Well, I've begun writing some exercises for myself, and to much success, I've found that coming up with a poetry exercise takes about as much work as crafting a poem.

Here's an exercise:

1. Look at all the junk on or around your desk.
2. Wherever your eyes keep wanting to go, well, there's a poem.

For me, I keep looking at all the colors of book spines on a shelf that's next to my desk. I'm not sure why, but I just love the way books look. Fake books wouldn't work. I think I have to know that each book has important stuff in it. I also like the fact that a collection of books shows quirks of someone's personality. Ever been surprised to see that an otherwise ditzy looking person has an extensive collection of books on physics?

Sometimes you'll see a bookshelf with all the classics, then nestled in between Nabakov and Tolstoy, you see Spderman comics. That's awesome. So anyway, to me, a book shelf has a many images and themes to build poems.

Posted on Thursday 01 of September, 2005 [11:41:03 UTC]

For all you collectors of dust sparkles, leave holes, and dirty brown shoes...yes, you, I'm talking to poets, of course. I need your submissions!! LE Quarterly has already gotten a couple of submissions, well, two to be exact. I cannot whisper, sneeze, or blink my eyes really fast to give you any kind of hint about them. Good? Bad? Eyeball shattering? Perhaps, you'll have to wait until October 15th to find out.

Meanwhile, if you want to be helpful, and you really want to see LE Quarterly take off, submit something. I will pay you at least $3-$5 per poem, and $10-$15 per short story. (If it's earth shattering, of course!!)

Concrete details are important for this literary journal. Concrete details that are creatively delivered will be awesome.

You can write any genre of short story. You can start writing it now!

Here are some prompts for a short story:

1. A woman in a power suit picks her nose behind a stop sign.

2. A young man forgets to bring condoms on a date with the young woman he's been trying to 'score' with for over six months.

3. A father tells his daughter to pull his finger. She repeats the episode at school then gets sent to the principals office.

4. A suicidal teenager takes to art as a refuge. This teenager shows an incredible level of maturity and depth in his/her art, but when he/she paints a portrait of a naked woman holding a stop sign, the teenager is expelled and subsequently chastised.

5. A woman shows up for her first day at the elementary school as a substitute teacher and is met with a new student who speaks absolutely no English.

6. A child finds a message in a bottle at the beach.

7. You woke up one day, looked in the mirror, and saw the person you despise the most.

8. There really are Martians living in Colorado.

9. A fly in your soup reminds you of a friend you went to college with.

10. It's the holiday season, and the office has a Christmas tree that accumulates new items each day: paper clips, bait tackle, potato-chip bag clips, potato chips, and that one thing that you got in trouble for putting on there....you know what it is...

Posted on Friday 24 of June, 2005 [21:30:06 UTC]

Some people buy expensive cars, fancy laptops, big-screen t.v's or high fashion shoes.

Well, I'm going to ride my 1997 Nissan, do my writing on an AlphaSmart, watch Oprah on an 18" Tele, and wear my 5 year old Birkenstocks for a little longer than expected.

I've decided to invest my time and money into an online literary journal called LE Quarterly. Now, I know this is going to be an exhausting adventure, but luckily, the literary community is a pretty charitable one. Members from my website: www.literaryescape.com, have offered their diverse expertise in the editing department. Editors from other lit zines have given me incredible advice!!

I'm off, and I'm in a new kind of debt. I'm excited, scared, tired, and hungry, but it will all be worth it.

If you are still reading my blurb and are wondering what writers will get for contributing, go to the website at http://www.literaryescape.com/journal for more information.

We will pay, yes. We will pay. It will be a small compensation, right from the pocket of me, but it will be something.

How on earth am I going to do this? Argh. I will write countless articles for content sites to garner more and more mula to fund the ads, the server, the software, and of course, the contributors.

Posted on Thursday 23 of June, 2005 [11:47:11 UTC]

Been smoking outside. Hands are
shaky
and I am not writing
quite
so well. .....sssss.....eeeee.....rrrrr....


Anyway, it is difficult not stuffing a cigarette in my mouth when trying to concoct, research, and scrutinizes subject matter for my most recent articles.

Argh. I want one now.

Goin' outside, I guess. Too bad I live in Iceland.

Posted on Friday 22 of April, 2005 [01:49:12 UTC]

I started the Fire and Ice writer's group here in Iceland and it is way cool. He he. Well, there are officially 3 members and we are each incredibly diverse. One is a fantasy writer, the other is a horror writer, and then there's me, the literary fiction/poetry writer.

