What I'm Reading

"Don't sweat the small stuff...and it's all small stuff."

Ask yourself: Is there any way I can become even more loving than I am? Can I fill my heart with more loving kindness? Can you, despite the fact that there are less than perfect people in our world, think loving thoughts about yourself and about others? Spread that love around as far as your mind will allow!

What I'm Reading

At first blush, everything about Mark Robert Waldman’s The Spirit of Writing: Classic and Contemporary Essays Celebrating the Writing Life ignited my inner Grinch: the new-age, shaman-esque title; the elegant cream cover featuring the Writer’s clichéd accoutrements; the faux-naive freehand script of the chapter titles underscored by a pretentiously simple graphic flourish.

I admit it — I judged a book by its cover. I tightened my Grinchy fists and steeled myself against what I expected to be one more in a long line of syrupy, myth-perpetuating books about Great Writers and their muses, their inspirations, their inner turmoils, and ultimate epiphanies.

I could feel the bitter germination of a new installment in my well-entrenched and long-standing diatribes against the exaltation of the enigmatic creative impulse.

I finally unclenched long enough to read the essays.

And what happened then ...?

Well ... in Who-ville they say That the Grinch’s small heart Grew three sizes that day!

Waldman’s selection of contributors is excellent.

The Spirit of Writing features over 60 writers, culled from the genres of fiction, poetry, screenwriting, non-fiction, and journalism.

While novelists and poets constitute the greatest proportion of contributors, the inclusion of non-literary writers acknowledges their often-overlooked reflections on writing. The tiresome writing-as-birthing metaphor stretched over six painful pages in Jane Eaton Hamilton’s "Congratulations! It’s a Six Pound Eight Ounce Novel" is made tolerable knowing the pragmatic sanity of Celeste Fremon’s "Of Goods and Goodwill" is only a few pages away. This range of perspectives provides a more balanced view of the work of writing than is usual to collections of this type.

The anthology includes several of the essays one would expect to find in such a collection, elevating the profession to vocational heights and exalting the therapeutic benefits of putting pen to paper. In her essay "Without Wings," Lia Scott Price writes: "It was time to set my words free, to embrace writing as my savior, pledging to be my own loyal servant for life."

Her sentiments are echoed in John Fox’s "The Leaf Shape Remains." "Poetry," says Fox, "can enter into the severed places in life that explanations do not touch. The open nature of the blank page allows you to experiment with releasing that hurt. Poems of grief can offer a diamond-like truth, an insight-surprise that is sheer gift."

These are eloquent, but familiar words. The healing qualities of writing have been expounded at length in other tomes. This focus, of course, is not surprising, as Waldman is himself a therapist, specializing in "relationship issues and creativity, working with individuals, couples, artists, and writers." Five of the contributors to the collection are fellow therapists. These feel-good perspectives, however, are wonderfully contrasted in Steven Connor’s essay, "Not a Case of Writing," in which he asserts:

I promise never to be a writer …What I mean, I suppose, is that I intend to avoid becoming a Writer, the kind of writer who writes ‘writer’ on their passport, who does readings and public book signings, has photos taken of them trying to look as pretty as they were before they became a writer, takes part in fatuous TV discussions about ‘the art of writing’, or the condition of ‘the writer’ and so on …. Being a professional writer would be like being a porn star, compelled to be combed and pointy at 9:00 sharp every morning, ready to perform private pleasures in public.

How good it is to hear writing discussed in earthly language. Perhaps it is the joy of having an opinion I share validated through publication, but it’s lines like these that make a Grinch smile.

Writers can be a shameless bunch of beret-wearing snobs. It makes sense that some hesitate to identify themselves with a community of people with whom they feel no kinship. In "Ruining the Page," Annie Dillard is similarly honest about the difficulty of the work. She discusses the frustrated space between the creative vision and the product, the struggle between what the writer attempts to achieve, and what the page will allow.

As Dillard explains, "[T]he page always wins. The vision is not so much destroyed, exactly, as it is, by the time you have finished, forgotten. It has been replaced by this changeling, this bastard, the opaque lightless chunky ruinous work." In "A Sure-Fire Cure for Writer’s Block," the creative struggle drives a young poet to consider suicide. Author Mark Twain’s response: "I said I thought it was a good idea." The young poet follows through on his intent:

He put the revolver to his forehead and blew a tunnel straight through his head. The tunnel was about the size of your finger. You could look right through it. The job was complete; there was nothing in it. Well, after that, that man never could write prose, but he could write poetry. He could write it after he had blown his brains out.

