Once more, with feeling

My second article on Hothouse Magazine, on taking hardship and making art...

www.hothousemagazine.org/beauty-from-ashes/

Chatting with the Postmasters

I had the pleasure of speaking with Audrey and Lacy of The Postmasters Podcast about writing, running, and writers' workshops. Our conversation was a bit of a kick in my own pants to get back to my neglected novel. If you know me or read this blog, you know I've been in a state of transition lately. I'm so ready to dive back into my writing.

Subscribe to this podcast on iTunes, or check out their website. The episode featuring yours truly airs December 2. In the meantime, catch up on all the other episodes to date. You won't be disappointed!

30 what?

How do I feel about turning 30? I've always loved birthdays, and this one's no different. In fact, I had my big weird freak-out at 29 when I decided to run a marathon. Since I got that out of the way, I really loved turning 30. 

A few pieces to the puzzle of my life have come together in a way that leads me to be more optimistic about this decade:

writerly good news

Two bits of celebration:

By the end of June, I will begin a regular column in the Arts section of the Hothouse blog by Newfound Journal.

Last week I received an acceptance letter for the Hindman Settlement Appalachian Writers Workshop. Barbara Kingsolver is the keynote speaker this year and Holly Goddard Jones and Alex Taylor are the short story workshop instructors.

Yay!

Now back to the business of putting words on the page. Imagining, revising, editing, reading, thinking, putzing, re-imagining. And turning 30 on Sunday.

skyline

purview of the Boston AWP conference 

I love Boston. I love it even better in the snow. Socked in, hushed, humbled, warmer inside than out. Filled with 12,000 writers from all over the world. We took over the city, or at least our corner of it, leaking out of the convention center and dashing into restaurants and bars. Talking shop. Talking life. Talking horizons.

on words

Truth is elusive.

Truth avoids institutional control.

Truth tugs at conventional syntax.

Truth hovers at the edge of the visual field.

Truth is relational.

Truth lives in the library and on the subway.

Truth is not two-sided; it's many-sided.

Truth burrows in the body.

Truth flickers.

Truth comes on little cat's feet, and down back alleys.

Truth doesn't always test well.

Truth invites you back for another look.

From the Hebrew proverbs: "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver." 

In the book Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies, which I found at my sister-in-law's house and also contains the above list describing truth, Marilyn Chandler McEntyre says

A felicitous word choice is one that so precisely names an idea or experience that it produces for the reader or hearer a shock of recognition, a surprised "Yes! That's it!" and a gratifying sense of having put two interlocking pieces of a puzzling world perfectly in place.

My father-in-law loves to do jigsaw puzzles, it's his way to unwind. And when all of the siblings go back for a visit, he loves when we join him around the card table, the pieces splayed across a felt mat. One time he packed a puzzle in his suitcase when he visited our house, and we spent our spare time over the four days of his visit assembling a picture of Mickey Mouse, a mosaic of screen shots from Disney movies.

There's a rush of satisfaction almost like adrenaline when out of thousands of pieces I find the one that perfectly fits the shape and picture. It's the same with words. My friend, who just read Nabokov for the first time -- Lolita -- described one of the reasons she loved the book: the author's turns of phrase were both surprising and perfectly apt.

A word fitly spoken is truth.

I don't always do this well, and I know in these blog entries I rarely do it well. This kind of fitness takes time. Lots of time. Fit words are a gift whenever and wherever they occur, a gift to both the one who hears or reads them and to the one through whom they pass. But they won't be found if we won't listen for them. They're just off to the side, near our blind spot. They're deft paws on dry asphalt.

There's a lot of noise today, a lot of words flying around our atmosphere, and most of them are cheap, unfit, flabby words. They're 25-piece children's puzzles. They're quick and easy. Easy to make, easy to digest. That's why good words require us to do the work, the work of taking time to listen.

I hope that today we all get a chance to hear and perhaps give a word fitly spoken, a true treasure.

What? I have a blog?

