Still at the Egg-life–

I’m dormant these days, sometimes “chafing the shell,” as Dickinson wrote, but also conserving energy and trying to stay focused. Some hibernaculum thoughts:

  1. I clearly know nothing about words or publishing, because I posted my most popular tweet ever this week and it was about…boots. Success, if that’s what that is, isn’t always confidence-inspiring.
  2. I am working hard to launch my books with a bang, but this effort is grounded in sheer stubborn grit. Made a promise to myself; gonna keep it.
  3. “February is not my favorite month,” I told a kind person who is also my hairdresser. He answered, “Good title for a poem.” Maybe I’ll write it when I hatch.
  4. I’d be lying like a Fox newscaster if I didn’t admit to cracks in my self-containment. Thanks to Colleen Anderson for posting a Q&A with me in her Women in Horror Month series. Two magazines with my work in them just arrived, too–Hampden-Sydney Review and 32 Poems–and those editors have placed my poems in dazzling company.
  5. I am also reading the news and issuing an occasional plea to representatives (talk about horror!). I suspect and fear this corrupt and compassionless president will be voted into a second term, not least because he’s doing his best to disempower voters. I want a President Warren and don’t understand this country’s grudge against competent women–of everyone in the running, she’s the person I trust most profoundly to fix what’s broken–but whoever wins the Democratic nomination, I’ll be all-in. The stakes are so high for vulnerable human beings and for the more-than-human world.
  6. A zone that’s smaller, but in which my power and responsibility are greater: I am, again, amazed by my students’ energy, talent, and ambition, and I am determined to serve them well, but I am struggling to keep my teaching and advising load within a reasonably-sized container. This term it’s a composition course on speculative fiction; a general education course called Poetry and Music; and a small senior seminar on documentary poetics (we’re currently reading poems responding to Hurricane Katrina). I’m also advising an honors thesis and prepping a brand new Whitman-Dickinson course for our May term, all of which is fun, but could easily keep me in my eggshell office around the clock. The grading alone!
  7. Yet I AM making some time for those double book launch preparations–not a ton, but some. I’m inquiring, applying, and updating my Events page when something comes through, all the while trying to tamp down my delicate-flower dismay about asking for things AND pondering how much busy-ness Future Me will be able to handle (Chris sometimes says, “Former Chris, the one who put me in this position, was an asshole.”) Next year is my sabbatical, so there has to be time in there to write, revise, recharge.
  8. Tiny triumph: please check out the book launch party flier below, which despite its simplicity took much of Saturday morning to put together.
  9. I also finally squashed down my loathing of being photographed to book a headshot session with Anne Valerie Portrait. Turns out the photographer is a lovely person with a calming vibe. When she said, during our first meeting, that she usually has a long preparation process but had read my blog and recognized that I need to do this efficiently, conserving energy, I almost burst into tears. Maybe it can be good to be seen.
  10. What I’d like to do right now? A box of mss just came from Cider Review Press, because I’m serving as this year’s judge. I want to read read read–something I know for sure I’m good at. Pondering them will be good work for February’s closed-in evenings, when wind rattles the tin roof and poems are the only hubbub I feel drawn to.

The important stuff

On Thursday afternoon of last week I thought I’d organized all my obstreperous administrative ducklings into a row and marched them off into a soft-focus sunset. Or, if that metaphor isn’t working for you, you could say I was heading into Washington and Lee’s weeklong break with a clear desk and a nearly-empty email box, ready to produce a stellar grant application for the NEH Public Scholar Program (due 3/3, yikes) and prepare to give a talk and a reading at Roanoke College on 3/24 and get my final revisions of my poetry manuscript to my publisher and relax and read several books and, oh yeah, maybe do a little work on current writing projects.

Well, THAT was foolishness. A minor bomb dropped on Friday at noon, and since these bombs often have my name painted on the side like I’m Wile E. Coyote or something, here I am shifting personnel around again on my mental chessboard, spending hours reorganizing our course offerings and conferring with colleagues. In the face of unanticipated bureaucratic responsibilities, triage: of all the NON-department-head work I meant to do this week, what’s the most important?

The rational answer is the grant, since that deadline is the soonest and its success would have the biggest potential impact on my life. I’m working on it. But I’ve also slept in some and read aloud excruciatingly funny passages to my son from Jenny Lawson’s Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, a book Deborah Miranda gave me last fall and which I found again this past Sunday under a pile of papers. Both kids have been home due to school closures and now, for Cam, a bad head cold. Lawson’s memoir is hard to read aloud, because you start weeping with laughter and can’t see the pages, but this almost-futile exercise still goes on my important list. I’m hyper-aware that our family will change when Madeleine goes off to college next September, so I find myself treasuring non-productive interactions with my kids, like our rambling dinner discussions about presidential politics and time travel.

Teaching feels important too, but breaks from it are helpful. Poems and essays have been harder to believe in, and therefore to heave into being. I’m rarely as poetically productive in the winter as in other seasons—maybe my muse is a hibernating bear—but I’ve had a particularly intense existential despair about it in the past few weeks. You know, the usual poet thing: what’s the point of striving at an art so few people want to read? I’ve gotten over such fits of reasonable bleakness before, so I presume I will again. I tell myself the despair is triggered by bad weather, or steroid withdrawal (the sciatica is finally somewhat better), or exhaustion at the prospect of promoting another book later in the year. At any rate, poetry has always wandered back, so I don’t really fear it’s abandoned me forever. And as I reread the Radioland manuscript, too, while I do keep finding improvements to make, I also think: you know, this is good work. I can help it find its way in the world.

While I ponder my menagerie of ducklings and bears, here is a guest blog on some other important stuff for the Tahoma Literary Review. It refers to a poem, “Sticky,” in their current issue. You can download a free electronic copy of the issue here (or order the print version). Thank you, kind and supportive editors of the world. Now this coyote, super genius grant candidate, has to make like a roadrunner after the fellowships, dodging work-missiles along the way: wish her luck.