Rebecca, in an email you once wrote:
"The thing I work toward most in my life is to be honest -- to pin myself down to glass and get the truest thing. I want this in my teaching, my loving, my parenting, my friending, and my writing. To be made vulnerable is the most sacred thing we can do for each other."
Your writing is a testament to this philosophy, with its unabashed agonies and ecstasies laid bare and blushing. Is there a limit to how real you can be with writing? Burroughs said that all writing is autobiographical, and this may be true to some extent, but what do you do when you start feeling too wide, too open, too violated by your own confessions - do you write yourself a mask, an identity, a smokescreen to escape behind?
I go deeper. I get upset. I feel terrible. I search for justification. Yesterday was Wednesday, the second day of fall semester at school. After teaching four classes during the course of the day, I was exhausted, manic, unsettled, worried. I had to tell myself over and over that I hadn’t done anything wrong. This morning I wrote a manifesto/disclaimer—I plan to give it to all my students starting this semester:
I am:
• a human being and as such, am as fallible as anyone else.
• NOT an authority on philosophy or history or the human condition or anything else.
• a writing expert, whatever that means.
• a mother
• passionate and openly expressive; I frequently cross the line.
I want you to:
• question the things I tell you.
• ask for justifications when you are asked to do things in this class and in the world.
• always question anyone who sets themselves up as an “authority.”
• always question why you should listen to me.
• always ask for clarification anytime I am unclear.
I expect you to:
• question everything in this class.
• think.
• challenge me.
• challenge yourself.
• express yourself.
• push yourself.
• give me a break.
• give yourself a break.
• respect each other.
• respect me.
• respect yourself, your beliefs and ideas and important.
• realize that your life may be more defined by your actions than by your beliefs.
• learn the importance of YOUR voice.
• learn
• put forth your best effort, whatever that means.
Because I am human, I want you to agree with me, I want to persuade you of my own agenda. You should question why I want this, what my motives are. You should allow your mind to be open, but it is your choice—you can keep it closed. Your beliefs/opinions/ideas are up to you. But I firmly believe that in order to grow, your mind and your spirit must be open, always open and changing. Whether or not you choose to grow is another one of your many choices—it will always be a choice and you need never arrive at firm conclusions. You should question my beliefs. You should question your own.
In the above paragraph, I said, “I firmly believe……” Whenever I say this, I should recognize that there is an inherent danger/limitation in such statements.
I can only provide you with the world as I see and experience it. I cannot give you the TRUTH. You must find/discover your own.
I exaggerate when I speak, move, express. Please remember to take what I say with a grain of salt. If you don’t know whether or not I’m being serious about something, please ask.
My intentions are good. I suspect yours are, too.
Above all, question my motivation/need to write this document.
____________________________
My approach to teaching is to give so much—it wears me out. I do the same thing in writing. Well, I’m not sure. That may not be true. Right now, having just read the above statement of mine, I wonder if I really wrote it. It sounds like me…I do strive for honesty, but I also hide, am not wholly effaced, though I want to be. There are so many tricks in writing, hoodwinking, deceptions. I write metafictionnonfiction because of my own fears to write straight up fiction and because I need to hide, and to reveal—my writing is often a peepshow.
You've mentioned that you're neither a poet nor a storyteller, but a WRITER, which is potentially inclusive of all genres and forms. You write prose poems and poetic fiction, but rarely do you write poems that are just poems and stories that are just stories. How has this been received by readers and publishers? Do the accepted parameters for fiction and poetry intimidate you, or do you feel that you've mastered them and it's time to move on? What ARE the traditional parameters that you're bending and blending?
Did I say that, too? Oh, Lord. That’s a can of terrible wormys. I am certainly a poet—I make poems that are wholly poems and I write stories that are wholly stories. But a long time ago I said something, I am always saying something. I said that I wanted to write a combination/merging of poetry and prose. I’ve done that. I think my writing is at its best when I do that. My good friend and most valuable listener, Annette, said that I need room to spread out and the lyric prose I’ve stumbled upon, gives me that.
