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Are you a poet? Do you feel overwhelmed by negativity? Feel like there's no hope for a poet in this world? Especially a female poet? Well don't despair. Spend some time with Amy King. She's the author of Slaves to Do These Things (Blazevox), and, with Ana Bozicevic, she co-curates the Brooklyn-based reading series, The Stain of Poetry, and, maybe most importantly, she has ideas. Over the past few weeks we've been emailing back and forth about her ideas of what it means to be a poet today. Here's a few slices of the force for your perusal. Enjoy.

Do you think it's a good time to be a female poet in America?

Poetry remains one of the most undervalued arts because it brings neither fame nor fortune. To boot, women have historically resided in the realm of the undervalued or “behind the scenes,” where everything from child-rearing to minding the minute details necessary for a society's survival takes place. There's a freedom in those positions though; one may escape popular notions of success, and instead, interrogate the origins of such notions right on through a host of other personal, cultural, philosophical and moral considerations.

The “undervalued” tag disguises another truth; poetry consistently spearheads the most transformative force every cultural history attests to: the power of the word. Children of the Baby Boomers, now in their 30s and 40s, are hitting their writing strides and, thanks to the women's movement, daughters especially are benefitting from their foremothers' efforts to identify and break the machinery that kept women working quietly in the domestic world of letters and diaries. We need only look to the work of so many innovative female poets for inspiration and incentive –models such as Kathy Acker, Lyn Hejinian, Susan Howe, Harryette Mullen, Alice Notley, Leslie Scalapino, Anne Waldman, Rosmarie Waldrop, and more– to understand why younger female poets are experiencing a “Feminaissance,” to borrow the title of a recently-published anthology focused on women's poetry and poetics.

These women are thrilling readers, male and female alike, by expanding definitions of just what poetry can do, broadening the scope of how poetry interrogates and, ultimately, challenging the way things are. I'm motivated by new books and anthologies of younger women hitting the shelves these days; their voices stand firmly on the liberating permission of our foremothers' work and are daring in ways largely unprecedented. The potential I feel in my own writing resonates with a larger chorus that confidently and publicly explores what has either been buried or unspoken. No doubt: it's exciting to be a female poet today because the sense of possibility, and the transformative power in that possibility, is palpable. The catch, of course, is to sustain the momentum by getting more of these poetries into the world despite relatively low distribution due, in part, to poetry's marginalized position in the capitalist value system. Poetry also wants to change that system, so poetry's peripheral position is no accident. Only safer, “tamed” poetry is marketed by the big machines today.

Do you think the traditional publishing industry still dictates what poetry does (and does not) get read?

This year, Barnes and Noble poetry shelves shrank from half an aisle to a few shelves. Trade publishers print fewer poetry books, and while the traditional model retains a slipping foothold on what uninitiated readers may encounter, interest in poetry is a running wildfire, likely to turn up in your neighborhood next. Evidence the exponential increase of MFA programs, local poetry readings, online journals, Facebook reviews, Twitter challenges, and the like. Poets are full of ingenuity, embracing it with an eye towards the shapes language takes. We see the changes in literacies, the technologies altering how people read and receive texts, and we react. With the advent of POD (print-on-demand) and the proliferation of E-books, small presses are springing from the giant's loins and poets are doing it for themselves. From numerous niches, Whitman is stirring beneath our boot soles.

No mainstream publishing industry exists anymore for poets than does a single readership – for example, the dwellers of a small town who we in the city might imagine only access what's offered in the mall B&N could just as well be tapping into a lively poetry circuit, which might range from the county laureate to experimental eccentric to local academic to nature poet mom to open-mike Mike to talented country songstress, all with access to blogs and YouTube and POD. How people read & how they publish is a wholly new Borgesian beast in the 21st century, and I think this is cause to celebrate.

A few from the old guard characterize this growing multiplicity as “chaotic” and the “watering down” of poesy, as though mediocre poems never fell from industry presses, as though we might breach a mythological stalwart horizon and create too much. Really though, they fear losing the power to dictate the canonical and omit the peripheral, a fear that opposes asking exactly how we determine value and engage with texts, now that literature is opening to more democratic vistas reflective of our ever-changing population. That power speaks mountains about sustaining status-quo-think and keeping specific people “in their places.”