Oh, hi there.

Greetings from my dining room table, strewn with books, Letters in the Mail, drafts of short stories, and who knows what else. This is where I sit every morning and evening. To write.

On paper.
Or in a doc.

And to check the face book and to catch up on email and to follow the book world via Twitter, and sometimes to submit to lit mags.

And I frequently have a cat in my lap.

xoxo

memories asking to be written

"Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!"

- John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany

How important is memory for a writer? For an artist of any kind? Sometimes I feel like I have a horrible memory for details from the past - stories people told me or that I witnessed when young. Every once in a while, though, something pops up without seeming to be triggered by anything. Mostly during the monotonous, repetitive parts of proofreading.

And if I don't write it down, it's gone when I get home from work.

Like today during work I remembered I had a friend in elementary school whose last name was Fuchs. They pronounced it "fox," but that was probably so it was easier for Midwesterners to say. I remember the first time I saw someone raise their eyebrows at the name on a roster & stumble to pronounce it. I wondered why they looked embarrassed to try to say it. I knew the name didn't sound like it was spelled, but I didn't get what the big deal was about the way it looked.

What an odd burden for my elementary friend to bear - being from a conservative Christian family - to have to learn that you must always explain to people that no, your name does not sound like one of the most vulgar swear words in "worldly" vernacular. Did my friend even know what that word was, or what it meant?

I don't know if that makes a story, or at least one for me to write, but it raised the question of memory. How much do writers rely on those memories from childhood that come back almost asking to be written about? Do many writers use these as inspiration for stories, poems, or essays? I sometimes do - maybe even want to be more intentional about doing so.

Decatur Book Festival - Part II

Yesterday was a whirlwind, a full day that felt even busier and more inspiring than Saturday. I hopped from event to event while still making time to wander the exhibition booths again. I love the chance connections I made with people and the insights gained by paying attention to the writers on the stage and from simply people-watching. Both Saturday and yesterday I called my friend Mary to talk briefly, because last year, my first DBF, she came over from South Carolina and introduced me to the wonder that is the Decatur Book Festival. It was great to have a DBF-experienced friend along, and we discussed what we saw and what we learned. But this year she couldn't make it, and I realized I like the festival just as much when I go it alone. There may even be perks to going alone, even though I love company. Mary (who had been to DBF solo before) and I both agreed that as wonderful as a companion may be, there are just some ways in which having time to contemplate, people-watch, and let the fates guide you, without worrying about another person, is better. I'm very grateful for the time I got to spend in the wonderful city of Decatur at the largest independent book festival in the country.

• First of all, my still-recovering-from-a-cold body overslept and I had to rush out the door with the pbj sandwich lovingly made by my husband so I could get to my first session on time. I was a few minutes late, but they let me in anyway! The first event was at my beloved Eddie's Attic, "A Celebration of Short Fiction." The guest writers were Alix Ohlin, talking about her short story collection Signs and Wonders, and Adam Prince, author of The Beautiful Wishes of Ugly Men. Wyatt Williams moderated, guiding their conversation from the themes in their own work to what's different about writing a short story (and collecting them) and writing a novel. I wish I could write down everything they said, but here are a few snippets:

Alix: The short story is like a playground, it's a moment of crisis or intrigue or mystery in the characters' lives, and you can really stretch the techniques of fiction in a short story in ways you can't easily sustain in a novel.
Adam: You can dwell inside a novel--it's its own world. A short story is a moment. A short story is a form that because of size restrictions creates its own tension.
Alix: A book has a life of its own once it leaves the author's hands & is sent out into the public. The readers' interpretations, reactions, are separate from the author's control, aesthetic, etc. in working on the stories.
Adam: The stuff that surprises you [as you're writing] is often the best stuff.
Alix: Once the voice is right in a story, it's like "lift-off," the story achieves a feeling of buoyancy as you write. Often if the story is not coming along well, she'll work with different voices until she gets that lift-off.
Adam: Details in a story are there because of who the character is--the details are what the character will notice, not just what the author thinks would be interesting.
Alix: Personally, it's difficult to set a page-per-day goal for the daily writing life, but having a set time at the same time each day helps even when the writing's slim or shoddy some days. At least you're not sitting around saying you'll write "when the inspiration strikes."
Adam: On the days when the creative highs flag, get in there, and feel bitchy, and keep writing!

