Snow Snow Snow, and Part II of a Desert Residency in a Grim Time Plus Writing Insecurity

Snow in Woodinville

Snow Snow Snow (Plus Demo Updates and Thoughts of Writing Insecurity)

We have been socked in with snow and cold, while the house is being demo’d and we’re a bit discombobulated, shuttling here and there while we can’t stay in our home while some of the work is done. I’ve also been sick (tested for covid, flu, and strep, all negative) and heard the details of the changes to the NEA grant requirements and the destruction of the government at the hands of Trump/Elon. I have been reading about writers writing under truly terrible governments – the Nazis, terrible Roman emperors etc – and studying exactly how they tried to write about their lives and their times. Ovid, of course, and Catallus, but also existenialist poets from France. I wrote quite a bit about Ovid in my first book, Becoming the Villainess because at that time I felt the echoes of the violence and helplessness in my own life. I had no idea what was ahead for my country. I had so much optimism, then, that things would get better for women. Unfortunately, that has not been the case. Like this camellia in my yard that bloomed before our week of snow, I had unreasonable optimism, it seems.

Glenn and I with mural at Desert Rat residency

Part II of a Desert Writing Residency in a Grim Time (and Writing Insecurity)

See how warm and sunny we look! Did we see the snow coming in our weeks ahead? The residency helped me clear my head for a bit about some things that have been bothering me in the writing world, but my writing insecurities have been brought up again. A friend (a really good writer) told me that last year she had no acceptances, only rejections. I told her my last year had not been much better. I read through some of my earlier work (a friend was asking about a previous book) and I felt that my earlier work was better than what I’m writing now. Maybe just different, but it felt like the strength, energy, and optimism in the poetry (and in my own body) has waned. I am feeling less and less wanted in the writing world, like my voice is no longer important or unique or anything. Is this common after a rough year of rejections and not many encouragements?

Westerm Bluebird

I was very lucky to have this five days in the desert, the sunshine and higher than freezing temperatures, and to catch up with Jeff Walt, the wonderful poet and person responsible for the Desert Rat Residency. I was lucky to see bluebirds and hummingbirds, finches and sparrows. No roadrunners, but ospreys, pelicans, and other sea birds. I tried to focus on this new manuscript, but my discouragement is strong – and the feeling that the manuscript is as finished as it’s going to get is strong as well.

I am also, I have mentioned on this blog, feeling, well, older, less listened-to, as louder influences take over social media and the poetry world, after many years of dues-paying and free labor, maybe a tiny bit more bitter than I should. If I want to do good in the writing world, I need to free myself from that. And I want to do some good. It might be the only thing I can do in the time, with this particularly oppressive government, that might last longer than a bad presidency. After all, we are still reading Ovid, but few people remember Emperor Augustus with much affection. Writers making art can last longer than a government that oppresses. We can make a difference. I have to keep believing this. My friend Jeff is making a difference by offering a place for writers (even disabled ones!) to write. My friend who received a year of rejection will surely publish her work to great acclaim, because it is funny and smart and deserved attention. My younger writer friends deserve support and encouragement. Perhaps this is how we create our sunshine in the middle of snow, in a Narnia where it is always winter and never Christmas.

Hummingbird with disco ball

I think about writers who lived in far harsher environments than I do, with far less encouragement. I owe it to them to keep going. Many women writers I admire did not live to be my age, and so I shouldn’t just take it as an impediment, but perhaps an opportunity to write from the perspective of an over-fifty woman. I have survived this long for a reason, when some of my friends have not. I am still here, for now, writing on a blog I’m not sure anyone reads in a time where writing at all seems perilous, even foolish. I remember Sappho’s poetry fragments being pulled recently from a trash pile, poems that have survived across the years, against the odds. Let’s be this hummingbird with a disco ball – unexpected, maybe unasked for, but extraordinary. Oh, I should also say I finally got the stickers for my Washington State Book Award finalist – and here’s a picture. Wishing you all a week filled with unexpected wonders.