tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42453972496103448542012-02-16T04:39:28.455-07:00Musings about the writing life.Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.comBlogger2071100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-44652893022826339492012-02-13T09:11:00.000-07:002012-02-13T09:11:53.068-07:00

Currently I am reading and enjoying an old collection of interviews with poets, Bill Moyers' The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets (1995). These conversations in print are like lurking in a fine literary salon. The only problem is that Moyers, good as he is with interviews, does not challenge a theme repeated by several of the thirty-four poets included. They talk about the horrors of writing

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-82650394039296031522012-01-30T08:52:00.000-07:002012-01-30T08:52:53.263-07:00

The most amazing thing I've read this week is Tolstoy and the Purple Chair by Nina Sankovitch. This woman has four children, a husband, a house and house pets. When her sister died, she was grieving by overachieving, and it wasn't bringing her any solace. So she turned to books. She vowed to read a book a day and review it on her blog: http://www.readallday.org/about_nina.html. I was astounded.

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-57513529012918592862012-01-25T08:21:00.000-07:002012-01-25T08:21:03.897-07:00

Recently I caught a bug from my iMac or Mac caught a bug from me. My second cold in three weeks has me cranky and lazy, but at least today I'm at my desk, trying slowly to catch up with myself. I've read all the books I checked out from the library last Friday and I'm stuffed with other people's words. Mac will return home today with a new power cord thingy. For a while it looked like he might be

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-88074799621656863692012-01-10T08:08:00.000-07:002012-01-10T08:08:46.375-07:00

Gotta love my library: browsing the new acquisitions recently, I found a mystery by an author whom I did not know, Still Life, by Canadian writer Louise Penny. Immediately, I was drawn in by her fully developed characters and her artistry with the language. Anyone who can write this sentence impresses me: "Violent death demands Earl Grey [tea]." Nod to the long history of English cosies in which

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-24830435547634753732011-12-28T09:50:00.000-07:002011-12-28T09:50:54.309-07:00

We are very close to the end of the year and what follows is that post holiday slump when the bills come due and the excitement goes down the drain. Think about this: I hope to teach a continuing ed course at the Westminster (Colorado) campus of Front Range Community College. It starts mid-January: "The Literature of Food." We will meet Friday mornings for ten weeks, talk about food lit, do some

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-51519481486586966192011-12-14T08:21:00.000-07:002011-12-14T08:21:07.785-07:00

Writing is a messy business. Ideas breed like wild rabbits, papers overflow the in-basket, the out-basket and the recycle basket. Ink cartridges drain like desert aquifers. Lions, and tigers, and bears, oh, my. And whose fault is this? Mine, of course. Not only is the mess of my making, but I cannot hire a house cleaner to tidy up after me. So, here's my writer's to-do list. Feel free to nag me

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-27514759499337610792011-12-05T07:32:00.002-07:002011-12-05T07:59:55.772-07:00

I keep a small notebook full of titles that I intend to read. My list is a mishmash of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. One title that is not in that blue notebook is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig. The book is older than my grown son, but somehow in the crush of living I have missed it again and again. Until my friend Synchronicity recently stood it facing out on a

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-88352142153214074742011-11-28T07:34:00.002-07:002011-11-28T07:49:22.511-07:00

The Doldrums are, according to American Heritage, a region near the equator characterized by calms, light winds, and squalls. Even though I'm sitting in my red desk chair, I'm there at some border like the equator. Sails flapping, rudderless, my internal weather lacks the gusto to carry me forward. A winter slough. Not depression, not grief, not existential angst, just feeling dull. What to do?

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-62518292658454736052011-11-23T08:15:00.003-07:002011-11-23T08:33:14.979-07:00

You might remember your middle school language arts teacher encouraging the use of adjectives to "paint a picture" of whatever thing you were describing--furious Uncle Charles, beautiful Aunt Lily, the hungry turtle in the scummy pond. Well, scummy isn't bad, but the reader was forced to take your word for Charles's fury or Lily's beauty. The reality was short changed by the shorthand description

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-50363054914967590232011-11-18T08:26:00.003-07:002011-11-18T09:07:26.042-07:00

We went to hear from a panel of professional food writers. We went to meet and eat. We went to share what we know about the world of food writing. And guess what? Even the experts had never met anyone who writes poems about food. Nor had they heard of my favorite food fiction. I had something to offer! I even called myself a food poet, a little stretch, but with a poetry book titled The Great

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-57851105038564996692011-11-12T15:19:00.007-07:002011-11-12T15:48:13.552-07:00

Remember last post I promised a new page? Well, it would be easy to add a new page, but it wouldn't be a page to which I can post! So the food lit posts will be incorporated here on the main page of the blog. Let's drown our disappointment in a good cup of coffee, as in reading about a good cup of coffee. As in the Coffee House Mysteries by Cleo Coyle. She's up to ten books, all based on the

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-49407710843839302172011-11-06T05:43:00.002-07:002011-11-06T06:11:15.968-07:00

You remember the phrase "made from scratch." It may have originated with the practice of scratching a line in the dirt to mark the beginning of a foot race, beginning at the beginning. This can be tricky. Carl Sagan said, "If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe." Well, I am not willing to go that far. Fortunately, in food prep we assume that some of the

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-24001406012717720572011-10-28T07:34:00.003-06:002011-10-28T07:50:29.365-06:00

