Thank You for the Privilege of Picking Up Your Poop

Shuly Cawood February 26, 2021

Dear Dog:

Thank you for barking your head off when people come to the door. Such a soothing sound.

Thank you for the time you ate a steel wool pad when we left the cabinet below the kitchen sink open for two seconds. Such a special discovery to see your muzzle covered in purple foam. We loved going to the vet that time. A gift.

Thank you for the teeth cleaning where they had to sedate you, and the surgeries, and the medications you’ve needed. I relish going to the pharmacy. I am so glad they know me well. And we are especially thankful that although we do not have a child we have managed to pay the equivalent of college tuition for your medical care. So blessed are we.

We appreciate the socks you chewed, the doors you scratched, the crate you clawed through. We love fixing things, or replacing them.

Thank you for coming with us to that gathering where we all ate Indian food for dinner. We were so excited to learn, in the middle of the night, that you had managed to get a hold of some yourself. We were even more excited to fully grasp that dogs and Indian food don’t mix well.

Thank you for hating bath time even though you are a water dog.

A special thank you for not coming inside even when I call your name multiple times. I appreciate your ignoring me. Truly.

Thank you for specializing in finding cat poop.

Thank you for waking me up at night. My already difficult sleep needed a little extra help with keeping me wide-eyed. Because who needs sleep? Not I.

But I really mean it when I say:

Thank you for walking with me multiple times a day when I know you don’t want to.

Thank you for greeting me with your tail wagging when I come home as if I have been gone for a decade even when it’s been ten minutes. I don’t have a tail, but if I did, I would wag it because I am always just as happy to see you.

Thank you for keeping me company 24 hours a day and for giving me someone to talk to, other than myself, when the rest of the household is away.

Thanks for playing hide-and-seek—for knowing how to play it, for wanting to play it, and for letting me think I only do it for your entertainment.

Thanks for coming over to me when I cry, even when you are in another room (except that one time when I started crying and you left the room, but that’s fair—sometimes I get tired of me, too).

Thank you for barking your head off when strangers come to my door. Well, you bark your head off with everyone, but it’s okay. I feel safer with you.

Thank you for teaching me (or trying) to be more patient. And for helping me understand again that love isn’t always easy, but it’s always worth it.

Thank you for still loving me when I make mistakes.

Thank you for being my best entertainment, my favorite comedy act, my puzzle to figure out, the bearer of the brunt of all my maternal instincts (for letting me hold you like a baby), and thank you for never tiring of me because I never tire of you, even on our hard days.

Thank you for being my Fuzzy Navel, my Little Piece of Sunshine, my Stinkerbell, my Sweetness, Pumpkin Pie, my Bundle of Love.

Thank you for making my heart grow a whole other room that I didn’t think was possible. You are that room, and it just keeps getting bigger.

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Upcoming Events

WYSO Book Nook Interview with Vick Mickunas (TOMORROW!)
February 27, 7 a.m. Tune in here.

The Art of Memoir & Personal Essay: A Generative Writing Workshop (ONLY TWO SPOTS LEFT)
March 10-April 7, 2021, 2:30-5 p.m.
Join me in this five-week, online (Zoom) workshop during which you will generate new writing, read writing that inspires, and learn some tools and techniques on the craft of personal essay/memoir writing. There are no critiques in this workshop. The goal is for you to leave with first drafts and a writer’s toolbox ready to help you finish and write the rest of your own life stories. Learn more here. Cost: $329. REGISTER HERE.

Three Emerging Writers Series at East Tennessee State University (A Reading)
March 3, 2021, 4-7 p.m.
The Bert C. Bach Written Word Initiative and the ETSU Creative Writing Society present the latest installment of the Three Emerging Writers Series, with writers Shuly Xóchitl Cawood, Ciona Rouse, and Larry Thacker. This event is FREE and open to the public and will be conducted via Zoom. The meeting ID to join is 934 9128 3198. Access link here

Let’s Write Together!
Having a hard time finding inspiration and motivation to write? Join me for any (or all) of these online one-hour sessions. We’ll talk about a piece of writing, I will give you a prompt, and then you will WRITE. These workshops are part of Press 53’s High Road Festival of Poetry and Short Fiction. Cost: $10/session.
March 2, 2021, noon EST: Register here
March 16, noon EST: Register here
March 30, noon EST: Register here

It’s All in the Details
March 18, 2021, 7 p.m. EST
In this online seminar, I will share how I used sensory details in my stories from A Small Thing to Want to create a sense of place; build an emotional landscape; and show the passage of time. This workshop is part of the Five Ways of Looking at Short Fiction series with Scuppernong Books. Registration fee includes both the workshop and a copy of A Small Thing to Want. Cost $25. Learn more and register here.

