Verbivore

Neighbors

2008-06-27T16:30:00.000-07:00

Across the weedy, trash-strewn alley from my work place is a motel, one of those places that was cute in the Sixties, an L-shaped building segmented into small units. Now people live in those tiny places long-term. The Home Oxygen guy drives in each week, and it's within spitting distance of the Mental Health Center across the street. One guy even lives in a motor home on the lot. The windows are propped open with fans in the summer, shut in the winter - but not shut tight, not with peeling paint exposing the frames, not with the wind rattling the unprotected panes. There's an old man who lives there, who comes out on an irregular basis. This March I got really afraid for him. The wind pushed me along with enough force I had to plant my legs to stay upright. Here he came up the street, on a bitter morning, against the wind. I can't say he walked up the street. He more quavered, he shook up the street. When Olivia was five months old she could not crawl, but she managed to move herself by sheer willpower. She moved every muscle in her body over and over until she was in a different spot. That's what this man was doing, putting everything he had into the next faltering step, on staying vertical when the wind and the ice conspired to flatten him. The wind blew his hair around, long strands of white combover flying around his head, exposing the skin on top. He wore a dark cloth coat, cloth pants, those man-type shoes all guys his age wear - black, rounded toe, slight heel, vibram sole, and no gloves. I don't automatically offer help when I see someone is struggling. I stay on the scene and make myself available until they ask - sometimes it's an assault on human dignity to offer help too quickly. People sometimes just need time. But this man seemed to need help. I watched for a while. He didn't go down. He didn't move more than half a block in ten minutes, either. Finally, my hands were cold and my conscience burning. I went across the street and asked. Would he like help? No, he wouldn't. He would be fine, he said. His eyes were not angry, but they were determined. He would manage on his own. So I went inside and said a prayer at my desk. I didn't see him again and I wondered how he was faring. I wondered what was so important he had to go out in THAT weather?

Two weeks ago, I saw him again, coming around the corner, with his head up, moving towards home, face set in the neutral expression of kings. He made it through the winter.

Symbiosis

2008-06-27T16:26:00.000-07:00

We bought snails to go in the frog tank to eat the frog poop. So now we have a perfect system. Crickets feed frogs. Frogs poop. Snails proliferate. Extra snails go back to pet store in exchange for more crickets. It's not often things work out that neatly.

An aside: early in the morning, since the weather has (finally) become more warm, the frogs make a sound I can only describe as barking. Is that normal?

Move to Montana?

2008-04-20T07:47:00.000-07:00

Friday night we took the kids to Dairy Queen after dinner. The spring weather brought out a line of cars that held steady about ten long, and the dining room was packed, too. Yesterday I drove to Missoula with Jamie for Nicole's bridal shower, severe winter storm warning notwithstanding. We left the party early because Larry said it was dumping back in Helena. The roads were wet at first, then snow-covered, then the wind picked up and with the snow coming down visibility was poor. The road were only icy in the passing lanes, though, so that was alright, but the snow was so wet it kept sticking to my wipers. Between Drummond and Avon we had to stop and clean them off probably five times. The only scary part was on the narrow two-lane between Garrison and Avon; it winds a bit, and the snow made it hard to see the few pull-offs. A couple of times I had to slow to 20 because the wipers were so gunked up. Most of the semis were pulled over; those of us in cars kept our flashers on between wiper stops.

So Friday DQ, today sledding and going to the hot springs. Last week we got snow and I thought that was the last one of the year - I forget that I have seen snow in this area in every month of the year. Happily, we leave the snow scraper in the car year 'round and I have not yet gotten around to taking the snow tires off.

Florida, anyone?

Poetry Festival

2008-04-06T09:46:00.000-07:00

Got to meet some phenomenal poets in Great Falls; the blizzard turned out to be a good thing, because we all wound up going out to dinner. As an outgrowth of that and in honor of National Poetry Month, I'm going to go to the Poetry Festival at Flathead Valley Community College next weekend, April 11-12. Moreover, Debra Magpie Earling told me once, years ago, when I tugged at her coat-tails, that writing poetry was one of the best ways to inform one's fiction. Or enhance it. You get the picture. (DME sustained lyricism and poetic images throughout her amazing novel, Perma Red. A must read.) The whole fam damily is coming with - not to the conference, but up to Kalispell with me. They are much excited over staying in a hotel, swimming in the pool, eating waffles. Would be that I could find bliss in such simple things again.

Great Falls Festival of the Book

2008-03-24T21:43:00.000-07:00

So Fred Bridger and I will be waxing pontific at the Great Falls Public Library on March 29 on the value of establishing and maintaining a writing community. That was the topic of my graduate lecture and an issue dear to my heart; how do we, who are so dialed in to the inner radio, interact with one another? How and why do you get introverts together? And what do you do when everyone's there? I now have a group of people I trust to be both generous and honest in their criticism of my work, and I try to give that back in return. I was fortunate to avoid the sort of bleak maim-and-be-maimed atmosphere of some MFA programs; I'll never forget having a conversation with David Jauss about that. He said he and several others of my instructors had barely survived that themselves and had resolved that their students would not have to be impeded that way.

Different people, of course, want different things from their writing community. It took me a long time to find a group, and in the end, it happened through intention and work. My friends and I created a community of writers I treasure. (Before we formed our current group and I was looking, I was fired from one group because I was too new to the craft - and truthfully, at the time, I gave the sorts of crits that drive everyone crazy, like "I don't think your character would do (whatever)." I was told I could join a group but I could never use a cuss word. Another person offered that I could join a therapeutic group - that one cost money. I forget how much. Another group tried to include everyone in the world and died after on an endlessly long, bad story submitted by the founder. The protag was so miserable I wanted to kill it . . . slowly.)

At any rate, we've got much more in common than we have differences, and ain't we funny?

Denver

2008-02-28T21:47:00.000-08:00

Lsat Wednesday we made an emergency trip to Denver. It's only fourteen hours one way, about half of which was in windswept Wyoming. From Billings on south, it's pretty much all the same until just after the Colorado border. Brown hills for miles in every direction, paltry sun, endless road. There were stretches so straight I fantasized about having an RV so I could put in cruise control, make a sandwich in the kitchenette, and come back before I had to jog the wheel to the left or right. (Not really. But there were long, straight stretches, long and straight as I would have liked my train of thought to be.) Part of my job in serious situations is to pray, part is to make people laugh. There were a few opportunities for that. One was singing all the peace songs our elders taught us in the Seventies. Another was the odd sign about a mile out of Podunk, Wyoming, population 36. On a colored, 3' x 3' board, was an advertisement for vasectomy reversal. Must be for the steers. I can't imagine there's enough human business to even pay for the sign. Mostly, nothing was funny.

There were so many strangers who gave us kindness for no reason, not knowing anything about us, I have to think that God sent those to us. There was the woman in the convenience store in Buffalo, WY. Paul wanted sunflower seeds, and I had done nothing but tell him "no, we don't have time" and "come on, let's go," and "we won't be there for a long time" all day. I said yes, but Larry was worried about the mess. I was so tired I stood there cogitating. She gently suggested, why don't you get a go-cup with a lid? It was so small, her stepping into that space and offering the cup, but I felt so grateful. Then Paul cut his finger. I went to buy some bandaids because my purse stash was out, and she gave us some. For no reason. Then there was the man who was playing one of those games where you try to grab toys by controlling a metal hook with a joystick. He won two toys and gave them both to my children. Small things with great love.

Jennifer is in trouble. We're home for the weekend. Next week, who knows. I can't say it again. If you want to know, go to www.jennifersutliff.org. Pray hard. Pray for a miracle.

Amazing

2008-02-18T16:31:00.000-08:00

So I just got back from this women's retreat in sunny CA. You can keep California as far as I'm concerned. I was nervous it was going to fall into the ocean at any minute. All the weight of those big box stores and chain restaurants, wave after wave of them, plus the visible particulate matter in the air, can't possibly be sustained.

If you drive inland just a bit, there's a hill in the middle of the city; if you go up the hill, you get to Rancho Palos Verdes, an otherworldly expensive settlement that looks down on the carpet of lights spread out all over the valley. We drove past homes worth several million, past riding stables, past Lexus, Jaguar, Mercedes and Range Rover dealerships to get to the Mary and Joseph Retreat Center. The view stuns. The gardens amaze; old-growth aloe vera plants the size of a volkswagen beetle, palm trees, all manner of blossoming plants. Wish I'd had a plant id book with me. Anyway. The retreat was amazing. It was held at the Mary and Joseph Retreat Center. http://www.maryandjoseph.org/ When you leave, they ask you to pray over the bed for the next retreatant.

I felt at home and at ease right away and connected with some amazing women. The entire experience was characterized by person after person as "amazing." It seemed to reduce our collective vocabulary to that of Aerosmith. (Remember? the words Crying Crazy Amazing For You Baby comprise the bulk of the lyrics on an entire 90s album.)

Wish I could say what it meant. I'm still processing it all. But I don't really know as yet, I only know I've been touched, deeply, from sitting at breakfast in tears listening to Annette's story, to hearing how women walk through their lives with dignity and grace in moments from the mundane to the sublime to the drop-dead painful. We talked about what it really meant to be of service, to be a force for good, to find a way to keep on going after horrific mistakes and/or experiences and turn that darkness into something positive for others by sharing it.

I had to miss some important events to go. I hope I can use what I learned there well enough that my absence is worth it in the eyes of those I love.

