loose leaf and spiral bound

If you know me at all, you know that I love music. I will shush you in the truck when a good song comes on. I will dance in any Target or grocery store or waiting room if one of my jams comes over the speakers. I have very specific play-lists for happy days, crappy days, melancholy days, etc. Music matters to me in a way that is hard to express. BUT, I have finally found a way to explain it. Sort of. The look on the guy's face at 4:30 in the video below is everything. It's love, it's hope, it's faith, it's happiness...all of it. That's what music does. Whether you are playing music or listening to music, it can be whatever you need it to be. Music never asks you "why" and it doesn't ask for anything in return. (Well, it might ask for $0.99 if you want to download it...) Also, this is what writing does for me. It lets me feel whatever I need to feel. It lets me get out whatever I've been harboring inside. It doesn't ask me why and ...

I've done it before and I'll do it again. Yes, that's right, I will use the art of others to inspire my own. Creativity begets creativity. Once again Mark Hall , music producer extraordinaire from across the pond, gave me a little writing boost with his track "And the Angels Fell". (You can listen to it here .) So, like the famous song says, "I get by with a little help from my friends". (For what it's worth, I like the Beatles version, but I LOVE the Joe Cocker version.) Something about this particular track of his tugged at me. I was entranced right from the beginning, and then I could feel that slight knife-edge that slides right in. Beautiful disaster. You know the kind that hurts but you can't stop pushing it forward? Something about this track told me the story of a friendship that got twisted along the way. I can't tell if things worked out in the end, but I remain hopeful. Okay, okay, okay. Enough rambling from me. Here's th...

Well, this is awkward. It's been three (...and a half) months since I've written anything. Not just talking about a blog post, I mean I haven't written ANYTHING. Not even so much as a stanza. It's pretty pathetic. Sorry. No excuses here, just apologies. I've been in a rut/slump/funk and am extremely disappointed in myself. Alas. If you've been a frequent-flyer to this blog, you know how much I love to use pictures as writing prompts. This time I asked my friend Thomas Brown to supply the photo. (Seriously, if you're ever in need of a photographer in Arizona...look him up. I very much enjoy his fine art photos.) I tackled this writing exercise a little differently. I gave myself only 15 minutes and decided that I would post to this blog that piece EXACTLY as it was, with NO EDITS. Gotta be honest here and tell you that it is so damned hard to put this up without any tweaks, changes, edits, or rewrites. But, I know how I sometimes wish I could see other poe...

Remember how I went off on a rant about how I hate going back to my "Graveyard" folder and looking through shitty old poems? Well, apparently I challenged myself. A double-dog-dare, if you will. Stupid me. I took three of the poems that were in the The Graveyard and resurrected them. Just plunked all of them "as is" into one document and went to work. This is what happened. My own little Frankenpoem...not sure I love it, but I don't think I hate it. I've titled it, " The Graveyard Revisited ": My broken pride drove me home this morning. The radio massaged into my brain endless lines and lyrics of love songs, until my pain puked me into slumber. Cuddled so close to nightmares of things I could have, would have, should have said. But, you do not know how to operate a touch tone phone. So instead, my confused confidence will hide out in what used to be your spot on the couch. I'll keep sleeping on this couch. It'll keep warm from the te...

It has recently been pointed out to me that I am that terribly annoying person who is constantly looking for the good in every situation. Gag, right? I know. Alas, this is another one of my "things" that I do. Car broke down? No problem, your new adventure will be riding the bus and making all sorts of fun friends. Washed your wool sweater in hot water and it shrunk? Who cares! Now your doggy has some trendy new apparel. The only time this is not my "thing" is when I am reviewing some of my older or unfinished poems that I have relegated to my "Graveyard" file. I have a very hard time going through those old poems already deemed craptacular and finding a solid nugget to work with. This is unfortunate because I write half started/finished poems down all of the time. I enjoy it. I like getting the brainwaves going and the words rolling off of my tongue and there is never a better feeling than knowing you are just absolutely knocking it out of the park and ...

So, there I was, walking around the neighborhood and minding my own business when I saw this old blue chair stashed in the way back of a yard. It wasn't too far from my house so I hustled back and grabbed my camera. This blue metal chair looked to me like something that belonged on a movie set somewhere down south. I'm thinking on the bayou, maybe? It looked like a chair that I should sit in and think about things. Every-little-thing. All of the things. At any rate, I got to thinking and you know what happens then...either awesome things or terrible things...In this case, it turned out to be just mediocre things. However, some of those mediocre things might make for a good poem some day. Here are some of the lines and phrases I thought of: Sucked into a pull with no control - can't push. But these reflexes are simple: fight or flight. Flayed by the sharp lash of your tongue and scarred by the daggers in your eyes. Is it really and truly a second chance when you ne...