Soaping the Stream was the breakthrough piece. I wrote it all in a breath, in one sitting. I wrote it at my old job in the writing center. It was my way of mourning my mother who would die in a few days. A few months later, David Garrison, my English Department Head, read it, came down to the center, asked me where I’d sent it. I told him I hadn’t worked on it yet. He told me not to work on it and suggested I send it to John Witte at Northwest Review.
John’s acceptance of the pieces was a strange beginning. He accepted the piece as an essay. I had thought of it as fiction. I didn’t want to run the risk of resubmitting the piece and John was so very enthusiastic about it. Everyone told me to just publish it as an essay, so I did.
Now I see Soaping as half and half. Because of Soaping, John established a “hybrid” category for Northwest Review. There is great power in crossing all these lines, blurring and blending.
God it feels good to do this. I feel so official, such an authority, all the interviews I’ve read echoing in my head. I am amazing. It’s totally true.
Last year you wrote, "According to the write-to-be-the-best-you-can-be-improve-your-craft-for-the-love-of-your-craft-model/bullshit/mantra, I am lazy...I just zip through things, going for that Emily Dickinson definition of poetry." Although you whip pieces out at a dizzying pace, you still receive acceptance letters 75% of the time, from print publishers. What is it exactly that people are responding to -- what gives your work its edge, its tooth? And how is it created so unselfconsciously?
Where’d that stat come from? Did I say that cause it’s not true. I wish. I think that the people who do respond like the rawness and the rhythm. The tooth is the writing with a knife, I guess. I always want to do that. And the breath—the poems come out from the hidden brain, from the other girls.
You've been trying to build up connections with other writers so that you won't feel isolated in Chattanooga. When you say you're isolated, what do you mean? What environment or community do you wish you
could be a part of?
I think I mostly want to be challenged. I’ve always been the center, the cream that rises to the top. At least it seems that way. I think I need to be kicked in the teeth. It’s lonely at the top. A good poet and good friend, Sharla Benedict, recently pointed this out to me. It’s grandiose and true. You and Theresa Boyer—you’ve both been helpful, but I still come off feeling queen bee. That’s great, of course and I think I demand that. But how good can it really be for my development as a writer? I just joined Zoetrope Online Studio. We’ll see what happens.
I just read on your blog that you're gearing up for a poetry reading soon. You said to come on out and support you so you can do that whole "imagining the audience in their underwear thing". What are your readings like? What things do you plan ahead of time and practice? What do you wear, do you have any handouts, do you have a specific progression from one type of poem to another? What do you do for your nerves? I'm so curious -- please lead us through the whole thing.
Generally I don’t plan much until the day before or the day of. I do practice for time—I am very serious about respecting rules and parameters. I don’t take more than the time allotted. I get very nervous, depending on the audience. In the reading coming up, I will be reading an “in-progress” prose piece, “According to the Girl.” This piece is a thorn—I can’t get it right. I’ll be reading it in front to of a former teacher and colleagues whom I desperately want to impress with my literary genius. I will be extremely nervous at this reading.
I am a good reader, I usually get good audience participation/response. I suspect that if the audience didn’t respond, I would stop and ask them what’s the problem.
I dress. I don’t want to look like I’m trying. It’s silly. But right now I'm redefining my “look” so this reading will be different. I’ll probably wear whore makeup. I turn forty in November.
What is the origin or meaning of your email handle "godlikepoet". In an age when people, and women in particular, feel compelled to belittle themselves so as not to offend others, I find your candor and hyper-healthy ego really refreshing. One of your emails illustrates this beautifully:
"I am very angry, much of the time, but also joyful. I am mercurial. I am excess and extreme. I am my favorite subject -- my most tragic flaw...my wide expansive out-of-proportion ego is a fragile balloon of a thing-- not fitting through doors, deflating and inflating on whims -- I must press it into manageable sizes, suck the air out -- I think I am a narcissist, a
megalomaniac, godlike."
Is it for shock value, to create a mythology about yourself?
I think it’s funny and true. I like what you said—creating a mythology for/of myself. That’s well said.
