COVID has completely changed my outlook on, well, life I suppose, but particularly in how productive I think I need to be. I’m much more likely to do unproductive things with my free time now - sort stuff, exercise, have a bath, rather than careening through projects. But - I’m in a mulling mood right now. I’m trying to choose what to get working on next. I tried doing NaNoWriMo four years ago and was on track and then the US election made me so depressed I gave up. I remember ordering an inordinate amount of comfort food and just… not writing. I think I’d like to pick that project up and will be doing a poetry blitz in November too. The thing that really appeals to me about NaNoWriMo is it’s anti-perfectionist attitude. Write fast, no judgement, no editing, just words on the page. Most of the things I’m mulling over now I’m stuck on because I have a mood I want them to have but I’m not sure how to execute it and so I’m tied up worrying I’ll do it badly. And really what on earth does it matter if I write some clunky poems? NaNoWriMo seems like a great way to jumpstart those projects so, for now I’ll nap and mull over which to choose, and November 1 it’s on!
Poetry
Impulse Over Control /
I have a small handful of random poems I wrote a few months pre-COVID that I really like. They’re not for any project—just one-offs—and they’re some of my favourite recent work of mine. Rereading them now makes me realize how working away at poetry as though it is work—a task, and practice, a goal, etc—prevents me in writing in this way that I actually quite like and usually nets some really satisfying results. Often when I think of a line or an idea rather than writing it down and letting the moment take me I think “ok I’ll have to sit down and flesh that idea out” and then I never write it at all because of the usual adult being busy stuff. There’s a balance point between approaching writing professionally and embracing it emotionally that I want to tip a bit more into the emotional. When I was younger I wrote a ton—all over my arm if I didn’t have paper. Much of this was not amazing stuff because I was practicing—getting started. All passion and love of language and a desire for expression. Then after university I became anxious about writing and way too over controlled. I never wrote because I thought it had to be super thought out ahead of time and this perfectionist sentiment led to a drought of words on the page. I have a fairly balanced approach now. I’m not anxious about writing nor am I churning out reams of pages that are only kind of working for me. But I think I can balance it better. Making time for those one-off poems is in a way making time for myself. Making space for whatever I’m feeling and allowing that to be important just to me, just for a minute. It’s a tiny little shift this sort of decision—giving oneself just the littlest bit of purely uncontrolled leisure to be introspective and expressive, but it’s the sort of thing that feeds the soul. It’s a method of practicing self-acceptance. I’ve been enamoured with writing my whole life. Why when a line pops into my head don’t I write it down? Why not take that opportunity to just be myself and do what I’ve always felt compelled to do? It’s the littlest thing, but I think those random poems stand out to me because they’re so open and expressive and bare. The planning and the channeling energy and ideas and the editing and all that bigger stuff is also an important part of my writing life, and those skills are central to making my writing practice function. But I want to give a little more space for the teenager writing on her arm while waiting for the bus whenever she shows up, instead of always saying “ok ok later” and then never showing up for her in return. A little more time for the girl writing in her journal, a little more time for the child scribbling on paper before I could write so it would look like writing because I wanted to write so badly. To embrace those moments rather than trying to control them. To let them be.
Shelf Tour #9: A Field Trip with I Know Something You Don’t Know /
Today was quite out of the ordinary—I went. To a place! The mechanic (shout out to Economy Auto). To maintain social distance I waited outside at the picnic bench behind the Mr. Lube while the car was being worked on. And just as I got to go on a big outdoor adventure so too did one of my books, and so I read Amy LeBlanc’s wonderful “I know something you don’t know.” Again these aren’t meant to be book reviews but I’m gonna gush about this one anyway.
I really love death metal and feminist witches and creepy Victorian things and corsets and stuff, but I’m also squeamish and don’t like gore, and this book really perfectly matches my interests which are hard to hit. Most stuff that is creepy is too gross for me but this book is absolutely perfect for me when it comes to that balance. It reminded me, just a little bit, of movies like Practical Magic, Stigmata, and the show Charmed—a great blend of contemporary, mystical, feminist, and historical vibes that is just the best (ok I don’t know how any of these would hold up to my sense of what feminism is nowadays or even my taste but I just like grrl power witches is what I’m saying if you get me). The tone and directness of IKSYDY reminds me a bit of Atwood’s The Journals of Suzanna Moodie but less bitter and harsh.
