Aladdin or Another Lad?

Here's the thing.
I don't mind a man who says,
"please, marry me" within a few
weeks, in one month. Sure,
I will say to that. It's nice to ride
a Persian's patterned tapestry warm
with in the sun, sail into the pastel prism
clouds build out of evening.
Show me your world. I am always open,
seeing.

It's just -- a promise
made on first pale blush, in early rush,
tied 'round a blossom -- sounds nice,
isn't certain. It's a story drawn
for you in darkness, with your eyes closed,
when your breathing's even while you direct,
and star, and edit to all desire these pleasant
fictions, stories for and from yourself,
while you wander into sleep.

Already you have learned how poor
I am a sleeper -- turn a light on in
another room and I'm awake.
I laugh and love to hear you tell me all
your flights of fancy, up among the clouds.
One must be levitous to levitate! I don't begin
any balloons with a pin.
I've grown kinder lately.
I could be called, even - maybe -
more humane.

But much of what I saw you do fell
in grain against your cut of words,
the seasons of your telling.
Some more, some new, additional,
which you recounted, felt even more cross.
Was I the only one who heard dawn birds'
voices rise up in a chorus, like a new
light coming? Moth-holes descended like dust
before my eyes on the carpet we were riding.
I saw at both ends the weave unraveling and thought,
ugh. Not my rug. 
Not what I want for my floor covering. 

You are a decent salesman, sir -- your marketing's
always blaring. I commend you that. With one compliment
for your fever pitch, now, I must be going.
You continue selling subpar furnishings to fools with fuzzy vision.
We've exhausted the value of my time here.
I am wide awake, and so,
leaving.

rarely ever post

It is over a year later!

Things are good.

I love you all.

I continue writing and arting. Find me around the net -- I'm not sure where.

<3

october activities

Several monthly goals for October, but this one is particularly writerly:

for Christmas last year I requested a dictionary of obscure words. My wish was granted, and I was given a very recommended dictionary of very, *very* obscure words - the kind to please any well-read logodaedalian's heart. I'm sure you're familiar with picking up books which promise to reveal enchantingly new, obscure and archaic words only to give up definitions for entries like "penultimate," "loquacious," and "salient." Well, this book would have you pleased.

Then it sat around on various shelves from Christmas to about now.

What are you supposed to do with a dictionary, anyway? Read it? It's not like you'll retain much information that way, really, unless you commit each particular entry to memory.

For October, I'm writing sentences. I'm starting at A and just working my way through, seeing as far as I can get in a month. I have to write sentences every day. My initial goal was 10 words, 10 sentences/day, but that's proved a bit -- hmm, shall we say, extra?

I'm averaging 4 words/day. Hey! It's hard to think up sentences! I haven't had to do this since high school. And then, yeah, we'd have 20 words to do, 20 sentences, but due in a week! :)

I'm having fun enough.

Hey, did you know the word adfenestrate? The essential antonym of defenestrate, it means to sneak in through a window.

Now, ain't that kind of fun?

Advice to A Poet - Hubski Poem For Lil

Advice to a poet:
don't.

Advice to a poet:
One day you'll understand
that parable about the child who realizes
her parent used to art
and wasn't half bad at it -
but then stopped?
from the perspective of the papa
or the mama and it won't be
so sad anymore.

Advice to a poet: life,
and love, change shape
over time. They're always there, but they won't
always rhyme.

Soundcloud Audio - Advice To A Poet

I Just Really Believe In My Writing

This is how it goes:

It's a day and I decide I'm going to send out some submissions. It's been a while, I know I have several poems and of them a fair number have been double-plus-edited, and some I know I love, and I decide it's time to send some packets out. I feel I probably have enough material to do that.

I start looking. First through my files, then my emails, then my notebooks. I find some poems I knew I had that I knew were pretty good, some poems I forgot I had that actually are pretty good, and about as many as those both combined in draft poems, half poems, even single lines, which I deem have compensating potential. This probably means at least 10-20 equivalent poems.

