The MuseInks Interview with Activist, Storyteller, Screenwriter, and Poet Andie Woodard

Andie Woodard is a queer writer and activist. They recently earned an MFA in Creative Writing at Antioch University, where they developed their skills at writing culturally sensitive, relevant creative nonfiction and poetry. 

Andie has been awarded runner-up twice in the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference’s Personal Essay Contest and received a Best of the Net nomination from Prometheus Dreaming for their poem “Self Portrait.” They are also an accomplished screenwriter.

I met Andie when we both freelanced for Scribe Media. We became "publishing siblings" when we both had chapbooks published this year by Bottlecap Press (read on!). 

I'm so glad they agreed to chat with me about their writing journey. Take it away, Andie!

Andie Woodard:

I have always wanted to be a writer, since I was a little kid. 

I had multiple interests, so I always thought I'd be a writer and something else—a lawyer, or a detective. But I'm grateful for that perspective these days, in this "gig economy." It set me up for success to know early on that writing would always be part of my identity, part of what earned my living, but not all of it. 

I journal several times a week, and out of those journal entries will bloom a poem or a gnarled part of an essay that needs to be straightened out with a lot of elbow grease. 

I'd say I produce more poetry than anything else, but that has more to do with the volume of words, how quickly you can call a poem "done." This perspective is also why I tell people I'm a writer who happens to write poetry, but I wouldn't call myself a "poet." Poets have a particular way of seeing the world and will languish over each word, each line break, in the poems they produce. They're careful. My philosophy has always been, "Good enough means done." When it comes to succeeding in Capitalism (I'm not a fan, as a general construct, but whether you're winning or losing in Capitalism, you're still playing the game, right?), you could say that this mindset makes me marketable. 

My writing superpowers, though, are my introspection and curiosity. I know what questions to ask to fill in the gaps. I know how to communicate a feeling as well as an idea because of these values I hold in my back pockets.

My biggest writing success to date is having my chapbook, Trailer Trash, published by Bottlecap Press. I have been working on Trailer Trash since 2016, and it has seen a number of revisions. 

I thought I had a full-length collection of poetry, but upon closer inspection, I realized I had just 25 polished, succinct pieces that communicated what I wanted to say: being perceived as a woman in Capitalism means you're already losing. But: when we share that burden together, when we do not look back at trauma with gratitude for "making us stronger" but envision a future where the people we love may be treated more fairly, there is hope.

I started working in publishing in September, 2020. Honestly, at the time, working for Scribe Media was my dream job. I found the company by doing a search online in early 2019 and applied as an Author Success Manager, but then, I had no experience in working with books of any sort (I had just been working in content marketing), so they didn't move forward with my application. 

The online videos about the Scribe Tribe encouraged people to apply again and again if they felt this place was the best fit for them. There was a video of a woman who had applied three times before she was brought on. When I applied again in August, 2020, I didn't expect Scribe to hire me. I did have one book under my belt at that point—a wonderful man found me on LinkedIn and took a chance on me because he liked my writing voice and thought I was the right person to help him finish his book—but it was just the one. I thought this would be my second "no," one step closer to getting hired, maybe when I finished my MFA. 

To my surprise and delight (and to the chagrin of my Imposter Syndrome Demon), they hired me, and I have enjoyed basking in the literary realm ever since. 

With the flexibility of "full-time" freelance work from Scribe, I finished my MFA in Creative Writing, with a focus in Creative Nonfiction and a "genre jump" to Poetry, at Antioch University in 2022. Antioch is focused on "literacy citizenship," writing about identity with thought, research and care, which has helped me "babysit" the books I worked on at Scribe as well as write more carefully for my full-time work in the nonprofit sector.

I no longer work with Scribe, but I still make time for literature. I work full-time at a nonprofit funder, working to fight sexual violence by uplifting nonprofits with relevant missions across the country, but in my off time, I help other authors cross the finish line of their own books. Whether they need structural editing, line editing or proofreading services, I'm there for them.

People who are interested in my services may email me at ModusOperandiee@gmail.com or call or text me at 972-341-4802. They can read samples of my work—from books to short screenplays to media criticism—on my website at https://ModusOperandiee.com.

