Loading the canon, 2

While in Bowling Green, I sat in on a panel discussion of editors. The theory was that other lit mag editors would attend. But the organizers recognized that other people might come to hear what editors were looking for. And lo, we did.

Right away, someone asked whether editors still had the feeling of reading a submission and saying, "Wow! This is amazing!"; the flip side being just so much slush.

The response from the panelists was unanimous. They all felt the Wow! on a regular basis, and some editors told of going to editorial meetings and needing to fight for the work that wowed them. That gave me a more immediate picture of why I sometimes receive rejection notes that say, "Made it to the final round." Still a disappointment, but it's possible that someone went to advocate for it. Someone thought it belonged.

However, one editor said that he was looking for writers or work that might eventually become a part of the canon. (Oh, no pressure, though.)

What?

I've just been trying to write the best poems that I can, and suddenly they're supposed to be canon fodder?

I haven't sent anything out since, feeling now more than ever that everything must be scrutinized again. As if that will help. As if I feel ready for that level.

And then again, there are plenty of other magazines. But who, when presented with a high bar, wants to lower it? William Stafford—but who else?

Back to the poetry board...

From Mid-America

Pick up a copy of the Mid-American Review, if only for "Listening to the Dead," by Karin Gottshall, or "For I Will Consider My Houseplant Magda," by Hannah Gamble.

I was reading my copy on my way home from the Winter Wheat festival in Bowling Green, Ohio. It was a full-on adventure of sessions and readings.

Friday, I made squish art, wrote about objects and photographs, and sat in on a panel of editors, hoping to gain some insight into what editors are looking for (more on that later). After a little jaunt to the main street and dinner at the Easy Street Café, I heard Bruce Cohen and Khaled Mattawa read.

After a night of loud partying by my neighbors at the motel, I got an early start on Saturday, with a session on writing from the body (or what your gut tells you).

Then I sat in on a "poetics of place" session that was really about incorporating the syntax and rhythm and music of poetry in your prose to heighten your reader's experience, and the examples were rooted in a specific place, in conveying a specific place. This is probably the closest to a graduate-level class I'll ever get, and I was way out of my league, but it was invigorating to try to follow the conversation.

Next up, I led a session on "Writing Poems in a Series," and I learned a lot—about presenting a session and about different series that are out there. I'm still digesting it.

The last session, led by Alan Michael Parker, included some group poetry Mad-Libs and the art of the slow reveal. Mr. Parker also read on Saturday night, and provided some illumination on the true nature of prose poems.

Sunday was a driving and flying day. I'm back in my usual travel patterns between home and work and slowly integrating the weekend and its learning and writing into my now.

As promised,

a picture of the car:
My daughter: "That is so not you."

My sister: "OMG. I would give more than you could know to see you driving a cherry-red Mustang..."

Welcome to Bowling Green

It was a crisp, sunny day, so I walked around town a little before the Winter Wheat sessions started.
I liked this fancy clock tower. It's on the courthouse.

I also liked these dancing trees.

Town! I love these little towns with old buildings and wide streets and lots of light.

The cemetery right next to the campus, but the iron fence provided no visible entrance.

(When I looked at the map, I thought, "Of course, I'm going to teach my first class at a campus with its own cemetery.)

Cowgirl came to Motor City and got her a Mustang

A candy-red mustang! The woman at the rental car counter said, "I'm going to give you a free upgrade. You're going to like this car."

Like the car? I don't even like to drive that much. But it was fun, and a lot fancier than my usual ride.

And then I made it from Detroit to Bowling Green with no missed turns.

What? No pictures? It was dark last night, and this morning, it looks cold. But I'll venture out soon. Sessions begin in the afternoon today.

And then my husband said,

"Of course you're going to take your computer."

"No, I wasn't planning to."

"Well, you'll want to show everyone how you use OneNote."

Good point.

The computer's coming along. If the wi-fi works as advertised, I'll check in from Bowling Green.

Here and gone--to Ohio

Has it really been that long since I posted? I plead work deadlines and poetry readings, rather opposite ends of the spectrum.



Now, for my next adventure, I'm off tomorrow to Bowling Green, Ohio, for Winter Wheat, the Mid-American Review Festival of Writing. On Saturday, I'll be leading a session on one of my favorite subjects: writing poems in a series. If you're in the neighborhood, stop by and harvest all the goodness of Winter Wheat.

I won't bring my computer with me, but I will bring my camera (it's on the list), and I hope to have some pictures when I return west.