Sunday, September 28, 2014

Double XP Days for Real Life, Editing Snag, and a Brief Book Review

This weekend, the game Neverwinter Nights is offering double experience points, so of course it’s my moral duty to my avatar to get at least a few hours of game play in. As I was running my burly Orc warrior around graveyards and slaying necromancers, it occurred to me that we need a double-experience day in real life. This would be an occasional day in which you get extra credit, extra pay, extra servings, and extra attention for simply showing up and doing what you’re supposed to do. Compliments are extra-nice, serving portions are doubled without the extra calories, small daily accomplishments are punctuated by triumph horns and ticker tape, and you’re guaranteed a bonus for completing routine tasks. I think it would go a long way towards keeping the populous motivated to continue sweating it out on the giant hamster wheel of industry. Same as in Neverwinter, these days would be announced on short notice and over at the stroke of midnight. Everyone would go to bed full of brownies and self-esteem, cheers echoing in their ears.

Speaking of self-esteem, I have hit a slight snag with the editing of my novel. Which is that I think my novel is a big hoovering pile of suck. I don’t how I went so quickly from “This editing thing is a lark and I don’t why everyone says it’s such a big deal” to “Argh! I want to burn this damn thing and throw myself off of a bridge”, but that’s where I am. I have lost all perspective. The whole story seems completely nonsensical and I’m absolutely convinced no one will to want to read it and everyone who does will laugh at me. And I don’t want to feel that way about my precious. Writing coach Robyn Fritz says that a book in progress is "a living, real being ready to partner with you to bring it into the world and find its audience—and yours." This rings true to me, so I don’t want relationship issues with my novel. Maybe my novel and I should go to couple’s therapy. Perhaps my novel and I need a little time away from each other to think things over. I did go against prevailing wisdom and starting editing right after I finished it. Most writing sites advise waiting a long time, re-reading it in full, and then starting the editing process. But I don’t want to wait “a long time” because I want to get it done. I don’t want to be that person who spends ten years working on a novel only to finally abandon it. I don’t want to be somebody who babbles endlessly about a project that everyone secretly knows they’re never going to finish. Plus, I must get something substantial out into the world before I die since I don’t have any kids and I fear obscurity in death and have a powerful urge to leave my mark on this world even if it’s just in some small, unimportant, chick-lit sort of  way.

Speaking of not having kids, I finished comedian Jen Kirkman’s book, “I Can Barely Take Care of Myself.” I wouldn’t say that the book “chronicles” her life as a child-free comic, because Jen doesn’t seem to have a sense of linear time or a preoccupation with ordering events. She writes stream-of-consciousness, which I enjoy. The book covers a bit about her upbringing and her early days in LA struggling to make it, but mostly it talks about the experience of being willfully childless, and all of the horrible things people are willing to say to you about that decision if you’re a woman. She’s tells abhorrent stories in a hilarious way, she’s personable, and I relate to her a lot, but as a willfully childless person myself, I reached the point a long time ago where rude, thoughtless comments don’t elicit an emotional reaction anymore. I just eke out a tight smile, endure the insults, and wait to roll my eyes until I walk away from the offender. When I was younger and in the process of planning a wedding, I was shocked and angered by the constant heckling and threats about how I would regret not having kids and how I would never know real love. I participated on a forum for the child-free, because I felt really isolated and needed the support of like-minded people. I cried at the casual rudeness of strangers and questioned my mental health. And over time, it just stopped bothering me. I don’t take it personally anymore. I think not having kids was probably one of the best decisions I’ve made. I don’t know where Jen is at with it now, but I suspect at the time she wrote the book, she was still processing a lot of outrage and genuine hurt feelings over people’s reaction to her; primarily the accusation that she’s selfish (which is something I still hear all of the time about myself.) She takes down the ignorant in a savagely smart and funny way, but for me, reading it felt like revisiting a struggle I’ve long left behind. Still, it was totally worth a read, and I laughed out loud at least once per page, so I give it three typewriter ribbons.


