Author Archives: Drema Drudge

Today (Friday) was poetry revision day. Word Raccoon wasn’t wrong about it being intimidating to revise poetry after studying Dickinson.  Dickinson’s style is not my style. It’s gorgeous. There are traits of hers, particularly compression and concreteness, that I want to keep in mind, though. So revision went…slowly today.  Want a peek at what IContinue reading “Compression, Concreteness, and (Almost) Cookies”

I like getting to the coffee house before the regular bunch arrives. Not because I mind them. Once I have my AirPods in, the room could be full of marching bands and I’d still be able to work, most days. But I do like to get there early enough to claim a table. Today IContinue reading “Claiming a Table”

Word Raccoon and I are doing taxes. Writerly taxes. We do not particularly enjoy this, but we know it is necessary. I have a method. Word Raccoon, meanwhile, insists on buying books behind my back and believes we ought to get deductions for squirrel food. I told her I really don’t think the IRS willContinue reading “Word Raccoon Does the Taxes”

In the 90’s, I studied with a professor who was of the New Critics school. He stressed that we should not focus on an author’s biography. We were to focus almost solely on the work.  As the granddaughter of a poet who had dubbed himself “The Coal Miner Poet,” that didn’t sit right with me.Continue reading “Notes on Dickinson from the Bunker of Peevishness “

Word Raccoon and I are still reading Emily Dickinson. Not according to plan, no, no, of course not, because my puppet of chaos could not allow that, but we are reading. Yesterday I caught myself rereading the end of “My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –,” which, if you’re familiar with the poem,Continue reading “Narrative Vs. Lyric Logic (Word Raccoon has Feelings about Both)”

I have an embarrassing admission about my initial thoughts on Emily Dickinson. I first studied her in junior high. I noticed her odd capitalization and strange punctuation. The willy nilly italics. I assumed she didn’t know better, and I kinda pitied her. (*Buries face in hands.*) I found her work impenetrable. Almost morbid. I rememberContinue reading “When I Swatted at a Fly Instead of Listening to It “

I revised ten poems yesterday. Word Raccoon mostly kept her nose out of things while I did, spinning on her pink throne cuddling with her stuffy, Book Goblin. Ten poems. By the end, my brain said no more. Two are still a bit wooly, but those ten were close enough to be shuttled to theContinue reading “Revisions and Dickinson “

I am in the revision palace.  I’m wading through the “poems in progress” folder and I’m mercilessly picking and plucking and painting and it’s raining  and I don’t care even though earlier it felt like the sky was trying to split the earth in two (although “into” would be more interesting to riff on there,Continue reading “Anemic Drafts and Other Casualties, Accompanied by Cake”

Herbert was at it again before dawn, that old curmudgeon who tries to live rent free in my head and critiques everything I write. (He never likes any of my poems.) Stanley, my scheduler, stepped between us and told me to go to the gym before Word Raccoon got involved. We rowed, and I cameContinue reading “Less Heat, More Precision”

I’m working on what wants to become an essay on the latest film adaptation of Wuthering Heights.  I don’t know why it feels like I’ll be graded on it. Who knows, maybe I’m the only one who will ever read it.  I have a solid draft, but I’m endlessly tweaking it.  Over the weekend, IContinue reading “Cork Another”