Book Giveaway

Voice Break Book Cover

I’m currently running a book giveaway for Voice Break.

Following the advice of a community college music instructor, Kari Wergeland began taking voice lessons with a respected teacher at the age of 24. After roughly two years of study, with dubious results, she decided to stop singing. She began working as a librarian and eventually turned to writing newspaper articles, fiction, and poetry. Twenty years later, and on something of a whim, Wergeland enrolled in a workshop called The Natural Singer, with vocal coach Claude Stein. Inspired to resume voice lessons, it wasn’t long before she discovered her singing had changed. Voice Break is a long poem of possibility that tells the story of the author’s voice. Within this text, a shorter poem titled, The Next Mountain: a Riddle, becomes a key to the entire piece. Can you guess the answer?

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Release date for Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts is slightly delayed

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Finishing Line Press originally listed the release date for Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five acts as June 15. I’m pleased to announce the manuscript has been sent to the printer. However, the book won’t actually become available for a few more weeks.

My thanks goes out to those who preordered the book. You should be receiving your copies sometime in July. I appreciate your patience!

And yet one more on… The Writing Life

I gave up a six-figure salary to live the writing life. Breast cancer made me do it. Now I have a chapbook coming out. But that’s not all. Since the first of the year, I’ve had a short story, an essay, and two poems accepted. I was also named a semifinalist in a fiction contest. Though the submission process has become a cattle call (I do envy writers from earlier eras), the writing life is working out for me in a modest way.

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My poetry chapbook is about an issue of the day—breast cancer. At the request of my publisher, I dutifully sent out PR to various media outlets, as well as libraries and cancer organizations. I’ve had moments of worry about what I’ve unleashed. I might be called to talk about my cancer story, and I must say I’m not that interested in the sort of fanfare some writers have come to cherish. I probably wouldn’t be a disaster, though. I’m willing to make a perky effort on account of my book—to accept the performance side of the writing life—because I worry even more about the whole thing falling flat, my PR, ignored.

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Last weekend, I marked up the first set of galleys for the chapbook. Now I’m waiting for final proofs. Copies of this little book will soon be in the mail to those who’ve preordered it. The book will also become available through Amazon and Ingram. And once I receive my own copies, I’ll begin entering it in a few contests. Meanwhile, I’ll probably be tweeting photos of the final product, continuing to bring attention to the darn thing. I avoided Twitter like the plague until a college professor told me how everyone is using it to prove they are publishing, not perishing. This chapbook is the reason I joined the tweet-o-sphere, though I suspect I’ll stay with Twitter as my writing life works on its tango with the 21stcentury.

These days have been moving at an otherworldly pace, along with the weather. Now that I can leave my windows open, the birds have become persistent and musical. Add waves to the mix, and it’s a whirl of sound, which is great because I work at home. As a sole proprietor, I structure my time with regular writing, submission, and PR sessions. And when I’m all finished focusing a beam of thoughts into my laptop, I take a long walk. Spring has been opening up in blossoms, wildflowers, and lush green foliage. As I move through the town or along one of the beaches, new lines run inside my head. If I don’t want to lose something, I stop to type it into my phone; but usually I wait until I’m home to scrawl ideas on the back of an envelope or a scrap of paper.

Writing is truly a raison d’être for me, just feeling my thoughts in my fingers as I shape paragraphs or verses. I’ve been finding the courage to go deeper. I often disappear when I write—streams of words just flow. I feel joy when this happens. Needless to say, I’m hardly concerned about not having enough to do as a retiree.

In the last nine months, I’ve somehow managed to knock out another book—a collection of short stories. I’ve been diving into this manuscript since August, and now it’s almost finished. I’m not sure how the manuscript materialized, because I wasn’t expecting to write it. I had a handful of stories—and then I wrote another handful. At some point, I organized them into a collection. After workshopping the manuscript with David Ulin, I decided to link my stories. One morphed into a novelette. I pulled another out, on account of the fact that it was speculative fiction and didn’t quite fit. That story was just accepted by Calliope. I think some of the others are better, so I’ll accept this as a good sign.

