The Poetry of Pregnancy

When I deliver a baby, my first thought is not to count fingers and toes or to check for family resemblance. Usually, I am much more selfish than that. My first thought is, Hooray! I'm not pregnant anymore! I have heard moms talk of how they love to be pregnant; how they even feel sexier than usual, or how they feel vivacious and energetic. I wish I could claim that I handle pregnancy with as much aplomb. I can't.

I feel huge, uncomfortable, overheated, and about as attractive as an over ripe pear. Mentally, I am simultaneously out of focus and prone to obsession. I could make a list of strange obsessions I have experienced while pregnant, but it would be far too telling and inexplicable. If you are acquainted with my blog, you can probably guess a few of them.

Sometimes I get so caught up in the woes of pregnancy that I forget the wonder of it. As always, I turn to literature to remind me that life is, in fact, profound and that there is nothing more profound and meaningful than its perpetuation.

I would love to compose a poem about the pregnancy experience, but I have broken the one cardinal rule of poetry composition: to write poetry, one must read poetry. I confess that I simply haven't picked up a book of poems in quite a long time and so, I must rely on what already exists.

My husband has disliked Sylvia Plath since he had to read her poem, "Daddy" in a college English course. I agree that "Daddy" is a little bitter for my tastes as well, but, when I read "Metaphors," Sylvia is my friend once again:

Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,

An elephant, a ponderous house,

A melon strolling on two tendrils.

O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!

This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.

Money's new minted in this fat purse.

I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.

I've eaten a bag of green apples.

Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Ironically, sometimes it is the male poet who is able to see past the physicality of pregnancy and to take it to a more transcendent level. This by contemporary poet Bill Kloefkorn, State Poet of Nebraska is about as gorgeous a thing as has ever been written:

Covenant

Here is the story I might have heard,

More likely dreamed: the woman

after the first trimester

required by village covenant

to compose a lullaby,

to sing it daily then

to the gathering child, only

from memory and in deliberate

isolation,

the man not permitted to listen

until the infant had been delivered

and pronounced both whole and

welcome. And this ritual

I'd go to church to live with,

solace in the belief

that not so very far away

always a woman sits singing her own

creation

to that small creation breathing

as if a delicate fish inside her,

always not so far away

a confluence of word and of music

flowing somehow into the ear

of the unborn,

there to do whatever the inexplicable does

to sustain us,

my mother meanwhile who couldn't

carry a tune in a washtub

singing as she carried the washtub

outside to empty the rinsewater,

that same tub later

filled with the well-wrung

family wash, each item on the line

moving in the breeze

like a quaint crustacean,

each movement singing.

And finally this excerpt from my favorite Dylan Thomas poem.

from Fern Hill

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

Shining, it was Adam and maiden.

The sky gathered again

And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

Out of the whinnying green stable

On the fields of praise.

Perhaps it is time for me to consider something other than the centimeters and percentages of childbirth and to ponder and enjoy the small universe of my womb; to appreciate that kicking writhing creature whose creation like all great creations starts, "In the beginning. . ."

Ten Reasons to Love Neil Gaiman (a.k.a. He was aware of my existance for a brief moment)

As stated in a previous post, I have recently discovered and have become a member of Neil Gaiman fandom.  For lack of anything else to post, I am going to list my top 10 reasons for loving Neil Gaiman.   I love Gaiman:

1) Because Tori Amos references him by name on her album "Little Earthquakes." "Little Earthquakes" was one of my favorites in high school.  If you are at all familiar with the song "Tear in Your Hand," the lyrics are as follows, "If you need me, me and Neil'll be hanging out with the dream king."  I always wondered who Neil was. . .now I know.

2) Because he has a great speaking voice- more specifically his accent. I always feel a bit embarrassed when American girls swoon over British accents because it seems so silly and superficial, however, listening to Gaiman read, is definitely worth while.  Not only is he a superb writer, he is also a superb reader.  His interpretation adds dimension and significance to his work.

3) Because Gaiman is no Bradbury:  he is not a social recluse. Nor is he a technophobe.  He doesn't seem to mind that his fans want to know what he is up to so he blogs, Twitters, Goodreads, and has a website for his children and young adult fans.  I'm sure there's other ways to cyber-stalk him.  Fill me in if you know them.  As a matter of fact he randomly selected my lame question to answer on his blog today. (The last one on his post.  Yup, that's me.)

4)  For his crazy hair.

5) Because his prose floats.  Gaiman can write and write well about any subject he chooses.  If I try to read anything less than Robertson Davies after I have read a Gaiman novel, the dialogue seems flat and the plot predictable.  (Does he really mean to do this to other authors? What about us aspiring writers?  It's so unfair.)

6) For his book jackets.  

Would I usually find a man who looks like this attractive or is it just because he's Neil?  The world may never know, but I do enjoy looking at the back cover of Anansi Boys.  Apparently, I'm not alone.

7) For his leather jacket. (Click on the wardrobe to the right once you find yourself in "The Living Room.")

8) Because he is the most contemporary of authors.  Gaiman's work does not show his age.  He lives in the here and now.  Just as he is unafraid of technology, he is also unafraid to team with other contemporary artisits and writers.  He has written Blueberry Girl for Tori Amos.  He has teamed with Terry Pratchett to write Good Omens, has toured with Amanda Palmer, and the likes of Stephin Merrit have been seen lurking around his midwestern home.  Unlike Gaiman, I will show my age and mention that I didn't know who half these people were until I read his blog.