The peacock above is one of six or so who roam the grounds.

Boy Sports

2007-07-15T21:00:00.000-07:00

Soccer rocked. The rules are easy to communicate; kick the ball into the net. Don't use your hands. Have a lot of fun. He did all three, though the hands thing - and not tackling the person in control of the ball - proved a challenge. On the last day, Paul got a medal to hang around his neck. It's now above his bed, cradling his team picture.

T-Ball is a mixed bag. There are more steps involved; hit ball, run here, wait, repeat three times, then sit on the bench and wait. Later, we'll all stand on the field and wait for the ball to come. If it does, get it and throw it in the coach's direction. Often, Paul opted to play on the playground adjacent to the ball field, or sit on the pitcher's mound and make tracks in the sand.

Last game he stayed longer than he ever had before - one inning. Poor coach. She's trying really hard, but the little-little guys snub her for the jungle gym. We'll try T-Ball again next year.

Sun Coming to Earth

2007-07-15T20:48:00.001-07:00

We got this site from Sharon Hurlbut and Olivia loves it. Here's her latest creation: http://www.mrpicassohead.com/canvas.html?id=6f8b305&skin=original

At the water slide last week, Olivia and I played in the pool. Olivia choreographed aquatic dance moves until I wondered if she'd channelled Ethel Merman. I watched, resting from several trips with Paul up the water slide stairs, my only exercise this week."Here's the volcano, Momma," and then "the hurricane," and "the dolphin," and then she announced "and this one is 'sun coming to earth.'" She swam over to me, popped her little head out, water running off her hair and mouth stretched wide in a grin and hugged me. I didn't get it. I almost missed it. If I hadn't been listening, and I don't always listen, I would have. She said, "You're the earth, Momma, and I'm the sun." And closed her lips in a triumphant smile.

And I knew anew that it's all worth it. Every dime spent, every mile traveled, every particle of body fluid cleaned, every fight refereed.

And the Rockets' Red Glare

2007-07-05T22:56:00.000-07:00

Like the rest of the Americans in this red state, I like fireworks. Like most of the rest of America, you can't light them off in my town. So we drive five miles east to the fierce little town of East Helena. The official display is the same as you find anywhere, say, in Montpelier, Vermont where they practice studious and orderly patriotism; it starts at dark, pops and dazzles for about twenty minutes, climaxes and falls silent. But East Helena, now there's a town. Formed around the lead smelter roughly 105 years ago, East Helena was paradise found to the immigrants who got jobs here and brought brothers, sisters, cousins and wives over; Slovenians mostly, their kids have not yet forgotten just how great it is to live in plenty and relative freedom. People still make poticia here. Yellow ribbons of wood, each painted with the name of a kid from East Helena serving in the military, hang from the street lights all along Main Street. Last night we saw American flags everywhere, even tied to radio antennae on cars risking Main Street. And I say risking because, besides the official fireworks, East Helena allows shooting off any legal firework anywhere in the city. They don't necessarily bother themselves about clearance from vegetation or houses or moving vehicles, and for some reason, most everybody living on Main had the wherewithal to buy an extravaganza. Or maybe they formed a buyers coop to get wholesale pricing. Those East Helenans, they are go-getters. One teenager at the park told me her family saved recycling all year long, cashed it in and bought fireworks.

It was, and I use this word in the spirit in which I first heard it misused in the Eighties, AWESOME. We parked behind City Hall and lit our puny, safe, fountains, sparklers, smoke bombs and ground flowers on asphalt away from anything flammable. (Safety first, we've got kids in the minivan, dontchaknow) For blocks around, people lit off massive, multicolored rockets; mammoth fountains; gunpower and dye whirling, hissing, zhizzing, dazzling everywhere. I saw one guy leaning over lighting a rocket fuse by putting his head nearly to the ground and poking his lit cigarette through the rocket's legs, without removing it from his mouth. Before the first official firework torched off, the air was thick and gray. Fire engines raced hither and yon. My eyes strained. It went on an hour and a half. "Look, Paul, Look, Olivia - look, look!" I pointed north, east, south, west, - there, there, and there, trying to see everything and show them everything. By ten, they'd had enough - the same way I felt when touring St. Mark's in Venice - there's so much that after a certain point the brain can admit no more. And the excitement of being allowed to stay up and eat Choco Tacos had worn off.

My politics may be different than the people who hung the signs, but we stand together supporting our troops. Though we'd do things very differently from one another given a day to run the country, we love our country. We're grateful, we children of immigrants, one or four generations removed. And fireworks is a grand way to show it.

Money and Poetry

2007-02-26T15:48:00.000-08:00

Money, Montana and Poetry. Could there be a trio that in which each more completely repels the others? Poetry and Money - Montana and Money - Montana and Poetry - are each of these mutually exclusive? Montana's Poet Laureate Sandra Alcosser, near the end of her tenure and having worked her butt off in a non-compensated position, testified at the legislature in favor of a bill which would have provided a small measure of expense reimbursement for travel for her successor. Not only did the out-going Poet Laureate not get paid for her time in this honorary position, she had to take donations, stay in people's houses, and catch rides to get to the far-flung Montana communities who asked her to come. The bill would have authorized $4,000 for defray travel costs - not an amount approaching full reimbursement. And the legislature said "No." Here's a sample quote from an ultra-conservative legislator: “It doesn’t do anything for the state of Montana.”

Poetry doesn't do anything for the state of Montana? Here's one part of one person's story:

When I was 11 or 12 and tortured by the politics of Middle School, I didn't think I was worth much. The Arts Council sponsored a poet to come in and do a workshop with the pizza faced hormonal inmates. I scribbled something on paper in response to a prompt. She came around and talked to each of us in turn, suggesting ideas to some, trying like hell to get others (future legislators?) to even take the act of writing seriously. When she got to my desk, she changed my life. I don't remember much of what she said. All I remember is that she said my work had worth -- value, and the promise of more. She fed an inner light that's flickered but not to date gone out.

The value inherent in bringing self-expression through poetry to people wherever and however they are, whether geeks in the middle school or retirees on the High-Line, people living in the colonies or the reservations or ranches and in the good and bad parts of every town, can't be understated. We need it. We need the people who illuminate every place they are allowed (or enabled) to go.

Thank you, anonymous poet. Thank you, Sandra Alcosser, and thank you to the next Poet Laureate, whoever you turn out to be, for enriching Montana with this vital gift.

Holiday Letter

2006-12-30T13:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Family and Friends,

We hope you all are well and thanks everyone who sent photos and Christmas letters.

It’s been another interesting year. Headlining our news: Larry’s chapbook Health Insurance and Other Matters of Death came out from Foothills Publishing in October. Book signings and readings keep him busy. Highlights include reading at the Riverside Art Museum in Southern California in July and as part of Montana Poet Laureate Sandra Alcosser’s poetry reading at the State Capitol rotunda on January 4. He continues his schedule of writing a poem a week and sometimes writes me love poems. (Swoon.) We went to his 20th high school reunion in Superior this summer.

Olivia picked up violin lessons and will play at a recital on January 21. We’re not sure violin holds her heart, but she enjoys the lessons. After the recital, we’ll see if her interest piques or flags. She takes dance lessons as well and performed in four shows this holiday season. Her reading is pretty good and her math skills are quite advanced for a kid her age. Our "little angel" shows great interest in and aptitude for the sciences.

Paul loves people, climbing and wrestling – not necessarily in that order – just like his dad. Being two-going-on-three, he will inflict injury one minute and then show real compassion for the injured the next. He enjoys anything having to do with locomotion, from his train set to riding his new trike. He speaks very well and has a great vocabulary. The picture is from the church Christmas pageant. (What is Paul? A shepherd. And yes, we darkened the doors of a religious institution. . . a good one.)

I graduated with an MFA from Vermont College this July. I’m so grateful for the experience, my instructors, the friends I made and everything I’ve learned. A very brief report on publications; I’ve had a story in edifice WRECKED and have another forthcoming in MO: Writings from the River. My novel Home Star is complete and looking for a home. I taught several writing classes again this year, wrote life story books for two wise and wonderful senior women, freelanced for the local paper, worked on a new novel Coyote Stories (an excerpt of which earned high praise from Wally Lamb at our one-on-one meeting at the VC Residency in July) and started a reading series to give local writers a welcoming audience for their work and strengthen our community.

Those are the highlights. The lowlights only serve as hooks for gratitude to grab onto the good. Thanks to everyone for all your love and support this year. We engage ourselves in the usual – pursuit of happiness, making enough to live on and be of service to others. There ain't no big deals going on and we like it that way.

Happy New Year

Olivia, Paul, Anne and Larry

Visited by the God of Heck

2006-11-02T00:59:00.000-08:00

The cartoon Dilbert sometimes has an unwelcome visitor, Phil, God of Heck. He doesn't cause enough crap to rise to the level of making life Hell, just Heck. That rat is spending a lot of time at our house lately. The weekend started off great. All the little kids had a blast at our Halloween party on Saturday. Larry did most of the work, bless him. I thought we should cancel, given that we are still half-way through the living room redecoration project and I had to be in bed for at least part of it. But no, he soldiered on and pulled off two solid hours of kid bliss.