Interestingly enough, though this odd conglomeration of writing desires was what I feared most before ever starting the group, I find that it creates a powerful boost in creative writing. We read all kinds of stories, write on weird subjects, and my little bout of writing constipation --well, it has ceased.

I haven't written very many articles for money, though, but that's okay. I really want to focus on the fun stuff.

I think the possibilities are limitless with such a little group. I'm thinking of really focusing on each of our writing projects. I want to write a new book of poetry, and well, I think the other two writers are working on novels. It would be awesome for us to support eachother with each of these goals.

Another cool idea would for us to publish an anthology right here at lulu!!! Maybe proceeds can go to a charity for the proliferation of literacy!

I'm gonna toss that idea around at my next meeting.

Whelp, I'm just so excited that my tummy is doing flips.

See y'all later!!

Devrie

Posted on Sunday 03 of April, 2005 [08:43:24 UTC]

I got a brand new journal in the mail the other day. On top of that, I decided to take one of those Barnes and Noble University classes called, "Writing Poetry." I really don't know how to measure the worth of such a class other than my writing has once again become prolific.

No more verbal constipation.

I'm writing something. I have journal entries and poems. Still, my writing is sloppy; I have scratch marks, and lined out phrases, and my beautiful journal is tainted by my chaotic ink.

I'm getting over the frustration of that, though. I guess I'm starting to appreciate my hairline scribbles.

Short blog.

Longer journal entries.

Yipee!

Posted on Thursday 10 of March, 2005 [01:06:16 UTC]

Yesterday, I got a big shipment of literary books. I got The Art and Craft of Poetry, Gotham Writers Workshop, Fiction Gallery, Teach Yourself: Writing Poetry,and Making Shapely Fiction. One of the people I work with saw my literary attack, and I assured him that I have plenty more books at home. He said something that I found slightly insulting. He said, "You can't rely too heavily on books."

Well. Hmph. I suppose I could let my feelings guide my hands in writing poetry, but I bet the editors who, by the way, have more than likely majored in the literary arts, would notice my lack of knowledge concerning the world of poetry and literary fiction. Actually, you know what? I already tried that. I did, and I submitted my emotionally charge poems to countless reliable literary entites with no success.

The truth is that poetry is an art. It entails knowledge and finesse. You can't just do it because you like to and expect the world to think your poetry is great. I think it does involve passion, but neglecting to read and learn about the craft will leave your poetry unappreciated in your silly little journal at home--or in some vanity press anthology that you paid $39.95 to buy.

Ugh. I know I am awful. I'm a big fat squasher of hopes and dreams for countless people who have yet to read contemporary poetry yet call themselves poets.

And this, my friends, concludes my rant.

No it doesn't. You know what? The reason this ticks me off a little is because poetry is so unpopular. I think one of the reasons it is unpopular is because people aren't reading the good stuff: the stuff that's being published by reputable lit journals.

Please, please, please, if you claim to be a poet, and you use words like crimson and heart in your poetry. I implore you to read what real publishers publish. And for the love of the craft, don't go around pushing your poetry on everyone.

I don't know why people are so ademate about NOT learning about the craft. From some of the worst writers of poetry, I hear, "I don't want to spoil my own style by reading other people's poetry." Or I hear, "I want to do it my own way; I don't need lessons or instruction." The problem with this attitude is that these people are clueless, and they are hoping to become accomplished and notable poets. If, on the other hand, these people were only doing it privately, for themselves, then of course there would be no need to read read read read. --but they want to be published!!

I've been writing poetry for years and I have yet to find the right poem, yet people come along and write about floods of tears and expect people to brand them as literary geniuses.


Whoa. My rant is heated and ugly. I apologize for this mess. It is only my opinion...though some of it is true.

I'm going to go on a sharp turn. I apologize for the centrifugal pull of my abrupt turn.

Then...there are other poets who defy what's popular in contemporay poetry. They defy structure and form, yet they have the uncanny ability to evoke, to conjure a connection with the reader. I think the bottom line, really, is originality.

Tim Reedy is one of these poets. I don't know how he does it. I mean, it is possible that his works will not be discussed by the New York Times, but everyone I know who has read his poetry has been sucked into his images--streamlined, raw, simple, yet two-folded.

I don't think he has a Masters of Fine Arts in Poetry, and I am not sure how many writing seminars he may or may not have attended, but he has a natural talent. That kind of talent: his unusual style might actually be somewhat hindered by a plethoral of writing books and classes.