Life gets angstful, right? Right? RIGHT! And some days I just want to run away, but I don't have the cash for that. I mean, as Robert Frost said, "Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in." So home is home, even when it's not the serene and lovely place we see in the carpet ads. And home right now in the US is not the American Dream. I'm angry and disappointed about the

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-51613210842453385242011-10-24T09:44:00.004-06:002011-10-24T14:27:32.427-06:00

Jung said, in effect, that there are few/no accidents. Things connect. I vote for Jung. Most recently it happened this way: over a year ago I attended an AWP convention in Denver. Like most attendees I came home laden with handouts, freebies, ideas and good memories. Among the things I unpacked and stashed were three copies of American Poet: The Journal of the Academy of American Poets. Since the

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-47414193047840015452011-10-16T06:43:00.006-06:002011-10-16T07:19:18.638-06:00

Donald Murray, a writing teacher from New Hampshire, says in one of his text books that any piece of writing requires me to make a long list of possible titles, like 30 or 50. I'm happy if I have two or three. Sometimes finding even one title feels like relief from a headache. But titles matter. How can I find the poem in my computer files if the title isn't distinct? How can an editor believe

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-43985793728525841402011-10-09T08:00:00.002-06:002011-10-09T08:23:56.994-06:00

Atul Gawande is a surgeon and one of my favorite writers. No surprise then when I opened a recent New Yorker that I turned immediately to his article, "Personal Best." And, there was synchronicity on the page. The tag line was, "Top athletes and singers have coaches. Should you?" Well, yes, I should.I had an hour previously returned from a workshop on small business development. I know too

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-62701389641981820052011-10-04T08:03:00.002-06:002011-10-04T08:16:10.492-06:00

This is the final piece from the list I started a month ago, "Beating Poetry Submissions into Shape." My last gasp in that post was to develop patience while your submissions are circulating. It's part of the writing cycle.I am not a patient person. Waiting for things to happen is not my style. So once those submissions leave my hands, I have to do something. And that something is a bouquet of

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-68436250981532077532011-09-29T09:57:00.003-06:002011-09-29T10:09:25.730-06:00

Writing a succinct bio is a little like Tweeting. As I said in the post on cover letters (Take Cover), editors want to get their work done and go home or go out for a beer or anywhere but the office, if they have offices. (I think most of the people in my local coffee shop are poetry editors looking for a home.) When submission guidelines ask that you include a bio, they often say how many words

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-5726464703750314362011-09-23T07:36:00.002-06:002011-09-23T07:53:01.566-06:00

I have given you my take on critiques, organization, and market search for your poetry. Now it's time to, as Emeril would say, kick it up a notch. Let's assume that you have found a poetry magazine, online or print, that might be a good fit for your work. You have selected 3-5 poems, scrubbed them and combed their hair, made sure they have on their best clothes. They will be in a readable,

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-44796833975499368962011-09-18T07:56:00.004-06:002011-09-18T08:22:06.317-06:00

This post is part three of a general discussion about staying organized and effective in submitting poems for publication (See "Beating Poetry Submissions into Shape") . If you want to buy lettuce or a new SUV you are sure to know the difference between the grocery store and the dealership. The same idea works when you consider how to choose a publication to receive your precious poems. I want to

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-78676191312724347542011-09-12T08:13:00.002-06:002011-09-12T08:27:27.512-06:00

The second step in the submissions list I posted recently involves getting an honest critique of your poems before you offer it for publication. For some of us, this is an easy step. We have long-standing relationships with other poets intent on good work. We live in an urban area where writers' groups abound. We have thick enough skin to accept well-intended criticism. And ill-intentioned

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-36733597300426645822011-09-07T07:03:00.004-06:002011-09-07T07:24:30.171-06:00

If you plan to submit poems for publication, you need poems, lots of them. And the only way to get lots, without plagiarizing, is to write, write, write. Daily is best. This means that you make time to sit down, put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard and string words across the page or screen. DAILY. This does not mean that you will create a publishable poem every day. If you get one a week,

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-41519308247744003832011-09-05T06:23:00.006-06:002011-09-05T06:43:30.035-06:00

At breakfast yesterday with Lars, one of the poets I mentioned in my previous blog, we talked about the process of submitting poems for publication. He's beginning that daunting job now that he has a fair-sized body of work in his blue binder. Here's the general process as we defined it:Write, revise, incubate, revise again till you just cannot see another improvement.Show your work to those

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-78934532032218935262011-08-28T07:43:00.004-06:002011-08-28T08:06:30.738-06:00

Many of my poems go first to friends who critique them. One, let's call him Lars, always goes for more clarity, more development, even at the cost of compression and subtlety. The other, we'll call him Arnie, wants further compression and an adrenaline rush at the end. Together they embody one of the great arguments about poetry: Is it meant to instruct or to entertain? That word or is a bugger.