• Next I attended a seminar on "Portraying the Natural South through Photography and Writing," featuring Janisse Ray author, Wayne Morgan photographer, and Charles Seabrook author. "Humans have an innate love of trees, water, and grass. Artistic expression is one of the key ways to connect urban citizens with nature again." Mr. Seabrook grew up near the salt marshes along the coast of Georgia, which have been threatened by commercial activity, and now as a writer he's spent his life trying to "make the salt marsh sexy." He said if we feel strongly, passionately, about the ecological subject we write about or photograph, that love will come through to the reader/viewer. Wayne Morgan photographs remote stretches of the Satilla River, which he grew up fishing. He began taking pictures shortly after he was given a pacemaker at the age of 35 and realized he needed to do something for the river in the precious time he had left. Often finding trash along the river from hikers and fishers, he'd clean it up before taking photos, but recently he started taking pictures of the trash before cleaning it up, to show our impact on the natural places around us. Janisse Ray spoke about her role as both an artist and an activist. She said that more important than activism is action, doing something yourself and in your own community, above and beyond working to change or influence leaders & legislators, which is important too. She read a quote that said essentially, "Obligation comes out of relationship," and if art helps create and nurture a relationship between people and their natural surroundings, then they will naturally want to help take care of it.

• After that session, I wandered the booths and ran across a local small press I'd found online a while back, liked, then let it slip my mind. They're Universal Table / Wising Up Press, and they're based in Decatur. I talked to one of the co-founders, Charles Brockett, about how they find their writers and what kind of work they publish. He talked about their mission and outlook of fostering empathetic narrative conversations over sticky social issues, how they publish highly credentialed writers as well as first-time-published authors from all over the world. I bought a book of short stories from them, said goodbye, and proceeded to my next session on "The Importance of the Small Press," at the Old Courthouse, where I ran into Charles on the stairs. Turns out he and his wife/co-founder Heather Tosteson were on the panel along with Bill Boling of Fall Line Press, and Bruce Covey of Coconut Poetry. They talked about how small presses can foster community, find niche audiences more effectively, and reinvent the distribution of literature. To these small press mavericks, it's about passion rather than economics. As Mr. Boling humorously put it, "We're not the Dippin Dots of the book world," but I really appreciate the hard work they do for little or no payoff, all to champion great writing and art.

From L-R: moderator Jared Dawson, Bill Boling, Heather Tosteson, Charles Brockett, and Bruce Covey

• Gail Tsukiyama was next, talking about her novel A Hundred Flowers. Hearing her was a delight since she spoke a lot about her writing process and challenges. Echoing Alix Ohlin earlier in the day, Gail said that finding the right voice in a novel is crucial to getting the story right. For A Hundred Flowers, she rewrote the first 100 pages four times and couldn't get it right. She finally found the right voice and the novel took off. This idea of finding the right voice for the story or novel is something I admit I haven't consciously considered as I'm drafting. When I get stuck, I tend to try to plow through, hoping a breakthrough will come, but now I'm going to try playing with the voice. Maybe switch from third person to first (or vice-versa), maybe switch the main voice from one character to another, maybe give the writing a lighter tone or a more sarcastic tone. Play is the key idea. Gail said, "If you think you're going to write anything, it never turns out that way." She often discovers what she's writing as she goes along, in a two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of way, going back to revise the previous day's work, then carrying on from there. She advised writers to write what you feel over what you know. She has written several historical novels set in the China and Japan of her parents' ancestries, as a way for her to understand where she came from. "Every book is written for a reason," she said when someone asked her which of her novels is her favorite. "You write a book because you needed to learn something you could only learn in the writing of it."