Ah, inspiring stuff. Twain’s essay isn’t the only injection of levity in the collection. Natalie Goldberg compares writing to eating a car, and Stephen King calls any writer who does it for the money "a monkey." The act of writing is too often discussed with the solemnity of a librarian in church; these essays remind us that writing isn’t always a humourless pursuit, and those who choose to pursue it as a career are not holed-up monks inking holy papyrus.

The variety of form in The Spirit of Writing keeps the reading flow interesting. The typical essay format is supplemented with poetry, fiction, an interview, and a letter. Of course, there can always be too much of a good thing — Ward M. Kalman’s "[w] [o] [r] [d] [p] [l] [a] [y]: (a 400 word essay, more or less)" is presented as a crossword grid with the word "words" repeated vertically, horizontally, and diagonally. Très avante-garde. My cynical objection might be just a matter of taste; if you like that sort of thing, enjoy. Your beret looks good on you.

The variety and quality of the essays is, however, somewhat tempered by the sickly-sweet sap I worried would permeate the entire anthology. Luckily, it is confined to the introductory material preceding each of the four sections. Waldman’s writing about the writing in the collection is less than critical or original, and is peppered throughout with hackneyed aphorisms like "Words, like eyes, are windows into a person’s soul" and "What are the seeds from which a writer’s yearning grows?" Luckily, the essays can be enjoyed with little introduction, so I felt little guilt in skimming these wearisome platitudes.

The Spirit of Writing offers a buffet of opinions, insights, and perspectives; any reader could find something pleasing to his or her palate. As Eric Maisel points out in his essay, "Coming in Second": "Isn’t this a lesson we learn again and again: that every opinion is an assertion of personality? That every belief is a fragment of autobiography?" If, like me, you haven’t the stomach for the stale truisms with which Waldman circumscribes the essays, push them to the side of your plate and dig into the centre. And there is even something to be said about the comfort that can be gained from participating in the community of writers, of sharing in each other’s revelations and frustrations.

As it turns out, even this miserable old Grinch loves company!

CC-Lorie Boucher (Writer's Block)

say WORD!

An excerpt...

Now I know I don't normally do this, but I'mma give you, constant reader, a piece from my forthcoming novel: SOLEDAD

Copyright 2009 Brandi L. Bates. All rights reserved.

After David finished devouring his dinner, we walked across the parking lot to Starbucks where he ordered us both African rooibos tea. I had to admit that his conversation was soothing music to my ears. It was like Indian summer. I liked it because of its unpredictability. Autumn with its still in-between air sitting in the wings while you savored the warmth of summer as it came back for an encore.


The things he said made me think of all things beautiful. He made me think about all the bountiful and beautiful reasons to love life. Flamboyant sunsets. Rich and regal rainbows. Canary dandelions amid a sea of jade, Monarch butterflies, and starry nights that could only be painted by the hands of Van Gogh. Music tinged with steel drums and Panamanian maracas sauntered lightly into our eardrums. Ballerinas, silver-studded moonlight, snow-capped, craggy mountains, and prismatic falling leaves.


He made me think of the ocean, cobblestone streets of Carmel and Santa Rosalia, sun-kissed Pismo Beach, and infinite smiles. Hell, I’d even thought about snowflakes. And after a particularly death-defying stint at Vale, I’d washed my hands of ski trips and all things snow-centered.


It was the way he gazed into my eyes while he spoke and while I spoke. It was his keen ability to nod his head at each and every pause or inflection in my voice. It was a subtle hand gesture here and there. Whatever it was, it made the fragrant hibiscus, lemon myrtle, verbena, orange peel, rosemary, and lemon balm of my tea belt out to my taste buds, in a jazzy call and response.


Something quite sophisticated and dreamy seemed to transpire. It was as though time could stand still and I could pick a star right from out of the chinchilla sky.

What's The Haps: Mature & Sophisticated Edition

Writing Prostitute

Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money. ~Moliere

Although I may now be writing for money, I'm still true to myself. I'm still true to my values and emotional guidance system. And I'm still slightly bitter about the capitalistic control of book distribution and how some of these publishing houses pimp us writers.

I am uber stoked about these writing classes that I am getting ready to embark upon. This is in an effort to up the ante and hone my craft. I'm taking a 2 year hiatus to work on the next Great American novel; the novel that will not only change my life and my tax bracket, but also change the direction of my destiny.

