Introducing Loose leaf, a new monthly piece for paid subscribers.
In keeping with one description—A loose leaf is a piece of paper of any kind that is not bound in place—I’m looking forward to sharing a more candid version of my monthly musings, similar to last month’s “bouquet”: a selection of words and images—whether snippets from a short story, a reading list, or meditations on an author, film, poem or painting—gathered and arranged with care, sent from me to you.
You’ll find the first instalment below—if you enjoy reading, please consider passing it along to a friend, or supporting Girls on the Page through a paid subscription.
We’re not quite at the midpoint of winter (that will fall on February 4th), but I’m feeling its depth. Like quicksand, we’re immersed in the thick of January, and there’s no way out but through. Not that the month is all bad; I just miss the vibrance of the warmer months.
A small consolation: light has returned to the sky after five in the evening. Last week the snow fell in downy tufts and I had no place to be. From the window I watched it accumulate and enchant its surroundings: the silver lights threading the oak tree illuminated the scene, the sky glowing violet. It felt unreal, as winter nights often do, teasing the illusion of infinite time. If I didn’t look away, it felt like the snow would keep falling forever.
Winter poems have been in mind lately.
In August I was reading whatever Diane Wakoski I could find online, bookmarking many poems to read later. Later, as it turns out, happens to be late January.
I love this one, fittingly titled Winter Ode:
An excerpt from another one of her poems seems appropriate to share, given that the “most depressing day of the year”, Blue Monday, is now behind us:
Lately, I’ve been drawn to poems and books that play with form.
Here is a poem, titled Mirror, by Rita Dove that I keep reading over and over:
After almost four years of working on my manuscript (I’m still picking at it, but hope to be querying agents soon) another idea arrived in the quiet period between Christmas and New Year’s—or rather, the idea had always been there but I never thought of it as something that could be worked into a novel. It felt necessary to sit down and write—I’ve been working on it everyday since.
A stack of books are kept near, ones that I feel are sort of cheering me on, or lending permission, I suppose, to forget my usual way of writing and processing a narrator’s thoughts: Dept. of Speculation, Pure Colour, and The Anthropologists among them. These books encourage me to experiment. I keep wondering whether the effect of these books has to do with the actual text, or what I imagine the text represents for me; a book is also a feeling. Sometimes, I’ll only read a few pages, then get back to work. Often, I don’t even open them—to know that they’re beside me, keeping company, is enough.
On Instagram recently I shared how freeing and disorienting it feels to be beginning something new after working on something else for so long. I’m eager to see how this novel will unfold. Arguably, the most exciting part of any creative project is the beginning. Rita Dove, in her poem Dawn Revisited, writes, “The whole sky is yours / to write on, blown open / to a blank page.”
I’ve been enjoying the sensation of the idea pulling me in all kinds of directions, like a fish on the line or the thrill of a first crush. This malleable, honeymoon period when the book is only a web of ideas and voices, and everything is possible. I’ve also found myself collecting fragments from interviews with writers and poets like Joan Didion and Louise Glück, drawn to sentiments about beginnings and the blank page—these will be shared in a future edition of Loose leaf.
In the meantime, I’m taking solace in the rhythm of these quiet days, knowing that January will shrug into February, the blue hours will continue creeping towards the light, words will be written and others will be erased, just as the snow falls and then melts into the same ground that will soon yield spring flowers.
Leaving you with one last winter poem, by Linda Pastan:
oooh, i really love how you did this. I can't wait for the next one. :)
Absolutely thrilled about this new endeavor (including the new book material that you're starting) - And what a beautiful ending to this post with the Linda Pasta poem! Can't wait for the next Loose Leaf post 😍