Working Together on the Web

A close friend of mine from college, Kate, has launched a new site with a friend of hers called Wednesday Machine Arts Collective. This site's goal is to bring artists and writers together in a virtual arts festival. They plan on connecting artists of different genres together to collaborate on their work. How the collaboration takes shape is up to the artists.

To me, this is one of the best uses of the online arts community -- to connect writers and artists from around the world to work together. I'm really excited to see how Wednesday Machine takes shape.

Poetry Book Club for April

I am very pleased to announce that Deborah Keenan's Willow Room, Green Door has been selected for our April Poetry Book Club book.

Deborah has been a fixture in the Twin Cities literary scene for many years, and she fosters younger poets' talents through her work at Hamline University's Master of Fine Arts program and the Loft Literary Center. She's also a founding member of the Laurel Poetry Collective. Obviously, I'm biased, because I am a former student of Deborah's and I have a lot of admiration for her talent and generosity.

I'll post the conversation post on Monday, April 7. Until then, happy reading!

Belated Kudos

My mentor from graduate school, Deborah Keenan, was nominated for Minnesota Book Award this year for her book Willow Room, Green Door. Keenan is an accomplished poet and teacher, with eight books to her name. (My favorite is Happiness.) It is long overdue that Deborah is recognized for her amazing poetry!

Buy her book today!

Poetry With a Partner

Jack, from Monkeyboy, and I wrote this poem via Gmail before the holidays for RWP. Definitely an interesting experience, and I think I'm quite fond of the result. Enjoy!


I once loved to disbud flowers, press beheaded blossoms between two cruel fingers.
Petals fell by the wayside as I shaped the plant to my taste.
I was left with only my hands full of stems, a flash of fragrance in my throat.
Rose water running down my face and feet taken root when I wasn’t looking,
and the insistent tug of roots seeking sustenance. Thorns dotted my thighs,
leaves uncurled gently among my hair, the sun beckoned me
out from the shade. I curled my arms, tender petals, towards warmth
and trusted my own buds to the light and the wind
I longed for shelter, even as I bent my tendrils towards the sky.

Scavenging

Today, I was lucky to participate in a collage workshop at my alma mater. The event was sponsored by West Egg Literati, a student organization that produces an awesome journal and it was lead by my former advisor, Deborah Keenan. While Deborah considers herself a poet first, she is also a pretty accomplished collage artist and each year she runs this workshop.

It was great because it was a no pressure, creative event, like most workshops run by Deborah. All we had to bring was 30 words of writing, 3 backings, and scissors and a glue stick.She gave us a little intro where she discussed her approach to collaging, what works for her. Her approach is interesting because she collects mountains of collage material throughout the year and then when she goes on vacation, she works on her collages. She works with both words and imagery and tries to integrate both into the finished product, although they don't always end up combined into one piece.

After reading some poems, she sent us off into our corners. Once we got to work, we got to pick through her scrap reserves, which had a great combination of modern and older stuff. I found myself drawn to mostly black and white images, and religious iconography (for some reason), and I spent most of my time on the first one. It was very much a fluid, instinctive experience, although I don't know how I feel about the finished product...or what it says. When she gave us the fifteen minute bell, I realized I hadn't used much of my haiku that I brought, so I put together the more spartan second piece. I like it because it has more texture, although again, I don't know if it's done.

Finished or not finished, quality or crap, I enjoyed the process of cutting and trimming and gluing together these pieces, and I think that I want to spend more time collaging.

So, my question for you collagers out there, especially those with limited work spaces: how do you organize your scraps? I normally go through my magazines on the day that I collage, but I find that it creates kind of homogeneous pieces. I want to collect, but I'm limited on room. Any advice on organization would be appreciated!

Continuation of Stranger Danger...

Last night, I went to an awesome Halloween party, hosted by a friend from my last job. It was a costume party, of course, and I went as a haunted doll (hence the picture above) and my husband went as an apocalypse survivor. We all read scary stories, an annual tradition inspired by the famous party attended by Mary Shelley and Lord Byron where Shelley debuted Frankenstein. Yes, we're very nerdy.

Our scary story elocution is a contest. There were a lot of scary stories, including a murderous game of cat and mouse between Alice and the White Rabbit, a cabal of cannibalistic foster children, a librarian who unwittingly donates her soul to the devil, a creepy doll party (my husband's story) and a reverse chronological detail of a murder gone wrong. After 3 years, I won the coveted Raven Award with the story about Scotty that I posted a bit of for Writers Island, and I'm totally excited about it.