Sunday night Olivia said, "my throat hurts." No big deal, I dosed her with supplements, put her to bed. Then tucking her in, she said "my neck hurts. Bad." It woke her up in the night and I knew were in trouble. Next day I took her to the naturopath hoping to avoid antibiotics, which I think is good practice whenever possible. Not this time. It was strep, as I suspected, so off we went got her a bottle of the sticky pink stuff. We spent the rest of the day at home and Paul was bouncing off the walls. That kid needs to run outside every day or he finds other ways to exercise. He decided to help clean and squirted liquid dish soap all. over. the. kitchen. floor. It was fun mopping without bending or straining. My reaction would not be found in the "appropriate" heading in any parenting manual. (note to self: forget college fund. Save for kids' therapy. Give as high school graduation gift.) The good news? O was only contagious until noon on Halloween day so she could participate in the sacred ritual of demanding candy from strangers.

Tuesday we took me to the doctor (no surgery! yay!). At my doctor's office, I noticed swollen red dots around her mouth. An hour later, she had tiny red dots all over her chest. I got her into her regular MD a half hour after that (thank you, Dr. Eodice.) Ms. O likely has a penicillin allergy. The rash might have been from the strep, BUT if she really is allergic, and she gets penicillin again, the next time could cause anaphylaxis. After filling her new script for Zithromax, I had less than an hour to get both kids costumed, fed, and over to a friend's house to meet to go trick-or-treating. When we got there, we found out in a strange and startling way that plans had changed.

Today was better, I was able to get some work done (amongst all this "stuff" I got a last-minute, impending deadline work project) and the PT says I have more strength in my foot and ankle. Not only am I not getting worse, I'm getting better. And I got 1776 words done on the first day of Nanowrimo. (I'm working on the sequel to Homestar. So far, Michael and Jentry are on the cusp of graduating college and launching into the adult world. They've got plenty of trouble ahead of them . . .) I may not dribble another word out this month - anything can happen and it often does. But at least I have that small beginning. Also in the good news department, I met my deadlines and Paul didn't catch strep which has to qualify as a miracle.

As I finish this post I see there's a lot to be grateful for. It seems the negative stuff I pay so much attention to helps me appreciate the many blessings. The day is balanced by the night and both are necessary. Life is just life. And really, I've got it good. So come on in, Phil. But if you're going to stay a while, grab a mop and help me get this floor cleaned up.

Juked

2006-10-30T16:57:00.000-08:00

Check out Selling It to Mrs. Foster by the talented Theresa Boyar in
J U K E D. This is one which will stay with you.

Lemming time. I'm going to do NaNoWriMo. Why not? I'm lying around most of the time for the next several weeks no matter which way I go, so why not make the best of it? Surely I can dribble 50K worth of drivel in a month. It's time to write the sequel to Homestar anyway. (I'm stuck on Coyote Stories - it's 122 pages and I have no idea what happens next.)

And finally, our second "Emerging Writers" poetry and fiction reading happens this Saturday at the library. It starts at 3 pm with five accomplished poets and writers reading their work, followed by an hour or so of hanging out and exchanging ideas, book recommendations, etc..

Mary Had a Little Lamb

2006-10-26T02:23:00.000-07:00

My girl can now saw out a complete song on her violin.

Drove Paul up a tree. . .

Six Words

2006-10-26T02:21:00.000-07:00

Check this out at Wired magazine.

Yuck

2006-10-25T10:59:00.000-07:00

Looks like I really blew it. The disc material has extruded down and that's what causing the numbness and weakness. Good news, I can stand long enough to have class on Sunday and get some household chores done. Bad news, I'll be having surgery in Great Falls next week.

Had a cortisone shot in the back yesterday, a strange experience. My doctor invited a local chiropractor to observe so she could increase her knowledge base. It hurt and I hollered some (but I only cussed once). After I got my pants back on, I asked the chiro if she learned anything. "Oh, I could watch this all day," she chirped.

I wished I'd said "Next time, let's trade places."

Homestar update

2006-10-20T10:34:00.000-07:00

Great news -- a publisher liked the first chapter of Homestar and asked for the full yesterday. I'm not saying the name, being superstitious. It's a small, new, and wonderful "by authors, for authors" publisher and it would be a high honor to be published by them. Actually, I consider it quite an honor they want to look at the full ms. Next to that came a rejection from an agent - a good one that suggested he might have actually thought about it. So hope hangs on for one more day and the fantasies begin anew of book touring.

BTW, I was most impressed with Karen Fisher, author of A Sudden Country last weekend. She came to Helena to promote her book and lecture at the Helena Bookfest -- and she brought her whole family. How cool is that?

I didn't get to visit with her but I did have the pleasure of meeting Chris Crutcher. Chris writes real-life YA novels and has won many awards. Most significant, his books have reached out to kids and helped them out of a dark lonely place. He was encouraging and had some suggestions for finding publishers for Homestar. He also said he was impressed with the amount of literary energy and accomplishment (I'm paraphrasing) that we have here in Helena. Not bad for a little town.

Health Insurance and Other Matters of Death

2006-10-20T09:44:00.000-07:00

Larry's chapbook Health Insurance and Other Matters of Death is coming out from Foothills Publishing in a couple of weeks! We are so excited. These poems sound a darker knell than his usual love poems to me and our kids, but are some of my favorites -- especially "Kelsie." (If you're considering hooking up with a poet, I highly recommend it. Of course, on the flip side, there's Jean Stafford's experience with Robert Lowell to balance out my recommendation.) Here's what Literary Mama's Rachel Iverson had to say about Larry's book. More later . . .

Callous-backed

2006-10-20T07:47:00.000-07:00

I'm a callous-backed woman - for all the wrong reasons. Somehow I seem to have herniated a disc in my lower back so I'm flat on it. You'd think I'd sieze the opportunity to write. No, I'm perfecting my sudoku technique. I have every expectation I will completely recover from this. The doctor gave me a TENS unit (Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation) which helps with the pain, I got acupuncture and am continuing physical therapy. It seems this is quite common among people of a certain age -- the PT says it's a lifetime of bad postural habits catching up to me. Already I'm seeing some progress. In the meantime, my husband is racking up points for Heaven. He's taking care of the kids, cleaning the house, working . . . he's really showing up in a kind and loving way.

The worst news is all this downtime, not being able to run around with the kids, plus I have to cancel my class on Sunday because I can't sit at all and can't stand for more than a few minutes at a time.

Food

2006-10-01T18:21:00.000-07:00

Now I'm back on my food plan. Day six. Hoping to get back on some kind of emotional equilibrium around food and also lose some of the weight I've gained, though I'm not really fat. I hate being on the food plan. At this moment, I'm more sick of the highs and lows from food and the physical side effects of the whole thing than I hate the food plan. I would love to find an easier way. A woman's magazine ran an article on a researcher out of UC - Berkeley who says you can trick your body into speeding up your metabolism by drinking a tablespoon of olive oil one hour before you eat. "Lose ten pounds without trying," blared the headline. The instant fix, the American way, how much longer before my hour is up and I can hit the drive-thru?

No, I'm resigned.

The food plan works. There's no doubt about it. It also sucks, weighing and measuring and all that shit, just a different variation of food obsession. Here's how I'm making myself feel better: I decided when I get old, I won't wear purple. I will eat whatever in the hell I want until I have to buy my clothing by the yard. There will be no decision about what kind of pie to get. All of them will come home with me -- pumpkin, chocolate cream, banana cream, boston cream, jumbleberry, key lime, lemon meringue. Even mincemeat. I'll eat a slice with breakfast, lunch and dinner; eat an orange to clear my palate; then top it off with coffee ice cream. When I get sick of that, I'll move on to bread pudding drizzled with chocolate syrup. I'll roll into the gourmet bakery here in town and hand them my credit card. I better wait until I get really old to try it, though, because I think I'll keel over pretty quick following that plan.

Measure those fingers

2006-09-28T09:44:00.000-07:00

It seems sports ability is correlated with finger length in girls.

A Sign

2006-09-25T17:26:00.000-07:00

Oh, the hope. Some days I think Pandora should have been speared. Others, I'm grateful for the faintest of reasons to hope.

Last night, visiting my in-laws, I wake in the middle of the night, again, wondering why I torture myself trying to write and what's going to become of me and why did I give up my good job and these years of my life and all my money and . . . other expressions of angst reserved for the privileged with who have access to health care, nutritious foods, safe communities, etc.

It gets grim at 3 am.

I slide out of bed, careful not to wake my son who co-sleeps with me on overnight visits, put on my glasses. I trek to the bathroom and back, focused on my internal sturm und drung, but for some reason, there was a split-second break in the head chatter and I looked up at the stars casting steel light on the dining table through the half-circle window. Perfectly framed in the window is the Big Dipper. Right above the Big Dipper is Polaris. The Home Star. If you follow the Home Star, you can navigate your way anywhere.

Michael, in my novel Homestar, uses this knowledge to build hope first for him mother, that she will find her way home, and then for himself, that he will find his "true north."

I'm taking it as a sign. I feel somewhat embarassed, a superstitious oaf. But it happened, and being a writer, I'll take any kind of bone the universe throws me.

Homestar is being looked at right now. Wish me luck. Or wish upon a star.

Fragments

2006-09-21T15:39:00.000-07:00

My Son

grabs a forked stick
holds it high overhead
charges
like a geomancer
or a knight.

sitting spider with me
on a rope swing
dangling from a high pine
whispers
"The wind says shhhhhh, Mommy."