Special note: You can still preorder Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts through Finishing Line Press.

Being the Drama of Breast Cancer

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Last month I pointed out how the theme of renewal serves as turn in my forthcoming chapbook, Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts. Zen practice is another strand moving through this memoir-in-verse. I did not attempt to write a dharma book. In fact, I’d very much prefer the genre label of Breast Cancerto be poetry or memoir-in-verse, if there must be one at all. However, I do have a Zen practice, such that it is, and I can’t help it when Zen themes creep into my work.

During the course of breast cancer treatment, I held on to a number of lifebuoy rings: yoga, movies, friendship, short walks, gardening, and most of all, the couch. As I’ve studied Zen for the last twenty years—ten with the late Charlotte Joko Beck—I also continued to make an attempt to practice with what was happening to me. Life as it is.Joko encouraged a daily sitting practice for most of her students. She also urged them to learn from ordinary life—the worldly stuff they encountered as they went about their days. While she is not named in the book, her influence on the speaking agent is present. She wanted her students to be with their life as they were working or driving or spending time with loved ones. If she’d been alive in 2016, I’m guessing she would have coached me to be the drama of breast cancer.

During my time with Joko, I learned to how stay with difficult mind states, to turn into them, watch them move around, play out—hurt even. I learned how to rest in the middle of pain or anger or fear. In time, I found even the toughest emotions and sensations do not hold firm. I would ask questions like: What is pain (physical or emotional)? What is anger? What is fear? In watching what my own mind was doing, I started to see how nothing is fixed, including what I felt. I also began to notice how being attached to any particular sensation, emotion, or drama held me back, tying up my life. Of course, this all sounds well and good, but it is far from easy. I can become attached to little scenes or big ones (little hurts or big ones)—like everybody else.

I did not sit every day as I moved through eight months of breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, though I did pull out my meditation bench on occasion. When I could muster the effort, I worked on being present with my daily life. This proved to be a lot more difficult within a cloud of “chemical hum.” Yet even during chemotherapy, there was a place for Zen practice. My nurse practitioner actually encouraged me to structure my days during this difficult time. The couch was allowed and expected, but she also wanted me walking and coming up with an abbreviated schedule. Anything that reduced stress was encouraged. My nurse practitioner liked the idea that I had a meditation practice. As for being with life as it is, I found I was better able to be present as I underwent radiation therapy.

Now, when I look back on those months, I can still enter the darker emotions I experienced—the crazy fear that came over me when I first learned I had a suspicious mass, the days that called for holding on. Yet I do not feel I lost my life during that year. In some ways I moved more deeply into it, and the simple pleasures came to mean more. I can recall the fullness of them—many of my cancer memories remain illuminated. Some of these moments in are depicted in this poem.

 

 

A Different Sort of Spring

Promoting my work at the Tucson Festival of Books

Promoting my work at the Tucson Festival of Books

I wrote my chapbook, Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts, to document what it feels like to go through breast cancer diagnosis and treatment. The act of writing the poem actually illuminated aspects I could not fully see until I grappled with them on the page. For example, there is a convoluted magnitude to what it takes to knock out this disease. I didn’t understand how complicated the process was, until I was the one sitting in the infusion chair, where I occasionally tinkered with the verses that would become this chapbook. It felt like I was moving toward loss, if not death. In the poem, I wanted to suggest renewal is also possible:

It is said Persephone
climbed out of the land of the dead
to give us spring.
I’ve returned to autumn,
to Santa Ana winds;
to regular screens—
annual mammograms
to see where I am.
Soon I’ll be eligible
for 55 and up housing,
some senior discounts.

For me renewal has meant retirement, semi-retirement really. Yesterday, I found myself one of the youngest people in a theater full of seniors. We were there for a morning (two dollar) screening of Sometimes a Great Notion, recently digitized. Last month, I toured Sicily with a group of Rick Steves sightseers—most were retired. Again, I was one of the youngest participants, as it is the off-season and retirees are more likely to travel this time of year. While I had a wonderful time, I’m still finding it difficult to see myself as one of them. This phase of life came upon me too fast, with breast cancer breathing down my neck. I could have kept working, but I wanted to rethink the precious time I have left—be that 5 years or 45.

