I meant to post this on National Poetry Day

However, I was distracted by those pygmy goats.

This is one of my favorite poems ever ever in the whole world. I can’t remember when I first read it, but I wasn’t any older than seventeen, so of course it embedded itself in my feverish teenaged brain. And given how peripatetic I’ve been as an adult, it’s not surprising that I’ve been using it as a mental touchstone ever since. (Though it took me a long time to track down this particular translation, and unfortunately I still don’t know who translated it.)

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Ithaka

When you set out for Ithaka
Ask that your way be long,
Full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
Angry Poseidon — do not fear them;
Such as these you will never find
As long as your thought is lofty,
As long as a rare emotion
Touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
Angry Poseidon — you will not meet them
Unless you carry them in your soul,
Unless your soul raise them up before you.

Ask that your way be long,
At many a summer dawn to enter –
With what gratitude, what joy!
Ports seen for the first time;
To stop at Phoenician trading centers,
And to buy good merchandise.
Mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
And sensuous perfumes of every kind.
Buy as many sensuous perfumes as you can,
Visit many Egyptian cities
To learn and learn from those who have knowledge.

Always keep Ithaka fixed in your mind;
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But do not in the least hurry the journey.
Better that it last for years
So that when you reach the island you are old,
Rich with all that you have gained on the way,
Not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka has given you the splendid voyage.
Without her you would never have set out,
But she has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka has not deceived you.
So wise have you become, of such experience,
That already you will have understood
What these Ithakas mean.

- C. P. Cavafy (1868-1933)

Food Shark

Always lovely to check the New York Times and find a reference to someone you knew years ago. In this case, Krista Steinhauer, who is now the chef at the Food Shark in Marfa, Texas. Looks like we’ve both come a long way from Bucharest.

And about an hour ago, things took yet another odd turn for me, but as I’ve always insisted that this journal is never going to earn the subtitle The Angst That Is My Life, I’m reduced to muttering cliches under my breath. (‘Boy, isn’t life awfully strange at times!’) At least the trip to Paris next month is still happening. I intend to buy a cuddly version of le renard, having recently been reminded that while The Little Prince was never my go-to book, I managed to pick up a few ideas from it. And the fox is cute, and it’s nice to be reminded that at least one person finds me unique in all the world.

Some talk about knitting finally

Given that I’m not going to talk about querying until it’s all over (she says in a voice which is DARK and MOODY, which is how some celebrity chef the other week described his ideal chutney – seriously, dude, I’m glad you’re into it, but do ease off on the pathetic fallacy; it’s a condiment, not a Byronic hero), instead I will talk about knitting, given that I mention it in the tiny bio in the sidebar.

Not that I’m terribly good at knitting, but I enjoy it, even if my two-needle cast-on makes Scottish Women Of A Certain Age break out in hives. (I was recently taught a one-needle longtail cast-on but the other is embedded in my brain.)

(Of course, Scottish Women Of A Certain Age also have a tendency to assume knitting = babies, although all of my knitting on that count has been booties and hats for other people’s babies. Nor am I going to knit a Shetland Lace shawl that’s so fine it can be drawn through a wedding ring, though I am deeply impressed with anyone who ever has.)

Current project is the Yarn Harlot’s one row handspun scarf. I am not using handspun, but rather nice wool from the stash, though I’d love to spin again someday, having done it for a few summers eons ago. I like this pattern because it introduced me to a new stitch (I can knit into the back of the stitch! Go me!) and it’s very easy to remember so I can just zip through and it’s reversible and I joined the new ball without it looking too bizarre (thanks to the instructions in the Stitch and Bitch book) even though I had to frog and redo it.

It will be nice to alternate this scarf with my green mohair scarf, which was just straight garter stitch, and it’s a nice long scarf but it does tend to shed on my corduroy jackets.

The most complicated thing I’ve ever knit was a hat, on circular needles, and I once made five buttonholes.

How I explain the querying process (and everyone gets what I mean)

“It’s like trying to get married. Right now I’m in the speed dating phase.”

