Envisioning Better Things

Corvid, not covid

Envisioning Better Things – A Practice of Hope, During a Plague Year

So, things have been rough this week. It’s been dreary, rainy, and too cold to go outside much. America hit the 450,000 mark in people that have been lost to covid, as variants with higher contagion rates and seemingly slightly more dangerous consequences are spreading around the world.

Washington State has still got a shortage of vaccines, and they don’t seem to prioritizing the chronically ill or the disabled. I’ve been struggling with anxiety about that and at the same time, trying to get better from a sinus thing and a stomach thing (not covid, just the result of my normally crappy immune system.)

Meanwhile, a literary magazine I’ve respected and longed to get into for twenty years, about ten months after my work appeared in it for the first time, decided to publish a former professor-pedophile who abused students and kept a gigantic collection of child rape films. This triggered a lot of sadness and anger from a lot of abuse survivors, including me (I was raped when I was six years old). The literary magazine then published a non-apology. The whole thing left me feeling sick and disappointed in the poetryworld. Meanwhile, I’m sending my manuscripts out into the world, hoping for a good press to pick them up. Have we decided what a “good press” means to us?  What are we even hoping for?

Pink Tulips

So, What Next?

Most pandemics in history have not lasted forever, even with a lack of soap, vaccines, or N95 masks. So we know that this will not last forever, no matter what we do. The vaccines may help squash the numbers of the dead, and help propel the economy back to health, if they can actually be gotten out fast enough to do any good.

Washington State’s lack of prioritization of the chronically ill and disabled may mean a wait for me of some months, but in the meantime, they’re probably going to approve the third vaccine for the US – the Johnson and Johnson vaccine, which might be slightly safer for people like me with a history of anaphylactic reactions to shots. The earliest we can hope to get the shots from them is April, I’ve read. But every person that gets the vaccine now helps slow the steady growth of the virus, slow the ability to mutate safely within each person, and makes the entire planet a little safer.

So, I have reason to think things will get better, gradually, for us in terms of what feels for people like me like an endless quarantine, and for us all in general. Things will get better. Pandemics do not last forever. However, this pandemic has changed the world in ways that might not be reversible. Will we ever feel the same about screaming at a concert, or even singing in a choir?

Resting deer

And as Far as the PoetryWorld

PoetryWorld can feel like a strange and mysterious planet. Like a world of science fiction, with secret languages and disguises and scary monsters.  Sometimes this can be overwhelming. You can make friends with other poets, you can help support other younger poets, and you can try in your own way to support journals and presses by buying their books or subscribing or sending in your work. You can review the books of poetry you respect and admire, poets who might not get as much of the limelight as they deserve. But how do we work to make things better for, say, child rape victims, or any victims of sexual abuse in a Poetryworld that seems like it’s still (Still!) run by people either abusing or making apologies and excuses for abusers? Is there a way forward in that goal?  Can we just make the poetryworld a better place by staying in it, or staying apart from it? I do not have an answer for this. I wish I did. The truth is, you and I are part of the Poetryworld. We may not run things, but if we stick around and make our voices heard, eventually things might get better. Someone tell me so.

Learning from Women Writers, Under a Wolf Moon, Looking at Book Publishers During Submission Season, and Waiting (and Waiting) for the Vaccine

Cold Wolf Moon

Under a Cold Wolf Moon

Many people have been talking to me lately about feeling stressed, having insomnia, feeling anxious about getting the vaccine (welcome to the club on that one!) and general angst. Just consider that we are about to hit the one-year mark on the pandemic taking over our lives. That is a long time to live in fear, uncertainty, maybe losing jobs and family members, your hobbies and friends, your sense of normalcy. 2020 – and 2021, probably – have been traumatic years. It is normal to feel a little lost, a little frazzled, a little at the end of your rope. Also, this full moon of the past few days has always been a weird one for me – the day I was hospitalized and diagnosed with MS with a full Wolf Moon night, for instance.  The moon messes with people’s mood and sleep – a known thing. And it is hard to sustain hope during a worldwide pandemic. The plague years – 1918’s killer flu, the bubonic plague, the years tuberculosis swept Seattle – are bitter, hard years for everyone, almost like war years. We’ve lost 425,000 people in less than a year, and many more have long term damage, and we’re still not 100 percent sure how to treat it now, though we’re doing better than we were last February. And four vaccines within a year (only two have been approved in the US, but hopefully AstraZenaca and Johnson and Johnson will be approved soon) is pretty incredible, even if our rollout has been chaotic and too sporadic as of yet. Anyway, just like the photo – there’s light at the end of the tunnel, even if the light is obscured by clouds of uncertainty.