Blockin' Up The Scenery/Breakin' My Mind

2006-08-08T17:25:00.000-07:00

The Fair was a blast. Plenty to do. And plenty to look at. Being in an unfamiliar environment forces me to look around and see things I ordinarily wouldn't. So I had some fun in Great Falls reading signs. These three represent the range of opinions and activities available at the Fair -- from goofy to spooky.

Two I didn't get pictures of because we passed them too quickly:

Picture this in your mind. A squat cinderblock building with a gorgeous maroon awning. Two large storefront type windows flanking the front entrance in the middle of the building. Left window says in gold writing reminiscent of filigree: Piazza del Torgilia (I think I'm mangling the spelling of the last name, but you get the idea.) Right window says in a blocky sans serif, stressed font: Incontinent Supply's. Forgetting the mangled spelling and use of the possessive, consider the irony of the juxtaposition of the elevated place name and the resignation implied by the manner in which the actual use of the place is announced. Then, I have to love Incontinent Supplies. Will they soil your other supplies if allowed to mingle? Do they need training? Do they literally supply incontinents, like an escort service, only with incontinents. But I can't imagine there's much call for this service, unless there's a movement among incontinents to embrace rather than fight the problem -- and seek out others for self-acceptance and companionship. (I don't mean to make light of incontinence. It can be a degrading condition and I empathize with those who suffer from it. I'm just making fun of the sign.)

Another I didn't get a picture of: Universal Semen Sales. Now, this makes sense. It's in Great Falls, the tip of Montana's Golden Triangle which produces grain and beef. But what really brings on the questions in my mind is the vat immediately adjacent to the back door of the place, with a spigot at the bottom. Do they sell it by the quart?

Yes, I've been called a binge thinker. Recently.

Countdown to Montana State Fair Time

2006-07-23T14:52:00.000-07:00

My grandfather the rancher watched Hee-Haw every Sunday. Remember that show? Plumb full o' rednecks a' pickin' and a' grinnin' and the corn flowed freely. Hee-Haw provided infinite material to lampoon, but I secretly loved it. Those people were having fun. They laughed at themselves and I laughed with them.

The Montana State Fair reminds me of my grandfather, of the simpler time in which he built his ranch, of the gentle, corny humor of that generation of people. Established 75 years ago by people like my grandparents to provide a break from the crushing tedium of ranch and farm work, it's still a place people come to cut loose, eat too much, hook up, and/or showcase one's skills all in one place. Larry works the fair every year, and he joins us when he can. The kids and I go all over the grounds and we love everything about it.

We spend three days going through the thing, starting with 4-H barns and exhibits. Kids from little tiny towns across the Hi-line and north-central Montana compete other kids from similarly tiny places like Geraldine, Kremlin and Box Elder, for prizes. Best cow, Best pig, Best pie. Ranches show livestock, too -- not just the kids. Next are the myriad other exhibits, such as the winners of the Lego Club's competition; the Wool-Grower's spinning and craft exhibit; the Vegetable Races. (Olivia and Paul both won a race last year. Psst: Pick the rutabaga.)

Then the acts always thrill the kids. Besides the reptile zoo and the many musical acts, we've seen motorcycle riders defy death, a woman twirl 20-some hula hoops at one time, and jugglers. It never fails that some guy juggles fire, which really blows Olivia's hair back. To cool off, repair to the air-conditioned Mobile Library and read a book or come to the KBLL Radio RV, say Hi to Larry and Cory (and maybe us). Oh, and get yer free stuff -- water bottles for sure, but they have some restaurant and concert ticket giveaways, too.
On the last day, we buy the daytime wristband and ride the rides. All. Day. Long.

It's a little bit Hee-Haw, a shout from the past, a place where I can be a kid again and have a run-'til-ya-drop good time. Not only that, but my kids are learning where food really comes from and who's responsible. The weather's a little too hot for it to be perfect, but I'll take it.

Pam Houston in the Flathead!

2006-07-12T06:04:00.000-07:00

Writers of the Flathead's annual conference is coming up October 13-15 in Whitefish, MT -- and Pam Houston is going to be there!!! Here's the low-down. Pam will teach a memoir workshop before the conference. (Disclaimer: I'm not a member of Writers of the Flathead because it's up the road a ways. Also, I don't know Pam personally. I just think she's really, really cool and I would love to meet her.) More about Pam here.

Hand, Foot and Mouth

2006-07-12T05:53:00.000-07:00

Early Saturday morning, right after we got home from VT, Paul woke up with a painful rash on his feet. I thought he'd walked through some burdock without his shoes or something, put calamine on it and went back to bed. By mid-afternoon, the sores had blistered up, so we took him to Urgent Care. Diagnosis? Hand, foot, and mouth disease. All it takes is one little kid climbing on the slide with his socks off at the McCorporate Food Playland to pass it on. Poor little guy has almost no sores on his hands or in his mouth, but enough that he only wants to eat bananas and drink soy milk all day long. Worse, he can't play with other kids until Saturday. So we're taking long walks around the neighborhood (walking doesn't seem to bother him) and picking raspberries from the neighbor's bushes (with permission). Larry made birdhouses with the kids while I worked yesterday so that was pretty cool, too. Paul loves power tools. He calls them "hammers".

Vermont Update

2006-07-04T11:30:00.000-07:00

Unbelievably, I stand on the cusp of graduation from Vermont College's MFA in Writing program. Two more days, then I'm kicked out of the nest, shooting down the tube, pick your metaphor, out of here. Let me put in a plug for VC here. I've not had a workshop here, not once, where I didn't learn something. Neither was I kicked in the head here, as I have heard over and over from so many wounded MFAs in other programs. The faculty here stand out for their commitment to their students and for their personal achievements. That's the commercial, on to the substance.

Best things about this residency:

1. The twin themes of persistence and compassion. (There isn't an official theme. Those are the two things I heard over and over this residency that resonated with me.) Our advisors, the faculty, are very much committed to making sure we have a nurturing experience that prepares us to go out and thrive as writers and be a part of our own communities.

2. Wally Lamb. His latest project is Couldn't Keep It To Ourselves, an anthology of stories written by women incarcerated in Conneticut, under his tutelage. One of the contributors won a PEN award. Wally spent five days here visiting with the students, meeting one on one on a first-come, first-served basis with a few of us, and I was one of those, having been in the right place at the right time. Wally had plenty of practical advice and experience to share on the subject of bringing creative writing into institutions. He spent a good amount of time talking with me about archetypes, persistence, and my current novel as well. His other books are She's Come Undone and I Know This Much is True. Here's what I loved most about him; talking informally to a group about how the prison project was almost dashed and how the women were frightened and demoralized by prison officials and the Conneticut Attorney General, he cried. It was his wedding anniversary the night he read, and he thanked his wife, Chris Lamb, and he cried. When reading a moving piece from his novel-in-progress, he cried. (I felt much better about having blubbered when telling him the end of my first novel, Home Star. It gets me every time.)

Here's some notes from the informal talk he gave: "Write stories for yourself and then let the audience who needs you, find you." "Teaching informs writing and writing informs teaching. Do them together." He said teaching put him on the receiving end of new voices. He said the question 'if God is merciful, why is there suffering?' is "a question I've been trying to work out since age 15. I try to work it out in my novels."

3. Nancy Lagomarsino. She wrote a non-fiction account of her father's passing from Alzheimer's Light From An Eclipse. She said "suffering must be present if we would enjoy the landscape." She talked at length with a group of us about her decision about what to include and not include in the memoir, and how she came to give her mother the decision about whether the book would be published or not. I thought that was amazingly generous and a refreshing change from the stance I hear so often from memoirists that 'it's my truth, so I get to say what I want, regardless.' I appreciated her comments about balancing narrative, action and reflection, as well.

4. Andre Dubus III. He wrote House of Sand and Fog and The Blueseman. Andre is a larger-than-life, high-energy kind of guy who was genuinely interested in us, where we came from and what we were working on. His main message was "Go deeper" meaning not only to inform the fiction and make it readable and believable, but to search for truth. He shared how he keeps a file for ideas and how the plot of House came to be plucked from the headlines, as it were. He read from an essay he wrote based on interviewing a young Iraq war veteran and the damage she's sustained.

On a personal note, I missed my kids terribly last night at the fireworks. (New England towns stagger their fireworks, so Montpelier had theirs last night.) Sweet Pea and Big Boy would have loved it. Instead, I had the company of other women writers and we talked about teaching, outreach to people who don't ordinarily have access to writing programs, and of course, our children. I am so fortunate. There are so many voices out there who don't have the freedom to write, who we need to hear. As we celebrate Independence, let's work to bring it to everyone -- and I'm not just talking about the political prisoners in far-off countries. I'm talking also about the women who labor dawn to dusk to keep their kids heads above water, who have important stories but for whom writing is just another pretty fantasy.

Tonight I go pick up Larry. The kids are home with Gramma Jeannie, Bless her. We had a trial run in April when Larry and I went to Billings for our first overnight alone in six years. That went beautifully. This is four days. I hope the kids behave and I hope they make it through okay, emotionally. We won't know, will we, until they're 21 years old on the therapist's couch clutching a teddy bear, re-enacting the conversations with me on the phone "Mommy come home airplane right now."

A good Catholic girl gone 34% bad

2006-06-14T08:15:00.000-07:00

Your Deadly Sins

Greed: 60%

Pride: 60%

Gluttony: 40%

Wrath: 40%

Lust: 20%

Sloth: 20%

Envy: 0%

Chance You'll Go to Hell: 34%

You'll die in a castle, surrounded by servants.

How Sinful Are You?