The Patron Saint of Struggling Authors

More Thoughts on the Life and Times of Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker

Last week, I mused on the pranks and practices of Robert Stephen Hawker, the Vicar of Morwenstow, in Cornwall, from 1834 to 1875.

From Hawker's antics early in life, one could be forgiven for thinking he was a hopeless jester or worse, a clown. In fact, some sloppy pseudo-biographical articles slant their content in such a way to suggest the whole Mermaid phase (see previous post) occurred while Hawker was a vicar, instead of during his student years. ::sigh::

Hawker was more complex than that.

He loathed the traditional black vestments the clergy wore. When he became a vicar, he refused to dress "like an undertaker," choosing instead to assemble his own unique outfit -- each element signifying his beliefs. 

For instance: he wore a blue fisherman's jersey with red stitching in the side, symbolizing Jesus' call to His followers to be "fishers of men," with a constant reminder of the soldier's spear that caused Christ's final wound.

He also believed he could communicate with spirits, both divine and demonic, which explains why he declared the long brown cassock he wore was "the exact hue" of both Mary's and Jesus' hair.

Sometimes he wore a "flamboyant fez" instead of his typical wide-brimmed hat. (I can find no record of what the fez was supposed to denote. Still: Hawker thought fezzes were cool...)

The Vicar hated black so much that after his death, mourners honored his wishes and wore purple during his funeral.

Hawker's generosity for others often caused hardship for his own family. He routinely dipped into the family finances to feed and clothe poorer members of his community. 

The Hawkers' generosity extended to their parish infrastructure. They built a bridge over a deadly river crossing. And they built a school and restored the 13th-century "Well of St. John," all at their own expense.

Hawker was also a conflicted creative soul. 

On the one hand, he craved quiet time alone. To facilitate that, he built what is now known as "Hawker's Hut," a tiny turf-topped structure with a stable door, tucked into the hillside, facing the sea. He assembled it out of driftwood and wood salvaged from shipwrecks. Today, it remains the smallest property on the National Trust.

He and Charlotte would go together to the hut to pray and meditate. He also spent many hours there alone, smoking opium or writing.

It is clear that he relished the solitude. However, he also recognized that his remote village was, in some ways, a cross to bear.

A passionate accomplished, prolific writer, he enjoyed little acclaim or recognition, though his work sold well. In 1824 he wrote "The Song of the Western Men," or "Trelawney," which was published anonymously in 1826 and which -- to this day -- is considered the unofficial Cornish National Anthem. (Credit Charles Dickens who, years later, told the world about "Trelawney's" authorship.)

In 1848, Alfred, Lord Tennyson visited Morwenstow. He and Hawker hit it off, connected by their mutual love of poetry and obsession with Arthurian legends (the Hawkers had honeymooned at Tintagel, associated with King Arthur since the 12th century). But Tennyson went back to the world of letters and publishing, while the vicar remained on the northern coast. 

Hawker desperately wanted to be known as a writer. He remembered the days of university, when his writing won awards. Lonely, keenly aware of the rapid passage of time, he blamed both his isolated location and gatekeepers in the publishing world for his inability to break in. 

One heartbreaking journal entry includes these words: 

"I have lived on among these faraway rocks, unprofited, unpraised, and unknown."

Every manuscript of his had sold, but "to no advantage of mine."

"And here I am at the close of my days," he wrote, "unnoted, unknown, and – worst of all – unpaid."

In another entry, he lamented his place "here among the rocks" as well as not having any publishing connections:

"I never had friends [in publishing]. In my whole struggle into manuscript, I hardly remember a word of encouragement."

{Ami's note: Brother, I feel ya.}

When his wife Charlotte died in February, 1863, Hawker was more alone than ever. He was 60 years old, widowed and childless. 

Still wrestling with both his talent and his purpose, he plunged into deep depression, wishing to create something that would outlast him. 

For the next few months, he wrote, furiously channeling his grief into a creative outlet. The result was "The Quest of the Sangraal," a Cornish-themed poetic exploration of the Arthurian legend of the Holy Grail. 

Published in 1864, the poem met with both critical and public approval. Even Tennyson praised the work saying, "Hawker has beaten me on my own grounds."

At the end of 1863, 60-year old Hawker met the 20-year old Pauline Anne Kuczynski, a governess. Though she initially considered him "slightly cracked," the two fell in love and married a year later.

