Happiness and Blue Moons

SO MUCH HAPPINESS

by Naomi Shihab Nye from Words under the Words (The Eighth Mountain Press)

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.

But happiness floats.
It doesn't need you to hold it down.
It doesn't need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records…..

Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.

I've been keeping this poem in my pocket (aka my draft file), waiting for the perfect day in which to share it and after last night, I think today is that day. 

It's not that anything remarkable happened last night, at least nothing I can put my finger on.  I was sitting by the labyrinth during Cathedral Crossroads people watching.  Some visitors were sitting in the nave with eyes closed, letting the strains of Karen's harp and flute music float around them like snowflakes settling in their laps.  Others wandered around in quiet reverence as night pulled down shades of darkness and shifted their attention from glass to stone.  And then there were the walkers, the ones who came for the labyrinth and embarked upon its path like dancers taking the stage in a purposeful ballet.   

Later as I was walking to my car with some friends, I pointed out the almost full moon hanging high in the night sky.  Friday night is the second full moon in August, a rare occurence and the origin of  the expression "once in a blue moon."  I'm often content but happiness is something different, more rare, more fleeting, more floating as Naomi Shihab Nye observes.  And last night as I noticed all these people and then the large, lovely moon, I was  overcome with a wave of happiness definitely larger than the National Cathedral could contain.  Larger than even the day could contain as it's spilled over into this Wednesday morning and there's every indication it will continue into the afternoon. 

    

Advice to Writers from Billy Collins and Others

ADVICE TO WRITERS by Billy Collins from Sailing Alone Around the Room  (Random House)
Even if it keeps you up all night,
wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.

Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.
The more you clean, the more brilliant
your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take
to the open fields to scour the undersides
of rocks or swab in the dark forest
 upper branches, nests full of eggs.

When you find your way back home
and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink,
you will behold in the light of dawn
the immaculate altar of your desk,
a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.

From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift
a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet,
and cover pages with tiny sentences
like long rows of devoted ants
that followed you in from the woods.


Today is one of those days where my energy level is more conducive to slogging than blogging.  The sliver of sky I can see out the window may be a clear bright blue, but the throbbing behind my eyes tells me a storm is approaching.  And now I'm beginning to suspect that the decongestant I took this morning to help keep the "human barometer" headaches in check was not actually anti-drowsy like I assumed it was.  On days like these it's hard for me to get motivated to do anything but climb back in my cozy bed and take a nap, which is what I did yesterday afternoon and why this Billy Collins poem post is a day late. 

I've mentioned before I'm not the tidiest person, but I love the advice that Billy Collins gives to writers in this poem.  There is something about cleaning-- the attention to detail, the repetitive motions, the work it takes to create space-- that is in its own way a creative act.  (But don't tell my mother I said that.)

Billy Collins' poem reminded me of a two-part article I re-read recently that was originally published in The Guardian back in 2010.  Building upon Elmore Leonard's "10 Rules of Writing" they asked contemporary authors for their own top ten lists.

There are some ubiquitous words of wisdom that you'd expect to find.  Write don't just think about writing.  Have a routine.  Finish what you start (one of my problems).  Have a few things going at once (not one of my problems).  Read your writing aloud.  Edit.  Put finished pieces aside for a while.  Go back and edit again.  And when you're not writing or editing, read, take walks, clean the house and do laundry.

I shouldn't have a picture of
Virginia Woolf on my desk but I
can re-read this biography
written by her nephew

There's also contradictory advice.  Jeanette Winterson suggests when you're stuck you stay at your desk but write something else.  Hilary Mantel says when you're stuck get away from your desk and take a walk, bake a pie, meditate, have a bath-- anything that will create the space for your "lost words" to come back to you.  (For the same reason, she discourages talking to other people during those times as their words may creep into that space instead of yours.) 

Annie Proulx suggests writing by hand while Zadie Smith says to use a computer that is disconnected from the internet.  Roddy Doyle says not to have a picture of your favorite author on your desk, "especially if the author is one of the famous ones who committed suicide."  Fellow Irishman Colm Tóibín suggests, "If you have to read, to cheer yourself up read biographies of writers who went insane."

If you want to read the articles for yourself,which I highly recommend,  here are the links to Part One and Part Two. 

And here are the bits of advice I'm going to start incorporating in my own craft.  Some are incredibly practical words of wisdom I've never thought of before.  Some I know I need to do and don't.  And the rest, well Ann Enright's Rule #9 is, "Have fun," so the remainders are on here to encourage me to do just that.


