The interesting thing I'm discovering about revision, is that you don't need the spark of inspiration to get it done.  Revision doesn't have the verve of original writing, but there is a satisfaction of just doing it.  I find that easier to muster.  The down side is that it isn't as much fun in discovery.

I don't know about others processes, but I've gone over my printed out copy, and made notes either in the margins, I love the word marginalia, and the concept, or for longer bits, I used post it notes that stick up above the top of the page.  It looks like feathers about to take flight.  As I edit back into yWriter, I check off the corrections on the page with a red pencil.  Then I save each revised chapter into the new Word file.  It's easier to find stuff in Word than in yWriter, but it's easier to revise in yWriter.  This way I have complete copies in Word of each draft.

I wish I could sync yWriter between my laptop and my PC office computer,where the story lives, using something like Dropbox, but that doesn't happen easily  from what I've found online, so I'm doing most of the work on my PC. I would be more productive if I could sync.

The first four or five chapters are all pretty well edited, those many years, so it is going fairly quickly.  I have noticed several changes I need to make with characterization, and consequences of their actions.  In my mind's eye, it is all there, but in the words, not as much.

I'm hoping to get this all done before April, because Napo again, probably (yearly disclaimer) and then I have that time to let it sit and stew some more, before I get onto another draft.

Wow, it looks like I'm organized or something...

Just noticed this is my 600th post here. 

Take me to the river, drop me in the water

So my plan on my previous post didn't happen.  Oh well.  Family visitors trump it at Christmas.  On the other hand I did put a link on my left side bar for my poems published online.  This, for one reason:  now I will have to start sending stuff out, so it isn't left all by itself.  I do have a few more publications, but they aren't online. 

It's funny in a way.  I haven't been thinking about the long story that much, but I've been thinking of poetry lines every day.  I wonder if there is brain space for only one at a time.  I know my brain handles these separately, so I guess I'm not surprised.  The flow can only be on one stream at a time, to give it river imagery. 

My dreams have also been very different since I haven't been writing.  I gotta get some of that energy onto the page.  Very diverse to say the least.

(I'm so not used to the pad on my new laptop.  So prefer a mouse.)

That is all.  Have a good one.   Maybe I'll read the last chapter I wrote, to see what it actually looks like, not just what I remember writing.  Again, two very different things.

sway our great designs

Haven't written here in forever.  Mostly because I was on a good solid run on my long story, and had been posting everywhere less because of that.  The story had its huge climax (never thought that was the right word for a story) and then I was interrupted so I haven't been back to it since.  But I got that bit down, so I'm ok with it.  I hope to get more done before the new year, and if it went the way I'd like, it is possible that I'll see its ending.  Yay. 

Then I plan on printing out all my Napo poems and seeing what is right with them, and dealing with updating and revision, and maybe sending some out.  If they are worthy.  /Wayne and Garth moment.

Then, I plan on starting revisions on the long story.  Then it will be April, and I'll decide about that again.  Now I think of the new year as 3 months to Napo, rather than, you know, the new year. 

In the midst of all that, I also want to work on my other short story that seems to have the heart of a longer.  Who knew?  Well, I did, because I always thought it might have that.

Have a happy holiday however you celebrate.  

Best dedication ever

I'm reading Where To Start (2010 Holland Prize winner) by Samuel Stenger Renken.  His dedication is the best I've ever read:  "-For Bill Kloefkorn, who called me poet & made me believe it."

Just a couple of poems in, and I'm impressed.

Lists of poets by nationality

Have at it kids!  Happy Sunday!

Woohoo

I've reached 100,001 words on my story.  193 single spaced pages.

And I was just surprised by a turn the characters made even at this late place. 

I hope to be done the first draft in a few weeks.  Then I will let it sit, until it has sat, and then I will start revising.  Hopefully my notes I've made throughout will be useful.

Haying fork = trident

Well, that worked out well for my story!!  I love when two parts come together ever so nicely, tying plot, theme, mythology and metaphor.

The new issue of Hobble Creek Review is up, and I'm happy to say I have a poem there in the tribute to William Kloefkorn!  Go enjoy!

Vicky

long story is long

I've topped 90,000 words on my long story.  91133 to be exact.  Feel like I'm in virgin territory again, the first time since I started the story in 2004.  (see title of post)  I felt that way long ago when the story hit me, and I started writing it, and it kept going, in fits and starts, and now I can see the end.  I know mostly where it is going, mostly.  I can still be surprised with this.  A case of me sitting down, and letting it happen.  I'm just as surprised as anyone about this, the fact that it is working (mileage may vary), and that I've gotten this far.  And soon, I will begin the morning after hung over attempt at revision.  I read that analogy somewhere recently and it felt true.  Writing is the party, and the revision is the hangover the next morning.  Maybe that is where the virgin-ness feel is coming from.