While traditionalists may sit safely in stasis amid old tomes keeping others out, they will miss this evolving engagement, this poetry that refuses to stay still and reflect only what has passed. James Baldwin wrote, “A language comes into existence by means of brutal necessity, and the rules of the language are dictated by what the language must convey.” For better or worse, the means by which people exchange ideas are rapidly changing, and poetry, if it is to have a say, must adapt and innovate. We have never needed and hoped so much of poetry as we do today. Poets across the food chain have a chance to be heard in unrestricted ways, or as Susan Howe wrote in The Midnight, “Where philosophy stops, poetry is impelled to begin,” and, in these new formats, become the vehicle for what and how we might imagine.

How do you think the means of publication for poetry and poetry itself are related?

If you have the freedom to publish online or through a small press and reach a good number of people, you will likely feel more comfortable writing exactly what you want. If a small press accepts even the outré or controversial work you do, you'll feel less pressured to conform to what a big publisher might deign to shill in the local B&N. In short, alternative means of publication=creative freedom, the mother's milk of experimental and progressive writing.

This raises the question, “What does it mean to 'sell out?'” The range of writing might be simplified on a scale from that which simply entertains to that which calls attention to the unusual and discomforts. Popular literature puts readers at ease, providing the familiar and comfortable. The latter challenges a lot such as what we expect and is expected of us, what else can stimulate and charge us, what peculiar and unjust matters have we suppressed, etc. Big publishers steer clear of the latter because those issues tend to be political, complex and encourage us to think in ways that seem odd or unpermitted.

For example, I'm often told that I have an occasional beautiful line or image but my poetry sometimes doesn't “make sense.” I'm told to “move on” from poetry and write a memoir because I relay great anecdotes. These encouragements are grounded in the notion that reading should please rather than challenging what people know, thus asking them to step beyond that comfort zone. For them, there is a progress from poetry to memoir that is, in fact, a move towards ease and comfort, rather than opening up and exploring what else our minds are able to conceptualize. It's the equivalent of my students asking me, “Why do we have to analyze these texts? Why can't we just enjoy them?” As though analysis disallows pleasure–try telling the teenager who is suddenly fascinated by cars not to analyze why he likes them, what goes on under the hood, or which tires work best on what surfaces; tell him instead to just to sit back and enjoy how graceful the cars are as they speed by.

Experimental poetry, and writing in general, challenges the “natural” order of things, the surface of “what's real” or the status quo mentality. Such poetry, by default, requires unusual methods of distribution to enable “difficult” or challenging literature to unseat the mainstream model and the politics of our prescribed co-existence (via religion, gov't law, social mores, etc), or else writers will “sell out” and remove those elements, reducing literature to mere popular entertainment. My students learn that literature can usually be boiled down and characterized as doing one of two things: you can simply write what everyone sees and reflect the culture you live in or you can change it by giving shape to new ideas, concepts, and voices silenced or ignored.

How does book distribution and online publication tie into a project like Poets for Living Waters?

Poets for Living Waters, as an action and project, would be next to impossible without the Internet: from two separate states, Heidi Lynn Staples and I were able to create the site, post a call, and begin publishing poems in the face of a national tragedy–all within a week of conception. We are only two weeks in now, and the site's audience grows daily. We have helped organize readings across the U.S. for World Oceans Day, and video and audio from these will be posted on the site. Everything has been done at no cost, except our time, and with the support and desire of so many. The fact that submissions and comments come from a range of “established” and unknown poets is testament that we really are entering a time when the Internet is just as, if not more, relevant to the poetry community than print. Eventually, we may edit an anthology from this project, and I know of several small presses that would likely be interested, or we could publish it ourselves; the stamp of “print” adds yet another facet to the project's reach. The measures of “legitimacy” are inevitably and presently changing.

A few folks have asked me what this project will “do” in the face of such a tragedy, as if responding with words is not an action or won't have an effect. Of course, donating money, time, and energy to clean up the BP oil spill is a direct address, but why can't we, as poets, speak directly to this experience as it unfolds? Must we all sit, in the media age, watching the saga play out on screen via television programs that leave us feeling impotent and removed? One of the roles of poetry is to raise awareness and broaden our own understanding at the same time. Besides feeling angry and impotent, what else can we feel? How are we to proceed in the future? What else can we do as clean up progresses and later damages appear? How will we address the aftermath and how must we change our lifestyles? This “queer” questioning is something I was getting at in my essay, “The What Else of Queer Poetry” – what can we learn, through poetic dialogue and exploration, that the media and our limited awareness can't teach us? This “we” includes those willing to step outside of the “normal” mediums that process information for us, the mainstream media and publishing companies, swallow our trepidation and venture into uncertain territory where we become actors in the world, speaking and listening through the poetic, words carefully chosen and shared in an effort to respond and act, however cacophonous our symphony, instead of being told exactly what is and how it will be by those in charge of the big distribution machines. The Internet provides us with the tools to respond, and we're doing just that.