• Finally, back at the Old Courthouse, I sat in on Austin Kleon's talk "Steal Like an Artist," based on his book of the same name. He read some from it, talked about originality and creativity, and took lots of questions from the audience--even though he was almost hoarse from a bad cold he was still getting over. Cheers Austin! Here are a few highlights from his talk: Embrace influence instead of running away from it. We can trace the genealogy of our ideas--what we make is a mash-up of our influences. Climb the family tree of your influences by picking one writer or thinker you love, studying everything of theirs, then study their top influences likewise. It's in the act of doing things and making things that we find out who we are. In imitating and failing to perfectly imitate our heroes, we find our unique voice. You have to start doing the work you want to be doing.

I highly recommend finding a book festival in your area and attending. They're usually free, and I didn't go the first year I found out about it because I was afraid to go alone, but they're usually filled with kind bookish people and kindred spirits. Nothing to lose! If there's not a book festival in your area, consider starting one. You don't have to be anybody special to start a book festival, just start talking to people in your area. Contact libraries, independent bookstores, writers clubs and get the conversation going. Google "how to start a book festival" and see what you can learn.

As I walked to my car yesterday evening, I passed the exhibitors taking down their booths, white tents flapping vacantly in the early stirrings of a thunderstorm. Their signs were gone, their tables were empty or emptying. In my waking hours this morning, I imagined the grounds of the festival as a kind of castle, an enchanted domain that appeared magically this weekend and has disappeared until this time next year. As I said Saturday, the fates guided me throughout the weekend, and the fates were very good to me. Thank you, Decatur Book Festival!

Decatur Book Festival - Part I

My journey began last night with hastily scribbled directions to Downtown Decatur in my little green notebook and a printout of events, many of which I traced with my Sharpie highlighter.

Fast forward to this morning, when I showed up at 10:20, halfway through the first event I picked and they turned me away at the door: "No more, too full, too late." Tardy as I always am, I kind of expected that. I smiled and said that's okay, because to me, it is. There's a certain amount of letting the fates guide me at things like this.

Rather than having a jam-packed schedule, I'm okay with not making it to a couple things so I can wander the booths and get lost in the crowd, open to whatever I might find (or finds me).

This is the AJC Decatur Book Festival, the largest independent book festival in the country.

• After wandering the booths and sweating it up for thirty minutes, I found the library (air-conditioned, thank you!), where Margot Livesey would be reading from The Flight of Gemma Hardy and answering questions. For those who don't know, Gemma's story is Livesey's homage to Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. Livesey joked that if you'd told her five years ago she'd be writing back to Charlotte Bronte, as it were, she'd have laughed it off. But once the idea came to her, she knew her first challenge would be two-fold: how not to irritate those fond of the original, and how not to exclude those unfamiliar with the story. She met the challenge by paralleling the structure, the situation, and the characters in the first chapter, and then in subsequent chapters allowing Gemma to become her own person in a way different from the character of Jane Eyre. In a way a young Scottish girl of the 1960s would have differed from a young north England girl in the early 1800s. Livesey also said, notably, that once she decided on the novel, she never looked at Jane Eyre or read about the Bronte's until she was done.  

• On the way out from Ms. Livesey's reading and q&a, I ran into the girl (young lady?) (female about my age) who'd eloquently introduced her, Laura, who mentioned she was with Vouched Books. I introduced myself, we talked a little, and she told me which booth to find her at. After lunch, and another missed session because I just couldn't eat my Thai food that fast, I headed toward my next event and finally located the booth Laura was stationed at. We started talking and it turned out that besides a love of books and small presses, we both graduated from colleges within a half-hour of each other in rural Indiana, and we both have connections to my hometown, Champaign-Urbana. I wanted to support Vouched and the work they do to support small presses and emerging authors, so I asked her to recommend a book of poetry. -THIS- is what I love about people who are in the book business because they are passionate about literature: she was a font of intimate knowledge of each of the books on her table. She'd read them all, and even turned to specific poems, read one to me from one book, and pointed me to specific poems in other books. She seemed to apologize a little for being too sale-sy (my word, not hers), but what I saw was a careful reader and raving fan of the books she was selling. I can smell a pushy sales-person a mile away (they hover around the book festival, too), but Laura, my friend, you are not one of those.