9) Because of his generosity to his fans.  Did I mention that he reads the ENTIRE Graveyard Book online?  Yes, I believe I have, but I will mention it again because I think it is phenomenal that one can listen to this year's Newbery award winner for free.  Another of my favorite Gaiman freebies is his short story "Chivalry."  There are also more freebies available.  Send me a comment as you discover them.  Did I mention he chose my question about this on his blog?

10) Because of his absolute versatility.  Gaiman is the first author whose works I can read one after another and never get bored or tired of his style.  His books are so entirely different from each other, the only prediction I can make upon opening a new volume is that it will be interesting, intelligent, and well-written.  Beyond that, I can't even tell you if I will love it.  I may notlike it at all, but I can appreciate the level of skill put into each piece.  A word of advice:  do not write Gaiman off if you don't love him at your first reading.  Put it down and try something else. One work does not indicate the merits of another.

Also, along the lines of versatility.  Gaiman has written (successfully) picture books, graphic novels, short stories, poetry, novels, screen plays, and a number of journalistic pieces.  Pretty impressive.

Pilgrimage

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droughte of March hath perced to the roote And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendered is they flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne, And smale fowles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open eye- (So priketh hem Nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. . .                                      Geoffery Chaucer- The Canterbury Tales Like Chaucer's pilgrims of old, my family and I harkened to the call of spring and took some time off to travel.  Chaucer is right; spring is a great time to leave home and see the countryside. Unfortunately, I did not have the pleasure of traveling with the loquacious Wife of Bath, the jolly cook, or the creative nun's priest, but like Chaucer's pilgrims, there was good company and a lot of  great stoytelling.  The pilgrimage is as archetypical to religion as the snake and the tree, the flood, or the apocalypse.  The Buddists travel to Kapilavastu to see the Buddah's birthplace.  Jews and Christians alike travel to Israel to see where prophets strode.  Many still travel to Greece to make their winding way to Delphi.  Unlike the pilgrims of old or the steadfast Tibetan monks, my family and I boarded a plane.  The location was not particularly exotic: it was no Thebes, Lhasa, or Jerusalem.  In fact, it is a little known place except to members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons.)  We spent our spring break in Missouri and Illinois to visit sites only as ancient as the 1840's. Like Chaucer's pilgrims who travled to visit the resting place of the martyr Sir Thomas a' Becket, we travled to sites related to the founding prophet of our religion and martyr, Joseph Smith.  We saw the jail in Liberty, Missouri where Smith and seven of his follwers were held captive for five brutal winter months and where Smith received some of his most hopeful revelation that has now been canonized in modern scripture.  We traveled to (and spent most of our time in) Nauvoo, Illinois built on the banks of the Mississippi River by early Mormon settlers: a testament to their faith and work ethic.  There, we saw the homes and tombs of the martyred prophet and his brother, Hyrum Smith.  One brisk morning, we traveled to Carthage, Illinois to visit the Carthage Jail (ironically a much more hospitable place than Liberty) where Joseph and Hyrum Smith were shot and killed by an senseless mob (the door still bears the bullet holes from that day.) Perhaps my family and I did not have to walk to Mecca and suffer en route (does a turbulent flight count?),  but the purpose of our pilgrimage was much the same for us as it has been for pilgrims throughout time:  to make it real; to explore and examine and reaffirm the roots of our belief. During my time in Illinois, I was able to walk where my ancestors once walked and to see that my life, like theirs, is only one part of a greater work.

Love for Less than $30.00: My Favorite Collectible

My first regular job was cashiering at a thrift store. There were many aspects to that job I actually liked. Literally, there was never a dull day. I worked with learning disabled people who I found to be surprisingly normal and in many ways more likable and interesting than their "fully functioning" counterparts. The clientele were a dynamic flow of shoppers ranging from collectors, to conniseurs, to bargain shoppers. In some ways, working in a thrift store is more rewarding than regular retail. It is a more laid back environment free of the commercialism and snootiness of other retail businesses. However,  despite my love for the thrift store workers and clientele, the greatest perk had to be that I got first pick of what came out on the floor.

If you think about the junk that fills a thrift store as carrion, then I was top vulture. Amongst my best finds were an 18 karat gold class ring dated 1949, and an authentic antique cameo. However, thrift store shopping, like any hobby can become addictive and the more one surrounds oneself with thrift store rummage deals, the more kitsch seems like invaluable treasure andthe more glass beads look like pearls. In short, as the months passed and as I carried home my "irresistable finds," the more my room took on the appearance of multi-family garage sale.

Thankfully, the thrift store job only lasted a year and it only took a couple of months of detox for me to realize that my room wasn't bohemian chic like I hoped, it was more like my great-grandmother's spare bedroom.  And so little by little, I pared down my "collectibles."  I decided that I probably wasn't that into Asian souveniers and that the hand sewn pink flowered bed spread was doing nothing to establish my reputation as a modern career woman.  And little by little, I "returned" the treasures from whence they came.  I even got gutsy enough to purge my shelves  of a few of the books I had amassed (Twelve Criticisms on Goethe's Faust- not even on my most erudite days. And Deutsche Gedicht?  Who was I trying to kid?)