Karen Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13789680393598240201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-46681866356094262712011-08-20T07:43:00.001-06:002011-08-22T08:27:41.507-06:00

Third Thursday at Forza Coffee Company was great fun this month. We had an all open-mic night, with fourteen poets reading. The reading went so smoothly that we heard all fourteen before the break and several again after the break. The theme was the dog days of summer (see last post) so we heard lots of dog poems and swimming poems, etc. And a few that defied categorizing. Part of the

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-21839295314177752332011-08-17T08:40:00.000-06:002011-08-17T08:40:17.049-06:00

Energy drains; air conditioning strains; interest wains. I've been stuck in a goo of rhymes lately and I don't like it much. One more symptom of summer doldrums. But I'm fighting back. I just updated the website, and that felt okay. I sent a revised poem to my critique group for tonight's meeting, and I've started my weekly poem for my on-line writing group. What I have not done is update my

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-72618135334333782842011-08-08T06:35:00.000-06:002011-08-08T06:35:38.664-06:00

Just finished Jane Smiley's Moo (1995) and loved it. The characters are plentiful and distinct. That she never loses one and keeps all the reins straight through 414 pages of tightly packed prose amazes me. She could drive a twelve-horse hitch through the eye of a needle! Despite having published this book almost two decades ago, she keeps her story fresh, and the fiscal debacle that drives the

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-1208073753937474792011-08-02T09:32:00.000-06:002011-08-02T09:32:41.507-06:00

Just back from a vacation in the Colorado high country, no wifi, no TV, no computer. So what's to do in a cabin 9400 ft up the side of a mountain? Sleep, eat, watch the dogs run, and read. In nine days I read nine mystery stories, a history of bread and part of Mrs. Beeton's The Book of Household Management. Obsessive? Ya think? Here's where the obsession really comes to light. At least five of

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-72911673673280102962011-07-18T07:31:00.000-06:002011-07-18T07:31:18.420-06:00

Here's a cautionary tale: first marry a slender husband, overfeed him until he barely fits into his military uniform, vow to do better, to cook with one eye on his waistline. Take a perfectly good recipe for stuffed bell peppers and eliminate most of what's good about it--take out the fat, be stingy with the lean ground beef, shun the salt shaker, and plunk that plate with its awful burden in

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-19054752623266351482011-07-13T16:52:00.000-06:002011-07-13T16:52:42.414-06:00

In "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" T. S. Eliot says a lot about food. There is, first, a restaurant with oyster shells, then yellow smoke licking its tongue into corners, and hands that "drop a question on your plate." There is the "taking of a toast and tea." The measuring of life in coffee spoons. Food to left of me, food to the right of me and in between a book called Will Write for Food

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-34237531767824413492011-07-05T08:12:00.000-06:002011-07-05T08:12:04.307-06:00

No, not poems about desperation, though I'm sure there are good ones somewhere. I'm thinking about the ones I write out of desperation to meet a weekly deadline that a group of friends and I have set for ourselves. Practice, as I've said before, is as important for a poet as for a singer, dancer, painter--anyone who wants to stay in the creative game. The desperation poem is not just practice; it

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-67993215661769860892011-06-28T06:39:00.000-06:002011-06-28T06:39:37.164-06:00

Writing is never done, as in finished. I think it was Robert Frost who said that we finally abandon a poem. I'm trying hard not to abandon a whole lot of poems and stories, but ennui has set in, a preference for mindless TV and watching the birds in the backyard. I'm strangely attracted to dead- heading petunias, watering day lilies, feeding the neighbor's cats while she's traveling. I am not

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-70490161201836808692011-06-20T07:51:00.000-06:002011-06-20T07:51:15.637-06:00

This weekend I did two things that taught me something about my ability as a writer. First, I visited a friend's home that impressed me with its decor and serenity. Muted palette, lots of white, old moldings and door brasses retained or replicated, uncluttered space, kitchen appliances disguised as cabinetry. But my description falls flat, lacks spice and depth. The other thing I did was to read

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-35184732115482281212011-06-13T07:13:00.000-06:002011-06-13T07:13:12.367-06:00

Last week I was moaning about having committed my time to prepping for a course scheduled for the 2011-12 year, Literature of Food. This week I'm loving that prep, not quite the same as being a prep cook, but I have found some tasty bits to add to my course notes. A delicious source is Alimentum, a periodical out of Nashville, TN. It comes twice yearly and is packed with fiction, poetry, art, and

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-89427492479161880772011-06-06T07:35:00.000-06:002011-06-06T07:35:51.734-06:00

Please, think deeply before you volunteer to teach a course on writing about food. Think deeply about the history of food, its importance, its implications, its impossible size as a topic of study. I gaily sailed into this ocean, puffed along in my little boat of a book, The Great Hunger. I wrote that book and thought that my abilities as a poet meant that I knew something about the literature of

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-89774340460593022612011-05-30T10:56:00.000-06:002011-05-30T10:56:25.241-06:00

A good friend is overwhelmed by illness. Constant concerns about medicine, appointments, pain management and pending surgery and its aftermath have virtually erased her confidence and her sense of self. When I asked what she would like to do if she could, the answers were scarce, still connected to the need to organize a life around her chronic illness. This seems wrong. It happens, though, all

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-18332714790717706612011-05-24T06:51:00.000-06:002011-05-24T06:51:12.320-06:00

Traditional publishing is languishing; but you probably know that. Borders is closing stores, B&N begs me to buy their stuff, more and more writers now publish with small independent presses, or issue DIY books. More than issuing, they celebrate their freedom to design, print, and distribute their own work, and in the process profit far beyond the traditionally amoebic and anemic royalties. Me

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-87996673177930799172011-05-16T08:24:00.000-06:002011-05-16T08:24:50.091-06:00

No television, no radio, no phone, no internet. Just me and Duncan the Dog. For three days on retreat I heard no human voice except that of a man who stopped his truck while I was walking the dog. He had lost his two dogs and wanted me to call the number on their tags if I found them. I did not find his dogs. What I found instead was that I am capable of parking the car on Thursday noon and not

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-35946577397852520042011-05-09T07:17:00.001-06:002011-05-10T21:22:25.824-06:00

I'll take non-perishable food for three days, camera, toothbrush and such, sweats, walking shoes, extra pens, pads of paper, my revisions file, Hannah (my net book), enough gasoline to drive 205 miles, notes for the next chapbook (working title Our Girl: childhood poems). Oh, index cards and binoculars. Dog food, leash, dog. I won't need a TV Guide or a wifi card. I won't need a lot of mad money.