They had three children before Hawker died at the age of 72.

But even in death, he colored outside the lines. 

An Anglican priest his entire adult life, Hawker converted to Catholicism the day before he died -- causing a country-wide uproar as people accused Pauline of undue influence. The conspiracy theories and general religious outrage lasted for years.

So ends the tale of the Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker, eccentric, talented, mystic, poet. A prankster, an animal lover, faithful husband, and natty dresser. Publishing anonymously, then craving recognition. Simultaneously embracing and eschewing solitude. Sometimes he used controlled chemicals for temporary escape. Sometimes he wallowed in self-pity. Sometimes he heard angels. And finally, memorably, he accomplished a bona-fide publishing miracle. For these and other reasons, I consider him a contender for Patron Saint of Struggling Authors.

5 Ways Online Magazines Can Energize Your Writing Mojo

It's no secret that the Writing Life can contain a few pitfalls. Slogging through the query trenches is a lonely, soul-crushing experience, often flavored with loneliness, angst, and self-doubt.

One antidote to such misery -- far better than spiraling into either a Fitzgerald or a Hemingway of despair -- might be online magazines. Literary ones, genre ones, big ones, startups: each has a special place in the heart of my career. The top 5 reasons for my love affair:

This is no time for a trail ride...

1. I Feel the Need; The Need For Speed
Every writer knows this business of ours moves at a g-l-a-c-i-a-l pace.

Glacial.

Writing a good book takes months, at least. Often, it takes years. Finding representation can take longer than your child lasts in elementary school. Getting a publisher to take a chance on you is an exercise in not eating one's own liver.

But magazines, especially digital ones, have a much shorter publication schedule. The submission-to-publication time frame is measured in mere weeks or months, instead of geologic eras. While I'm waiting for a book editor who has had a manuscript since May to make a decision, a short work sent out this month can be published before the snow melts. That's about as close to instant gratification as the writing world gets.

2. Exciting Editorial Interaction
Every publisher, every publication, has a particular vision, tone, or style that sets it apart from the rest. This includes e-zines, from the bigwigs to the tiniest literary startup. Working with editors to polish shorter pieces for their publications builds critical skills and awareness that will be invaluable when working with an editor on longer projects.

There is no such thing as "too many bylines."

3. Bylines, Beautiful Bylines
Call me shallow, but I like seeing my name in print. "By Ami Hendrickson" never ceases to fill me with an Enterprise-sized payload of warm fuzzies.

Fun fact: people who are not in the publishing biz (your mom, your kids, your dentist) often do not make a distinction between having a book published and having a thing published. They do, however, understand being unpublished.

While waiting for the book deal, the script option, or the staging of your play, placing a few poems, or articles, or short stories with e-zines can not only help mitigate Byline Fever, but it can also help shut up those people who wonder aloud, within earshot, when you're going to be a "real writer."

4. Reckoning with Rejection

We fall down. We get up again...

I know some writers who are paralyzed with fear at the thought of rejection. Somehow, they have equated rejection with failure. (This, of course, is ridiculous. Even Lin-Manuel Effing Miranda got rejected when he applied for the Jonathan Larson grant in 2004.)

Getting published is like playing a massive game of Concentration. (Remember, from when you were a kid? There's a deck of a jillion picture cards. Each card has a match. You lay all the cards face down and then turn two over, hoping for a match. You get a match, you keep the cards and go again. No match, your turn is over.) You send out a piece hoping it finds an editorial match. If it does, it gets published. Yay! Confetti-flinging ensues. If it doesn't, you send it somewhere else. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I used to worry about rejection. Now, I realize it's just part of the game. FWIW, I even sent queries out when my husband was dying. I figured no rejection could possibly compare with losing my WunderGuy. You can't win if you don't play. You can't get published if you don't go out on sub. If rejection worries you, let the quick turnaround of e-zines help you get used to it. The sooner, the better.

5. Bend! And Stretch! And Reach for the Stars!
The shorter length of pieces for online magazines allows me to stretch myself, trying something new with presentation, or with language, or with ideas, without committing months of my life to it.

