Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.
—Robert Heinlein (1907-1988)
I love that quote.

My most intriguing news of writerly import today is that I've received a friendly invitation from the publisher (to whom I sent a query letter a few days ago) to get in touch, 'have a drink' sometime and talk.

I know I shouldn't get my hopes up. Quite likely, it's just a 'see what she's got to offer' type of meeting. A wise friend said, 'I've learnt not to get excited [about publication] until I hold the book in my hand.' She's right. A lot can happen.

Still, I am a little anxious about what to say.
- posted by Ivy @ 1:00 AM ¦ | ¦

 
This recent silence means I'm thinking, and doing some living, too.

More tomorrow.
- posted by Ivy @ 6:33 PM ¦ | ¦

 
Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.
—Gene Fowler (1890-1960)

I sent off a submission to a poetry press on Wednesday. Now, the waiting game. In the meantime, I'm plotting to take down my next victim.

Four years ago, I organised an event for a writers festival in Australia, themed The Seven Deadly Sins. Of course, I got to feature myself (yay). Two hours, seven writers, one featured writer, one gregarious MC, fifteen minutes each. Madness.

Actually, lust was quite popular. Greed was less so, so I had to represent. Here's an excerpt from a poem that I wrote for it, titled 'Ash':

ash falls, flakes off black walls
voiceless, grey on her back
as her belly scrapes the floor
rubricates the wood — her blood
is hot, flesh untouchable,
coruscated, split, open.
eggwhites blacken in the pan

I actually ended up writing a two-poem sequence on this theme, both lengthier pieces (two pages) than my usual work (one page).

This poem also reminds of the time a well-regarded Australian poet asked me (me!) if I would suggest making emendations to his poem. We were both entering our work for one of the more lucrative poetry prizes in Australia, which required pieces of almost epic length. I remember thinking, as I held the printout of his poem, I hope he doesn't notice my hands shaking.
- posted by Ivy @ 2:42 PM ¦ | ¦

 
You have to know how to accept rejection and reject acceptance.
—Ray Bradbury (1920 - ), advice to writers

In 2003, I contributed almost a hundred pieces of writing, and though 60+ items were returned to me, I saw the publication of near a dozen poems. (I know that doesn't really add up, but my record-keeping isn't that accurate.) Also, I queried two presses about my manuscript and resubmitted six poems to one journal, who didn't take any, but I received a very nice email from one of the staff, anyway. In fact, most return feedback has been positive.

I find that some poems' publishing histories to be quite varied. One poem, 'Vena Cava', was published after being under the consideration of only two publishers, while 'pictures for looking', written way back in 2001, was accepted this year after undergoing the scrutiny of 20 editors.

(And I see I've made the dastardly mistake of submitting the same poem to the one publisher twice. Oh, well, there's been an interval of two years and a gazillion poems since then. Maybe they've forgotten. Unless they keep records, too. Whoops.)

This year will be the Year of the Manuscript. For 2004, I want to triple the number of poetry presses I query. What are my odds now then, eh?
- posted by Ivy @ 4:34 PM ¦ | ¦

 
I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.
—Joan Didion (1934 - )

I've asked myself many times why I want to publish my book of poems. I have many reasons, but it's a question I hesitate to answer. This must be the shame of desire I'm feeling, of wanting something so much that I do not really want to say it, for fear of being labelled a deviant.

Perhaps you're all thinking: We must not speak of this.

Funny how there is this sexual element to publishing, isn't it? [Thanks to Josh Corey for this idea.] Look at some of the terms: solicit, submit and submission, rejection. There's the courtship ritual of finding a publisher or an agent. There's waiting for the phone to ring or the letters to arrive.

Sometimes I am so full of want, I can't stand it. I worry. I forget to eat. Sleepless nights.

I sound as if I'm lusting after publication. Or maybe this is ambition? Should I be ashamed of desire? Is one better than the other?

I'm not unreasonable. But I am choosy. And I'm not after a one-night stand here. So don't get me wrong.

What I seek is a long-term relationship.
- posted by Ivy @ 7:44 PM ¦ | ¦

 
Why do writers write? Because it isn't there.
—Thomas Berger

Some poems floating around in the digital atmosphere. Firstly, in Cassie Lewis's Poetry Espresso, in the compilation titled Elves 2, they have included my poem 'Crow'. Not immediately obvious, so do a search [CTRL+F]. Go on, it'll be fun, and I promise, quite a po-mo act.