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-86557567583152480072011-05-02T07:38:00.000-06:002011-05-02T07:38:24.540-06:00

Of course I read--I even dream of reading. Woke up this morning having dreamed that one of the books on my shelf was in backwards, its leading edges facing out, spine hidden. This is a dream joking with me. In my most recent visit to the library I succumbed to temptation and came home with yet another book about quantum physics. Over the years, I've tried hard to grasp the theory of a subatomic

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-19693660674877974032011-04-25T07:53:00.000-06:002011-04-25T07:53:33.792-06:00

One of my favorite poetry readings is the Third Thursday at Forza Coffee Company in Westminster, Colorado. We always have a full house of poets reading to other poets, their spouses and close friends. We usually have a featured reader, who gets three times the time alloted to the open-mic folks. Most of us are open-mic folks. We don't get screened or selected. We show up, we rustle pages, we read

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-55197427910485183462011-04-18T07:01:00.000-06:002011-04-18T07:01:05.099-06:00

A conversation this weekend with another poet has me thinking about whose work I've learned from and loved or respected. So, in more or less random order, I'd want a "desert island book" that includes poems by each of these American poets: Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Maryann Moore, Amy Lowell, Mina Loy, Robinson Jeffers, William Carlos Williams, Wallace

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-8209034045307534522011-04-10T11:07:00.000-06:002011-04-10T11:07:56.408-06:00

At a poetry reading last week in Boulder, I thought I was hearing an April Fool's line. The owner of Innisfree Books, Brian, announced that Saturday afternoon, April 23rd, Nicaraguan poet Ernesto Cardenal would read at the bookstore. My jaw dropped and I challenged Brian: "THE Cardenal?"  Brian smiled and nodded. The first break in the reading I swiveled through the audience to Brian. Did he

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-91858117149571065402011-04-01T09:28:00.000-06:002011-04-01T09:28:07.941-06:00

Last evening four friends carpooled to Denver, got lost, got lost again after asking a police officer for directions, almost got sideswiped by an impatient lane changer, all for the love of hearing poetry read live. And what else did this foursome get in return? They got shuffled right through a pleasant coffee house, past the folds of a thick curtain, down dimly lit stairs with things wrapped

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-53326501430331856052011-03-25T09:11:00.000-06:002011-03-25T09:11:31.698-06:00

I finally have found the most graceful way to record my publication credits for the merely curious or the truly interested. On the page which is linked next to HOME, I've filled in my publication history as best I could, given the great age of some poems and short fiction. I am grateful to the editors over the years who have generously given my work their attention and space in their pages.

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-86182969835689446222011-03-19T07:39:00.000-06:002011-03-19T07:39:19.647-06:00

"What you write need not be perfect. It need only add some small observation about your world." Atul Gawande For a long time I ran this quote as part of my email signature because I believe it. I do, though, have trouble not striving for perfection. When I relax into my journal, sometimes I can put a few words together that please me, even without their being perfect. Here's yesterday's journal

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-43923587576787041482011-03-11T09:53:00.000-07:002011-03-11T09:53:30.793-07:00

Last Saturday I spent the afternoon at the Boulder Public Library listening to Pulitzer Prize winner and former US Poet Laureate Ted Kooser (2004-2006). The first part of the program was a discussion circle in which Kooser answered questions and talked about his work. After a short break, he was introduced by poet Jack Collom and read poetry in the library theater. Here are some highlights:

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-62935442048921840742011-03-04T08:53:00.000-07:002011-03-04T08:53:19.180-07:00

As a kid I loved westerns--in print or on television. (We couldn't afford movies.) Every Sunday evening at my grandparents' house Aunt Dot, Uncle Bob and cousins Ralph and Margie would join us for ice cream while we watched a handsome guy on a horse round up the bad guys. Often enough, he also rounded up cows, and we saw the calves cut from the herd, roped, thrown to the ground and bawling as a

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-78793743192150138642011-02-25T08:40:00.000-07:002011-02-25T08:40:33.650-07:00

If you are not a mystery fan, you may not know that a cosy is a typical English mystery in which the murder--almost always someone dies--happens early on, often off-stage, and usually is precipitated by revenge, greed or the elimination of a witness to an earlier crime. The cast is led by a smart and minutely observant detective, police or civilian, who may even, like Agatha Christie's Miss

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-86716933619033987602011-02-18T06:46:00.000-07:002011-02-18T06:46:42.472-07:00

I have no elevator speech. This is a problem. I need one, apparently, in order to tell strangers who and what I am. But can I cram a long life and a dozen passionate interests into a thirty-second sound bite? I could learn to speak like the voice-over on an ad for some dicey new medication that ends with "Ask your doctor if you should take this pill. It will change your life." (Or end it.) No,

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-26651058554469352362011-02-13T07:44:00.000-07:002011-02-13T07:44:13.473-07:00

