This is the part I played.

Within our Writing Communities Public Relations Group, I was the "Coordinator."

COORDINATOR

Preface:
The origin of the Coordinator position arose from the initial thought that Administrator position needed to be split, as there was an excess of responsibility placed on that one person. Following that plan, the Coordinator will take on the more menial work; organizing the archive, keeping the minutes, group checklists, etc.

As time progressed and the responsibilities of the other group members took on minds of their own, the tasks of the Coordinator Position grew as well.

The Archive

The archive is an organized portfolio presenting all of the projects (teasers, excerpts, posters, etc.) that the P.R. Group has put together over the course of the semester. The Coordinator will need to collect and keep track of all the paperwork as it is put out (according to the calendar) to ensure a complete archive.

The Minutes

Keeping the minutes may seem tedious, but whether you like it or not, the weeks do fly by and it is easy to let some of the details fall through the cracks if there is not a record of what is supposed to be happening and when. Meeting times and lengths may vary, but as long as the Coordinator can keep a basic Task List or Group Member Updates under control, everything will be peachy.

Calendars

A new facet added along with the new position, providing a tangible calendar for the entire group that can be used at the first meeting for each writer was quite a success. Sitting down with everyone, physically marking the completion dates of each task became a necessary reality check as to how much prep time was actually available for each event.
So:

Blank Calendars + Group Members Discussing and Marking = Good Time Management

Ordering the Books

This step seems self explanatory, but it’s important. Order the books, and double, NO, triple check that the bookstore has them on time.

The “Lackey” Effect

Being available whenever possible to all of the group members is probably the most important task of the Coordinator. This position is suited well for someone who lives off campus (thus, is not as available for as many on-campus duties), as many of the tasks are more organizational or errand-based. Offering help, especially to the design group with their overabundance of responsibilities, is the MAJOR DUTY of the Coordinator. Which means:
 * Always help with distributing teasers, excerpts, posters, etc.
 * Help with assembling the mementos.
 * Help to “beef” up the blogs, event invites, and Facebook pages.
 * Offer to run errands and/or pick up necessities for the events.
 * Be prepared to assist with all set up and clean up at the events.
 * Bake, Bake, Bake, Bake, Bake, Bake, Bake!

When I don't write like myself...

Who am I writing like?

Sunday School Agnostic
by Rachel Pinkstone


Her star shines like an emblem of certainty against her neck.
It rests in the hollow, six points of direction, not the five I place on top of the tree.

And that is the only place I put it. There’s no place in me for that.

Her star comes with a purpose and a plan; not just a religion, but a life.
While I was pulled from the womb and immersed- cold, wet, clean of my sins,
she was born into a warm cocoon of faith, family and tradition;
a chrysalis that will house her until the day she dies.
Her unmarked body will be buried in the family plot.

I had planned to be spread against the wind--blown far away.

 I pass the synagogue on my afternoon run; the song and the prayers rise out against the murmur of traffic. It hurts to hear the passion and the practice of their tune, 
but I can’t help myself from listening—there’s no song I hear for me.
They say the covenant was made between God and Abraham, that Moses had given them books; that each life has a place and a part in the song.

I can barely recall the last time I even bowed my head to pray.

I wisecrack about the opiate of the masses,
but I’m still just waiting for the drug.

Oh, Lorin, you shouldn't have!

Hey Afternoon New York City Trippers:

Here's what Lorin had to say:

"Dear Rachel, Jess & Co.,

The pleasure was all mine. I'm sorry to been so disorganized, and to have blathered on, and to have so little to offer in the way of practical encouragement. On such a happy day, too! In any case, feel free to get in touch. I'd be happy to meet with any or all again.

Lorin"

This lady seems quite swell!

RACHEL ZUCKER

Rachel Zucker was born in New York City in 1971 and raised in the landscape of Greenwich Village when not traveling around the world with her parents on Wolkstein's folktale-collecting trips (her mother was a folk-story teller and her father, a novelist). After graduating from Yale with a B.A. in Psychology, Zucker attended the University of Iowa where she received her M.F.A in poetry. Zucker has taught at Yale, NYU and Makor. From 2005-2007 she was the poet-in-residence at Fordham University where she taught writing and literature classes to undergraduate and graduate students.

