Monday, October 22, 2012
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Please Remove Your Hats at the Door - A Refection on the Antioch Writers' Workshop
In
July of 2012 I attended my first Antioch Writers’ Workshop. I was fortunate
enough to receive their Betty Crumrine Scholarship, a scholarship that was created
for a single parent “committed to writing and who could not otherwise attend
the workshop.”
See,
I have wanted to attend the Writers’ Workshop for years. But I wear many hats.
I am a mom. An ex-wife. A hairstylist. An employee. A girlfriend. A sister. A
daughter. A homeowner. And so on…
I
am also a writer.
I
knew if I received all or even part of the scholarship I could financially
justify this dream. I made arrangements for both my boys to be with family while I was gone. I
booked my room in Yellow Springs. I wrote an essay and attached the first three
chapters of my book. I crossed my fingers and waited.
I
also put aside my self- deprecating belief that although I write, I’m hardly a
writer.
Just
weeks before the Workshop was to begin, I received this in my inbox: “It’s my honor
and delight, on behalf of the Antioch Writers’ Workshop scholarship committee,
to inform you that you have been selected as the Second Place Betty Crumrine
Scholarship winner.”
No, Antioch, it was an honor and delight to have you believe
in me.
When I packed my bags, my notepads, manuscript and journals took
up the bulk of my suitcase. I left all but one very special hat behind.
We all wear several hats. We must. They are essential to our
whole being, essential to a rich and diverse human experience. I am thankful for
each and every one of mine. But to set aside all these various hats, in their
unique shapes and forms, and only wear one for an entire week was quite simply magical.
No one expected anything else from me
but to write, and write, and write some more. I had never experienced that
before. It’s so easy, too easy, to get lost under your hats. To do the laundry
and scrub the floors instead of writing. To tell yourself you’ll remember that
line in the morning instead of writing it down right now. To pass out after a
long day at work instead of writing a little. To put writing on the backburner,
get to it when you have the time...
The fabled time. The elusive bitch. When you wear many hats,
you chase her. When one of the hats you wear is Writer, she’s not always
willing to play when you are ready.
One thing Antioch gave me was that time. To spend a week sans
laundry, sans cooking… to only wear one hat all day, every day. What a gift. I
slept with my notebooks and journals around me. I listened to and learned from
each and every attendant and instructor that week. Some were well known authors
and poets, but most of the writers there were just like me – unknown writers
who play with words and follow their lead. Despite our differences and varying
levels of “success”, all of us write because we have to. There is no choice. To quote Maya Angelou, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story
inside you.” Creative people are needy. We need support. We seek inspiration
and community, a safe place. A challenge. Peers. Even when we go inside ourselves
and disappear into our craft, we still need and long for these things. I’m ok
to admit this need.
The Antioch Writers Workshop was like a giant cradle, holding
and supporting delicate, sensitive people and their creative energy. For one
week I was raw, vulnerable, yet safe. What a good feeling.
I cried the entire drive home. I didn’t cry because I didn’t
want to leave. Quite the opposite. I cried for all that I was bringing home
with me. I had so much energy. I was ready to go home, unpack my bags and
change my hats as need be. Hug my children and see my friends and family. And,
of course, to keep writing.
Monday, August 20, 2012
MindBodyGreen
I recently published two articles on MindBodyGreen.
Click here:
http://www.mindbodygreen.com/wc/carrie-herzner
to read them.
Also, I encourage you to "like" MindBodyGreen on Facebook. Nope. I'm telling you to. :)
I recently published two articles on MindBodyGreen.
Click here:
http://www.mindbodygreen.com/wc/carrie-herzner
to read them.
Also, I encourage you to "like" MindBodyGreen on Facebook. Nope. I'm telling you to. :)
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Cuyahoga Burning
Cuyahoga Burning 2012 is an online literary anthology dedicated to Ohio writers. I encourage you to read the introduction written by Johnathan Penton, and to take the time to read the poetry and prose written entirely by Ohio writers.
