Confession Tuesday (deb) on Monday

I've haven't revealed much in my last few confessions. They, and my writing in general, has been stiff and staid.

I have a couple of thoughts about that.

I can be incredibly literal and linear. I want cause and effect, logic, rational reasoning. I want meaning without the fluff and fuss of overbearing and overwrought emotions. Cut to the chase. Give me the bottom line. I want efficiency. No repetition. What's worth doing once is only worth doing once: show me the finished product, not process. And for goodness sake's, don't retread tires. (Cliches, on the other hand, are completely acceptable.)

Not very artsy-fartsy, is it? No. It's a great way to "get things done", but it is not a good way to discover. Art.

Sometimes, oftentimes, perhaps more often than not, this point of view can quell part of my mind, the aspect of me and my own discovery process that moves over imperfect and varied surfaces one tripping step at a time.

I can't run hurdles. Why do think I can run hurdles? I meander and mosey. I saunter. And skip. Joyfully and with a stutter.

I am afraid of repeating myself. I have an irrational and compulsive fear that I will bore my listener and myself. I have an obsession, bordering on a psychological disorder, that repeating my thoughts mean I don't respect the hearer enough to recall that they have sat on that stool before.

"Stop me if you've heard this one before," is my line. The comedians wrote that not for a crowd hanging on to watered-down well-drinks. They wrote it for me.



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During these June weeks two rejection notices have come my way. And an acceptance. An acceptance without any request for editing. And it is for a print journal. A local print journal. That features local women writers. (Not that you - or me - were expecting Paris Review (and it's not Burnside Review, either. And it's not Literary Mama, though most of my readers know that wouldn't suit. Me.) Once I know more, I'll tell more.



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My new love, not moving Mark Doty from that perch entirely - it's a tree with many and brisk limbs, is At Large and at Small: Familiar Essays by Anne Fadiman. I am completely besotted with her ability to write an essay. She writes of experiences that are uniquely hers and yet draws me into a companionable corner of the room to talk about the joys of ice-cream, coffee, insect collecting and opening mail. She intertwines the larger issues of life with the smaller essences. And pats the chair lovingly, bringing a cup of tea near.

I'll try to write an honest-to-god formal review, but until then, just go pick it up. (Multnomah County Library has nine copies, one is available at this moment.)

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Do I have the wherewithal to write a review?


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