I had to admit that perhaps I had a wee bit of a tendency (and if you know my family you know that I come by it honestly.)  And so I decided that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life talking around the (white) elephant in the room, I should probably try to curb my desire to collect.  Though instead of abandoning my tendencies wholesale, I deemed it best to choose a single collectible, my one exception to my mantra that open space was more valuable than clutter. It would have to be good. I wanted something reflective of my personality, something easy to maintain, inexpensive, and easy to store.  I found my ideal collectible in pop-up books.

For those who may not be aware, pop-up books have come a long way since our childhood days. Mainly because of pioneers in paper-engineering, Matthew Reinhart and Robert Sabuda, pop-ups have transformed from child's play to vertical works of mutable sculpture.  In addition to scenes that stand up over a foot off the page, the new pop-ups also feature movable parts (no lever reqired) as well as  flocked and metallic papers.  There is one that has, as its grand finale, light up weapons (Reinhart's Star Wars.) 

In my personal (small though growing) collection, my favorites are Reinhart's The Jungle Book and  Greenburg and Sabuda's The Pop-up Book of Nightmares.  My most unusual piece to date is a pop-up adaptation of Stephen King's The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon (how such a gem made it to the Border's $3.99 clearance shelf is beyond me.)

So, in pop-up books I have found a way to sate my inner pack rat, my inner child, and my inner adult sophisticate simultaneously and all for under $29.99.  Now if Neil Gaiman would release a pop-up Coraline even my inner high school Goth might (for once) be satisfied.

My Inner HS Goth meets Neil Gaiman

I love the website goodreads.com.  If you haven't discovered it, please visit, set up an account, and add yourself to my friends list.

If you know me, you know that my tastes lean a bit toward the well. . .macabre.  It isn't because I have an image to maintain or because I'm depressed.  It's just part of me.  I joke that I have the heart of a HS goth girl.  Admittedly, I did have leanings in that direction during my high school years, but I was never hard core:  no red-blooded Goth would have ever welcomed me into her coven.  I did: wear a lot of black clothing, listen to alternative music, and hang out in the lower, darker levels of dance clubs for under-aged kids.  I occassionally though seldom: wore black cosmetics, powdered my face white, wore a black cloak (though I blush to admit it.)  I never: owned a Marilyn Manson CD, dyed my hair black, dated a guy who more black lipstick than I did, purposely cut myself,  or considered getting a vampire-bite tattoo.

I am joyous to say I grew out of that stage a long time ago.  I re-introduced color to my wardrobe when I left home for college.  I have since traded my Doc Martens for high-heeled boots.  My religion defines my character now much more than my music.  However, there is a part of me that can't totally give up on the macabre,  try as I might.

So what of my former HS bad Goth self remains?  I will always love Tim Burton movies.  I will never stop listening to Oingo Boingo or The Beautiful South (though, thankfully, my tastes have matured and  diversified.)  I will always love Edward Gorey books.  I think the Goth girl in me will always be attracted to Edward Cullen and Criss Angel (No, my husband is nothing like them. Yes, I find him attractive, too).  I really enjoy hanging out in old graveyards, the older the better.

This would be my segue for discussion of Neil Gaiman's  The Graveyard Book which I recently reviewed on Goodreads and which has high macabre appeal.  For those of you who are not (yet) my friend on Goodreads, here is my review:

I am so sad that I only recently discovered Neil Gaiman.  There is no doubt that between the release of the movie, "Coraline," and the recent bestowal of the Newberry on the novel The Graveyard Book, Gaiman is at the peak of his popularity.  It is only because of his recent acclaim that I have heard of Gaiman at all.  He is the sort of author I would love to be able to say, "Oh, I've been a huge fan for years.  I started reading his books before anyone else had even heard of him." Unfortuately, I have no right to that claim, but I am glad I found his books even if I had to wait this long.

The Graveyard Book is essentially and unabashedly a retelling of Kipling's A Jungle Book.  Bod, an ambitious infant, happens into a historical graveyard on the night he is orphaned.  Fortunately, he is taken in by the some of the graveyard's disembodied though kindly inhabitants.  There, he is protected, raised, and educated.  Ghosts, witches, and other "fearful" creatures are Bod's family and comrades. Needless to say, Bod grows up with an entirely different perception of dark and fear than most people.

The Graveyard Book is a coming of age story that is organized into seperate though intertwining vingettes; each self contained, but building toward the climax.

Gaiman has an infallible ear for language and dialogue.  He also pays homage to his literary predecessors.  Besides references to Kipling, there are elements of The Odyssey and The Hobbit. Even though this book is clearly in the fantasy genre, anyone with an appreciation for interesting characters, a good story, and good storytelling will enjoy The Graveyard Book.

If, like me, you have only recently heard of Gaiman, I highly recommend the following websites:

http://www.coraline.com/

Where I made this flower:

 

And this picture of myself:

Might I also recommend Gaiman's official website:

http://www.mousecircus.com/

If you are too much of a cheapskate to buy The Graveyard Book while it is still hardcover, you can listen to the ENTIRE novel read by Gaiman himself from the website listed above.  How's that for generous?  My inner high school Goth girl is purring contentedly.

Oh, My Edward!

For those of you who are not Twi-hards and who would not know, the phrase OME has long dominated the Twilight fan sites as an appropriate substitution for OMG.  Yes, feel fee to roll your eyes (I do.) Though Breaking Dawn managed to permanently quell my obsession, far be it from me to pass up the opportunity to post, now that Summit has released the film.