Travel Log -- Spring Babies

2006-04-10T21:35:00.000-07:00

Last week we began with a trip to see baby chicks and bunnies at the local ranch supply store.

While I signed my fingers to the bone at the SEE conference this weekend, Larry and the kids played. First, they went to the Museum of the Rockies, home of the world's largest Tyrannosaurus Rex skull. MOR offers a planetarium with amazing movies, and hands-on exhibits for kids of all ages. They also have a pretty good Lewis and Clark outdoor exhibit, but L & C make me yawn. They are over-exposed. Anyway.

The next day, Larry and the kids went hiking with our dear friend Sharon, found a duck pond, picked me up and we all went out to Michael and Glenna Wood's horse farm. They raise quarterhorses and paints. Here's Olivia with Glenna and a three-day-old foal. Paul was napping and missed the whole thing, poor guy.

Today it was baby lambs at a sheep ranch 25 miles north of here.

Uh-huh. Today I'm feeling a little grateful to raise kids in this neck of the woods. Of course, it's spring. That helps. My memory of the harsh winter fades with the coming of spring. I forget those days of your nose freezing shut if you snuffle too hard, and hands chapping constantly, and having to plug in the car.

PS the pallor on Olivia's face is the remains of having her face painted like a dalmation at our spring party yesterday.

Novel Update

2006-04-10T21:09:00.000-07:00

It's been reviewed, edited, re-reviewed. I've drafted a query letter, obsessed over the name and hyperventilated over the probability of colossal failure. So next week, likely, I will jump. My plan is to send queries out first to agents, then small and mid-size publishers, then vanity presses, and when they reject me, I'll self-publish. (Jokes.)

But seriously, it's a short coming out/coming of age novel about a boy whose life is seriously complicated by his alcoholic mother, and how he breaks out of all that. I'm not thinking that's a mainstream kind of a thing. The more conservative members of my extended family will shun me for even suggesting there a gay person might deserve peace and happiness. My mother will not approve, but she will still talk to me. Then comes the next hurdle: There's sex in it. Two paragraphs. Maybe I could put instructions in it: "Dear Mom, don't read page seven."

And then, there will the people going, Anne Bauer? Who the hell is Anne Bauer? She's not gay, so how could she possibly tell the story right?

All I can answer is this: I've loved men. I've felt a good deal of my life like an outsider passing for normal, afraid of being found out and exposed. I've researched and checked my work with people who do know. (Two of my gay friends said, "OMG, I'm surprised, but you got it right.")

I wrote it as it was given to me and I was as surprised as could be when Micheal turned out to be gay. When I tried to write stuff that didn't belong, I couldn't make it work. So, for better or worse, this is the story given to me at this time; this is what I will go forward with. If it's supposed to be helpful to somebody, it will find a home.

SEE v. ASL

2006-04-10T20:52:00.000-07:00

Who knew there were several sign languages? Jennifer's going deaf -- right now, 80% hearing in one, and 12% hearing in the other, and all indicators point south. Bilateral acoustic neuromas will do that.

So, we go to learn sign language, a challenge enough in itself for me, with my poor fine motor skills. But it's just not that simple. There are several sign languages, but the two main camps are: American Sign Language, the lingua franca of the deaf community, the cornerstone of deaf culture; and Signing Exact English (II), a language created to help deaf children better learn the written English language. (I'm sure I'm not explaining that right, but please feel free to help me out -- I'm new to the controversy.)

Seventy-five percent of the signs are the same. SEE uses affixes (prefixes and suffixes), articles, and conjunctions which ASL largely does not use, but depends on gestures and facial expressions accompanying the sign to achieve shades of meaning.

This weekend, Jennifer, Michelle (her mother), our mother, and I attended the SEE conference. I've never been to a better, more thought-out, professionally presented conference, btw. My brain spun, but I thought, "hey, I learned well over a hundred signs, I'm doing much better."

Then I went to Sign Club tonight, where we do ASL, and it turns out, most of what I learned this weekend didn't translate for the particular lessons we are supposed to learn this week and next. I hit that 25%.

I'll learn something or other. It took me a couple of years to learn to type, and two formal classes, but I did eventually learn. I'll learn this, too -- hopefully well enough to communicate with Jennifer by the time she needs me to. She got hearing aids today, and those may help.

Jennifer was sick this weekend, and still went to the conference. Saturday, I found her throwing up in the bathroom. She didn't ask for help. None of the women in the bathroom with her even knew she was yakking. I got her some water, class started back up, and we didn't hear a word about discomfort from her. She never complains. I love her, I admire her, and I hope sometime soon she lets loose and screams and bitches and rants.

Can you see me now?

2006-04-03T20:56:00.000-07:00

My blog has been down for a month, let's see if anybody can view these:

Two Year Old Fun

2006-03-01T18:34:00.000-08:00

So yesterday, I made what Edward P. Jones' character Cassandra called "a death mistake." I wandered off and left Paul alone in the kitchen.

Result:

Red quinoa, oats, turmeric, chili, lemon curry, and salt all over. It's that brown and white stuff you see all over the cookbooks and counters behind him. He was awfully pleased with his culinary masterpiece. To complete the meal, he whipped up an omelette on the floor while my back was turned cleaning up the entree. (What was I thinking, turning my back on him AGAIN?) While I cleaned that up, he climbed the desk in the kitchen. Thwarted too many times in too short a time span, he screamed his little head off and then passed out for an early nap. Exhausting work, that.

Quinoa is a tiny grain. I'll be finding it 'til kingdom come. But isn't he something? What a handsome little devil, and how satisfied he is to have accomplished that task!

The Town Formerly Known As Brigadoon

2006-02-27T06:18:00.000-08:00

Olivia and I joined some friends for a mother-daughter getaway to this hotel in a tiny town. You have to drive a ways through a canyon, and then several miles more to get to it, so it feels more remote, removed from the hustle and bustle, than it otherwise might. The landlines are faint and staticy even over the hill to where I live -- 75 miles away. Forget cell service. White Sulphur has a 2:1 ratio of bars to churches, and all the restaurants serve the same food; steak/ham/bacon and eggs with toast, hashbrowns and coffee for breakfast; hamburgers or french dip for lunch, steak, salad, and potatoes for dinner.

A zoo's worth of enormous dead animal heads watch you eat your meal at Dori's restaurant. Some of them won prizes. I asked Olivia how fast she thought they were going when they hit the wall, and she rolled her eyes at me. "Oh, Mom."

There's not a lot of opportunity to unobtrusively people-watch, because outside of the Spa, people watch you. Some people don't even bother to try and hide it and stare flat out. Who can blame them? It's winter and there's not much to break up the monotony of seeing one another day in and day out. This time of year, options are limited to skiing, snowmobiling, or soaking in the Spa. Many people stay warm and just get drunk in the bar, but with 8 bars and the same people cycling through them, I bet that gets old, too.

Someone once argued that "A stranger comes to town" is the essence of every novel's plot, so why not watch the strangers, absorb every detail -- the accent, the clothing, the brayed opinions across the noise of the diner -- in case it becomes important later? ("I knew she was trouble, Fanny, by the way she threw her hands around like an I-talian.")

The canyon is unfortunately overpopulated with deer, and I hit one on the way down. The light was good, the road was relatively straight at that point. One second clear road, next second, two deer bounded down the hill onto the road. I braked and turned the wheel -- I learned long ago (thank you, MC) how not to over-react when confronted with wild life. I pulled to the right, so at least I could avoid one, and ended up just clipping that poor doe in the left haunch.

The doe sprang off and didn't leave a trail of blood. (The Highway Patrol went back to check on her later, but I didn't hear what happened. We drove back by the scene on the way home and saw nothing but two sets of deer prints in the snow). The accident dented my hood and took out my left headlight, but Olivia and I were both fine. The airbag didn't even deploy. Olivia was concerned for the deer, but happy we didn't see any blood. She said "If it was a baby, we'd have to take it home and take care of it until it grew up and make sure Daisy didn't nip it.

What I did today

2006-02-22T19:53:00.000-08:00

Some women writers and I have been in a discussion lately about how we take care of the needs of other people above our own, and how it seems like everything comes before our writing. Though I for one profess to be passionate about it, it seems like I have to connive, cajole and manipulate myself to get going, even when the heavens open up and there's no-one clamoring at my breast or knee or on the telephone. Like today. Here are my accomplishments during my supposed "writing time." I:

Increased my FreeCell score.

Wrote 1,000 words alternating between dribbling a few purple words on the page and Solitaire.

Checked email. 26 times.

Checked Zoetrope.

Rewrote an article for the local paper.

Made some phone calls.

If I could stay focused, what could I do?

More Ramblings

2006-02-06T12:33:00.000-08:00

My wonderful and talented advisor, Ellen Lesser, agreed to read my whole novel. (I'm not just kissing up -- Ellen really puts her heart and soul into teaching -- plus she agreed to read the whole darn thing before I even posted this.)

One step closer to the finish line. Six years ago I wasn't capable to finishing a short story. I give thanks.

Olivia will be homeschooled for the remainder of the school year. Am I crazy, with being sandwiched between my mother's needs and my those of my children to take this on? But there seems to be no choice, and it's interesting to me that I feel some exhilaration, a shot of adrenaline maybe, and an inner sense that things are going to be okay that I didn't have before I withdrew her this morning. I feel like I'm on the other side of the fear.

We've pulled together some amazing resources, and *if* it works according to plan, my daughter will be much better off.