Wait, It’s What? It’s Valentine’s Day?

Shuly Cawood February 13, 2021

Last summer, around my husband’s and my wedding anniversary, we asked each other, “What date did we get married?” The 30th, the 31st, or was it the 29th? We always have to figure it out. For our anniversaries, we do not get each other gifts. I usually ask him for a card—it can be just a sheet of notebook paper for all I care. I just want him to write about how he feels about me, something I know but never tire of hearing (I have kept all the cards he has ever given me, and yes, I reread them). But some years he is working too many hours to have a lot of time to think about and write me a card. I don’t complain.

So with Valentine’s Day, what do we usually do? Well, nothing. But to understand why we are like this for anniversaries and gift-giving holidays, I have to tell you a different story that isn’t about Valentine’s Day at all but is about gifts and is certainly about us.

Once upon a time, many years ago, we got married. I was living out of state, but I moved to Johnson City because his funeral home—and his career—are firmly rooted here. I was able to telecommute for my job. But a couple of years into our marriage, I started to write a memoir and I wanted more time to write, which would mean cutting back my work hours.

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“We can’t afford it,” he said.

But he didn’t forget I had a dream, and a couple of years later, he said, “Okay, I think you can cut back a little.” I went to 80% time. I was writing my memoir, moving toward my dream of being an author.

We tightened our belts and a while later, he said, “I think you can cut back a little more.” I went to 75%. I kept writing my book.

We tightened our belts again and a while later, he said, “I think you can cut back more.” I went to 50%. More time to write for me.

Finally, I was able to quit the job and focus solely on my writing. I say “I” was able to, but what I mean is that “we” were able to. Each of us made sacrifices so I could realize my dream.

Now, I run workshops, I teach, I have authored four books and have two more on the way. I also work for our funeral home because one day, years ago, he said he needed someone with my skillset to help out, and of course I said yes. His dream is my dream, and my dream is his.

I can't tell you all the gifts he has given me related to my dream: he’s helped me set up my computer, he’s fixed my internet problems, he’s made sure I had an ergonomic desk and keyboard. The list goes on and on. Doesn’t sound romantic? It does to me.

We have always wanted the other to be happy, to realize their potential, to reach their distant goals. Yes, I know it’s not a box of chocolates, it’s not a bouquet of flowers, it’s not a dinner at a fancy restaurant, but I’ve never been a fancy girl. Someone who wants me to get my dream? I can’t think of a better gift than that.

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Upcoming Workshops

Moments that Matter: an Introduction to Flash Nonfiction
February 20, 2021, 2:00-3:30 p.m. EST
In this workshop, we’ll talk about what flash nonfiction is, how it works, and why it works. Together we’ll mine some powerful flash pieces for effective techniques you can use in your own writing. This program is part of Press 53’s High Road Festival of Poetry and Short Fiction. Cost: $30. Register here.

Let’s Write Together!
Having a hard time finding inspiration and motivation to write? Join me for any (or all) of these online one-hour sessions. We’ll talk about a piece of writing, I will give you a prompt, and then you will WRITE. These workshops are part of Press 53’s High Road Festival of Poetry and Short Fiction. Cost: $10/session.
February 16, 2021, noon EST: Register here
March 2, 2021, noon EST: Register here

Need Poetry? Look No Further.

“Her poems are time machines, love letters. Maps marked up with stars.”
—Melissa Fite Johnson, author of Green

The Stories Behind the Poems in My Forthcoming Collection

Shuly Cawood January 29, 2021

One of the poems I wrote when I was 21. My then-boyfriend—a kind, gentle soul—had come to an impasse with me about something, and I wrote the poem about the distance it created between us, how I wanted to close the space. It was one in a group of poems I submitted for my college’s poetry contest, and I remember that my father had a work conflict with the ceremony where the contest winner would be announced, and I wanted him there so very badly since I became a writer and poet largely because of him, and he surprised me by showing up, and I won the contest. I have a picture of us from that day. It’s one of my favorites—me next to my father, a man I loved then and love now. I broke up with the boyfriend a year and a half later—not because there was anything wrong with him, but because I was too young to pick one person for the rest of my life—and years later, after my first marriage and divorce, I regretted that decision, I wanted to take it back like so many other things, but of course I could not.

I wrote one of the poems after I heard about the terrible death of a young actor.

I wrote another after I returned from teaching in Mexico and I could not stop thinking about a student’s unwillingness to step out from the shadow of her boyfriend. My time in Mexico had taught me about stepping out of shadows, about figuring out what I wanted, and I can see now the poem is about my recognition of myself in her.

I wrote one about gardening, but it’s really about marriage.