Yes, I stayed up until midnight with other fans to be one of the first to get my hands on Breaking Dawn, but I did not do the same for the movie.  I do have plans to see it soon, but this time, I can wait. This decision has nothing to do with that wet blanket, that rain on my pseudo-teenage thrill parade,  Breaking Dawn; it has much more to do with my own innate nerdiness.

As is true of nerdom, I usually prefer books to movies.  And, what red-blooded female can deny that the interest fueled by the Twilight series is generated by none other than superlover Edward Cullen? Edward, as a character, manages to be the every(dream)man to everywoman.  So how did Stephenie Meyer manage to create a character that women of all ages and from all walks of life find so finger-lickin' good? (Thus begins my doctoral dissertation)

I'm going to start out by setting aside the obvious Edward assets: the hair, the wealth, the six-pack, the hot taste in cars, the great clothes.  (At this point, I could be describing Jack-the-Ripper and I'd already be in love.)  But no, the character of Edward does not stop there. Part of what really hooks the womenfolk are his deeper qualities (guys, take note).  Edward always makes Bella feel beautiful, even if she's wearing holey sweats and has spinach lodged in her front teeth.  He always places Bella's well-being at the top of his priorities.  He would never forget Bella's birthday.  He is chivalrous, traditional, and respectful.  He is intellectual and talented.  He has smooth lines, smoother moves, and a crooked smile to boot. However,  I submit that even those traits are not the core of Edward Cullen's appeal.

What makes Edward truly irresistable (and where my problem with the movie lies) is found in what the readers do not know about him.  While developing the character of Edward, Meyer merely throws readers bits and pieces to hint at his past.  She leaves him just enough of a tabula rosa that readers can make of Edward Cullen, anything they want.  He is mysterious and just dangerous enough.  The beauty of reading a character like Edward is that the reader can assign to him any preference in music, any taste in clothes, any daring past she desires.  (My Edward was somrthiing of an unrequieted lover.)  In short, the reader can mold him into her custom lover (something we have been trying, with little headway, to do to our husbands for years.)

I do not want to suggest that Rob Pattinson was not a ideal actor to play Edward or that I would cast anyone else in his stead.  The difficulty is that he is mortal and, as such, has defined personality traits and physical qualities. The only analogy I can use to describe my hang up with Twilight in  movie form relates to Plato's Allegory of the Cave in which Plato describes the "form" and the "thing."  The "form" is god's perfect idea; the "thing" is mankind's removed, imperfect interpretation. In the case of Edward, Meyer has created the "form" and Rob Pattinson, I fear,  is the "thing."  (My apologies, Rob.)

And so, on that note, I can wait to see, but cannot completely resist, the movie.  I will save myself the throngs of teenage girls and the long wait in line until I have time to decide whether or not Rob Pattinson is my dream man.  I could have taught him in high school, so that's one strike right there (one I was able to overlook while reading Twilight.)  

Reconsidering Poetry

I know I have been remiss in posting anything other than a couple of twinkies for well over a month now. It is not for lack of ambition or lack of ideas, but more for lack of time. It is very difficult to find the time, not so much for the writing, but for the amount of editing I do! I am obsessed with punctuation which is simultaneously a curse and a blessing. In short, forgive my flaky blogging and I promise I will continue to post when I can slide it in.

For those who are familiar with my blog, you know that I write a lot on the topic of teaching English and about the literature taught in English courses. I love to talk about it and currently, have very little outlet except for you, dear reader. So, I beg your pardon, while I indulge myself, once again.

In October, National Poetry Day came and went. I was happy to find that Peterman posted about it and I considered posting about it myself though other obligations took precedence. Suffice it to say, I'm pretty sure that National Talk Like a Pirate Day recieved more attention than National Poetry Day. Not to diminish Talk Like a Pirate Day in any way, but I wish the American public would reconsider poetry.

I think poetry recieves a generally bad reputation for a couple of reasons. The first, the people who supposedly "read" it and "write" it. OK, I admit I went through a really pretentious stage in college when I would go to the "Dog and Duck" (the local coffee shop) and listen to the owner of the place read Shakespeare. He read with a goofy inflection and, as pretentious as I was then, even I knew that the girl wearing the black lace gloves and velvet cloak wasn't really as close to swooning in ecstacy as her ardent sighs might lead one to believe.

Though Shakespeare's words are lovely, that particular reading was hideous though instrumental in giving me a much needed slap before I, too, donned a pair of lace gloves. Yes, it was crap and, as such, very detestable (not to mention, my tolerance for it was probably 95% higher than the average non-nerd's).

I can't blame people for steering clear of these kind of scenes. But, I submit, not all poetry is as old as Shakespeare and, for certain, none of it should be mangled by the sort of linguistic stylings I witnessed that night.

Despite the beatniks and wierdos who have given poetry a negative stereotype, I think it is time for the public to reconsider poetry. Many modern poets, like former Utah Poet Laureat, David Lee, embrace the vernacular and culture of common people while dealing with themes every bit as poignant as Shakespeare or Milton.