--Kristen McHenry

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Body Rebellion, Self-Care Quest, And Some Funnies

Yesterday was one of those days where my body and mind rebelled against my agenda. I woke up with great plans to edit another fifty pages of my novel, clean, work out, and perform a litany of other mundane tasks, and I ended up spending all day lying on the couch alternately napping, crying, and staring at my Kindle. Part of it was genuine illness; I’ve had sinus issues for weeks now and I think I finally came close to getting a full-fledged cold, but part of it was mental fatigue, too. My body and brain needed rest. My spirit needed to grieve. At the same time, I had to fight off a fair bit of guilt for just allowing myself to collapse, since the concept of a day of rest seems to have completely gone out the window in this culture, along with the concept of listening to your body and honoring its needs. This happens to me over and over again when I’m in “push myself” mode for too long, but I never seem to learn. Part of the problem is that until I collapse, I don’t even realize how hard and fast I’ve been going. I’ve never had adequate commitment to self-care, but I realized yesterday I need to put a decent practice in place, and soon. I’m one of those people for whom life is difficult and bewildering even under benign circumstances, and almost unbearable when it gets stressful. I find Yoga aggravating and meditation tedious, so I’ll need to come up with an alternative. Primal screaming, maybe?

One good thing about crashing out with a Kindle for a day is new books! I love the “Try a Sample” feature on the Kindle Fire, because it gives you a generous sample of each book. I was looking for something funny to ready yesterday because I was so emotionally spent, and I discovered that lots and lots of comedians have written books. One of those is Jen Kirkman, whose book I bought after trying samples of six or seven other comedian-penned books that just didn’t grab me. Jen reminds me a lot of myself, and her book, “I Can Barely Take Care of Myself”, is hilarious. I haven’t finished it yet, but I’ll review it here when I’m done. 

I’m still not feeling fully up to snuff (I don’t know what that phrase means, but I’m using it anyway), so this week’s post is shall be cut short. Here’s a video to amuse you in my stead:


--Kristen McHenry

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Goatfish Redux, A Return to Consciousness, Editing Edification

This week, my first-ever published book of poetry, “The Goatfish Alphabet” will be spotlighted at Naissance Chapbooks press! The title reprint will be of higher quality than the original, and if you purchase a copy, you’ll also receive a free copy of “The Lost Shoe” by Martha Deed. I know that several people who enjoyed “The Goatfish Alphabet” expressed disappointment in the quality of the original printing, so if you’d like a brand-new, shiny copy on better quality stock, now is your chance. You can purchase a copy here, and Naissance will send you both “The Goatfish Alphabet” and “The Lost Shoe”.

While I’m featuring books, I recommend subscribing to Pietro Abela’s weekly book excerpts. His book, “A Return to Consciousness”, is on the brink of publication with a major publisher, and he is releasing excerpts for free online in the run up to the release. I just wrote and deleted a long, detailed, and personal account of my experience as a long-time student and client of Pietro’s profound form of healing work. In retrospect I felt that it was a little too personal to post publicly. But I will say that because of one single session I had with Pietro at a critical time in my life years ago, I made contact with an infinite, loving, safe place within myself that I knew I could always access--and that was profoundly freeing. It didn’t solve everything and it didn’t mean I would escape pain or suffering, but it changed me forever. I highly recommend subscribing to his weekly excerpts. I’ll be first the let you know when the book comes out!

I took a week off from working on the novel, and started the editing process today. After staring at the screen for an hour, frozen with fear and befuddlement, I came up with a sort of loopy, homemade method that I think will work. I’m going through page by page making nips and tucks, and keeping a separate document of notes where I find continuity errors, major discrepancies, “time warps”, voice inconsistencies, etc. I’m also keeping a separate document for full section re-writes. I was dreading this process, thinking it was going to be torturous, but I was at it for six hours yesterday, and it hasn’t been bad at all. I’m actually enjoying it (I say that now, full knowing that by next week I could be quivering mass of frustrated rage.) The only glitch so far is that I made a grievous “find and replace” error, so be warned, me mateys! For various reasons, I had to change the name of my main character’s New Agey ex-boyfriend from Len to Jasper, so I blithely punched “Len” into the Find box, and “Jasper” into the Replace box, and now the novel is littered with words like “swolJasper” for “swollen” and “caJasperdar” for calendar. Apparently, MS Word doesn’t intuitively know that I meant to change only the name Len, not every occurrence of the combination “l-e-n”. According to Mr. Typist, the proper thing to do was to add a space to the beginning and end of the word “len” in the Find box. Hmmph. Now he tells  me.

