by Hannah Whitman

photo: The House was a Part of Her,
and Now She’s a Part of the House, by Lydia Selk

I had a dream there were alleyways

that stretched across the earth,

Cobblestone hallways

sweating condensation

since the darkness’ birth.

Shivering, dripping I walked

under the sinking moonlight,

All those times we’d talked

you were always right.

It’s better to just forget your name

so you won’t disappoint yourself,

I don’t know from where I came

but I know I’m better off somewhere else.

You said The Man will bleed you dry

There is not gonna be a solution,

Gonna get fucked up tonight

This is a goddamn revolution.

A table sat in the middle of a room

Huddled shapes and shadows dance,

Conspiring inside the freezing tomb

you all stared at me as if in a trance.

My friends all had the same style

Cakey teeth and numb gums,

Retina pins that went on for miles-

When the world has ended and

there’s no more roads-

those pins will be the last ones.

We walk ourselves to the darkest

corners of the earth

and complain there is no light,

So when I die I don’t know my worth

and that’ll make everything alright.
When I die you won’t know my worth,

I wasn’t even worth a try.

You can believe in what you need

but I believe in evolution,

Living alone is living free

This is a goddamn revolution.

You said this world was a conspiracy

and we won’t stand in formation,

I’m only scared of facing me

We are our own creations.

by Sage Cohen

Creating a successful writing life depends as much on our attitudes, strategies and systems, as it does on great writing. Follow the steps below to create your own productivity blueprint, and make 2011 your best writing and publishing year yet.

Define what success means to you

Since we generally accomplish close to 25 percent of the goals we set, I propose that we aim for Paradise x 4, in order to ultimately arrive at Paradise in 2011. This gives us permission to dream bigger than what seems realistic, and achieve more than we ever imagined.

Following are some questions to help you start painting your own Paradise x 4 picture. Remember to aim wildly, embarrassingly high. Don’t let your ideas of what’s possible limit you.

• What are you striving to accomplish in terms of: publication, income, awards, leadership opportunities, time and flexibility for continued writing this year?
• What is the ideal mix of time spent working (at a job), writing, sleeping, playing, and enjoying friends and family?
• What topic or genre do you want to be known and sought out for––to teach, read, lecture, or mentor?

Keep in mind that your picture of Paradise x 4 will be continuously evolving. Let your list be fluid, as you clarify your vision along the way.

Create targeted schedules that maximize available time and align with key goals.

No matter what type of writing you’re doing, whether there is an external deadline or not, a schedule can help. Because writers need to see, clear as a successful simile, where and how writing time is going to fit into our lives. Let’s say you expect to have three hours of writing time per day. You could break it down like this:

• 1 hour per day: write novel
• 1 hour per day: write magazine articles or essays
• 1 hour per day: query/proposal/submissions work

Or like this:

• Mondays, 3 hours: write novel
• Tuesdays, 3 hours: write magazine articles or essays
• Wednesdays, 3 hours: query/proposal/submissions work
• Thursdays, 3 hours: develop nonfiction book concept or content
• Fridays, 3 hours: promotion/platform development/professional development

I propose that you block off in your calendar the hours you expect to spend on each task or deadline each day. Then refine, as you learn more about what works best for you. For example, I now know that nonfiction writing flows best for me in the early mornings and poetry works best after 8:00 p.m.; so I plan my time that way. Perhaps the greatest value of this process is having hard proof that there are actually enough hours available to accomplish what you have set out to do.

Stay motivated, work with resistance, and keep moving forward

Staying motivated with writing is a very personal process. That’s why I’m going to invite you right now to name and claim the carrots-on-sticks that work best to keep you moving forward toward your goals.

Various dimensions of your writing life may be devoted to different carrots. The key is to be clear about why you’re in motion, and to give yourself a good reason to keep moving forward.

Let’s say that you craft poems for emotional release, you write and edit corporate newsletters to support your family, you publish non-fiction articles to build your platform and share wisdom, and you’re writing a novel because you know this is your life’s work. Each type of writing has a different motivation and reward, and the only person to keep you accountable is you.

When you get frustrated that that corporate newsletter is taking time that could be going toward your novel, remember that it paid for your daughter’s braces, as well as that weeklong writing intensive you took with your favorite novelist. When the query to the magazine of your dreams is rejected and you’re considering calling it quits, remember your unique insight will be valuable to both your future readers and your platform; then send that query off to the next publication on your list.