Diana Athill -  You don't always have to go so far as to murder your darlings – those turns of phrase or images of which you felt extra proud when they appeared on the page – but go back and look at them with a very beady eye. Almost always it turns out that they'd be better dead. (Not every little twinge of satisfaction is suspect – it's the ones which amount to a sort of smug glee you must watch out for.)

Fanny reading Keats' letter from the movie Bright Star

Margaret Atwood - Don't sit down in the middle of the woods. If you're lost in the plot or blocked, retrace your steps to where you went wrong. Then take the other road. And/or change the person. Change the tense. Change the opening page.

Helen Dunmore - Read Keats' letters.

Geoff Dyer - If you use a computer, constantly refine and expand your autocorrect settings. The only reason I stay loyal to my piece-of-shit computer is that I have invested so much ingenuity into building one of the great auto­correct files in literary history. Perfectly formed and spelt words emerge from a few brief keystrokes: "Niet" becomes "Nietzsche", "phoy" becomes ­"photography" and so on. ­Genius!

 Have regrets. They are fuel. On the page they flare into desire.

Neil Gaiman - Remember: when people tell you something's wrong or doesn't work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.

The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you're allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it's definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it ­honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.

Hilary Mantel - Concentrate your narrative energy on the point of change. This is especially important for historical fiction. When your character is new to a place, or things alter around them, that's the point to step back and fill in the details of their world. People don't notice their everyday surroundings and daily routine, so when writers describe them it can sound as if they're trying too hard to instruct the reader.

Andrew Motion - Honour the miraculousness of the ordinary.

Will Self - Always carry a notebook. And I mean always. The short-term memory only retains information for three minutes; unless it is committed to paper you can lose an idea for ever.

Zadie Smith - Tell the truth through whichever veil comes to hand – but tell it. Resign yourself to the lifelong sadness that comes from never ­being satisfied.



Keats again?
 I'm sensing a theme here . . .

Colm Tóibín - On Saturdays, you can watch an old Bergman film, preferably Persona or Autumn Sonata.

Rose Tremain - When an idea comes, spend silent time with it. Remember Keats's idea of Negative Capability and Kipling's advice to "drift, wait and obey". Along with your gathering of hard data, allow yourself also to dream your idea into being.

Sarah Waters -  Writing fiction is not "self-­expression" or "therapy". Novels are for readers, and writing them means the crafty, patient, selfless construction of effects. I think of my novels as being something like fairground rides: my job is to strap the reader into their car at the start of chapter one, then trundle and whizz them through scenes and surprises, on a carefully planned route, and at a finely engineered pace.

Jeanette Winterson - Trust your creativity.

There's stuff and then there's stuff . . .

SWANS by Mary Oliver from Evidence (Beacon Press)
They appeared
   over the dunes,
      they skimmed the trees
         and hurried on

to the sea
   or some lonely pond
      or wherever it is
         that swans go,

urgent, immaculate,
   the heat of their eyes
      staring down
         then away,

the thick spans
   of their wings
      as bright as snow,
         their shoulder-power

echoing
   inside my own body.
      How could I help but adore them?
         How could I help but wish

that one of them might drop
   a white feather
     that I should have
         something in my hand

to tell me
   that they were real?
      Of course
         this was foolish.

What we love, shapely and pure,
   is not to be held,
      but to be believed in.
         And then they vanished, into the unreachable distance.

A few days ago a friend sent me a link to an article from the business section of The New York Times entitled "You Probably Have Too Much Stuff."  Written by Carl Richards, it's a short reflection on the cost of attachment to possessions. Richards was inspired by the story of Andrew Hyde, who reduced his worldly goods to a mere fifteen essential items.

In his own attempt to rid himself of extraneous possessions, Richards decided to begin by getting rid of fifteen things, mainly outdated clothes.  He goes on to recommend this formula that he used when evaluating his effects:

• Why exactly do you own what you own?

• What could you get rid of and not miss?

• Do I really still need that?

• What is it costing me to own that?

What really struck me about this article was the last question in particular.  Richards, a financial planner, naturally focuses on cost in terms of . . . well, money.  He mentions how acquiring possessions can lead to the need to acquire places to keep those possessions.  He wonders about the time lost to thinking about getting rid of an old tie in his closet rather than actually doing so each time he came across it while getting dressed.  And of course, as any good financial planner will tell you, time is money. 

