What Lies Ahead

I wrote recently, on another blog, that despite my best efforts, I'm starting to feel like a literary dinosaur, or maybe like a forty-year-old size 10 feels in Hollywood. Why? Because the world of books as I know it is changing.

My hat is off to Stephanie Meyer and J. K. Rowling but, frankly, I don't have any interest in reading OR writing about witches or vampires. I like to read and write about normal people with normal lifestyles. (Well, actually, I like to read and write about Southern people with Southern lifestyles which, to some, is weirder than vampires, but that's only if you didn't grow up eating grits and collards. Not together, mind you; that would be weird.) I appreciate an old Star Trek episode as much as anyone, but when it comes to literature, I like my plots to revolve around familiar things and my characters to come from Planet Earth. (Okay, I admit that Douglas Adams did lure me into paranormal places and I enjoyed it, so I get points for being a little flexible.)

Furthermore, I do not want to cozy up with a Kindle; I want to curl up with a book. I get at least one e-mail a day from Amazon telling me how wonderful the Kindle is. Maybe so, but I'm not interested. I like my books to come with pages and covers and pictures and blurbs that help me decide if I'm going to invest myself in that story or not. I like to walk by and touch old favorites on my bookshelves and remember the first time I read them, or how significant they've been in my life. Some of those books I loved as a child wound up in the hands of my children and I am eagerly and carefully preserving them for my grandchildren; what joy!

In my wildest dreams, I can't envision a world with no books. Is it possible to have the same relationship with a cold, hard, soulless techno-toy as one has with a beautiful first edition? I think not. Are turned-down corners and beautiful bookmarks destined to go the way of the formal dining room: fondly remembered but rarely used? One of the sillier justifications I keep hearing for the Kindle is that it can store text for up to a thousand books. Since the average person reads fewer than four books a year, that "benefit" seems a tad overblown--kind of like calling up a 747 to go buy a gallon of milk.

It was inevitable that technology was going to impact the world of publishing, and I'm certainly enjoying some of that impact: I wouldn't think of embarking on a road trip without a book on CD, and I most assuredly would not want to go back to creating my manuscripts on a typewriter. But it makes me sad to think that some toddler in 2050 may never get to Pat the Bunny or ask Where's Spot? and find him. It makes me even sadder to think that a generation raised on shape-shifters and warlocks might dismiss Huck Finn or Anne Shirley as hopelessly dull in comparison.

I'm trying to be open-minded, but here's the bottom line: I'd take a REAL Trixie Belden over a virtual Top 10 any day of the week!

My Llove for Llamas is Over

I am SO over my llama phase.

Once upon a time, I thought llamas were the most wonderful animals on earth. I had dozens of stuffed and ceramic ones. I had llama earrings, llama clothing, and accessories made from llama wool. Then, for a "significant" birthday, I decided I would treat myself to a llama trek. Instead, I ended up BUYING a llama from the woman who owned the llama trek company. Actually, I bought two; because llamas are herd animals, she wouldn't let me have my sweet little Smore unless I took his not-so-sweet buddy, Pongo. The bell that went off in my head as Pongo looked disdainfully down his nose at me (quite a feat since, at that point, I was taller than he was!) should have been a warning.

Three sons, two dogs, and two llamas made for a great life. We live in the country where there's plenty of room to romp and play, and llamas are the world's best pets: low maintenance, curious and clever brains, great eyelashes. Though my furry little fellows had great bloodlines, I quickly discovered I did not have the patience to go the show route (for their one appearance in a local parade, it took four hours a piece to brush and groom them!), and as a busy mom, I didn't have the time to pursue breeding them. Thus Smore and Pongo were left to enjoy life as "gentleman llamas"--lounging in the pasture, entertaining neighbors, sneaking out for an occasional stroll across the yard. We found out they loved guacamole taco chips. We found out they liked Christmas carols. We found out they love to sunbathe on scorching hot days. (Go figure!)

