D.A. Powell ushers in Fall VWS

Posted by MS

DAPowell

San Francisco-based poet D.A. Powell is Butler’s first Visiting Writer of the fall series, which kicks off September 10 at 7:30 PM in the Clowes Memorial Hall Krannert Room. With five books of poetry under his belt, Powell’s latest, Useless Landscape, or A Guide for Boys, won the prestigious National Book Critics Circle Award in 2012.

The International Poetry Library of San Francisco writes that “Powell has a talent for expanding the lyric form into the experimental and metaphysical realm while simultaneously writing with an accessible, ‘everyman’ tone.”

In this way Powell allows his readers – or in our case, his listeners – to proverbially have their cake and eat it too. While the lyric form lends itself to volleys of wild, surprising, often unsettling imagery, Powell’s distinct “everyman tone” grounds his poems firmly. He is somehow both avant-garde and approachable. Even for the most reticent readers of poetry, those who balk at the first sign of a symbol, Powell provides secure footholds.

This of course means even those more firmly entrenched in prose have no excuse but to attend! But for those not sold, let’s take a look at “sprig of lilac” from Powell’s Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award-winning fourth book Chronic.

in a week you could watch me crumble to smut: spent hues
spent perfumes. dust upon the lapel where a moment I rested

yes, the moths have visited and deposited their velvet egg mass
the gnats were here: they smelled the wilt and blight. they salivated

in the folds of my garments: you could practically taste the rot

look at the pluck you’ve made of my heart: it broke open in your hands
oddments of ravished leaves: blossom blast and dieback: petals drooping

we kissed briefly in the deathless spring. the koi pond hummed with flies

unbutton me now from your grasp. no, hold tighter, let me disappear
into your nostrils, into your skin, a powdery smudge against your rough cheek

Powell’s language is luscious and daring, but evocative and resolutely clear, even on a first read. You can taste the heartsickness. Here, the speaker is the titular lilac sprig, spent and rotting, infested with insect eggs and dieback, its pollen no more than remnant traces of dust on the lapels of an old love. It speaks of a capricious spring romance, a broke-open heart turned to pluck, and two conflicting desires: one, to at once be ‘unbuttoned’ from the ache of the lover’s grasp, and the other, to have that intimacy restored, to be wholly consumed.

If you find yourself aching for more, admission is free, the event is open to the public—no tickets required. September 10. 7:30 PM. Clowes Memorial Hall Krannert Room. Be there, or be pluck.

“It’s like joining a running group…”

Posted by MS

how-i-write

craig mugCraig Parker graduated the MFA program in the spring. His thesis was the first 15 chapters of an ambitious novel that confronts birth and death, examines the human condition from multiple perspectives, and poses the question, “What would happen if, for a full 24 hours, everyone in the world stopped dying?” While he has left the program, he hasn’t left the community. He still regularly submits new chapters for Dialogue workshops.

I asked Craig to spill his post-MFA secrets: what keeps him inspired, what keeps him motivated, what keeps him writing?

I know it’s hard to tell when you look at me now, but up until a few years ago, I ran five days a week, usually four to six miles a day. I was never an athlete, but I was in reasonable shape, and I liked the way I felt after I ran. It was addictive. There were days when, if I couldn’t run, I was downright grumpy.

Then I went to grad school, started working two jobs, and continued being a father and husband whose domestic responsibilities included killing bugs, helping kids with homework, and cooking for the family. I love cooking. And eating. I was really busy, and the first thing that got shoved aside was running. I got fat. Fast.

I think writing is a lot like running. The hardest part is starting. Before every run, I would have a mental argument with myself, go through the list of all the things I could do that would be less strenuous. And usually my legs would still be a little sore from my last run, so there was a physical ache telling me to sit down. But I would always tell that inner voice to shut up, my aching legs to man up, and then spend the first five minutes of the actual run trying not to throw up. After those first five minutes everything smoothed out, and 45 minutes to an hour later I felt great. So great that I wanted to do it all over again.