So as promised, here is the Scotty Potty story, in it's entirety. It is long... but it is officially award winning.

The Stranger

I loved waking him up in the morning. I wished I could still sleep as he slept. His body twisted in pretzel shapes, clutching his raggedy bunny doll. I could never sleep that soundly anymore, not since bills and mortgages and project deadlines, and waiting to hear if he would stir.

This morning though, he was awake when I walked in. The room was freezing; the window beside his bed was open halfway. He figured out the childproofing -- he's only 5. His face was turned away from me, towards the icy air.
“What’s going on, buddy? It’s freezing in here.” I reached toward the window to shut it; he turned on me. His face was gray ash, his blue eyes shining.

“Don’t shut it. I need to get used to it.”
“Get used to what?”
“Cold. It’s cold where I’m going.”

I wondered if he was still asleep, night terrors like some of his kids in play group get. “School? It’s not cold there – they have heaters in the classrooms.”

My son looked down at his hands. He looked like his mother whenever he looked down, the heavy-lidded eyes, the pink lips. This morning, his lips were almost blue. His hands were empty.

“Where’s Mr. Carrot?”

He looked out the open window and I followed his gaze. Mr. Carrot was 10 feet from the house, half buried in the morning snowfall.

“Why’d you do that kiddo? Mr. Carrot’s going to need a bath now.”
“I don’t need him anymore. He can’t help me.”

I read about this in all the child-psych books, security blanket type issues. He’s ahead of schedule, but that was nice for once. He was smaller than all the other boys in kindergarten.

“What’s Mr. Carrot supposed to help you with, pal?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He paused, slid to the edge of the bed.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, pal?”
“How come you never call me by my name anymore?”

Before I could answer, he padded to the bathroom and shut the door.

He was quiet at the table, we all were, the three of us chewing our cereal. Only the dog noisily snorted his approval of breakfast. As my son fished the final Cheerios out of the milk, I grabbed my keys and his book bag. Our daily routine.

“Alright pal – time for learning.” I used my post-caffeinated singsong voice. He stared at his cereal bowl.

“I don’t want to go,” he said as if to the milk.
“It’s Thursday, little man. Only two more days and then we can party on the weekend. We’ll do forts on Saturday. Promise.”
“I hate it there, Dad. They hate me.”
“Who hates you?”
“Everyone. They pick on me.”
“They don’t pick on you.” My wife shot me one of her looks. This was a lie. His kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Keely, had already phoned us on several occasions, because he couldn’t play at recess without being ridiculed. I know how hard it is to fit in, but I figured he had to learn to fit in. We all do.

“They call me Scotty Potty.” I bit the inside of my cheek -- it was so minor, so nothing, but that must be horrifying to a five year old kid. My five year old kid.

“Don’t let it eat at you, Scott. Ignore them or go play with someone else.” I walked towards him – put my hand on his shoulder. At that moment, he transformed into a whirring vehicle of rage. He screamed, kicked, windmilled his arms.

“I donwana donwana donwana donwana--” He screamed those words over and over, a stream of syllables.

I had never seen him like this, not in five years of baths, bed times, and vaccination shots. This was more. He was a stranger to me then, someone else’s child full of rage.

We did what we could. I grabbed him by the pants, she hoisted him beneath the armpits, until little by little his voice grew hoarse from screaming and we somehow managed to squeeze him into the car. He finally stopped.

The entire drive to school, he never looked up.

When we arrived, I pulled Mrs. Keely aside. Told her about the tantrum, the nickname, the favorite stuffed animal face down in the snow. She smiled one of her wan, kindergarten teacher smiles.

“Paul, it’s natural for a boy of his – sensitivities – to dislike school. To fear the large groups of kids. I’ll keep an eye of him today, I’ll call you if anything happens.”

I left the classroom, the peeling posters on the wall, the cliques of kids already forming around the plastic house play sets and coloring books. I waved to Scott from the window; his face was still flushed and red. A group of boys sat in a circle around him, surrounding him. He did nothing and I left for home.

I spent the morning as I usually do, cleaning up dried milk puddles off the kitchen table while chatting with clients. I looked at those stubborn white films as the evidence of our lives together. Our table is ringed with the ghosts of former mornings, because they never truly disappear, even when I scrub. This morning, Scotty’s stain was thin translucent white and it flaked off in one intact iridescent circle. I didn’t need to add water; it just lifted off, like it was never there in the first place.