A couple of years ago, my beloved Smore passed away. He was twelve years old and had lived a happy life. As we buried him, I worried about Pongo, in spite of the fact that he had done little over the years to endear himself to me. Did I need to find him a new buddy? Did I need to find him a new home? I was worried he'd be sad and depressed. Ha!

Sweet Smore was barely in the ground before the pompous, arrogant beast I'd always suspected Pongo was revealed himself in full force. He snorted, he bucked, he charged--and, oh, yes, he spat--with great contempt and greater enthusiasm. He broke out of the pasture and headed straight for our back door, where he left a mound of "calling cards" then pranced around as if to say, "C'mon, cross that line. I dare you!" Once out of the pasture, it was almost impossible to get him back in. As long as Smore was alive, pasture breaks were no big deal; we'd lead both llamas right back in with a bucket of grain. But now, if any of us dared to leave the house while Pongo was on the loose, he'd come charging across the yard with malice in his heart, a look in his eyes declaring, "You want a piece of me? Huh? You want a piece of me?" Then he would GIVE us a piece: a hearty helping of stinky, slimy spit delivered with machine-gun force, and woe be unto whoever happened to be in his line of fire. As long as I was watching from inside the house, it was pretty darn funny to see this shaggy, 500-pound son of Satan terrorizing my 6 foot, 200+ pound guys. Not nearly so funny when I was the one running for my life--uncertain whether Pongo's goal was to kill me or claim me. I had no desire to experience either one.

For the last few months, ol' Pongo has been pretty docile. It's been really cold, and he likes cold weather, so maybe he's been in a better mood. Or maybe he's getting old and worn out. In any case, apparently he woke up this morning and decided it was time for a reminder about who's in charge. When my husband and son and I started to leave for work, there was Pongo in the front yard, looming like a long-necked, horizontal Abominable Snowman. I swear his eyes were twinkling; I know he was grinning. Forty-five minutes, four boxes of cereal, two ropes, and a Ford pick-up later, he was back in the pasture. His heart wasn't in this escape, I could tell, because one buck, one snort, and a few half-hearted charges were all the protest he offered. I think he just needed to show a little attitude for old times' sake.

But as I stood out there shivering in the cold, waving that bucket of corn flakes (a sorry substitute for guaco taco chips, I might add) and wondering if my life should be flashing before my eyes, I thought, "Lord, it's time You call this llama home." And then, I'm sorry to say, my next thought was, "Wonder what kind of pet a miniature donkey might make?"

I am truly my own worst enemy.

Time to Swing the Bat!

WHERE did the last decade go? No matter; I won't miss it. There were some good things--watching my sons grow into men...publication of two new books and new editions of two older ones...reuniting with a couple of cherished old friends...getting to know several new ones--but there was a lot of loss and sadness in the past ten years, and a heap of struggling. I welcome 2010 with open arms and high expectations, and hope you do the same!

Here's an opportunity to get this new decade off to a great start: The Tennessee Women's Theatre Project is accepting submissions for "Women's Work," their annual festival and celebration featuring the work of women playwrights, poets, musicians, essayists, painters, filmmakers, dancers, and photographers from across the country. For three weekends in May (May 7 through May 23), Women’s Work will showcase the talents of creative women at Nashville’s Z. Alexander Looby Theater; submissions are being accepted now through April 5th, but why wait? If this is the year you're determined to get back in touch with your creative self, or acknowledge the creative self you've been ignoring or trying to deny, this is a terrific way to dive in. Get out that camera, dust off your oboe, belly up to the barre, or dig out that manuscript from the bottom drawer: it's SHOWTIME! Click here for details about TWTP's big event, and check my blog often because I'll be posting other opportunities to celebrate your fabulous self as I come across them.