Speaking of education, I started teaching two more short classes. The first one is on memoir, and I have 14 students. The second one is on flash fiction, and I have five. All women. Started last night. Superbowl Sunday. Who knew it was the Superbowl?

Prom Night

2006-01-31T16:29:00.000-08:00

My friend commemorated a milestone birthday with a prom -- here's Olivia and me. You can't see my po-white-trash tat in the photo, but everyone else did. (Didn't think to buy a shawl to cover it up.)

From Zero to Sixty -- thank you, Abby Frucht

2006-01-31T16:16:00.000-08:00

Abby suggested the radical move of whacking out the middle of my novel, because it was taking all kinds of energy away from the rest, it wasn't working. My novel felt like a fallen souffle -- the beginning and ending worked, but the middle sagged.

So carefully saving a copy of the old, I hacked out, excised, whatever you want to call it. And lo, I had something I kind of liked. The color returned to my characters' cheeks. I changed a detail here and there, oriented it in space and time, and the patient sat up and took nourishment.

I have a novel. A genuine, honest to God, first effing draft of a novel. Yawp! I'm going around like Dr. Frankenstein -- "It's alive!"

The protag, a young boy, turned out to be gay so I asked a kid, head of the local college's GSA, to check it out for me. He's excited, un-naturally so in my opinion. Why would he be excited about reading shit written by some middle-aged, mini van driver he doesn't even know? But he is. I tried to fall all over myself thanking him for reading it, but he wouldn't let me. No time. He grabbed the manuscript and headed off to class. He's going to pass it around to his friends!

It felt a little like a drug deal -- "Yeah, yeah, just give me the manuscript, man."

I love this kid. I'm old enough to be his mother, and he's so cute I wanted to pick him up and pinch his cheeks and feed him wholesome food. I might feel that way about anyone who was enthusiastic about reading my novel, but I felt an immediate liking to this kid even before he agreed to read it. I can't wait to see what he and his friends think.

My daughter wrote a story

2006-01-22T20:18:00.000-08:00

Do you suppose she's trying to tell me something?

Irony

2006-01-11T09:51:00.000-08:00

Olivia's in Daisy Girl Scouts. Monday the leaders were discussing the worldwide sistership of Girl Scouts, and showed them pictures of Scouts from around the world. They put the pictures on a large world map -- Madagascar, England, Australia -- and when they got to Costa Rica -- one little Daisy shouted out "My dress was made in Costa Rica."

Possibly by a girl not much older than she is, I thought but did not say.

More from Vermont

2006-01-04T06:08:00.000-08:00

Larry and the kids went cross-country skiing on Stemple Pass this weekend. The pictures are great. Thank you, honey!

It's cold this morning --- not quite falling to the level of "freezing-ass cold," unless you are from southern climes like some here. Cold enough that frost covers the trees and shrubs. I like the effect, the spare, white twigs reaching to the weak sun.

Ellen Lesser will be my advisor again this semester, and I could not ask for a better teacher. Not only a good writer, she believes teaching is part of her life’s purpose and has genuine passion about helping others.

Am adding to my reading list. New discovery: Edward P. Jones short stories.

Have enjoyed many, many readings and lectures which I will not recap with one exception.

From the informal talk the poet Major Jackson gave on poetry and writing in general:

On maintaining community: “Community pushes us forward and keeps us keeping on.” Jackson's suggestions on keeping one’s love of the art of poetry alive:

Read widely outside the genre, read widely, read systematically
Create an environment for reading – be organized about it in terms of time and space (I got the sense in here, I could be really far off base, that he had been reading everywhere, including at home, all the time and his family got a little tired of it. So that may have provided some impetus for his decision to dedicate specific times and places for reading. In any case, I'm always interested in hearing how other people keep their domestic tranquility index high and still write.)

Draw a line between the work being read and the larger tradition

Learn how to ease into a work – each poem has its own time signature, etc.

Share your discoveries via inventive means; for instance, he recommends memorizing a poem and reciting it over a friend’s voice mail.

He says poems are either windows or mirrors; mirrors reflect back to the writer. Something about writing invites meditation. One should go inward and make connections beyond the obvious, and avoid clichéd thinking. Find the courage to be true to one’s own experience and vision, to say what needs to be said, and that’s where voice comes from.

It’s interesting to people-watch at this residency. We’re all writers, here, right? So we are all introspective people who spend varying amounts of time alone, talking to imaginary people and writing down what they tell us. We throw in together for ten days, eating together, living in close quarters, out of our elements. To add to the fun, there’s so much going on, it’s hard to sleep. Some people don’t seem to sleep at all, and instead spend much of the night drinking and much of the morning padding around on tiptoe to avoid jarring their hangover awake to roar and claw at their heads again. There’s a bit of drama about the workshops, when a person doesn’t get what s/he hoped out of the workshop, but that seems to be rare. We seem to be doing really well for such a sensitive, introverted group.

Some people cluster in protective packs, making sure each member of the group has the opportunity to decide on and participate in the group’s activities. Others go from group to group (that’s me) and still others hang off like wolves, eying the pack. People are, to a person, smart, serious and well-read. Most of us are flaming liberals. The conservatives among us are quiet.

We eat at the New England Culinary Institute cafeteria. Lots of apprentice chefs, decked out in pouffy hats and white chef suits practice cooking and serving food. Some of them need more practice, but overall they really care about what they are doing. The salad bar is great.

Report from Vermont

2005-12-31T06:01:00.000-08:00

Quotes from lectures

Nance Van Winkle: “A novel needs a big engine.”
“Don’t waste creative energy on something that is not giving back.” (referring to the process by which one decides to abandon a novel attempt
“You gotta have the joy!”

Xu Xi says every novel must have a polemic, but a must also tell a story. Must be a balance so the polemic does not overwhelm the story.

Phyllis Barber, quoting Adam Sexton (I think) in a lecture on pov/narration: “Once you’ve found the voice, you’re half-way there.”

On other fronts:

I spent the night 12/28 with Annie, Michael and Sam, perhaps the most congenial family I know outside of the McJiltons. Annie Lighthart is a poet, also back from leave after having a baby, also in her fourth semester. Slept like a rock all three nights so far.

Am currently skipping a lecture (which is actually recommended – if I went to all of them I would burn right on out). Have met a few people, very talented people here. Student readings last night – 12 people writing in such distinct voices, all quite accomplished. I’m glad they let me in.

Enjoyed workshop. Abby Frucht, one of the leaders, freaked me out – in the sense of showing me where the next hurdle is. She talked about being conscious about the choices you make in writing, at some point in the revision process. I am so unconscious, and I have this idea that stories should come as an oeuvre, full-formed, adult and alive and all I have to do is be the channel. Abby is talking about one heck of a lot of hard work.

I made conscious decisions about the shape of my story Amber Vitae, for the first time, and it may be my best story to date.

Am terrible lonesome for my family. I want to get everything I can out of the residency, to make their sacrifice count for something. I mean, if I am asking them to go through all this trouble I ought at least to get something out of it. Larry uploaded some pictures of his and the kids’ activities yesterday. Awwww…. What a great guy I married.

Leaving on a jet plane

2005-12-27T22:08:00.000-08:00

--- but I do know when I'll be back again.

I'm off to Vermont College for my penultimate intensive residency on the road to my long put-off MFA in Creative Writing.

For ten days, I will sleep by myself, every night. If there is too much noise and commotion, I can choose either to join in or go to bed. It will be entirely at my option. I will converse with adults for hours on end about things that matter to me. People will comment on my writing. Some of them will have something useful to say.

There's a lot of debate in the literary community about the value of MFA programs. My favorite comment on the subject comes from Flannery O'Connor, who reportedly replied when asked if MFA programs discourage young writers: "Not enough."

But getting to be with other people obsessed with this quixotic practice, and sleeping without little kids kicking me or wanting milk or etc. etc. tips the scales for me.

Yes, I will miss my husband and my kids. Paul especially may have a hard time with our separation, and I always worry that any emotional difficulty will land them on a professional's couch where they will stay well into their 40's. On the other hand, there is some danger that the kids will want me to go away again after they see how much fun Daddy can be. Daddy plans to set up the tent in the living room, take them to McDonald's, and maybe the Carousel -- and that's on day one.

We all get a chance to do a public reading, and I plan to read something from my collection of coyote stories. In Native American mythology, the coyote is the trickster and there is usually a moral associated with the coyote stories.

My coyote stories refer to an expression used when you drink too much and wake up with your arm underneath the sleeping form of someone so ugly, you would rather chew your arm off, like a coyote in a trap, than wake that person up. There's an element of the trickster in them, too. I'm having a great time writing these stories when I have the time.

Have a happy, safe and sane enough New Year.

Happy Winter Solstice

2005-12-21T20:08:00.000-08:00

The days are now officially getting longer -- even if the difference is imperceptible, it's quite important up here in the northern climes! And Merry Christmas, too!

Friendship

2005-12-19T16:21:00.000-08:00

Spent some time with women friends this Saturday hanging out and dishing re: in-laws, past indiscretions, pet peeves, etc. It meant enough to all of us that we carved time to go, among/despite/because of the holidays, kid commitments, and visiting relatives. I appreciate those women taking the time, and of course, we had an absolute blast. The interesting thing for me is how much we have in common, in ways that are not apparent from casual connections. I feel fortunate to have friends, and got to pondering what I think makes a good friend.