Downy Woodpecker Watching Flicker

Learning from Women Writers

My goal to keep learning about women writers and their lives continues, this week with the second season of Dickinson, the Apple series on Emily Dickinson, reading Red Comet, the latest biography of Sylvia Plath, and also research on Stella Gibbons, a curiously undercelebrated early-twentieth century English novelist and poet, who wrote Cold Comfort Farm, the satiric novel she’s best known for, but also 22 other books, including a couple of books of poetry and many short stories and the book I’m reading now, My American. Stella was, like me,  a journalist before she was a poet and fiction writer. Many of her books are out of print and unavailable in America, but she won a bunch of awards in her day, and held literary salons into the 1970s. When I read about the lives of successful women writers, I’m always curious about their similarities – for instance, women writers like Atwood, Gluck, and Plath (and me) were all the daughters of scientists – Gibbons’ father was a doctor (“a good doctor,” his daughter would say, “but a terrible father” – he was often violent at home but charitable at work). Otto Plath was one of the leading experts on bumblebees in his time – he began his PhD at Harvard at age 40 before he met Plath’s mother, so he was a very old father – but not, by all accounts, much fun to be around. (Coincidentally, Plath’s son, Nicholas, kind of followed in his grandfather’s footsteps – became a leading expert in the Northwest on salmon and orca patterns, before taking his own life in his early forties.)  Sylvia had a kind of extreme ambition and broke 50s modes by being a woman who wanted to work and have children at the same time (gasp), while Stella Gibbons poked fun at the literary community and often refused to follow convention of what women writers were supposed to be like. Being different – standing out – and rebelling against current modes.

Camellia flowers

Dickinson, the show, besides having a really fun contemporary music thing going on in the background, revels in pointing out Emily’s early ambitions and successes, before her near complete retreat into solitude later in life. In season 2, through her best friend/sometimes girlfriend/sister-in-law Susan, she meets the editor of her local newspaper, who may – or may not – publish her poetry. She complains that she feels unable to write, like “a daisy that needs the sun” of the editor’s approval to shine on her. Another character turns to her and says, “You are not the daisy. You are the sun. Be the sun.” I thought this was very profound, flipping on its head the way that writers often feel – desperately waiting for some publisher or editor to notice us – and instead insisting that the artist is the important source of what the editor or publishers do, the creative force on which they feed. Empowering writers who suffer from the cycle of constant rejection and even worse, inattention of the literary world, seems important for our mental health, and productivity. Remember, you are not the daisy, you are the sun.

Doe in the Rain

Looking at Book Publishers During Submission Season

This brings me to something I don’t think enough writers talk about during submission season – as many first book contests open up and open submissions periods open – which is, deciding which book publishers to send your book manuscript to. They are not all going to be perfect fits. This year’s judge may be looking for certain things which you can never be. They may not be interested in your subject matter, or your point of view, or the publisher just doesn’t publish the kind of thing you write – they’re extremely conservative and publish formal verse, and you’re experimental, or they’re interested in ecological issues, and you’re interested in exploring mythology. So how do we decide?

You would think I would know more about this as I am sending out my sixth and seventh books-in-progress. There are actually fewer opportunities for people like me than you would think – there are many more opportunities for people publishing a first or second book. This time around, a little older and perhaps wiser, I’m looking for a publisher that has good distribution and more than one person running the press, maybe some press with an actual person just dedicated to publicity and marketing. I’d like a press that I could stay with for more than one book, who might be interested in helping support my career down the road, who might consider, for instance, eventually doing a Selected Work or Collected Work. Are these crazy dreams? Maybe…

The process of sending out manuscripts is so expensive that I have to be pretty selective, especially if I want to send out multiple manuscripts. Sometimes it takes a long time to hear back from presses or contests, which is frustrating. The plague year hasn’t made things easier for those in the poetry publishing business, I’m sure, or for us as writers. It’s like targeted gambling, in a way, in that you choose which presses seem most likely to welcome your style, your content, your kind of work. So, that’s the work I have to do this month and next month…

Waiting for the Vaccine

Speaking of frustration, wait times, and gambling, waiting for the vaccine as a chronically-ill, immune-suppressed person who has not been allowed to get the vaccine yet by her state is pretty terrifying and frustrating. Why people with chronic illnesses (or teachers, for that matter) haven’t been prioritized is confusing to me. I see states who are doing a much better job than Washington State is in getting their shots into people’s arms. There’s not much I can do about this except stay Zen, stay aware of any changes in policy and places I might be able to get access a vaccine, and advocate for my vulnerable group with politicians like Jay Inslee. My father has had the shot, in Ohio, and my older brother and sister in law who are health care workers in Tennessee have gotten the shot, but that is it in my family. You would expect Seattle with all its money and hospitals to be doing a much better job. Sigh. Well, I’ll let you know when anything changes. I hope you also get your vaccine sooner rather than later.