Because here's the deal: life is short and every day counts. Don't miss out on the joy (and there is joy in every day)because you're too busy, too shy, too modest, too broke, too embarrassed, too fat, too short, too clumsy, too disorganized, too overwhelmed, or whatever other excuse you keep using to keep you from becoming the Woman You Were Meant To Be. Grab this year by the horns and go after what you want! As somebody once said (and if you know who deserves credit for this quote, please let me know!), "You can't hit the ball if you never swing the bat," so START SWINGING!

P.S. Attention momwriters and wannabe momwriters: this just in! Katherine Hauswirth (http://www.katherinehauswirth.com/) is offering an "Hour of Solidarity" writing challenge on January 10th--a perfect opportunity to stop talking about writing and actually DO it! Sign up and get details here.

Dear Santa:

This year, for Christmas, I would like:

• the partners to all the socks that have mysteriously vanished this year.
• the dogs to come when I call instead of looking over their shoulder with a look that says, "Mmm...I don't think so."
• a self-cleaning toilet.
• hair that looks like the shampoo bottle promises I will have after using it.
• confirmation that I will get to spend every Christmas for the rest of my life with all three of my children.
• my friend who has cancer not to have it.
• just one night as a back-up singer with somebody on a stage somewhere.
• Hallmark to call and say, "We want to turn your book into a movie!"
• teal blue carpet in my living room. (You may have to bribe the rest of my family.)
• new and improved fingernails. Not fake ones. I want the real thing.
• to feel refreshed and renewed after a night's sleep. Please????
• three or four more hours in every day; at this rate, I am never going to catch up.
• the pine trees behind my house removed so I can see the Blue Ridge mountains from my kitchen window
• 20/20 vision, because I'm too chicken for Lasik and tired of contacts
• Boston Legal, Northern Exposure, and X-Files back in active production
• a full-time gardener, or even a once-a-week gardener. Heck, I'd be grateful for a once-every-six-months gardener. You choose.
• my favorite makeup products to be around when I run out and want to buy more. Do I pick weird things or is this an evil plot to make women crazy?
• my mama and daddy back. Being an orphan stinks, even when you're a grown-up.
• a white fur muff like the one I had when I was five.
• a red dress with embroidered white snowflakes like the one I had when I was five. (Five was a very good year.)
• to swim with dolphins. But then there's that whole bathing suit thing...sigh...never mind.
• to go dogsledding. I can do parkas and boots, no problem....so, mush!
• a Your Daily Poem convention so I can meet all the incredible poets I've gotten to work with this year.
• Internet service that never goes down.
• Mars Bars to go back into production. The real, American, original version.
• Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Rogers back on TV.
• a donkey. Maybe a giraffe. No, a meerkat! Definitely a meerkat. And you can have my hateful llama as a trade-in.

I think that'll do it, Santa. Of course, you know I'll still believe even if there's nothing under the tree but socks and underwear but, hey, a girl can dream.

Bright Star is a Mother's Dream

Moms, if you'd like to share a wonderful, passionate, CHASTE love story with your daughters or sons, go find "Bright Star," Jane Campion's gorgeous new film about Romantic poet John Keats and the love of his life, Fanny Brawne. Unfortunately, it's only playing in select theatres, so you may have to hunt for it (go to http://www.brightstar-movie.com/ and enter your zip code to find the theatre closest to you), but it's worth whatever distance you have to drive. If you're an action movie buff, I should warn you that you may have trouble staying awake; the pace of the film makes a tortoise look manic. But if you love period pieces, lush European-style cinematography, character studies, romance, family drama, or poetry, this is two hours of bliss.

There are so many positive aspects to "Bright Star," it's hard to know where to start. The fact that John and Fanny's relationship is based completely on affection and admiration, with virtually no physical contact--an all but foreign concept in this day and age--is certainly key, but I'll come back to that. Equally as satisfying is Campion's portrayal of Fanny and her mother as strong, capable women--a welcome change from the simpering females typically associated with the early nineteenth century. Fanny's father was long dead by the time John Keats became her neighbor, so one assumes the portrayal of the Brawne women is accurate since, without father, older brother, or other male relative at hand, they were forced to be self-sufficient of necessity. Perhaps because of that need to pull together, the Brawne family had a genuine affection for one another; that affection is evident throughout the film. Though Fanny admits in one scene that her little sister can be annoying, the closeness of the family members is obvious, and they continually, and willingly, look out for one another.