In short, let the imagined reward drive every action you take. This will keep you focused on and committed to future successes, rather than derailed by temporary setbacks along the way.

Prioritize your projects using the 3 Ps of productivity

Your most successful projects will be the ones that passionately engage you from start to finish. Try evaluating new opportunities, or prioritizing existing ones, using the 3 Ps of productivity:

1.      Pleasure. If you enjoy what you are doing, you’ll be far more likely to continue doing it, and eventually be successful at it.

2.      Possibility. If you are clear about the value of any process, project, or opportunity––in other words, how it makes your goals, desires, and dreams more possible––you are far more likely to stay on course, even when the going gets rough.

3.      Prosperity. Your writing projects should fill you up: with skills, confidence, expertise, money, information, inspiration, recognition, or authority. It’s not necessarily realistic to expect all of these, all at once, but it’s important to recognize at least one or two key ways that a project feels “prosperous” for you.

If you focus on all projects that give you the 3 Ps first, the energy and satisfaction you gain will do wonders for your long-term momentum and endurance.

Celebrate like your writing depends on it––because it does

We all know what a difference a little appreciation can make, especially when we are busting our butts (and an occasional button) to accomplish some very strenuous goals.

That’s why one of the most important jobs you have as a writer is to celebrate yourself, your successes, your failures, your willingness to take risks, your ability to follow through on your commitments, and your capacity to work through fear when it comes up—the whole shebang. When you really start to authentically feel accountable to, and appreciated by yourself, you can transform from a person needing validation to a deeply secure person who is confident about his or her chosen work and path.

Measure, monitor, and modify as you go

Pay attention to what’s working well in your writing life, and do more of it. The strategies and systems that get results should be added to your arsenal. The attitudes that keep you focused, grateful and solution-oriented should be invited to stay. The pieces that are well loved by editors and readers may be the key to larger projects or themes that have been yet to be unearthed.

The more you write and submit, the better you’ll know who you are, how you work, what you have to say, and what makes your productivity process tick. Keep moving toward the writing life of your dreams, and you may be surprised by how quickly it becomes reality.

___________________

Sage Cohen is the author of The Productive Writer: Tips & Tools to Help You Write More, Stress Less & Create Success (Writer’s Digest Books, 2010), Writing the Life Poetic: An Invitation to Read and Write Poetry (Writer’s Digest Books, 2009) and the poetry collection Like the Heart, the World. Visit Sage at pathofpossibility.com.

by Hannah Whitman

"Ballerina Dreams" by Lydia Selk

by Hannah Whitman

There’s this ghost inside my room

we’ve become good friends,

we watch the shadows on my wall

and lay down on my bed.

I tell her all my secrets

She tells me stories of the grave,

the cold, the dark, the dampness

she’s become their slave.

Her hands are cold, her lips are blue

her heart no longer beats,

awake in spirit but forever under

the curse of eternal sleep.

I always wondered who she was

but was too afraid say,

until one day I sat her down

and asked her for her name.

She smiled. “You know who I am”

I simply said “I do?”,

she put her lips up to my ear

and whispered “I am you”.

by Hannah Whitman

"Diana and the Wooden Wall" by Lydia Selk

I put on my best dress for you,

even though I wasn’t supposed to.

I shined up my shoes and did up my hair,

raced off to the station- at noon you’d be there.

I imagined what my momma would say,

when she finally realized I had run away.

But nothing mattered when in your arms,

those eyes would melt me, keep me safe from harm.

I dreamed of your hands, stepped onto the track,

imagined your fingers sliding down my back.

I closed my eyes, the train crept behind,

my dress would get torn but at least you’re on time.

