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Recent thoughts about blogging

I love my blog.

I nearly said I "used to love" my blog. Because back in the day, I blogged all the time. I did projects. I shared thoughts.

Of course, once upon a time, nearly everyone was on LJ, and in the intervening years, most people scattered elsewhere, and it got harder to keep up with one another. And I got happier in my personal life, and less active in my online life, even though here inside the computer is where I can find so many of my friends. (So few are local - alas!) And I got more handicapped off and on by my autoimmune diseases, and fell off my blog entirely.

But here's the thing: I love my blog. I love sharing things with others, even though it's rare that I get tons of comments or feedback here. And I got to thinking how easy it is to STOP doing the things we like for a variety of reasons. (This is the first in one of several posts, and I have many thoughts on this.)

In the case of my blog, I think it's because I started to take it too seriously, and I therefore put pressure on myself to keep up in a particular way. I get that I "needed" to post reviews, since I'd done them. And month-long projects and readalongs (ditto). If I didn't have something brilliant to say, or couldn't come up with a "worthy" topic, why bother? (Makes me think of a line from Pride and Prejudice, in which Elizabeth Bennet says, ". . . unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb." That about sums it up, no?)

And the answer to the question whether I blog or not is - or should be - because I love my blog. I love those of you who read and those who comment. It helps me to organize my thoughts from time to time. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment, even if I'm not getting much other writing done.

So I'm going to see what I can do about blogging a bit more. Because I can. Because I want to.

I hope you'll read along. And maybe comment, now and again.

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Stuff. And bother.

Health issues, woe, etcetera.

Started a new drug for my rheumatoid arthritis. Hasn't helped the RA, so my pains are worse. But it did cause a fungal infection in my hands, so I can't say it didn't do anything.

Sorry for the suspension of this here blog over the past few months, and I plan on doing better. Probably starting soon. Because I have some thoughts I'd like to share, and get your take on.

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Today's poem is "inspired by" a poem by former Poet Laureate Kay Ryan, who is a favorite poet of mine. One of the things I admire so much about her is her dry wit, and also her use of internal rhyme, end rhyme, and slant rhyme and her focus on alliteration and assonance when writing her poems.

For this month's posts, my poetry sisters are using various of her poems (including "Turtle" and "All Shall Be Restored"). I opted to go with her poem "Atlas" as a model. Here is a link to the poem "Atlas", so you can read it. I love the ending: "there is so little/others can do:/they can’t /lend a hand/with Brazil/and not stand/on Peru."

To write my poem, which took far more thought and planning< I eventually seized on the idea of Sisyphus, pushing his boulder up the hill every day. And it resonated for me in lots of ways, especially since I have been in the throes of health issues lately. I've just started a new treatment protocol for my RA, and it isn't a one-dose fix. It's been wreaking havoc with my energy levels. But I digress . . . here's the poem.

by Kelly Ramsdell Fineman

No pill helps push
rocks up hill.
Each evening lands
just like a boulder.
“It’s life,” they say.
“You can keep going,
but you can’t keep
from growing older.”

Here are the links to the other Poetry Princesses, with their "in the style of" poems:


You can get to the rest of the Poetry Friday posts by clicking the box below:

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Two hundred words

This morning's writing session has resulted in two hundred new words on a picture book biography. That number is both true and false.

True: The manuscript is now almost exactly two hundred words longer than it was when I began my work this morning.

False: I edited out some of the words that were already in place - probably twenty or so - and I have written and re-written and inserted/deleted/inserted quite a number of others to get to where I am now.

And where I am now is in need of stopping. I need to be able to come back to what I've added today to see if it is doing what I want, going where I want, and so forth. Because going too far off the rails here, with too much unnecessary information, or skipping something that should be included, is a certain way to frustration.

I am quietly celebrating the growth of this manuscript, which is between 1/3 and 1/2 of the story, partly because it's the first time in a couple of weeks that I've made serious writing progress, and partly because I really love this project and want to see it completed and ready for beta readers.

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Today's review is a bit overdue - I read this book as soon as I got it, which was in advance of its release date - then put it aside. Glad I found it and read it again, so I could post about it!

This wonderful graphic novel is about an enterprising little girl who knows her way around. What I mean about that is not just that she knows the landscape (though she does), but also that she knows how to use tools. And seriously, knowing how to use tools properly is an important skill for all girls. I know I have benefited from it greatly over the years, from knowing the proper way to use a hammer, screwdriver, and wrench to knowing how to use a power sander, power drill, and power saw. But I digress . . . a little.

In this graphic novel, a small robot falls off the back of a truck, and is discovered and repaired by our enterprising main character, who wants the Little Robot to be her friend and show it the things she likes in the world.

Little Robot doesn't mind being her friend, but it also wants to find more robots to be friends with. All this while a giant robot retriever is stomping about trying to retrieve/capture Little Robot and take it back to the factory.

An absorbing, engaging story about childhood friendships, imagination, and ingenuity. With a robot dance party, no less.

For a review of a graphic novel best suited for teens, check out my post from Tuesday at Guys Lit Wire, about Exquisite Corpse by Pénélope Bagieu.

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. . . oft gang agley." Or so said Robert Burns, and I find him to be correct.

It occurred to me at bedtime last night that it was already several days into June, and I was supposed to be doing Brush Up Your Shakespeare posts, because I'd said so.

Only my health had other thoughts. I've been tapering off of prednisone, which on the one hand is a very good thing because of future health detriments, and on the other means my energy plummeted like whoa. And I am also about to switch medications for treating my RA, since the one I'm on hasn't completely contained things (meaning I have some swollen/warm joints along with aches & pains).