Which brings me to the next major barrier the general public has with poetry: they just don't "get it." Poetry, like most worthwhile pursuits, demands some knowledge and some exertion to befully appreciated. How many students have been required to read and comment on a poem in a text book? (If you took high school English you should be probably be raising your hand right now.) Don't get me wrong, I love many of the poems included in high school anthologies: e.e. cummings, "in just," Shakespeare's, "Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day?" Dylan Thomas', "Fern Hill," and Elizabeth Bishop's, "The Fish." All are wonderful poetic specimens and I am glad to know they are still taught in the classroom. But are they really? Do the students silently read poetry to themselves instead of out loud as it is intended? Does the teacher share the relish of the the words, . . ."when the world is mud-luscious and the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee. . ."? Or do the students just answer, in complete sentences, canned questions about why the balloonman is lame?"

Assignments like that are lame (but still not as bad as the teacher who chooses to gloss over the whole unit by playing an Alanis Morrisette song and talking about its "literary merit") and I think largely responsible for volume of detestation people associate with poetry. I will concede; very few high school teachers do poetry justice (mostly because they "don't get it" either- but that's a secret.)

Poetry is an ancient and increaslingly rare form of art. You don't think so? Try to conjur the name of one living poet. Try to consider one poem you have read that was written in the last decade. IF you can do so, you are certainly in the minority.

Monarchs and statesmen have long known the power of the poem. Shakepeare's most famous patron was Queen Elizabeth. Even in our modern world, the United States always has a congressional poet on hand to write when the occassion requires it, so, for all of its value why is it a dying form of art?

I think the answer lies in the question so many of my students have asked me, "Why do we have to learn about _____________ (poetry/ Shakespeare/ sentence diagrams. . . you get the idea)? I'm never going to use it. I'm going to be a ____________( porn star/ computer game programmer/ mechanic. . ." It seems to me that the entire educational system is setup to try to appease this question. The emphasis of public education is no longer simply to open doors and horizons of knowledge. It has turned into a way to make a person lucrative; a financial asset.

While it is very valuable to produce a trained and highly efficient work force, I think that sometimes we lose focus on the most significant role of education: to make us better, more compassionate people; to help us find commonality and value in our human experience. As the focus of education shifts to standarized testing and proficiency testing, we are losing that which is most vauable of all: our humanity and individuality. Perhaps, it is time to realize what the monarchs and statesmen have long known: people need poetry.

e.e. cummings said it best:

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hoe and then) they
said their nevers and they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt for forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

Thank you, Mr. Cummings. My sentiments exactly!

Re(inventing) the Wheel

I have always been guilty of making my life far more difficult than necessary. This is largely due to a tendency to hold myself to impossible standards. In some ways this has served as a motivator, however, more often than not, my conviction has landed me in a few overwhelming messes.

I think my problem is that I keep trying to reinvent the wheel. For instance, in college, my professors, trying to encourage their pupils' sprouting creativity, would assign essays with a list of topics or, inevitably, the wild card (make up your own.) For some reason, it made perfect since for me to make up my own. There was always the clause attached to this option that our topics had to recieve instructor approval before we wrote on. My professors never shut me down (though I wish they would have). Professor Aton let me go ahead and try that essay in which I compared Huck Finn's narrative voice to Daisy Miller's. It wasn't an easy topic and what he failed to mention was that it was plain stupid. Once again, Professor Cook let me take on my great topic, "The Invention of Childhood" as if I would actually do the months of obvious research this would entail and write a mini Masters' thesis. I ended up dumping the topic altogether and scrambling to write anything on Jane Eyre the night before the paper was due.

Obvious failures aside, maturity (what little I have) has taught me a few skills (which is only fair because I have paid dearly for them.) I have finally learned what 99.9% of all the other students I attended school with already figured out: you can write a darn good essay on teacher-assigned topics. There is nothing wrong with exploring irony in Huck Finn, again. There's always something new to say or at the very least a fresh light in which to cast it. It may even be worth risking cliche in order to save oneself the punishment of reinventing the wheel.

Perhaps the trick is learning to accept one's own limitations. I no longer feel let down by all that I can't do; instead I feel liberated by knowing that I probably shouldn't even go there.

For the Love!

You know you are seriously a nerd when you are previewing the curriculum for a high school English class you will be teaching and you find yourself having a really enjoyable time doing so. Great literature has always been like that for me; it's my idea of a good time. I suppose that is why it more than a hobby for me; I have made it my sustenance. Trite, huh?

During my teaching experience, I have learned a couple of truths about what makes literature great, great. The first, I heard about from my senior high school English teacher, Mrs. Peterson . Our class was just finishing The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn when "Ms. P" told us that we should read that book at least 3 times at different stages in our lives (presumably during our youth, middle-age, and old age) and that, each time, it would take on not only greater significance, but that it would be a different novel.

Later, when I landed my first teaching contract and taught Huck Finn to my students, I remember loving it more than ever. It was suddenly the funniest book I had ever read. How had I missed the irony in its tone, before? How had I overlooked the hilarity of the King and the Duke? More importantly, I had just graduated from college and had learned how to approach a book in a whole new way. As I was trying to come up with a gimick for engaging my junior Honors English class in Huck's misadventures down the Mississippi, the book fell into astounding clarity and I realized that Twain had written an epic and that Huck, like Odysseus, was on the hero's adventure. Nerd that I am, I was so excited about my discovery that I lost sleep over it that night. My junior class, as it turns out, was not nearly as taken with my approach to Huck Finn as I was and it is possible that they are still sniggering at my unfettered enthusiasm.