Her works include four books:
Women Poets on Mentorship: Efforts and Affections, (with Arielle Greenberg). 2008
The Bad Wife Handbook, 2007
The Last Clear Narrative, 2004
Eating in the Underworld, 2003
A Chapbook:
Annunciation, 2002
Contributions to several anthologies of both poetry and prose:
Not for Mothers Only, 2007
Structure & Surprise: Engaging Poetic Turns, 2007
Legitimate Dangers, 2006
Poetry 30: Thirty-Something Thirty-Something American Poets, 2005
Isn’t It Romantic, 2004
The Iowa Anthology of New American Poetries, 2004
Best American Poetry 2001
About What Was Lost: Twenty Writers on Miscarriage, Healing and Hope, 2006
(Not to mention a laundry list of journals to which she has contributed.)
She is currently working on her fourth collection of poems, Museum of Accidents, which will be published by Wave Books in 2009, and a novel for which she provides little information.
_______________________________________________________________________
REVIEWS
"Zucker has the confessionalist's knack for turning personal and difficult into universal and transcendent, and the experimentalist's gift for fearless, associative play. The combination is unsettling and groundbreaking: a vitally necessary book for our age." 
-Arielle Greenberg, author of My Kafka Century
"The poems in The Last Clear Narrative find a path to the unspeakable. By way of a fractured narrative, Rachel Zucker painstakingly documents death and birth, taking us deep into the experiences of that 'stubborn body.' The Last Clear Narrative seeks, and finds, a remarkable language the body can speak." -Elisabeth Frost, author of The Feminist Avant-Garde in American Poetry 
THE MOON HAS A REPUTATION
FOR BEING FICKLE by Rachel Zucker

I read the instructions twice and pee on my hand by mistake.
I wait.
I try again and then, in the 2 minutes 15 seconds it takes to get the first response
I watch Ponch deliver a baby in a trailer the CHiPs pulled over for speeding.
The woman's screaming.
Ponch pours water from a canteen over his hands and kneels between her legs.
Thirty-five seconds later he emerges from the trailer, pulls on black leather
riding gloves, there's no blood, and
one pink bar
on the plastic view screen.

I think I may have been Channeling Stewey Griffin.

Carpet
by Rachel Pinkstone

I can see it in front of me: yellow and mocking. I don’t remember leaving it there.
But it’s there.
The carpet itches my palms, however, it’s much better than the kitchen: cold and tiled. 
Where is that duck?

Yes, there it is in front of me. Maybe if I rock to the left—no—right. Where is she now?
This time I truly need her.

I don’t remember if she prefers mother or mommy. Mama, get off the phone with Sue.
That duck, further still, in front of me.
No matter where I lurch I only move backwards, just a wiggle with my pampered tush.
Now what it I was looking for?

There he is: orange bill and yellow plumage. Why must you tease from across the room?
Don’t mock me, Duck! 
Mama! MAMA! Can’t you see the 
duck and I belong together?

Thank you very much, Lorin Stein.

So after our wayward trip to New York on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, it was my job to thank the dear editor, Lorin Stein, from Farrar, Straus & Giroux:

"Dear Lorin Stein, 

Thank you for taking the time to discuss the “ins and outs” of the publishing business with our eager group of upstarts this past Wednesday. When recalling the experience with the other members of the assemblage, it was noted that we all took away a great deal of information and a stronger sense of the reality of both the publishing and writing world.

I, personally, appreciated that you took so much time to acquaint us with your newest project, Roberto Bolaño’s 2666, as well as the effort and pride that you take in all of your endeavors. I can guarantee you that each of us thoroughly enjoyed your company as well and your expertise in the area of writing communities. 

We hope to see such integrity in our own work and possibly another chance in the future to take up a little more of your time. Again, thank you for your consideration. 

Sincerely, 


Rachel Pinkstone and Jess Row’s Writing Communities members."

Jordan asked me to write a poem about Christmas.

Up on the Rooftop.

This year, I let her know that I no longer believed. 
The halls, again decked in lights and temporal keepsakes; 
however, the Precious Moments nativity still claimed a 
Holy place above the TV. “What do you mean, you don’t believe?” 
Tearfully, she remembered the day she lost her St. Nick: 
half eaten cookies, empty bottle, drunken grandpa and the living room 
floor smelling of whiskey and pine needles. Last year he’d forgotten my
 chessboard. Before that, Michelle’s baby doll that could pee. 
“He’s just not the man I’d thought he would be.”