It was then that I remembered Mr. Carrot, lying in the snow. I wonder what inspired him to send the stuffed animal sailing out of the window late last night. He loved this rabbit. It’s been with him as long as he’s been alive. I stepped into my snow boots, barefooted, still chatting with my client. He was yammering on about project synergy and inclusive cooperation, or some other corporate bullshit. This is why I like to work from home, to remove myself as far as possible from corporate identity annihilation.

Mr. Carrot was still face down in the snow; he seemed to be sinking. I picked him up, his fur was stiff from the ice and cold. As I turned him over, I dropped the phone and it was immediately swallowed by the snow. Somehow, Scott had gutted Mr. Carrot. Not just gutted. His stomach was ripped open from throat (if he had one) to crotch. All of his gray stuffing was spilling out of the wound. I looked closely and found chew marks along his center seam, as if Scott had used his teeth. His button eyes had been plucked off and were hanging by single threads from empty cotton sockets. At that moment, the house line rang its insistent cheerful tone.
I fished the office phone out of the snow bank, hung up on the client. Fuck him. I’ll pay for it later, I’m sure. I slid-ran inside, picked up the phone.

“Mr. Noonan? This is the Franklin Elementary Principal.”
“Yes, Mr--?”
“Dr. Batton. It’s your son. An incident has occurred. You need to come in. Immediately.”

I took Mr. Carrot with me, even in his sorry state. Scotty may need him if he’s okay. That was my only thought as I drove – 55 in a 25 – the mile and a half to the school. If he’s okay. I wasn’t even praying for him to be okay – I just let the if hang there.

When I arrived, there were ambulances, cop cars, a field of red and blue flashing lights. A small stretcher was being wheeled out of the school. A little four foot body, draped in a heavy white cloth lay motionless upon it. Blood soaked the sheet where the face should be.

Instinctively, I ran to the stretcher. Told them I was the father. I needed to see what they did to him for myself. I uncovered the body from the feet, noticed that these weren’t Scotty’s shoes. A hand grabbed my arm forcefully. Someone said, “You’re not the father of this one.”

I was led into an empty classroom. They were all empty, but this was his classroom. The room was dark, the peeling posters of circus clowns and cartoon characters glowered at me. Their faces took on gray shadows. Scott sat on the nap map. As soon as I walked in, he looked up at me. I ran to him. He was unscathed – no cuts, bruises, broken bones, as far as I could tell. But he was covered in blood. Blood on his hands, on his yellow Dora sweatshirt. Blood around his mouth.

“What happened, buddy?”
“They didn’t call me by my name, Daddy. They never called me by my real name.”

I hovered over him, not knowing what to do. All I knew is that I didn’t want to take this one home.

Because I'm Crazy...

I joined NaBloPoMo and the "read. write. poem." group.

I think I can...I think I can...

Local Book Love

There are so many reasons why I love living in Minneapolis, but one that sticks out this weekend is the Twin Cities Book Festival. My city is incredibly literate -- we are often ranked in the top two in the Top Literature Cities in the US. (Stupid Seattle dethroning us this year.) We are also host to several notable independent presses and noteworthy journals. All of those organizations, plus many local writers and book artists converge upon Minneapolis Community and Technical College to showcase their wares this weekend. My husband and I walked down this morning and had an awesome time.

My three highlights were the books I got, of course.

I met Kirsten Dierking, the author of One Red Eye, which I loved when I read it earlier this year. I bought her new book, Northern Oracle, and got it signed. She was totally gracious and chatted with me for a moment while signing it, because we went to the same grad school.

I also bought The Art of Attention: The Poet's Eye, by Donald Revell, because it looked really good. It's part of a series, edited by local author Charles Baxter, by "important writers on the craft of writing." (Quote from the back of the book) The other one that has been produced so far is The Art of Subtext by Baxter.

The last book was a freebie from MNArtists, an organization I belong to, called What Light. It's an anthology of Minnesota Poets.

I also collected a lot of promotional material from a bunch of cool organizations, presses, and journals. So here's me passing along the info, to help support my awesome local literary scene. I've gotta keep the publication karma positive, if you know what I mean.