If I run across an interesting tangent in my research (helloooooo, YouTube rabbit hole about Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians...), exploring it in poetry, or flash fiction, or flash non-fiction allows me to sink my teeth into it far enough to know if I need to devote a larger chunk of my writing time to it -- or if I can let this Bright, Shiny Object lie and return to my work-in-progress.

You never know what new interests you might discover if you give yourself permission to try them. I once wrote a contest winning six-word short story ("No taxidermist loved his daughter more.") that not only brought with it a lovely, unexpected winner's check, but it also permanently kick-started a love of micro-fiction.

Added bonuses:
As I review an e-zine to see if what I've written might be a good fit, I invariably find new writers that I like, wrestle with new ways to look at the world, and discover some new technique to put into play. My research almost always results in immediately improving my writing -- whether I submit something to them and get it published or not.

Bragging Rights:
If you've had something published online recently that you're proud of, tell me about it. It's ok to brag. Let the world know what you did this nifty thing.

I'll go first: I'm thrilled that my poem "Drive By 'I Love You'" was published this past weekend in The Cabinet of Heed.

Ok... Your turn!

RideSharing

From the Vault of Favored Poems: Dickinson's "The Master" (#PoemMo)

Between 1858 and 1861 or 1862, when Emily Dickinson was in her late twenties and early thirties, she wrote several intimate letters to someone known only as "the Master." Drafts of three of the letters survive. Though rich in imagery, poetic language, and emotional nuance, there is no way of knowing whether they were ever mailed. (Dickinson asked at least one person to burn all correspondence after her death...)

To this day, the Master's identity remains a mystery.

I didn't know any of this backstory when, in university, I was introduced to a poem of Dickinson's sometimes called "the Master." (She did not title it so.) I just knew that I liked it far more than her poems about death. It spoke to me then in a way that still resonates:

The Master
by Emily Dickinson

He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys,
Before they drop full Music on --
He stuns you by degrees --

Prepares your brittle substance
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers -- further heard --
Then nearer -- then so - slow -

Your Breath has time to straighten,
Your Brain -- to bubble cool --
Deals one imperial Thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.


The poem was written in 1862 and appears in Fascicle 22. Thanks to the internet, one can view the handwritten original.

April: Get Your Poetry On #PoemMo

Eighteen years ago, thanks to the Academy of American Poets, April was designated National Poetry Month. According to the Academy, National Poetry Month is now the largest literary celebration in the world.

I'm not sure exactly what that means, but I envision throngs of people surrounded by stacks of books, imbibing massive quantities of coffee and alcohol, waving their hands while they talk, passionately discussing a word, phrase, or concept that moved them. Of course there is music. And -- since this is *my* fantasy -- chocolate.

Poetry isn't something reserved for the literati. It's not removed from reality. On the contrary, it interprets the world around us in a way that mere prose and conversation cannot. Poetry powers our songs. It connects the dots between disparate things, linking them in ways we'd never previously considered so completely that we can never completely see them as separate them again.

What's your favorite poem? Is it a song lyric that speaks to you? What turn of phrase calls your name?

In honor of National Poetry Month, during the month of April, share with the world the poetry that moves you. Why not brighten other lives with something that enriches yours?

Thanksgiving Thoughts on Roald Dahl's "Television" Poem

As we drove through town this Thanksgiving day, on the way to Grandma and Grandpa's house, my daughter noticed the stanchions in front of Wal-Mart and Best Buy and other stores, awaiting the ravening hordes that will be pushing and shoving each other in a few hours. 

"Why would people let themselves be herded like cattle just to buy a few things?" she asked. 

"Flat screen TV's are on sale," I said. "Wouldn't getting one cheap make you want to stand outside in sub-zero temperatures and trample others underfoot?"

She caught my eye in the rear-view mirror. "Sarcasm?"

"You think?"

 

On the way to the grandparents', we listened to an audiobook of Roald Dahl's 1964 classic "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," which features Dahl's awesome "Television" poem. The fact that it's rather preachy doesn't make it any less relevant... 

Television

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.

In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.

(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit 
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.

Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?

IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!

'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'

We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more.

Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!

Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)

The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-

Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.

Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.

And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

***

At the end of the poem -- before Charlie and his Grandpa Joe rode the glass elevator "up and out" -- my 10-year old said "I've read all those books and know all those characters they mention." You should have seen the look of abject horror on her face when she followed up with, "You mean some kids haven't?!"

