Revising, revisiting, rewriting

The comment from my professor and the chair of my dissertation committee, scrawled at the bottom of a section titled “Baking Banana Bread,” and barely legible said:

“I think this section needs to do more.”

But WHAT? I wanted to scream.

Instead, I pondered, I mulled, I percolated, I discussed with friends.  Did I need this section at all? Was it repeating something I’d already expressed in the section on making Mom’s Chicken Divan?  Could I make it say something different?

Could I, should I “kill my darlings?”

The hardest part of revising is knowing when to let it go, and knowing when to keep pushing through, moving blocks of text around, re-writing, adding and removing words, deepening and broadening the ideas.  And of course, knowing when it’s done.

But is it ever done?  Over burgers and beer the other night with my friend Samantha Tetangco we spent a good amount of time talking about  The Dissertation.  Sam finished hers last year; this year she’s been teaching English at UNM.  She is still working on what was her dissertation, and is now her novel-in-progress.  She’s working on it diligently.

We talked about a panel we’d both attended at the 2010 AWP conference:  a group of writers talking about AFTER the MFA. It was eye-opening.  They’d all spent a few more more years revising their work before getting their books published.

A few more years? I thought then.  I’ve already been working on this damn book since 2005.  It was discouraging.

But now, as I think about the most immediate deadline in my future–  the dissertation defense–it is encouraging to think that my dissertation does not need to  be ready to run to a publisher or an agent.  Sure, I want my dissertation to be the best it can be. Yes, I want to present good work to my committee.  Of course I will spend hours each day preparing for my defense (which means writing).  But it doesn’t have to be perfect.

What I do need to work on is making sure that I don’t quit after the dissertation, that I find a way, even if like Sam I only write an hour a day, to keep moving forward, keep pushing, revising, revisiting, rewriting until I’ve made something I could take to a publisher or an agent….  at which point he or she will probably want me to revise and rewrite once again, maybe twice.

It always comes back to this:  that writing is a lot like life, we’re always revising. If not, we might as well give up all together.


17 Shades of Blue

Over on Judy Reeves’ blog she’s blogging 20 Ways to Make It Better.  The “homework” she assigned for #7 (Be specific): Write 17 shades of blue, give me nine kinds of cake. Describe something “beautiful.”

So here we go…


1. Levi Strauss standard denim blue / faded denim blue / acid wash blue

2. Cornflower blue

3. Sky blue

4. Sapphire blue

5. Turquoise blue

6. Glacier blue

7. Tiffany blue

8. Aqua blue

9. Blue-green or Green-blue (are they different?)

10. Blueberry blue (it’s almost a purple with a gray blush)

11. Cobalt blue

12. Ocean at midnight blue

13. Navy blue

14. Playroom blue

15. Crystal blue

16. Icy blue (same as glacier?)

17. the sparkly blue of my Granddad’s eyes (Grandma used to say all the girls called him “dreamboat”)

18. Wedgewood blue

I stalled at number 12 and began walking around my house looking for blue.

I don’t have a lot of blue things in my house.

It’s too cold to go outside to take a look…

And if you’re looking for a color, a good website to check out is the, the source for all things color.



1. Chocolate cake

2. Pound cake

3. Lemon poppyseed cake

4. Angel food cake

5. Bundt cake

6. Pineapple upside-down cake

7. Fruitcake

8. Carrot cake

9. Shortcake with strawberries on top

Now I want to go eat cake.


Something beautiful:

So many beautiful things to choose from:  my cat Cleo’s eyes–pupils ringed in sapphire blue, broken green glass from a beer bottle softened by ocean sand, the January moon rising over the Sandia mountains at twilight…  I may have to think about this more.

Thanks Judy!




How did it get to be 2012 already?

Anyone who has followed my blog (both of you) may have noticed that I’ve not posted anything since–gasp!– July!  The good news is that I’ve been focused on other writing endeavors, most importantly The Dissertation– the book that I am writing that will get me the M.F.A. in creative writing for which I came to New Mexico.  Now that the end is in sight–I’ll be defending this semester, late March or early April–I’m wondering (and everyone is asking),

What next?