How would you describe the persona, the aura your writing and website lend you -- what's the Rebecca Cook Mythology? All great writers have a mythology - Anais Nin, Henry Miller, Lord Byron, Whitman - they're nearly all intriguing. Now, if people could see you at the mall walking around with your family, what impression would they be left with? Would they be left with an impression?
Oh, Jesus. I spread sunshine or gloom, depending on the day. I’m still a bit embarrassed to say “I’m a writer.” I suspect I generally leave an impression. It’s like Fred Chappell’s thing, “brighten the corner where you are.” Unless it’s the awful day—get the fuck out of my way, you peasant.
Speaking of the identities we have with and without our writing, you confided to me:
"I am a child, a thorned thing...writing was the one thing, since the beginning of it, that set me apart--something I felt I was good at in spite of all the loss, sick, sad, raw, screamy, unworthy, near-death, aching, insane, angry insides of me."
It's incredible how inextricably entwined we become with our talents, how we come to think that our talents are us. Are they? To what extent is your writing YOU? What would be left of you if you weren't a writer,
if suddenly tomorrow you lost the capacity to write? Would you be left with hull or seed?
Now that’s a brilliant question, you poet. Hull or seed? I’d like to think seed. But maybe hull. Maybe both. I’m writing a story right now about a woman who is losing her mind to Alzheimer’s. It’s terrifying. And on my medication for bipolar, I do experience a sort of loss of mind, something changed, different enough to be noticed, a disconnect. It does not interfere with my writing. If/when it does, I will stop taking it and suffer.
Once you're a famous writer someone will write your biography. Let's give them a head start. What are some potent childhood tragedies and triumphs that played a pivotal role in your development as a writer and a personality? Do you have an early poem that might give us a glimpse into your psyche as a young girl?
For glimpses of this sort, the prose is a better choice, especially Quilted Creek and According to the Girl. Childhood was terrifying and wondrous. My mother was terrifying, smothering. Fantastic, cruel. Cloying, sweet like honey. Viscous. Jealous. Striving upward. My father I adored. My brother was a scapegoat/outcast. God permeated. I was afraid.
You’ve mentioned wanting to teach a creative writing class on a permanent basis - here I'd like for you to be the teacher AND the student. I'd like you to send me four poems that you wrote last year - any poems - and I'd like for you to critique two, and praise two.
Click on above poems for larger versions
Speaking of teaching, how have your college students responded to your work, and your racy work in particular? How about your husband -- how does he feel about the level of honesty in your work?
Students love “Penis Envy” and “Behind the Revival Tent” and “Men.” My husband, Dale, cannot listen to me read a lot of what I write. It’s too personal to hear me, but he can usually read the difficult things to himself. Sometimes he comes back telling me that something makes him feel awful. I’m learning to respect his needs. I want most for him to tell me something is brilliant. I want that reaction from everyone. Dale hates and resents the lack of punctuation in many of my pieces.
In an email to me you wrote:
"I get pissed when I hear about the professionalism of poetry -- that all poets or writers should have an MFA, should be this or that, blahblahblahblahblah. I have a chip on my shoulder."
But ended it with:
"Oh, and I'm thinking about getting the MFA goddamnit. Go figure."
How does your level of formal education affect you professionally, both as a college teacher and a writer? Do you feel there are biases against people who aren't part of higher-eschelon academia?
I will NOT get the MFA. Unless I do. I waver. My level of education and what I’ve learned/absorbed surprises me. I sound so knowledgeable in this interview. It’s fucking great. There are biases all over academia. Consider me chief snob.
Here's an experiment: I'm going to give you a list of words, and you demonstrate your mental dexterity by using these words in three different poems, completely dissimilar in all other regards. The words are: lapel, sheen, skin, burn, diameter, sing, vertebrae.
Lapel Sheen Skin Burn Diameter Sing Vertebrae
He had only estimated the diameter of the burn.
When he saw her skin, parts black, parts red,
parts with the sheen of soon to come blisters,
he turned her body over to investigate her back,
half expecting to see her spine, each vertebrae stark
white in black relief, but the other side of her was pristine
as though the fire had been satisfied with her neck and breasts,
her charred out middle, her fingers white with bone,
the tight red swelling of her legs. He knows it would have been
easier if all of her had been blackened beyond recognition.