Guest Blogger Maggie Mendus: In Praise of Poetic Structure

NOTE: Today's guest blogger is poet, author, & blogger Maggie Mendus . I first met Maggie at a writer's workshop I taught. She has relentlessly pursued her passion: writing and publishing poetry. 

Maggie is "a poet who writes to heal." A retired language arts teacher and a pianist, she is published in "The Eclectic Muse," "Romantics Quarterly," "Harp Strings," "Poets’ Forum Magazine," and "Sandcutters." She and her husband live in the wooded dunes of Lake Michigan. She is the author of Broken Consciousness. 

Wait, don’t go anywhere. Just because you might not read poetry written in the classic forms doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. I mean it. I was taught to write poetry in traditional forms, and I know the trend these days is free verse, sometimes very free.

Oh, I’ve been to those readings where some bearded guy with dreads sways in front of an audience, eyes closed, head thrown back, the dramatic glissando of his voice sliding between whispers and shouts. I try, but can’t follow his train of thought, and I don’t like being aboard trains that might derail. He’s a performance poet, for sure.

Now I have nothing against beards, dreadlocks, performance poets, or (well-written) free verse. But hey, what I’m hearing has to make some sort of sense. And these dudes go off down winding paths of wild emotion. Their angry tirades, political ravings, and decadent wanderings into love and sex never make sensible circuits with beginnings, middles and ends.

I keep an open mind. But traditional verse met me on the road and we became friends. No, the French villanelle wasn’t easy at first. But reading villanelles (same form as Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas) ignited something in me. I wanted to write one, too.

Why am I attracted to the difficult? Believe me when I tell you that my first attempts were macaroni and cheese compared to a delicate soufflé. But the detailed rhyme scheme kept my attention, and after a lot of blood, sweat, and tears I produced one, an original expression that obeyed the structures the villanelle imposes. I felt as if I’d passed some sort of test with flying colors.

"Poetic fences create boundaries." Photo by Jane M. Sawyer.

Of course that motivated me to write more, and the villanelle became my favorite form. Practice, like keeping my fingers nimble for the piano by playing scales, aims me toward success. I find the sonnet more challenging, but I like writing anaphora and terza rima. I write triolet, rondeau, pantoum, and other formal verse, finding that structure is freeing. Poetic fences create boundaries, and in traditional verse a line is just that, an exact number of syllables, a particular rhythm, a certain rhyme.

This quest urges me ahead and keeps me writing. In early March I published a book of 52 poems, BROKEN CONSCIOUSNESS: Reflections of an Epileptic , and all but one are in traditional form.

Why not try your hand at a poem in one of the classic forms? A great guide is Lewis Turco’s The Book of Forms , a worthwhile tool. Like me, you might resist….at first. But who knows? Also like me, you may become hooked. 

A final word from Ami: I share Maggie's love of structure in writing. Some of my most rewarding writing is done within a strict structural framework. What are your thoughts? Are you a classicist? A student of structure? Or a proponent of chaos? Weigh in with your comments below. Extra points for comments written in structured verse.

More Useful Links for Writers

Blogs & Databases of Interest

Another database of agents


Blog with a great (recent) rundown of average advances and current sales info for several genres. (Look on the right under The Essential PMN for the list).


Insightful, frank, and hilarious blog written by an intern at a publishing company. (Kelly from the Writing Practicum highly recommends her!)


An interestingdiscussion and examples of omniscient and limited omniscient POV from
the blog of literary agent Robert Brown.

Bay Area Editor's Forum: Information on image Research and Permissions.

Call for Submissions:

• 

The Ambassador Poetry Project

The Ambassador Poetry Project, a new online journal featuring poetry from and about Michigan and Ontario, is seeking submissions for the December and March issue. 

 


• Blade Red Press

Small press looking for short stories for anthology. (See site for full details, but here's a bit...) The first Blade Red Press anthology of dark speculative fiction is now open to submissions. The anthology will be available in print and e-book format through online retailers in early 2010 (assuming sufficient submissions are received). Only submissions received between September 17th 2009 and November 30th 2009 will be considered.

Enjoy! And, as usual, Happy Writing!