Since this has been a lit-heavy post, here's a recording of "The Trouble with Poetry" by Bllly Collins. Enjoy!


---Kristen McHenry



Saturday, September 6, 2014

Staycation Review, First Draft Complete, Grocery Gripe

To my dismay, my staycation is coming to an end this weekend. Here’s what I did: Read an entire novel in one day, got panhandled by a hungry llama at the Olympic Game Farm, took a trip to Port Townsend and decided I am going to move there immediately and become a career eccentric, got a long over-due massage and a long-overdue eye exam, had lunch with a co-worker smack in the middle of the day, leveled my new Khajiit rogue in Elder Scrolls Online, worked out, ate out, and slept in until 8:00 a.m. every morning. I don’t know how I’m going to go back to work, because obviously, I don’t have time for a job.

The other thing I did was finally, finally complete the first, extremely messy draft of my novel! (Cue triumphant air horns, confetti, cheering crowds.) I was amazed at how much I was able to get done simply through virtue of having long stretches of time and an abundance of mental energy to focus on it. I know that the traditional advice for writers is to write every day, but that’s never worked for me. I don’t like writing in short bursts; I need long blocks of time in order to get into the “groove” or flow state or whatever it is that allows my unconscious to move the story along. My job sucks every ounce of mental and emotional energy out of me, so trying to write on weeknights is impossible. I have no will left at the end of an eight-hour day. It was liberating to have a five-day block in which to ponder and write for the full day.

Now I have to get something off my chest. It’s been bothering me for a long time. At first I first I thought it was just me, and this annoyance was an illusion stemming from my general irritability with the world, but no. This is real, people. Having worked every McJob ever, I don’t want to turn into the sort of person who complains about service workers, but…can we all just agree to go back to the days when there was an actual method to grocery bagging? The last year or so, I’ve noticed that baggers have dropped all conceit of technique and now just throw everything into bags completely at random. This usually results in two gallons of milk, a box of wine (it's organic, so stop judging me), three glass jars of spaghetti sauce and an entire case of Coke in one bag, leaf lettuce and a two-pack of pens in another bag, and canned goods thunked unceremoniously on top of the fragile packages of steak and salmon. And half the time, they just leave items out of the bags altogether to fend for themselves like orphans on the bottom of the cart. Every single time I grocery shop, I now need to park my cart in the lot, remove all the groceries, and re-bag everything myself. What happened to taking pride in your work? What happened to enjoying the small satisfaction of knowing that you efficiently and neatly bagged your customer’s groceries, ensuring that weight was distributed evenly throughout the bags, the eggs were on top, and the meat remained unmolested by cans?

I can’t prove it, but I suspect this behavior is somehow a result of the cloth grocery bag revolution. My theory is not yet fully formed, but I shall posit it in detail when it is.

On a cheerier note, here are some pictures of Port Townsend, and a zebra, and a shameless snack-hustling llama. 

--Kristen McHenry



Sunday, August 31, 2014

A Preponderance of Pig Poems

Happy Labor Day weekend! I’m on staycation this week, and I’m using the time to putter and catch up on my reading and get the rest of my novel written. So far, so good--I burned most of yesterday re-playing Tomb Raider and nomming on chips. It was awesome. 

I don't feel like writing a proper blog post on staycation, so to tide you over, here are some poems I wrote a few years ago. I went through a stage where I was fascinated with pigs and pig mythology, and had grand plans to write an entire chapbook on the subject. Some of the poems made their way into "Triplicity", but the pig-themed chapbook never panned out, and most of the poems have been lounging un-submitted in my “Pigs Series” folder. If you like these, I might pick up the series again in the future and get that chapbook out after all. 


Plum Song


I.                  Field Notes from the Herd

Each night under the lusterless moon
She slices a plum eight ways.
With each nibble, she owes herself
punishment, a rough pinch on her concave belly.
what flesh she wears is negligible;
We feel the welts ourselves.

She suckles juice from each violet grin.
She does not hold
Her offering to the sky,
Or think to toss us the pits.
Her hands tremble. She will not lick clean the plate,
But carries it inside, her face
a dying orchid in it’s cold flat depths.

