Dance Party at 7-Imps!

I'm showing off my dance moves at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast today.

P.S.  If you're not interested in that, go anyway to hear about Tanita's love of the Houston airport. Or to hear Adrienne admit a fear of power tools. Or Jules reveal her favorite librarian swear.

P.P.S. Yes, all of these links lead to the same interview. What are you still doing here?

Wake up with...

Adam Rex! Julie Larios! Kelly Fineman! Elaine Magliaro! Douglas Florian! And a little poem of mine. All part of a burst of National Poetry Month art and poetry over at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast. 

 Check it out.

Judy Blume is a trombone

Judy Blume wisely doesn't give advice to other writers in her blog interview at 7-Impossible Things Before Breakfast. Rather, she says: "There are no rules when it comes to writing. Whatever works for you, go for it!"  

I know that answer might disappoint some, but it's the truth. I'm amazed by people who think that what works for one writer will work for another. Writers are their own instruments, and if I try to play trombone like I'm Judy, well...you shouldn't be surprised when I honk out sour notes.  

Digression: I think of Judy as a trombone.  Perhaps because of this unrelated interview with trombonist Christopher Schweizer: 

Tafuri: Though there have been some great ones in the music's history, trombonists (compared to other instrumentalists) are a bit of a rarer breed. Why did you gravitate toward trombone?

Schweizer: ... I should tell you that I barely ever think "trombone" anymore, it feels more like my voice — it just "is". It does not feel difficult. But let me try: it was and still is a mixture of love for the many sounds of the instrument and a certain instinct that this was the sound my soul was going to need to express itself. Trombone is a talking sound, and I do think of music in terms of language.

 [...] from a very early age I had a certain urge to do things that had never been done before, or to do old things in new ways, which got me kicked out of most schools I ever tried to go to.

 In the field of musical instruments, this means I was clearly hearing possibilities on the trombone (not on the violin or the piano) that I didn't hear anyone play, and it is towards the realization of these visions that I enjoy working today. 

I'm not saying you have to completely understand yourself as an instrument in order to write. I'm not saying writing standards don't exist. Or that starting with some time-tested rules like "show, don't tell" might not give you a solid foundation. But whichever habits, quirks, goals, guidelines, practice schedules, superstitions, bribes or other "rules" produce writing that sounds true to you, do that. (What Judy and Schweizer said.)

In the beginning, you'll be wrong. You'll think stories sound good that don't. You'll miss obvious blunders. You'll play the music least likely to draw a crowd. So what? What you're strengthening is what Judy Blume has in spades: confidence in your choices. 

Writing rules: Make 'em. Break 'em. Fake 'em. Take 'em to the bank if they work.  If Judy freakin' Blume doesn't care, why should you? Play on!

At the prom

Looking for me? I'm not here. This Cinderella's been invited to the prom. And I plan to dance for a long, long time. (Midnight? Pish-posh! With the right shoes, anything is possible...)

Process (and the Meaning of It All)

Jules, at 7-Imp, has tossed out a brief and burning question to writers. At the Southern Festival of Books, she heard Rosemary Wells say:

"Process doesn't exist. Any good writer will tell you that."

Naturally, she's curious as to what other writers think. I can't speak for everyone, but this is a glimpse into my brain when I hear something like that:


"Process doesn't exist. Any good writer will tell you that."

Writers don't exist. Any good process will tell you that.

Existence doesn't write. Any good teller can process that.

Doesn't existence process? Any writer will tell you that.

Process exists for good. Will you tell any writer that?

Write and don't tell process. That's good for existence.


Yeah, Rosemary's right. No one should admit to a process like that.

P.S. TadMack also gave her "£.02 centavos" about this, at Finding Wonderland. Go read! Oh, and Liz chimed in too, and I LOVE her answer: Process is a Verb. For more writers' opinions, go to the original post at 7-Impossible Things Before Breakfast. Good stuff.

Robert's Snow

Please don't read my blog today.

Instead, I want you to go to 7-Impossible Things Before Breakfast, where Jules and Eisha are sounding the call for Robert's Snow, the uniquely beautiful fundraiser to defeat cancer founded by Grace Lin. It's going to be a major blogosphere event, and I don't want you to miss it.

Go on. I'll be here when you get back. Right now, we all need a little snow.

Enter

I like the word enter rather than the word begin because begin has always terrified and paralyzed me. Begin evokes the command of a professor at the start of an exam, and implies a linear route to a fixed end. Enter seems much more inviting, conjuring up the image of multiple doorways into a fascinating place. And of course, if you enter, rather than begin, you can always exit, re-emerging from that fascinating place, perhaps by a different door, changed by your experiences within. This is why I write.

I also write because it is the only way I know how to be part of the Eternal Conversation. "Truth," says Parker Palmer, "is an eternal conversation about things that matter, conducted with passion and discipline." So today, I'm entering the conversation by joining in with Poetry Friday.

Jules, over at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, asked about the healing power of art. This is my reply. Perhaps I should have saved it for a more appropriate month. But that is the thing about entering. You use the door that is open before you.

The Bones of January

I love the plainness of January

when I have taken down my Christmas

finery, and in the shock

of my home stripped bare, I see

the corners of my rooms

again. And outside, all is

stark, gray, glorious

with no false beauty to help me

pretend that I am satisfied.

In January, I kneel beside my children’s

sleeping faces, and let them break

the leafless branches

that cage my chest.

And outside, all is

undone. Roots rend

the earth like bones.

How did this happen?

That all should be taken

down–

and that love,

love should be plain

as January?

---Sara Lewis Holmes

Poetry Friday Roundup is at Farm School today.