Organizations

Professional Editors Network
Laurel Poetry Collective
Minnesota Center for Book Arts
Minnesota Literacy Council
Minnesota Literature

Journals

Midway Journal
Minneapolis Observer Quarterly
Dislocate
Water~Stone

Independent Presses

Blueroad Press
Red Dragonfly Press
Coffee House Press
Spout Press
Scarletta Press

If you are a budding writer who lives in Minneapolis metro area, I would strongly encourage you to visit the book fair this weekend. It's a great networking opportunity and a good resource for local publication venues.

October Poetry Book Club -- We Have a Winner!

After two surveys, one typical and one sudden death, we finally have an October Poetry Book Club Selection.

We will be reading Matthew Zapruder's The Pajamaist. I'm very excited to read this book; it was my first choice, although I didn't rig the votes.

I will be ordering the book off of Amazon today, so I should have it soon. But to accommodate those people who may be scouring used bookstores or (heaven for fend) try to find it at their local big box retailer, I will be posting the discussion post on October 29. Hopefully, this will give you enough time to find and read the book.

If you have any suggestions for future Poetry Book Club books, or would like to have more information on the project, please let me know!

Happy reading!

The Paperless Doctrine of 2152

My husband, a budding science fiction writer and author of The Soulless Machine Review blog, recently got published in a journal called rock, paper, scissors. As part of this publication experience, he got to read his story for the CD version of the journal. (Click here to see a really cute picture that I took of him that night.) And, he will be doing a live reading with some other authors published in the journal at the end of the month.

If you are in the Twin Cities area and intersted in hearing some great literature read aloud, here is the information:

JITTERS AT THE TIMES (205 E HENNEPIN AVE, MINNEAPOLIS, MN 55414-1013)

COME CELEBRATE THE 1ST EDITION OF rock, paper, scissors, WESTEGG’S STUDENT-RUN LITERARY JOURNAL, FEATURING THE DIVERSE VOICES OF HAMLINE’S GLS STUDENTS. MUSIC BY BATTLE CATE, READING.

COME LISTEN, CELEBRATE, GET YOUR COPYOF rps (the journal or CD version!!!) HOT OFF THE PRESSES.

What I Fantasize About

Here is my inaugural post for the new online community, Writers Island. This site was started by Rob Kistner as a way to fill the void for our dearly departed Poetry Thursday.

The first prompt was a doozy: My Imaginary Life. I had so many half-formed thoughts running through my head when contemplating this one. I think it is because I am always engaged, simultaneously, with the life I lead and the life I want to lead. I know if I just work hard enough and do enough, I will have that elusive perfect life, but it always seems just outside of my reach. When writing my poem for this prompt, I had to really confront the reasoning behind this type of thinking. Why do I focus so much on the future when I have so much going for me in the present?

If this first prompt is indicative of the type of work we'll get to do on the Island, I'm excited for the project!

To Do List

38 Items

Light more candles in my home, feel
their warm glow spread across my face. Watch

much less television, spend less time
seeing that dull light flicker behind my eyes.

Clean the bathroom regularly; scrub
the bathtub until I can see myself reflected

in white porcelain. Worry less often and waste
less energy asking what if, why, and when.

Write more regularly. Stain my fingers
black and blue with ball point ink, smear my words

on clean white pages and find myself
within them. Meditate daily, before bed and

unwrinkle my mind, until it is fresh
as a blank white page. Lie

to myself less. Cradle myself in forgiving
arms and let go of everything I should have,

would have, could have, today. Rip
pictures out of magazines. Assemble slick

jagged collages of meaning. Find the one
word to paste in the middle, the one that explains it all.

Build a fort, using all the books I read
this year; feel safe in my constructed

storybook cottage. Wait for the bricks
to loosen and tumble on top of me. Pick up

the heaviest, open it at its center, and read
what’s written on the yellowed page. Do

whatever it tells me. Stop constructing
perfect endings before their time.

Wait until the necessary one emerges.
Record everything I eat, read write. Write

down every time I sleep, exercise, and breathe.
Do more, do less, think more, and think less

Spend time inside, then outside, then inside
again. Be louder. Be more silent.

Write this list daily in my journal, tear
out the page – swallow it. Discover

the perfect combination of word and intention, action
and inaction, that unlocks this heavy, deadlocked door.

R.I.P. PT

I am very sad to report that Poetry Thursday, my favorite poetry site on the web, announced today that they will be closing up shop at the end of the month.

The ladies at Poetry Thursday, Dana and Liz, created a wonderfully giving and inspiring community that I was lucky to be a part of for a little while. I really appreciated being able to get feedback and support on my writing, as well as an automatic deadline -- every Thursday. I also am lucky to have found the blogs of other like minded writers who create and work and live their real lives. It definitely made me feel less alone in my commitment to my poetry.