And it scares me.


I hate that question mostly because I don’t have an answer.


When I left San Diego to attend graduate school I envisioned completing  my degree, and returning: to Southern California, to my marketing job, to my friends, to my family, to my life.  But when I lost my job in February, everything changed including my well-crafted plan to return to California and pick up where I left off.

Instead, I’m at a place where I have to figure out what’s next.

First, if I want to teach college level English, I’m at a disadvantage because (1) I don’t have any real, front-of-the-classroom teaching experience, (2) Funding cuts to institutions of higher education mean fewer jobs, or part time jobs with no health insurance benefits (3) For a tenure track position teaching creative writing I’d need a book published (or on contract).   It’s not that think these are insurmountable obstacles, but I’m a realist.  If this is what I want to do, I need to find ways around those obstacles.

I’ve thought about finding a job.  Jobs are much more plentiful in San Diego, especially if I want to go back into online media and marketing.

I’ve thought about freelancing: consulting businesses on creating and managing online presence. The benefit would be that if I can build up a good revenue stream, I could take that “job” with me wherever I go.

I’ve thought about editing, and manuscript consulting.

I’ve thought about getting my book published, about getting a grant for some of the creative / community projects I want to do. I’ve thought about my next book, and the one after that….   and writing proposals to get those paid for up front.

I’ve thought about running off to Hawaii.

I’ve thought about applying for fellowships and residencies and other opportunities for freshly minted writers with MFA degrees.

But mostly, right now, I’m thinking about finishing my MFA degree:  it’s number 1 on my list of goals for 2012.  Other goals on my list include:

Listen..  to others, and most importantly, to myself (this is more of an intention than a goal, as goals need to be measurable).

Write… 1 blog post per month and work 5 hours per day on my book (“writing” time includes planning, reading, revising, submitting and researching).

Submit…  craft 4 “chapters” of my book into stand-alone essays, send out to a minimum of 48 literary journals (that’s only four per month).

Create…  a multi-media essay of one of my short essays.

Yoga… twice a week.

Develop…  a plan for what’s next.

I know I’ll be ok.

I know I’ll land on my feet.

I just don’t know where.

Taos: it sneaks up on you

So far during this month I’ve had the opportunity to spend a total of seven days in Taos, New Mexico.  First, I attended the University of New Mexico’s Taos Summer Writers’ Conference.  This annual conference will always hold a special place in my heart.  The first time I attended the conference, in 2005, I had my first experience reading and looking at my own writing through the lens of craft in Greg Martin‘s “beginning” memoir class.  The lesson continued with the 2007 Master Class in memoir (also taught by Greg Martin).  In 2009 I took a class with Jesse Lee Kercheval, and in 2010 with Summer Wood.

Just to be clear, I have many others to thank for teaching, and encouraging me– I took classes and workshops in San Diego with some wonderful writers like Jill BadonskyJudy Reeves, Sue Diaz and Candace Toft and I learned a lot from them all…

But this post is about Taos.  Sort of.

This past week, rather than take a more challenging course in memoir, one that would require me to submit pages to my classmates and a teacher, and participate in a read and critique, I opted to take a class that was geared more towards generating new writing.  Taught by Jeffrey Davis, the class “Where It All Begins: Writing, Yoga & Wonder” turned out to be just what I needed.  I wrote some really bad stuff, and some really good stuff, tapping into someplace I hadn’t been in a while–my imagination.  You see, when you write memoir sometimes you forget that it doesn’t all have to be true.  That is one aspect of  the “creative” part of  “creative non fiction.”

In the piece I like,  “The Way It Was Supposed To Be” I imagine a fight with my mother that never happened, a fight that couldn’t have happened because in the scene I wrote I was 15.  In reality, I was 13 when she died….    I’m still working on this as either short memoir piece (under 1000 words) or developing a longer piece, I’m not sure.