Actor Ben Whishaw didn't make my heart beat faster, but I suspect teen girls will find it easy to fall in love with Campion's scruffy version of John Keats. And they will certainly identify with young Fanny's passion for clothes (forget the mall: when Fanny wants the latest fashion, she just whips out her trusty needle and thread), annoyance with Keats' boorish buddy, and frustration with strict societal rules (Keats is deemed an inappropriate match because he has no reliable income). I especially enjoyed the portrayal of this young woman's relationship with her mother, who appeared to trust Fanny's judgment to do the right thing, but stood ready to offer comfort and advice as needed.

It is the pure--literally--passion of this love affair, though, that makes this film so important for teen viewing. Hollywood has taught this generation that love and sex are one and the same, that it's inconceivable to date a boy without bedding him, that hooking up is just the thing you do. Watching the ardor grow between this young couple creates a tangible ache. When they place their palms on opposite sides of a wall each night, we feel their connection; when they steal shy kisses on a walk through the countryside, we feel their giddy joy; when they make a conscious decision not to consummate their love before what they both know, but deny, is their last night together, we ache with their grief and longing. The inevitable tragic ending will leave only the hardest of hearts dry-eyed; again, I found Fanny's reaching out for her mother's comfort particularly touching.


Unlike Shakespeare's Juliet, Fanny Brawne had sense enough to know that much as she loved John Keats, her life would go on. The film leads us to believe she spent the rest of her life in mourning but, in truth, Fanny eventually married and had three children. I think the film would be more valuable to impressionable young minds had that fact been included because at forty, you know you'll survive the loss of love, but at fifteen, you don't; moving on with her life in no way diminished Fanny's love for Keats or his effect on her life, but it was the necessary, healthy thing to do.


Meanwhile, we are all better for Keats having been in this world. His body of poetry was not large, but his impact on the world of literature is undeniable, and if you are not familiar with his work or the bittersweet, brief tale of his life, you should see "Bright Star."

Video trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFPCgXSFijg&feature=related

John Keats' poetry: http://www.john-keats.com/

Is It Poetry or Is It Prose? Does It Matter?

I've been a fan of prose poet Louis Jenkins for years. His work makes me grin--always a good characteristic in a poem. It's witty, to the point, and often does a little pointed skewering in deft, understated satire--good stuff. Thanks to the wonderful Jeanette Guinn, a longtime friend from the South Carolina Arts Commission, I found out about a grant from the Southern Arts Federation and partnered with my home county's library system to bring Louis to our fair city for a series of readings and workshops. I'm excited: high school students, adult literacy students, area writers, and the general public will all benefit from his visit to Greenville next month.

I'll confess right up front that I'm not a big fan of prose poetry. I like my poems to look like poems--nice, short lines stacked up on the page...a vertical rectangle the size of an index card is about right. Give that rectangle a 90 degree twist and, to me, it becomes a paragraph--not a poem--so I'm eager to sit at this master's feet to see if I can figure out exactly what about his horizontal rectangles constitutes poetry. What makes his paragraph poetry and someone else's flash fiction?

Louis says he could care less about form; he's written "line poetry," as he calls it, too, but feels more comfortable and less restricted in paragraph mode. Most of us poets seem to have a place that feels most natural: my friend Kay Day enjoys writing sonnets; Gregory Orr says what he has to say in short, sparse spurts; Keith Flynn burst into songs in the middle of his poems; ee cummings eschewed capital letters, and Emily Dickinson completely abused them. Yet each of these gifted writers creates appealing, powerful poetry.

