Tag: revising

What Sarah Said (and Other Recent Inspirations)

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

Recently, I went to our monthly local writer’s group and brought in some poems that I had written. These poems I had penned as a model for my students, since I had asked them to write from the very same prompts. I tend to be an over-thinker, so the practice of writing under a deadline and letting the results be what they are is good for me.

As usual, the people gave incredible feedback, mainly that poetry needs less words — take out the unessential. We distilled our mantra down to “Chuck all the words!” as we laughed at all the things that could get gone from my poems. With every comment, I felt so lucky to be a co-learner alongside poets, bloggers, novelists, professors, marketing writers, and others who would claim no other label other than they love writing. Peer review can and should exist beyond Composition 101.

The first poem I shared was based on an essay collection by the poet, Ross Gay, I had been listening to in the car. I imagined I was Gay as he cared for his dad in the ICU and all the tenderness was spilled on the page. The administrator of our group leaned over to me and whispered, “Were you thinking about ‘What Sarah Said’ by Death Cab for Cutie when you wrote this?” My poem had images of a heart monitor, being terrified of your own feelings, hospital hallways and harsh family memories. I told her I was not channeling that song consciously, but I knew it well. After the group left, I went back home and played the song on Spotify; it hit so fresh. Listen to some of the lyrics:

As each descending peak
On the LCD
Took you a little farther away from me
Away from me

Amongst the vending machines
And year old magazines
In a place where we only say goodbye

It stung like a violent wind
That our memories depend
On a faulty camera in our minds

And I knew that you were truth
I would rather lose
Than to have never lain beside at all

And I looked around
At all the eyes on the ground
As the TV entertained itself

‘Cause there’s no comfort in the waiting room
Just nervous paces bracing for bad news

After re-reading those words from a song I had heard a million times in the last 20 years, I was humbled to even be considered near the lead singer, Ben Gibbard, in terms of writing. Just look at all the specificity and irony in this hospital scene he paints! I may have been thinking about what Ross Gay described, but this song must have been rattling around in my psyche somewhere. I suppose it’s really no wonder that Plans by Death Cab for Cutie is one of my favorite albums of the 2000’s. Every song is an absolute vibe, a calm emo kid’s delight, full of heartrending tones and quiet desperation. Gibbard wrote lots of songs in response to hard things he had seen or experienced in relationships. I am always telling my students that writing in direct response to something is where some of the most profound art work exists.

So I listened to Plans some more this weekend as I write this blog post and as I look back over my writing for more words to chuck.

Ross Gay out here being a great poet

Bushhogging Your Writing

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

If you’ve never been exposed to the verb bushhoggin’ (which spellcheck says is not actually a verb), it’s a great one, useful as a metaphor for so many scenarios in life.

The word actually came from two words “brush” and “hog” because of the nature of the machine — a tractor attachment that whacks big or stubborn plants like small trees and bushes down by sheer force of a dull rotary blade. To be clear, it’s not a tiller which has sharp blades to disrupt the soil and dig it all up. It is said that a farmer noted the machine worked like a “hog eating brush” and the rest is history.

Jill, the farm manager, has had her neighbor come bushhog our garden area twice before and we got to see it in full action for the spring. She said it’s about time for a summer cleanse against all the pigweed that is growing way too fast. I tell her it’s hard to see the crops get demolished.

The backstory… When I got to the farm this week, I was so overwhelmed by how bad the weeds had gotten in just 3 weeks since we left school. With no one to really help me, I just did what I could, but it still seemed like it was just a jungle of mess — a cluttered room of grass, pigweed, clover, random flowers, fire ant hills. This was the exact opposite of what I experienced in the fall with virtually no weeds to contend with. Ultimately, it seemed that the only logical option was to knock it all down so the plants could decompose (i.e. self-compost) on the land to be ready to plant in August.

But truthfully, I didn’t want it to be bushhogged. I just wanted the monstrous weeds to go away so I could hold on to all the hours of work we put into the kale crops. There are still so many greens that are viable in including some basil near the potatoes and various lettuces scattered about. The okra also has sort of popped up in between the strawberries. I just want to keep bits and pieces of the garden going, but that’s not how a bushhogger works. It’s a HUGE attachment, so it’s more like an all or nothing proposition. If I want a better crop in fall, I have to let go of the work that has been done that is not as fresh or organized as it once was.

Part of this “letting go” work meant relocating the fruiting strawberry plants we cared for so meticulously during the year. I salvaged what ripe berries I could to eat and had to say goodbye to the rest of the small white ones. My daughter and I dug them up after we located each plant in the middle of all the weeds. We then snipped all the runners and replanted them safely in a raised bed Jill donated to us. It took about 2 exhausting hours from wedging the plants out of the garden to watering them generously in their bed at the end. Now, even if they can’t produce anymore fruit this season, they can safely grow next year for my students to eat and tend and perhaps for nature journaling for the students at Ingleside (who use the farm before we get there in the afternoon).

I was telling a close college friend about having to say goodbye to the garden and we started discussing how bushhogging can be like the writing process. You have to be willing to knock down the labor you have already put in if it no longer serves your purpose or it’s got too many weeds. You may have to move your words to a new bed. It’s painful to see the words and imagery get deleted, moved, rearranged, saved for another piece in the future. Bushhogging your words means you will have to do some hard aspects of writing and revising all again.

However, there is a silver lining for both the garden and writing: having the plants decompose doesn’t meant they just die. Rather, through the plants you’re actually enriching the soil for the next go round. As I mentioned in a previous post, the garden already has magic dirt so the plants, through decomposition, are giving back the nitrogen and all the other goodness the soil already provided the plant. When you understand that bushhogging is not a zero sum game, but rather part of the process of enrichment and discipline it’s less heartbreaking and more like a tool to help increase your ability to write better.

But…next year, I also plan to be more proactive in staying on top of the weeds with some new strategies and more help. Learn as you are going, I say!