II.               Before Swine

Mornings I stand before swine,
my clean hair rising on the wind,
that they may catch
the scent of soap and sacrifice.
I wear white to teach them propriety.
I’m told they have some sense of
order despite their vagrant snouts, their
promiscuous bellies that  assimilate
our slop with greedy ardor. I myself

eat only plum.  Every morning, my
bones swim closer. Soon,
they will break the surface.
Soon my skin will toughen like silk, will need
nothing from the layers come before.

Solace

Oh Heavenly Sow who births
your young at twilight, who suckles them
throughout the night and gorges
mornings on their warm
star bodies,
Oh Mother Sow, who offers
solace to the dead, who does not
fear their flesh,
who are we to believe
that we can save the earth?
Who are we to trust
we shall usher in eternity
with our meager offerings
of cans and compost?
Who are we to refuse
the eating of your flesh,
to deny ourselves
incorporation, to call ourselves
holy in this way?

Oh, Heavenly sow,
You whose children are born
for endless sacrifice,
show us the mysteries
of death and consumption.
Show us our distant,
suspended bodies.


How to Hunt A Wild Boar

Gather the stealthy, fleet-footed girls
starved for their share of dominion.
Lend them the catch-dog and the butcher’s blade.
Turn them downwind of the quarry, and set them
on the savage hunt, for you
have been observant all this time
and oh, how method
offers dividends: boar falls to dog,
blade to artery, blood to soil, meat
to the mouths of the ravenous.


--Kristen McHenry


Sunday, August 24, 2014

Novel Home Stretch, Little Library, Again with the Comedians

I’m banging out the last of my novel, and I’m finding the last 5,000 words to be harder to write than the whole first 75,000 put together. I didn’t anticipate how hard it was going to be to bring the character arc and all of the plot elements together for a grand finish. It feels like building a house. I suddenly need to be very precise and economical and organized, and it’s a bit daunting after having written a good portion of the book merrily by the seat of my pants, just figuring everything would work itself out. Now I have this big pile of lumber and nails and drywall and it all has to come together in a specific way and frankly, I’m a bit intimidated. This may be a good time to fire up the afore-mentioned Scrivener.  

I was walking home from my neighborhood pool today after my water aerobics class, because I’m old now and that’s what you do when you’re old, water aerobics, and I was charmed to come across a Little Library! I’d heard of them going up in other cities, but I haven’t actually seen one before. It’s adorable! I spent a few minutes browsing the selections, but I didn’t take a book. I might next week. Now that I know we have one, I’ll probably become a regular contributor/borrower. In this digital age when it sometimes feels like nothing actually exists in solid form anymore, Little Libraries are a lovely touch. Sharing books has always felt like a special form of communication to me, and I like the idea of seeing what other people have read and enjoyed. I’m not generally close with my neighbors, but there is a surprising intimacy in this form of trading.

I’ve always loved comedy and depended on it to get me through tough times. I’ve been listening to and watching quite a lot of it lately, but in a more analytical way. I’ve been watching a lot of the Half-Hour Comedy specials on my tablet with an eye to figuring out how one actually writes a stand-up act. I’ve written many different types of things, but the idea of writing even a five-minute comedy set is an inscrutable puzzle to me. None of this is to say I will ever do stand-up because I won’t, but I do have an ongoing fascination with comics, and would like to try my hand at writing a set one day. And give it to someone funny to perform.

Speaking of comics, one of my favorites, Eddie Pepitone, has a new one-hour special out called “In Ruins”, and it’s brilliant. Eddie is also known as the Bitter Buddha, and I do that think that there is something of a Buddha in him.  I think that he’s more than a comic. He has the ability to touch people very deeply. I think his genius lies in his vulnerability. He is all there, totally present in his humanity, genuinely raw and open. In that way, he forces the audience to be present to their own vulnerability, but in a way that feels like he’s right there with you, that you aren’t alone, and that it’s okay. Or maybe he’s just really effin’ funny. I couldn’t find a clip from “In Ruins”, but here’s his rap for the insecure and depressed. Warning: Lots of swears.




Sunday, August 17, 2014

If Life Were Like A Hidden Object Game…Oh, Wait, It Is!