It got me to thinking about how the article might be different if it was written by a spiritual director or life coach instead of a financial planner.  And the answer I came up with is not much different.  The questions Richards asks are good ones in terms of the whys and whats.  It's simply the cost/benefit perspective that skews differently.  Instead of pointing out the tax benefits of downsizing and donating the stuff we don't need, such an article might mention the spiritual/psychological benefits that we gain when we let go of attachments. 

As I wrote in this post earlier this year, I get the periodic impulse to purge.  Although my goal isn't to get down to fifteen items (surely books would be excluded from that number, and lipstick, and ballet flats, and sparkly vintage earrings) I do find it helpful to periodically go through my possessions, see what I'm still holding on to that doesn't fit me anymore-- literally or figuratively-- and figure out the why behind that. Examining my stuff helps me examine my stuff. 

Maybe this is one reason it takes me so long to clean my room, the basement, etc.  I'm not just cleaning house, I'm cleaning my psyche.

Donald Duck's brain from the classic Disney cartoon
Donald Duck in Mathmagic Land
I always related to this image, even as a child.

Billy Collins Sunday - You, Reader

You, Reader
by Billy Collins from The Trouble with Poetry (Random House)

I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you,

that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen

the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl.

Go ahead and turn aside,
bite your lip and tear out the page,
but, listen-- it was just a matter of time

before one of us happened
to notice the unlit candles
and the clock humming on the wall.

Plus, nothing happened that morning--
a song on the radio,
a car whistling along the road outside--

and I was only thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that  were standing side by side on a place mat.

I wondered if they had become friends
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one another

like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
to each other at the same time--

me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.


This seemed to me to be the perfect poem for a dreary Sunday on which nothing much is happening.  Instead of getting up early and writing, my day has been spent reading-- blogs; the newspaper;the Ruth Rendell mystery I started on Friday; junk mail, old to do lists, and articles that have accumulated on my desk.

I love the idea that it is on ordinary days such as this, in the midst or ordinary tasks that ordinary thoughts, such as wondering about the relationship between the salt and pepper shakers, can take shape into a not-so-ordinary poem or essay or story.  The more I write, the more I realize that this is the way the writing life works, at least for me-- more, "Hmmmm," than, "Eureka!"

So yes Billy Collins, you were the one who got up early and wrote this poem.  But the day will come when I will be the one to get up early (or earlyish).  And on that morning I will notice the way the banana and apple are cuddling in the fruit bowl.  And I'll write a poem about that, and maybe mention too, that they make a delicious fruit salad when peeled and sliced and sauteed in a dab of butter with a little nutmeg and cinnamon.  And then who will be biting their lip then, Mr. Collins, envious of my poem or perhaps, just my breakfast. 



Autumn, by Giuseppe Arcimbaldo
An artist who painted extraordinary
portraits composed of ordinary objects

Two Pie Poems for Julia's 100th

Key Lime Pie by Mary Rose O’Reilly

Commas of lime in sugar and milk,
suspension, mild on the tongue
as memory of being filled,
or if you never were full before,
now is the moment --
be born again,
trailing, for all I care,
Augustine, Ambrose, all of those guys --
Aquinas, sit here, eat this pie.

Each one's longing to feel
a belly round with surfeit sur·feit 
v. sur·feit·ed, sur·feit·ing, sur·feits

v.tr.
To feed or supply to excess, satiety, or disgust.

v.intr. Archaic
To overindulge.

n.
1.
a. ,
figuring out at last
one of the why's we came for:
key lime pie Key lime pie is a dessert made of key lime juice, egg yolks, and sweetened condensed milk in a pie crust. The pie is topped with meringue, then baked until the meringue is a golden brown.^[1] Some key lime pies use other types of whipped toppings or none at all. .

Tumble with me, Augustine,
out of the pear tree of self-hate.
Here is a Buddha-pie your African grin
can barely take in. Here is a radical
homecoming pie. Aquinas,
it runs down your chin.

You will never again
have to be clever or even good.
Taste the green skin of logos
wanting to kiss your tongue.
You are undone, like a child
gone feral feral

untamed; often used in the sense of having escaped from domesticity and run wild.  to smell grass,
murmuring here it is,
all I have longed for
at last, at last.


