Showing posts with label Kima Jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kima Jones. Show all posts

4.01.2014

First Quarter Progress Report for 2014

A while back, poet Kima Jones asked on twitter about those new year's resolutions. She was calling me out. That woman is all about accountability and she gets it done. I needed to come clean. I started the year with an ambitious set of goals but now, as the first quarter closes I'm ready to check in with those goals and my progress.

Writing: Finish high school memoir draft (50,000 words) and revise YA novel: Rice Paper Superheroes.

Progress: Still drafting the high school memoir: 23,000 words. Not quite halfway there. I need to write, people

Reading: Read and write short annotations for 50 books in the year.

Progress: Doing ok on this one although I was ahead of the game at the start of March and am now behind. Still, I've finished 10 and am halfway through two more. I should be at 12  by now. Spring break should help me catch up.

Publishing: Submit work at least once a month and publish one blog post per week.

Progress: Only submitted one piece to CNF, close on the blogs. One, maybe two weeks behind. I need to get my work out there. This is the scary one for me, always, but it is one of those risks I have to make myself take.

Fitness: Run 500 miles in the year.

Progress: Just over 100 miles. I should be at 125.

So, my conclusion here at my quarterly progress report is this: I'm behind but I can still reach my goals.

I can do this.

Here we go.

1.28.2013

52 Poems: Week 4 Edna St. Vincent Millay

I read Savage Beauty, Nancy Milford's biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay, during grad school and although it wasn't one of my favorite books her life story has stayed with me. So to prepare for PEN Emerging Voices poet Kima Jones' lessons on sonnets I read this one. I think Milllay's sad regret will appeal perfectly to my middle schoolers.

What My Lips Have Kissed, And Where And Why
Edna St. Vincent Millay

Photo by Tom Haxby.
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.