It’s so much better when the parents are told that there’s
nothing left to identify. He’d rather spare them that,
let the dental records determine identity. But they will know their daughter’s eyes still dead bright above the black of her chin and cheeks.
And on her left ankle the unmistakable tattoo her mother had told them about:
“Sing” intertwined with the peace sign. He thinks what a bullshit cliché and
reaches for a bit of her black, a tiny flesh ash to rub into his lapel.
Lapel Sheen Skin Burn Diameter Sing Vertebrae
Everything she’s ever heard about them is stored in her middle, a bubbling mess of fear and undone sorrowing, the diameter of her reactions are small, then large,
then shouted and buried. How else can she deal with the world?
The first time she walked crying out of class was during the Trail of Tears film. This walking out would become her habit. She already knew the bright teeth of the world. She got a reputation as a softy. She told her teachers that she knew about all the pain, but they insisted that she watch. So she stayed until she began sobbing, that kind of appropriate public crying that makes everyone uncomfortable. This week it’s the Holocaust.
The teacher uses his pointer to zero in on each vertebrae shining from the pile of bodies, all grey skinned and boned. He continues his lecture while she buries her head on her desk, quietly weeping. He fingers his lapel in a nervous gesture, then tells them about the burning. He flips to the next slide of an open oven and a sing singing starts in her head, a million voices rising from the bones and she leaps up shouting why, why aren’t you all crying, how can you just sit here and watch this?
She moves toward the door while the teacher begins to talk about lampshades of skin, the diffuse light and sheen of that light, highly prized. When she is gone, everyone breaths, a few kids laugh, so glad she’s left again. The teacher fingers his lapel. Then he turns to soap.
Lapel Sheen Skin Burn Diameter Sing Vertebrae
So this brilliant poet wants me to turn out three poems
using these seven words. I’ve done two now and here’s what’s left:
The lapels on his shirt are ninety seventy-five Stayin’ Alive.
The sheen of his hair VO5.
The skin on his face a fashionable stubble for 2004.
The burn in his eyes, ferret-like. I’d recognize him anywhere.
The diameter of his head is small for such a tall boy,
but his slicked back hair compensates somehow,
like that skinny Baldwin brother.
Tonight he is going to sing in a club and he’s nervous, but it doesn’t matter.
When he is three years older and very drunk, he will dive into
the shallow end of a pool, snapping the third and forth vertebrae in his neck.
The burn in his eyes will go numb while they flip him over every four hours.
He will hang face down and no songs will come out.
His voice will be taken.
Are there any fledgling poets you'd like to support here, maybe give us their websites and a few of your favorite lines from their work, and why you think they'll turn the poetry world on its ear?
Jenny Sadre Orafai, though she’s hardly a fledgling. She’s really good. She’s done lots of performance poetry, slams, that sort of thing, but I’ve just seen her work change; she’s turned one of those corners and is heading into really great stuff. Here’s why I think so, a few lines from her poem “The Same Age”:
“After the search, there were the clumps, the grabs of hair/
brown and the same color as your mother’s/
and your mother’s mother’s—once a head of virginal hair/”
She’s got a spark, the hot fire blue that great poets have. Now she just needs to burn it. Here’s her website:
Why don't you have a book out yet? I feel like you're holding out for something. What is it?
Not holding out, just waiting. I don’t know. I don’t get the book thing, especially the poetry book thing. I guess I’ve not read enough poetry to know how to put a book together. I think I want someone to just do all this book shit for me.
I finished a manuscript this summer, of stories and the novella Quilted Creek as the finisher. I’ve not sent it out to anyone yet. Submitting books is expensive and I get confused—I’m not very organized with the submitting thing. I started out with yellow legal pads. Now I have three notebooks, one for fiction, one for poetry, and one for online submissions.
The only thing I’ve done with the full-length collection is mail it to Theresa to read—she loved it, had a couple of good suggestions. But I’ve not even gotten Annette to read it yet and she reads everything. It’s just sitting there. I also have a full-length poetry manuscript that I’ve submitted to a couple of places and contests.