The next truth I learned about great literature also comes from my experience with teaching. Simply put, to teach literature is to become enamoured with literature. To this day, my favorite Shakespeare play is Romeo and Juliet. I know that isn't the most erudite selection from Shakespeare's canon, but I love it the most because I probably taught that play 15 times during my career as a Sophomore English teacher. It feels familiar, yet I am still amazed to discover each time just how eloquent and flawless the language is. It has, on me, the effect that all timeless literature does. Instead of getting fatigued with R and J, my enthusiasm for it increases with each new reading and, in turn, with each new teaching.

Just this week, I read a Browning sonnet. Sonnets have never been exactly my favorite poetry. They are so structured and so preoccupied with unrequited love that I suppose I have found them to be a bit um. . .well. . . corny. However, I gained new appreciation for Elizabeth Barrett Browning as, her Sonnet XLII, took on shape and focus when, after a couple of readings, her words became more than pretty fluff. Oh, don't get me wrong, it was STILL all about true love, but I feel better for figuring that out and I feel like myself again, having read it.

Ahhh, won't it be great to be 55 and reading Huckleberry Finn all over again for the first time?

I'm such a "pun"k

My favorite college professor, David Lee, talked about puns with affection. I remember he told his Milton class that Funk and Wagnalls encyclopedia listed the pun as the lowest form of humor. As far as we English scholars were concerned that (and the fact that Funk and Wagnalls Volumes A-J were available for 10 cents to a $1.88 at the local grocery store) discredited them entirely in our eyes.

If you tend to be in the Funk and Wagnalls camp, consider this, the brillance of Shakespeare was largely his use of the pun as a literary device. For instance, the character Mercutio, from Romeo and Juliet, jokester until the end. Who didn't love the moment when on his death bed he states, "tomorrow you shall find me a grave man."

So, why puns? I woke up this morning to find this amazing article on the "Peterman's Eye" blog. Please read. There's nothing so great as waking up to something that makes you laugh tremendously hanging out in your e-mail inbox on a Friday morning. I can tell this will be a great day unequalled in jocularity.

I consider myself quite the punster on occassion- some deliberate, some accidental. Here are some highlights from my life.

My husband and I have a running joke. Occassionally, he will come into the kitchen and commences the following dialogue,
Brett: Hun, You know what I'm craving?
Me: No, What would you like?
Brett: I could really go for a nice tall Metamucil right now.

Once my sister, Miriam was visiting and witnessed the nature of our discourse.
Brett: (to Miriam) I like to think of Metamucil as a delicious orange smoothy.
Me: Only I prefer to call it an orange roughy.

Here's another great one. As I have stated in previous entries, I babysit for a living. One day my daughter, Katie, rather suddenly and inexplicably hit, Allan, one of or daily "guests" over the head with a battery. Thankfully his mother, Sarah, is a dear friend of mine.
Me: I'm sorry about the bruise on Allan's forehead. Katie, for some reason, decided to hit him with a battery of all things.
Sarah: Was it a little one like a double A or did she go in for a big one? Like a D?
Me: Oh no, she went in for a big one. She got him with a D. You might say she committed assault and battery.

Finally, and I swear this was an accident, back when I was teaching Junior English, I made my class read, Arthur Miller's, The Crucible. In The Crucible, Miller inerrupts the action of the play a few times with running editorials. In one of these, he makes the point that the puritanical rejection of sexuality and diabolism only serves to those "forbidden" topics even more curious and interesting. I was trying to figure out how to present this idea tactfully to a room full of 16 year olds.

Me: So you see, even in the time of the Puritans people were still interested in topics of sexuality even though they were forbidden. (I'm feeling like this is going pretty well so I start getting into it.) You know, sex sells! Just like in our modern world. (I should have stopped there!) I mean, look at television commercials and the images of sexulaity advertisers use. (Nope, I'm still talking- fool that I am) You know, if you show it, they will come. (Oh, dear!)

OK, so I'm no Shakespeare.

In Defense of Stephenie

This post is a bit late since Little and Brown released Breaking Dawn nearly a month ago. Like the girls in prom dresses and the emo, fanged boys, I gathered for the local midnight release party on August 2nd. I actually stayed up until 3:00 A.M. to read about Edward and Bella's nuptials. When I went to bed that night, I had the vague, unsettling sense that this book was headed in a bad direction, but that there still might be hope. 600 pages later, I discovered that my first insticts were correct. The series that I dearly loved and had followed ardently had boarded a flight into the Bermuda triangle. The crash was of staggering proportions; its remains unrecognizable after the resulting conflagration. No, I didn't burn the book. I wasn't THAT into it, however I did find my faith in The Twilight Saga entirely decimated.

From out of those ashes, one can hear the collective moans of the disappointed fans. As a result, a new and grisly fandom has emerged: those who are equally obsessed with all of the miserable reviews. Those of us who, on the fansites and message boards, have assembled ourselves to stand back and watch it burn with a new found, morbid facination. What Breaking Dawn itself never established in visceral conflict, the reviews have compensated for. I have to admit I am rather like a morose spectator who can't take my eyes off the morbid spectacle in front of me. I am, admitedly, more taken with the bad reviews than I ever was the much anticipated novel. In short, it is a breathtaking failure.