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Memorial Day inherently is a time of reflection. Honoring what our soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen have done for the sake of our freedom is not a single-day activity, but one that should be in the hearts of all of us, all year round.

Whenever this holiday comes, I invariably end up thinking about my dad. He was a Private First Class with the 106th Division, assigned to the Ardennes Forest in Belgium. On the morning of December 16, 1944, the German army committed an all-out assault on the thinly-stretched American forces. It became known as the Battle of the Bulge, and my father was on the front line of the attack.

Dad trained as part of a cannon crew back in the States before being shipped off Europe. But when he arrived on the Continent, he was informed there weren't enough artillery pieces in theater, so he was handed a Garand and was told he's now a rifleman. A few days later, his company commander assigned him to a 50-calibre machine gun, and was placed on the line near the town of St. Vith.

He didn't talk much about the fateful day when the Nazis attacked. Growing up, I only heard small bits and pieces of his wartime experiences; one of my most vivid memories was his description of what it was like to have to kill another man. He was typically low-key about it, merely outlining that you had a job to do, and once you realize the enemy was trying to kill you, and you saw him killing your buddies, it wasn't too difficult to pull the trigger.

On the 50th Anniversary of the first day of the Battle of the Bulge, my dad wrote a first-person account of his action for a newspaper. It was the first time I learned what really happened. Early that morning, the Nazis came at the Americans with everything they had. My dad was “crewing” the 50-cal, feeding the belt through the gun as his trigger man was firing away. Dad said there were targets everywhere.

But the Germans knew the locations of many American positions, and laid out an effective artillery barrage. One shell exploded near his position and the triggerman was badly hit. Dad moved his wounded mate aside and took control of the weapon. He said he got off about 20 rounds before another shell exploded nearby, sending shrapnel over his position. He was hit in the shoulders and face, a deep cut split is upper lip and he was bleeding profusely. He reached through the small slit where the barrel of the 50-cal was poking through and grabbed a handful of snow to freeze the wound.

His sergeant ordered Dad to pick up the other injured soldier and get him back to regimental headquarters to seek treatment. Neither could do much good in their condition. In the middle of the furious battle, Dad picked up the man, took about five steps from the foxhole and realized he had no idea where the HQ was. With shooting and soldiers of both sides all around him, the only chance he had was to choose a direction and get to a quiet place as soon as possible.

As luck would have it, he guessed correctly and found a road that seemed familiar. His company commander, Captain Freesland, happed by with a jeep, picked them up and transported them to the hospital at HQ. Because his wounds were determined not to be life-threatening, dad was told to wait for treatment at the triage area. Not long after, the Germans started shelling the hospital and he was hit again, mostly from flying glass. He once joked he was wounded worse at the hospital than he was on the front (but I have a feeling that wasn't true).

The wounds he got on the line turned out to be a blessing. When he went back to the front a couple of weeks later, virtually all of his friends who remained that first day of the battle were dead. Obviously, I wouldn't be here if he could have held his position that cold winter morning. Dad said it was terribly difficult to go on at that point, but what choice did he have? There was still a war to be won.

My father, PFC Richard R. Robinson, fought four major battles in Belgium and Germany. He was awarded the Bronze Star for bravery in battle and the Purple Heart for the wounds he received in action. In some respects, he wasn't the greatest dad in the world. He had his issues. But he, like hundreds of thousands of other men, rose to the occasion and did what was necessary to defend freedom.

I have been fortunate not to have to do what he was called on to do. I'd like to think I'd be as good as him if placed in the same situation. And I will always honor what he and his fellow servicemen have done for all of us, and the cause of liberty.

The Epic Story of a 12-Hour, 800-Foot-Deep Underwater Recovery Mission

Looking for a good read? This oldie-but-goodie from Outside magazine tells the story of Dave Shaw, a deep-water diver who swam more than 800 feet down into a freshwater cave to retrieve the body of a fallen diver.

And he didn't use just any scuba gear, either. He used a self-assembled closed-circuit rebreather set that actively filtered his own breath and turned it back into breathable air. With no tanks to carry, it allowed him to stay underwater for the required 12+ hours it took for him to slowly return to the surface without getting the bends.