Occasionally l enjoy escaping reality by playing hidden-object adventure games on my tablet,  although lately I’ve noticed some developers trying to get “innovative” with the format, and I don’t appreciate it. For me, the whole point of these games is that they follow a reassuringly predictable pattern of absurdity, which I find comforting. If you’ve never played one, this is generally how they go:

You are a mild-mannered school teacher/museum curator/photo archivist named Jill/James/Cicely/Bryce. One day you receive a mysterious letter/missive/phone call summoning you to an isolated mansion on a remote island/dilapidated hotel in the Swiss Alps/town suddenly abandoned by its residents, so that you can track down a devious criminal/your long-lost twin/an all-powerful artifact/an evil haunted doll. Once you arrive, you blithely head to the Mansion/Cave/Underground Bunker/Crashed Blimp that Holds All the Answers, but wait! It’s not a simple as that. You see, to get the key that opens the entrance, you must first retrieve the box that’s in the bird’s nest in the garden cove. But to get at the box, you need a sling shot. And to make the slingshot, you need wood. But to get the wood, you need an ax. And to find the ax, which is locked in the shed, you need a hatchet to shatter the lock. But to get the hatchet you need…you get the idea. You wander around for hours jumping through ridiculous hoops to collect objects that you need to get the damn key to the damn place. Interspersed throughout are scenes where a whole bunch of things are jumbled together in a big pile, and you have to pick out certain objects from the mess. Happy pixel-hunting!

Your puzzle-solving is occasionally interrupted by stilted, terrible dialogue scenes with characters of questionable intent. The games always end with at least one of three elements: A fire, a swirling mist, and/or shattering glass, which you watch from the prop plane/motorboat/dune buggy/hot air balloon you narrowly escape on, often while clutching the hand of your fiancĂ©/a recently de-possessed teenager/an orphaned child. But Good Typist, you ask, when are you going to get to the part about why life is like a hidden object game? Well, I’m no philosopher, but it seems obvious to me that there’s a huge metaphor in all of this.  I just don’t know how to explain it. I apologize for failing my own post.


I don’t want engage in collective internet grieving over Robin Williams. I’d rather just keep my sadness to myself. But I want you to know I am showing great restraint in not ranting here about idiots—excuse me, misguided human beings, who are trashing him for committing suicide. Andrea at Nice Atheist Girl wrote a highly intelligent and sensitive post on this, and it would be best for you to just read that, than for me to fumble around trying to write something as good. So instead, enjoy this TED talk, and contemplate the vast and astonishing universe we live in:



--Kristen McHenry

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Irksome Photo Murals, A Jaunty Homage, and Some Thoughts on Urban Art

The Civic Square Fence in downtown Seattle surrounding the construction zone by the transit station has been a site for public art for a few years now. I walk past this fence every day on my mile-long walk up the hill into the Central District, so I’ve become very familiar with its art displays. And one set of photos in particular always stuck in my craw—a set of eight panels depicting every liberal Seattleite’s fantasy: slim, white, good looking people working on an organic farm. Maybe it’s because every time I walked past it, I was sucking in gas fumes belching out from rush hour traffic, my knee ached, and I knew I was going to eat a decidedly un-organic bacon sandwich instead of starting the morning with a locally-sourced vegetable protein shake, but to me, the photos always felt unbearably smug: Oh look at us, able-bodied, virtuous, clean-living people breathing fresh air and doing something pure and authentic, while the rest of you pathetic hoi polloi slowly deaden your souls at your fattening day jobs. Ohhhh, look at me, I’m sustainable! Ohhhhh, look at me, I have a chicken!  Ohhh, look at me, tilling the earth by hand and being better than you.  It was just another one of those micro-annoyances that are a part of any city commuter’s life. I learned to live with it. But to my glee, a few weeks ago I walked past the wall and the photos were gone! Yay! No more sanctimonious organic farmers rubbing their superiority in my face as I trudge up the hill inhaling the twin odors of diesel and collective depression.

The other photos were okay; not great. There was a set from a fashion shoot where the models wore dresses made from recycled plastic bags (meh), some dull clichĂ© photos of buoys and boats, and some folk-art inspired paintings that I found garish and off-putting. But after they took the photos down, they re-painted the wall, and they’re in the process of getting some new murals up. One is still in progress, but I can tell I’ll probably like it. The other one is pretty much complete, and in my estimation, it’s fantastic. According to the Seattle.gov website, the artist is Hebru Brantley, and the mural is his character Fly Boy in a variety of poses:

“Chicago graffiti artist Hebru Brantley's mural consists of multiple representations of Brantley's original character, Fly Boy. The characters are yellow-goggled boys who pay homage to World War II's Tuskegee Airmen. Brantley intends for the work to transform James Street into an outdoor gallery. Each whimsical variation of the Fly Boy or Girl will be used as guardians of the city. The piece is titled "Traveling With Out Movement" and features spray paint, acrylic and house paint.





