning it anew.

In keeping with the rack 'em and stack 'em approach to life, today I took a good look at all my recent work, everything in my "Active" file. The poems I feel excited and hopeful about, I left in the "Active" stack; other poems, ones I don't really feel much energy for, I put into the "On Hold" stack; a few poems went in the "Submit" stack; several had the chance to meet the shit-can (sorry, Mom! but sometimes only the right word will do).

I've been walking around my house today proclaiming, "Rack 'em and stack em! Rack 'em and stack 'em." It feels good.

(P.S. For a beautiful reflection on the integration of writing life and family life, read Sage Cohen's post today.)

(P.S. Again: !!!WARNING!!! In case anyone in the readership (all 3 of you) is considering the wisdom of the rack 'em and stack 'em approach to sleeping arrangements, let me say this: DON'T DO IT. In another small house of mine, I was persuaded by Someone (I won't name names) to bring into our home a loft bed, which is the bunk bed's poor country cousin. Said Someone, "Rack 'em and stack 'em!" The loft bed was very annoying but minimally workable until I got sick, after which there was no earthly way for me to change the sheets when Someone was traveling for work. I pause here to remember the spectacle of my friend, the big shot lawyer, changing the loft bed while wearing a three-piece suit. Let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. Keep the beds low to the ground, Reader, low to the ground).

In Which, Armed With Documentation, We Obtain Our Library Cards

It was a very good day at The Casita (which is how I've begun to refer to our little house).

Today the Mamacita found a copy of the lease. With this lease, a utility bill with the Mamacita's name on it, and the Mamacita's picture ID, the four readers* of the family were able to obtain real, live library cards at our new hometown public library.

Do I hear a "Hallelujah!"?

The days leading up to this event have been sheer agony, particularly for a certain reader of the bunch. This particular reader has read every age-appropriate book in the house at least twice, (and probably some that aren't age appropriate but I don't want to think about that right now). This particular reader was, and I quote, MISERABLE! without any new books to read. The Mamacita tried to buy him off with a book purchased at our friendly neighborhood independent bookstore, but that only lasted one day. Then he was MISERABLE! again (I confess, the complaint of being MISERABLE! without a book is one of the few complaints I can abide, as I'm sometimes guilty of complaining about the same thing).

There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. There were pleas and negotiations. There were mumbled concessions: fineI'lljustreadHarryPotterfortheFIFTHtimethengeez.

Reader, what can I tell you? I was trying. But did you ever try to find a copy of a lease in a casita into which you've just moved, where, in fact, many boxes are still unpacked and there are piles of stuff lots of places where stuff doesn't belong? I confess, it was almost as hard as finding Kit Kittredge, American Girl, who was at the bottom of the.very.last of boxes labeled "toys" that I looked in.

And also, since when do hometown public libraries require multiple forms of identification including one home-based utility, not a cell phone bill? Kinda makes you feel paranoid for wanting a library card. But I digress.

I found the lease, girded my loins, and took the kids downtown. The hometown public library is beautiful, full of friendly staff, and houses an impressive collection from what I've seen so far. Which, of course, is the Children's and Middle Readers collection. And, after the last several days, it seems quite fitting that one of the streets bordering the library is Mercy Street. Mercifully, the MISERABLE reader, and the other two readers (one came home with the library's entire Kit Kittredge collection), and the mamacita have spent much of today lost in the pages of a book. Bliss.

And speaking of how important and completely wonderful hometown public libraries are, take a look at this beautiful sketchbook a San Francisco artist made about her hometown public library. I think you'll find that her art and her sentiments are right on.

Which reminds me... there is one hometown public library that I've been missing lately. It involves an island house, a glassed in porch, and a view of the bay. But that's another story for another day...

Now, I'm off to read.


*As the three youngest readers made clear to library staff, Husband is not so much a reader. Don't ask me how I ended up marrying a non-reader. He's wonderful in many ways and we were in love. Still are.

Today's Draft: I Can See Clearly Now

Reader, it has been a good long stretch since I had any real writing time. By 'real' I mean more than a half-hour or so. This morning, Husband came to me and said, "Maybe we should go to the mall this morning." I just about went back to bed. I hate the mall. But he had a return to make, and we needed to look for Easter clothes for the three bears. So instead of going back to bed, I bargained: Ok, we can go to the mall this morning, but when we get home I want some writing time.

The deal was done.