What are you passionate about? And what skill, talent, or ability do you have that is in need of being sharpened or honed? We all have a craft that can be honed...it might be working the pole better. *just kidding*

But in all sincerity I am taking some time out to sharpen my saw. And the month of December I will be doing some guest blogging. It will be pretty quiet on this block because I'll be playing in somebody's else' sandbox.

broken

i am broken
comforted by walls
splintered jagged
in scattered pieces
rock bottom

sold my soul

i sold my soul
fuck this dilapidated existence
all black everything
i will sketch myself a smile,
even emo kids won't stop grinning at
dear storm, i am under your weather

take back your gifts i have only seen curses
burn every bible and keep all the verses

i am what money does to people
i am the ghetto's hiccup
boarding school bitch graduated from
the school-of-hard-knocks
and this hard knock life
makes me want to off
seven people per Diem

call it communion
kiss the stars,
swallow the wind
call it blood sacrifice
reprobate desolate stigma enigma
reproachable helpless and hopeless
like i was focused on failing
all my dreams have dissolved

i sold my soul

so i could buy a bowl of soup
these plantation pimps play hard
demonic dream catchers are real

i am the lust for power
everyone covets
spare me your redundant fuckery

i’m at the end of my wit
bottom of the pit
stuck in my own shit this is it

the utter depth of my soul
an endless black hole
overshadowing all my goals
foes have triumphed over me
so easily they toy with me
by dangling opportunities
then snatching them away as I pray
taking chances have only worsened my condition

fuck you mr. president and your sorry-ass
excuse for a stimulus
hope is hanging on a noose
shackled to the recession gray-goose
fuck you to each and every
person who offers help
with empty hands

anorexic bank accounts
don't need hugs
affirmations don't
quiet hunger pangs
phone calls don't keep lights on
i can't even wipe my ass with your sympathy

i sold my soul

feeling pain makes me sane
and i fuck to
remind myself that i still feel

spiritual intellectuals know how deep this goes
when they blasted the moon
i felt that hollow point
liquidate my past, present, and future
all else is illusion

i sold my soul

panhandled my birthright
sowed and swallowed my pride
i am the ghetto's hiccup
daughter of the lost tribe
eternal ethereal scribe
i am from the city of broken dreams

go get your money back,
everything you've been taught was lies
life is a greedy expensive bitch,
God forgot about us long ago
so i sold my soul

birth and blood: transformation

birth is both blood and blue
menstrual cycle and water breaking
turquoise energy is symbolic
of the space
BETWEEN
horizon and sky

iAM THAT iAM

Once you realise that all happens by itself, (call it destiny, or the will of God or mere accident), you remain as witness only, understanding and enjoying, but not perturbed.

Remain as the silent witness only.~Nisargadatta Maharaj

mistress (for KAT)

I was told if you place a five dollar bill in a bible tucked discreetly in a hotel room
carry out your sins by morning you'll be forgiven
We were each others biggest addiction
one no more guilty than the other
the sun peaking through the aftermath like paparazzi
publishing our bare bodies
wrapped tightly, knotted dead man's nooses
still hear the spirits gasping from the overdose
tombstones resting in g spots like landfills
We , a vampires wet dream
laid in each other like coffins
fucking ourselves out of yesterday's blues
when did destruction feel this good.

Cue the music
Wedding bells crashing like wrecking balls
tell me again that you love her.

We roll confession off our tongues
This will be the last time,
rewind the record
This will be the last time.
how many times can we break her heart.
Count the kisses staining our necks, stomachs,
lower......
Push deeper to taste the bitter
A hot plate of devil’s mess
Sex.
Scratched,
Gospel vinyl spun backwards
Listen to the whispers of addiction in the adlibs
Flesh fingered 8th notes belting in the key of Jezebel
flats and sharps pressed between thighs,
Pin Point Needle Prick
Voodoo dolls self destructing
We, the Lustful
Lonely
And lost.

So we breadcrumb sweat and moans
Loud and piercing
For the woman resting under the San Francisco sun
To know, tonight her man is dancing with unholy sinful scripture,
Over and over again.
Under symphonies of craving and crutch.

Click. Trigger. Thrust.

Mid sections bursting agent orange
War never played more beautiful than this.
Point blank shots of maker’s mark swallow the poison,
to kill the human left in us.
Choke the noise,
pull hair like grenade pins
sing me numb,
tell me that you need it.
no commitment or conviction.

