Elizabeth Dutton's Blog, page 11

short listed and it feels so good

My poem, t.e.n., didn’t win or place in the Fish Publishing 2012 Poetry Prize, but it did get short listed, which is quite an honor. More than 1,500 poems were submitted (only one of which was from me). The judges called my poem “profound and very beautifully expressed” and said “the image of the walker with the birch scroll, the lilting cadences, the lyricism of the final stanza, all contribute to an almost myth-like description of the struggle for sanity that results in a most moving poem.” They also said it was a bit obscure and could use some explication, which I understand. I kind of like reading things that make me do a little research, but I am weird that way.

No matter how you slice it, though, the whole thing is pretty swell.

This summer will be packed with writing — completing the first draft of novel #2, an experiment with totally revising novel #1, and working on a collection of poems about journeys and movement and the power of place. I am thrilled to soon be fully immersed in words (that are my own).

how strange it is to be anything at all

 

awesome:

new air conditioner WITH REMOTE CONTROL

signing up for free online university courses just for shits and giggles

Italian beauty products

talking about poetry (but not in an obnoxious way)

 

non-awesome:

people who stink of cigarette smoke

intellectual laziness

paperwork of any kind

delight

 

Oh, it's a salve to my soul to be told kind things about my work. Received a very flattering critique today. Add that to lovely weather and top-notch friends and family and this here Wednesday is a total delight.

 

day is done

Thanks Baba Ram

 

 

I always need to be reminded to have compassion. For myself, family, loves, friends, total strangers, the irritating, the morally and politically repugnant. Shit's not easy, but if we are to BE HERE it must be done.

This is the greatest challenge we face, but it's also pretty much the key to everything. Try it. It's awesome. This is the solution and the answer to all the questions. So there you go. You're welcome.

Also, if you say "beer can" with a British accent, you are also saying "bacon" with a pretty righteous Jamaican accent. Again, you're welcome.

shazam and xo

*disappears into a wisteria-scented puff of smoke*

no mas

 

Three things I could do without from here until the end of time:

1) Old white men wanting to make decisions about women's health and reproduction. Shut your gaping maws.

2) Hearing someone tell me how amazing Eric Clapton is on guitar. He's soulless. Get over it.

3) Being aggressively "informed" about the Illuminati. This is usually accompanied by talk of our televisions watching us. Turn it off, then, and read a book. Gah.

 

I love you all.

keep the lighthouse in sight

 

awesome:

spring cleaning

comfort food

hilarious texts

Paul Simon's "Graceland" album

mockingbirds singing in early blooming trees

 

non-awesome:

anti-human/anti-kindness/anti-love rhetoric in the name of elections/power grabs

the lack of free, instant teletransportation for travel (I sound like Karl Pilkington)

eyelid twitches

tough choices

waiting

 

 

Here’s the thing: words and worth

 

But not Wordsworth, not today.

 

I spend a lot of time trying to convince my students of their own self-worth. They are easily discouraged and that breaks my heart because it’s a feeling I know all too well. One of the reasons life can be so fucking hard is because we have skewed measures of our own worth. We feel as if our worth is measured by our looks or what we own or the title of our job. And when we stumble in our performance — a bad grade or an error in a project — that feeling of worth dissolves even more.

I am currently waiting to hear back from an agent who asked to read my entire first novel. Being between agents makes me feel worthless. Each day that passes that I don’t hear from this potential agent, my worth slips a little (at least in my estimation). My worth, for me, is in words. And right now I don’t feel like I have a lot to show for it.

It’s funny, then, that I am urging my students to ignore the same instincts that bring me down. All I want for them is to know that their worth is endless and derived simply from their existence. They are here. They are in a classroom. They are learning. They are living. They are here. This should be enough.

Here’s the thing: I dish advice all day long to students and friends and family. I need to take my own words, the words I value do dearly, I need to take them seriously. You can’t minimize your essential role in this life and neither can I.

 

xo

 

Here's the thing: words and worth

 

But not Wordsworth, not today.

 

I spend a lot of time trying to convince my students of their own self-worth. They are easily discouraged and that breaks my heart because it's a feeling I know all too well. One of the reasons life can be so fucking hard is because we have skewed measures of our own worth. We feel as if our worth is measured by our looks or what we own or the title of our job. And when we stumble in our performance — a bad grade or an error in a project — that feeling of worth dissolves even more.

I am currently waiting to hear back from an agent who asked to read my entire first novel. Being between agents makes me feel worthless. Each day that passes that I don't hear from this potential agent, my worth slips a little (at least in my estimation). My worth, for me, is in words. And right now I don't feel like I have a lot to show for it.

It's funny, then, that I am urging my students to ignore the same instincts that bring me down. All I want for them is to know that their worth is endless and derived simply from their existence. They are here. They are in a classroom. They are learning. They are living. They are here. This should be enough.

Here's the thing: I dish advice all day long to students and friends and family. I need to take my own words, the words I value do dearly, I need to take them seriously. You can't minimize your essential role in this life and neither can I.

 

xo

 

Downton letters sing this song: doo dah doo dah

To hell with email, phone calls, texts, twittles. From now on, I want all non-face-to-face communication to occur via small Downton Abbey style letters in small Downton Abbey style envelopes. Or via lurking in a doorway.

So say I.