The Poet's Occasional Alternative by Grace PaleyI was going to write a poem
I made a pie instead it took
about the same amount of time
of course the pie was a final
draft a poem would have had some
distance to go days and weeks and
much crumpled paper

the pie already had a talking
tumbling audience among small
trucks and a fire engine on
the kitchen floor

everybody will like this pie
it will have apples and cranberries
dried apricots in it many friends
will say why in the world did you
make only one

this does not happen with poems

because of unreportable
sadnesses I decided to
settle this morning for a re-
sponsive eatership I do not
want to wait a week a year a
generation for the right
consumer to come along


Writing this afternoon has been a struggle.  Maybe it's because it was already mid-afternoon before I sat down at my desk today.  I've gotten used to putting in my two hours, pen in hand/laptop at fingertips, the first thing in the morning and today an early appointment shifted my writing time so I'm feeling off kilter.  Or perhaps it's because I'm at a difficult point in both of the projects on which I'm working and I'm avoiding tackling the down and dirty writing that is required to move them forward. 

Avis de Voto and Julia Child

I'm blaming Julia Child though.  I think it's her fault I've put what little creative energy I could summon into planning and preparing dinner for this evening.  Although I read this morning that it's the 100th anniversary of her birth (I even bought the Kindle deal of the day, As Always, a collection of the letters between Julia and her pen-pal friend Avis) the thought slipped my mind, or at least I thought it had.  But now that I've stuffed a beef tenderloin and wrapped it like a carnivore Christmas present in bacon and twine, peeled potatoes to mash with a healthy dose of horseradish, and assembled the makings of pesto to go with the summer squash and heirloom tomatoes from the farmers' market, I think perhaps the spirit of Julia somehow wiggled her way into my schedule. 

So the best I can offer you today are these poems about pie-- both invitations to put aside guilt, striving, longing, the desire for approval, and indulge in the sweetness of life.  Hopefully you'll find some time to do just that today, if not for yourself, in Julia's honor. 

I think she'd like that.

"Life itself is the proper binge."
~ Julia Child

Mary Oliver Monday - Monkey Mind or Puppy Mind

PERCY, 6 by Mary Oliver from The Truro Bear and Other Adventures (Beacon Press)
You’re like a little wild thing
That was never sent to school.
Sit, I say, and you jump up.
Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand
To the nearest dead fish
With which you perfume your sweet neck.
It is summer.
How many summers does a little dog have?

Run, run Percy.
This is our school


Puppy mind.  I first heard the expression over a year ago at a mindfulness workshop.  In the dark, cool room, stretched out on my yoga mat with a blanket cradling my head, I was fading in and out of consciousness as the instructor droned on (in the nicest way possible) about noticing our thoughts and letting them go.  What I noticed at the time was that if I didn't listen to him, I didn't have any thoughts to hold onto so I just focused on my breath and let his voice fade into white noise.  That worked well until I heard him say, "Puppy mind."  I almost bolted upright.  Puppy mind? Surely he meant monkey mind, the apt phrase well known to meditators of all sorts. The description of what happens when you decide to sit in silence for ten, twenty, thirty minutes and all hell breaks loose in your brain as your thoughts chatter for attention, go swinging from from trees, and occasionally peel back your defenses to expose your feelings like the soft bruised flesh of an  overripe banana. 




Although I've heard it a thousand times and used it hundreds, I've never really liked the term monkey mind.  Maybe it's because I made the mistake of watching the movie "Monkeyshines" when it came out in the late 80's.  Monkey gone bad.  Very, very bad.  That, coupled with a brief fascination with the National Geographic channel's "Rebel Monkeys" leads me to believe monkeys are wild, uncontrollable, undisciplined deceitful creatures.  Surely that can't be a metaphor for my thoughts?

Monkee Mind - a type of monkey mind where wacky,
zany thoughts are accompanied by a catchy pop tune

Puppy mind, though.  That's an animal metaphor I can get behind.  I remember trying to teach a rambunctious puppy to walk when I was house/dog sitting for some friends.  Each morning, afternoon, and evening Henry and I would circumnavigate the neighborhood.  I'd state our intention, ("Who wants to go for walkies!?!"), assume the posture (clip on his leash and grab a poop bag or two) and then we'd get down to business.

Much like sitting down to meditate. 

And, much like my thoughts when I meditate, zoom-- off the puppy went.  Four pounds of fluff and exuberance relishing his freedom, racing down the sidewalk, jumping over curbs, yipping at squirrels, and sniffing anything and everything in his path.  It seemed he was never by my side, just enjoying the walk.  He was always striving to get to the next tree, the next bush, the next discarded bite of muffin outside Starbucks. 

Much like my thoughts when I meditate.