The Great Hunger, my newest poetry book, started with a suggestion from poet Allison Adelle Hedge Coke to put art in service to an issue. When I first arrived in Colorado I took a week's workshop with her at Naropa University, and it was all to the good. I'd long been concerned about food supplies--my own, the issues of organics, the risks of agriculture, the fact that Americans are mostly too

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-30583025703801615462011-01-28T15:51:00.001-07:002011-01-28T15:54:39.011-07:00

In my next-to-last post, which was ages ago, I promised to make a habit of visiting libraries. More than a few friends rolled their eyes at that, thinking that I had slipped irrevocably into Dullsville. Well, fear not. Today my friend Marcia and I made the first of twelve visits to Colorado libraries. We didn't go far, mainly because it has been a spectacular day--warm, sunny, perfect for local

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-81979435571678811972011-01-06T06:45:00.000-07:002011-01-06T06:45:14.417-07:00

Whew! My Imac is back from the digital doctor and that's a good thing, because the loaner PC did not have all my stuff and could not read the saved files on the USB thumb from the Mac word processor. I have a lot of projects going right now--a stack of submissions to get out, many with tight deadlines, and putting the polish to the teaching projects, the first of which begins at Front Range

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-19800851899642083542010-12-27T07:21:00.000-07:002010-12-27T07:21:09.345-07:00

Here we go again--New Year's Resolutions. And the ones I thought of on my own were stale and boring, having to do with girth and guilt. Then I read my friend Margaret's Facebook page and stole her idea: do something new every week, or maybe it was month. I'll say month, because that's easier, less guilt over failure. And I know what my first few months will involve--libraries! I am a big fan of

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-45209250148133051582010-12-07T06:35:00.000-07:002010-12-07T06:35:39.187-07:00

Whew! The last scene in the novel is drafted and today--confined as I am for the week by a knee brace and crutch--I begin the major revisions. I think that by the end of the year I will be ready to offer this story to the world. Will the world want it? No way of knowing that in advance. One huge hurdle remains, the agent search. I've had two unsatisfying encounters with agents over the previous

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-78817019212888988812010-11-26T07:12:00.000-07:002010-11-26T07:12:15.685-07:00

The turkey is reduced to leftovers, the pies will be finished by noon today, and we will immediately pull Christmas decorations from the dark hole under the stairs. One major holiday down, one to go. And this week it seems to me that holiday meals and manuscript critiques have much in common. Certain stock ingredients are called for, but the side dishes and the seasoning vary from one cook/author

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-19490063811758851302010-11-17T06:31:00.001-07:002010-11-17T06:36:57.343-07:00

Joy, Party Girl Karen Douglass Joy comes to anyone's party, drinks anyone's Bud Lite. Her little dress is ready, pressed, slingbacks waiting by the door. Joy has no taste. She laughs out loud in church at whatever inner light or sight giggles her while the poor preacher frowns and pounds home the point. Joy is a tramp, climbing stairs belonging to strangers, eating another one's bread, spicing

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-46034075041151475572010-11-09T07:27:00.000-07:002010-11-09T07:27:04.448-07:00

Well, now, here's news I never expected. Seems that Scott Owens, Editor of Wild Goose Review has nominated moi, well, my poem "No-News Day," for a Pushcart Prize. Thanks Scott. You can read the poem at the web site, Spring 2010 issue. (There is an index, one that works!)

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-52234763181092579422010-11-06T08:17:00.000-06:002010-11-06T08:17:43.401-06:00

Yesterday was a ride on the sick side. I was up and out early for an upscale breakfast meeting--valet parking, white linen, waiters circulating with breakfast smoothies, and smoked salmon for breakfast. Not my usual morning. Not my usual response to salmon, which is guarded at best. But that's what was available, so I ate it. Do not, REPEAT, do not go against your instincts about edibles. Somehow

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-69340167411356789052010-10-22T08:13:00.000-06:002010-10-22T08:13:46.927-06:00

In January I will resume teaching on a limited basis, dealing first with a short course on sense of place. So, I went to my local library--love my library--and checked out a book I had stumbled across online: Michael Perry's Population, 485. Of course, I was drawn to it because it is written by a nurse who became an EMT in his tiny home town in Wisconsin. Okay, I thought, this is the sort of

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-48257652071998002332010-10-11T16:14:00.002-06:002010-10-11T16:20:09.774-06:00

I am just off a two-day, Boston to Denver, train ride. It was good. It was awful. Good means that I saw the country from a different perspective, neither highway nor sky high. The opportunities for people watching stretched across the continent. Not so good were wearing the same clothes for two days and sleeping--sort of--in a recliner that reclined about three inches and featured a foot rest too

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-5998429024746603732010-10-01T06:40:00.000-06:002010-10-01T06:40:22.209-06:00

Maybe I've said this before, but traveling destroys my writing. I have rarely produced anything but drek away from home. I try to replicate my schedule, up early, quiet cup of tea--now that I've given up coffee--and my journal, three pages minimum. Nada, yuk, spewed words about as exciting as mush without milk and sugar. This morning I forced an attempt at a new poem, but I don't trust it. Always

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-57230328579801342522010-09-20T07:42:00.000-06:002010-09-20T07:42:52.347-06:00

Have I mentioned My Novel? Well, there is one--actually there are four or five--and it has me in its thrall. This book started a decade ago. I distinctly remember its inception because I was in Manhattan on 9-11, and just before that event, I had come up with one of those irresistible What Ifs. I have poked along, put it away, played at it, and generally been a desultory, no, a

