Book release: “The Latent Talent of Conception” ~ Poetry by Mindy Goorchenko

I am very excited to announce the publication of my first collection of poetry, The Latent Talent of Conception, available through Amazon. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be building my author page over on Amazon and updating the blog. Please check back frequently for updates here on the blog and over at Facebook and Instagram.

Most importantly, please accept my gratitude. I cherish the many expressions of encouragement and enthusiasm that have graced this project. I love that art matters to you. I love that you are willing to take time out of your day and its many demands to spend time focusing on artistic expression and beauty. What a tremendous gift that you include me in that. Thank you.

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“There is nothing new under the sun.” An opportunity to practice pathological optimism. And also…wah.

This week, I’m living it up with my toddlers as the stay-at-home parent and that means frequent trips to the parks and libraries. And guess what happened? During the most random meandering down an aisle while chasing around my two year old, I found my series idea, fully fleshed out and published in its entirety from the 1980s.

Apparently, Ben M. Baglio and Shelagh McNicholas rocked this idea to the max. I caught my breath at the proximity of my chosen titles… Dolphins in the Driftwood. Cats in the Cathedral. You see my quandary?  Damn. 

But it got me to thinking about the beautiful simplicity of this little series, which still gets 5 star reviews, 30 years later.

In truth, our ideas are totally different. This series appears firmly rooted in “real life.” Mine verges on fantasy. I don’t see any cathedrals or shipwrecks in these titles.

This did help me appreciate, however, that my overriding purpose and concept behind the series is not well-honed. My audience of one, as I joke–my 9-year-old, who has been hearing my stories aloud and loves them all–does not care much about whatever “point” the book may be trying to make. But do I have one? How can I not?

What’s the point of it all, anyway?

(insert existential crisis here)

I resolve to NOT plagiarize the 80’s awesomeness of the Animal Ark series (Babysitters Club and Sweet Valley Twins forever!); and I also resolve to get more clarity in my brain about why I’m writing this series, so that it has a cohesive purpose, even if my 9-year-old couldn’t care less and just wants to read about dolphins.

Peace out.

July update: High aspirations

Greetings, readers. I have several projects underway to share with you all.

One of them is a lofty goal I set, despite of my crazy busy life as a nurse and mother and grad student.

If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. 

Stephen King

I feel fortunate to be connected to several strong, productive online communities that help me to improve my writing process and stay accountable. Some of us made a commitment to write 100,000 words during the month of July.

It’s July 5th; I’ve accomplished 5% of the goal, with a little more than 5,000 words written thus far.

I’m well below the daily average I need to come anywhere close to achieving 100,000 words this month. But I’m still thrilled to have written 5,000 words that otherwise may not have been written. I am also finding new ways to write in order to better utilize my time–for instance, dictating into the voice recorder of my phone and uploading it to transcription software.

One of the projects that has been percolating in my brain for at least a year is a series of books for middle-schoolers centering around animals, especially with my 9 year old daughter in mind. I finally decided to apply myself to this project in a more intentional way.

Her enthusiasm is infectious; she has fallen in love with the characters and is constantly hounding me to find out what happens next. I suspect these books will be around 20,000-30,000 words each; I could feasibly finish drafts of three of these in a month. The first one is called Dolphins in the Driftwood.

I suspect there may be purists out there reading this who question whether a word count goal is beneficial to the creative process, and feel it somehow takes away from the creative power and purpose of writing.

But I’m learning so much. For instance:

1. Fiction is my weakest writing style; by writing more of it, I improve. I know I am improving, as I am finding the process and the output to be more enjoyable to create and read. The only way that will continue to happen is to produce more of it.
2. Planning the work is vital and good. In the past, I have minimally planned my fiction because it struck me as boring and unnecessarily time-consuming to outline something intended to be creative. Consequently, my fiction was boring, without any real plot or intentional sequence of events to move it along. To meet a daily writing goal of a high quantity, especially for someone like me with such a weak creative imagination, I have found that I have to plan. And when I plan, the writing happens quickly and easily.
3. A first draft is only that: a first draft. So a high quantity of output is destined to be largely a diamond in the rough (if that…maybe just an ugly piece of coal), with a few glimmers of excellence. Regardless, it has to be created first before it can be refined

Another writing goal I set for this month is to write a poem a day. And guess what? I’ve already failed at this goal as well, but I still have three new poems thus far in July that otherwise might not exist. This September, I’m excited to release The Latent Tale of Conception, my first volume of poetry. A second volume is planned for release in 2018 entitled The Discovery & Consumption of Fruit.

The poetic brain at work…pure joy in this process…a sense of being wholly present, seated in the fullness of an experience.