Perhaps every poet feels he has this uncanny ability. Sadly, they don't. The problem is that not everyone likes to write poetry, so when someone has the affinity for it, he/she feels he/she must have some unusual talent for it.

All I know about my own writing is that I am still working. Perhaps I will work on it until I die. Maybe I will never perfect it, but I sure like trying to. In fact, I have seen an improvement. So there.

Posted on Sunday 06 of March, 2005 [18:23:34 UTC]

When we write well, I mean, real good, we peel the thin layer of our world from our skin. We wrap it up, squish it, and bleed it. We take what we squeeze from it and make ink that stings, buzzes, vibrates, floats. Whatever it does, it does. It just does. Ink that doesn't do it, usually dries up before it even touches a notebook.

The thing about it is this: the active ingredient for ink that, well, does its thing, is truth. T+R+U+T+H. I write what I know, and though I have found what I believe to be incredible beauty in some of my worst memories, even writing about those sulfer stained things can make someone else who was there get really-- really upset. That's exactly what I did. I wrote it. I wrote a poem in my chapbook, "Something In the Dirt," called "Childhood in Mondex."

When my mother got a copy of my chapbook, she told me that she wanted nothing to do with promoting it. Why? Because, so she says, it makes her look like trailor trash. It's ironic, I think, that what I thought was splendor, to her was embarrassing. So what? We sat on a septic tank hill and counted stars and looked for UFO's. I'll never forget those nights.

So? She got drunk a couple of times. Who doesn't? If it weren't for my mother, I would never see the world from every angle. I would look at a straight line, never turn my head, I would fall then break my neck trying to get back up.

I hope she knows to look for something in the dirt...I mean, she always taught me to do just that. I did. I did, and I wrote about it.

Posted on Saturday 05 of March, 2005 [15:33:07 UTC]

I have journals. I have green floral mystifying journals, black blank page journals, oriental design journals. I have journals in my bedroom, in my desk, under my bed, on my head, in my ears, in the mail...

I have journals.

So why am I sitting here at my desk (a desk cluttered with diet Pepsi cans, empty coffee cups, and cigarette ashes...why am I floating my thoughts off into cyber space?

About a week ago, I was talking to my mother on the phone, a much more convienient task than actually writing a letter, and we were discussing the value of hand written words. She said that she really missed getting something in the mail. So after I hung up with her, I found a little stationary set that was stashed in the dark spider webbed nether regions of my desk drawer. I took out a pen and started writing to her.

Free writing never came so easily to me! I found a new way to write every day, or at least once a week. I have a purpose in writing to her, and that is very different then when I sit down in front of an empty notebook or journal and tell myself, "Okay, now write something." What's more valuable is that now my mother has something interesting, well something new, to read every week, and if she is in the mood to write, she will now have writing prompts.

So this is my tip to all those creative writers out there who are struggling to free write: Write letters.

As for my journals, well, no one said I had to write in them. I'm sure I will once again. By looking at my entries, my writing seems to parallel the seven year solar cycle.

Dev

Posted on Tuesday 22 of February, 2005 [03:27:13 UTC]

I have journals. I have green floral mystifying journals, black blank page journals, oriental design journal. I have journals in my bedroom, in my desk, under my bed, on my head, in my ears, in the mail...

I have journals.

So why am I sitting here at my desk (a desk cluttered with diet Pepsi cans, empty coffee cups, and cigarette ashes...why am I floating my thoughts of into cyber space?

About a week ago, I was talking to my mother on the phone, a much more convienient task than actually writing a letter, and we were discussing the value of hand written words. She said that she really missed getting something in the mail. So after I hung up with her, I found a little stationary set that was stashed in the dark spider webbed nether regions of my desk drawer. I took out a pen and started writing to her.

Free writing never came so easily to me! I found a new way to write every day, or at least once a week. I have a purpose in writing to her, and that is very different then when I sit down in front of an empty notebook or journal and tell myself, "Okay, now write something." What's more valuable is that now my mother has something interesting, well something new, to read every week, and if she is in the mood to write, she will now have writing prompts.

So this is my tip to all those creative writers out there who are struggling to free write: Write letters.

As for my journals, well, no one said I had to write in them. I'm sure I will once again. By looking at my entries, my writing seems to parallel the seven year solar cycle.

Dev

Posted on Tuesday 22 of February, 2005 [03:26:26 UTC]