Really, all I ask for is an hour to myself (that and a computer, pot of coffee, music, and my notebook. Okay, and maybe some Chic-O-Sticks.). I can get so much done! For real. I promise. All throughout the day/week/month I keep tidbits and snippits of phrases and turns of words that I like in a spiral bound notebook. Then I like to sit down at my computer with really loud music and put them into an electronic word document with no thought process - just plain old transcription.  THEN I go back through and edit the shit out of that hot mess and make some poems. But I just need that one room and that magical hour to myself! For me, this is probably the hardest part of being a poet - finding time for the fine tuning. In the grand scheme of things this seems like such a trite complaint. But dammit, right now I am frustrated and this is what happens: I get to rant about it on my blog. (Isn't that the whole point of the interwebs!?! Well, that and making memes.) In case you are w...

Well holy shit!  Can you believe that it has already been one entire year since I started this little blog?  That's right, on May 31, 2011 I decided that I needed a little accountability in my writing world and "loose leaf and spiral bound" was born... So, I'm sure you're wondering if it worked, right?  As of today, I am happy to report that I have in fact kept the promise I made to myself and have sent out poems each and every-single-frickin' month.  BAM!  That's right folks, I have submitted to eleven different literary journals and magazines and will be mailing number twelve tomorrow (because why wouldn't I procrastinate until the very last minute of the very last day of the month). Again I say to you, and with borderline excessive enthusiasm, BAM ! In all honesty, I am very proud of my meager success.  No, I haven't been picked up for publishing yet (suck) but I have managed to set a goal and keep it (yay). Along the way I have attracted ...

Some days I want to write it all down and get it all out because it hurts to keep it all in...whatever "it" may be. There is significant frustration that comes from not being able to adequately convey feelings through simple words. For every second wasted thinking over synonyms is a second more that the frustration and anger can fill up and take over the original emotion you were writing about. You must bring yourself back to the exact moment you first felt compelled to write, center yourself, and start fresh. There are days when I have more inside my head and heart than I can hold. It may seem as though I am phoning it in with this blog post - but it's been a struggle to identify exactly how I feel these past few days and what kind of mood this is. It feels like cobwebs on my face and I can't quite pull them away to examine them up close. Once I get it together, there should be a poem waiting for me.

Okay gang.  It's been quite some time since I have posted.  No more chit-chat. Here we go. Once again, I called upon my friend Zak to supply me with a picture to use as a writing prompt. He did not fail me. So, here is the photo... "Desert near Joshua Tree" Photo credit: Zachary Chipps 2012 And here is my piece titled, " Sharing the Joshua Tree "... Deserts are never deserted. This isolation is all in your head. No one could be alone here. Not really. Even when you try. This is the land of solace. No pretenses. You will be seen, but not judged. You will be weighed, but not measured. This place doesn't care if you remember your dreams. Only that you have them. Just open your eyes and go. Follow the horizon divide, mountainside, or center line. It's all the same as long as you are going. Somewhere. Anywhere. I will share my Joshua Tree with you. Because we are never alone here. Not really. Even when we try.

Let me take you back. Thursday night. The plan fell into place perfectly. Serendipity at its finest. Husband left for some night fishing, daughter was doing her nightly reading, the dogs were outside - - all was quiet and well. I thought to myself, "Jenn, what a perfect time to put down on paper all those thoughts rattling around in your head." So I did.  And for 20 minutes it was glorious... Then I was startled out of my skivvies by the incredibly loud kitchen timer my child sets to indicate she has done her required reading. Yes, my 20 minutes of quiet time were over. That sweet child of mine looked at me with her big baby blues and said, "Is it okay if I watch some music videos on YouTube before bed? I'll keep it down so you can finish writing (blink, blink, smile)." Oh, do you think I could deny her? No. The answer is no. Usually, I can handle music in the background. In fact, there are times I purposely play music while writing. It can help set a mood o...