The books I’m trying to read

In an interview for a book-related job, the questioning went something like this:

Interviewer 1: What are you currently reading?
TSR: *takes deep breath*
Interviewer 2: Restrain yourself!!

[Yeah, Interviewer 2 had me dialed. And I did get the job.]

The sidebar ‘books I’m reading’ has been pretty static lately, mainly because I keep starting books and then not finishing them, or rather some other book gets in the way. I currently have on the go:

- George Gissing, New Grub Street. Someday I must determine why I love Gissing so much, even though his work is so depressing, whereas Thomas Hardy’s work is also depressing but makes me want to stab myself with a sharpened pen. The problem is that this will probably require me to read more Hardy, and that is something I do not wish to do. I am rereading NGS in the hopes that it will make me feel better to be reminded that, in fact, there never was a prelapsarian publishing era of joy, and authors have always had it tough. Status: just begun.

- Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey. Required reading. I like it, but I really want to reread Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility. Status: just begun.

- Stieg Larsson, The Girl Who Played With Fire. I mistakenly thought this was the first in the series, though as the library won’t be able to get me that one for weeks, I might as well start with this. I am trying to approach this book with an open mind, but given that the original title of book number one is Men Who Hate Women, I have the feeling I may finish the book solely to avoid ‘but you haven’t READ IT’ arguments (though these will undoubtedly be replaced with arguments that include the words ‘you feminists’ and ‘no sense of humor’). Status: just begun.

- Tom Brown and Henry McLeish, Scotland: A Suitable Case for Treatment. Am toying with writing something set in an independent Scotland (those cries you hear are the Scottish Nationalists a-whoopin’ and a-hollerin’), and picked this up in a quest to figure out how Scots view Scottish national identity. Still not entirely sure, though most seem to agree that the deep-fried Mars bar is an aberration. Status: a third finished.

- Tobias Smollett, Humphrey Clinker. I have a woefully deficient background in 18th century literature so I figured this would help fill the gap. Also, I can read bits aloud to my Scottish friends, who splutter amusingly when they hear nice things about Alloa and Greenock. Status: three-quarters finished.

And don’t even ask about the BTR stacks/shelves. No, really, please don’t….

Random thoughts

La Shark says it best, as she often does: “1. A query letter is a business letter.“

The novel is finished. It took longer than I expected, but the next one will be easier, if only because I’m a hell of a lot more aware of the stuff that shouldn’t been included in the first place and had to be removed at great cost.

Nothing to remind you you’re writing for the public than the blog hits shooting skyward, and finding that an ex-co-worker seems to have linked to you on her Facebook page.

Writing workshops are immensely helpful. Today’s reality check: “Great images, but I have no idea what the narrative is.”

I never used to listen to music while working. Maybe a CD or two, but always stuff I knew so well that it could just exist in the background. And I never bought a lot of new music. Then I got iTunes and started developing a writing playlist, which expanded to ‘anything not involving a heavy beat and/or wailing’ (which, given that I tend towards female singer/songwriters, isn’t much of the collection anyway). Then last month I got an iPod shuffle – yeah, I know, I can finally join the rest of the universe – and suddenly it’s my constant companion. The interior narrative now has a soundtrack, and I’m not sure if that’s entirely a good thing.

Given that I want to carry more upon my person than the iPod and a bottle of eyedrops, I am resigned to making most of my future clothing purchases in the men’s department, for one simple reason: pockets. Seriously, my corduroy jackets have dinky little pockets that I consider myself lucky to have, whereas if I could actually find a men’s jacket in my size, I’d be able to travel to London for the weekend without worrying about an overnight bag. A fishing vest, now, there’s something useful – I once fit in four paperback books….

I didn’t win a goat

In spite of the hopes of my roleplaying group – who made very mean comments about curry; I must learn “evil glare” before our next session – I did not actually receive a goat as part of my Gorgie City Farm poetry competition prize.

I did win sponsorship of one of the pygmy goats, and a picture of him (Toby!), both of which are taped to the side of a bookcase, as well as a £10 book token. I don’t know what I’m going to spend it on yet. But really, half the fun of gift certificates is mentally spending them a dozen times over.