• After buying The Trees The Trees by Heather Christle, I said goodbye to Laura and headed to the Local Prose stage, which is a prosaic name for where local readers and writers get to hear, question, and mix-and-mingle with fellow Atlantans who've had novels published. First was Kimberly Brock, author of The River Witch. Unfortunately, I came in late so I heard the end of her q&a session, but she spoke about setting the book in the deep south, on an island off the coast of Georgia, and how she decided to stick with the title despite the risk it might sound like the kind of book it's not (i.e. paranormal romance-ish, anyone? Thankfully, not The River Witch). Next came an author by the name of Zoe Fishman, who shared from her most recent novel Saving Ruth. In her introductions and the discussion that followed, I found myself relating to Ms. Fishman. She always wanted to be a writer, but felt she lacked the drive to actually write that first novel, so she signed up for a marathon & trained for several months. Once she crossed the finish line at 26.2 miles she knew, if she could complete a marathon, she could commit to writing a novel. Sound familiar? I know in the back of my head, I'm thinking the same thing: if I can run a marathon, I can write a novel. If Zoe can do those things and felt the same way I do, like I just don't have enough drive, then maybe I can run a marathon and finish a novel!

There's something about meeting those local authors that jazzed me up, like here we all are, in Georgia, not New York, and we're all writing, and it happened to them, and with hard work and consistency it could happen to me, too.

• To round out my evening in Decatur, I set my course for Eddie's Attic, to hear "A Room of One's Own," a three-course meal of live story-telling around that theme, based on Virginia Woolf's essay. If you've ever listened to The Moth, it's kind of like that. Only Atlanta has some of their own versions, one of which is Carapace. Today the three raconteurs told "true personal stories about men, women, and the making of art." Their stories were funny, poignant, told without notes, and above all, inspiring. 

I wish I could include everything from today (technically yesterday, now), but I'm tired and I want to get well-rested for Decatur Book Festival - Part II. Come back in approximately 24 hours to catch the highlights of what me and my little green notebook find tomorrow (or what finds us!).

thoughts on time and perspective

Write even a little bit, every day.

There. Done.

Only kind of kidding. There's been a lot going on. Last week I went on a writing retreat at a lake house belonging to a friend of a friend, which I wanted to write about sooner. I'm appreciative for how much I got done, and the chance to be quiet and not have to worry about going on to the next obligation. But I was surprised at how sort of paralyzed I felt by having all. that. time. Occasionally I actually wished there was something else I had to do. I think I got used to the time on the second day; I didn't feel so stifled by it. But it was odd to feel like the one thing I wanted more of... time... felt like such a burden at first.

On the morning of the last day I found out about the Colorado theater shootings and about the direct connection my husband's family has, and the weekend and this week so far have been full of helping make plans, getting ready, phone conversations, prayers. I didn't want to write about my retreat in the early days of that tragedy. Even though I'm not personally feeling the impact of grief, I love those who are, and I've lost patience with most anything that strikes me as petty. Andrew and I were talking about this yesterday, how things I would probably normally let slide provoke me to frustration and the urge to say something to bring perspective. Which feels like a different kind of burden. A meaningful one.

sometimes it's easier to train for a marathon than to write

OK, I'm going public. I'm in the third week of a marathon training program.

True, the most I've ever done is a 5K, and I've only been running off and on for three years. But I like to set my goals high.