I took a round about way to fixing my mental block and asked a very dear friend of mine to please send a few pictures that I could use for writing prompts.  He quickly recognized the importance of this request and graciously acquiesced.  What a good friend, eh?  So, here is the photo... Photo credit: Zachary Chipps 2012 And here is my accompanying piece of poetry, aptly titled:  Between a Rock and a Hard Place ... There is more to living than just growing. Thriving, defying, gaining; becoming something stronger. This is bold. It is not how you surround yourself.  Protect yourself. More than that, it is where you put down roots. How far you let them go. How deep. Not delicate.  This one, blooming in full sun. Throwing its petals out, face up, and owning the heat. Feeling the glory. A small victory at every sunset. A new defeat every day.

I've been struggling with the quality of my writing (or lack thereof) for about a week now.  I still haven't totally climbed out of the dreaded vortex of writer's block and the things that used to be a "can't miss" for inspiration are not even showing up on the target.  Clearly, inspiration is indeed a fickle mistress.  I feel wrong trying to ply her with alcohol.  Even worse when I play songs only for the express purpose of getting her to dance.  (Read: drinking frozen pouches of margaritas and dancing around to INXS will not always bring forth your muse.)  Don't get me wrong, I'm still writing and "dear diary-ing" like an angst-riddled teenager, but I haven't put anything down that gives me the tingles.  It seems like the new thing to try these days is one of those one-a-day challenges pertaining to your specific medium of choice.  But I don't think I want to jump on that bandwagon.  It seems a bit intimidating.  Perhaps I should ...

...is that it is all so subjective and relative.  You don't get measured based on a certain rubric when you submit a poem for publication.  The editors don't send back to you a grading sheet that says, "while you meet standard criteria for areas A, B, and C, we found you severely lacking in area D."  Wouldn't that be nice?  To get some specific feedback that you could work with and then be able to make changes that would significantly increase your chances of publication?  Instead, it seems you blindly submit a poem to publication after publication, never really knowing if you should make any edits between submission #1 and resubmission #38.  A friend of mine suggested that I find a mentor.  Someone who is "in the game" of publishing poetry who would be willing take me under their literary wing and offer constructive criticism as well as guidance.  This is probably good advice.  My road block here is that I don't know where to begin hunting...

Here's the thing, I know the word "brainstorm" seems rather trite and overused, but to me it is a vivid word and brings to mind some crazy images that are big and bold.  I rather like it, both as a noun and a verb.  Anyway, I am digressing.  (SHOCKER!)  Okay, bringing it on back to the topic at hand... While drinking coffee and doing more doodling in my notebook than writing (shock #2 of the day, right?) it occurred to me that I have been mulling over objects more so than concepts as of late.  To clarify, I keep pulling up images of items - - antique pocket watches, abandoned lighthouses, and yellowed maps.  Not so much how I normally roll with brainstorming ideas for new poems.  Usually I go off of sheer feeling and emotion.  It could be anything that brings on what I call "The Feeling" - - but this has most definitely not been the case recently. This should be an adventure to say the least.  We'll see how it turns out.  This is yet...

Something to know about me is that I am simply brimming with eccentricities, superstitions, and odd compulsions.  However, I feel like this is not only an accepted part of Jenn the mother, wife, friend, etc., but also a part of what it is to be a writer, period.  I find it amazing that those of us who feel the need to create by way of writing can see our similarities in these far reaching and unconventional ways, no matter our color or creed, and acknowledge that these are the unconventional fibers binding us.   Personally, I will admit to a preference for writing in purple or blue ink on either college ruled or graph paper before I even contemplate turning on my laptop.  I definitely have a three-ring-binder with folders, y'all.  Holla!  I also have a strong belief in using postcards for bookmarks - - and almost never an actual bookmark.  Don't ask me why, couldn't explain it if you did.  This might just put some of you out there on overload - ...

Do you remember when magnetic poetry first came out and it was all the rage?  Then they started making the "kits" for sexual innuendos and love and even a kids version?  I LOVED THOSE THINGS!!  (I mean, I loved the regular magnetic poetry kits until I was of an appropriate age and then I found the "dirty" versions hilarious.)   At any rate, I used to think that these things were just a kitschy little fad.  They were fun at other people's homes, but I didn't own any and I certainly never thought about them as serious writing prompts.  Until about a month ago. I don't know about you, but I very much enjoy iGoogle.  Within iGoogle there is a gadget called, "Magnet Poetry".  Now, keep in mind that it is not as robust as having an entire magnetic poetry kit, but each time you open up your iGoogle home page you will receive about 10-15 pieces including nouns, verbs, -ing, -s, etc., and FYI - - if I am in a rutty little dry spell, it's a pretty ...