SOO JIN PATE

SOO JIN PATE photo by Ethelbert

DR. SULAYMAN NYANG, Islamic Scholar and author.

SULAYMAN NYANG photo by Ethelbert

THE E BOX

Saturday, March 31, 2012

This morning I gave Karolina Gajdeczka her E-Box. She was one happy writer. Spring is here - may all the poets bloom.

KAROLINA photo by Ethelbert

ETHELBERT & KAROLINA photo by Denise King-Miller

 

KAROLINA GAJDECZKA on revising "Country Road."

            Small, sleepy towns in Frederick County, MD inspired my poem “Country Road.”  I love that entering one of these towns is like driving into a time capsule.  If not for certain jarring reminders of modernity—the neon lights of a fast food chain, a passing train—you would almost believe you travelled through time.  I tried to capture that atmosphere and the feeling of being in such a place.  I am still trying.  “Country Road” is currently a work in progress.

            Here is an earlier draft of the poem, which I showed to Ethelbert, among other writers and friends:

A one lane bridge

connects

“not from around here”

to a place trapped

in time—

sometime between WWI

and the Internet.

Beyond the city lights

and dim suburban street lamps,

the road is dark, and quiet.

There are chickens

whose eggs we use for breakfast.

There are neighborly gestures:

friendly waves, borrowed cups of sugar.

There are no fences.

Time slows to a

southern drawl

cut sharply with the knife

of a passing freight train

like cherry pie,

the insides oozing out and

only old crumbs left

on the table.

            The feedback I got from almost everybody is that the last stanza is the strongest, so I considered moving that to the beginning of the poem.  I also heard that the line “There are no fences” left a strong impression, so I wanted to move that to the end.  From Ethelbert, I also heard that the second stanza did not add much to the poem, with which I had to agree, so I cut that.  He also suggested that the lines “sometime between WWI/ and the Internet” were not specific enough, and I considered changing them to “sometime between WWII/ and Vietnam” or even “sometime between WWII/ and Iraq”—but ultimately decided to leave these lines out as well.  I also chose to add some white space surrounding the line “not from around here,” since that would complement the significance of the distinction and separation in the quote.  After removing some lines, and rearranging the rest, I came up with this draft:

Time slows to a

southern drawl

cut sharply with the knife

of a passing freight train

like cherry pie

insides oozing out

old crumbs left

on the table.

A one lane bridge

connects

“not from around here”

to a place trapped

in time.

There are no fences.

                However, this draft felt incomplete to me.  I showed it to a writing professor and a few writer friends, and they all seemed to agree that I had cut too much from the original poem, though I didn’t feel strongly about adding back the lines I had removed.  My professor felt that I mixed too many metaphors in the first stanza, particularly in the last four lines (like cherry pie/ insides oozing out/ old crumbs left/ on the table.)  Even though I knew what I meant in these lines, I realized I wasn’t expressing it in a way that other people could understand.  He also suggested that cutting the second stanza from the original may have been better, but that adding a line or two more describing the town would help.  After some thought, I drafted this version:

A one-lane bridge

connects

“not from around here”

to a place trapped

in time.

There are still neighborly gestures.

Kids grow and leave town

like cherry pie

insides oozing out

old crumbs left

on the table.

Time slows to a

southern drawl

cut sharply with the knife

of a passing freight train.

There are no fences.

            The feedback I got on this draft is that it still needed some work.  My professor still had an issue with the cherry pie metaphor.  I wasn’t completely satisfied with the new arrangement.  A few friends felt the “neighborly gestures” line was vague, unnecessary.  A little discouraged, I decided the best thing to do for this poem is to give it a little breathing room and give myself more time to think about exactly what I am trying to convey.

            Currently, I am still letting the poem percolate while I think about how I’d like to go about revision.  I am torn between going back to an earlier draft and reworking it, or starting over.  While it’s still a poem in progress, I have not given up on the idea and am not concerned about how many drafts it will take to get it right.  I am still open to suggestions.

WRITING A LANGUAGE by KAROLINA GAJDECZKA

Writing a Language

            My fascination with language and expression through words began with my struggle with it.  Until I went to preschool, I spoke only Polish at home.  I could understand basic English from watching Sesame Street and Barney on TV, though I didn’t speak it.  One of my earliest memories is being nervous on my way to my first day of preschool—I was scared I would forget which way to shake or nod my head to indicate yes or no.  I was very young, so I am told that within a few short months I was speaking English as well as my classmates.  But as soon as my battle with speaking the language was won, I had to conquer learning to read and write.

            At first, I was far behind my peers.  I was put in the lowest reading group because I never practiced reading at home.  I was embarrassed to be in the bottom group, and felt like an outcast.  Determined to overcome this challenge, I spent hours at home sounding out words and improving my reading skills.  As I recall, proving to my teachers that I could read Charlotte’s Web won me over to the highest reading group.  My love for reading and language arts continued from there.