What’s happening right now: the final edits of GB and gearing up for the next book (= pre-writing, outlining, minor research). Thankfully, as it won’t be a historical novel I don’t have to do the same immersion I did for the Third Reich book – no one is going to quibble that the tunic insignia are the wrong color – though obviously everything has to be consistent, and there are plenty of pitfalls with worldbuilding no matter what the context.

The main difficulty is that even after putting the Auschwitz novel aside, I have two very strong possibilities for the next project, and I want to write them both.

Now!

Possibility A has some plotting already completed but I just removed a major character and am not yet sure if I’ve lifted away the book’s spine by doing so. (You know, the way you have to eat certain kinds of fish?) And I need to get Possibility B to the stage where the ‘ooh shiny’ feeling wears off, and see whether there’s actually a plot there, rather than just a conceit.

So come November, I’ll be hard at work on the next book, but don’t ask me yet what it is.

And no, I won’t be doing NaNoWriMo. I have no problems with the concept, but I don’t need a little counter on my website to track my progress….

I won a poetry prize – no kidding!

The poetry competition was sponsored by Gorgie City Farm in Edinburgh, and I won the adult category with a poem about pygmy goats.

…no kidding!

*pause for big laffs*

Aaaaaaaanyway, it’s National Poetry Day, and I was going to post my favorite poem here, but I’ll do that another day. Here’s my award-winning poem about pygmy goats. Man, I am so not ever winning the Nobel Prize now, although I am told on the highest authority that Jacinto Benavente wrote a one-act farce about chickens.

Oh hey, speaking of which, Herta Müller won. Finally, someone I’ve not only heard of, but who I’ve read! (The Land of Green Plums, as I was reading everything I could find about Romania before going to live there for a year on a Fulbright.)

And here’s my little contribution to world literature:

Pygmy goats, pygmy goats,
climbing on their frame.
Dancing up so light and proud
then dancing down again.

Pygmy goats, silly goats,
scuffling in the mud.
Butting, wrestling, tossing horns
in gleeful kiddish fun.

Pygmy goats, lovely goats,
daft and rough and wee.
Lovliest of all when they’re both
nuzzling up to me!

Yeovil Prize – highly commended

I entered both the novel and poetry categories of the Yeovil Literary Prize, and last month when I was having a Very Bad Day I (for some reason) checked the online system and found that all four pieces I’d entered were categorized as ‘Was not Shortlisted’. Which just melded into the general grumpiness and I crossed them all off my list. (Well, removed them from ‘Submissions 2006+’ and moved them to ‘Dead submissions’. Which is not, I must say, as satisfying as scraping with a thick black marker.)

…except that either this was an error or I’d hit the online system at the wrong time, because my poem ‘Captain’s Colours’ has been highly commended.

By Carol Ann Duffy.

*shakes head*

*checks again*

My new contact lenses are going a bit blurry (must remember to keep blinking when I’m at the computer!) but I’m pretty sure I’m not hallucinating this.

*checks the online system*

Wow, that’s better:
Captain’s Colours
Poetry
Work Highly Commended

After the top three poems there are nine highly commended. Out of 416. WOW.

This is a good thing for me right now. And not just because I get to squee about it to Ken Macleod tonight, but that’s always a bonus.

Many many thanks to the judges and administrators.

With no rights in this matter

I’m getting some hits because I’m running a workshop at Ladyfest in Edinburgh on Saturday – hello, potential workshoppers! I hope you will join in – so here I am in the library to get some poems of other people to use for kickstarting creativity.

And I have been thinking lately about a Roethke poem, which was not difficult to track down since I knew the a) author and b) last line: Elegy for Jane.

So I have the feeling I will be jumpstarting myself from that this weekend.

It’s a fun exercise – take a line from any other poem (or, really, a line from the newspaper, or a picture, or…) and dash away with it. I like doing it in workshops because it’s creative rather than ‘read and critique’. And there will be another dimension to it as well, which appeals to a wide range of people.

Here’s hoping I actually end up running the workshop. Or at least, that if no one comes, my friend who’s one of the organizers takes pity on me and participates for the ten seconds she isn’t busily dashing around.