I did a chapbook of prose that was one of four finalists in the 2004 Flume Press Fiction Chapbook competition. But I just get overwhelmed with what to do next. It’s always easier to write new things, to just push forward. I need an assistant.
I started a book this summer, on my son’s Asperger’s Syndrome, but it was morphing into a book and him and how my own travels through mental illness mirror his own development of his disorder. So it’s not what I thought it would be and I began it because it seemed like a mainstream marketable thing, which is probably not a good reason to write something anyway.
I get the novel thing not at all. Novels are so large—how the hell does one write a novel? I write stories and every time I work on them, I read them again. That isn’t possible with longer works, as I learned on Quilted Creek. When I was getting to the end of Q.C., I was hating the rereading and reworking part. It ended up around 34, 000 words, which is the longest thing I’ve done thus far. It seems impossible to me that I’ve written that much. I am just too caught up in the rules/parameters of this book thing.
Writing is all about catching and communicating ideas. Would you walk us through the life of an idea from when it enters your thoughts to when it is sent to the publishers? Make this the user's manual of Rebecca's creative process.
Oh, shit. Well, sometimes it’s a sort of grain, a kernel that grows for a while, sprouting. Then I’ll write it out into a poem or a story. Sometimes it’s a voice in my head, a line, a muse—who knows? Words that come from deep deep places, the subconscious, the water in my brain. When those poems or stories come out, they pour out, like I’m a conduit, like when I wrote “Soaping the Stream.”
When I was eleven and first writing poetry, it seemed miraculous, the first evidence of my genius. Now it’s different. Sometimes, like earlier in this interview, I force poems out, I just do it, like sex without particular passion—the sex is still good, but very different from hot wild sex, or sex when that intimacy comes that just blows you away. Writing is like that, hot and wild, deep and centered, worthy of screaming, or very quiet, just there. But it’s all good. Unless, of course, it sucks.
Now that we know how you develop your writing, would you bring us through your whole submission process -- mailing, tracking and keeping records? Where do you submit? What is scrawled on some of your
rejection slips?
I am willy nilly but determined. As I said before, I started with legal pads, now I have three notebooks. I do this pen to paper, no excel, no computer. It’s not very organized and takes much longer than it should. I submit very much on impulse, often sending things out that aren’t ready. Of course, they might get picked up and then I think, who am I to say? And seriously, who am I to say? You took “Call Me Grim” and then nominated it for a Pushcart Prize. That was weird. Nobody else ever even commented on that poem, not that I sent it to many places.
As far as notes on rejection slips, I’ve always figured that anything handwritten is reason to rejoice. Now I get notes more and more frequently and if I don’t get a scribbled note or letter, then I figure I might submit one more time. If it doesn’t happen then, time to move on. Most of my work has been taken on the first time out with a journal. It’s rare that things are taken after repeated submitting. I’ve learned that after piles of rejection slips from one magazine. It’s a waste of time as far as I can tell. I think my work either clicks with editors or it doesn’t.
Here’s a funny story. I’ve been getting little handwritten “thank you”s and “best wishes”s from New Yorker for years. In fact, my first goal when I started submitting back in 1993 was to get anything scribbled on a New Yorker rejection slip, anything—even “fuck off.” Well, it happened when I was into my second month of submitting—a little scribbling “thank you!” Jesus. I screamed with joy all the way home from the post office.
I used to call up New Yorker and check on submissions, one of those things writers are told to never ever do. But I’d get so excited. I spoke to Alice Quinn for the first time (on the phone of course) back in the late nineties and, get this, she remembered me because of a stamp that I’d used! I always try to use stamps that will catch the editor’s eye. I figure any sort of notice is good. Well, last year I called up New Yorker and left a message for Alice Quinn asking about the status of my submission and, get this, she calls me back and leaves this message, apologizing profusely and asking me to PLEASE submit the poems again and promising to get to them as soon as possible this time. She was positively gushy/chummy and I figured that she’d gotten me mixed up with someone else.
