Marcia Meier's Blog, in which she writes about writing, publishing, memoir, poetry, and just about any other aspect of life.
A poem and photograph from my latest book, Ireland, Place out of Time (2017). Order your copy from Weeping Willow Books.
In the moss woods
moisture drips upon ancient rocks
my thoughts oblique fire
the pyre beckons
sadness creeps toward my words
your words, our intentions grow
purple with winged birds lifting
red blue orange grief holds us
too close to home, too close to
the spirit that lifts
with your eyes
A poem and photograph from my latest book, Ireland, Place out of Time (2017). Order your copy from Weeping Willow Books.
Watch out, he yells, the bushes!
Relax, I say, driving on the left is a
breeze. Roundabouts might be
a tiny challenge, but cruising
these narrow roads isn’t so hard.
The bushes barely
brushed the side of the car.
A poem and photograph from my latest book, Ireland, Place out of Time (2017). Order your copy from Weeping Willow Books.
We found the house on Ranelagh Road,
three-story brick building,
a preschool and Torc Feed and Grain
Sprinkled his sister’s ashes
on the threshold, a link from
California to their Irish roots
The house served his great-grandfather well,
until he, like so many others, fled
to the promised land
He had a “bit o’ bob” they told us,
given its once fancy address.
We breathed in its now bare
façade, felt its pull,
listened as it called
from the deep earth
So pleased to tell you about my latest book of poetry and photography, Ireland, Place Out of Time. Come along as Rob and I explore the beautiful Emerald Isle, digging deep into our interactions with the people and their land during our visit in September/October 2015.
Read more about it here.
"Every worthwhile book contains many faults, and every worthwhile writer commits them."—Eric Partridge
Do you see the bird's claw prints? They are interspersed with those made by some human who trod along the sand at the headwaters of the slough at Avila Beach recently. They are so large I assume they are probably those of a great blue heron, but I can't be sure. What I love about them is their size—nearly half the size of a (wo)man's foot. The other thing is I was frustrated that I couldn't find a spot where the heron's footprints weren't "marred" by the human prints. I wanted the image to be perfect, to reflect a perfection that doesn't exist in nature, or, really, anywhere.
We all try to make things perfect. Mostly we fail. Writers strive to create the perfect story, essay, novel, memoir, and what we end up with (most times) is flawed prose. Still, we persist.
John Steinbeck, who is one of my favorite writers, struggled (as most of us do) with his early writing. In fact, his first book, Cup of Gold, was a flop that never earned back his $250 advance, according to the Writer's Almanac. Steinbeck wrote to a friend: "The book was an immature experiment written for the purpose of getting all the wise cracks (known by sophomores as epigrams) and all the autobiographical material (which hounds us until we get it said) out of my system [...] I think that I shall write some very good books indeed. The next one won't be good nor the next one, but about the fifth, I think will be above average."
That was 1929. In 1935 he started work on his masterpiece Of Mice and Men (one of my all-time favorite books), which he didn't finish until 1937. During that time he and his wife, Carol, lived in his family's vacation cottage near Monterey Bay. She worked as a secretary and his family gave him a monthly stipend of $25. In spring 1936, he wrote to a friend that the work was going well and he was excited about its prospects. Then his new puppy chewed up the manuscript. He wrote to a friend: "Minor tragedy stalked. My setter pup, left alone one night, made confetti of about half of my ms. book. Two months work to do over again. It sets me back. There was no other draft. I was pretty mad but the poor little fellow may have been acting critically. I didn't want to ruin a good dog on a ms. I'm not sure it is good at all. He only got an ordinary spanking with his punishment flyswatter."
Steinbeck's good humor shines here, but so does the sense of inevitability so many writers know: It can always be rewritten—and improved. In my experience, the result is usually better. In Steinbeck's case, the final version of Of Mice and Men was chosen as a Book-of-the-Month Club pick before it came out and got rave reviews. It soon became a successful Broadway play.
What is the lesson here? Trust that the work will become what it's meant to be, get out of the way, and don't be afraid to revise.