You can read my contribution from Good Luck Bill here :
http://www.bigbridge.org/BB16/features/cb/cbcherzner.htm
here is the intro. and contents page:
http://www.bigbridge.org/BB16/features/cb/cbindex.htm
enjoy.
You can read my contribution from Good Luck Bill here :
http://www.bigbridge.org/BB16/features/cb/cbcherzner.htm
here is the intro. and contents page:
http://www.bigbridge.org/BB16/features/cb/cbindex.htm
enjoy.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
food + control
the prompt literary magazine recently published a "scene" I wrote, titled Lunch Date. You can read Lunch Date / Food + Control here.
http://www.promptlitmag.org/index.php
http://www.promptlitmag.org/index.php
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
dog park
Dog Park. Sunday morning. Only my dog woke up clear headed this morning. I throw the ball. She brings it back. I throw it again. Again, she brings it back. I throw it harder, farther. It bounces and tumbles. The ball is
my brain. I can’t throw it far enough away. She always brings it back. It bounces. My brain. The ball. My dog pauses to say hello to a German Shepherd who propositions her in the way only dogs know. She
promptly drops her doggy ass to the ground refusing his foreplay. I could learn a few things from her. It would be wise for me to follow my dogs lead. He arrives. He stands next to me. We don’t talk about what’s happening… what’s happened… happening? Still, it's nice to see him. I toss the ball. He turns to say something. Perhaps about last night? More likely the weather. It’s beautiful out, I know. Instead he says, “You throw like a girl.” I toss my brain, the ball, harder and farther, satisfied only when my dog returns empty-mouthed. I clip her onto her leash. I let her lead the way.
my brain. I can’t throw it far enough away. She always brings it back. It bounces. My brain. The ball. My dog pauses to say hello to a German Shepherd who propositions her in the way only dogs know. She
promptly drops her doggy ass to the ground refusing his foreplay. I could learn a few things from her. It would be wise for me to follow my dogs lead. He arrives. He stands next to me. We don’t talk about what’s happening… what’s happened… happening? Still, it's nice to see him. I toss the ball. He turns to say something. Perhaps about last night? More likely the weather. It’s beautiful out, I know. Instead he says, “You throw like a girl.” I toss my brain, the ball, harder and farther, satisfied only when my dog returns empty-mouthed. I clip her onto her leash. I let her lead the way.
Friday, January 6, 2012
npr's 3 minute fiction
Below is a short story I entered into NPR's three minute fiction contest. The rules were to write a story that could be shared in under three minutes and to use the first and last lines NPR provided.
Some people swore the house was haunted. And who could disagree? Ever since the old man traveled overseas, not a single inhabitant left the home intact. No one died, mind you. Not literally. But emotionally, spiritually, mentally, they all suffered some sort of death. And that, can often be worse than living.
It seemed too good to be true. A charming home for rent on a quiet tree lined street ...such a rarity. But the old man, hesitant to sell his beloved sanctuary, did just that. He opened it up for lease, with plans to return home once his travels were complete.
They came eagerly, in pairs of two, four, even six. Not a single family lasted a year. They came with baggage, intentions, and expectations.
The first couple, newlyweds with twin babies, believed the home would solidify their marriage, make them complete.
The second couple, with four teenage sons, prayed the new space would bring an end to the constant fighting.
And the misplaced suburbanites, with their two kids, dog, and problems in tow, fully believed this was the house that would finally make them happy. Yes, the house in the city would make them happy….
All of them, every single one, put all their hopes and happiness upon the home, and the house reacted from the weight of such pressure.
The newlyweds divorced. The teenagers fought with newfound intensity. And the suburbanites fled to the country. Yes, the country…
The house sat empty, no one would rent it. Word had spread, ‘high turnover’, something was wrong, maybe it was jinxed….. bad energy….