Anyway, I re-sent the poems marked “Requested Material” as she had directed me to do and a few weeks later I got a rejection letter from her, handwritten. Go figure. All of this seemed very exciting and special, more evidence of my genius. Then I read an interview in Poets & Writers a few months back and this editor talked about how the editors at New Yorker are known for writing those kind little notes and how they don’t really mean a thing. Popped all the air out of me. Pop pop!
I keep all of my acceptance letters and handwritten rejections in albums and notebooks so I can pull them off the shelf when I get to despairing and feeling sorry for myself. They remind me of how much I’ve accomplished.
Mad props: will you cut & paste some of the praise you've received for your writing, and tell us how it made you feel? Do you think it's important to email writers to let them know they're having an impact on
you? Have you ever sent praise to another writer - who, and why?
Absolutely everyone should send writers emails when they are blown away by their work. It means a lot to know that someone is reading and affected by your work. On some days, it means everything.
Here are a few:
Rebecca,
You’re writing is amazing. Sometimes I sit here at work and I surf the net in hopes of finding good quality poetry to help keep me inspired and get me through the long days. Your poetry is like a breath of fresh air. Do you have a book out by any chance? Please let me know because I am most definitely interested in buying. I write as well and have published here and there but I am attempting to pull together my first poetry manuscript. I’ve already self-published a novel but now I want to get back into poetry which is pretty much what started me writing in the first place. Thanks for the added inspiration.
Anyway, just wanted to drop you a quick note to let you know that I love your work and to keep up the great work.
Take care,
T.
Dear Rebecca,
I first came across your work in the current issue of Octavo and was impressed enough to check out your website, which impressed me even more. I read "God's Woman," "Not One for Fairy Tales," and "Soaping the Stream," which is an exceptional story.
Just thought you'd appreciate knowing your work is being read, and admired, by a fellow writer (my own work appears in the Fall 2002 and Spring 2003 issues of Octavo, and I'm featured in The Alsop Review).
--D.
Caught your work in TAR. Really liked "Salvation"... "I have tasted my own blood from their mouths" Great line! I always know I like a line when after reading it, I become instantaneously jealous of it and its creator. Keep up the great work! Cheers. --G.
And the one from Theresa, which brought us together:
Dear Rebecca,
I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed reading your poems in the current issue of Rock Salt Plum Poetry Review. I loved them all, but I think my favorite was "Making Children." That first stanza in particular is incredible, just breathtaking -- it's been stuck in my head since I first read it. I read on your website that you've finished two poetry manuscripts. If you're maintaining a list of people interested in purchasing copies when they're available, please add me to it. I always look forward to reading your new work and you've never disappointed me. Thank you, :)
Theresa Boyar
I'd like you to tell a bunch of people about one day in your life -- just an ordinary day -- retelling the same story over and over but with a different
perspective and level of secrecy, depending who you're telling it to.
Your husband's parents:
Today I got up, had strong coffee with heavy cream, the kind that’s good for Atkin’s dieters. I thought of you both while I ate eggs and bacon, the real kind with some cheese thrown in the eggs. I’ve lost twenty pounds in four weeks. After breakfast I did the everyday Tuesday things, went to the store and bought groceries, got the mail, watched my soap, planned for Wed.’s classes, picked Alex up from school, cooked a casserole for Dale and Alex to eat and squeezed in a bellydance class. I didn’t pick up when you called last night because I went to bed early.
Your students:
Yesterday was just the same old shit--cloudy, I didn’t want to read, or think, or get out of bed. You know how it is. The bottom falls out of the world. What I wanted most was to lie there and flip channels, order pizza and have someone feed it to me. I got up and had coffee and then wished I hadn’t, I’ve been on this Atkin’s diet, you know the one. It’s working, but I hate it. I’d give anything for a Poptart RIGHT NOW. I wanted TOAST yesterday, but I had scrambled eggs and had bacon. Protein and protein. It’s such bullshit, but it works. How many of you are doing this stupid diet? Then I did the blahblahblah around the house stuff, got the groceries, mail, kid, cooked a casserole, went bellydancing, and then crashed. But I hope that you guys were more productive than I and I’ll take your papers now, before I forget.