And so, I made my way to my desk this afternoon. I confess, I held no great hope for drafting today. Lately I've been feeling the weight of the writing life: the uphill battle of it, the constant struggle to find little slices of writing time around the edges of my life as mother, the long haul persistence that good writing requires. I confess, I sometimes think it would be easier to be "just a mom." And yet, I know what happens if I don't write: I start disappearing around the edges. I know I don't really have a choice in the matter. I must write. So I sat down with my bad attitude and read some really good poems in the current issue of Cave Wall, then picked up my pen.

The leader of my writing group often talks about objects and how they can spark poems for us. Just everyday things: a basket, an egg, a button, a key. With those thoughts circling, and a note from a po-friend that she had tried an object poem, I soon found my focus for the day.

First I chose three objects that, for me, feel important and interesting: roof, window, key. Then I made lists of the functions of each object, aiming for 10 functions minimum. It's funny, I started out in the active voice -- "keeps the rain off," "creaks under snow" -- but quickly found that I could be more imaginative and symbolic if I worked in the infinitive: "to be made of layers, to be nailed down, to groan in the wind, to slip between them and the stars." I love little mysterious moments like this, when just changing voice unlocks new doors. Yay, words!

After I made my lists of functions for each object, I chose the object to draft with: window. I then looked back at an old poem I'd written about cranberries and noticed the poem began with how a cranberry forms, then moved the cranberry into the human realm. I decided to do the same with my window draft, so did a little research about how glass and windows are made (fascinating, by the way). That paid off, as I was able to open the poem with: To begin as sand / and salt (BTW, hooray for my primal landscape --the beach-- making it into a window poem!). Throughout the process, I tried to find good verbs and descriptors, ones that might not normally be associated with glass and windows. The poem ends with the window holding the face / of the one who stands / waiting.

The thing about this draft is that it was really fun to write. I came to my desk glum, and ended up remembering why I love writing: the energy and joy of creative play turning into something that didn't exist before. Plus, free materials. Dear Poetry, thank you for the reminder. I can, um, see clearly now.

Waiting to Exhale

Reader, I took my first deep breath in five days at 10:39 this morning when I got a text from Husband saying he was at the airport waiting for me to pick him up.  He had been in India for business and became ill, so spent an extra three days there during which I was never quite sure how well or ill he was.  Between this small worry on the homefront and the terrible news from Japan and other quarters of the world, my brain has been complete mush.  I've been doing things like forgetting my own phone number and boiling my teakettle dry.  And ignoring the po-world and this blog.

I confess, I am not so very impressed with my ability (or lack thereof) to remain calm, centered, and clear-headed in times of worry.  But, I've just finished screwing my brain back in its socket.  Now give me a couple more days of deep breathing and I think I'll be back to normal.

As for now, it's Husband's birthday and I'm off to cook someone's favorite dinner and dessert... . (By the way, he's weak and weary but he's going to be fine).

Florence Nightingale, Reporting for Duty

Or not.

Husband doesn't make too many appearances here at Both Fires.  That's because I don't feel it's fair to thrust him into the blogosphere just because he happens to be married to me.  But I will tell you that he had knee surgery this week, and thus, I have been a little short on a few things.  Namely: sleep, time, and words.

I must admit that I'm no Florence Nightingale.  Did you know she was called "The Lady with the Lamp" because she, ever vigilant, would make the rounds even at night?

Here's what I do at night:  write out a post-it note with times and medications, and tell Husband to set an alarm.

Then again, he is no injured Crimean War soldier.

At any rate, we are limping along here in South-of-the-River, getting ready for school to start for the three lovelies next week, and enjoying the first weekend of college football games (a little plug for my team:  Go Irish!  Beat Boilermakers!).  The weather is cool and autumnal.  All of this is channeling my Inner Planner, and I'm jotting down notes in pencil so that I have the family schedule set for the start of school.  And then I'm using a Sharpie in ALL CAPS to schedule my WRITING TIME for the fall.  Husband has been duly informed that We will not be scheduling physical therapy during Our writing time.  Ahem.

Reader, I am wishing you the best of all things September (if there are any Michiganders out there reading, eat a few Paula Reds for me).  Soon I will be back here having had more sleep, more time for writing, and with some more words about what I'm reading, ch-ch-ch-ch-changes in my writing life, and other general musings.

(P.S. Vintage Red Cross postcard is public domain from the Nurse Entrepreneurs Network online collection of vintage nursing postcards)

And Thus Was Achieved an Uneasy Truce

Last night.

Husband to me: "Why do you like those Masterpiece shows so much?"

Pause.
Long pause.
Longer pause.

Me to Husband: "Why do you like NFL football so much?"

Pause.
Long pause.
Longer pause.

Husband to me: "Ok."