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-10569753250859218032010-09-10T08:09:00.000-06:002010-09-10T08:09:21.075-06:00

About twice a month five Colorado women meet at someone's home, drink tea or coffee, eat a little something and talk at random. Gradually a topic develops, an idea or an experience that gels and becomes the "assignment" for twenty minutes of free writing. These women call themselves Pentangles, for the five pointed star that has been a symbol of many things, for these five the connections among

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-35235550506304749622010-09-01T07:01:00.000-06:002010-09-01T07:01:48.648-06:00

Write 415 pages about a former CIA agent, wheelchair bound, putting in on the coast of Turkey to deliver 2000 contraband gas masks to civilians. No? Too weird? Not for Tom Robbins, but then I can scarcely think of a plot twist that would be too weird for him. So, you're off the hook. In fact, you cannot use this scene because he already did in Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates. This is not a

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-81906621059344386102010-08-26T08:20:00.001-06:002010-08-26T08:21:48.576-06:00

Last evening I was in the hot seat at one of my writing groups. We reviewed the second chapter of a novel that is long in the tooth, but coming to a conclusion this year, finally. The advice I got was varied and helpful, encouraging and stern. That's what I need from a review of ongoing work. What got me thinking this morning was the interest these readers expressed in a pair of characters whom I

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-3177217459950874502010-08-22T12:01:00.000-06:002010-08-22T12:01:40.837-06:00

I love finding books at thrift stores. The problem with that approach to shopping is that I lose my perspective and tell myself that because a book is cheap/used/mildly interesting, I should take it home. And that decision has no major effect on my life. It just clutters up the coffee table until I decide to read and discard, read and keep, or just throw the darned thing out. Of the four books I

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-38460569377588873872010-08-10T16:24:00.000-06:002010-08-10T16:24:13.964-06:00

Why did no one tell me how much paper work gets in the way of writing? I've spent hours today tracking poem titles from the various computer files where they end up, in theory a system that lets me know what's been where. Hah! Then there's the list of poems still out there in the big, bad world, waiting for someone to notice them. Or someone to take them out from under the wonky corner of her/his

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-83373727637696476372010-07-09T07:34:00.001-06:002010-07-10T07:21:21.115-06:00

For much of my adult life I have pondered what it means to be American. I've traveled outside the country and tried to see myself through other eyes, but I still have big blocks of confusion. The Fourth felt good, but we must be more than hot dogs and fireworks. As a friend said at dinner on the holiday, our country is too big to understand. Theory just won't do. I want specifics. And, as always,

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-26570575412161089192010-07-04T09:21:00.000-06:002010-07-04T09:21:14.588-06:00

The latest poetry ms, Zero Gravity, is in the mail, twice. Once as a querry and once as a full-length submission. I've had two initial readers, and I've gone over the text with what I thought was an eagle eye, only to find out after I dropped them in the mail that I still have too many apostrophes. So what? you ask. The what is any excuse to reject one of too many contenders. Oh, well, I did say

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-24194447060333929422010-06-21T12:00:00.000-06:002010-06-21T12:00:10.150-06:00

Last night I stayed up very late reading a novel, Kitchen Chinese by Ann Mah. Light, funny, full of detail about life in today's Beijing for an American-Chinese expat journalist. Exotic stuff to me, different from Amy Tan and Ming Dao, and I stayed with it well past midnight, willing to read all night, but finally giving in to sleep. Looking at the author's note, I see lots of parallels between

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-60805294837306413852010-06-13T09:15:00.000-06:002010-06-13T09:15:40.497-06:00

In his twelfth novel, John Irving has me captured--almost. The Last Night in Twisted River takes place in my native New England, features an Italian cook, his novelist son, and a crude but wise woodsman. These men are circled and loved and hated and rescued by a cast of women who never quite achieve full characterization. That sort of works, because this book is about the three men and their

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-58686530109504894032010-06-06T08:02:00.000-06:002010-06-06T08:02:38.704-06:00

It's back! For a month I was unable to sign in and now I can! Whee! The mysteries of cyberlife, huh? For those who might occasionally check in here, I've just come back from a week in New Orleans with very mixed feelings. Of course, the overarching concern is the death of so much life and livelihood in the Gulf. Despite that shadow hanging over them, the people in the city keep going, as they

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-21964939814899302562010-05-01T11:13:00.000-06:002010-05-01T11:13:48.352-06:00

Watch out, I'm in the mood for a mild rant. Yesterday my previous email account was hacked and everyone, as far as I can tell, on my contact list received an inappropriate message, seemingly from me. Well, quick as I could, I opened a new account with another server, imported my contacts and sent out a blast with explanation and new email address. Today I am trying to catch up with on-line

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-17996823748377061252010-04-19T08:59:00.000-06:002010-04-19T08:59:13.516-06:00

As part of Poetry Month, I agreed to teach two sessions at my beloved local library of what I call Poetry 101. Notes piled up on my desk, books consulted, on-line sites perused, an agenda forwarded for copying, 15 copies made, ahh, five teens signed up for the first session, good to go. NOT! The teens, it turned out, were not teens; they were pre-teens disguised as sunny-faced little girls. Once

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-53176312604485215812010-04-11T10:34:00.000-06:002010-04-11T10:34:05.133-06:00