This year, I let her know that I no longer believed; 
however, I slept on the couch anyway. It wasn’t the clicking of
hooves that woke me, or the pleasant resonance of a laugh. No, 
it was the sensation of being lifted, or shaken – an impression I’m
not likely to forget. “So you think you can just forget about me, eh?” 
His breath reeked of venison and mulled cider. Sausage-link fingers dug
 beneath each of my armpits – he was keeping me far from the ground.
“Well, son, here’s some proof -- you know Santa won’t lie.” 
I simply couldn’t wait for a special surprise.

This year, I let her know that I no longer believed
in myself or the people who love me. When the jolly man placed me back on my
feet, he turned me around; I closed my eyes with delight. The wooden floor slightly 
moaned under the shift of his weight, a quick motion I could barely perceive. He bent me over his knee, pulled at my skivvies and slapped my ass with his big ham of a hand. “This. Is what. It means. To believe.” Each line accompanied by a matching 
flat-palm blow. Then a chuckle resounded. Jingle bells chimed.
 After looking up, he was gone.
Looking back now, I was wrong.

On my Fall Break Vacation, I went to Witch Country!

1692

by Rachel Pinkstone

The room, stuffy and dated, filled
quickly with innocents and perspiration.
The voice behind us buzzed below within
our seats, charges vicious with intent.

The lights, dramatic, accusing, and timed,
poked like God’s angry finger at the damned.
The devil’s face flashed gruesome and waxen,
ready to take his heathens below.

They played loudly her voice as she cried 
out the lord’s prayers, “You are with the Devil,
now! The black man is at your back!”

Mr. Corey under boulders, Lady Nurse
dying behind bars, and the nudging
reminder to visit the gift shop. Kitchen-
witches and snow globes on sale.

We watch to learn tolerance.
We watch to avoid persecution.
We watched to receive the free Magick Wand.

Sometimes don't you just want a hot cup of Haiku?

“Fall(ing)”

Up high in the sill
the man in the pin-striped suit
sways calm in the breeze.


“Rent”

She opens them one
by one. Lays them on the desk.
He will never come.


“Five”

Struggling with words,
this language is new for him.
Remember he is young.


“Dow”

Money, paper, pens.
If it falls again, will we?
Try not to invest.


“Stephen-cat”

I reflect the light
on the floor. He likes to play
with his own shadow.

Exercising my Creativity?

“79”
by Rachel Pinkstone

Prologue
The door, unusually open, gushed a flood of welcoming light 
no more inviting than the torrent of expectation behind it. Nine months 
since this threshold was passed last. Nine months of promises made
 into a solid ball of guilt, hard against my stomach. The doorbell 
had the same old chime, that tune we all know, but can’t recollect.  
Her eyes (wrinkled by irritation and our hesitance to walk right in) met 
each our matching set of baby blues. That look said so many things: 
surprise, relief, anger, maybe joy.

Chapter One 
How’syourmother?Whendidyouchangeyourhair?Didweknowyouwerecomingthistime?Whendidyouloseallthatweight?Haveyougottenarealjobyet?Isthereamaninyourlife?Didweknowyouwerecomingthistime?Whenwillyoubringusgrandkids?Whyhaven’tyoucalled?WillweseeyouatThanksgiving?HowaboutChristmas?Didweknowyouwerecomingthistime?Don’twealwaysseeyouatChristmas?Didyouthinkwe’dforgetyourbirthday?Didweknowyouwerecomingthistime?

Chapters Two through Twelve
The clink and tap of utensils, fork against plate, metal vs. porcelain,
was deafening. Aunt ---‘s new crown, third molar in back, twice now replaced, 
made audible effort to bite. Uncle --- gargled his mashed potatoes, 
coughed after a swallow. We watched him for struggle; returned to our meal. 
Grandpa maneuvered his food; turkey slid into place, biscuit rumbled off the plate, 
green beans squelched under the force. I only stirred my drink, repeatedly, 
the ice played like bells. A forty-minute orchestration instrumented, 
entirely, by of our digestion.

Chapter Thirteen

Promisemeyou’llvisitmore,Wewon’tbearoundforever,sometimesIforgetmymedication,Muslimsmovedinacrossthestreet,Promisemeyou’llvisitmore,Ihavetopinchtherosebushbeforethefirstfrost,Rememberwhenweboughtyouthatbike?Promisemeyou’llvisitmore,Didyouseemetakethecolaseorthexanax?Rememberthatweloveyou,Promisemeyou’llvisitmore.

Epilogue
The door closed, unusually, behind us. 

Influence driven Poetry.