I type any of any category which are in notebooks, which means I also moderate-to-major edit each. I print the "final" versions. So long as I keep moving I don't end up with 7 final versions. Then, of the selection including printed versions, I pull the ones I've edited to death, print those if I haven't got the most recent versions. These are the ones I am pretty to dead certain are good and can be published - should be published - are the best possible poems. 1/4 to 1/3.  The rest: a third I minor-edit; a word or two, often words I've changed back and forth on several drafts, or phrases which are the same. Most go into the sub pile. Nothing significant changes. Phrasing. Small pieces. Easy fixes. A quarter remaining I major-edit. Multiple adjacent lines scrapped, redone, fusses. The plot may change. The story may finesse. Often the poem will significantly grow. If it grows too long it is put aside knowing it will have to be cut down. Most major-edits go into the sub pile.  I sort out weak poems. Of what I pull I probably will submit at least once 3/4. however of that 3/4, 1/4 or so will only go out once. Around 1/4 will be in heavy rotation. What poems they are sent with will vary. Sets will rarely be sent out more than twice without some variance.

Between these statistics I will log onto Duotrope and start finding magazines. I check where I've been accepted and what magazines others have also submitted to. I check the turn around times but speed is mitigated by high acceptance ratings. I visit the website of every magazine I think I might want to submit to. I start to read at least two poems from each. Ones I think I may want to submit to I often read four. Magazines I have submitted to before and have been encouraging I visit, check submission guidelines, see what I've submitted before, compare it to what I've got, and make a judgment call. I often read more poems from them at the same time, both to check what they've got that's new and because I like the magazines I submit to, you know, really. I like them for at least something, or else I wouldn't have submitted anything to them in the first place. I want to see what they're doing. Has it changed? Is it more like my stuff or less? Can I see why I liked them in the first place?

I look at at least twice as many magazines as I submit to.

Once I pick 'em things don't take quite so long. I choose the poems. At least one of my strong/favorites, one of my recent edits, etc. It really depends on how many poems the magazine will read and which I think fit it best. Sometimes a magazine really seems like it'll like certain pieces the best. Sometimes I just shrug and send what I think are strongest, thinking they'll appreciate it. As time goes by if I'm really determined to get the submissions out I start throwing in wild cards just to get new things in the eyes of people.

I make distinct documents or copy/paste distinct groups of poems into boxes as demanded.

I generate every cover letter on the spot for the magazine. I always check the masthead and address the editors, and/or poetry editor(s), and/or reader(s), (depends how many! some magazines don't even tell you these things, which is weird!) by name specifically. I like to use "Mssrs." for groups of mixed-gendered people, it's old-fashioned and different and fun in its Victorian-ness and technically, absolutely correct too. I know my grammar, my fancy English. I use the most precise fancy words through the letter.

First paragraph is always simultaneous submission and any info the guidelines request about the poems. Titles, word counts, number, whatever. If I know the magazine sometimes I get excited and talk about what I like about the magazine and that I think the pieces are really a good fit. Sometimes I get carried away here and am pretty sure the editors think I'm weird af. I think hey - at least that means they have an opinion.

Second paragraph. Always heart-felt never copy/pasted. This is where I thank them. Because reading a slush pile's awful. I know, I've tried it, and honestly I couldn't do what a lot of editors do every day. I know editors that always respond to submissions within 1-3 days. You can see their stats on submittable. I've submitted to them multiple times over the years and they never fail to turn it around. Do you know how hard that is? That is ridiculous. That is amazing. That is admirable. I could not do that without getting worn down and burnt out. Some people do it day in, day out, reading what you know is mostly a ton of shit, for no pay, for nothing except they believe in this. I have tried it and I cannot do that. So I say thank you. Because this work is so often ignored and not thought about by exactly me, the people like me, sending shit out.

Third paragraph: Bio. Almost always the same, the one part that doesn't get touched because god damn I can't remember it. Updated as relevant.