First draft writing is the same, if not harder. There’s always something else I could be doing. I’m already on the computer. Netflix is a mouse click away. My Kindle is loaded with SciFi. I have to shut that lazy inner voice up. And there’s the sense-memory of boredom, the equivalent of aching legs, that I have to remind myself will go away. And those first five minutes – or ten, or twenty – are certainly nausea-inducing. But once those paragraphs or pages start rolling away under your fingers, man – is there any better feeling?

One of the great things about the MFA program is that it’s like joining a running group. There are consistent deadlines, other people in the program are constantly challenging you to write better, and you’re getting regular feedback, even if it’s not always positive. You’ve immersed yourself in a world of writing, so even when other people aren’t criticizing your work, you learn just as much (sometimes more) from reading and criticizing classmates’ work as you do from your own. Sometimes there’s even beer afterwards. And those Brew Pub conversations can be just as nurturing as the workshops that precede them.

So. Now I’ve graduated. No more workshop. No more regular feedback, deadlines, Brew Pub. To extend the metaphor, I have to be careful now not to get “fat” from not writing. I’ve seen it happen to other MFA grads. They take a break – just for the summer, they say – then the summer becomes six months, or a year. Next thing they know, they look in the mirror and don’t recognize themselves anymore. And that gut starts to look insurmountable.

I took a little break this summer. But a month ago, I started writing again. I’m lucky. I’m taking advantage of Dialogue workshops, I’ve got good friends who believe in the novel that I’m writing, and they want to read more of it. But even if I didn’t, I’m closely guarding that sense-memory of the post-writing buzz. I believe in what I’m doing. If I keep doing it, I’m confident I’ll feel great when it’s done. So great that I’ll want to do it again.

Do you have any habits or superstitions?

I’m pretty lucky for a couple of reasons. I have a job that allows me to write for large chunks of the day: usually I have three or four hours of real work, and with the rest I can do what I want. When I am working, it’s relatively mindless, repetitive stuff, so I can lose myself in the rhythm of what I’m doing and think about what I’m going to write, which is incredibly helpful. So when I sit down in front of the blank screen, most of the time I’ve thought through the scene I need to put on the page. And I’m not one of those writers who has to write at a certain time of day. If I have time in the morning, awesome. Afternoon, cool. Late night, not a problem.

As to superstitions, I’m a recovering atheist who has settled into a contented agnosticism. I’m skeptical of all things spiritual and/or metaphysical. That said, I do have to write pants-less; it allows my writing glands to breathe. But that’s not superstition, that’s science. And I do count all the syllables that I write on my teeth: if a story or chapter ends on an odd number, I’m overwhelmed by the sense that I’m going to die until I add that even syllable. But that’s not superstition, that’s math.

How do you begin a new chapter? What pieces need to be in place?

I’m bad about starting new chapters. I have to write my way into them and then revise the crap out of it later. But for first drafts (which is mostly what I have so far), I just throw everything I think of on the page and worry about it later.

I realized after writing the first half of the novel that so much was going to change in the next draft that sometimes it’s more important to get everything down uncensored, rather than worry about consistency or fixing every error. I have insights about characters that didn’t come until chapter 15 or 16, which makes something about them in chapter 2 completely useless. Oh well, that’s what drafts are for.

As to pieces in place, I don’t know. Sometimes that’s really helpful. But sometimes the work that most surprises and pleases me is the stuff that happens in the moment, when I haven’t thought through everything in a chapter and it just happens as I’m writing. Sometimes it’s good not to overthink.

“It’s like joining a running group…”

Posted by MS

how-i-write

craig mugCraig Parker graduated the MFA program in the spring. His thesis was the first 15 chapters of an ambitious novel that confronts birth and death, examines the human condition from multiple perspectives, and poses the question, “What would happen if, for a full 24 hours, everyone in the world stopped dying?” While he has left the program, he hasn’t left the community. He still regularly submits new chapters for Dialogue workshops.

I asked Craig to spill his post-MFA secrets: what keeps him inspired, what keeps him motivated, what keeps him writing?

I know it’s hard to tell when you look at me now, but up until a few years ago, I ran five days a week, usually four to six miles a day. I was never an athlete, but I was in reasonable shape, and I liked the way I felt after I ran. It was addictive. There were days when, if I couldn’t run, I was downright grumpy.