Luckily, they mentioned that there is a new poetry related project in the works, so hopefully the community will continue in a new evolution. Until then, I'll have to actually give myself deadlines and stick to them. Sigh!

Sasha Did It!

Sasha emailed me, triumphant that she had conquered the "Myth" style poem that we had discussed during May's Poetry Book Club.

Here is her poem Ants, which I think is pretty marvelous!

Congratulations, Sasha!

Soulless Machine

My husband, Aaron, just started his own blog called Soulless Machine. On his blog, he'll post short reviews of short stories. It currently has a couple of reviews up now, mostly on science fiction/speculative short stories. I expect that he'll be branching out into other styles of short stories as well.

Sheep and Feathers

The Loft, a non-profit writing organization in the TC, emailed out the link to this Galway Kinnell/Josephine Dickinson slide show. In it, both Dickinson and Kinnell read a poem, while you watch pictures from their lives.

Kinnell and Dickinson recently performed a dual reading, as part of a program called Talking Volumes, which is co-sponsored by Minnesota Public Radio and Star Tribune. MPR broadcasts an evening of interviews and readings with a famous writer, the Loft encourages purchase of their books, and the Star Trib publishes reviews and excerpts of the books.

Talking Volumes is one of the true joys of living in Minneapolis -- I got to meet Robert Bly at his Talking Volumes reading several years ago. He asked me if he said anything in the interview that offended me. I lied and said no. (He said grad school was useless and I was in the middle of grad school.)

Mentor Me

Our local literary non-profit, The Loft, has announced the opening of their annual Mentor Series contest. The Mentor Series selects 12 emerging writers, 4 from each genre, to study with 2 experienced mentors. You get to study with the mentors over the course of a year.

Of course, there are guidelines: you have to be a resident of Minnesota, you cannot be a full time student, and you cannot have published a book length manuscript in your genre. You have to submit a statement of purpose and a writing sample.

I applied for the mentor series 2 years ago, after leaving graduate school. I didn't get in and I had a helluva time trying to write my statement. I wouldn't have even considered applying for the mentor series, but once I saw who the mentors were, I'm probably going to apply.

Heid Erdrich, a Minnesota poet, is the first mentor. She is the author of two collections of poetry. Her first book, Fishing for Myth, is amazing and I read it during my thesis year, because it was so connected to my own artistic intentions. She's also the sister of Louise Erdrich, who is pretty rockin' as well.

The second mentor is none other than Rafael Campo. He is the living, breathing definition of a working writer. Besides being an amazing poet and author, he is a doctor at Harvard Medical Center. I read his first book in graduate school and was devastated for weeks afterwards.

So I don't know if I have a snowball's chance in hell of getting a mentorship, but with the opportunity to work with poets like these, I have to try.

Anyone Need a Job?

In Minneapolis, we have a pretty amazing non-profit literary center called The Loft. It's run in a beautiful, spacious meeting hall called "Open Book" and it provides many services for starving (and working writers.) For beginning writers, The Loft offers the opportunity to take classes with accomplished writers and make connections with other writers. For intermediate or advanced writers, the organization gives scholarships, mentorships, and brings "famous" writers from around the world to provide instruction and guidance.

It was just announced on Friday that the director of The Loft, Linda Myers, is stepping down. The organization is beginning a search to replace the Ms. Myers, who has been director since 1994. She helped to orchestrate The Loft's partnership with Minnesota Public Radio and Star Tribune to create a statewide reading club called Talking Volumes. (I saw Robert Bly as part of of Talking Volumes five years ago, when he came out with The Night Abraham Called to the Stars.) She also has been a vibrant leader for a growing organization that serves a diverse literary community. I think her presence will be sorely missed.

Walking My Path

This week, I have been feeling incredibly overwhelmed. My schedule has been, to say the least, in transition. A couple of weeks ago, I started an online course in order to learn more about teaching reading to students and to get a certificate in advanced literacy. From the outside, it made sense.

Now that I'm on the inside, I am being swallowed by a mountain of work. Last weekend, I had a long weekend due to a snow storm. I got ahead (or so I thought) in my homework, but didn't do any 9 to 5 work, which was so relaxing and deserved. This week, though, was a killer. I had to make up all sorts of administration work, not to mention all of the grading and teaching reorganizing I had to do. So, while last weekend, I was in my PJ's surfing MySpace, this weekend I'll be in my PJ's grading and doing next week's homework.