More January Birds and Blooms, A Week Under the Weather, and Zooming with Poet Friends

Tulips in sun

More January Birds and Blooms

We have snow in the forecast in the next day or so, but I wanted to highlight these beautiful tulips in a brief moment of sunlight, and a few of my bird visitors, to cheer you up during this dark and dreary time of year. January can be a tough time, especially as we wait the interminable wait for the vaccine, as we wait for the days to get a little longer and warmer, we wait for things to start to bloom.

For those of us who are writers, we are also waiting for responses from publishers and literary magazine – I have a submission I’m still waiting on from February 2019, for instance – and looking at places to send out our work as the new year begins. Something about the new year makes us feel like there’s a clean slate for our work – even if you have, say, 60 submissions sitting out there. I’m trying to get my courage up to take a look at my two manuscripts-in-progress and see if they need tweaking, which let’s face it, they almost always do.

Northern Flicker in sunbeam

A Week Under the Weather

I’m sorry to report I’ve been very under the weather the last week. Had to go back into a medical lab for the first time since last March for a bunch of lab work. Besides being sick, I’m super anemic, so I’m gonna have to figure out how to up my iron or they’re threatening to send me in for IV iron. Boo.

But this means I’ve got lots of reading done. I tried to get outside in my yard whenever we had brief moments of very chilly sunshine (high today: 39!) But mostly I’ve been reading – one book on audiobook, one out-of-print book that’s only available-barely-in print.

I did attend a Hugo House event remotely on collaboration between poets and visual artists, which made me wonder: why aren’t more publishers doing this? I would love to collaborate with more artists with my books. I am sort of attracted to eccentric, vibrant, visual art – Rene Lynch, say, Yumiko Kayukawa, and Michaela Eaves. (Two of those artist have graciously allowed me to use their art on my book covers.) I know it is more expensive, but wouldn’t it make a poetry book more dynamic – and more valuable – to have art that help stretched the boundaries of how poetry could be understood? Also, be sure to check out Hugo House’s offerings, which are very cool, and online classes from the Kahini Programs  (I’m going to take a class there with Dorianne Laux next month, after being too sick for one this weekend.)

Steller’s jay, laughing (or scolding)

Zooming with Poet Friends

I also had the chance to Zoom with a few poet friends, which really raised my spirits – we talked about literary magazines and publishing opportunities, but also laughed a lot. Hey, laughter is good for the immune system. While I miss in person visits – and it’ll probably be a few more months, realistically, before we can see each other in person – it was nice to see friends virtually and catch up. There is something incredible bolstering about being with other writers, especially when you yourself are feeling discouraged about writing. You get to share stories about hilarious mishaps and crushing disappointments, as well as celebrate our little victories.  Just like the birds in my garden, we tend to find strength in numbers. I know no one wants more Zoom in their life, but for the right reason – a great lecture, a chance to see friends – it’s worth it.

My father got his first dose of vaccine in Ohio, but my mother still hasn’t, and here in Washington, it looks like it’ll be a while for chronically ill folks – longer than I was hoping, so in the meantime, I’ll try to get well from this stomach bug. Hoping you all stay safe and warm and get your vaccines soon!

First Blooms, New Poems in Gargoyle, Hoping for Better Days Ahead

First Camellia Bloom of 2021

First Blooms of 2021

How has your week been? I got to visit (outdoors, distanced, with masks) with my little brother and sister in law, which was nice, to exchange Christmas presents late, my uncle was in the ICU with carbon monoxide poisoning, which was very worrying although he is getting better, and I’m slowly healing from my latest boxing match with a stomach superbug, which involves strong antibioics, lots of rest and fluids.

I’ve been trying to keep my mind off troubling FBI reports of white nationalist terrorist threats leading up the the inauguration, and focusing on the cheerful fact that the youngest poet ever chosen will be reading at the inauguration, and soon Trump won’t be able to hurt us anymore. One hopes. I’ve been noticing strangely unseasonable things, like the first bloom on my camellia, long before it should be blooming. We’ve been having wet, cold winter, so it’s very odd but I will take an out-of-season flower where I can.

Sylvia poses with the latest Gargoyle

New Poems in Gargoyle

I had a nice reminder that oh yes, I’m a writer and I have a life outside of worrying about covid and terrorism – a contributor’s copy of the latest issue of Gargoyle, which contained two poems, “I Worry I’m Falling Into” and “Honestly I Should Be a Lot More Paranoid.” Here’s a sneak peek at the second poem:

Hoping for Better Days Ahead

With the change in leadership for our country, a newly reinvigorated plan for getting us vaccinated (hopefully sooner rather than later,) and hopefully lessening rates of covid, I’m hoping for better days ahead in 2021 that what we’ve seen so far, which just seemed like 2020, the much worse sequel. I hope the terrorism will soon be a distant memory and the terrorists in jail for a long time. I hope covid will stop being a deadly threat to our country and the world. I don’t know if we’re heading for that hoped-for “normalcy” soon, but at least there will be…an improvement? I am cautiously optimistic.