I cannot give you the full story of three days spent in the company of 8,000 writers in Denver. But the people I heard read: Cornelius Eady, Matthew Zapruder, Jean Valentine, B. H. Fairchild, Joy Harjo, Diane Wakoski, eight other writers from Plain View Press (my publisher for The Great Hunger), Richard Jackson, Kathryn Winograd, Rita Dove, Anne Waldman, Gary Snyder, Gregory Orr, Pattiann Rogers,

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-47454010569570281302010-04-06T08:07:00.000-06:002010-04-06T08:07:05.463-06:00

Tomorrow the madness begins--Associated Writing Programs convenes in Denver. Given the size of this monster meeting, I expect to be first thrilled to hear such folks as Gary Snyder, Ann Waldman, Diane Wakoski, Terry Tempest Williams, etc. I expect to read at one of the off-site readings, maybe sign a few books, and drink a gallon of coffee over the next four days. It all begins when I pick up my

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-67265104703034993832010-03-26T08:56:00.000-06:002010-03-26T08:56:13.048-06:00

That title phrase popped into my mind as I went to bed. It rattled around all night and was still there when I opened my eyes. For a time in academia, people wrangled about intentionality. Could we trust a writer to mean what she said or to say what she meant, or is language hopelessly out of our control, like a nest of snakes with their own writhing intention and no regard for the hand that

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-48404064334027060052010-03-18T08:56:00.002-06:002010-03-18T08:59:08.345-06:00

Let me tell you, I just fell in love with two books, one about a Grandmother in Siberia and one about kayaking in the ocean off the coast of that cold and poverty stricken land. Jon Turk, trained originally as a PHD chemist, tossed all the academic temptations of an easy life and struck out for high places, wet places, cold places. He's been adventuring and writing about such places since he

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-23623657755877997892010-03-16T10:39:00.002-06:002010-03-16T10:49:40.851-06:00

Sometimes I am such a slow learner! As I have just explained on my new alternate blog, (look to your left) I wanted to write a book about being a good citizen, about practicing democracy at the local level. So, this morning I'm in my writing chair, mulling over that idea again, and at least two brain cells fired and I said, Hey, how about a blog dedicated to such things? A couple more neurons

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-68179403810532223152010-03-03T13:19:00.004-07:002010-03-03T13:40:40.017-07:00

As you know, I read a lot. And I read a lot of different kinds of stuff. Supine with the sniffles this week, I read, in one day, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, Smiling Bears, and part of Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vanities. Why only part? Because I did not like his characters. That's not to say I did not like his writing. The style was dense, detailed, well paced. The main

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-39240929550985106142010-02-20T10:33:00.006-07:002010-02-20T10:48:59.576-07:00

It's one sort of annoyance when friends cannot receive an email about where to meet for lunch. It's quite another when editors' comments, rejections, and acceptances land in the spam box; or the submission lands in a spam box. All of these have happened over the past few weeks. It may be a conspiracy by those who believe that poets and poems have no business clogging up the ether, but I doubt we

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-90400554901209262922010-02-08T08:02:00.003-07:002010-02-08T08:38:08.987-07:00

Those of you not interested much in the craft of making poems might want to go out for a bagel at this point. It's apt to get technical in here. But if you like lurking over the shoulder of a writer at work, pull up a chair and pour another cup of coffee. Here's my issue: in a writing group last week, I heard two equally intelligent poets make opposing statements about the effect of line length

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-85400712307352764542010-01-25T07:37:00.004-07:002010-01-25T07:51:01.971-07:00

OMG! Has it really been that long since I wrote here? Blogspot doesn't lie. Sorry, kids, no good excuse, but that stack of Sue Grafton mysteries a friend loaned me is partly to blame. Because each book links to the previous one, it's like reading one long novel I cannot put down. And, unlike the Harry Potters, the next volume has already come out. They just sit there, lined up on my desk,

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-9181895455741381412010-01-05T07:57:00.004-07:002010-01-05T08:16:49.804-07:00

Given the overwhelming amount of stuff on line, I consider it a gift to have found a site called Open Yale Courses. I cannot tell you exactly how I stumbled across this grand virtual place, but if you have an academic bent and the curiosity to follow a semester's worth of lectures and reading assignments, go there. Free. Yes, you can be a Yale student--well, minus the transcript and those

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-65082597236636494332009-12-27T06:24:00.005-07:002009-12-27T06:53:47.280-07:00

Christmas day I spent with friends. We ate, all day, played Scrabble, read poems (not necessarily Christmasy), shared gifts and talked. Typical and lovely way to spend a holiday. My gift from that event was a book by Robert McDowell, Poetry As Spiritual Practice: Reading, Writing, and Using Poetry in Your Daily Rituals, Aspirations, and Intentions (Free Press, 2008). Lovely, appropriate, and

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-73836725339538873902009-12-18T07:59:00.009-07:002009-12-18T08:20:22.776-07:00

Poetry readings are risky. You might hear fabulous, fresh, imaginative, musical words--"the best words in the best order." Or not. You might also hear long, boring, vague, cliched things (I'm not sure what noun to choose here) that leave you leaning into your hand and paying close attention to the coffee mug in front of you. These alternatives illustrate the opposite ends of a poetry spectrum,

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-14867755862144959132009-12-14T08:42:00.002-07:002009-12-14T08:59:23.336-07:00

In addition to the writing I do with my solitary partner, I often sit in on other groups. This weekend, for instance, a fine group leader, Carolyn Jennings, led a clutch of us through a series of guided efforts focused on the present holiday season. We wrote in short blocks of time and evaluated our own efforts with a series of questions meant to deepen our understanding of our language and

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-84721763307811198512009-12-07T09:30:00.006-07:002009-12-11T07:55:25.548-07:00

We all know, who gather here, that I've been writing for a long, long time. So why am I not smarter? I have a writing partner who consistently catches me making leaps in poems, especially toward the end of a piece, which can leave readers squirming. When he takes off his glasses and rubs his temples, I know instantly that I've done it again. I could beg off and deny the importance of his advice.

