Last night, my inksister and I talked for well over an hour. Our talks always start on how we are feeling/what we are doing/tiny&big updates and then we leave the path and wind through the woods and waters of talking writing and craft, conflict and love. There is always love like there is always weather. Surrounding and threading through. These talks are always so healing and helpful, and the way I miss her is a mountain crowding my heart.
This time we discussed her memoir and my new role in a writing workshop as a TA-in-training. One thing I love about our talks is that we give one another room to speak. In the past I've been fairly awful at the allowance of space in conversation. The past few years I've changed how I view interactions--how they are moments worthy of quiet as much as they are noise, how listening is not waiting to speak, is never waiting to speak. To feel in the presence of my loved ones that I am fine never uttering a word again if it means listening to them more. So my inksister and I trade soft spots and laugh with our entire bodies and discover that physics and writing are much more alike than not. At some point I said "the past is a moving target," and she slyly texted my own words back to me while we were still on the phone. It is the very thing I needed. The world around me feels like too much. But thank goodness for the hearts I share space with. Thank goodness for our ability and desire to write out the wordless.
My book will be released in June. I have not read the poems since giving Victor approval on the proof copy he sent to me. This is intentional. My eyes needed a rest from the body of work, just as the work needed rest from me.
TA work is keeping me busy but I am still finding time for my own writing. Constantly reading/editing/giving feedback on other people's poems is still hard work, still part of the process. It's a new kind of growth. I'm also reading a lot. And I am of course reading at least three books at once at all times--poetry collections, essays, memoirs. Here's to having a very exhausted library card by summer. Some recent favorites:
They Can't Kill Us Until They Kill Us - Hanif Abdurraqib
In the Dreamhouse: A Memoir - Carmen Maria Marchado
The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain- Alice Weaver Flaherty
Never Say I Didn't Bring you Flowers - Eaton Hamilton
Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides (how am I just now reading this?)
More soon, maybe. Right now I'm in the thick of writer's work, and it keeps my brain happy and my heart full. Next month is a massive one(get married!turn 40!will be fully vaxxed!) and the month after will bring my first in-person reading in over a year. There is a lot of heaviness all around but I am working hard, as my dear friend Emma says, to stay tender.
This time we discussed her memoir and my new role in a writing workshop as a TA-in-training. One thing I love about our talks is that we give one another room to speak. In the past I've been fairly awful at the allowance of space in conversation. The past few years I've changed how I view interactions--how they are moments worthy of quiet as much as they are noise, how listening is not waiting to speak, is never waiting to speak. To feel in the presence of my loved ones that I am fine never uttering a word again if it means listening to them more. So my inksister and I trade soft spots and laugh with our entire bodies and discover that physics and writing are much more alike than not. At some point I said "the past is a moving target," and she slyly texted my own words back to me while we were still on the phone. It is the very thing I needed. The world around me feels like too much. But thank goodness for the hearts I share space with. Thank goodness for our ability and desire to write out the wordless.
My book will be released in June. I have not read the poems since giving Victor approval on the proof copy he sent to me. This is intentional. My eyes needed a rest from the body of work, just as the work needed rest from me.
TA work is keeping me busy but I am still finding time for my own writing. Constantly reading/editing/giving feedback on other people's poems is still hard work, still part of the process. It's a new kind of growth. I'm also reading a lot. And I am of course reading at least three books at once at all times--poetry collections, essays, memoirs. Here's to having a very exhausted library card by summer. Some recent favorites:
They Can't Kill Us Until They Kill Us - Hanif Abdurraqib
In the Dreamhouse: A Memoir - Carmen Maria Marchado
The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain- Alice Weaver Flaherty
Never Say I Didn't Bring you Flowers - Eaton Hamilton
Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides (how am I just now reading this?)
More soon, maybe. Right now I'm in the thick of writer's work, and it keeps my brain happy and my heart full. Next month is a massive one(get married!turn 40!will be fully vaxxed!) and the month after will bring my first in-person reading in over a year. There is a lot of heaviness all around but I am working hard, as my dear friend Emma says, to stay tender.
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