I also wrote a piece that I’m not as excited about– its Word document title is  MomDream.doc.  It is based on a dream I had–which is of course tricky because really, who wants to know about your dreams?  In the dream I find out my mother had not died, had in fact been in a mental institution and that the family had decided it would be better if we (my sister and I) didn’t know.  If that is not weird enough, in the dream, my mother comes back–  she’d gotten out of the institution, divorced my dad, married some new guy and was living in Boca.  (Boca?!  yeah, I know)  This writing is not so good, I’m not sure I can make it into an essay or a chapter, but there are some good lines in there that may make their way into something else.

I wanted to be sick, to puke purple words and foggy letters, to crawl back into bed, or run out the door, down the street, over the back fence in Lisa Johnson’s yard, through the woods to Dillon’s horse farm. I wanted to take Trixi, my pinto pony, and gallop along the old abandoned rail road tracks all the way to Richmond.

I wanted to scream in capital letters with exclamation points to make myself heard. WHY?!! WHY?? WHY? ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS NOW?! I wanted to scream WHAT THE FUCK?!

And just like a cartoon, the swirl of words and letters and punctuation marks screeched to a halt in a halo around my head, frozen in mid air, hanging for a full minute before falling to the ground and shattering like old brittle bones. The rest of the day became a blur of words and images, memories, maybe real, maybe imagined, I didn’t know anymore.


Or maybe not…  we’ll just have to see what happens.

All this to say, Taos, for whatever reason, stimulates parts of my brain that don’t get stimulated very often, things like imagination and wonder. Plus attending a conference full of like minded people all pursuing creative endeavors is pretty damn encouraging.  It doesn’t hurt that Taos is at least 15 degrees cooler than Albuquerque, and Taos is downright paradise.

Last night I went back to Taos.  My friend and writing coach Jill Badonsky is hosting “Electric Skies and Creative Thunder” a creative retreat at the Mabel Dodge Luhan house.  And since Jill and I missed connecting in Albuquerque before she drove up on Sunday, she invited me to come up for the night, to have dinner there at the Mabel Dodge Luhan house, and participate in the evening’s Salon, a kind of open mic.

Jill is (I hope she won’t get mad if she reads this) less about writing, about the craft of writing and more about tapping into the creativity.  That is to say, a Jill workshop is not going to talk about rising action, or character development or discuss the character’s motivation or if the obstacles are formidable enough.  I would be shocked if she drew a Freytag Triangle on the board.

I’m sure Jill knows about the triangle, the elements of story and all that, but that’s not at all what a Jill Badonsky workshop is all about. She’s about inviting the muse to play (all nine of them, plus a body guard), she’s about tapping into imagination, and exploring your own innate sense of creativity.

It had been a long time since I’d experienced this with Jill, but last night I had the opportunity to not only have a fantastic meal at the Mabel Dodge Luhan house,  but to watch Jill work her magic.  At the Salon, 9 of the 12 participants, all women (except one brave husband),  showcased the sculptures they’d been working on all day–  an assignment that mandated they include a small sheer fabric bag and pipe cleaners in whatever they created.  And each creation was more amazing than the next!  From a dream catcher-like sculpture of wood tied to rock with pipe cleaners and ribbon to the actual embodiment (as in she made herself a piece of art) of a sculpture to a diorama to a talking stick, to a worry tree, to a I don’t know what to call it but it was fabulous sculpture….  To watch these women, from all walks of life, from all parts of the country, some in need of some healing, find a kind of power within themselves was truly amazing.

I was honored to be a part of this celebration, to read two short pieces and for a moment I felt like I was part of it. (so again, Thank You, Jill).

The evening ended with some original music by another Jill and her husband Doug, two very talented musician-singer-songwriters from Dallas who’s last name or band name I did not get, but I just used my mad google skillz to find– check her out here:


All this to say, whether I’m hanging out in the garden drinking coffee at Wired Cafe, wallowing in the artistic landscape, enjoying the physical landscape (from high desert to ponderosa pines and green meadows), or sharing good conversation, good food and art with friends, Taos is a special place. It sneaks up on you and gets under your skin.