Across the ocean the old man met a young teacher, also traveling. The young teacher, however, was about to return to the States. He had accepted a job, coincidentally, in the very city the old man was beginning to forget.
“What a blessing” the old man thought. He was worried about his beloved home, it had sat empty for too long. He offered the young teacher his home, rent free. “Just look after her for me, I’ll be back, eventually”
(Yes, the home is a she. They all are.)
The young teacher was thrilled at the opportunity. “You meet the coolest people traveling”, he thought. The young teacher lived simply, and was always thankful for a place to sleep. No baggage.
He moved in, and the house, now free from expectations, began to shift and change.
Some people swore they heard her giggle, saw her breathing.
The young teacher, he began to change too. He found himself walking through her threshold, thinking, “I like it here. I could stay here.” These thoughts, at first, took his breath away.
He began to have strange dreams. He could see a woman (a wife?) walking through the hallways, out to the garden. He dreamt of a baby, waking him up in the morning. Never before had he thought of these things. Was he going crazy?
Sometimes he thought he heard the house giggle!
Her heart, and his heart, began to swell, beat in sync. The teacher slept smiling. The house loved to watch his dreams. She thought they were charming.
Word of the old man’s death while overseas (he died in his sleep, he’s still traveling) first came with sadness, and then opportunity. For the old man bequeathed the home to the young teacher, and the young teacher accepted it graciously.
Through the hallway, out by the garden, gentle giggles greeted the teacher each morning, and the house sighed with sweet relief…
Nothing was the same again after that.
@carrieherzner2010
Some people swore the house was haunted. And who could disagree? Ever since the old man traveled overseas, not a single inhabitant left the home intact. No one died, mind you. Not literally. But emotionally, spiritually, mentally, they all suffered some sort of death. And that, can often be worse than living.
It seemed too good to be true. A charming home for rent on a quiet tree lined street ...such a rarity. But the old man, hesitant to sell his beloved sanctuary, did just that. He opened it up for lease, with plans to return home once his travels were complete.
They came eagerly, in pairs of two, four, even six. Not a single family lasted a year. They came with baggage, intentions, and expectations.
The first couple, newlyweds with twin babies, believed the home would solidify their marriage, make them complete.
The second couple, with four teenage sons, prayed the new space would bring an end to the constant fighting.
And the misplaced suburbanites, with their two kids, dog, and problems in tow, fully believed this was the house that would finally make them happy. Yes, the house in the city would make them happy….
All of them, every single one, put all their hopes and happiness upon the home, and the house reacted from the weight of such pressure.
The newlyweds divorced. The teenagers fought with newfound intensity. And the suburbanites fled to the country. Yes, the country…
The house sat empty, no one would rent it. Word had spread, ‘high turnover’, something was wrong, maybe it was jinxed….. bad energy….
Across the ocean the old man met a young teacher, also traveling. The young teacher, however, was about to return to the States. He had accepted a job, coincidentally, in the very city the old man was beginning to forget.
“What a blessing” the old man thought. He was worried about his beloved home, it had sat empty for too long. He offered the young teacher his home, rent free. “Just look after her for me, I’ll be back, eventually”
(Yes, the home is a she. They all are.)
The young teacher was thrilled at the opportunity. “You meet the coolest people traveling”, he thought. The young teacher lived simply, and was always thankful for a place to sleep. No baggage.
He moved in, and the house, now free from expectations, began to shift and change.
Some people swore they heard her giggle, saw her breathing.
The young teacher, he began to change too. He found himself walking through her threshold, thinking, “I like it here. I could stay here.” These thoughts, at first, took his breath away.
He began to have strange dreams. He could see a woman (a wife?) walking through the hallways, out to the garden. He dreamt of a baby, waking him up in the morning. Never before had he thought of these things. Was he going crazy?
Sometimes he thought he heard the house giggle!
Her heart, and his heart, began to swell, beat in sync. The teacher slept smiling. The house loved to watch his dreams. She thought they were charming.