To say much more about this epic story would spoil it, so I'll just recommend it, heartily. It's a long one, but it's well worth it.

Send an email to Adam Frucci, the author of this post, at adam@gizmodo.com.

Human nature can be finicky as a cat. It often causes us to turn up our noses and reject people from our circle of trust at the first whiff of difference. Like cats, we react instinctively to appearance, smell, and behavior. Studies show that we instinctively analyze faces for degree of symmetry. Bet you were never conscious of that! But being higher apes, we simultaneously subject others to a cultural and political checklist, deciding in a flash whether they are “our kind of folks.”

High on the American checklist these days is how biblical a person is. If they're wearing a gaudy cross around their neck, or a John 3:16 t-shirt, or even a purity ring, they're instantly either brethren in Christ or dweebs from Jesusland. It's human nature to react this way. But, in an interdependent world, and even in a nation “indivisible, with liberty and justice for all,” we simply cannot afford to be so dismissive.

That's why a documentary film now slouching its way through Midwestern and West Coast art houses toward a New York opening this summer has such value. It gently nudges us beyond our stereotypes to consider the humanity of the “Other.”

At first glance, though, the idea of making a film version of historian and political commentator Thomas Frank's 2004 book What's the Matter with Kansas? seems absurd. How could a film capture the sort of overarching historico-political thesis that Frank advances in his book about the Heartland state's shift from far-left socialism to far-right religious populism? How could it incorporate his analysis of the role of religion in distracting Kansas voters from pressing their own economic interests in party politics?

The film barely attempts to do so. It was “a real labor of love,” director and co-producer Joe Winston told me in an extensive interview. For reasons I will elaborate below, I entirely agree.

On hearing him say he wanted to turn Frank's book into a documentary, his wife, co-producer Laura Cohen, reacted with less than perfect confidence. “Are you crazy?” Winston reports her as saying. “There's no movie here! What's going to be on the screen?” She was not alone in her doubts. Any author would love to see his book up on the big screen, but Frank felt it might prove impossible. “You can't make a book of political theory into a movie,” Frank told me in a phone chat this week.

Winston found the way. To be sure, his documentary provides a staggering historical context. Frank himself appears briefly in the film to walk us through Kansas' radical past, when it was home to the nation's largest socialist newspaper — which also happened to be the nation's largest-circulation paper, period! Imagine that.

But the heart of the film lies in the lives of present day Kansans. What's the Matter with Kansas? follows the lives of a handful of rural folk on either side of the Bible divide. Some of them are memorable yet flat characters, such as M.T. Liggett, a crusty, small-town sculptor who welds provocative works to his fence in hopes of offending his pious neighbors. (He is quite possibly the first artist to combine a swastika, a vagina, and a toilet bowl all in one piece of art.)

As unforgettable a character as he may be, it's the Bible-thumpers and God-botherers who really stick with us, and that's in large measure because Winston stuck with them long enough to capture an astonishing series of events in their lives. Angel Dillard, a gospel singer and true believer, reveals a past that would make anyone question the existence of a loving God. The huge church she belongs to, led by a fire-breathing, anti-abortion, evolution-denying fundamentalist preacher, turns out to have a congregation that is anything but a submissive flock.

I don't want to be a spoiler, so I'll just add that once the preacher has separated the sheep from the goats, things become even more interesting for the members of the Summit Church. In the end, like most of the overwhelmingly liberal audience attending the Nebraska premiere, I felt more than anger or contempt for the church members. I felt sympathy. And don't think this is just because we live in the neighboring state. Author Frank says, “I think the movie is fantastic. I'm very happy with it.” Of social conservatives the film portrays, he adds, “I disagree with their politics, but I liked them as people.”

After decades of culture wars, to evoke this kind of response among liberals is quite an accomplishment.

To do it, Winston had to interview more than a hundred possible subjects and then earn the trust of the best of them, and shoot 165 hours of footage over three years. Two editors then spent a year crafting the film.

The result is a documentary that everyone who has ever had a visceral reaction to Pat Robertson ought to see. Not because it will rehabilitate Rev. Pat in any way. If anything, viewers come away a deeper understanding of how right-wing scoundrels use religion to manipulate true believers.

No, the reason to see the film is for an opportunity to connect with the humanity that lies within the bosoms of those whose politics we fear and loathe. These are people who, however misguided, self-deluding, and dangerous they may be, have authentic fears, real challenges, and the same desires for community, continuity, and a decent future that we do. Their vision of such a future is radically different, but their (pardon the expression) fundamental impulses are the same.