Musing on Silence

How do I write silence, explain the space between words, between thoughts, between moments in time, between the inhale and the exhale? Does silence even really exist?  Is there really no sound in silence?

What about the low pitched buzz of the refrigerator, the water circulating through the swamp cooler, the delicate thump of a cat launching itself from desktop to floor?  And if you listen, really listen, can’t you hear the high pitched digital whine of the computer, the clock radio, the cable box, the printer.

Even in nature there is no silence.  Can’t you hear the air move through the dry branches and leaves of  the elm trees, through the sage brush, the creosote?

Taos Vista

Don’t you know the sound of a purple blossom dropping from a desert willow? And what about the sound of prairie dogs scrambling from hole to hole while the lizard hunts for shade?

Can I paint silence?

What color would it be?Is it black or white or a thousand shades of blue?

Yellow seems too joyful to be silent.

Is silence golden? or is it bronze or silver or slivered into pieces like almonds on a mandarin orange salad?

Is it dark or is it light? Is it big or is it tall or wide or soft and fluffy like a cotton candy cloud? Or is it hard like concrete? Can I stub my toe on silence?

Sometimes I want to wallow in silence, roll around in it as if it were a grassy meadow dotted with purple mountain lilies or a warm ocean bay.  But there is no silence at the shore:  the wind on water, waves lapping onto sandy beach, the crunch of sand between my toes, the hermit crab, the splash of a dolphin.

Sometimes I can’t help myself, I want to break the silence, shatter it with a hammer, watch it spider like windshield glass or crumble like old bones.   Silence is scary.  Too much silence and I could begin to think too much, do too little.  Too much silence could set free the voices locked in a vault in the back of my mind.  Would I be frozen in that space between thoughts?  Or could I grab onto one thought and follow it out my ear or my eye to a place I haven’t yet heard?

On Re-Visioning My Memoir

Not too long ago I wrote a section in my memoir–actually it is currently at the end–about volunteering at the Children’s Grief Center.  It feels like the end in a way, like this is the place I ended up on my emotional journey of Reconstructing My Mother.

But as I re-work my prose, much of it written in 2006 or 2007, I realize I have a different perspective on those events.  That perspective, that time of writing voice is clearly informed by my work at the Children’s Grief Center.  I knew this, but when Greg suggested that this section be the beginning I was resistant.  I love chronological order.  It makes sense to me, and anything that messes with the time space continuum really makes my brain hurt– like the Star Trek Next Gen episode where Data’s head was found amongst some 19th Century Earth artifacts… tell me your brain doesn’t start to hurt as you try and figure out how Data is both alive and dead in the albeit fictive present, but lived in the past? was killed in the 1800s?  so how can he exist n the present, or is it the future?  see what I mean….

Maybe Greg wasn’t suggesting I write something like “Time’s Arrow” but there was a part of my brain that was screaming NOOOOOOOOO  it can’t come first because it didn’t happen first.  This kind of modular design doesn’t bother me in other people’s work, so I’m not sure why I resist, but I do.  I’m trying really hard to get over it….

Greg also suggested that rather than tweak what I have that I re-type the whole thing.  Start with a blank document.  No cutting and pasting.

This  suggestion not only made my brain hurt, but made me want to hyperventilate as well.

Do you know how intimidating a blank page is to a writer??  It was like he was suggesting that I toss what I’ve done.  The 200 plus pages.  And a part of my brain (the same part that keeps all those unfinished projects in my closet) was screaming NOOOOOOO  I can’t get rid of anything!

But I’m doing what he suggested.  I mean you do know the definition of crazy, don’t you:

doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

I’m glad to report that I am not crazy, and this re-typing thing may in fact be working.

I started re-typing the beginning, with the new vision of starting with the end.

In the process of re-typing, I’ve already added three new pages.

And maybe some of the prose won’t even make it into the new document.

And maybe that’s a good thing.

And maybe, just maybe I’ll find an end….