The second poem can be found in Eileen Tabios's thought-provoking poetry blog, The Chatelaine's Poetics, where she concludes our discussion about poetry and identity with my poem 'bend'. [Go to the Sunday, January 18, 2004 entry of the blog, below the discussion on art collectors and collecting. Unfortunately, the permanent link feature doesn't appear to be working.—Ivy]

Meanwhile, my poem 'pictures for looking' is mentioned in this review of Anon, a Scottish publication which published the poem last year. In the reviewer's opinion, it has "a distinctive style, recreating the ageing process through layers of images, some attractive, some disturbing. They are all evocative, not least this depiction of motherhood". So, here's a hurray for distinctive style!

A gracious thank you to those who link to me.
- posted by Ivy @ 10:01 AM ¦ | ¦

 
A submission in November is now returned to me. This journal is very good with giving feedback, and I feel that the editor (and various readers, as it turns out), despite my poems not being right for what she wants, well, I feel as if she gets me:

Thank you for sending your contribution. It has been given careful attention, involving at least two in-house readings and reached our short list. Competition is very fierce, so this is no mean achievement. As you will appreciate, this takes time, but we process material as soon as we can. Unfortunately, we have decided in the end to return it to you. Space is especially short right now with the Centenary issues, for which special contributions have been sought.

There are promising ideas at the heart of the poems here -- 'dilated' and 'visit' show a writer with an eye for arresting imagery as well as an unusual way of saying things. However, your ideas sometimes get a little lost in the poems, lessening their impact slightly. Some editing and restructuring of your work would help your ideas come through more clearly. Sorry to disappoint you.

Well, there are good blurbs in there that I can use. Although, wouldn't it be a bit suspicious if I start touting myself as 'a writer with an eye for arresting imagery' if this journal hasn't published my work? Yes, I think so. Still it is heartening.

I must admit I'm not sure how to take with her suggestion to edit and restructure my work. I tend not to go back on a poem to do this, once I consider it finished, preferring instead to write out a completely new poem. I have done this, too. I guess I can be ornery and stubborn sometimes.

Also, I feel like I'm losing sight of my poetry manuscript. I think I need to sit down with someone who can talk me through it, so that I can be re-invigorated, and take up my spear once more.
- posted by Ivy @ 3:53 PM ¦ | ¦

 
I've received an email from my friend, Australian poet Karen Knight. She's promising me her latest chapbook, My Mother Has Become (Picaro Press, 2003), which I am very much looking forward to receiving. In her email was the title poem from the book. There are some beautiful lines...

Ignite the death bed
with flamingo feathers.

...which just leaves me breathless. I sent her one before that. Here's the first verse from 'lost flesh':

here's the bed she lies in
the sheets might as well be snow
she's so cold
the heat disperses above her
the ceiling blankly accepts it
she sinks clean as a stone

I told Karen: 'These are poems I would more than likely never read out. Too sad. I'd lose composure. The only way to do it is to take on a mask.'
- posted by Ivy @ 12:08 PM ¦ | ¦

 
Okay, the potboiler (a term I stole from Sylvia Plath) required a monster effort, but at least it looks vaguely presentable. Methinks. Here's another extract:

Of course, at the time, she thought it was a stroke of immense luck for Bobby to notice her at all. Little did she know how he would turn out to be a no-good, wavy-haired, blue-eyed, tan-skinned, smiling chancer who'd be just as likely to sell his grandmother to the rag-and-bone man as not! In this case, however, it wasn't his grandmother he was messing around with.

Miranda sighed. If she had the chance now of going up to her younger self, even two days ago, she'd give her a little slap. Did she ever think of anything else but him? Ah, but of course, this was before the Great Fall of Robert Buchanan. Miranda hiccupped, then furiously wiped the tears that had sprung in her eyes.

'Stop it, you silly girl. Grow up.'

All in all, it had been the perfect end to the perfect day from Hell. And it was all because of that mango lhassi.

This is a bit which contains mostly my own writing. However, quelle surprise, my cohort's exercising his novel-writing muscles and actually doing good stuff! So, I'm pleased that this has turned out to be on more of an equal footing than I'd previously anticipated. Hooray for collaborations!
- posted by Ivy @ 9:59 AM ¦ | ¦

 
I wrote the final piece to the fourth section of my secret little project. I am so protective of this one. Everything I know feeds it. But this is almost ready to go, truncated, into the world.