The mural is vibrant and interesting. It has a lot of movement, it’s fun to look at, and it’s oddly uplifting. I haven’t thought much about what art in urban spaces “should” be, but I think this mural nails it. It makes me feel just a little better when I walk past it.  I know, I know, the role of art is not to lull us into complacency and anesthetize us to the state of the world, but for God’s sake, I need a little relief from the relentless grimness of city commuting, and this mural gives me a boost. Why shouldn’t more public art do that? I have all day to contemplate the problems of the world. I think public art should be a light-hearted celebration, not lecture-y or laden with political messages. I refuse to use the word “whimsy”, but that’s close to what I’m getting at when I think of my ideal for public art--something different and interesting that pulls you out of yourself and surprises you, even if just for a few seconds.

There’s another “found art” project happening a bit further up the hill. If it’s still there tomorrow, I’m going to start photographing it. About a week ago, I noticed a beer bottle with a white flower stuck in it nestled under a streetlight. I didn’t think much of it, but the next day, there was a Mason jar, filled with more flowers. The next day there were three jars of flowers and a note pleading with a unknown someone. Clearly there was a breakup or some terrible misunderstanding, and the person leaving the flowers knows that the breaker-upper walks past this light every day. I didn’t read the note because that felt invasive, but I’ve decided I will if it’s still there tomorrow. It was left out publicly so I feel that I’m within bounds to snoop in the name of art.


--Kristen McHenry

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Summer SAD, Novel Update, and the Joys of Iceberg Lettuce

I recently came across an article on Summer Seasonal Affective Disorder, and I felt vindicated. I always suspected I had SAD in reverse, so it was satisfying to discover it’s actually a thing. Once the summer sun settles in for a long stay, I get irritable, depressed and moody. I feel constantly assaulted by heat and light, and I have a hard time going to sleep and waking up in the morning. I’m generally jittery and on edge. I get fed up with the tourists, the noise, the damned festivals, the stench of the neighbor’s barbeques, and the constant extortion to “get out and have fun!” I don’t want to get out. It’s hot and smelly and loud. I don’t want to have fun just because there’s a big annoying ball of yellow light blaring down from the sky. And I want to punch people who tell me to cheer up because “it’s a beautiful day!” That has nothing to do with whether or not I should feel good, and besides, a beautiful day to me is overcast, slightly drizzly, and not a degree over 65. One of the main reasons I didn’t move to LA after college is that I couldn’t stand the idea of living somewhere with year-round sunshine. I can’t explain it, but I believe it would have killed my soul somehow. As it is, I miss living in a place with four distinct seasons. At least here we get a long stretch of cool, gray skies, which is just fine by me. Summer and its attendant enforced merriment can shove it.

On a cheerier note, I only have 10,000 words to go before I have an actual, whole, completed first draft of a novel! When I first started writing it, getting to 80,000 words felt like an incomprehensibly difficult feat similar to summiting Everest, but now that I’m nearing the end, I’m panicking that I won’t be able tie everything up in so few words. Also, weirdly, I’m a bit sad about it ending. I know I still have tons of editing and polishing to do before it’s anywhere near submission-ready, but the story will have ended, and I’ll miss the characters, especially my “main”, Harley. I’ve lived in her head for almost two years, and she feels like a close friend to me now.

After years of buying leaf lettuce for salads and totally snubbing iceberg lettuce on the grounds that it’s declasse, I grabbed a big head of it the grocery store the other day just for the sake of variety. And damn if I don’t like it better! It’s chewy and crispy and snappy and crunchy and can hold up under a healthy dose of dressing. Sure, it lacks a bit in the color department, but it’s so much more fun to eat than the supposedly healthier leafy greens, which now seem limp, bitter and mushy in comparison. I can’t believe I have ignored iceberg lettuce all of these years in some misguided attempt at gustatorial sophistication. From now on, it’s all iceberg, all the time in the Typist household. That tremor you feel is me crunching away shamelessly on a big cold heart of pale green goodness. It turns out I’m not the only poet who has turned on this issue. Gerald Locklin knows the score, and he wrote a poem about it.