LeBlanc’s writing is absolutely seamless—effortless and evocative, in a way that uses deceptively straightforward phrasing to deliver strange and beautiful images and build an irresistible immersive mood and world to sink into. I read it in less than an hour and know I’ll be reading it repeatedly in years to come, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. The back of the book actually describes it quite nicely—more so than whatever I’m writing about here (eggs and Mr. Lube and Charmed?)—I’m posting a photo of that below.
This is the first Gordon Hill press book I’ve owned I believe, and it’s nice. Nice paper, nice design, lovely cover. Is “hand-feel” a thing? Like mouth-feel? If so I’d say this book had good hand-feel. One more reason to make it a permanent fixture on the shelf.
Ok I can’t help but make a joke. There’s a bit in the book where someone contemplates whether an egg should be boiled for eight minutes or ten. This is the only thing wrong with this book. The answer is neither! An egg should be boiled for six minutes for the yolk the way I like it :P I only just figured this out! I’m very excited about boiling eggs in 1” of water for six minutes right now. I have had many delicious eggs lately.
Anyway, here’s some photos of me and the book’s field trip.
The Forgotten Manuscript /
I have a habit of repeatedly writing out the list of major projects I’d like to complete—manuscripts and art series. I do this… every few days depending on my mood. These begin as “today” or “this week” to do lists because I’m always convinced I will finish multiple manuscripts in a week, weekend, or even day depending how I’m feeling. This is a strange habit quite divorced from the repeated reality of my days, but it’s a very cheerful habit, and one that keeps me excited about the art and writing. So odd but nice.
I notice recently though that I keep forgetting one project—Glass Clouds. It seems bizarre that I do so. I’ve put an enormous amount of work into it and have had a great deal of help from family and friends on it, and I’m really happy with it. I’ve completed 50 poems (paired with the photos that’s enough for a book) but plan 250 more to go with all my favourite photos that might be shared in some alternate way, as that’s probably too hefty for one book! But I haven’t been writing those poems because it keeps slipping my mind which is very strange for me.
There are two possible reasons, I think, for why it keeps slipping my mind. First—I don’t talk about it much. This is because if it takes a long time to expand and/or to have published I don’t want everyone to already be sick of it. This might be an unsubstantiated concern. I can’t recall ever getting bored of hearing about someone’s forthcoming book even when they talked about writing it for ages. Partly this might be the visual art, though. This project is in many ways one of my first big professions steps in my visual art, as I received funding for the project, and I’m not sure if I should be sharing the photos so early in the process, or how many I should share, or if there’s any reason to hold them back. I’m not sure what exactly I’m unsure of but I think I have a latent sense that I’m not totally sure what I’m doing but that I do want to get it right…
These are bogus reasons when it comes to the memory thing though, I think, because I never talk about the other projects I keep listing out. Some I haven’t mentioned to another human in ages if ever.
I think I might just be at peace with the project. Just sort of happy with how the first leg went in a deep and pleasant way. It was such an incredible struggle to get there for so many reasons—most of them personal not artistic reasons—but that hasn’t marred the work for me. When I think of it I feel quite content. Maybe this is the reason I forget it—because it already feels like an accomplishment. It’s the only reason that seems likely.
But I definitely don’t want to forget about Glass Clouds. I am really fond of it and it is really significant to me and holds so many important life moments in it for me. So maybe I’ll start talking about it more as I go. If it brings me peace maybe it’ll do the same for someone else.
Shelf tour #7: My Ariel /
So I’ve been going awfully slow with this posting thing because in staring at all the unread books they’ve been drawing me into actually reading them. That’s the case with My Ariel by Sina Queyras.
My Ariel really jumps out on the shelf because it’s thick and has eye catching type. I bought this right when it was released but haven’t been able to read it until now. I respect Queyras as a person more than I can say, and they are one of my favourite writers. Each of their books is magnificent, and though widely varied in subject matter each is wrenching and transformative in its own way. I knew reading this book would be an intense experience and one I somehow didn’t feel ready for until this weekend. I wasn’t feeling well Saturday and spent most of the day resting, and it was just right—the right moment for me to begin. And my word, this book. It’s so good. I’m only a third through so I should probably finish it before I go on and on about it but it’s incredible. As eviscerating as I expected and with a twist, as Queyras writes in a slightly different style with a clarity so true and loud it leaves your ears ringing. I love Sylvia Plath’s poetry but I’m not terribly knowledgeable about her—I’ve watched the movie and we discussed her bio a bit in one or two classes I took—but I never researched her or read her letters or anything (nor could I get into the Bell Jar). If you’re afraid you need to be a Plath scholar to get into this book I’d say definitely not—like OO by Spinosa it’s might inspire one to read the referenced works but it doesn’t exclude readers who haven’t.