Best (always best),

E. H. Brogan

_______________

No wonder I got so burnt out on this after so much time doing it. After two years. Not even stopping but still trying just less and less, in smaller, more defeated waves. When I write it all out, think how much time it took - god, that was hard.

The thing is, I still just really believe in my writing.

I sent it out because I was convinced it was the best it could be, that it was really interesting and fun to read and made sense and great. I sent it out because I thought it was needed.

What sucks is that today, I look at the same shit, and I feel the exact same.

All this stuff I feel so solid about. Like every line has been gone over and it's perfect, it's the way it's meant to be. That it tells a story and makes sense and is beautiful and matters. That it should be read. That I can't possibly make it any better.

I send it out and I sent it out. And I wish that I didn't feel the same because I think, if I could see what's wrong about it, what it is the people don't like, that makes it "good but just not quite right for our magazine" - then I could fix it. Then I could make it "right," and I'd get published, and I'd get published by Big Magazines, like Rattle and PANK and Ploughshares and West Branch and McSweeney's (for the funny prose and lists, I can do lists), and Sixth Finch and THRUSH and Rhino, and I'd get a poetry book published by any size press, and they'd ask me to teach, and I'd make it. Maybe, in a small way, but I'd make it.

But I can't. I don't see what's wrong. What's missing? I love my poems. I believe in my poems. I think they are different and interesting. I think they challenge certain aspects of current poetry which need to be challenged. I think their run ons and lack of commas are on purpose and convey reading. I think their awkward line breaks should be awkward. I think they build tension. I think rhyme on top of rhyme on top of rhythm on top of rhythm. I think wordplay is artistry, I think poems should be music not flat, even prose. I think stories. I think fun. I think parallels.

I know I'm just another average schmuck but what I'm trying to say is yeah, I'm not any more special than anybody else, "my poems won't change the world," I know it, but I fucking believe in them. And I send them out. And I hate it. And sometimes there's a little ray and one gets published and it's amazing and I'm so appreciative.

For every yes you see there are a lot of nos and they are stupidly painful.

I work hard.

I should learn how to relax, but I care about words - writing- so much.

Time Flies When You're Having Fun

I meant to post that I was trying to write every day in August and, in a related effort, was posting each of my daily prompts for the month over on Hubski at the request of a few others. I didn't end up writing every day (no real shocker) but definitely hit most. Probably about 2/3s of the month all told. I didn't learn anything deep about writing every day and I didn't unlock any hidden spring of inspiration, even a small one. That's okay though. The point is about habits.

Here is Post #1 which also indexes up to Prompt #18. I plan to update with all the links, but frankly it's boring formatting stuff, the kind of "housekeeping" item I love to put off because it's just finicky enough to be kind of mildly annoying.

I'll get to it.

In writing news, I am re-writing and adding to the WITCHS' collection to make it a more complete story and finesse what's there which needs updating/finessing/general editing. I'm also occasionally writing other one-off things about mundane platitudes and butterflies. Or something.

And fictional narrative poems that go solid 2 pages and make me wonder if they shouldn't be prose instead, except they are far too short and written in clear poetic style. At least, to me.

Privacy Settings and the Icky Feeling

In general, across social media platforms, I prefer public posting. Based on what I hear from friends on the internet, this choice may be somewhat unusual. On the other hand, based on the preponderance of news-worthy unconsidered Facebook and Twitter updates have merited, perhaps my choice is not that so original. A more nuanced observer might posits it unusual for public posts to stem from considered, cautious, conscious choice by their author. Maybe the people who get turned down for jobs or indicted for criminal offenses, or etc, post damning information publicly because they have not thought - paused for thought - before they hit “Publish.”

Whatever the reason behind others’ actions and posting habits, I post publicly. My Facebook posts default to global. I lock down my Twitter rarely, usually to prevent specific people from reading specific tweets. I unlock it as soon as I feel the time has passed. As a rule of thumb, this blog has always been public, as have my other blogs, Instagram, and any other oddball network I might have landed on since the Internet happened. When I change my privacy settings, for whatever reason, I feel icky about it.