DIY Therapy, aka Writing Memoir

My first crocheted hat

It’s amazing what you find out about yourself when you write memoir.  Some of it not so good.

One of the things I’ve been discovering, or rather running up against, again, is my propensity to not finish things.  Especially big things, like crocheting an afghan (as opposed to the hat that only took a couple of hours).

I have dusty-rose and denim blue colored afghan somewhere,  in a box in the garage or in my office closet, half finished.

There’s really no point now–

the colors, chosen some 15 years ago, no longer
match my bedroom, nor
my family room,
my office.

And there’s the paintings with–
no frames, broken necklaces
never restrung
the pants  not hemmed.

My closet, full of possibilities.

Then there are the not so tangible things like a bilingual teaching credential, a certificate in computer programming, a journalism career…

I can justify not finishing these things by telling myself  I never really wanted them in the first place, that if it were something I really wanted, I would have made it a priority, I could have made it a success.


After reading the 200 page messy draft I sent him, my advisor busted me, called me out. In a nice way, but still.  He tells me the truth. It’s why I wanted to work with him.

“One thing I noticed,” Greg said, “is that you get started on what I’ll call ‘long stories’ and they just sort of trail off. I’ll turn the page and we’ll go from that trip to Hawaii to baking banana bread. And I don’t know where we are.”

At first I tried to justify this.  “Well I told you it was a messy draft.” and “Yeah. I haven’t even looked at that section since I first wrote it four years ago.”

But the truth is, I don’t know if I know how to finish things.  And I am afraid. Afraid that I can’t do it, and maybe most of all, afraid of what else I’ll discover about myself if I do.


Electric Skies and Creative Thunder

I wish I had come up with the above title, but it’s the title of an upcoming Creative Retreat in Taos, New Mexico hosted/ led/ facilitated by the amazing Jill Badonsky.  It’s happening at the Mable Dodge Luhan house– the historical artistic hub of Taos, NM, where folks like DH Lawrence, Georgia O’Keefe, Ansel Adams, Martha Graham, Carl Jung (and later Dennis Hopper) hung out.

I also wish I were able to attend the retreat, but alas it is not in the cards for me this summer–I’ll be attending the AROHO Writers Retreat in August.  HOWEVER, if you want to make an investment in yourself and connect more deeply with your own creativity, then I can’t recommend Jill more highly.

It was several years ago that I first met Jill.  I was working at the 101 Artists’ Colony, and had the opportunity to attend some writing workshops that she held at the Gallery.  Then I signed up for a class, based on her book, The Nine Modern Day Muses and a Body Guard. (since then Jill has also published The AWE-Manac: A Daily Dose of Wonder.)  If it weren’t for Jill I might not be a writer, I might still be working in an accounting office…

This is Jill Badonsky. Doesn't she look like fun?!

Jill’s books are filled with creative inspiration, and tricks to get you to connect with your creativity (no matter what you occupation).

Jill’s workshops are notoriously filled with silliness, yoga, writing, art, music, there may be hula hoops (you just never know).   THIS retreat will include a stay at the historic Mable Dodge Luhan House, and gourmet healthy meals.  The place, Taos, Mable’s house, are in and of themselves inspirational….

What I SHOULD be doing

I should be working on my dissertation, also known as my memoir.  I’ve made some progress over the past week:

I printed out all 200 pages. This was the easy part. (except for the part where the Lobo Lab on campus was closed, so I had to go to the Library, and use the slowest printer ever, and it only printed on one side! arrgh.)

I read through all 200 pages. THIS was the hard part (except for the part where I was doing said reading in the lovely Willard Reading Room in the library.)  Some of the text I wrote back in 2005, and as I look at it now I see how much is missing:  setting and reflection, for example. Oh and context.  The good news is that I’ve learned a lot in this MFA program.

I marked places in the text where more amplification is needed, and created a To Do list, that is at once comforting and overwhelming.  Some entries on my list are simple like, “Edit, edit, edit!” something I can do with one hand tied behind my back. Other notes are “Add more reflection,” which means I must do just that–  reflect.  And then of course, write about it.

