Pre-Ramble: “So, what time are you going to get back from the poetry reading?” my daughter asks …

Up until last Thursday, I could confidently have told you that I had never been asked, nor had I ever answered, this particular question in my entire unpoetic lifetime. In fact, it would be safe to say that I have pretty much avoided poetry in a passive, oblivious kind of way.

Luckily/thankfully, I have some good friends who are way out ahead of interesting, edgy stuff like this who invited me to an evening of poetry that they had won in a silent auction. Twice cool here – my friends were actually in attendance at an event that would be auctioning off this kind of thing, AND, they actually bid on it!

This impromptu, cultured event was hosted on the cool, hip veranda at a cool, hip Minneapolis design firm, 45 Degrees Minneapolis.  The evening began with a wine and brie meet-and-greet, followed by a brief introduction of the guest speaker/poet/bard (love that word), Gregory Hewett.

Hewett is an Associate Professor of English at Carlton College and has been a Fulbright Fellow, Fulbright Professor, and a Fellow at the Camargo Foundation, Cassis, France. He currently teaches American Literature and creative writing, and his fourth book of poems, darkacre, was published in 2010.

“Greg Hewett’s poems create fresh dimensions where language and human experience become one … from estate properties to artistic legacies … Hewett is a master architect of the poetic suite, and his house contains many mansions … a penetrating, richly metaphoric survey of the human landscape.”

Beyond academic accolades, Professor Hewett proved to be an extremely accessible teacher and very likeable guy. He was quickly able to assess the highly variable levels of poetic awareness in the room (Dr. Seuss counts on some level, right? … ), and tailor his approach to the readings accordingly.  He gave us a smattering of things … writings by Whitman, Dickenson, Elizabeth Bishop, Carolyn Forche, Frank O’Hara, C.D. Wright … I rattle off these names as though I have any sense of the depth and context from which they assume their meaning.

As I ponder this neat new realm and “dwell in possibility” (to quote Dickinson – ha!) … it occurs to me that, until you’re aware of it, poetry, in all of its richness and complexity, is swirling all around you every day like a sound you can’t hear … a whole spectrum of colors you can’t see … like a firefly waiting in the woods until dusk. Beyond rhyme and meter - really, beyond the boundaries of reason - until you’re truly aware of it, poetry has properties at some quantum level that don’t even register, let alone resonate.

The Take-Away: I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Professor Hewett, and my beloved friends, for the poetry primer, a quick flash into this fascinating corner of the word world. Thanks to you, I am inspired to take some more steps along this fork in a road that, until now, has been way less traveled.

Pre-Ramble:  There’s a special irony associated with being too busy with writing work to keep up with the blog that was supposed to be a showcase for your writing work.

This isn’t the kind of thing that I am usually hired to write … at least not yet.  But, if you happen to come across a venue that needs writers who write about being too busy to write, please pass that along.

Well, so,  meanwhile, my blog-idea-starter-news-clipping-pile is getting closer and closer to the ceiling …

Before I get back to work, I’d like to share a recent truth I’ve learned … DON’T BE FOOLED by that cute little word “tweak.” 

Technically, it is supposed to mean “fine-tune” … make minor adjustments … minute modifications … etc.  …

But really, when someone says,

“I just made a few tweaks to the draft … ”

… it means they totally ripped the hell out of it; no phrase was left unscathed.

The Take-Away:  Consider yourself warned.

Pre-Ramble: I’ve found that a really good blog post comes out of place where there is some personal investment … of curiosity, empathy, frustration or annoyance (there’s nothing like a good rant). Also, I find that if I choose three topics and start meandering around in my head, I will eventually be able to pull together something moderately to skillfully compelling by the end of the time available, or my patience,  whichever comes first.

Blame it on the holidays – Lately it’s been tough to narrow in on a combination of topics that click.  And it’s not because the meaty topics aren’t out there … I mean, seriously – President Obama just took an elbow to the face on the basketball court (how’d you like to be THAT guy?!) … Prince William just got engaged (how’d you like to be THAT gal?!) … and everyone is holding their breath to see if we all spent enough on Black Friday to qualify for a recovered economy. What is not to like here? All of these are potentially perfect blog post topics … tantalizing, really. But today somehow, the only thing calling to me is fatigue-induced petty festering over grass on the other side of the fence. 

Yesterday was Sunday, so that means that the Sunday New York Times is here, which means that there is A TON of expertly crafted articles and stories about fascinatingly obscure subjects that I can barely bring myself to read, because they are just THAT GOOD. Even the wedding announcements are well-written and insightful.

I’m barely half way into the Sunday Magazine and already there’s a very thought-provoking article on the social change required to make Michelle Obama’s children’s health initiatives successful; a story about the new Vanity Fair iPad app (I LOVE Vanity Fair, and who doesn’t love iPads?); a fascinating piece on “four towering figures in the world of words” (pinch me); a quick look inside the highflying world of private jets; and a sneak peek into the life and times of writer and director, Nora Ephron (who loves to play craps, apparently) …

“… About 900 years ago, when I was a columnist at Esquire, they had a sales conference in Paradise Island, the Bahamas, and someone taught me [how to play craps]. It is such a great game. I will teach almost anyone how to play craps at a moment’s notice… I almost always have dice in my purse.”

So, I know.  What’s the big deal about this?  Who cares about craps?  The thing is, over the holiday weekend there were two Nora Ephron movies on the telly and one of them involved Diane Keaton, and then another movie randomly came on that had Diane Keaton in it as well. Come to think of it, even that ingloriously tepid film “Morning Glory” currently in theaters features Ms. Keaton in a starring role. 

Do you see where I’m headed with this?  Of course you do.