I recently read an inspiring report in the January/February issue of AARP Bulletin, “Great Second Careers — 16 People who Found Success, Security and Happiness after 50 with a New Job.” These 16 folks have earned some jaw-dropping awe from me. The AARP Bulletin profiled workers who are relishing new careers—tough ones, too. The rag even featured a physician, who graduated from medical school at the age of 48 and began applying for fellowships at 58.

I don’t need to be a doctor, but I suspect I may decide to let go of that “retired” label at some point. Working on the chapbook has certainly played into my push toward renewal. Maybe I can finally begin to say I have a writing career. Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts is a good first step. Finishing Line Press has helped with the publicity, sending out 100 postcards to plug my new book. I’ve come in behind them, learning the art of promotion as I go. While I’m not sure what approach will actually bring the best attention to the book, I have been taking stabs at email, Facebook, LinkedIn, and Twitter. I’ve got a media kit on my website. I’ve sent out postcards, too.

I don’t expect to make money on this project. In fact, I probably won’t. According to the terms of the deal, Finishing Line pays in copies, not royalties—unless my sales shoot above the 1000 mark. It appears I’m in good company on the money issue. I recently listened to Ron Hogan give a talk on the writing life. A lot of what he said, I’d heard before. Yet I was happy to be reminded writing is a labor of love for most people, even many I’ve come to admire. In the end, the act of writing has to matter more than possible reward. While I’ve always taken my writing seriously, I’ve hedged my bets on feeling successful by also contributing to the library field. Now I have no excuse for not facing what I can do as a writer.

I’m feeling pretty normal these days, even with daily doses of Anastrozole, which can have upsetting, if not debilitating, side-effects. My energy level is strong. I managed to bounce back from this season’s nasty set of bugs (I did catch something on that airplane ride to Palermo, but it didn’t ruin my trip). I don’t take this vibrant sensibility for granted. I can still remember feeling like I was losing spark as Taxotere/Cytoxan flowed through my veins. Now I’m wondering if my doctors have succeeded in saving my life.

Preorder Breast Cancer: A Poem and Five Acts Now!

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You can now preorder my new chapbook through Finishing Line Press.

Here’s the blurb from my media kit:

In one narrative poem, broken into five parts, Wergeland takes the reader through each phase of breast cancer diagnosis and treatment: “Diagnosis,” “Surgery,” “Chemo,” “Radiation,” and “Follow-up.” These stressful months are occasionally softened by the beauty of San Diego County, particularly the narrator’s own backyard. As she deals with side effects, she draws solace from her Zen practice, as well as the urban wildlife coming her way, though she does encounter a few rattlesnakes. In the end, this breast cancer patient must face the cold, albeit promising, reality of the brilliant technology at Moores Cancer Center, even as she finds the strength to fight for a new life

Relying on Kinsey Millhone

I’m not an avid mystery reader. I tend to read a range of things: literary fiction, juvenile books, fantasy, poetry, the occasional non-fiction tome. I do like mysteries and I pick them up on occasion. If truth be told, I’ve read the entire mystery series of only one author—Sue Grafton.

I finished Y a few months back and immediately began to anticipate Z. I had a lot of questions about Z. How would Ms. Grafton wrap things up? Would Kinsey take an early retirement and move to an exotic locale? (She seemed too matter-of-fact for that.) Would her readers have to suffer through the deaths of Henry and the sibs (Grafton swore she’d never do this.) Would Kinsey finally find the right guy? (I doubted it.) Would she take a break, only to be dragged into another dubious situation requiring her expertise? (A strong possibility, I thought.) I began looking forward to Z, already hating the fact that I had another two or three years to wait. I was convinced it would be a zinger. I was guessing I wouldn’t guess exactly what Sue Grafton would do with her much-anticipated ending.