I wrote another about gardening, but it’s really about surviving illness.

I wrote imagined poems—poems not based on truth—and I wrote poems that have a little bit of truth mixed with a lot of fiction. Poems don’t have to be true, after all.

I wrote one while sitting in the Underdog Cafe, a coffee shop in my hometown (and my favorite in the world), after I had walked by a high school acquaintance whose brother had just died. That poem is about him, his brother, but it’s also about small towns, about our connections.

I wrote one about my great aunt who was a feminist but would have likely never called herself that. This poem started out as an essay that I revised a dozen times but could never get right. I eventually cut it down and it became a poem. This poem got published in one of my absolute favorite magazines, The Sun.

I wrote one when I was in love. That poem won a contest. The relationship did not.

I wrote one about tornadoes—I grew up in Ohio, after all—but it’s really about a relationship’s implosion.

I wrote a few about cooking—I must have been hungry a lot—and about what cooking has taught me, why I do it. I wrote about someone cooking for me. That person taught me how to care for an iron skillet. He also taught me about what it means to want two things at once that are impossible to have simultaneously, and the consequences of this yearning.

I wrote some when I was young, and some when I was not so young, and I wrote some about being young.

I wrote one about eating falafel sandwiches on Paris streets with someone I used to love. That trip was the only time I have ever been to Paris, or France for that matter. We walked around so much our feet swelled, but we loved exploring the neighborhoods and we loved Mediterranean food and falafel sandwiches that were so stuffed they fell apart in our hands. Months later, we fell apart. The poem is a little about that, too.

I wrote some poems when I lived in Ohio, some when I lived in North Carolina, and some when I lived in Tennessee, which I still do. I wrote one about Tennessee.

I wrote one about the last time my mother saw her mother. This poem is also about my grandmother’s death, which happened the summer I was about to leave for college, and it was the only time in my life my mother and I argued and argued for weeks. I understand now we were trying to hold on and let each other go as I transitioned to a new chapter, and we didn’t have words to express our sadness at having to do this.

I wrote one about the things someone took from me, but the poem is ultimately about how I willingly gave up those things.

I wrote one on a morning when I was grappling with medical issues and trying to focus on all the things I was grateful for in the face of my fear.

I wrote another, years later, about wanting to protect the people I loved from something terrible befalling them.

I wrote one for a former love’s birthday, about how we had managed to put aside our baggage to come together. Except a week later, we were broken up. I thought I broke up with him. He thought he broke up with me. I told him if he wanted to be the one who broke up, that was fine since I would have preferred we work things out. I cried for weeks and then months afterward. I understand now I was grieving not just our relationship but trust in myself. Six months later, when he said he wanted to get back together but with certain “conditions,” I built trust in myself by realizing he didn’t love me just as I was, and that I would accept nothing less.

I wrote about a time when I was 21 and in college, but it’s not about the boyfriend, that kind, gentle soul. It’s about a life lesson I learned.

So many poems are about life lessons. And I’m still learning, and I’m still writing, and I’m already working on the next collection.

Trouble Can Be So Beautiful at the Beginning won the Adrienne Bond Award for Poetry. The collection will be published by Mercer University Press on February 1, 2021. (Cover photo by August Michael Knemeyer). Learn more about the book here.

UPCOMING WORKSHOPS

The Art of Memoir & Personal Essay: A Generative Writing Workshop
March 10-April 7, 2021, 2:30-5 p.m.
Join me in this five-week, online (Zoom) workshop during which you will generate new writing, read writing that inspires, and learn some tools and techniques on the craft of personal essay/memoir writing. The goal is for you to leave with first drafts and a writer’s toolbox ready to help you finish and write the rest of your own life stories. Learn more here. Cost: $329. REGISTER HERE.

Let’s Write Together!
February 9, 2021, noon EST: Register here
February 16, 2021, noon EST: Register here
March 2, 2021, noon EST: Register here
Having a hard time finding inspiration and motivation to write? Join me for any (or all) of these online one-hour sessions. We’ll talk about a piece of writing, I will give you a prompt, and then you will WRITE. These workshops are part of Press 53’s High Road Festival of Poetry and Short Fiction. Cost: $10/session.

Online Poetry Workshop
February 11, 2021: 7-8 p.m.
This workshop is part of a series of writing workshops with Community Building Art Works. Register here.

Moments that Matter: an Introduction to Flash Nonfiction
February 20, 2021, 2:00 p.m. EST
In this workshop, we’ll talk about what flash nonfiction is, how it works, and why it works. Together we’ll mine some powerful flash pieces for effective techniques you can use in your own writing. This program is part of Press 53’s High Road Festival of Poetry and Short Fiction. Cost: $30. Register here.