Then I went to grad school, started working two jobs, and continued being a father and husband whose domestic responsibilities included killing bugs, helping kids with homework, and cooking for the family. I love cooking. And eating. I was really busy, and the first thing that got shoved aside was running. I got fat. Fast.

I think writing is a lot like running. The hardest part is starting. Before every run, I would have a mental argument with myself, go through the list of all the things I could do that would be less strenuous. And usually my legs would still be a little sore from my last run, so there was a physical ache telling me to sit down. But I would always tell that inner voice to shut up, my aching legs to man up, and then spend the first five minutes of the actual run trying not to throw up. After those first five minutes everything smoothed out, and 45 minutes to an hour later I felt great. So great that I wanted to do it all over again.

First draft writing is the same, if not harder. There’s always something else I could be doing. I’m already on the computer. Netflix is a mouse click away. My Kindle is loaded with SciFi. I have to shut that lazy inner voice up. And there’s the sense-memory of boredom, the equivalent of aching legs, that I have to remind myself will go away. And those first five minutes – or ten, or twenty – are certainly nausea-inducing. But once those paragraphs or pages start rolling away under your fingers, man – is there any better feeling?

One of the great things about the MFA program is that it’s like joining a running group. There are consistent deadlines, other people in the program are constantly challenging you to write better, and you’re getting regular feedback, even if it’s not always positive. You’ve immersed yourself in a world of writing, so even when other people aren’t criticizing your work, you learn just as much (sometimes more) from reading and criticizing classmates’ work as you do from your own. Sometimes there’s even beer afterwards. And those Brew Pub conversations can be just as nurturing as the workshops that precede them.

So. Now I’ve graduated. No more workshop. No more regular feedback, deadlines, Brew Pub. To extend the metaphor, I have to be careful now not to get “fat” from not writing. I’ve seen it happen to other MFA grads. They take a break – just for the summer, they say – then the summer becomes six months, or a year. Next thing they know, they look in the mirror and don’t recognize themselves anymore. And that gut starts to look insurmountable.

I took a little break this summer. But a month ago, I started writing again. I’m lucky. I’m taking advantage of Dialogue workshops, I’ve got good friends who believe in the novel that I’m writing, and they want to read more of it. But even if I didn’t, I’m closely guarding that sense-memory of the post-writing buzz. I believe in what I’m doing. If I keep doing it, I’m confident I’ll feel great when it’s done. So great that I’ll want to do it again.

Do you have any habits or superstitions?

I’m pretty lucky for a couple of reasons. I have a job that allows me to write for large chunks of the day: usually I have three or four hours of real work, and with the rest I can do what I want. When I am working, it’s relatively mindless, repetitive stuff, so I can lose myself in the rhythm of what I’m doing and think about what I’m going to write, which is incredibly helpful. So when I sit down in front of the blank screen, most of the time I’ve thought through the scene I need to put on the page. And I’m not one of those writers who has to write at a certain time of day. If I have time in the morning, awesome. Afternoon, cool. Late night, not a problem.

As to superstitions, I’m a recovering atheist who has settled into a contented agnosticism. I’m skeptical of all things spiritual and/or metaphysical. That said, I do have to write pants-less; it allows my writing glands to breathe. But that’s not superstition, that’s science. And I do count all the syllables that I write on my teeth: if a story or chapter ends on an odd number, I’m overwhelmed by the sense that I’m going to die until I add that even syllable. But that’s not superstition, that’s math.

How do you begin a new chapter? What pieces need to be in place?

I’m bad about starting new chapters. I have to write my way into them and then revise the crap out of it later. But for first drafts (which is mostly what I have so far), I just throw everything I think of on the page and worry about it later.

I realized after writing the first half of the novel that so much was going to change in the next draft that sometimes it’s more important to get everything down uncensored, rather than worry about consistency or fixing every error. I have insights about characters that didn’t come until chapter 15 or 16, which makes something about them in chapter 2 completely useless. Oh well, that’s what drafts are for.

As to pieces in place, I don’t know. Sometimes that’s really helpful. But sometimes the work that most surprises and pleases me is the stuff that happens in the moment, when I haven’t thought through everything in a chapter and it just happens as I’m writing. Sometimes it’s good not to overthink.