The Process of Progress
Automat (1927) by Edward Hopper. Source: https://www.edwardhopper.net/
By Angela M. Brommel
This year I have spent most of my literary energy as Editor-in-Chief at The Citron Review and editing nonfiction books. Typically, I do most of my writing in the winter and spring and then revisions in the fall. I tend to write in small bursts a few times a year, and then I print them for revision when I have a small stack. This has been my process for years.
But this year nothing was usual. Within days of the mandated shelter-in-place order I had printed hundreds of poems that are waiting to be sent or not. They are still sitting on my printer, and I occasionally move them so I can lift the lid to scan a document for work. Then I neatly place them in the left-hand corner as though I will begin revisions any day now.
But I never started writing. Instead I thought about not writing and what this meant. I have a lot of good reasons for not writing, and I think it’s ok to not write when you are creatively pulled in a new direction or when the work might divert attention from something else you need in your life at that time. I’ve noticed many artists doing work in new areas and mediums. Working outside of a primary area makes working creatively new, and sometimes it doesn’t feel like work at all.
I’m grateful that while I took a break from writing I was able to put more energy into editorial work. Editing the work of others during the pandemic has kept me in contact with other artists and writers, and this has lessened the feelings of isolation at times.
One of the things I love about editing is that it braids the past, present, and future. It’s really satisfying to work with writers and their projects in the present as they process their story and then to imagine how it completes itself when published. A document arrives from the writer’s past and as you edit in the present you are moving toward its future. Editing requires patience with time and an understanding of how all of this happens in a common space.
I wrote a brief Letter from the Editor in June for Citron’s summer issue, but by the end of August I knew that I needed to write for myself again. My process went something like this: I kept a running document of thoughts for this essay. When it came time to write something for Citron’s fall issue, I pulled a few sections out. But after the issue was published, I pulled a few ideas from the letter as a prompt for the poem. Activating my editing skills activated the energy I needed to write. In this case, I learned how to trust the editor part of me to put ideas into the right places.
In March and April articles were written about Edward Hopper’s work in the context of social distancing and the pandemic. There were a number of evenings that after walking I would sit on my front patio to look at the park. The trees were the deepest green, the city lights were yellow, and everything was silent. Such evenings might be why Ethan Lasser, curator at the Museum of Fine Art in Boston tweeted in March, “Edward Hopper is the unexpected poet of our moment.”
One of the first paintings I remember seeing as a child was Hopper’s Automat at the Des Moines Art Center. To this day it still brings me joy when I visit the painting. Growing up, the museum was one of the few places I could be unattended. I treasured spending hours alone writing near the art, so I’m not surprised that Hopper’s world would appear to me at this time.
I still find myself still curious about the woman in Automat. It took a lot of editing to remember how she found solace over a cup of coffee. I did too
Spring turns to fall
Angela M. Brommel
Sometimes after the park closes
I hear people playing basketball.
In the morning it’s tennis players.
On Saturdays it’s the ice cream truck
and the endless stream of air filling
bouncy houses for birthday parties
and barbeques. All of this stops
as we navigate what’s safe.
For a while days at the park
are empty of people, but slowly
the evenings mark their return.
From my porch after sunset I hear
the rhythmic sound of a single swing.
Then the sound of pedals as families
bicycle around the neighborhood.
Once inside I rehang everything
in the house at gallery height
to restore a sense of order.
Lately, I have this strange craving
for instant coffee. Each evening
holding a warm mug in my hands
as the sun fades, watching the
crystals and molasses swirl into milk.
My maternal grandmother could sit
wordlessly for hours while drinking
coffee and watching reruns on television.
Maybe even she is here.
Not too many nights ago the sound
of coughing entered the house.
My held breath is a prayer.
Each trip to Woodlawn Cemetery
my other grandmother told me
how her sister Clementina
was too ashamed to tell her family
that she was dying of TB.
I don’t move until the coughing stops.
Photos/Angela M. Brommel.
Angela M. Brommel is a Nevada writer with Iowa roots. In 2018, her chapbook, Plutonium & Platinum Blonde, was published by Serving House Books. Her poetry has been published in The Best American Poetry blog, The North American Review, The Literary Review’s (TLR) Share, and many other journals and anthologies. A 2018 Red Rock Canyon Artist in Residence, Angela served as the inaugural poet of the program. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University and an MA in Theatre from the University of Northern Iowa. Mojave in July is her debut full-length poetry collection. Angela is the Executive Director of the Office of Arts & Culture as well as affiliate faculty in Humanities at Nevada State College. You can also find her at The Citron Review as Editor-in-Chief.
Learn more about Angela and her work on her website: https://www.angelambrommel.com/
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