Axl Rose melted my heart on MTV in 1990 when he lifted up his shirt and showed his nipple rings, saying "Any woman wants to be with me should look at these and know I can take a lot of pain, baby." Or something like that. So his criterion for a girlfriend was the ability to psychically infer from his piercings that he could take (and presumably inflict) a lot of pain. Hang on, I'm getting to the point, really I am.

The point is, we are all sending signals to others. I don't have any piercings to send messages, but I do gravitate to people with certain qualities. It's not conscious, and it's not external. (I once got assigned to work with a woman I pegged (unfairly) as a fluffhead because of her spike heels, big hair, and 6 inch fingernails. I'm sure she pegged me as a policy wonk/fruitcake, too. Within a short time, we were laughing our guts out together.)

So here are the things I think make a good friend, after pondering this a relatively short time: intelligent; tolerant (because I can be intense, strange, hyperapologetic, crabby, etc.); civic-minded; focused on outcomes rather than process but not blind to the necessity of process; honest; a champion of the underdog; loving and kind to old people, children, and people in need; fun; non-judgmental; and creative. I particularly like people with ribald personal stories. The aforementioned qualities are not in any kind of order, btw.

To all of my friends, thank you for being in my life.

So, what qualities do you think make a good friend? I figured out how to allow anonymous posts, so go for it.

The Void

2005-12-11T14:56:00.000-08:00

There's a book, the name of which escapes me, that likens ineffectual efforts to "standing at the edge of the pit of hell and throwing in snowballs." I like that.

I've dropped several snowballs into the void in the last several months.

Submission snowballs -- I've gotten one (1!) response out of 20 subs since September. (It was an acceptance, happily.) As for the others, I've gotten nothing -- no "go away, you suck," no "we're not publishing anymore," nada.
Editing snowballs, little patches and fixes I'm making on my novel which serve the purpose of highlighting more inanity, drivel, and nonsense within the group of words I'm calling a novel. I've said and honestly believed, every time I've said it, that the thing is 75% done. Ha, ha, ha.

Can you tell I'm in one of my "I suck" periods? I do this from time to time, where I sit down and write only because I'm contrary and I'm not going to listen to anyone tell me I can't write, even if it's me.

Went to visit some relatives last Friday. Mother-in-law: "How's the writing going?" Me: "I think I suck, ha ha." 19-yo nephew: "Well, good luck with it." Me: (trying to be ironic): "Thank you." 19-yo nephew, in all sincerity: "You're welcome."

He's a good kid -- full of brio, intelligent, sincere. And he may have just been paying me back for my comments about his numerous piercings -- including his nipple piercing --- eeewwww. Some things an auntie just does not want to think about.

BTGOG, I have not had writer's block. I'm pumping out the prose, and I've got the purple fingers to prove it.

AWWWW.......

2005-12-04T14:11:00.000-08:00

Here's Lorelai! Proud parents are Jaime and Eric E. She molded her little body right into my arms and I fell in love. And I'm not just gushing because I obviously like babies. This little girl has the air of someone special about her.

In the warmer: Nanci and Ian's little girl, due April 2006. Congrats to all!!!!!

Thanksgiving photo

2005-12-03T14:34:00.000-08:00

Spent it at my sister's new home, which she and her husband finished building this summer. She hosted both sides of her family. We all fit, even after the meal. Lots to be grateful for, eh? Here's Jennifer and cousin Tammy behind her. Jenn's had that million-dollar smile since she was two months old. Tam's shirt says "Groupie looking for a farm boy."

Daisy the coprophage

2005-12-03T14:06:00.000-08:00

Time to introduce Daisy, our 5 mo bichon puppy. She needs a good grooming, but until her parvo shots take hold we have to do it ourselves. Can't have her around adult dogs until then. I wanted to post a pic of her in her new coat, a faux fur white and shiny purple affair with a pink rhinestone B for Bauer, but I missed my chance. And for those of you chortling derisively at me for putting a coat on a dog, screw you. The temp sunk to the single digits, and the snow is up to her muzzle. O picked the coat, and how could I say no?

The first great irony is this sweet, delicate, cossetted little thing snarfs down every piece of shit she can sniff out.

The second is that we chose her breed because they have very little dander and I'm allergic to dogs. That's all worked out okay, but my "hypo-allergenic" dog has severe reactions to most foods. So we buy her prescription dog food and make strong efforts to keep her from eating anything else.

I had this idea that, though it would take some work to train her, one trade-off would be that she would keep the floor around Paul's high chair a little cleaner. I guess she is indirectly keeping it cleaner, because I have to get to the mess right when it happens.

I have always had rescue dogs before this, and they've all been trained - to varying degrees.

What's that on my kid's face?
Santa and his sleigh, courtesy of the face painting booth at the Intermountain Children's Home Festival of Trees. Intermountain helps children heal from attachment disorder, and other problems typically caused by abuse or neglect. The Festival of Trees gala raises money for ICH. We go every year and it's a blast. Paul couldn't peel him little self away from the bouncy house long enough to get his face painted, and was napping when I snapped the photo.

Keep me away from the DSM - IV

2005-11-28T12:55:00.000-08:00

That's the manual the shrinks use to diagnose mental illness. I am currently manifesting the symptoms of several major illnesses due to this novel I have been working on for the last almost three years and I am way prone to self-diagnosis. (Keep me away from those magazine quizzes, too. You know the ones -- "Could you be ready to drop dead and not even know it?") I always end up thinking I have something bad.

Novel writing stirs my insecurities so that the dreck comes up from the bottom and gunks up my brain. Head: "I can't do this. I can't believe I even thought I could do this. Look at all the problems I have to fix before I can even show this to anyone."

Then if it goes well, as it has once or twice in the last two weeks, it's "What should I wear on Leno?" or "How quickly does Graywolf respond to queries?"

Is that called emotional lability?

John Gardner says in On Becoming a Novelist you have to be somewhat nuts to be a writer and he lists out the qualities of not insanity, but dare I paraphrase, of lesser sanity necessary for success. I sure hope this is true. It would be nice to get something good out of being as weird as I feel sometimes.

I'm at 164 pages and counting. I need to straighten out some serious fact problems (like it's set in the '80s but at the end of the book the protag sends e-mail -- duh!), write in some important stuff I left out, re-work a bunch of scenes, write some entirely new scenes, and then, maybe, I'll put it up in a Zoe office.

A moment of silence, please

2005-11-27T14:14:00.000-08:00

for my neighbor, Polly Holmes. Polly was one of those women I want to be like when I grow up and our whole family mourns her. This seems so sudden -- I just saw her Wednesday. Looks like she's going to be with her husband for the holidays. He was also a person of conscience, compassion and loving action, and he died a few months ago. Thank you for your life, Polly.

Gratitude List

2005-11-21T07:20:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when all I can see is what I don't have, I write a gratitude list -- a list of things for which I am grateful. It seems apropos to do it now, given the season. Here's mine -- what's yours?

I'm grateful for:

moments like the above -- fishing, watching wildlife, picking huckleberries, spending time with family;
the things I no longer have to do;
not living in a war zone, either figuratively or literally;
my husband, who treats me better than I treat him, makes me laugh, loves me and our kids, works hard, is handsome, (I could go on but don't want to make anyone nauseous);
my kids, creative, loving, healthy smart, good-looking little blue-eyed ankle biters;
The Montana State Fair, where we go every year for three days of cornball fun (carnival, rides, fair, 4-H contests, vegetable races, etc.);
God;
the gift (curse? obsession?) of writing;
friends;
living where I live, within three hours driving distance to all our extended family members save one, as well as being close to the Rocky Mountain Front, and other relatively undisturbed wildlands;
that my father no longer suffers;

I'll add to this over the next few days. Have a happy Thanksgiving.

They never outgrow that

2005-11-18T07:26:00.000-08:00

Yesterday the oven conked out. The part costs $170. I said, "Let's go buy a new stove." My husband said "I'm going to call my brother." Brother Donny designs power stations, he ought to know about electrical circuits on stoves, right?

Donny says, "We're in the car on our way somewhere, but we'll stop by and check it out." (He and his wife are really generous people like that. Thank, you D and K.) I come out of the office to previously folded laundry scattered all over and a host of other homey decorating touches, a la Paul.

Larry and I tear around hiding, stuffing, wiping and vaccuuming for the ten minutes it takes for Don and Kath to get here. They also have with them Kath's sister, brother-in-law and a friend, all up visiting from California on a hunting trip.

We split by gender, the men gathered in the kitchen doing voo-doo on the stove, the women chit-chatting. Paul comes out of the kitchen crying. Did I mention Larry and I are known as the family "granolas?" We do things differently, like vote liberal, shop at REI, etc. So D and K think of us as slightly nutty, in a loving way, and I don't know these other people at all. Paul wants Mommy comfort. I try to head him off. I pick him up and put him over my shoulder. Nothing doing. He wants to nurse. I offer him a bite of chicken. He starts pressing his open palms on my breasts and sliding them around, trying to pull up my shirt, and shouting "booby, booby, booby, booby." I'm thinking there is no doubt now that everyone knows I nurse an almost 2-year-old child.

Now the men have finished in the kitchen and everyone is watching. One of them says "We never outgrow that."

PS

Kath looks great. She's halfway through chemo and already getting some of her zip back.

Lit Mag Review

2005-11-16T16:35:00.000-08:00

Check out NewPages.com lit mag review, specifically, Wicked Alice. Something about tattoos.....