I tend to think Louis is right; does form really matter? Isn't it the words themselves that make the difference? As with so many other areas of life, "rules" often get in the way of the experience. I almost drove myself--and more than a few others--crazy in my first crack at motherhood. I read every how-to book available in my determination to do it "right" and to internalize all the experts' "shoulds" and "musts" and "essentials." By the time I got to Child #3, I'd tossed out most of that advice in exchange for routines borne of convenience and practicality. (Undoubtedly, this is why the youngest child in most families is more laid back than older siblings; we moms eventually figure out that doing what comes naturally makes life much happier!)

Poetry might benefit from that trade-off. Less focus on form and more on fodder would perhaps make this genre not so offputting to those unfamiliar (or unimpressed) with the rigid rhyme scheme of a terza rima or the syllabic specifications of haiku. I'm certainly not suggesting we start throwing words on a page all namby-pamby, but a little more oomph and a little less oeuvre might bring poetry a few more fans.

You'll get plenty of both if you come hear Louis do what he does best on Friday, November 6th, at 7 PM in the Hughes Main Library in downtown Greenville, SC. I promise you will be entertained. And if you'd like to learn more about weaving words into a prose poem, sign up for his workshop for the nominal fee of $25 (thanks to the aforementioned grant!). It's Saturday, November 7th, from 10 AM till noon at the same place. Just contact Sandy Merrill at 864-527-9293 or e-mail her at smerrill@greenvillelibrary.org.

Poetry, Take Two

In a survey sponsored by the Poetry Foundation a few years back, researchers discovered the following:

• 94% of Americans have read poetry at some point in their life, but only 15% read it consistently throughout their life.
• Almost 85% say poetry is hard to understand.
• Almost 81% say poetry is boring.
• Yet more than 70% say poetry helps you appreciate the world around you.

I'm going to connect the dots here and suggest that, based on these statistics, if people understand a poem, chances are they'll enjoy it. That's the premise upon which I based the launch of Your Daily Poem, a website that went live June 1st with the sole purpose of presenting uplifting, easy to understand poetry to people who were not predisposed to like it. And to paraphrase and repurpose Sally Field's worn but fitting cliche, "They like it! They really like it!"

I am tickled pink...or fuschia, if we want to be more poetic....to report that, four months after its birth, the number of subscribers to Your Daily Poem has septupled (is that a word?), poets published and un are submitting wonderful work on an almost daily basis, and people are passing around featured poems like juicy gossip. It's enough to make a poetry lover giddy.

Why bother, you may ask, or who cares? It comes down to this: life's hard most days--especially these days. Whether you're a young mother struggling to make ends meet, a working stiff trying to hang onto your job, a retiree worried about health and Social Security, or a corporate tycoon just having a bad day, we all need something to lift our spirits, make us laugh, stretch our imagination, take us away, or resurrect a fond memory. Poetry can do all that. But for too many of us, poetry got a bad name because someone made us study something awful in a classroom, or we opened a Revered Poetry Journal and were befuddled, repulsed, or bored by what we found inside, or we went to a reading and were embarrassed, offended, or bored by what we heard.

So this is my plea: give poetry a second chance. If you think you hate it, go to Your Daily Poem and click around in the archives. Read Ellen Bass's account of a mid-life couple smooching at an airport. Read the condemnation of little girl's beauty pageants on July 21st ("the stench of pink:" what a great line!). Read about an Elvis sighting in the peanut butter aisle at Shoprite, or the bliss of a perfectly ripe avocado, or the smell of oregano in a grandmother's kitchen, or the feel of your beloved's curls against your pillow.

Believe me, poetry is alive and well at YDP and it's not boring. It's heartrending, and hilarious, and touching, and titillating and--big bonus!--not even remotely connected to health insurance! Come discover poets from around the world whose work will definitely help you appreciate the world around you--one wonderful word at a time.