Recently, I set this blog to private. I apologize for that, audience. Let me explain:

A while ago I was contacted by a recruiter, regarding a job which, at first, sounded very interesting to me. As I went through the interview process, I could tell my potential employer was more conservative than mine in the past, and intending to complete a more extensive background check than any I’d had. I actually found myself worried that an unpaid parking ticket in a neighboring state might show up on my record, and lend them pause.

I believe in public posting, but I also believe in being a “pro.” Not professional, a pro. I don’t believe in missing out on a promising job opportunity because of a Tweet or blog post. That is sloppy behavior. I am not sloppy.

My post “current preface to e.h.b.” felt too revealing of a nature to be allowed potential-employer-scrutiny. So, I closed the blog.

I am not ashamed of this post. I stand by it with pride. But it is sensitive for me, and revealing it difficult - the thought that someone would use that post to negatively judge me - I did not need that fear. I need to express myself. I don’t need to worry that these expressions might come back to harm myself.

I am human and must be human. That post was pure humanity. My pure humanity. Mine.

It is truth.

All my defense and chest-pounding cannot change the conservative culture in which I work. In that culture, it’s okay for a recruiter to instruct an applicant to remove any visible piercings before an interview. In that culture, the head of your department worries what color your hair is. Your coworkers cannot suppress shocked comments if you come into work, hair still wet from showering.

I believe, totally and with vehemence, that all the above, and the culture which so encourages and accepts snap judgments based on surface appearance such as the above, are reprehensible. I believe my appearance has nothing to do with my ability or my good work. I believe that this body, my body which I inhabit, is, if anyone’s, mine and mine alone, and no one has any right to apply judgments about what I do with my body, how I adorn it, or choose to make myself present. Every body modification I have was the result of long and conscious consideration, out of a desire to make my outwards appearance look more in a way that agrees with my inside.

And this is the crux of the biscuit, here: I have struggled my whole life with those two parts of myself, which to many people I gather seem no more apart than flip sides of one window, or a scene and its mirrored reflection. By the time I turned twelve I felt, in a violent and awful sense, that what I looked like was not only completely divorced from who I was, but that I had no control over the former - even though it was the exact tool the universe, to a creature, used like a legend to prejudge me across innumerable axes. The universe saw my outside and drew conclusions about my inside with that sight. It had nothing, or so very little, to do with me. I hated it.

Every tattoo, piercing, scar, modification, piece of attire, make-up, style, and accessory decision that I have made, daily and over time, represents a small step taken to reunite these warring parts of me, the human being. To feel some ownership over a body which for so long felt completely alien and apart from me. To find some peace - maybe, some day ever, in one moment, the smallest teaspoon of acceptance. To quiet the devil behind my eyes that speaks in every sheerest reflection of my body, from store windows to the curves of cups and others’ glasses. Damn everyone who would judge me for that, judge me negatively. Doubt my strength or competence, my intelligence, my power and value. Damn them.

Maybe this is why I try to post publicly whenever possible: I am proud of my life. I am proud of what’s in my head. Proud of who I am. I know not everyone will like me, these things that I have grown to become a me I want to be. But I do not want or need anyone who would want to know me because of how I look in photographs. I want those who read what I write, and like me anyway - maybe even, in a dream, like me more because of it.

My parents’ genes got together and constructed a baby from their pieces. My mom popped me out and by that time my face was already pretty much decided. My bone structure and body shape was decided. Probably my shoe and cup size, even. What choice did I have? Nothing.

But my thoughts are me. And when who I am, and what I think, is as out in the open as my physical image, I find comfort with the knowledge those who approach me do so because they can see my brain, my ideas, my personality, and these align with them and theirs — because our connection is based on who we are, not our birth’s (or blood’s) chances.