An online writer friend:
Yesterday was not good, but it depends on the viewpoint I suppose. Just couldn’t pull myself up from the blue black. Everything sucked all hollow—the grocery store, the no-writer-stuff-for-you-in-the-fucking-mailbox, the argument with the little bugger about his FUCKING grades. Even bellydancing didn’t pull me up. I went home, took Xanax, crashed. But this morning feels a bit better. Bad days suck.
your blog:
fucking blue, dog heat black. yesterday was a flat smudge with me a dollop of paste in the middle all floating, scum-like. Jesus what bullshit is this? Yesterday was a bad bad day. What I most wanted, NEEDED, was to be rolled up in a blanket, swaddled. What I got was ordinary American life-goes-on stuff. I yelled at my cats. God I hate this shit. What a magic word would do, genie voo-doo stuff. James says, “If I had a magic lamp I would…….” What the fuck ever. How’s the almost sound of an opening vein? Now, that’s a girl to be observed. Does anyone remember that song, “There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea?”
your husband:
I just needed to call you and hear your voice. I’m okay, I’ll be okay. I know this will pass. I love you.
a good shrink (whether or not you have one):
—of course I HAVE one.
I am having random thoughts I need to be aware of. knives seem ominous, almost thoughts of death, but not. I can keep those under wraps. Lots of dreaming stuff pushing to the surface. I expect poems. I know how much I NEED to cry, but I will not do it. Yesterday I was really low, but I didn’t sink too far. If I do, I’ll call you. I definitely need to see you twice this month, instead of once. I’m not scared, but I need to be very very careful right now.
your personal diary:
is my blog.
yourself, in your thoughts:
dangerous in here. how many ways to tell one’s thoughts—and this is an artificial construct: go go going, around and around. I’ve got three well-worn circuits to run run mouse run—comcast email, utc email, livejournal. and guestbook, and now, zoe. if I stop, if I stop, it will be at my back and get me. If there are open places, everything will come falling out so, so, so I think I’ll go and do lots of yard work, now, now, now. Then groceries, and laundry, and the bills, I will check the budget, maybe extend it for another year and check check double check the numbers. What have I forgotten, I’ve forgotten something. What was it? I feel so guilty. What did I do?
No, I cannot do not talk to myself like this.
Maybe more like: be quiet, calm, steady, you will be alright, you will prevail. Maybe, Someone could kill me----that’s when I’m at my worst.
But this is impossible. I cannot represent my thoughts in these words. Not possible.
You told me to save all of our letters to one another because we will be famous writers one day. You wrote:
"I suspect I'm not ready for fame (or deserving, perhaps you and a handful of others like my work but I'll never 'arrive' and fuck
that -- it's the journey that counts, all that zen stuff, but I learn more daily about accepting the moment), or if fame comes , it will not be what I
expect."
What are you afraid of, worst-case scenario? On the other hand, what do you think you'd enjoy about being famous? How would you use your power to fight evil? How would you abuse the power? If you could
recreate yourself by fusing different traits of famous women writers in history, which women would meld into Rebecca Cook, and why?
What a huge question, and loaded. I would not fuse together anyone, I would leave it at Rebecca Cook which is enough.
Fame: I would enjoy getting good tables at restaurants, right away. And money, which I fantasize goes with fame. I would enjoy being respected for my art, I would hate writers rushing to me for advice and help. I would hate having to say no to so many people. And I would hate being seen as someone to look up to, to admire—I would also fucking LOVE it.
Power: I hope I use my power to fight evil already, I teach, I am making a difference. And I write, which is a way of bringing beauty into the world when it’s good, maybe even when it isn’t.
I’m most afraid of being that cliché, that American writer who can’t ever get it up, who had one good fuck years ago, say a published story, some big prize, even a well-received first book and then who just went flat, flaccid, impotent. Or to never make it at all. Or to never figure out what making it is. What is it? I am not so stupid to believe that getting that first book will fill in all of my holes. Still, completing my college education was a huge thing and did help a lot, but I certainly still suffer from many inadequacies, goddamnit.
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