But the more we walked, the easier it became.  He eventually learned to heel, content, for the most part, to just trot along beside me.  Now, three years later, he knows a little tug on the leash means he needs to refocus his energy and get back on the sidewalk.  He pauses or sits at street corners instead of racing across regardless of whether or not the coast is clear.  But every once in a while as we're reaching the home stretch he spies a squirrel and off he goes.  Or a patch of grass is so enticing that he keeps wanting to return to it over and over again. 

Meditation has gotten easier the longer I've practiced but that's all I've been able to manage thus far-- practicing.  I used to hate the word practice when used to describe meditation because I always think of the adage "practice makes perfect."  But practice doesn't make us perfect.  Nothing does.  Practice may make it easier for me to meditate on any given day.  And practice has helped enforce the habit of meditating.  However just as there are some days when my mind heels during meditation, there are other days when the sun is shining and there are squirrels just begging to be chased.

Henry frolicking post-walk

Your Monthly Dose of Vitamin C - The Orange Prize Nominated works of Jane Harris

Welcome to the first installment of the new feature, A Monthly Dose of Vitamin C.  As I mentioned in yesterday's post, as I read my way through the massive list of Orange Prize nominated novels, I'll pause once a month to talk about one or two here.

For the inaugural review I thought I'd begin with two books by Jane Harris.  Her first novel, The Observations, was on the short list for the prize in 2007 and her most recent novel, Gillespie and I was on the long list this year. 

Somehow the latter ended up on my radar screen last fall.  I had a scrap of a review with a picture of the book jacket in a pile of papers I was sorting through and was intrigued enough to pre-order the Kindle edition from Amazon.  I'm always tearing out pictures or write ups about books and putting them on my desk where they get lost in the never ending pile of paper that spreads like the blob until I make it my mission to vanquish it, which admittedly isn't very often.

Around the same time, I heard The Observations mentioned on a BBC podcast where the commentator was talking about novels with interesting narrators.  I made a point to look for it on my next trip to the library, which was a few minutes later as I was listening to the podcast on a walk in the park and stopped at the library on the way home. 

The interesting narrator of The Observations is Betty Buckley, a precocious Irish lass who, on her way to Edinburgh, makes a detour that interrupts her plans and changes her life.  Set in 1863, Betty is fifteen years old and not only well educated in the ways of the world, but she can also read and write, thanks to the wealthy "benefactor" (wink wink) she'd been living with in Glasgow.  This ability lands her a job as a scullery maid for the Reid family at Castle Haivers, which is more subsistence farm than grand family home.  After happening upon the farm in the hopes of seeing a real castle, Betty is offered a job by its mistress, Lady Arabella, who hires her on the condition she keep a journal recording her experiences and feelings about her time in service.

Betty, who is far more intelligent than anyone gives her credit for, soon realizes what's going on behind the benevolent facade of her new employer, and decides to turn the tables on her mistress so that Arabella unknowingly becomes the manipulated rather than the manipulator.  The plan for revenge soon spins out of control with dire consequences, as Betty's past comes back to haunt her just as the events at her new home reach their climax.  Despite her actions, I couldn't help but like and trust Betty.  Her worldly cynicism born of an unspeakable childhood doesn't dampen her spirit.  She has unexpected moments of compassion and tenderness and her quick wit and sharp sense of humor carry the reader through some of the darker moments in the novel. 

Harriet Baxter, the narrator of Gillespie and I, is in many ways a contrast to Betty.  A  well to do spinster, Harriet at first seems to be one of those typical serious Victorian do-gooder heroines.  I say seems to be because there comes a turning point in the story where the reader starts to question not only the story Harriet has related thus far, but also Harriet herself.

Gillespie and I is Harriet's account of her relationship with her "friend and soul mate," doomed artist Ned Gillespie.  It's a tale that begins with a chance encounter and moment of chivalry and ends with the disintegration of Ned's family and Harriet's arrest and subsequent trial, although if you want to know what she's accused of, you'll have to read the book.  Alternating between twentieth century Bloomsbury and late nineteenth century Glasgow, the first part of Harriet's tale is innocent enough but when voices other than Harriet's start to creep into the narrative through the witnesses at the trial the real mystery begins to unfold.

I don't want to give anything away because it's such a great story.  Suffice to say, if ever a character in a novel should be wearing this t-shirt, it would be Harriet. 

Unreliable Narrator t-shirt from the Literary Gift Company

As I've been thinking about these novels together, it strikes me that what Harris is so gifted at, in addition to weaving a masterful story, is bringing the motivations of her characters to the forefront and making them the compelling force that keeps the reader turning pages.  It was four years between the release of The Observations and Gillespie and I.  I hope I don't have to wait four years for her next book.

