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.

Apology (a poem)

I’m sorry to motherhood
for all the doting
I can’t find energy
to accomplish
you grueling taskmaster
spilling out
screaming and yawning creatures
from between my legs
asking a continuous effort
of excellent nurture,
diet, education, and activity,
my abdominal skin
rippling and shifting
like the record
of a tossed stone
stretching and breaking
then sinking
into dark and watery
obscurity
my body
utilized and exited
then poked and grasped
and slapped
and kissed.

 

Copyright 2017 Mindy Goorchenko All Rights Reserved

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: 4/9/2017

Hello, everyone. Here is a new edition of Coffee House for you with a poem called “Empires.”

In this edition, I share my recent exciting news, as well as inside information about my upcoming collection entitled The Latent Talent of Conception. Find out who my book is dedicated to and why, and how I describe my book in just a couple handfuls of words.

Thank you for your support. xo

 

P.S. By the way, I mention my aunt and her book in this video but fail to name her. Her name is Lauri Taylor and her book, The Accidental Truth, can be found by clicking on the link.

Coffee House: 3/13/2017

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

Coffee House: 3/4/17

“Coffee House” is the name I have given my series of online poetry readings. I will try to keep up with this every week. This piece seemed fitting for the beginning of Lent and was inspired by a particularly vivid dream.

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