All of which is to say that I am sorry not to be doing daily Shakespeare posts so far, and may try to get some up as I'm able, but they may not be daily. As the old Yiddish proverb goes, "We plan, God laughs." (It means life doesn't work that way, of course, and not that God is especially cynical or in a hurry to thwart people's plans.)

In other news, I'm sitting down with myself and a cup of tea to have a planning session. Yes, I know what I just said, but I need a blueprint. And, apparently, to really write stuff down so I can stay on track (with myself).

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This month's project for my poetry sisters and I involved another ekphrastic poem, this time based on an extremely fierce sculpture by Mary Pownall (later Bromet), a British sculptor who was extremely well-known in the early 1900s and now doesn't even merit her own Wikipedia page.

We were provided with several photographs taken by Tanita Davis when she was in Scotland at the Kelvingrove Museum. Here's one of the images she shared with us of "The Harpy Celaeno":

Copyright 2016 Tanita S. Davis

And here is the poem I wrote:

The Harpy Celaeno
by Kelly Ramsdell Fineman

Winged monster,
eyes fixed in . . .

Darkest of harpies,
known to steal food,
drive men
to madness.

This female monster,
seen as a threat
with shrieks,
sharp talons.

This gripping sculpture,
bare-breasted, fierce,
herself her
own model.

First exhibited
the year she married:
Fair warning? or
last hurrah?

You can find the other poems based on this sculpture at the blogs of my lovely poetry friends:

Laura Purdie Salas
Sara Lewis Holmes
Tanita Davis
Tricia Stohr-Hunt
Liz Garton Scanlon

And for more Poetry Friday posts, click below to get to Jone's roundup:

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One of those days

It is one of those days when I keep opening documents to work on them, and I spend lots of time noodling around and trying (and failing) to make progress. Perhaps I am alone in this sort of activity, though I rather think not. It seems that the more one is convinced that something is singular, the less it's true, even if it manifests in different ways for people.

I suspect that today's lethargy is the result of a busy weekend, though my sweetheart did the lion's share of the work (he's a Leo, so "the lion's share" is doubly apt). He took down the popcorn ceiling in our bedroom - the last one remaining in the house - and we painted the ceiling (which needed two coats) and put the first coat of paint on the walls. It will need a second coat, despite being the sort of paint that is allegedly guaranteed to cover in one. Only this particularly shade of pale pink doesn't work that way.

Of course it doesn't.

Since Thursday, I've been tapering off prednisone. I haven't slept well, probably as a result. My energy levels are wobbly, at best, and today, I find I'm wrung out. Worse than that, I have that sort of feeling that I'm a pretender because I can't focus. A writer writes. An artist does art. I'm doing neither thing (or at least, I'm not getting anything accomplished when I try.) I must be a has-been. Worse than that, a never-was.

Again, I suspect I'm not the only person who has days like this. Although I do find myself wondering why it is that my nasty inner critic seems energized when the rest of me is so . . . not that.

All of which is to say that for those of you who have these days, please know you're not alone. And if you have had these sorts of days, I hope you'll drop a note, so I'll know that I'm not alone, either.

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I've been researching and writing, revising and writing, starting over again, etcetera this week. And it seems that perhaps I have finally started a draft of the picture book biography I'm working on that is doing what I would like it to do. Part of it is, of course, that I continue to seek after the "properly scholarly attitude."

Here's a rather light and humorous poem from Adelaide Crapsey about just that, which reminds me a bit of W.S. Gilbert (of Gilbert & Sullivan fame).

The Properly Scholarly Attitude
by Adelaide Crapsey

The poet pursues his beautiful theme;
The preacher his golden beatitude;
And I run after a vanishing dream—
The glittering, will-o’-the-wispish gleam
Of the properly scholarly attitude—
The highly desirable, the very advisable,
The hardly acquirable, properly scholarly attitude.

I envy the savage without any clothes,
Who lives in a tropical latitude;
It’s little of general culture he knows.
But then he escapes the worrisome woes
Of the properly scholarly attitude—
The unceasingly sighed over, wept over, cried over,
The futilely died over, properly scholarly attitude.

I work and I work till I nearly am dead,
And could say what the watchman said—that I could!
But still, with a sigh and a shake of the head,
“You don’t understand,” it is ruthlessly said,
“The properly scholarly attitude—
The aye to be sought for, wrought for and fought for,
The ne’er to be caught for, properly scholarly attitude—”

I really am sometimes tempted to say
That it’s merely a glittering platitude;
That people have just fallen into the way,
When lacking a subject, to tell of the sway
Of the properly scholarly attitude—
The easily preachable, spread-eagle speechable,
In practice unreachable, properly scholarly attitude.

Happy Poetry Friday, all. You can reach Julie Larios's roundup of today's Poetry Friday posts by clicking the box below.

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What's with brains, anyhow?

In particular, what's with my brain?

Last night, as I was snuggled up with my sweetheart and drifting off to sleep, I found the perfect line for inclusion in the biography I'm writing. Seriously, it was just exactly right.

I didn't get up and write it down, because of the comfortable snuggling position.

You can probably guess the next part.

Of course you can.

Woke up this morning and I know what the concept behind the quote was, but the perfect wording has completely disappeared. Everything I try to write on the subject goes CLUNK instead of WHIR.

The little man in the upstairs filing room (which is how I think of my brain, often - he scoots around on his office chair to pull things out of the file cabinets) seems to have misplaced that particular scrap of paper.

Perhaps it is time to take a walk, in hopes of rediscovering the line.

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