I’m scared to death about this series for middle-schoolers. I always envisioned, in all my writerly arrogance (thankfully confined largely to my twenties), that I’d someday publish a novel of epic proportions that fiercely impacts the reader or at least goes down as a great read posthumously.

In the meantime, I’m writing about dolphins and shipwrecks and hoping I don’t get laughed offstage by the grown-ups in the room. I confess that, while secretly hoping my heart still harbors a childlike place that can compellingly connect with that age group.

I have it on good authority that a certain 9-year-old loves the story, so my audience of one is pleased. Win!

Take care, everyone. Please share this blog with people you know who may be interested.

Book cover is ready!

Hi, everyone. For many weeks, I’ve been working with Ana Grigoriu-Voicu to collaborate on a cover design which captures the content of my upcoming collection, The Latent Talent of Conception. I’m very grateful for all her work and am pleased to share the fruits of that labor here. Thanks for coming over and taking a look!

I also have a release date:

September 1, 2017

If you would like to see some online poetry readings of my work, as well as commentary about my creative process, click here. Some typed pieces on my blog are available here and here.

Thank you so much for your support and encouragement during this process. I’ve heard from a lot of you and every correspondence blesses me. Be well, everyone.

 

Coffee House: 3/13/2017

Good morning, dear readers. Here are a few pieces for you.

Coffee House: 2/25/17

Alright, dear readers. I hereby bare my soul. Here are a couple pieces I recorded.

Please pass them along to the people you know who love words.

Winter and her metaphors, part 2

The moon behind icicles

Greetings, readers. I wanted to share another piece with you all, continuing with the theme of winter, along with a few paragraphs scrawled recently about loss.
~~

Arctic Circle

I think I’ll fly to Barrow.
No one there throws anything away.

I try not to email you about this,
As nothing tangible has ever stemmed
From our occasionally thawed surface.

Do you even understand
As I think you must understand
Why I need to translate
The Arctic Ocean into poems?

Aurora borealis
Does the same quiet dance like us
Through sixty-seven continuous days of darkness.
~~

The village of Barrow has a new name but my poem does not know that…my apologies to Utqiaġvik.

~~

 

Wanting Winter

In Alaska, we are obsessed with weather. We talk about it all the time because it is endlessly interesting. There is always something to say. It is never small talk. I love that about us.

By August, even those of us with a great fondness for sun begin to weary and long for the deep reflection of January. Snow falls with silent abandon. And you have done that. You have become snow, the silent, absorbent purity which traipses and intrudes over everything. Every surface exposed to the fresh cold has lost its identity in this blanket; you can only be moved by an active effort. And then, I have to bring you inside, I gather you in my buckets and warm you by the fire and drink you and bathe in you and wash with you.

Your face intrudes like snow, upon everything. I can’t go anywhere until I patiently push you out of the way. I shuffle to my car (which is life, you see) and the wipers are sealed to the glass and the mirrors are covered, because there you are. Back into the cold you take me, and I lightly drag my brush over everywhere, watching you fall away and reveal the color again (vehicle, life…try to keep up with me).

I miss you. I miss you so much. It is easy to say this from January. The winter has no end. The cold you are is harsh, there is snow all around. Some days, I sail so easily in the dank grey, feeling pleased with myself for continuing on with life in a meaningful way. Then a thought starts to override it all and I’m utterly consumed with the thoughts of you. They hide in the form of physical tension, tight shoulders, a constricted chest. I begin to swell with anger and pain and it’s not clear to me at first until I open my inner eye and realize you are right there.

A figment of my imagination, a little brain piece that won’t shut down…though I need for it to atrophy…become small and useless, even countermanding. I’m still choosing to buy into this idea that the brain has physical cells which each hold something. It gives me hope that the cell or two containing your memory can be spliced away with a laser or enough intention. But if the brain is actually holographic, I am doomed.

A soup fog yesterday, leaving behind an appearance of candy on the trees. Chunky wraps which appear solid but easily shake away with a jutting finger. Or maybe they appear like corral, as though we are encountering an ancient reef and yet we give a shake and the entire edifice crumbles, its existence as fleeting as petals on a rose. And you want to take a picture to share this beauty with anyone, but a picture cannot capture its delicacy, and anyone who’s not from here will ever understand why this moment matters. There are a thousand brief moments in winter which cry out for capture but doing so is impossible, it simply must be savored in the moment and then let go. You see, there’s a metaphor here for everything. You are winter. I am the trees.

