My Life, Planning Stages.

As the rest of my peers at Champlain College in the guinea pig class of 2011 sit worried or angry, or some combination thereof, about the dreaded, ambiguous Capstone Project that faces us in the coming year, my fellow writing majors and I sit back and smile to ourselves.

We hope.

Champlain has done a fabulous job of making everything up as they go, which means we students get updates on the fly on a need-to-know basis (not sure about you, but when my tuition money is funding you, I consider everything "need to know"). So while I'm supposed to be excited over the freedom allowed to Professional Writing majors in our capstone because we will be working on a project of our choosing, I'm wary. I'm waiting for that one loophole or forgotten detail that's going to throw a wrench in the gears and get all us writers up in arms. It'll be like finding out that Michael Collins signed a treaty giving us freedom, just to later find out we're still under the oppressive thumb of the British.

But I'm supposed to be brainstorming what I want to do for Capstone. Some proposed ideas have been a "coherent piece of text, such as a one-act play or the first four chapters of a novel," a collection of poetry or songs, an extended piece of investigative reporting, and an eBook or web project. But I'm a commitmiphobe, and the idea of tying myself down to one piece of writing for an extended period of time makes my chest tighten. I don't do the long haul. Poetry, though, that I could get into. And though the world is a better place when I don't sing, if I wake up one morning spewing lyrics, I could team up with April Payne. Investigative reporting makes me nauseous, and I'm still working on getting better with the Internet. We're in couples therapy.

I know! I'll start a small publication. It'll be perfect for Capstone, exactly what they want: I'll put together a staff of talented writers, get myself a graphic design team, recruit submissions from writers around the area, edit until it's flawless, publish in print and electronically on a kickass website, organize events, gather up a dedicated and enthusiastic following...oh, wait. I've done that already.

Seriously, though. It was something I loved while it lasted, and would have been a great capstone project if I hadn't started it my freshman year and if it hadn't already run its course. Combining two of my loves, though--editing and travel writing--maybe I'll put together an issue of a travel writing magazine. Really work with writers, rather than just a quick copyedit, to perfect their pieces. This way, I get another piece for my editing portfolio, a capstone project, and they get polished pieces for their portfolios--or to send out for publication.

I've also started writing a lot more poetry. That burning rush that you're supposed to get as a writer? The feeling that you'll combust unless you get the words down? Poetry is the only form of writing that has given me that. On the train to Howth, after rotting in the city and not writing more than two lines of a poem, I was hit again. I had to scramble and rip apart my backpack to get to my Moleskine. As I scrawled out the last two lines as quickly as I could, I couldn't stop a laugh from escaping my lips. I felt as if light was beaming from my pores as I reread what I had written. So maybe I will make a collection of poetry. Of course, I was kind of hoping to take Jim Ellefson's Advanced Poetry Seminar, and I'd do that in there. But it's an idea.

Hmmm. I'm supposed to have three things, aren't I? I really do love editing. One thing I learned from Kathy Johnson in my Copyediting class is that every word that's written--ever--needs to be looked at. Maybe I could find some freelance work and get myself a few copyediting clients/projects. That would be way cool.

So, that's my plan for now.

Lyr's Daughter

I've become liquid, sand dancing
swirling through me
current racing
down my back, through
the length of my spine, flowing
vertebrae to vertebrae
waves stringing my bones together;
I stretch shore to shore
every square inch of skin
settling on the sand, draping
over rocks, coral, galleons lost long ago;
the naked front of my watery body
exposed to the sky, rippled
by rain, swirled
by wind, speckled
by sun.
Cargo steamers, cabin cruisers, Catalinas
gliding down my thighs
between my breasts
harboring in my elbow's still crook
racing around my fingers
skipping over my toes' wake
turning course in my collar bone's dip,
weathered men in slick rubber
setting traps, rickety wood
lowered into the hollow of my shoulder
swimmers streaking laps through my veins
children splashing
in the full pools of my eyes
divers exploring my deep.

Spread tales of my Bermuda Triangle: time stopped
men lost;
I'll surround, envelop your body
salt your skin, waves
rocking you back
rolling along my whitecaps;
sometimes
you'll feel safe, others
you won't, but you'll dream
of me, longing
to dive in again.

Well Now--How in the Hell Did You Stumble into Here?

I try to avoid saying I’m from Connecticut at all costs. Growing up in Fairfield County taught me exactly what I didn’t want to be. When asked, I like to say I live in Vermont (and enough real, quality Vermonters have adopted me to make it acceptable). I plan to travel and move around a lot in my life—which confuses a whole score of people, since I hated change in any capacity as a child. I get antsy if I’m in one place too long. My feet get itchy, I get irritable. As much as I love VT, the countdown to leaving was equally a countdown to sanctuary. Maybe that’s why all my plants are in pots. Mobility. But I’ll use Vermont as my home-base, my “great place to be from,” the center of my United States.

More of a cursory introduction, now. I’m 5’4” on a good day, but I’m half an inch taller than my mother, which is all that matters. I’ve been riding and working with horses since I was seven, and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing at 6 AM on a Sunday than barn chores. I rock climb, I do yoga, I love hiking and kayaking and camping. Real camping. I love to cook, but only for other people. I also love dashes and semicolons. I prefer editing to writing, though I’ve recently been spewing poetry like a bashed in fire hydrant. My eyes change color from blue to green to grey. I love smiling at people. You can’t put me near water and expect me to not go in. I want a BIG dog that’ll go running and swimming and hiking with me. And a goat. Speaking of, I’m a Capricorn. And a recovering Catholic. I was raised in Sunday school, never believing a second of it—though that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in something else. Living in a city might damn near kill me, as there aren’t enough trees around, but I’m always looking to push my comfort zone.

I’m making 2010 the year of daring. Literally the first thing I did this year was getting on a plane and moving to Ireland alone, five days before anyone I knew would be in the country. It was the best decision I’ve made so far—and I’m eager to top it. If nothing else, I’ll have something to write about.

I'm studying writing at Champlain College. No, I don't want to write a novel. I don't want to be a journalist. I don't want to be a teacher, either. I want to be an editor. Preferably for a magazine involving yoga/rock climbing/backpacking/horses/etc. I love editing. I love helping authors perfect their work. Much more than I like writing.

And before you yell blaspheme and start petitioning to take away my degree, I do like writing most of the time. I've been having a lot of fun reviewing restaurants with my roommate. Those will likely make their way onto this blog. I've written some poetry that I'm decently fond of, which will also likely show up. And I’d like to dip into travel writing to see if it’s something I’m at all decent at, to see if it’s something I’m at all attracted to. I’d like to use my writing productively as I travel after graduation. I want to spend a year in Ireland, working in a pub, and meeting people. I want to spend a year in China, teaching English. I want to spend a year in Spain, giving guided horseback tours through the mountains. I want to spend a year in Italy, working on a farm or in a vineyard. Maybe I’ll spend a year in Portugal, working in a café. Maybe I’ll find something to do in Argentina. Or Mexico.

See? I have a plan. That's why I could never be a writer. Of course, a year is just a template. I might never leave Ireland.

Leaving out that I have two siblings, my dad was a professional cage fighter, and no, I probably don't know which movie you just quoted, you basically just went through all my first date material. Now comes the part where you decide if you want to keep at it or throw me back.