That they insulate themselves in the bubble-wrap of Bible myth — as reinterpreted by the religious right — is scary and deplorable. That they despise and distrust liberals is beyond doubt. That they are ultimately self-defeating becomes all too evident in this moving documentary.

Of course, in self-defeat they may sink the rest of society. I'm by no means suggesting that we rest for a moment in the daily work of rebutting the lies of the right-wing propaganda machine, defending civil liberties, and voting to keep reality-based candidates in office. To recognize and embrace our commonality does not make the conflict go away. But, short of war, it is the only way we can hope for resolution. It is, as Joe Winston remarked, a labor of love.

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It’s safe to assume that there’s no Web user out there that hasn’t experienced auto-complete. Whether on Google site search and toolbars, Facebook search, or on ecommerce sites like Amazon, auto-complete has become a de-facto usability feature. Its ubiquity means that there’s a very shallow learning curve for users to get accustomed to it when used outside of the browser setting, and that’s exactly what eType is banking on with its auto-complete-as-you-type product.

We have 1000 exclusive invites for TechCrunch readers! Get them while they’re hot, here.

Now before you cubbyhole eType as a utility strictly for non-English speakers, here’s an anecdote that may change your mind: There’s an Israeli company called WhiteSmoke, which developed software that enriches written English. The product was originally developed to assist non-native English speakers boost the quality of their writing in emails and such. Lo-and-behold, WhiteSmoke discovered that their main customers were actually native English speakers that bought the software to polish their writing. And they’ve been buying it in droves, for around $100 a pop.

The point I’m making is that native English speakers are very much part of the target audience for eType, and may easily constitute the majority of its userbase.

eType is completely free and a breeze to use. All you have to do is, well, um, type. By default, eType starts auto-completing words on the third letter, but this can be changed up or down. Word suggestions are based on machine-learning and offer the most probable suggestions, based on what the user is typing out. For example, eType is able to take into consideration that the word ‘running’ can have multiple contexts such as ‘running for office’, and ‘running a marathon’.

One thing to remember about eType is that it’s executable client software, as opposed to a browser plugin. The major benefit is that it allows eType to be used across any application, from word-processors, to browsers, to email clients. The major downside however, is that eType currently only supports Windows XP and above. I’m told touch interface support (iPhone/iPad, etc.) availability is expected by year’s end.

While eType can be used across any application, users can opt to disable it on applications of their choice. For example, some users may want to disable it on their IM application.

eType comes with English, Spanish, German French and Hebrew dictionaries. It also offers word translations to and from English to these languages. Definitions are pulled from Wiktionary and there’s even an English thesaurus built right in. New words can be added simply by typing them out naturally. These are added to users’ own personal dictionaries, but are also sent back to eType for review and possible inclusion in the universal dictionaries.

The founder of eType is Israeli serial entrepreneur Daniel Scalosub. He is known for founding DSNR, a web marketing company, along with a couple of sister companies in the same field. This means that eType has significant marketing muscle behind it. Today, eType is where Scalosub focuses his energy.

Taegan D. Goddard is the founder of Political Wire, one of the earliest and most influential political web sites.

Goddard spent more than a decade as managing director and chief operating officer of a prominent investment firm in New York City. Previously, he was a policy adviser to a U.S. Senator and Governor.

Goddard is also co-author of You
Won – Now What? (Scribner, 1998), a political
management book hailed by prominent journalists and politicians from
both parties. In addition, Goddard's essays on politics and public
policy have appeared in dozens of newspapers across the country,
including the Washington Post, USA Today, Boston Globe, San Francisco
Chronicle, Chicago Tribune, Philadelphia Inquirer and Christian Science
Monitor.

Goddard earned degrees from Vassar College and Harvard University. He lives in New York with his wife and three sons.

PRAISE FOR POLITICAL WIRE

“There are a lot of blogs and news sites claiming to understand
politics, but only a few actually do. Political Wire is one of them.”

– Chuck Todd, NBC News political director

“Concise. Relevant. To the point. Political Wire is the first site I check when I’m looking for the latest political nugget. That pretty much says it all.”

– Stuart Rothenberg, editor of the Rothenberg Political Report

“Political Wire is one of only four or five sites that I check every
day and sometimes several times a day, for the latest political news
and developments.”