Okay now, there needs to be a knuckling down. There's a potboiler that needs to be written and by golly, I will deliver!
- posted by Ivy @ 12:13 PM ¦ | ¦

 
Though I haven't read any of his work, this quote by Haruki Murakami makes me want to do just that:

"I write weird stories. Myself, I'm a very realistic person. ... I wake up at 6:00 in the morning and go to bed at 10:00, jogging every day and swimming, eating healthy food. ... But when I write, I write weird." »

Sometimes weird is not bad.
- posted by Ivy @ 12:04 PM ¦ | ¦

 
On the day that I was talking about crows and ravens, poet and academic Norman Talbot died, aged 67.

I never even met the guy, but he was such an active presence in the Australian poetry scene that I was very aware of how important he was, mostly because he was supportive of poetry in a real and visible way.

I think my only point of contact with him was when I entered one of my poems for consideration to a competition. He was one of the organisers. My name was spelt incorrectly for some reason and I wrote to him about it. I received a very courteous, witty note in reply.

From what I can gather, he and his wife Jean, also a poet, arrived in Australia from the UK in 1963. They lived in the Hunter Valley region of Newcastle.

A prize-winning poet with eleven volumes and pamphlets to his name, Norman Talbot was professor of English at Newcastle University before retiring in 1993 to write poetry, fantasy and science fiction full-time. The most recent of his many awards was the Broadway Poetry Prize at the 2002 Australian Poetry Festival.

Vale te, Norman. You'll be sadly missed.

For more about Norman Talbot, click on the links.
- posted by Ivy @ 9:33 AM ¦ | ¦

 
I wrote some more for the potboiler today. Actually, I'm co-writing it with a friend, which helps it go speedily along, especially as we have deadline that's due in a few days. He's bringing the skeleton and I'm putting the meat on the bones. I include a paragraph from the middle of the first chapter, which focuses squarely on our heroine, Miranda King. Isn't that a cool character name? I thought it up. For some reason, it makes me think of Carmen Miranda, that lady with the fruit in her hair.

Anyway, this paragraph should give a good taster:

Doubts and questions crowded in her head. Her early rush of exhilaration was dissipated by a slight unease at being so easily wooed. Was she really that lonely? Was Bobby really that attractive? Maybe she had accidentally poured three quarters of a litre of gin into her lhassi that morning. Something was definitely having a strange effect on her body, but she didn’t know what to blame it on. Her knees felt curiously weak, as if buckling under the invisible weight of her misgivings. Meanwhile, her stomach and throat fought an evenly contested battle to gain possession of her lunch.

Quite natty, I feel, but I am not taking all the credit. My co-writer's words are in there, too, somewhere.

And if you don't know what a lhassi is, I suggest you go to your nearest Indian food-place and find out.
- posted by Ivy @ 7:00 PM ¦ | ¦

 
Crows and ravens was yesterday's theme. I came across 'Paired Things' by Kay Ryan, a poem which I thought was pretty cool, well-written, dense without being too ornate and so on. I showed it to Mark and we started to argue about the last few lines:

So many paired things seem odd.
Who ever would have dreamed
the broad winged raven of despair
would quit the air and go
bandylegged upon the ground,
a common crow?

It loses its impact, chopped off like that but you see, I'm not sure whether I have the right to reprint the poem in its entirety. Anyway, this discussion followed.

Mark: I don't get the ending.
Ivy: The raven turned into a crow. Despair turned into something not that remarkable.
Mark: OK.
Ivy: When it flies, it's bigger, but when it's on the ground, it's manageable. I think, anyway.
Mark: I dunno, man. It was a raven in the air and a crow on the ground? Ravens are different from crows.
Ivy: Yeh, but both are black birds.
Mark: So did it change into a crow when it landed, is that what she's saying?
Ivy: It's about transforming perceptions, I think.
Mark: I dunno. Ravens are pretty big birds.
Ivy: What we think is grander often is more common than we thought.
Mark: It sounds like she has never seen a raven.
Ivy: Yeh, dude, but the raven here is a raven of despair, so despair, which is huge, is not that big, when on the ground.
Mark: It’s more about ignorance than perception.
Ivy: She didn't say ravens aren't big.
Mark: No, ravens are big. If you saw a raven even on the ground you would still think it was a large bird.
Ivy: Yes, but the poem changes the raven to a crow.
Mark: I think she is saying she thinks they are different words for the same thing. I liked the start of the poem, though; just the last few lines were confusing. It's like she thinks they are the same just because they are the same colour
Ivy: No, she's making the relationship by using colour. I think she's saying that the thing is changed depending on the element.
Mark: That's like saying all white people look the same. That's racism.
Ivy: Fuck, I don't think she's saying that at all. You're being ornery.
Mark: Hey, I liked the beginning and the middle.
Ivy: Yeh. They're cool.

