Los Angeles, I can't quit you.

This evening, I spent some time revising a thing I had to write. Specifically, I added examples, broke up dense sentences and paragraphs, toned down the disciplinary jargon, and made comics. To wit:

nothing defines genre like a know-it-all cat.

And also

Social Media World, where all the text is too small to read.

I think this graphic might be nonsense, but to be fair, the explanation I made of it might be nonsense as well.

In other news, my friends are in Los Angeles, the night before AWP, living it up eating amazing pastries and going to the Getty and eating other fabulous food. Also, there might be shopping in the offing.

Right now, I am revisiting all my bad choices, the ones that led up to this moment, wherein I am revising a thing I had to write while the epic party is going down. In L.A. One of my favorite places in the WORLD.

If I were in L.A. right now, here is what I would do. I mean, besides eat pastries and go to the Getty and eat other fabulous food. Besides that, I would:

1. Go up Laurel Canyon, and maybe take a wee hike.
2. See Midnight Special and I Saw the Light in a double feature at the ArcLight.
3. Go to the LACMA and see the Mapplethorpe and the Islamic Art Now exhibits.
4. Eat tacos at a taco truck.
5. Go to The Broad.
6. Obviously, hear people read and go to amazing life-transforming sessions at AWP.

Ideally I would have a car, so it wouldn't be unreasonable to

7. Go to Palm Springs and hike around the palm oases in Andreas Canyon.
8. Go back to the Sonny Bono Salton Sea National Wildlife Refuge.
9. Wander around Joshua Tree for awhile or so.
10. Drive back to L.A. for dinner, who knows where? someplace excellent.

Alas, I have lived my life as I have lived it. And thus I am not, nor shall I anytime really soon be, in Los Angeles. I am, however, giving a reading at The King's English tomorrow night. That is some pretty good solace there.

Retreat-ish.

I determined, a few weeks ago, that during spring break I would set aside two days/nights to work on my manuscripts. This determination survived my return from Philadelphia, which found me whiny and panicked about the work I had to do, and also fairly certain that I did not want to spend any more nights apart from the historian.

But as I looked around me at my house, and thought about how fun it would be to just putter around,  sorting through stuff, making toast, telling myself each morning how I would 'write' and 'grade,' I realized that if, indeed, I did want to work on those manuscripts, I would probably get more serious work done if I left. If I, in fact, retreated.

So I did. I took a room at a local motel and holed up in here like a poetry-writing motel-rat. Here's how it's gone:

1. I am considering yet again another title change for my first manuscript. The title, which I have had for the longest, longest time, Hymn, has a religious connotation that I (a) mean, but (b) fear is shaping all my unknown readers' responses in the most simple-minded possible ways. Am I underestimating my readers? The reason this manuscript has not been published is the title, right? That's the only possible explanation. The last time I changed the title of this manuscript, I re-named it something so entirely abstruse that it got me absolutely no traction (again, assuming that it was the title that made the difference). Anyway, right now I am hovering on a title that I like, but am not sure about and I am certainly not going to jinx it by naming it on this blog, except to say that it can signify 'a wavering, unsteady flame' and 'a North American woodpecker.' If you can (a) guess this title, I would (b) be interested in hearing if you think it's any good, especially if you happen to be a person who has read this manuscript on one or another of its iterations.
2. I rearranged the poems in this manuscript, creating new sequences and new threads of logic thereby.
3. I awoke at 4:30 a.m. with the absolute certainty that that new arrangement was terrible.
4. I could not sleep.
5. I got up at 5:30 and restored the old arrangement, mostly, with several much subtler changes.  Phew.
6. About 7:45 a.m., I thought, wow, I am tired because I woke up at 4:30 a.m. all anxious about my manuscript and my terrible revision. Maybe I will close my eyes for a few minutes.
7. At noon, I awoke. Talk about your retreats.
8. Breakfast at noon. The shame.
9. I spent the afternoon going through that manuscript like a monkey grooms its mate.
10. It is good. Except I'm not sure about the title.
11. Manuscript 2: I have taken out weak poems, substituted more muscular, fresh poems. So far the title stays. I also know that I have plenty more revision and refining to do for this manuscript.

In the morning I will probably go print them both and take another look. Then I will go home and 'grade.'

Revising.

I am reading tomorrow night at City Art. I am also sick. I have been revising a small batch of recent poems for this reading. I am also sick. Did I just say that twice?

Me, to the historian:  I maybe don't have faith in these poems.

Historian: (waits, as he has, perhaps, heard me convey this sentiment before.)

Me: ...but maybe that's because I'm sick.

Historian: (radiates total compassion and understanding. Also understands that he's possibly better off waiting this particular conversation out.)

Me:  ...but then I often feel that way about my poems?

Historian: (through ESP communicates that these poems are, and will be, just fine.) I hate to see you feeling so bad--do you need me to get you anything?

Me: (sigh.) No.

Useful facts.

aka, by-products of my revision process:

Did you all know about this "parasitic -n-" phenomenon? Me neither.

Carry on.

Sharper.

Part of the great Writers@Work experience I had was the manuscript conference I had with the editor/publisher, who loved my work but also had some editorial feedback, to wit:

1. each line should be like a little poem unto itself. I was enjambing too much which made all the lines feel not like little poems unto themselves.
2. take three words out of each line. (overstatement, translation: wordy, talky, also wordy.)
3. hold your hand over the page and find the language "hot spots." (metaphorical, translation: too talky, too much talking between the good parts.)

He took care to remind me that the above feedback was in the context of really liking my work, so I was not supposed to tumble into a pit of self-loathing, and I mostly haven't. Mostly. When I mentioned this feedback to several friends, they said, basically, (a) that's just regular good advice, but (b) don't do it just because he said so! (insert eye-rolling here). Anyway, I decided to go through the manuscript to see what I thought, and immediately, I could see poems that needed relineation and general pruning. Did I see this just because I'm a pro and it's just good practice? Was I doing it because he said so? Probably both, a little.

Yesterday, I spent several hours revising almost every poem. It was amazing to me to see how much sharper I could make poems I haven't touched for literally years. Example of an old sad version and a new sexy, streamlined version of the first part of one poem:

Old version:

Directions

To get to the house, you must first find
the black highway, measured in leagues
and scores of leagues. This will take days.
The broken lines will keep you
till the road ends. There, you’ll find

a field with a path. It has been years
since the least pilgrim has found it,
so really, it will be the intimation
of a path, and you’ll have to imagine
the rest with your feet, or perhaps with

a rusty old scythe, which you might find
lying there.

and the 2.0 version:

Directions

To get to the house, first find the black highway,
measured in leagues and scores of leagues.
This will take days. The broken lines will keep you
till the road ends. There, find a field
and the intimation of a path—
imagine the rest with your feet,
or perhaps with a rusty scythe
you might find lying there.

Still enjambing, but with more purpose, and so many extra, useless, meaningless words . . . poof!

Well, who can say? In any case, I enjoyed doing the revising, then had a fit of self-loathing as I readied copies of the ms to send out. But not because anyone told me to. The self-loathing I always manage to do on my own.