– Charlie Cook, editor of the Cook Political Report

“The big news, delicious tidbits, pearls of wisdom — nicely packaged, constantly updated… What political junkie could ask for more?”

– Larry Sabato, Center for Politics, University of Virginia

“If I were on the proverbial
desert island and had only one web site to access, Political Wire would
be it.”

– Dotty Lynch, CBS News political consultant

“Taegan Goddard has a knack for digging out political gems that too
often get passed over by the mainstream press, and for delivering the
latest electoral developments in a sharp, no frills style that makes
his Political Wire an addictive blog habit you don't want to kick.”

– Arianna Huffington, founder of The Huffington Post

“Political Wire is one of the absolute must-read sites in the blogosphere.”

– Glenn Reynolds, founder of Instapundit

“I love Political Wire. It is a one stop shopping site for all the political information I need. It makes me sound brilliant so naturally I like it!”

– Dick Morris, political consultant

“I rely on Taegan Goddard's Political Wire for straight, fair political news, he gets right to the point. It's an eagerly anticipated part of my news reading.”

– Craig Newmark, founder of Craigslist.

Image Credit: Vince Bucci/FoxHey, Paula. Paula, Paula, Paula. Last night, during your goodbye speech to Simon Cowell, you showed the world why season 9 of American Idol has been so lacking. Why the series this season hasn’t boasted the same spark and awe of years past. Simply, it’s because your mere absence has sucked the joy out of the entire show.

And if you think I’m joking, you’d be wrong. I have been yearning for Paula’s infectious presence all season long — Idol is not Idol without a good dose of battiness. So what better way to celebrate her appearance on the show last night than to revive The Poetry of Paula Abdul one last time? After the jump, read Paula’s final Idol-centric poetic masterpiece, which she performed on last night’s finale. Really, it’s like reading Walt Whitman reincarnated!

That’s So Paula.
(Alt. Title: Where’s the Hook, Please?*)

Simon, I’ll get to you
in a minute.
Thank you everyone. Thank you so much.
It’s fantastic being here tonight.
I really miss everyone. Hello judges!
Randy.
You look charming tonight. It’s great seeing you.
Hi Ellen.
I love you.
Wanna dance?
Kara, you look beautiful tonight.
Where’s Ryan?
Ryan,
wherever you are? You’re so –
you’re so cute, and I want my lip gloss
back!
And Simon.
That’s all I’ve got.
Goodnight, everybody.
Okay. Who are we
kidding?
Let’s face it: The only reason they wanted me back here
tonight
was so I could tell all of you the
real reason
why I left.
But I don’t think that’s what
tonight
is all about, is it?
Although
I will tell you this:
There’s a baby backstage with Simon’s haircut, and
sweetheart,
it’s your turn to feed him.
Look
Simon,
my darling
Simon,
I’ve worked with a lot of people over the years.
Hot cheerleaders,
big movie stars,
world-famous recording artists.
Even a
cartoon cat.
But if I’m being truly honest,
none of them holds
a candle
to you,
my friend.
Our relationship on the show,
and I call it a partnership, really,
Simon,
I do call it a partnership,
even though I know you’d like think of it as more of a
teacher-student thing,
right?
No,
it’s a partnership.
But it’s brought me
immeasurable joy.
I’ve loved all
the fun
we’ve had together.
I’ve loved all
the laughter
we’ve shared together.
No,
American Idol is not going to be
the same
without you.
But as only I can tell you,
it will
go
on.

*Alternate title created by Michael Slezak. I, for one, would never give Paula the hook — especially if it meant I didn’t have to listen to Lacey Brown butcher “Beautiful.”

It's One Big Happy Family season here at This Writer's Life. In celebration of the book's paperback release I have asked a number of the writers from “One Big Happy Family: 18 Writers Talk About Open Adoption, Mixed Marriage, Polyamory, Househusbandry, Single Motherhood, and Other Realities of Truly Modern Love,” to reflect upon how things have changed (or remained the same) in their own lives since they wrote their essays over a year ago. Further, I've also asked various writers I admire to discuss their wild, messy, loving, non-traditional families as well. Below, Jen Deaderick talks about her happy family:

A Wonderful Surprise

by Jen Deaderick

After a quick glance at the pink line blazing on the stick I'd just peed on, I looked up at Rembs standing in the bathroom doorway and said, “We're having it and we're getting married.” He said “Okay” with a stunned look in his eyes that remained there for the next three days.