Anyway, I'm glad.  I read a month or two ago, that one shouldn't be blogging as long as there is writing to be done, and again my own mileage on that theory varies, but it has kept me quieter on these fronts because of that ~~guilt~~suggestion~~not quite the right word, but hey, it worked.

I popped out another thousand tonight, so that was good too.  Dialogue writes more quickly now that I've gotten more of it written.  The words beget the words, or something.  (See how specific I can be?)  It still isn't my favorite part of writing.  I'd rather write lingering paragraphs, or a poem, or watching the story unfold, but alas, people have to speak.  A huge part of my revision will be in the second half of the book, where characters are interacting, and I will have to build the world around the written dialogue.  I have learned I can't do both together.  Different brain bits.  I also learned that if I visually imagine my characters speaking, then it works more smoothly.  Translating the visual words to the written words.

Have a great [insert word of your choice]. 

In the poem Black People by Amiri Baraka, there is this line:

"words. The magic words are: Up against the wall motherfucker"

I found the poem in the most round about way ever. It is buried on page 9 of the Google search results for ""Black People" poem Baraka", in Google Book results.

Talk about silence.

When I read the line the first time in a post about silence, I misread them with no punctuation.

The magic words are up against the wall motherfucker.

No truer words as to writing, I gotta say.

::looks for magic words::

This interview is well worth reading. Robert Peake interviews Mark Burnhope. Mark has a new book out, The Snowboy. My copy should be arriving soon. After reading this interview, I find it harder to wait.

So in a way, the brothers force me back into my own birth, which had its problems. I survived, but I’m contrasting that with my child that never lived, who we saw as a ‘miracle child’ (I’d been told I was unable to father children). The brothers throw ‘me’, the begrudging survivor, ‘miracle child’, back into the dark. It’s confusing, but it’s a fever dream, so I like that.

This portion of the first half of the interview especially. For me anyway. Who gets to live and who doesn't is always striking to me. How Chance plays its role. How it moves us around and how we get moved. My son who didn't get to live, and the one who did. Twins separated. Parents separated from their child. Fairness doesn't have a role. I think Fairness ought to get to step up more often. But the oughts, the expected welcomed states, are often nought. I will find this paragraph quoted above living with me for a while. So, thank you.

Empty mantel

Working on my long story, and all the characters have come to a stopping point.  I have to get them riled up again...no gun on a mantel or anything.  Hmm...

I do have a hearse parked so maybe that would work...

Dear Blogger:  You are not Wordpress.  Please don't try to be.  Thank you.

I wonder if I can switch the new Blogger In Draft Dashboard back.  

the end of our elaborate plans, the end of everything that stands, the end ...

Ending a novel, aka first draft, is much harder than starting one. I'm getting to that part, the tying it all up phase, and it is much more difficult. I'm only in the beginning of the end, so I'm not worried. But this will be the first end I've written for a longer story, so I am hoping it will be satisfying.

It is still somewhat vague, but generally that is how all my writing is as I'm planning. Seat of the pants, seat in chair...

time, time

I guess I should get back to the long story soon. 7 days post-Napo, and all... I wonder what they all have been up to. Can't wait to write it and find out.

April 30: It's True, You Know

It's True, You Know

Like a switch that's flipped,
or a turn you didn't see coming,
the darkness can happen
even in the sweet light.
Your acceptance
of it as true, doesn't
showcase your ability
to see, just books the truth
you call your own.
I know you
still don't believe,
but am glad you aren't
blaming, with a knife's
serration, anymore.


Last one. And ending on a sharp knife. Huh.

April 29:: "Ambition Shall Be Glanced At"

"Ambition Shall Be Glanced At"*

I pick through the tender
baby romaine feeling
for the grit and hoping not
to find slime. Offerings packaged
in the clear plastic bins, are strapped
around tight like a pinched
belted trouser. I spin
the lettuce dry and abandon
it into the salad bowl, augment
with other ingredients, which
colour and bind, in Caesar's name.


* Julius Caesar: I, ii

April 28: Dendrite Bedazzled

Dendrite Bedazzled

Title suggested by Jeanne G

It wasn't your effulgent ass
that bedazzled me,
but some other
provocation that sparked
and sparkled
across the screen,
excitable as fire,
receptive as mesh.