I began reading her alphabet series around 1990 (I was younger than Kinsey then). I quickly caught up to H or I, and a new routine began. As soon as the latest letter was released, I was on it. All sorts of things happened to me in-between letters, but I was always happy to resume Kinsey’s story. This steady – dependable – release of installments became something to anticipate—like the new school year or that first summer road trip. I’d go into Kinsey’s world for a few days or weeks and find new resolve. Kinsey reassured me. She helped me remember how a strong-minded woman can solve problems, make things happen, live a remarkable life.

The end of waiting for that next letter—looming anyway with the thought of Z—coincides with big changes in my own life. Old touchstones are dissolving on me. I can’t help but feel I’m entering a new era on a personal level—and in the global sense. The world feels, well… slippery. At the moment, I’m newly retired from higher education, and I’m not exactly sure where to put my energies. I’m also a writer (not really in Grafton’s vein) who does not expect to retire any time soon, though I’m not sure what I have to say is relevant any longer. There’s so much to sort through and make sense of—online and off. Everyone’s a writer. Everyone’s journalist. It’s hard to imagine my work surfacing, in any significant way, through all the nattering that’s going on. That said, there is certainly no shortage of problems to pick apart.

I won’t try to draw parallels between Kinsey’s life and my own (though there are a few). I will note, I admire the way Grafton decided to break the mold when she created her famed character. She gave us a heroine who grapples with her times, not to mention a crime-ridden world—a woman who doesn’t think it’s strange that she is the action figure. Kinsey finds the courage to be her own person in the face of “how it has always been done.”

My favorite Kinsey character trait is her unwillingness to be cowed by fashion trends. She gravitates toward comfort, eschewing the sort of wardrobe that would have helped her gain entrance into the yuppie world. Remember, the word yuppie was being tossed about during the eighties, the decade during which Grafton’s alphabet series takes place. The fight for comfortable apparel for busy females was a “discussion” in those days, one Jockey took advantage of when they created their briefs for women. Though Kinsey is not one to stick in a box, PC or otherwise. She probably prefers sexy underwear. Kinsey is far being a yuppie with her studio apartment and VW bug. She makes use of community resources to do her work, returning to the library frequently to check the reverse directory in search of addresses. She hunts for significant public records printed on good old-fashioned paper. She keeps track of her hunches on index cards, moving them about before her, hoping answers will surface.

Grafton was quick to discuss her decision to let Kinsey age slowly, thereby keeping her in a pre-Internet world. I was happy to meet with the private investigator there. This wasn’t because I had so much nostalgia for the eighties. It was Kinsey’s authenticity that mattered. What drew me to her all those years ago had nothing to do with how well she might have kept up with technology (I’m sure she would have done a credible job). It was her take on the world that got me. She had her predispositions. She wasn’t always kind. She lived her own mores, that were far from perfect, though pretty sound. She was funny and self-deprecating, and she managed to get the job done! During those moments when I thought I’d never get out of some pedestrian bind, Kinsey’s brand of perseverance, often woven with moments of comfort-seeking, became a reassuring yardstick.

The alphabet series celebrates a remarkable person over new gizmos and slick scenes that are all action and no humanity. Readers become privileged to know Kinsey on the inside, not just her ability to knock a criminal flat. I loved spending time with this character, all of the quirky details that define her. Kinsey has been compelled to introduce me to her world—Santa Teresa and her ready-made family (Henry, the sibs, Rosie, and an occasional beau). And yes, it has been thrilling to watch her go after suspects. After all, action and suspense go hand in hand with what she chose to do in life.

I understand Sue Grafton was struggling to find the story of Z is for Zero as she undergoing cancer treatment. The book now remains an intention. I probably shouldn’t try speculate about Z, but I’m wondering if she would have turned a mudslide into a plot element for this final chapter (in Kinsey’s time and place, of course). Sue Grafton experienced her last weeks with the Thomas Fire raging. That must have been an eerie backdrop for anyone going through the dying process. While she did bring today’s increasing wildfire threat into her series, perhaps she would have expanded on the theme if she’d lived to survive this disaster. And the mudslides in Montecito following California’s largest fire to-date have been nothing short of shocking. I have no doubt Kinsey – wherever she ended up in her post-alphabet life – would have felt that deeply. Then she would have rolled up her sleeves and headed for Montebello.