Word of the old man’s death while overseas (he died in his sleep, he’s still traveling) first came with sadness, and then opportunity. For the old man bequeathed the home to the young teacher, and the young teacher accepted it graciously.
Through the hallway, out by the garden, gentle giggles greeted the teacher each morning, and the house sighed with sweet relief…
Nothing was the same again after that.
@carrieherzner2010
simply one of my favorite poems - thank you Kay Ryan
Repulsive Theory
By Kay Ryanb. 1945 Kay Ryan
Little has been made
of the soft, skirting action
of magnets reversed,
while much has been
made of attraction.
But is it not this pillowy
principle of repulsion
that produces the
doily edges of oceans
or the arabesques of thought?
And do these cutout coasts
and incurved rhetorical beaches
not baffle the onslaught
of the sea or objectionable people
and give private life
what small protection it's got?
Praise then the oiled motions
of avoidance, the pearly
convolutions of all that
slides off or takes a
wide berth; praise every
eddying vacancy of Earth,
all the dimpled depths
of pooling space, the whole
swirl set up by fending-off—
extending far beyond the personal,
I'm convinced—
immense and good
in a cosmological sense:
unpressing us against
each other, lending
the necessary never
to never-ending.
Source: Poetry (November 2003).
no-see-um 2
Flames is a poem that is part of the no-see-um diaries. For part one, scroll to the beginning of the poetry collection.
@carrieherzner 2010
Flames
The last time you
Caressed me, ignited me
Loved me
I would have stayed -
Had I known
At dawn
The house was on fire
I shook as pouring on the flames
You did the same pouring on me
The night before
@carrieherzner 2010
parkbench poems
In 1993, I wrote a poem titled Parkbench. In 2008, I wrote another parkbench story. Below are the two poems that share a title despite the fifteen year gap in between.
*my apologies to my sister, who is in fact no longer a pain in my butt.
*my apologies to my sister, who is in fact no longer a pain in my butt.
Parkbench 1993
My family is a parkbench -
My mother is the legs of the bench, providing support and stability. She's strong. She carries the weight.
My sister is the loose wooden board. she wobbles when you sit on her. She's a pain in my butt, but without her there would be an empty space.
I am the graffiti. I speak of love, I speak of hate. I use obscenities. I document what happens. I can tell you stories.
My dad is the man who sometimes stops by and sits for a bit. His visits are short, infrequent. There's somewhere else he needs to be.
My mother is the legs of the bench, providing support and stability. She's strong. She carries the weight.
My sister is the loose wooden board. she wobbles when you sit on her. She's a pain in my butt, but without her there would be an empty space.
I am the graffiti. I speak of love, I speak of hate. I use obscenities. I document what happens. I can tell you stories.
My dad is the man who sometimes stops by and sits for a bit. His visits are short, infrequent. There's somewhere else he needs to be.
Parkbench 2008
Parkbench 2008
A couple across from me reads their books…
That’s my wish, someone to sit beside me in the park
Reading books and just sitting quietly
Maybe he will say, ‘listen to this’ then read me a line or two
I’ll love when he reads to me
Maybe our dog will sit at our feet
Reading people and body language
Maybe our daughter will sit on her blanket
We’ll name her Liza, she’ll be spunky
I think I’ll get a dog
I think a girl dog
I think I’ll name her Liza
I’ll take her to the park with me and read
She won’t wag her tail.
@CarrieHerzner2011
A couple across from me reads their books…
That’s my wish, someone to sit beside me in the park
Reading books and just sitting quietly
Maybe he will say, ‘listen to this’ then read me a line or two
I’ll love when he reads to me
Maybe our dog will sit at our feet
Reading people and body language
Maybe our daughter will sit on her blanket
We’ll name her Liza, she’ll be spunky
I think I’ll get a dog
I think a girl dog
I think I’ll name her Liza
I’ll take her to the park with me and read
She won’t wag her tail.
@CarrieHerzner2011
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