In another rotation around the sun, I suspect I will be well over you. At New Years, I opted to hibernate. I wished them well, I blessed them on their way. They can celebrate freely, I will never drag them down into my cave. I am the mama bear in every way right now, I want sleep, I want quiet, I want the dark. I want growth but will have to waste away for a while, and then wake up renewed and anxiously looking around in the very space that I am for food. I will feast on what is freely given, I will forage among the growth and the life around me, rather than sniffing among the dead.

There is nothing in the past for me. You have chosen to rot like the carcasses of salmon, and I can’t eat that, apparently. The wisdom of my foremothers grabs my chin with her pervasive hand, slaps me on the face, blinds me to the past. Let it go, let it go, she whispers in her wisdom. I beg her to let me sleep in my cave with these thoughts. She gives me a few moments and then tosses me back out into the daily hunt for peace.

~~~

© 2017 Mindy Goorchenko All rights reserved

Winter and her metaphors, part 1

 

Greetings from Alaska. Winter endlessly fascinates me…she is my muse. I am excited to announce that my first collection of poetry, The Latent Talent of Conception, will be published later this year, so keep visiting this blog for updates. Enjoy.

The Selfish Act of Winter

No matter how it falls,
Snow can never fall hard,
And that is the posture
I now adopt,

The occasional pine
Dusted with snow.
Hester’s wedding dress,
Exposing all her secrets.

I beg in three seasons now.
Spring finds me pleased with color.
Summer wilts me with my own heat.
Autumn begs to differ until

Blessed winter comes again.
I can quit roving the grass—
The hair of the earth
As Whitman said.

I make of you dirt,
Baked fields of warm sod,
While you assert
That you are ash,

Charred remnants of holiness.
How can I argue with that?
Our paradigms
As different as fall and spring,

Opposing poles
Pointing in some
Unknown direction.
And which is worse?

That you always sound
So composed,
Or that I’m still
Writing you,

This stalled facet
Of my inner life,
A brave faction
Holding out

In the face of all
Physical evidence.
The probability
As unlikely as the spring.

© 2016-2017 Mindy Goorchenko All Rights Reserved

Writing fiction that doesn’t suck

That title may be unceremonious but, in general, I continue to be largely bored by my fiction-writing attempts, and I’ve gained a few insights along the way.

1. Back story is not the same as a good story. As I write on a daily basis for at least an hour each morning, I’m realizing that most of what makes it to the page is back story about the characters, not the actions in which they are engaged. Thus, my sense of boredom is very real…because they are not doing anything.  I am getting to know them better and that is entertaining, but as far as compiling a story with these people, not much has actually happened yet.
2. A literary style is probably more my thing. One of my pieces from earlier this month is largely a string of consciousness with key events mentioned along the way, giving it structure. Poetry’s my girl. Can I just write poems in story form?
3. A process has emerged that works for me. I think. Mostly, my first drafts are proving to be boring beyond boring. Going over them a second and then a third time, rewriting paragraphs and making the language more interesting, accurate, and descriptive along the way seems to be working for me. However, this only addresses the writing style, not the actual plotting of events. Any tips on plotting would be appreciated. I keep waiting for the characters to come alive in my mind and start doing things. I will give myself over to you and let you write yourselves into life, but for the love of all things, don’t make me do it for you.
4. I need to read more. My life has revolved around textbooks for years. It’s no wonder my imagination is shit right now. A synthesis of interests and artistry will be good to have, eventually. Reading Toni Morrison these days is watering my brain in all the right ways.

So, one month in, there has been improvement, insight, and all that exciting personal growth stuff. (yikes!)

Update on the writing life: Month #1

It has been one month today since undertaking the goal to complete 52 short stories in 52 weeks. I am nowhere near meeting it but I do feel encouraged by what has happened in the past 29 days.

• 3 & 1/2 rough drafts of stories on their way to completion
• 2 drafts of poetry
• 1 submission of poetry to HOOT literary magazine
• 1 sketch (a portrait)
• 1 plan to self-publish my first manuscript of poetry, The Latent Talent of Conception
• Participation for the first time in a “write-in,” six of us scrawling/typing a total of 8,114 words in each other’s company
• Only one half of one book read: Sula by Toni Morrison
• Subscription to Duotrope for manuscript submissions and tracking
• Subscriptions to Glimmer Train and Alaska Quarterly Review
• So many cups of coffee and Americanos. Black.

I continue to find fiction more challenging than enjoyable to write. However, a process is unfolding and it’s getting easier and even fun!

Last night, during four separate sprints in which we wrote continuously in chunks of 20 minutes, I hashed out about 400 words at a time and then returned to add layer upon layer of detail and interest until I could read it without dying of boredom.

As evidenced by my list above, I have a problem finishing stories. On a side note, I write boring plots and characters; I have little imagination.

However…it does seem to be getting a teeny bit easier and the writing has improved.