I might write more about My Ariel when I’ve finished it, but I’m so glad it was finally my moment to read this book. It’s stunning.
Ooh my heart: “OO: Typewriter Poems” by Dani Spinosa /
I usually only ever feel like writing about books I really love, and I usually don’t end up doing so because I mull it over for so long I lose the thread. So here are some quick thoughts and immediate reactions to Dani Spinosa’s beautiful “OO: Typewriter Poems.” Mainly, on how much it makes me want to go make stuff.
First—labour. You can see and feel the work in these poems. The physical presence of the poet—in the typing, and to a lesser extent, in rendering the work in electronic format to make a book. It gives the book a striking and intimate immediacy. The poems where layers of typing obscure words are especially poignant—like I could feel the process of the author writing and erasing through writing and how much thought and emotion might go into such an act. This tactile thoughtful beauty makes me want to go write asap.
Next—when I’m really excited about a book I can barely focus on it. My mind starts spinning off at full speed thinking about what it means and also what art I want to make inspired by it. That’s what I felt here and I feel so gratified by the conversation between Dani Spinosa and Kate Siklosi at the end in which this idea—of inspiration and in being in conversation with other authors—is so elevated. That this reaction is not a matter of being distractible, but a way of engaging.
I love, too, the discussion of the gendered elements of that dynamic. This too is also personally so gratifying for me given that I have an interest in writing through/back at male (and sometimes misogynistic) writers through history whose work has inspired me. I’ve been thinking lately of doing more poems like Other Observations and keep wondering if anyone would care for such a book, but here I find this impulse shown to be not a personal compulsion but rather a broader interest shared with other writers. That’s pretty cool.
What’s especially interesting too is that a book like this could easily be cruel, condescending, or dismissive. But the author interacts with others in a way that is critical but not mean-spirited. It’s thoughtful and a pleasure to experience.
I also love the emphasis in the afterword conversation that the author places on not caring about making perfect things or what others think. This idea is the reason I keep this blog. There is so much pressure—whether from other writers or from the impulse to professionalize or from Instagram—to only create and share perfect things and that for me absolutely obliterates creativity. More mess, more attempts, more works in progress, more everything please.
Also from the afterword—femmeship. This is lovely and really open in a kind of riot grrrl way that’s warm and strong and encouraging and comforting and inspiring. A concept that pushes back at any impulse that says there’s not enough space.
The discussion of the kind of insecure and boastful aspect of asking other people if they’ve read X is especially well taken here, because like the potential of such a book to be cruel it also has the potential to be snobby and exclusive—like, what, you don’t know all these author? Psh. But this too it avoids through thoughtfulness and an appreciation of the relationships between authors—the connections—rather than treating one’s influences and passions as tokens in an avant-gardist social status game. Instead this is a work of enthusiasm, sharing this catalogue of other writers with readers with affection.
I loved this book. I love that it exists for people who might just be discovering visual poetry and becoming visual poets now. I think of myself about a decade ago, digging around for women visual poets, printing out Mary Ellen Solt’s poems and my sister binding them into a book for me. Sitting in my room reading in a sunbeam, my mom ironing in the next room, reading about Solt writing on her ironing board. I still have that homemade book on my shelf. I’m so glad this book exists—for what it means not only to me to read it now, but for what it will mean to others who are looking for a way in to vispo that speaks to them and their lives. I love that it exists for the people who are going to be totally blown away by Spinosa and Siklosi’s conversation, having never read anything quite like that before. This book is a real gift to vispo, it’s fans and present and future practitioners. It means a lot.
Shelf Tour #6: Surfaces /
Fridays are sort of strange now. That kid feeling of “the weekend!!!!” is sort of replaced with “well, I guess I’ll keep sitting here…” so today I wanted to do something out of the ordinary. So, I went through Eric Schmaltz’s beautiful book “Surfaces.” This is one of my most recent acquisitions, bought as a COVID cheer-up item. I’d wanted it for a while and wanted to spend a bit of money at Shelf Life since I’m presently employed, and I’m glad I got it. These posts aren’t meant to be reviews, but I love how this book reminds me of graphic design from when I was a kid, of the rolls of drawings my dad would be working on, and the stationary store near my house growing up… the wonderful shelves of pens and pencils and erasers and notebooks for various notepads for various vocations. Also check out this cover… the textures remind me both of cuts and of Kyle Flemmer’s sonnets. Very cool, very evocative. This one’s been sitting on the new books pile so now it’ll take its place on the Canadian poetry shelf.