April 27: At Eight Years, Walking Distance

http://www.shorpy.com/node/10338
http://www.shorpy.com/search/node/walkerville

At Eight Years, Walking Distance

We used to walk toward the smell,
thick in the air, like thieves. The whiskey
drenched the tracks, the town, and lit the air.
I tilted my head looking, and my friends
and I snickered over who would lead
the way under the bridge, as we
weren't allowed to travel over it.
We didn't know what was inside; the racks
and racks of what our fathers
and grandfathers craved. Quenched
of any need for it ourselves, the tracks
like a one way street, pointed to
where we were not supposed to be,
not supposed to act,
and the smell welcomed us home.

Blogger's not letting me upload the picture. Oh well. Click away if you like.

April 26: Come Out And Play

Come Out And Play

The day dawns
applauding the outcome
of the night. The slouch
of your eye charts
postures and viewpoints
as I bend
to the door like Justice
accommodating her scale.

April 25: Spies

Spies

I'm hiding out,
underground,
behind closed doors,
writing poetry.
House guests are
wandering, opening
doors, peeking around
corners, watching
where the pens lie.
So the pen
sputters
and the lines
get shorter
and clipped
and quiet.

April 24: April All Over My Mantle

April All Over My Mantle

Spring wants to be spring
as much as I want it, too.
Pollen explosion

across my mantle.
The cuttings even took root.
They are resting now.


(I have succumb to the dreaded fake haiku.)

Happy Easter.
Vicky

Ploughman's Lunch

Title suggested by Salli Shepherd

You didn't convince me
that our lunch
over the Giant's Causeway
settled the Troubles.
The up and down columns,
some marching, some shooting
barbwired into history.
Ancient eruptions
shaped us all, those
daggers and cliffs
remindful of the sausage
and sharp cheese.

April 22: Months Of May

Months of May

I didn't expect a note
of solace folded into thirds
and neatly tucked gently
into the issue. The issue
to remember, forever,
the remembrance
all these twelve years
later. Spring springs again,
always May, it is always
May. I wish it hadn't
been May.
The "may I"s that weren't.
The "weren't"s weight
more than the "haves",
twice as much,
half as much.
How the scale can
balance, how each
of the two still work
together, never knowing
how close and far they are.
So a letter of solace,
balances the scale,
something justice
never would.

April 21: Pipers and Payments

Pipers and Payments

Legends like children
come and go. Rats
get blamed but they
were always there.
Who determines the price
and the cost, must realize
that rifling of cashiers
profiting off the land
whittles the pipe
to the future. Being
hypnotized by the high pitched
notes doesn't amend the true
cost. Edges of rivers
aren't the solution
but neither is the dark
cave where the piper
wants us to live.

April 20: Wringing

Wringing

The clothesline opens its arms
to the sun; its clothes hang
like teardrops. Grass grows
fat shaded below. Her laundry pins
hope on the unmangled slap of wet towels.
Each sheet and pant line
up with undocumented precision,
of a metronome beat, pressed down
smooth down the line. Each
wrung and folded over,
clasped with wooden soldiers.
The wind blows and snaps
the day done. Vigorous
removal in the threat of rain,
the portent of folly.

April 19: Another Poem

Another Poem

This one sits straight up
like a cat looking
to the countertop.
Her tail swoosh snaps
back, forth, denying
possibilities
of the can's failure.
Once open, the cat
pounces like a pen
devouring lines
across which words flow.

April 18: Landscape

Landscape

The clock reads only
12:31 on a wispy Sunday afternoon.
I snuggle under a chocolate
blanket, fleeced, weave
warm, yet my hands
are chilled. I struggle
to write, hand cramped, despite
the day's generous hours.

The TV is on, me hoping
for a word that will warm
my hands with inspiration.
I touch my pen
to my cheek, and find it cold
too. Zakaria speaks of Gaddafi,
the support he receives, the surprise!
shock of those who lean to
the dark. Capitalism
is found in piracy again,
a pirate handbook they have,
words they have.
My lids weigh heavily,
the fuzzy llama on the sofa is looking
away. I turn the page
and hear Zakaria say
"Come back soon."

April 17: Rendering

Rendering

She swoons for him like a willow
dips into the dousing river. The fast
flowing water blanches her
leaving. His voice, blacker
than his dry eyes, calls
her back. She returns
in an autumnal blaze, his hand
braids her attempts, a cool
sunrise, a liquid noose
she can't resist.

April 16: Erasure

Erasure

I took the best line
out of my poem
yesterday. Promises shave
poems, make them wedge
the truth. That line, not
on the page, the silent
one that can't be spoken
reminds me of her order.
I wish, I could
make no promises,
no signatures like laundry,
dried in the dark sun,
wrinkled in the sharp air,
folded on a divided page.