1 Comment

 
By Daniel Coshnear

"Girl #8" by Lydia Selk

Breathtakingly
So often precedes beautiful
Maybe it’s the alliteration we like
Or the rollercoaster of four syllables
Before three
Do the Buddhists say Breathtakingly Beautiful?
Sure, I remember crushes
The surprise of her face by my locker
Leaning in, smiling, seeing through me
My ears beating blood
Face burning
Like hitting an air pocket
Like sudden cold water
And later, the smell of her shampoo
Could catch me up, a junior seizure
Try this one, though:
She’s not much taller than your knee
Her wet fist tight round your finger
As you cross the highway
Her pale curls, her frail neck
You reach into your mailbox
She pulls away, falling, toddling
On tiny useless feet
Into the vortex of rushing traffic
It was a tall brown blur
Squeak of bouncing springs
Shriek of steel brakes
A UPS truck, the driver
Sitting high and straight
Behind a flat sheet of glass
Your eyes locked on his
Your knees locked
Your lungs, as if shocked
As if repulsed
As if the air itself were poison
The God of Genesis
Breathed life into His created
Breathe, they tell you
They told me, just breathe
You’re okay, she’s okay, it’s okay
You lost your breath is all
Too beautiful.

Daniel Coshnear – dan@coshnear.org – lives in Guerneville, California, works at a group home, and teaches writing in a variety of San Francisco Bay Area extension programs. He is the author of a collection of stories, Jobs & Other Preoccupations (Helicon Nine).

By Waights Taylor

"Rainbow Connection", by Lydia Selk

Meandering out of the north, the Russian
River is enveloped in winter’s grip:
steely dark waters, gray skies, bare trees,
and muddy banks filled with detritus
and flotsam from floods gone by.

The river wends around Fitch
Mountain ever seeking a path beneath
the dark skies to its destiny with the sea,
while daffodils, acacias, and mustard raise their
golden plumes to harken spring’s coming.

He meanders under the river’s two steel trestles—
a railroad bridge and a bridge for automobiles—
black holes for polluting fossil fuels.
Two fishermen stand on the railroad
bridge pier baiting their hooks.

The river and the mountain have so much
to tell—stories of the people who inhabited this land.
But first came the forces of nature:
the earthquakes, the glaciers, the floods;
shaping the land and its contours.

The first tribes came across the land bridge
from Asia’s frozen tundra to the warm valleys.
The Pomo people shared the land with
the fish, fowl, and animals—none were
denied their dignity and right to survival.

The land gave the Pomo the acorns and seeds
for their pistules and the reeds for their baskets.
The river seemed to flow upstream, awash in bright
vermillion as instinctive salmon and steelhead
thrashed to their ancestral breeding grounds.

For thousands of moons, the Pomo lived
as one with the land until the strangers came.
First, the conquistadores came from the south
with their missions, ranchos, and a new god.
The Pomo’s expulsion from the land had started.

Then from the west came the Cossacks
seeking new territories for furs, sea otters,
and trade. They also brought measles and
smallpox. An epidemic swept the people—
a tortured push from the land.

And finally, the allure of gold created a stampede
of Americans from the east—the Forty-Niners denuded
the mountains in their lust and then turned their
insatiable desire for land upon the Pomo, pushing
the people away by treachery, pestilence, and massacre.

The new people prospered, altering the land and
river with the trappings of the new society:
highways, bridges, and shopping centers.
The land was used for hops and prunes, and finally
grapes for wine to satiate Dionysus’s minions.

The past, not to be forgotten, the Pomo people
returned with a bag of chips in one hand and
a bag of fool’s gold in the other. The Pomo casino,
a temple to mammon, rises over the river
valley tempting all as Circe did Odysseus.

He yells to the fishermen, “Having any luck?”
“Nah,” says the fisherman.
“Whatcha fishing for—steelhead?”
“Yeah.” He walks away thinking,
“Where did all the salmon and steelhead go?”

Waights Taylor is a poet, playwright, and prose writer. His first book, Alfons Mucha’s Slave Epic – An Artist History of the Slavic People, was published in 2008, and his second book, Our Southern Home: Scottsboro to Montgomery to Birmingham – The Transformation of the South in the Twentieth Century, will be published in early 2011.

by Ann Carranza

"Cheeky Baby" photo by Lydia Selk

She was 14, this bright girl
with no promise in her future

Eyes dark and hair, too

Her captivating smile
darts from
a two-dimensional photo
the first time I see her face.

School, oh she wants school.
School in Mexico?
far outside the realm of
financial reality
School, her father says, is wasted on girls—they
only get married.

My head goes up in flames as
I negate that statement
in strong terms and loud
voice;
convincing no one but myself

but she comes, instead
this immigrant girl. Her path dangerous
her mother afraid;
But now she’s here, here
and
we breathe sighs of relief.