The Color Orange or Why I'm Reading Women Writers

Several years ago, smack dab in the middle of my doctoral program, I somehow got the bright idea that I'd download the list of nominees (long and short lists) of the Orange Prize and confine my reading-for-fun to only those titles.  In looking for a complete list of the nominees, I stumbled upon  The Orange Prize Project blog and was inspired by its founders commitment to reading and reviewing the nominated titles.  So with my list in hand, I got reading and, eventually, reviewing.  Then writing deadlines for my doctoral project began to hover on the horizon like a storm cloud and I knew I'd have to abandon the sunny world of literature to chase the storm of academic writing. 

But this past May I updated my list and set to  ticking off books from the spreadsheet that now includes 349 titles-- the long list nominees as well as the list of new author nominees that the committee awarded for a few years. 

There area few reasons I'm committed to reading as many of these books as I can.  One is simply that it challenges me to read things I would probably never read on my own because the books would never come to my attention, such as Australian writer Chloe Hooper's A Child's Book of True Crime.  Another reason is the list of authors is so diverse-- novelists from all corners of the globe, writing in all genres.  It challenges me to read writer's who offer a perspective outside my own social location and experience while at the same time allowing me to indulge in good British mystery when I feel like some comfort food reading.        

Mainly though, I read the Orange Prize books to show my solidarity and support for women writers.  There's been a lot of discussion, much heated, in recent years about the status and treatment of women authors in the public arena.  Some feel that the "Chick-Lit" label and all that entails has creeped in to contaminate literature written by women, as Diane Meier describes in the Huffington Post.  The whole label gets into issues of marketing and gender equality that are fascinating but more than I want to tackle in this blog post.  Suffice to say, as I often do, that's it's interesting to note that you don't see publishers branding Chris Ryan or Daniel Silva "Dick Lit." 

Other writer's have pointed out that prominent publications such as The New York Times show a bias towards male authors.  Both The New Republic and Slate have interesting articles that give background on the history of the "Franzen Feud" that sparked the observations and subsequent discussion as well as looking at the facts. And the fact is that women authors are less often reviewed in The New York Times and far less often given two reviews. 

So in my teensy weensy effort to counteract the New York Times and the mainstream press (cue music for illusions of grandeur here), I am presenting a new regular offering, your monthly dose of Vitamin C.  My review of an Orange Prize nominated book.  I think this post is long enough for today, however, so I'll post the first does of Vitamin C tomorrow.

A Billy Collins and Mary Oliver Two For . . .

I was so engrossed in reading over the weekend that I forgot to write until late last night when I was two books down and well into an amazing novel (Afterwards by Rosamund Lupton).  Instead of blogging, I opted to continue to read until well past the hour I told myself I should go to sleep.  Even as I sit at my desk to get my writing in before taking my BFF out for lunch to celebrate his birthday, I can feel the siren song of Lupton's story calling me to abandon my work and read.  But I'll resist until this evening. 

Was it really their singing voices or the fact that they'd stumbled upon an   
island populated by scantily clad women that attracted sailors to the sirens? 

Since I missed Billy Collins Sunday, I figured it was a great opportunity to combine it with Mary Oliver Monday and mention, especially for those in the DC area, that Billy Collins and Mary Oliver are doing a joint reading at Strathmore on Sunday, October 28.  Information about the event and a link to purchase tickets can be found here.  The program description is vague.  It basically just gives bios for both poets so it will be interesting to see what actually happens on stage.  Will they have a conversation about poetry?  Comment on each others' poems and their own?  Or simply get up and take turns reading like a game of tag between poets?

Whatever they do, I'm sure it will be enlightening and lovely.  In the meantime, here are a couple links to Billy Collins and Mary Oliver doing talks/readings in other settings.  They're a bit longer than the You Tube links I've posted in the past but are well worth watching.

The first is a TED talk by Billy Collins where he presents five of his poems that have been animated and shares his wisdom about making poetry accessible and available to readers, and making poetry from the perspective of the poet.  It really captures his wry sense of humor.

The second video is an introduction to a conversation between Coleman Barks and Mary Oliver that begins with her reading a few poems.  Watching the honey tongued Barks question the poet is like finding two fortunes in your cookie-- you get an extra dose of wisdom and humor.  The entire 45 minute reading and conversation can be found here