We had been thinking of getting married for a while, but in a theorectical, “wouldn't it be nice” way. The cells rapidly dividing in my abdomen made the the plans urgent and tangible. We had meant to be careful, but realized only in retrospect that a bout of food poisoning originating in a Roy Rogers Fixins Bar had rendered my birth control pills ineffective. Tradition was on my side: I was third in a line of loose women, tramps, whores, trollops, bad girls.

Mom was the first in her family to go to college. When she moved into the city, her mother called every day, weeping. She grew her dark hair long and straight, smoked Galloises in beatnik cafes, wore all black and teetered around in stillettos. At parties, she and her friends listened to Edith Piaf, je ne regrette rien.

She met Dad working on a staged reading. He'd been brought in to play a part because he looked like Jon Voight. She was the stage manager. He began flirting with her immediately, and her first words to him were “Shut up and put on your costume.” His flirting prevailed, and she was knocked up a few months later. They quickly arranged a wedding, only telling their parents that they “had to” after the fact. When my mother's mother was told, she refused to send out the prepared wedding announcements, worried that people would count the months. Dad's mother yelled at him, told him he'd been trapped into marriage. He walked out of the house, and my aunt reports that my grandmother cried in the pantry, sure she chased my father away for good.

Mom had a miscarriage. She was devastated, but the families said it was for the best. Now no one would know. My parents went on to have me, and my brother, then split.

My mother was adopted as a baby. In her forties, she enlisted spies to find her original birth certificate and discovered that her birth mother, Catherine, had been born in Ireland. Catherine was the first in her family to go to America, and four years after arriving in Boston she was pregnant, having come to an end that was likely predicted for her. In Ireland, she would have been sent to a Magdalen Laundry to do washing for the rest of her life in anonymity. In America, she had the freedom to hide the whole episode once she was done with it, to move on with her life as if unsoiled. She told no one of the daughter she'd given up, and went on to get married and have three more children, none of whom knew they had a half-sister living a few miles away. My mother, after further detective work, found Catherine's phone number and called, hoping to meet the woman who had carried her and passed on unknown traits and tendencies. Catherine hung up on her.

We have met other relatives, people in Ireland who didn't view Catherine as she'd feared they would. Catherine's other children know about my mom now, too, though they never got to talk to her about it. Catherine died only a few years after my mother first contacted her. One of my lovely cousins, who grew up in the house where Catherine was born, described to me his memories of her sitting in their kitchen on visits from America, her long legs crossed, glass of whiskey in her hand and funny as hell. In a picture my mother was given by the family, Catherine is standing on the farm with her family and a draft horse, before she left for America. She is laughing, head knocked back, standing on her toes, slightly out of focus. She looks like she's about to float up into the cloudy Irish sky and fly away.

We got married. By choice. We didn't have to, and we didn't have to bring our daughter into the world. We are obligated to take full responsibility for her presence on this planet, and we act accordingly. We are grateful that we got to think of her as a wonderful surprise. After we said our vows, and turned to face our friends and family as husband and wife for the first time, Rembs placed his hand on my hard, round belly, clearly outlined under my empire waisted gown. Then we clasped hands and walked down the aisle together, smiling.

Jen Deaderick was a movie reviewer for Neal Pollack's Offsprung.com, and spent years pacing New York City stages as a stand-up comedian. Currently, she is researching her family's relationship with Andrew Jackson. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband and their beautiful daughter.

On February 27, 2009, Tapey, a Kirti monk, set himself on fire after a religious ceremony was cancelled by the Chinese authorities at his monastery in Tibet. He survived but may still be imprisoned. His protest followed a year of crackdown after major protests by monks.

Just before he was detained, well-known Tibetan essayist and editor Shogdung had visited his family outside Xining in Qinghai province where he lives. While there, he went into the mountains to make a traditional Tibetan offering, throwing 'windhorses' – prayers printed on small scraps of paper – into the sky. It was a ritual that Shogdung, a 47-year old civil servant who works for the Qinghai Nationalities Publishing House, would previously have opposed, on the grounds that such traditions are ultimately damaging to Tibetan efforts at modernizing their culture.

But that was before March, 2008, and the 'Spring protests' against the Chinese government that swept across the entire Tibetan plateau, involving every sector of society, from nomads, farmers and businesspeople to schoolchildren, teachers, and artists.