The first week of junior high
they move her to the high school
ready and eager for higher learning.

And school is challenging.
English?
Incomprehensible language
with rules that change
in mysterious ways.

You try algebra
in a foreign language
and see how well you do.

She graduates with
bright plans of a college
future….
then fate intervenes with
out-of-state student fees and tuition

Despite 10-hours days and backbreaking
work; her father, now convinced, cannot
spare the money for college

She becomes a CNA
with decent pay
but still she lives in the shadows
of fear of deportation—as
she takes care
of your parents and mine
in the last days of their lives.

The promise of that mica
that precious piece of plastic
that would give her permission to live without fear
and to embrace
the dream
outside the shadows remains in the mists of ether.

Ah, papers,
the papers, the papers, the papers

The System—another
incomprehensible
with rules that change
in mysterious ways and
with passing time.

Living without
fear—a most tenuous concept
and only
an allusion to,
an illusion of
the American dream.

The price of peace an isolated promise
in a visa held captive
by yearly quotas
and an unending backlist.

They say—those
who do not know—they say
come here legally

never knowing
that an immigrant girl could die
waiting to do it
“right.”

She counts the years
in the demise
of babies—brother, cousin, cousin—
lost to poverty.

Now she counts the years
waiting in limbo
14 years—waiting as long as her age
when she arrived…
15 years, 16, 17…

She is trying to do it right.

Her daughters,
her partner—also a limbo-liver—
wait
to be unafraid.

The American
Dream?

Lies…

just outside her grasp.

Ann Carranza is a freelance writer, blogger and photographer.  She lives in Healdsburg with husband, Leonel, younger son, Travis, and cockatiel, Luna.  When she’s not writing, she can be found chasing things that flit, fly and run with her camera. Learn more about Ann at: www.anncarranzacreations.com and www.yourtown.pressdemocrat.com

by Hannah Whitman

I feel the cold embrace
of these sullen shadows
thats all thats left of my reflection.
Reaching out to touch my face
I feel your cheeks are sallow
yet you’re still the picture of perfection

Hannah Whitman is 16 years old. She has loved writing short stories since she can remember, and as she grew, she started writing songs and poetry, also. She loves songs that make her “have to think long and hard” and that she can “relate to”. She says she likes to write in that same way, and she invites her readers to interpret what she writes in any way they want to make what she writes mean something to them.

Blue Damselfly by Louise Docker

by Cynthia Beecher

They switch places
To learn what the other knows

She usually leads
Her arrows ready
The gold dipped tips
Sharp and intuitive

It’s her turn to ride in back

He rides forward
Free to lead her
He can no longer say
I only went along

She never before saw his flowers turning into butterflies
Nor felt the breeze of wings
Never tasted the nectar drops carried by the flower
Shaken from the tip of the butterfly tongue

Taste my nectar
Lift my face to the sun
Warm my brown face
Heat up my ears
Wake up my dreams

There is no destination
Only you
Only me

Cynthia Helen Beecher spent nine years on the continent of Africa, beckoned there to witness original humanity. She is the author of The Rainmaker’s Dog, and has published photography, non-fiction, poetry, and short stories. She will write until all the stories are told.

Lovely Sunset Sky

by Patricia McCaron

Hey, Listen to this.
The poetry of story.
A poet tells a story about stories.
Poetry, gossip and the pursuit of
Pleasure.
Is there any other way?
Now what do you think of me?
You’ve got to stop and be there
for the poem as long as it takes.
Just stand still.
Wherever you are is called here,
and the song goes on.
The time will come when you can
feast on your life.
We sit by the fire and tell stories
because each of us tells the same
story but tells it differently,
and we will honor all stories.
Remember, the world offers
itself to your imagination.
One of the best things life ever
handed me was my faithful dog.
and what do you want to remember?

Just remember now.

Wherever you go, right now.
Keep it for life.

________________________________

Patricia McCaron is a third generation native San Franciscan, an abstract painter, collage artist and poet.

Last 5 posts by Guest Poet

• A Poem by Daniel Coshnear - December 17th, 2010
• The River and The People - December 17th, 2010
• Immigrant Girl - December 17th, 2010
• I Feel the Cold Embrace - June 29th, 2010
• A Breeze of Wings - June 29th, 2010