            Shifting from loving reading to loving writing was an easy transition.  While still in elementary school, a family friend gave me my first journal, though I can’t remember the occasion.  Writing my first journal entries led to the realization that I could write to express myself, that it was communication I could control.  It wasn’t long before my wild imagination led me to write stories, and I began enjoying creative assignments in school.  Eventually, writing developed into a third language for me, a way to communicate things I didn’t know how to verbalize.  

            In this way, I first began experimenting with poetry in high school.  Though much of the poetry I wrote during this time was full of teenaged angst, I enjoyed playing with words and images, something that has stuck with me ever since.

            Writing continues to be a way for me to express feelings and images, imprints of memory and figments of imagination, though I now shape these things into story, whether in poetry or fiction.  The whole process of writing, from the first kernels of an idea, to carefully selecting words and phrases, to revising and rewriting, has become my own language, and I only continue to grow in exploring the art of shaping it.

An excerpt from my essay, The Kitchen Table, in English, about my memories of learning English:

            When I was four, my parents had not yet remodeled the house, and the kitchen still stood at its front—a bay window facing the street—like the rest of the houses on our block.  It was a comfortable kitchen.  The floor was soft cream linoleum, the cabinets were a gentle oak, the lighting was dimly splashed through the leaves of the tree that shaded the front of the house.  I liked to spend my time in there, at the kitchen table—the appearance of which I no longer remember because it was always laden with my various art projects, my father’s newspapers, or a large family dinner.

            One Saturday morning, I sat in my usual perch at the head of the kitchen table, working on a finger painting.  It smelled like children’s paint and cinnamon blueberry muffins that my babcia and I baked when I woke.  My babcia, my father’s mother, a gentle yet vivacious woman, always wore her Sunday Best on the weekends, and baked muffins with me to keep me busy while my parents sleep in.  I loved creeping down to the kitchen and watching the batter swirl in the early dawn light.

            My mother chattered over the sound of the NPR coming from the other room.  She wore high-waisted denim jeans, a red blouse, and matching red earrings.  She is blonde, like me, but with deep pacific-blue eyes instead of my transparent jade ones and looks at least ten years younger than she was, or at least that’s what I’d heard all of her friends telling her.  She always talks fast and doesn’t like to be interrupted, though her lengthy pauses often tempt me to do so.

            “Mama!” I yell, suddenly interrupting her. “No white paint! I need it for clouds.”

            “Are you listening, myszko? This is important. You need to listen to me,” she answers, gently.  She had been chattering at me.  Something about school, which I was supposed to start on Monday and wasn’t interested in.

            “I need white.”

            “You have to learn some English before school. I know you understand.”

            I respond by holding up my painting.

            “Just repeat what I say. YYeesssss,” Mama says slowly.

            I light up with an idea: “Can I use toothpaste for white paint?”

            “It’s OK, you will understand,” she says, more to herself than to me. “Just say yes and no.”

            I shake my head.

            “Well, that means no,” she says, and leaves it at that, handing me Whiteout for paint.  I frown.  This is not the toothpaste.

            On Monday, Babcia tells me to pick out my favorite outfit for my first day of Preschool.  My stomach tightens, and I inform my grandmother that I can’t go—because I don’t feel well—because I don’t remember yes and no—because what if I get sick, I won’t know how to tell the teacher.  She nods and says she thinks the skirt I asked her to make is ready.

            Soon I am ready for school, and my babcia walks me to the end of the driveway with her camera.  I pose by the mailbox, where I am supposed to wait for the bus.  I am pleased with my choice of clothing.  I wear the skirt Babcia sewed for me, a black ruffled skirt with three folds and yellow, red and green balloons floating all up it.  I wear white sneakers, to match the spot on the balloons showing light bouncing off of them, and a red t-shirt, red socks, red puffy headband to match my favorite balloons.  

            On the bus, I sit in silence, avoiding eye contact, not wanting to speak.  I wring my hands and tap my feet.  Was shake or nod yes? What if I forget which way to turn my head to say yes or no?  When we arrive at the school, the teachers try to assemble students in their classes outside, but I don’t understand them, they speak too fast.  I get very hot.  My stomach twists.  I am scared I will be sick.  I start to cry.  A teacher comes to help me, asking my name, and she seems very nice, but I don’t know how to answer her.  I hand her a note my mother wrote.  She nods her head, and says very slowly, “It’s OK. Come with me.” She takes my hand and leads me to the class.  

            The smell of the building shocks me so much I stop crying—the smells of bleach and glue sting at my nostrils.  Soon I am in the brightly colored classroom, drawing at a small table next to the fish tank.

            Toward the end of the day, the teacher says, “Hey, quiet one.  Do you need anything? Do you want wah-ter?” She exaggerates her enunciation.  I look around the room frantically.  I close my eyes, desperately wishing I had listened to my mother.  Then, I nod.  