If I was an actress, I’d be Diane Keaton’s slightly younger, shorter, less luminous sister. I’ve been told that I look kind of like her, and occasionally that I have Diane Keaton-esque mannerisms. I think this is more due to the fact that I can come across as kind of up-tight (I am up-tight) and wear a lot of turtlenecks.

Well, so, in my writer’s mash-up world, we’ve got: the indomitable, yet perfectly self-effacing Nora Ephron looking perfectly relaxed in her perfect black leather jacket next to her perfect bouquet of perfect roses in her perfect Upper East Side apartment with the perfect view of the Chrysler Building … crossed with the chippily endearing (if somewhat overexposed) Diane Keaton … crossed with the eternally revered NY Times.

Which leaves me … sitting here at midnight at the kitchen counter, swirling what’s left of the day’s cold coffee into the sink, paging my way through the day’s old news, and glancing ever so slightly sideways at this stupid Ephron interview — twisting with envy at every casually tossed-off turn of phrase, every meaningful memento, every flawlessly unstudied photograph.  

The Take-Away:  As if gazing upon her tragic collection of unused tea cups in the middle of the night would suddenly endow me with the wherewithal to write a series of successful screenplays.

Pre-Ramble: Every couple of days or so, I come across a piece of writing that is so poetic, insightful and clever that I wish I had written it. 

It’s usually something by James Wolcott in Vanity Fair, or Martha Beck in O Magazine, or anything in The New York Times Sunday Magazine.

Interestingly, at least to a wordsmithing wannabe like me, some of the funniest, or I should say “punniest” turns of phrase show up in the Wall Street Journal. Front page headlines, even those heralding weightly matters, are regularly laced with double entendre.  And now that the Journal has a sports page, they have virtually run amuck.

Take an article in Monday’s sports section about the controversy surrounding the decision made by the Federation Internationale de Natation (FINA), the governing body of competitive swimming, to ban “performance enhancing suits” (PES) or “supersuits” the fabric and fit of which “can improve speed, buoyancy and endurance.”

Now, I’m not a big swimmer. In fact, I don’t really care for swimming. … Ok, I loathe swimming … I don’t even like to get wet. That isn’t to say that I wouldn’t like swimming more if I could wear one of these sleek, spandex, full-length suits, especially if they come with a built-in control panel in the ab flab zone and can net me a couple of gold medals.

Anyway, this supersuit article (by Allen Barra) was just dripping with water puns, four of which I must share with you now:

From now on, FINA has dictated, swimmers will sink or swim in suits made of traditional textiles.”

The prohibition doesn’t take effect until January 1, 2010, but it’s already created ripples in the swim world.”

Sports purists counter that such arguments don’t hold water.”

[Even] for those of us with kids who don’t dream of Olympic medals, the FINA decision will have a trickle-down effect.”

The Take-Away:  Allen, I am not worthy. Even if I were to plumb the depths of my vocabulary, I wouldn’t be able to match the superior caliber of style, finesse and punsterismness that you demonstrate in your work.  

Post-Note:  It might be a stretch … and I might be in over my head here, but I’m not going to let the fact that I’m still wet behind the ears when it comes to writing dampen my enthusiasm.  Just because I’m an amateur doesn’t mean I can’t float the occasional bad pun or flip remark. (My only regret here is that I wasn’t able to work in the word “hosed.”)

Pre-Ramble:  From the title, you might think this is another iteration of the last blog, scolding the folks on Capitol Hill for rushing to judgement on President Obama’s pace of play. While I could easily muster up another several paragraphs on that, you would soon come to realize that it would just be another stall tactic. 

I want to write a book. I’ve been churning ideas around for a couple of years now. I know what I want to say, and sift through the thoughts in my head all day long. Usually, I am rescued from having to actually write the book by the onset of paying work or some other cleverly-disguised imperative - one of my clients will toss a new project over the transom, a volunteer commitment will require my attention, we’ve run out of food, or my dog will need a walk. My sock drawer has never been so organized.

I have literally piles of research and notes, a line-up of three-ring binders filled with reference documents, snippets of paper covered with random thoughts, folders bulging with inspirational photos and drawings, and a shelf lined with books that capture my fancy for one reason or another. These books represent the work of some first-rate thinkers – Twyla Tharp, Guy Kawasaki, Lewis Carroll, Howard Gardner, Tom Kelly, Tim Berners-Lee, Gordon McKenzie, Barack Obama, Esther Dyson, Daniel Pink, Nina Garcia (she totally gets fashion…), Nicholas Negroponte, Julia Cameron, Allisn Fine, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, Malcolm Gladwell, Anne Lamott, Thomas Friedman, Wayne Dyer, etc. - and, they inspire me to think about the world in new and different ways.

These books also taunt me daily. They thumb their spines at me – “Nah-nah, weeeee’ve written and published meaningful and highly successful books and yooooou haven’t!!”

That’s so immature.

The Take-Away:  The obvious solution here is, drop those socks and start writing. Maybe all I need is a little encouragement from the Universe,…“Come on Kath, get busy!… You go girl!… You can do it!!” … Or, maybe what I need is a reality check from the Universal Inner Saboteur, “Don’t do it!… You stop girl!… Pleeease don’t write a book… what are you thinking?… your writing totally sucks!…” 

Ha! That Inner Saboteur is a wily one. Fortunately for me, I earned a black-belt in the art of denial long ago and I have friends who are willing to lie to me, if they think that will make me happy. I guess, until the septic system backs up or I get a hang-nail or something, I’ve no alternative but to forge ahead with the book and see where it goes.

Thanks for listening.

Post Note:  The image above right is from the portfolio of illustrator John S. Dykes. I’m hoping that he will be available to do some illustrations for the book – I love his work and he clearly gets what I’m up against.