"Superheroes"

by Rachel Pinkstone

He emptied his pockets to show
me what he was Worth.
A dirty Quarter from 1978, the year 
his mother was born.
Used tissues, slightly sticky, bloodied,
wadded into a ball.
A Rock, thought an arrowhead,
still enveloped in dirt.
A Note to the nurse, a claim
his dosage had changed.
A Spider-Man tattoo, temporary,
but perpetually his hero.

“I like Spider-Man too. Can’t say
I’m a fan of Mary-Jane.”
He eyed me first, amassed his wealth
and laughed. Turned away, then left 
the classroom, 
Smiling, coughing 
hard on the way out.

Call me Dreamer...

Mary Gaitskill

“It seemed to me that I was just writing about things that people deal with pretty regularly.  I mean, not everybody has a boss that spanks them for typing mistakes, but many people have experienced the cruelty of office politics…”

 ~Mary Gaitskill responding to her predilection for the “dark side.”

           It is Mary Gaitskill’s effortless ability to make her reader feel shamelessly excited and utterly uncomfortable with the honesty of her prose that has kept her in constant rotation with my favorite authors since the first time I opened Bad Behavior. For those of you who do not know, The 2002 film starring James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal, Secretary, was based off a piece from that collection, and it provided little justice to the characters’ audacity and distance.
           A Kentucky native who has lived her life in myriad places, a good deal of which spent in New York City when it was an epicenter of the AIDS era, has published work in The Best American Short Stories (1993 and 2006), and The O. Henry Prize Stories (1998), The New Yorker, Esquire and Harper’s Magazine. She was also written several well-received novels and short story collections:
Bad Behavior (1988)
 Two Girls, Fat and Thin (1991)
Because They Wanted To (1997)
Veronica (2005)
          Her bold writing style had led us to survey prostitutes turning tricks, strippers, abortion, lesbians, shut ins, and sadomasochists Her own salacious past of exploration may have even offered insight to her work, “Gaitskill herself seemed like a character from her own pages. She too was a downtown girl and a waif, someone who had cashed out her twenties on a series of sexual improvisations. She’d sold flowers in San Francisco as a teenage runaway and worked as a stripper and a call girl.” No matter how or why her characters developed, her strength lies in the honesty that she provides with writing these stories. She is unapologetic and inspirational to all writers who want to tell you that story that you’re afraid to say yourself.

“The lawyer was a short man with dark, shiny eyes and dense immobile shoulders. He took my hand with an indifferent aggressive snatch. It felt like he could have put his hand through my rib cage, grabbed my heart, squeezed it a little to see how it felt, then let go.” “Secretary,” Bad Behavior.

“He turned the edge of one nostril over with his thumb and nervously stroked his nose hairs with one finger. He knew it was a nasty habit, but it soothed him. When Kitty was a little girl he would do it to make her laugh. ‘Well,’ he’d say, ‘do you think it’s time we played with the hairs in our nose?’ And she would giggle, holding her hands against her face, eyes sparkling over her knuckles.” “Tiny, Smiling Daddy,” Because They Wanted To.

 Yager, Carri Anne. “Mary Gaitskill: Critics Line up to Get Her Wrong.” College Crier Online.
Nussbaum, Emily. "Mary, Mary, Less Contrary," New York Magazine, Nov. 14, 2005 

So how would you write this?

I suppose I would erase it:

And here was the recipe:

"Use no superfluous word, no adjective, which does not reveal something. Don't use such an expression as 'dim land of piece.' It dulls the image. It mixes an abstraction with the concrete. It comes from the writer's not realizing that the natural object is always the adequate symbol. Go in fear of abstractions. "~ Ezra Pound

"She asked me if I liked Tattoos..."

This is my second workshop poem, written in response to an ill-informed poem about tattoos.

[Untitled]


The pen pierced into my soil, planting 
her favorite flower.
“African Violets,”
 I demanded.

They tried to sell me just a rose.

My blood pooled upon the petals; these 
flowers had no thorns. The air
filled with bees.
Stingers. Buzzing 
down into my bones.

When the flowers fully blossomed, 
 fruits of his labor meticulously 
drawn: She criticized my choices 
but kissed me, 
sweetly,
for the blooms.

It Begins...

 

[The New one talks like me—She is for ever rid] by Rachel Pinkstone

*Original Text: A Bundle of Letters by Henry James

My work here begins with a piece of found poetry, if you will, in order to ease the reader into the creative, instructive and ridiculous nature that I plan to provide.