We drown butterflies trapped in mason jars
to silence the flutter
Mark our hearts return to sender
send back promises to God we cannot keep.
Backslide into tainted sanctuaries of blood and flesh
Waxed strangers
Just another record in the crate
Love is for the faithful
We dare not pray in this house

Rather pop button from blouse and spirit
Fill his mouth with what the world is made of
Sucks the thunder from rain
Push adultery down our throats like bullets to revolvers
Russian roulette morality
Reload the lightning
Kiss me into nothing,
We were dead long before meeting

Paper machete me a memory, touch me nostalgia
Forget me not’s revised into ransom notes
Hold me close
We will give back our voids when we are finished


Tongues swirling like a spinning compass
Sweat dripping in war cries
Breath, deep and panting
Screaming “save me” silent
kiss my palms , break me from stretching my prayers
scratch and tear at redemption until it is as ugly as our faith.
Cussing until the curses of our skin crack
Fuck and God never knew they could lay so close behind our teeth.
Throw a nickel in the swear pot
Our mistakes are worth millions
Willing to bargain our souls not to lie in an empty bed
There is nothing left sacred
Fuck until you forget her
Fuck until we forget ourselves
Fuck for the sake of forgetting
Everything
We are proof that no one is enough,
call my bluff
Tell me I mean nothing
tell she means something to you
while cradling the soft of me in your mouth
tell me you want her instead of me right now
and we will end this
crashing like suicide bombers
colliding extinction
Make me feel again
Addiction taunting our 2 A.M.'s
Achilles tucked under my ribcage
play roles in the bed
We cant succeed at in life
Keep the door open
I want her to see
We answer to no one
Climb into the dark of my open and bury your secrets
God is watching
Spin the record in reverse
Can you hear the angels screaming
dripping wet
suicide revivals still dancing in the sheets
put a 100 in the bible.

Tomorrow You will ask her to forgive you.
Tell me again that you love her.
This will be the last time.

Thanksgiving 2009

Don't get in line asking questions about the food. "Who made the potato salad? Is it egg in there? Are the greens fresh? Is the meat in the greens turkey or pork? Who made the macaroni and cheese? What kind of pie is that? Who made it?

Ask one more question and I will punch you in your mouth, knocking out all your fronts so you won't be able to eat anything.

If you can't walk or are missing any limbs, sit your ass down until someone makes your plate for you. Dinner time is not the time for you to be independent. Nibble on them damn pecans and walnuts to hold you over until someone makes you a plate. If you have kids under the age of twelve, I will escort the little moochers to the basement and bring their food down to them. They are not gonna tear my damn house up this year. Tell them that they are not allowed upstairs until it's time for Uncle Butchie to start telling family stories about their mommas and papas. If they come upstairs for any reason except for that they are bleeding to death, I will break a foot off in their asses! There is going to be one prayer for Thanksgiving dinner! JUST ONE! We do not care that you are thankful that your 13 year old daughter gave birth to a healthy baby or your nephew just got out of jail. Save that talk for somebody who gives a damn. The time limit for the prayer is one minute. If you are still talking after that one minute is up, you will feel something hard come across your lips and they will be swollen for approximately 20 minutes. Finish everything on your plate before you go up for seconds! If you don't, you will be cursed out and asked to stay your greedy ass home next year! BRING YOUR OWN TUPPERWARE! Don't let me catch you fixing yourself a plate in my good Tupperware knowing damn well that I will never see it again! Furthermore, if you didn't bring anything over, don't let me catch you making a plate period or there will be a "misunderstanding".

What you came with is what you should leave with! Do not leave my house with anything that doesn't belong to you. EVERYBODY WILL BE SUBJECTED TO A BODY SEARCH COMING IN AND LEAVING MY PROPERTY! Do not leave your kids so you can go hopping from house to house. This is NOT a DAYCARE CENTER! There will be a kid-parent roll call every ten minutes. Any parent that is not present at the time of roll call, your child will be put outside until you come and get him or her. After 24 hours, I will call DSS on your ignorant ass!

BOOK YOUR HOTEL ROOM BEFORE YOU COME INTO TOWN! There will be no sleeping over at my house! You are to come and eat dinner and take your ass home or to your hotel room. EVERYBODY GETS THE HELL OUT AT 11:00 pm. You will get a 15 minute warning bell ring.


Last but not least! ONE PLATE PER PERSON! This is not a soup kitchen. I am not trying to feed your family until Christmas dinner! You will be supervised when you
fix your plate. Anything over the appropriate amount will be charged to you before you leave. There will be a cash register at the door. Thanks to Cousin Alfred and his greedy ass family, we now have a credit card machine! So VISA and MASTERCARD are now being accepted. NO FOOD STAMPS OR EBT CARDS YET!