            She points to the water fountain.  When I walk over to it, I practically strut, pleased with myself for remembering.  At the kitchen table that night, over chicken and rice, I tell my parents the proud news, and they beam.  My mother even claps.  We celebrate by going out for ice cream.  I even tell the cashier on my own, “Coffee.  Sprinkles.   Please,” to order my favorite.

. . .

The full essay will be published in the 2012 issue of Lighted Corners

Karolina Gajdeczka - Working on a Literary Career

            I’m going to fill you in on a little secret.  Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve held the idea close in my heart that I could pursue a career in the literary field.  But until recently, that’s where that dream stayed—close in my heart.  Now, I’ve finally come out of my shell and admitted: I want to make my career in the literary community.  This was a pretty big deal for me to cast out into the open.  Like any other career, perhaps more than some other careers, this requires dedication, a little patience and a leap of faith.

            I’m not going to lie—I get overwhelmed pretty easily, though most of the time I am able to handle it pretty well.  Trying to get my foot in the door in the literary world where I had no real connections and only a growing interest at first seemed really daunting.  In the past year, I’ve taken some baby steps and some big strides in pursuing this dream.  Let me tell you about them…

            Now, I’m naturally a pretty shy person, so even at the mention of the word “networking,” I used to turn and run in the opposite direction.  Despite my fears, I’ve really pushed myself into networking this year, and it’s the biggest thing I’ve been able to do for myself.  I have met some really amazing people along the way!  Okay, perhaps I oversimplified it—I didn’t really “push” myself so much as “ease” myself into it—but either way, I’ve been able to get my foot in the door and make new connections.

            In February of 2011, I went to my first writer’s conference—the AWP Conference in DC—and if you’ve never been to an AWP Conference, let me tell you, it’s huge.  I got pretty intimidated by the crowds, and didn’t use the opportunity to network too much, but I learned a lot at the workshops and was less scared to go to another conference.  That April, I went to Conversations and Connections, where I was a bit less intimidated and asked questions during the workshops. There, I was also able to reconnect with Zachary Benavidez, the Editor-in-Chief of Potomac Review, with whom I had taken a creative writing class.

            By the time I went to the F. Scott Fitzgerald Literary Conference, I was ready.  I asked questions, chatted with other writers between workshops, and even followed up with people I met—in fact, that’s how I met the wonderful Ethelbert Miller, who has since graciously offered advice and other connections.

            Through my networking, I was also able to get an internship at Potomac Review for this semester.  At the internship, I’ve been able to read published as well as rejected pieces, and organize incoming submissions.  I even read over and edited the upcoming issue of Potomac Review.  In addition to all of this, I contribute to the Potomac Review blog.  Most recently, I wrote a short blog post called “Later, Rinse, Repeat: Revision Steps” about the revision aspect of the writing process.  That’s just the stuff I’ve accomplished through networking.  

            Last year, I joined the staff of Lighted Corners, the student-run literary magazine at Mount St. Mary’s University and through hard work became an associate editor.  This year, I became the editor of Lighted Corners.  I have been in charge of most aspects of production, including organizing meetings and deadlines, selecting editorial staff, organizing submissions and the selection process, and delegating and checking editorial work.  I’ve also worked very closely with my Art Editor to establish an overall aesthetic, a design and layout aesthetic, select paper quality, fonts, art editors, and artwork.  This experience has taught me about just how much work and how many decisions go into magazine production, but I’m so happy to be a part of promoting literature in our small community that the work is worth it.

            “Okay, enough about the networking and literary magazines—what about writing?" you ask.  Funny you should mention that.  Of course, as an English major and creative writing minor, I do a lot of reading and writing for school, but between schoolwork, internships, and finding time for family and friends, it’s really hard to find time to read or write just for myself.  So I set a goal for myself: every day I need to get up an hour or two early and write, and every other week I read a new book.

            So, maybe I have not been able to keep exactly to my strict goals.  After staying up late to finish school assignments and already waking up early for class, waking up extra early to write is not always possible.  And yet I’ve still managed to fit it into my schedule where I can, and am writing much more than I used to.  How did I do that?  Well, honestly, like the networking, I’ve just had to stop talking about it and do it.  One thing that has helped me, though, is realizing that a draft can be far from perfect—it’s much easier to perfect your writing in revision than in a first draft—which has helped take some of the pressure off.  I’ve also been reminding myself that writing in different styles, whether for classes, the Potomac Review blog, or the school newspaper, still develops my writing skills, even if it’s not the brilliant poetry and fiction I want to be writing.

            Scary as it has been to go out on a limb for my once-secret dream, the experience has been amazing, and I’m already doing so much to move it forward.  Now I just have to keep on going to see where all this will take me.