Shogdung, whose views were previously seen by many Tibetans as being close to those of the Communist Party, came to believe that this upsurge in dissent and solidarity is a new awakening for the Tibetan people and a rediscovery of pride in their identity as Tibetans. His writings about the 'peaceful revolution' since March, 2008 are among the most far-reaching indictments of Chinese policy in Tibet for 50 years. They are also likely to have been the reason why Chinese security police descended on his office on April 23, seized his books and two computers, and took him to prison.

For the first time since the Cultural Revolution, writers, intellectuals, singers and artists in Tibet are being systematically targeted for their work, and almost every expression of Tibetan identity can be accused of being 'reactionary' or 'splittist'. A popular singer from Amdo (now Qinghai), Tashi Dhondup, is in a labor camp as a result of singing songs referring to Tibetans' grief at the killings in March, 2008. The founder of a Tibetan website promoting Tibetan culture, Kunchok Tsephel, was sentenced in November to 15 years in prison. Bloggers, artists and other intellectuals, including an artist who taught the Tibetan language to nomad children, have 'disappeared'. A Tibetan author who interviewed elders about their experiences in the 1950s has lost his mind after torture in detention.

Despite, and also because of, the severity of the clampdown since the protests began, dissent continues to be expressed, particularly through the written word. As Tibet's best-known writer and poet Woeser says, Tibetans are attempting to transcend the terror by writing about it. They are daring to refute China's official narrative, presenting a more complex challenge to the Communist Party than before.

Shogdung is one of a new generation of educated Tibetans at the forefront of a literary and cultural resurgence in Tibet. This new bicultural, bilingual generation is fluent in Chinese as well as Tibetan, and familiar with digital technology. Although less well-known outside than high-profile Chinese dissidents such as Liu Xiaobo and Hu Jia, Shogdung and other Tibetan writers and bloggers detained over the past two years are famous among Tibetans, and their concerns about repression and restrictions by the state mirror those of their Chinese counterparts. This is a development of immeasurable significance to Tibet's future – and as educated Chinese build new alliances with their Tibetan counterparts – to China's.

While loyalty to the Dalai Lama remains undiminished, often this new generation of Tibetan intellectuals is secular in background and politically moderate. Many support the Dalai Lama's 'Middle Way' approach for a genuine autonomy under Chinese sovereignty. In one collection of writings, Eastern Snow Mountain – banned as soon as it was published in Tibet in 2008 – essayists from Amdo in eastern Tibet demonstrate extensive knowledge of Chinese and Tibetan law and policy, and discuss the sufferings of ordinary Chinese people as well as their own struggles against the state.

Tashi Rabten, one of the editors of the magazine, a thoughtful, determined young student at Northwest Nationalities University in Lanzhou, was detained on April 7, his room ransacked, and his current whereabouts is unknown. In Eastern Snow Mountain, he writes that the essays were published “as a sketch of history written in the blood of a generation.” (English translation in A Great Mountain Burned by Fire: China's Crackdown in Tibet)

Since March 2008, the Chinese government has engaged in a systematic attempt to block news of the arrests, torture, disappearances and killings that have taken place across Tibet. As part of this rigorous approach, the Chinese authorities launched a campaign in Tibet not only against 'spreading rumors' – a term typically used to refer to dissenting views and sentiment in the PRC – but also against listening to them. One Tibetan woman, Norzin Wangmo, is serving a five-year sentence simply for talking about the situation in Tibet on the phone.

Beijing has also tightened control of the internet. In an announcement typical in its opacity, Chinese Foreign Ministry spokesperson Qin Gang said recently: “The Chinese Government manages the Internet according to the law. As for what you can and cannot watch, watch what you can watch, and don't watch what you cannot watch.”

In China, as one writer observed, there is a red line between what can be said and what cannot. But you do not know where the line is until you've crossed it.

Tibetan writer Shogdung, the most high-profile writer to be detained in the current crackdown, knew he had crossed the line when he published his book, The Line between Sky and Earth. That's why he went to visit his elderly father and to pray in the mountains. His family does not know where he is, and no one knows how long he will be held. But his book, published without an ISBN number, is now a word of mouth bestseller, circulating underground, his written words about the 'peaceful revolution' now reaching Tibetans in exile all well as across Tibet.

Details of more than 50 writers, artists and intellectuals who have been imprisoned, 'disappeared' or suffered harassment for their work at: http://http://www.savetibet.org/

High Peaks, Pure Earth: translations from Tibetan blogs and new writing http://highpeakspureearth.com

Like Gold that Fears no Fire: New Writing from Tibet http://www.savetibet.org/media-center/ict-news-reports/gold-fears-no-fire-new-writing-tibet