In the wake of failure, there have been various attacks of against Stephenie herself. She has been accused of everything from being a racist/sexist to penning overly graphic sex scenes. I do not agree with this criticism from her once adoring fans. Twilight, New Moon, and Eclipse, the books embraced by millions, had [nearly]as much over-protective Edward, insecure Bella, and their unapologetic sexual tension as ever. So what made the difference with Breaking Dawn? Why is Stephenie now under fire for creating a bad role model for teen girls? Simply because Breaking Dawn was so poorly written. Honestly, Stephenie's writing is not any more sexy or sexist than it ever was. It's just that Breaking Dawn side stepped the entire series and came into existance as a concentrated accumulation of the stumbling tripe that would occassionally crop up in its companions. The only difference was that we were compelled by the plot and empathetic with the characters in the first three books so we were willing to overlook all the cliche and the poorly used adverbial clauses.

I will not join the legion of Steph haters. I agree that she was full of herself to think that the publication of Breaking Dawn would recieve the same acclaim as her other books. It is well known that her publishers tried to warn her about some of its egregious flaws prior to publication and that she thought her judgement was so infallible she couldn't possibly go wrong. So why should I, a stay-at-home mom struggling to make ends meet by working three jobs, defend Stephenie in all her prosperity? Because, I, like many LDS moms relate to her plight. Her personal story is one of epic success. Because of Stephenie and the Twilight Saga, I started doing something miraculous: I took time for myself to sit down and read, something I had not done in nearly five years. I loved her for her sometimes awkward prose. As an aspiring writer myself, it was great to read a book that I wanted to edit myself. It gave me hope that someday, maybe I too, could sit down and write a New York Times bestselling novel. She gave me something to wish for and think about in the days numbering the count down to Breaking Dawn. So the outcome of the great rise and the epic defeat: we have The Host which had the ending The Twilight Saga should have and, for that, I will always love Stephenie Meyer.

My Great Escape

I don't think there is a mother out there who can't relate to the idea of retreating to the bathroom. Sometimes it's the one unhassled moment of the day. Fortunately, for me, my husband installed a very powerful, therefore very loud fan. In addition to providing superior air circulation, it also serves as a very effective sound barrier. I can switch on the fan, lock the door and block out the outside world for as long as my kids let me get away.

I have found that the best way to spend my 3.5 minute retreat is perusing the J. Peterman Company Owner's Manual (yes, J. Peterman is real, not just a made-up Seinfeld thing and yes, they are still manufacturing fine clothes and fine reading material even after declaring bankruptcy a few years ago.) There are many ingratiating aspects to the J. Peterman catalogue. The first of these: instead of showing models sporting the latest fashions, the clothes are beautifully illustrated giving the reader a sense of antiquity and practicality. There is something about seeing the garments as an artist's rendering that says, "Our clothes fit real people; we don't need to show you how Giselle Budchen looks in them because you, youself are going to look that good."

Illustrations aside, it is the narrative that accompanies each garment that is Peterman's crowning achievement. The product description trancends not only that of a typical catalogue, it transcends all present surroundings. It goes far beyond size, cut, and color. Instead, the writing assumes that the reader is literate, smart , and worldly. By commiting the English teachers' cardinal sin of narrating in second person, it sweeps its readers off to other times and places; each more exciting and exotic than the last. It whispers of more prosperous, simpler times when men were men and women dressed with the primary purpose of looking good. And with each narrative there is always the accompanying unspoken promise: wear these clothes and you too will. . .

Admitedly, I own exactly zero J. Peterman clothing mostly because I am a stay-at-home mom and rarely in need of fine apparel, but as soon as I re-enter the professional world, if you need me, just find the Grace Kelly look-alike.

Additional Thoughts:

1) I cannot write about J. Peterman without mentioning Tracy, my friend who introduced me to it in college. In my attempt to look Peterman chic, I came out wearing a second-hand argyle sweater and some cords. Tracy told me I looked like a PTA mom (in her completely unoffensive, honest way). Tracy was right. She is a true friend.

2) The best part about the J. Peterman catalogue: it is simultaneously free and priceless. Click here to sign up for yours.

3) This is not a paid advertisement- though I'm starting to think it should be.

Me and Steph: twins from different mothers

As many of you know, I have been fixated with the Twilight series since I started reading it in February. With the upcoming release of Breaking Dawn, the final book in the series, now is a great time to be a Twilight fan. The forums and fansites are rife with conjecture: to bite or not to bite. But I have to admit I was reluctant to even pick up these books.

I first heard of Twilight from my mom. Fiction is not her genre so she hadn't read them, but she knew I might be interested.

Mom: "You have so much in common with the author, you should really read these books. They have gained quite a following."

Me: "Really, what are they about."

Mom: "They're about vampires who use their free agency to not suck people's blood."

Me: "Huh, I doubt I'll ever get around to reading that."

Yes, I was more than a little biased. There were several strikes against it right there.

1) Vampire literature- I hate Anne Rice! Blech. Lestat did not seduce me.

2) Youth literature- no real author writes for adolescents, only the ones who can't make it as adult authors, right? (but there was always Harry Potter)

3) (the biggest strike of all) Written by an LDS woman.- Yes, I am active LDS myself, but have you ever read Jack Weyland? *gagging* That's what I think of when I think LDS youth literature.