BTW, who's got a tat? What? Where? How long have you had it? Would you do it again? I have the yin/yang symbol on my shoulder; since I was 13; I would NOT do it again. Lesson for living: If you must get a tattoo, make sure your "artist" has not consumed a gallon of Thunderbird prior to marking you for life.

And finally, a great quote overheard from some TV show: "I am one tattoo away from being the woman of your dreams."

Poet kids

2005-11-15T12:44:00.000-08:00

So Theresa Boyar and I did a little poetry workshop at our kids' school today, with two groups of kids, one grades 1-2 and the other 4-5. What I didn't know going in was that attendance was voluntary, so of course when I found that out, I immediately thought nobody was going to come.

We filled the tables in both sessions. Theresa sparked the kids with a great exercise. She was really open and warm with the kids and they responded with some fun/amazing/unselfconscious poetry.

I had so much fun I would do it every day of the week if they would let me. Thank you thank you thank you to the school librarian for inviting us! Librarians are now and have always been (except the one at Central School in the 70's -- sound the sturm und drung) some of my favorite people.

One kid said we should publish our books with Harper Collins because her dad works there and she could get them for free. In my dreams!

Laughing

2005-11-14T13:11:00.000-08:00

I found seven cents -- one shiny nickel and two shiny pennies -- in the back of Paul's diaper. And he was wearing a onesie. (?!) His sister denies involvement.

Speaking of O, she gets a Care Bear Book of the Month in the mail. This month it was all about sharing. She wouldn't let her brother even touch the book. And in the back of the book, it has questions to ask to get your kid thinking about sharing.
Q 1: Have you ever shared with someone?
O: Yes.
Q2: How did that make you feel?
O: Bad, because I wanted my toy back.

I couldn't even fake a stern look, in fact, I burst out laughing. Five-year-olds are such fun.

Do you HAVE to be crazy?

2005-11-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

Being a marginally crazy (depending on the day) person, a writer, and a person who tends to really, really enjoy the company of the other crazy persons, I am interested in the question "Do you HAVE to be crazy to be a writer, or does it just help?"

Here's a list from my master's thesis (yes, I got credit for something this inane). Of the people on the list, who are your favorites? Who would you add to this list, and why?

Excerpt follows:
" The world at large, it seems, regards self-destruction of one variety or another as endemic, and possibly necessary, to the profession of writing. Drunken escapades, madness and suicide are almost cliche, expected. An incomplete list of writers who self-destructed in one way or the other reads like a Who's Who list[1]: Conrad Aiken, Sherwood Anderson, John Berryman, Maxwell Bodenheim, Truman Capote, Raymond Carver, John Cheever, Hart Crane, Stephen Crane, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, O. Henry, Caroline Gordon, Shirley Jackson, Denis Johnson, Anna Kavan, Ring Lardner, Sinclair Lewis, Jack London, Robert Lowell, Malcolm Lowry, Grace Metalious, Herman Melville, Joaquin Miller, John O'Hara, Eugene O'Neill, Dorothy Parker, Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allen Poe, Theodore Roethke, Adela Rogers St. John, Delmore Schwartz, Anne Sexton, Jean Stafford, George Sterling, Allen Tate, Dylan Thomas, Edmund Wilson and Virginia Woolf.[2] Many more could be added.
Some scientific studies bear out the anecdotal evidence. The first long-term clinical study of this question, released in 1987 by Dr. Nancy Andreasen at the University of Iowa[3], found 80% of the small sample of writers (30 writers over the course of 15 years) suffered from an affective disorder at some point in their lives and 30% had alcoholism. The study reports “Most writers reported that they tended to write during these normal periods rather than during highs or lows.” "

(The thesis concludes that one can behave sanely and write well, but I won't inflict the whole thing on you. And I just gotta believe that you gotta keep some bad habits or you'll be too boring enough to put yourself to sleep.)

Footnotes:
[1] Many of the names on this list came from Ann Waldron's article in the Washington Post "Writers and Alcohol", March 14, 1989, pp. 13-15.
[2] This list is not separated by the writer's individual diagnosis, as making that distinction is sometimes difficult for even a trained psychiatrist and regardless, is outside the scope of this paper. Some authors treated depression with substance abuse, others committed suicide, others acted like common drunkards. All these writers engaged in seriously self-destructive behavior.
[3] Dr. Nancy Andreason; Creativity and Mental Illness: Prevalence Rates in Writers and Their First-Degree Relatives; American Journal of Psychiatry, October 1987, pages 1288 - 1292

Now, on to that nested short story novel I'm supposedly working on.

Crying

2005-11-11T13:57:00.000-08:00

Jennifer's wig came in and she got it fitted today. She looks better than she has in a long time, and the glow's not all coming from the outside. The wig and the lipstick and getting to get out of the house for something other than to be poked, scanned or asked to pee, it all did something important for her. Joe put on the lipstick. (She said he did it because "He's a fancy kind of a guy." She wasn't being intentionally ironic.) I teared up when I saw her. I tell you, I love that guy.

The visit to the doctor pissed her off. (It wasn't his demeanor or his ignorance -- this one seems to have a clue -- it's just the news wasn't what she would have liked.) I think it's about time she got pissed off. A healthy dose of anger will give her permission to not be so passive, so when the doctors say to do this or that, she might say "why?" and "what are the alternatives?"

Jennifer is kind and thoughtful in the extreme. I could use a bit more of her, and in this one case, I think she could use a bit more of me. (There's a great book, "Getting in Touch with Your Inner Bitch." Not that I needed help with that. It did make me feel better about myself. Now I need a book called "Getting In Touch with Your Inner Adult" or "....Your Inner Nice Person.")

The dog's on a special diet. It's forcing me to clean my house to get rid of the stashes of crackers and such. It's everywhere, with the kids hauling stuff around all the time. Underneath the couch cushions, in the toy box, etc. One way or another I guess the house will get clean. Maybe.

Tonight's the Art Walk. Richard Layne has some photos at Montana Book Company, and Susan Clark has some fine art on display somewhere. (Don't have the program yet, but will be sure to check it out.) Both are quite talented.

Shawn is DJing tonight at the Cube and Justin's band Sharktopus follows. He's playing synthesizer. Five bands for five bucks. Such a deal.

Morning Start

2005-11-10T08:29:00.000-08:00

So this morning we discovered an intractable piece of glass embedded in Olivia's foot. (It's been there a while, apparently.) After ten minutes of Larry digging while I hugged her, we didn't get it out. We're geared up for a second attempt this afternoon after kindergarten. Poor thing. She milked the sympathy thing, though, and got not one but two pieces of chocolate out of the deal -- before breakfast. There's got to be some kind of bad mother police coming to my house soon with a citation for deleterious parenting and notice to answer charges in front of a jury of my peers. Then Paul wants some, of course. "Choc? More?"

(Notice his facility with simple sentences? His first was "Tickle don't." Yes, I'm obnoxiously proud.) At left is a more updated photo than in the last post.

Jennifer (20-y-o niece) heads up to Great Falls today to see a neurosurgeon, the one who diagnosed her. I can't get her off my mind this morning. I'd really like to go with her and my sister, but I don't have anyone to watch the kids, and their noise and activity level can be a bit much. Jenn has Neurofibromatosis Type 2. She's had two brain surgeries, one spinal surgery, and one round of whole-brain radiation. She's having a hell of a time with exhaustion, dizziness, vertigo, and a host of other fun stuff. This doctor hasn't actually treated her, but she's going to see him so she can have someone more local than the admittedly wonderful people in Salt Lake City. If he and the local neuro could handle half of her needs, it would save her a lot of travel. If you need serious medical care in Montana, you mostly go out of state. (Here's a wierd trivia fact: a high number of the Montana patients seeking treatment in SLC are self-immolators.)

On the good news front, she had me take her to the chi-chi hair salon here in town to order a wig. I have to say I fell in instant like with the co-owner, Joe Hrella. We sat, he got her tea, made sure she liked it and it was the right temperature, answered her questions and visited with her like an old friend. He talked to her, not to me -- for which I am so grateful -- some people aren't comfortable talking to someone obviously ill so they talk to her mother or me or whoever is with her. The wig will be here Monday, and if she's up to it we'll go get it fitted.

Establishment

2005-11-09T13:10:00.000-08:00

I hereby give up my designation as one of the few writers I know without a blog. I maintain my status as one of the few mothers I know without a cell phone. All I'm going to do here is practice writing, rant, and link to my friends' good work. Oh, and brag about my kids.

I just finished up two writing classes I taught through the local Adult Education. What a blast! Some of the students want to continue in January. I'm hooked. We all learned a lot, and in one case, it saved a story I was writing. I had two ideas juggling around in the back of my head, one was that the story lacked something important and the other that I had to prepare a reasonably comprehensible discussion on plot. And the heavens opened up and God shined a light on my ignorance: "Your story has NO PLOT."

In my classification of stories, a "Holy Shit!" story (so named because it renders superlatives meaningless) ranks behind 1. "God" and 2. "I wish I hadn't read this story because you've shown me I'll never ever write this well and I'm going to bed for a week starting now." One of my students wrote an HS. So do I have much to teach that person? Not really, but I can encourage, challenge, point someone in a direction. And there's value in that.

Next Tuesday Theresa Boyar and I are going to lead our little kids and their schoolmates in a poetry exercise. It's National Library Week! Theresa has done this before and as such, represents 100% of the qualified members of our team. I'll be the enthusiastic incompetent.