As far as the writing stuff…I’ve been trying to work on a third manuscript, writing a poem a day in January, reading new books (My American by Stella Gibbons, currently, a re-telling of the Snow Queen in early 1900’s England,) and I’ve ordered four new books of poetry from Open Books. Not as good as going there in person and browsing myself, but at least I’ll get a chance to read some new work, some by friends, some by poets I’ve never read before. I’ve been watching film noirs on TCM in the evening – yes, I find them very relaxing, strangely, in the same way that I read murder mysteries when I’m in the hospital. The real world has seemed like a very grim noir or futuristic dystopia for the last four years and especially the last eleven months. I hope I’ll be posting sunnier posts – with sunnier news – in the near future. Until then, stay safe and take care of yourselves.

A Week to Make Us Think, Is 2021 Going to Be Worse? Attack on America from Domestic Terrorists, and Poetry as Solace

Double Pileated Woodpeckers

A Week that Made Us Think, Is 2021 Going to Be Worse?

A week that started out for me, optimistically, with Georgia wins in the Senate, and trying to keep my intentions of staying off of social media and write more. Vaccinations for coronavirus had started being rolled out, albeit slowly, as deaths went up due to Christmas travel and visits. I felt something like hope.

And then Wednesday happened. The last time I felt this communal trauma was 9/11, but this time the attack was coming from American people. Traitorous, violent, ignorant, cult-crazed – Trump’s people. He had whipped them into a frenzy and told them to March on the Capitol, telling them he’d go with them – and then went back on his room and watched the violence unfold with glee. Bookshelves with books about women in politics were smashed, the Capitol was urinated and defecated on, congresspeople feared for their lives as the crowd chanted “Where’s Nancy” and erected a noose, and murdered a policeman (who voted for Trump as it turned out) who was just doing his duty. Trump is the ugliest, stupidest and maybe the most evil cult leader I have ever seen. I don’t understand anyone who believes his lies.

All I can hope is swift repercussion for Trump, the Republicans who egged the crowd on, including Hawley and Cruz, and the people who perpetrated violence and destruction with no worries to going to prison or being shot, because they were white, because some police were on their side, giving them high fives and taking selfies. The most disgusting display of treason I have seen in my lifetime.

There are indeed two Americas – those brainwashed by Fox News and Infowars, and those who are not. How can America come together after this? I’m not sure it’s over, either. I’m worried Trump and his ilk are planning even more violence, especially on the inauguration. It’s not enough that Trump has been banned from social media (too little, too late, Facebook and Twitter) but that he needs severe punishment. He needs to be put in prison for treason. Then there was an attach on our governor’s home, where a Trump mobbed got almost into his house while he was there. We need more defense against these traitors, against domestic terrorist. There must be swift, serious, public repercussions.

So, personally, I lay in bed shaking with fear, anger, and anxiety, considered how to escape my own fucked-up country during a pandemic. The next day I woke up sick enough that I almost had to be hospitalized (and I managed to stabilize over the weekend, I might still need surgery or very serious antibiotics to get better, so think good thoughts for me.) My immune system can’t fight back against germs – I have a primary immune deficiency, among other problems – especially when I get stressed, it makes everything worse. I rested during the weekend, the doctor called in tests and antibiotics. I tried to focus on my writing (and someone else’s manuscript, as well, which helped – and it was a really fun manuscript) but I was thinking, “Oh my God: is 2021 actually going to be worse than 2020?

Triple hummingbirds

Poetry as Solace

It’s a few days later, Sunday. I have talked to my little brother, who actually lived through a coup attempt when he live in Thailand. I tried to tell myself I was safe, I drank liquids and slept at irregular hours. I’ve tried to write some poems about America, but they weren’t any good. I sent out a sample from my pandemic manuscript (yes, I’m probably not the only person who wrote a book of poems during the last year – we certainly had the time on our hands) and sent one of my other manuscripts to a publisher. I tried to take pictures of my birds. January is a cold, wet month typically, but we’ve had colder, rainier weather than usual, resulting in landslides and giant trees coming down around my neighborhood. Talk about pathetic fallacies.

So I’ve been reading poems – old poems, that I loved as a kid. Fragment 68 by H.D., sonnets by Edna St Vincent Millay. Does poetry fix anything? No. Does my furious doomscrolling or tweeting at Mike Pence or the GOP congresspeople to impeach or invoke the 25th amendment do anything? Maybe not, either. Being a poet sometimes means being an observer. Being an observer sometimes makes you feel powerless. I’m in bed right now, looking at the rain, feeling tired and anxious.  I know there will be better days ahead. Sending love and hope out to you, my friends.