I was slightly more interested when my friend Tracy (a fellow English major) sent me an e-mail to the effect of, "So I guess teenage girls don't read Anne of Green Gables anymore. They prefer vampire books. Let's read Twilight together so we can laugh at it chapter by chapter." That sounded a bit more intriguing. I ordered my copy from Amazon right away. When Twilight arrived, I read the back cover and laughed hysterically. It sat in my house for 3 months, untouched. In the meantime, Tracy read it on her own twice with no input from me.

Finally, my friend Jessica came to visit and saw Twilight sitting out. "You have Twilight? I haven't read it, but my mom did and she said it was so good."

So I thought maybe I should see what the hype was about and I finally read Twilight. Four days later, I read the next installment, New Moon. Four days after that, I read Eclipse. OK, I'm hooked and I admit to having hooked many others. Jessica read them (though clearly, I can't quite take credit for that one) but I did talk Mary, Miriam, Jodi, Stephanie, Flo, Sarah, Carl, and Norma Jean all into reading the series. I, myself, have read them multiple times and I even have two complete sets (one to loan and one to keep) so I spent about 6 weeks schlepping the books back and forth from church.

I have joined forums and met new friends on-line all because of Twilight. I even flew from Arizona to Salt Lake City to attend a Stephenie Meyer signing. I was hoping to get a really awesome picture of the two of us, but with an audience of 1,000 people with 5,000 books to be signed things like pictures aren't permitted. I tried to tell Stephenie that we were meant to be bosom buddies in the 5.5 seconds I had to speak with her at the signing. I think I came off sounding like every other fanatic dork.

Anyway, part of my obsession is how much Stephenie and I have in common. Stephenie makes fame seem so effortless. It turns out mother was right, after all. So here is a list of the similarities I share with Stephenie Meyer.

1) We both have our Bachelor's in English from Utah universities

2) We both have 3 children

3) We both live in Arizona

4) We are both LDS

5) We are less than a year apart in age

6) She has written three #1 New York Times Bestsellers and has a following of millions. I have written this blog and have a following of three.

7) Both Twilight and the title for this blog were inspired by dreams.

So there you have it. Stephenie and I are practically twins. If only she knew. . .

Have a Twilight addiction story? Please share!

Fear of Flight

In the prologue to the immortal epic poem Paradise Lost, John Milton calls upon the muse. His request:

"Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar. . .while it pursues Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. . ."

Did you catch that? Milton needs the help of the muse because he intends to write a poem so powerful and beautiful that it will transcend all known literature. Milton certainly started out with a lofty goal; and he lets his audience know that if they take the time to read Paradise Lost its going to knock their socks off. He's going to write the best darn thing anyone anywhere has ever [or will ever] read. But Milton was not being arrogant. If you ever have read Paradise Lost, you'll probably admit that he accomplished exactly what he set out to do. What a way to begin an artisitic endeavor! OK, Milton already had to his credit "Upon the Morning of Christ's Nativity, " "La Allegro" and "Il Penseroso" (all just Paradise Lost warm-up exercises) so he had a good idea of his own capabilities. Even so, I have always admired his gusto in those first few lines. He is the fearless, intrepid poet who pursues his art with complete and utter confidence.

My nearest and dearest know that my own grandest desire is to write; and it would be my wildest dream come true to eventually get published. I can think of nothing more satisfactory then to see my own work sitting on my own book shelf in print. My greatest fear is not being rejected by a publisher, but never even completing a novel. What if I come up with a great idea- write five good chapters, and never pick it up again? I know myself well enough. I'll have every intention of coming back to it later, but when when when does later ever come?

I have spent much of my summer reading fiction from an entirely different point of view. Instead of analysis as a reader, I have been thinking as a writer (if these were my characters and if this were my plot I would. . .) Let me tell you, if you haven't read from that angle before, you should try it. You will gain a whole new appreciation for the skill it takes to develop plot and character. You even learn to admire fine details like chapter headings and divisions. It is easy to read as the smug overweening critic, but much more daunting when one reads as a peer.

I have decided that writer's block might have more with fear than with lack of ideas. If only I could have 1/1ooth of the muse Milton did. . . Maybe it's time to put down the book and pick up the pen.

What Does One do with a BA in English?

I know this is question plauging many people and I have an answer for it. I imported this from MySpace blog so forgive me if you have read this before. I liked it so I brought it over here.

Where the Wild Things Are and the Monomyth

O.K. I'm tired and sometimes I do my best creative thinking when I'm not thinking straight. I've also been doing a lot of pondering of the monomyth a.k.a. the hero's journey (huh? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monomyth) which is an all-encompassing, archetypical structure for storytelling (especially if you read fantasy genre novels which I have been doing a lot lately.) If you know me, you also know I read a lot of children's literature since I have three kids. So, for some reason the stars came into alignment and I realized Maurice Sendak's timeless picture book, Where the Wild Things Are is a charming microcosm of the monomyth.

Here it is broken down for those few of you who may still be interested.

1) the call to adventure- a forest grows in Max's room and a boat comes to take him away
2) crossing the threshold- Max sails from his room to the Wild Things island
3) rebirth- Max sets afoot on the Wild Things island
4) road of trials- Max feels threatened by the Wild Things until he tames them
5) apotheosis-Max is made king of the Wild Things
6) refusal of return- Max and the Wild Things party down
7) rescue from without- Max smells good things to eat
8) crossing the threshold- Max returns home to find that his dinner is waiting for him
9) master of 2 worlds- Max is forgiven for his bad behavior at home and is the king of the Wild Things.

Don't we love Maurice Sendak?