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-13951813721414606762009-11-20T07:07:00.003-07:002009-11-20T07:22:43.391-07:00

This entry comes from one of my writing group experiences. We talk, circle around an idea or issue, then write for 20 minutes or so. My response this week still has my head spinning, so with little revision, here's fresh food from the Louisville lovelies group."The purpose of art is to stop time." -- Jack KerouacTime as a construct makes me dizzy. Painting, photography, sculpture must freeze the

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-6016089842836071562009-11-13T07:26:00.002-07:002009-11-13T07:44:25.276-07:00

Last evening, as planned, I drove to the next town to attend a poetry reading at a comfy, independent coffee shop. Horrors! There's a sign on the door, "poetry reading canceled, closing early." This cannot be. People will come, they will cry, they will demand explanations. Well, that didn't happen. A friend who had already arrived and I posted a sticky note next to the closure announcement

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-56040053264512500372009-11-04T07:24:00.003-07:002009-11-04T07:35:05.943-07:00

Prayer for an American RoseLet her wear jeans.Let her practice karate and feel sun on her skin.Let her study ecology, engineering, medicine, law or all of these.Let her serve no man but whom she serves by choice.Stop the woman haters here and there before she grows breasts and bleeds.Do no marry her off.Dear god, she's not meant to wilt in skirts and a scarf.Some days the

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-59766544472293944412009-10-26T06:55:00.003-06:002009-10-26T07:10:19.410-06:00

Wide-open hours on Sunday afternoon, I pick up Katherine Anne Porter's short stories and read "Maria Concepcion." This story features a young couple in Mexico, expecting their first child, a North American archaeologist, the "other woman," and a midwife. Over the course of the story, the husband runs away to fight the revolution with the other woman, the archeologist consistently condones the

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-56237946174747532172009-10-19T09:07:00.002-06:002009-10-19T09:24:53.964-06:00

After a month away, I'm struggling to regain my writing posture, and find myself with an embarrassment of riches to share here. As many of you know, I went to Ireland, mostly the west coast, no big cities, lots of sheep and cows, and that wonderful vegetation--it really is as green as the postcards. What you cannot see in the postcards is the warmth of the people, and their love for their culture

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-40582587033745981992009-09-16T07:49:00.003-06:002009-09-16T08:04:37.336-06:00

Most writers come up against a knowledge gap eventually. A character takes an unexpected turn, develops an interest in something the writer doesn't have a clue about, or you put the people into occupations that suit the plot but are alien to you. I did that years ago. I wanted a male character who was gone from his girlfriend for long periods of time, and long-haul trucking made the most sense.

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-34635259047701489272009-09-11T13:04:00.004-06:002009-09-11T13:15:02.904-06:00

A moment of quiet to recall that this is 9/11.A reminder to those who care, I'll be on vaca for the next month or so. I may or may not have a chance to capture a few thoughts here. Much depends on the internet cafe situation in New England, Ireland, No. Ireland, and England. If that sounds ambitious, it is. I've just had two days of solitude in the mountains of Colorado getting rested up for this

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-37648347504065266422009-08-31T06:43:00.003-06:002009-08-31T07:01:16.805-06:00

Saturday afternoon three poets and a supporter sat around the table, ate wonderful cheese, fruit, croissant, drank wine and chocolate coffee. We read poems and perused sample copies of publications we might send work to. Now that's a delightful way to network. I recommend it. And it grew out of the generosity of our hosts and an ongoing moveable workshop. Bill, our host on Saturday, has long

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-76115482609963020002009-08-20T09:16:00.004-06:002009-08-20T09:37:40.061-06:00

The public library's new books shelves are a delight to me, so much so that I often forget the list of books to read that lives on the back pages of my journal. This week I plucked off the shelf An Irish Country Christmas, by Patrick Taylor (Tom Doherty Associates, 2008). This book epitomizes a genre I love, what I call Irish nostalgia, the sort of book that Maeve Binchey does well. Taylor has

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-17638102041448324262009-07-30T07:57:00.005-06:002009-07-30T08:29:46.186-06:00

Recently a Colorado TV station, KBDI, aired a wonderful program titled "Polis Is This"--a biography, in essence, of poet Charles Olson. If you are already familiar with his work, this film takes you back and features a host of his compatriots from Black Mountain College, some of whom I have met or heard read, so I was nostalgic about that aspect, as well as the clips of his home town in

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4245397249610344854.post-58821938970075091392009-07-20T08:42:00.004-06:002009-07-20T09:00:30.662-06:00

Like many tightwad readers, I often buy books at yard sales, thrift stores, and any cheap outlet I come across. Recently I brought home, among others, Anne Fadiman's The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, a detailed case study and history of a Hmong child born in the US who developed a devastating seizure disorder. The child, Lia, had multiple admissions to a hospital in Merced, where the

Karen Douglassnoreply@blogger.com0