It is in the reflection I get lost, I wander off.  For example, in one section I want to write about military culture, about what it means to me to have grown up as a military brat, so off I go in search of the book that Uncle Bill gave me many years ago.  I can’ t seem to find it, so I wander over to Google and search “military brats,” and end up on Wikipedia…  and then my mind wanders, this time I think about the workshop I took on Sunday with the talented writer/teacher Michelle Otero and Lisa Gill of the Local Poets Guild, “Writing to Heal.”

In the first exercise Michelle had us visualize our life as a river.  She quoted Toni Morrison:

“The act of imagination is bound up with memory. You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. “Floods” is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, what valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place. It is an emotional memory—what the nerves and the skin remember as well as how it appeared. And a rush of imagination is our ‘flooding.'”

You can never go wrong when you quote Toni Morrison.

I imagined my life like a river back east, lush with trees and green practically dripping from the banks into the water, and curving so that you could not see what was ahead. It’s strange that this is the kind of river I imagine when I’ve spent more of my life near the Colorado River or the Rio Grande River, or any other river in the southwest that is not shrouded in green shrubbery.

Then Michelle asked us to DRAW this river.  I know some folks were resistant, but I find it very helpful to try to express myself in a medium other than writing–  what Sharon Warner calls “getting it off the page” so I was excited. There is something liberating in drawing, where I don’t have any pre-conceived notions that I am going to do a good job.

As I imagined this river, and thought about my mother’s death, I draw that time in my life as a curve in the river shrouded in foliage so dark I could not see around the bend…  On the side before the river’s bend I drew a lighter brighter area, with the trees well-defined to represent that life was good, it was sweet–  but the subtext would be, is anything ever this perfect? pretty pink and purple and yellow flowers, the sun always shining?

When I stepped back and looked at this river drawing I realized how easily I had slipped back into an old pattern of looking at everything as a problem.  And let me tell you I went to town drawing that bend in the river, scrawling the darkest greens and blacks and blues.  It was a dark time, but as I looked at my drawing,  it dawned on me that I don’t think of everything as dark, or dreary (at least not ALL the time).  Fortunately (or subconsciously?) I had left empty a small area in the upper right corner of the paper (you can’t see it very well in the above photo), so I drew in some perfect flowers, and a nice tree, and even a little sunshine.  My way of saying, Hey. I don’t know what’s around that bend, but I know it will be okay. I will be okay.  And if history is any indication, I know that is true.  I may not know where I will land, but I do know I will land on my feet.

What the heck is a Nanninga?

Poetic Brew, a monthly open mic for poetry in San Diego, recently posted a note on Facebook after the February event:

February’s Nanninga (made from fragments of February’s open mic reading)

Speak like a good dog
searching the reckless abandon
Like frothy waves lapping the seaside
where silent crickets tell us of war

Our horrified hearts refuse to answer
showcasing fingers pointed up and down:
the mind of an arrow but dead in the eye

Before this mountains fell like trees
and we, the husks of angels, would
spring to our feet in deafening applause,
too tired I suppose
To risk the fear of losing ….. CONTINUE READING–>

I hadn’t noticed the January post, where host Eber Lambert wrote “Each month the host will select catchy lines from the poems read that evening and compose a found poem from that. It will henceforth be called the “Nanninga” in honor of Bob Nanninga, the late host of the La Paloma poetry slam who could create these like no other.”

For those of you not familiar with Bob Nanninga, he was an actor, writer, purveyor of coffee, environmental activist and erstwhile host of the aforementioned Full Moon Poetry Slam in Encinitas, California.

It’s been just over a year since Bob passed away…  so thanks Eber for the nice reminder!  I can’t say Bob was a friend, but I did know him (back in my 101 Artists’ Colony days)  and can say he was an asset to the Encinitas community.

And so, next time you go to an open mic, or a poetry slam or a DimeStories event…  jot some notes, go home and write your own nanninga instead of a haiku or villanelle.