Finally, in the spirit of good verbal hygiene and Gen X nostalgia, here is a grammar lesson from Weird Al Yankovich. God, I love that guy.


--Kristen McHenry


Saturday, July 26, 2014

Garden Patio Win, Anthology News, and When Fairs Go Wrong

You know how tiny houses have become all the rage? I think I’m going to start a new trend of tiny gardens. Last month, I planted the world’s teensiest vegetable garden on my patio. Figuring simplicity would be the key to this black-thumbed typist’s success, I didn’t get fancy. I stuck with the seed packets my friend gave me and planted two pots of leaf lettuce and three pots of beans. A week ago I added an herb card. What’s an herb card, you ask? Well, it’s literally a card filled with herbs. A departing volunteer at work gave me a card thanking me for my mentorship (which was quite sweet-- I love getting little parting gifts from my volunteers), and at first I thought the card was just made of very bumpy, textured paper, but it turns out it was bumpy because it was filled with herb seeds. You’re supposed to plant the card. So I did! And I’m extra proud of myself because I engineered my own pot for it since I couldn’t find one it would fit in. It even has its own drain tray! Garden Update: Two thriving pots of beans, one and a half relatively successful pots of lettuce, one dud pot, and zero herbs. (I think I covered the herb card with too much soil; I put two inches over the top of it. Maybe they’ll struggle through one day.) I feel all earth-mothery and back-to-the-landish. Win!

In writing news, one of my poems from The Acme Employee Handbook was selected for an anthology by a local publisher, Lost Horse Press. The anthology, “Raising Lilly Ledbetter: Women Poets Occupy the Workspace”, should be out in a few months, and there will be lots of local readings and promotional events surrounding its release, so I’ll keep you posted!

Recently I told a friend that I don’t go to outdoor concerts because I don’t like music, people, or the outdoors, which is true enough--but I do make one exception. Every July, Mr. Typist and I sunscreen the hell out of our chalky Irish skin and head out to the Pacific Northwest Scottish Highland Games and Clan Gathering at the Enumclaw fairgrounds. Our favorite part is watching the massing of the pipes and drums—as many as forty pipe bands from Alaska and the Northwest marching and playing in unison. It’s a spectacle that always makes me tear up, no matter how many times I see it. We usually see the Wicked Tinkers, a punk/tribal Celtic band who put on an awesome show, and on whose portly long-haired drummer I have a giddy crush. Then we just wander around eating bangers and mash, poking around in the booths, and wandering over to check in on the Caber Toss. It’s always been a fun, laid-back affair, and even though I’m deeply crowd-phobic, the number of people at this event has always felt manageable to me.

But Something Has Gone Terribly Wrong. We didn’t go last summer, so we resolved to make it this year, and holy bejesus, it was a mess. I don’t know what happened, but somehow in the last two years, the entire state of Washington must have gotten wind that this is the event of the summer, and now it’s completely ruined. In all the years we’ve attended, we’ve never waited in line more than three or four minutes to get tickets. This time, the line was almost two blocks long. It was so backed up they had to add an extra ticket booth to a back entrance, and even that line was a thirty-minute wait. Almost all of the makeshift parking lots were full. The crowds were so thick, it was impossible to get into to any of the booths. Sadly, I didn’t want to go into them anyway, because everything being sold was utter crap. There were no artists or real crafts people anymore, just vendors selling mass-produced silver jewelry, T-shirts, used books, and shoddy dresses from overseas. The food booths had impossibly long lines, the pipe band ceremony was a little sloppy, and the whole thing felt like just another tacky, bland, summer fair with a perfunctory nod to Celtic culture. I don’t know what happened! Mr. Typist and I both left feeling like our quirky little summer festival had been eaten and regurgitated by Walmart. So, this is probably our last year. Eh, who needs to leave the house anyway? It’s nice and dark in here and we have the internet.

But, it wasn’t a total loss. The Wicked Tinkers played a great set, made all the better by a seven year old girl in a long red velvet dress, who tottered right up to edge of the stage, gazed at the band with frank, aching adoration, and declared, “I love you all so much!” Then she danced like wild woman through every song.


--Kristen McHenry