Sorry for the bad language, by the way, but I wanted to include this here because I do like fighting over discussing a good poem.

Then I came across these lines from Dennis O'Driscoll's 'Churchyard View: The New Estate' (from Weather Permitting, Anvil Press, 1999):

Every crow suspected as a raven,
every pigeon suspected for vulturehood.

Funny how both poems either shrinks or magnifies these birds' significance. So. A serendipitous day.
- posted by Ivy @ 1:14 PM ¦ | ¦

 
I would enter these if I had the money and I thought I would win... *laugh* Open to anybody with a poetry manuscript and the fistful of dollars to send away for it.

• The First Annual Del Sol Press Poetry Prize
  Minimum: 50pp. Fee: US$22 [ends January 15, 2004]
  
• AWP Donald Hall Prize for Poetry
  Minimum: 48pp. Fee: US$20 [ends February 28, 2004]
  
• Anhinga Prize for Poetry
  Minimum: 48pp. Fee: US$20 [ends May 1, 2004]
  
• Stan and Tom Wick Poetry Prize
  Minimum: 48pp. Fee: US$20 [ends May 1, 2004]
  
• Black Zinnias First Book Award
  Minimum: 50pp. Fee: US$25 [ends May 31, 2004]
  
• Akron Poetry Prize
  Minimum: 60pp. Fee: US$25 [ends June 30, 2004]
  
• Carnegie Mellon University Press
  Fee: US$10 [postmarked October 2004]

I am constantly tempted by these opportunities, but do I want to fork out the dosh to get published? Maybe it's better to take the wait-and-see tack, and best to just place it here, on display, digestable but not consumable.

Here's an interview with competition winner Julia Copus:

'[Winning the competition] certainly makes a difference psychologically: it’s a bit like getting a pat on the back from the boss – not to mention a healthy bonus in your pay-packet. I’m also hoping it will win me some new readers – which would be great. That is, after all, the whole point of being published in the first place.'

Poets and Writers includes this article on the benefits of winning.
- posted by Ivy @ 3:10 PM ¦ | ¦

 
I received a copy of MML Bliss's ravo (Cornford Press, 2003) yesterday. I've only dipped in to a couple of pieces but Bliss writes with such accuracy, and the book is filled with many examples of the Australian vernacular (in language and in action), that I am intrigued and repelled by what these poems conjure up for me. Here's what I wrote in response:

What is the Australian language vernacular? It is oi, you and bloody sheilas and strewth and have a go and get yer own bloody beer.
What is the Australian action vernacular? It is footy and cricket and mud and dust and beer and pubs and fists and knees and puffed-up chests and it is an eyeball-to-eyeball contact sport.

Hmm, that all just came out of me. Funny, is that how I see Australia? That's quite male-oriented, violent, relentless and harsh. It can be that, though, no matter all the rest of it.
- posted by Ivy @ 10:53 AM ¦ | ¦

 
On Sunday, I was walking around the small harbourside town of Howth, saw a pub named The Red Herring, and thought, Wouldn't that make a great title for a one-act play?

I am apprehensive about the movie Sylvia. Whatever it is and however it's done, it can never be completely accepted, and not everyone will be swayed. And do I want to go because of my own inherent voyeurism? Or is it just that I want to learn?

What can I learn, anyway, from her mere biography? Biography is the striptease, but poetry is the body underneath.
- posted by Ivy @ 11:17 AM ¦ | ¦

 
I seem to be mining a short story vein at the moment. Yesterday, I edited one that I wrote about three years ago but never published, and submitted it to a competition. Maybe it will catch the judge's eye — who knows? I like this paragraph:

I am awake. The yellow plastic mosquito net hangs over our four shapes. It inhales and exhales with our combined breath. I listen to my uncle snuffle, my auntie grind her teeth, my cousin sleep with his mouth open, drool soaking like a shadow on his pillow. I hold my breath in my chest. I don’t want to wake him up.

I am pleased with this because the telling detail does not go overboard. Hurray for subtlety!
- posted by Ivy @ 10:55 AM ¦ | ¦