To top it all off, my younger male cat, has decided to reclaim his territory. He has taken to peeing on our bed. With us in bed. Often right on us or next to us. It's disgusting. We've had to wash our sheets and comforters dozens of times. In fact, one night, he had peed on all 3 of them, in order, and we had to sleep in sweatsuits.

On Thursday night, I was feeling especially overwhelmed. Over the weekend, I had signed up through my grad school, for a two hour workshop called "Walking the Labyrinth" with an instructor named Julie Neraas. This was back when I wasn't stumped on my response paper and saddled with a stack of personal essays to grade. I thought I was going to be done for on Thursday night. But, I went anyway, because I already paid 10 bucks for the event.

I am so glad that I went, despite the stress and extra work it caused me. First of all, I saw a couple of my old classmates, including someone who took a travel course to Greece with me in 2002. But most of all, it was an effective workshop. Julie led us on a discussion of vocation and calling. We discussed what it means to find meaningful work and how we can balance work with being artists. Then, she initiated a guided meditation, where we would find the question we wanted to answer in the labyrinth.

After all this, we walked a labyrinth identical to the picture above. It took about an hour to walk, because I was journaling and walking at the same time. Not to mention that there are 34 turns in the labyrinth, and that's only going in one way. You have to walk in and out on the same path. How's that for a metaphor?

While I can't say that I had any epiphany moments, the experience really crystallized some questions for me. It's funny, that when I'm searching, I only seem to find questions, rather than answers. The specific questions that I was asking myself had been burbling to the surface for the past couple of days (years), and they all centered around what my path really is and what things I need to do in order to find it and walk it. I'm often so tied down by obligation and responsibility, which I create in excess for myself, that I forget to ask if the task is necessary and if I have to be the one to do it. I also really wondered why I am so task driven, rather than relationship driven. I always choose work over joy, fun, and friendship.

Of course, all the stress came rushing in the moment I returned to my car. But, now I have some questions to ask myself and think about over the next couple of days (lifetime.) I don't know if I'll ever answer these questions, but at least I know that I can consciously ask them now.

A Snow Day and a Half, And Now This...

This could be the best week ever.

We have had a snowstorm to beat all snowstorms -- 12-18 inches by 6 PM tonight. Normally, my school stays open during all inclement weather, because, hey, we're Minnesotans. But, we closed at 12:00 on Thursday and we aren't opening at all today. This gives me a 3-1/2 day weekend. My husband's work also closed early yesterday and didn't open today. So that's 3-1/2 days off with the husband. Woo-hoo.

Now, as I'm whiling away my morning in my p.j.'s, when I should be battling the commute to work, I find this. SARK, one of my favorite writers of all time, has a new book coming out. She hasn't released a new book in a couple of years, not since Make Your Creative Dreams Real. She published the paperback in 2005! (Hardcover came out earlier, naturally.)

While I enjoyed this book, it was a bit of a departure from her unique style. Normally, her books are handwritten and they included black and white and color doodles that illustrate her ideas. They are idiosyncratic and funny and a great bathtub read. Her last book, however, was more of a traditional self-help book that was typeset, with little to no doodles. There was plenty of good information, but it didn't feel like a SARK book. Of course, I devoured it anyway, but I have yet to go back to it. Her other books, I read over and over.

Her new book, which releases on April 24 of this year, is called Fabulous Friendship Festival: Loving Wildly, Learning Deeply, Living Fully with Our Friends. As the title suggests, it covers how to develop and maintain outside friendships, the friendship with yourself, and how to create new friends. As someone who can be a little shy, I know I cannot wait for this book to come out.

If only I could have a copy now and spend the entire day in my bathtub. Hooray for snow in March, or Smarch as my husband's been calling it.

A Brilliant Idea -- Poetry Thursdays

My new definition of heaven -- vacation from work and new wireless internet service in our condo. I've been playing around and trying to find what other people are doing with poetry and the internet. I've found a lot of good stuff, but so far my favorite idea is Poetry Thursday.

Poetry Thursday is a collective project for poets on the web, organized by two moderators. On Mondays, the moderators post a writing exercise that is due on the following Thursday. After Thursday rolls around, people who accomplished the exercise and want to share post their results on their blog, then send the moderators the link. The moderators then post all the links and instant poetry community.

I'm going to try to start the Poetry Thursday exercise, just to get those poetry muscles working.