Before this my motivation to run was non-committal. I'd take weeks off, then have a good first run back, but if I ran again within a few days, I'd struggle through it. So I'd take another week off or more. I mean, it's no secret that to improve or at least stay steady in running you have to be consistent. So now I have a training program that emails me the morning of, letting me know if it's a rest day, a run day (and what kind of run), or a cross-training day. Three days a week I'm up early, trying to get in a run before the sun makes it over the trees and houses to mock my attempts.

Big surprise last week when I ran for an hour straight for the first time  —  and felt great! I kept my pace really slow so I wouldn't die. But still. Each time I've run, I've been rewarded with the feeling of having improved, gotten stronger, been more disciplined. As opposed to the times when I ran sporadically: when at best I got some much needed exercise, but I'd be sore the next day, not to mention feeling headachy and queasy during the run. Being consistent makes a big difference.

Come November, I still might not be a great marathoner. But one day I will be able to say I ran a marathon. Maybe I'll run more than one, and each time I'll get better.

Can you smell the parallel to writing yet?

writers write

I was on a good streak there for a while. I can't even remember when that was, but I remember getting up early (I'm a night person!) every day to write, then going to work, then coming home to write some more before dinner. I started a novel. 


Then we had to travel and we had visitors, with only a normal week or two in between, and I got thrown off my schedule. I've tried to get back into writing by starting a short story, then that got off track so I started another one before I was interrupted again. 


I don't know if my problem is too little free time or too much free time. I have a regular part-time job, but I do freelance and volunteer stuff on the side. I'm a really bad judge of time, meaning I have no idea how long it takes me to do things (bad for time management). I feel like I have a lot of free time, but somehow it disappears through an invisible sieve in the daylight hours.


I want to write, I need to work, and I want/need to exercise. I have cats and a husband who need attention and affection, I have housework and yardwork to help with, and I have friends and a community that I want to be somewhat involved in. When I was in college (undergraduate), I was the busiest I've ever been, but I was also the most productive. That's a theme I've heard from many people lately. When you get busy, you don't take free time for granted.

It's like a mantra. If I'm not writing, I'm not a writer. Rather than a heaping-on of guilt (I don't think I'm truly too busy to write), this is proper motivation. I went to a concert at Eddie's Attic last weekend and one of the bands pointed out a writer in the audience to thank her for her review of their music in Paste magazine. For some reason, that woke me up. She's actually writing something that gets out into the world and makes a difference to people. She sat right behind me and I could see she had out a notebook. She is a writer because she writes.


Being a writer is something that has to define my 24-hour-a-day existence. I want to always be ready to write--to always be listening and paying attention--to always have the story I'm working on in the back of my mind. It's like what Brother Lawrence wrote in a classic on Christian discipleship The Practice of the Presence of God. He was a medieval monk who learned to pray constantly, even outside of the designated "prayer time". Prayer was first on his mind when he woke, last before he went to bed, and throughout the day's work he intentionally returned in his mind to tranquil prayer and to focusing on Christ.


I want to be constantly mindful of viewing the world and thinking always as a writer. To turn my mind to my writing throughout the day. While I'm proofreading, while I'm tutoring, while I'm running errands, while I'm cooking or vacuuming or mowing the lawn. To observe and listen and write things down when I think of them. I'm a writer when I wake up, before I go to bed, and constantly in between. But that means I'm writing as often and as much as possible. Not being too critical of my first drafts! Constantly exercising the muscle of putting experiences into language that is uniquely filtered through me.

Why I blog (or don't)... and an Honorable Mention

I'll never be a star blogger. I'm not trying to create a platform. I'm not out to drum up as many "followers" as possible. I admire those people who can blog every day (or just regularly) out of the overflow of their hearts. But I don't want to try to be like them because I'm afraid I'll end up blogging out of duty rather than for art. In the past, I've blogged when I really didn't have anything to say. Or I've not blogged because I felt I didn't have any interesting thoughts.

Sometimes I have too much going on in my head to blog. I'm a fictionist. Up to a point, when I'm working on a new project, if I write anything else, or even talk about what I'm working on, I'll lose the spark. The new stuff starts to feel flat and old. Maybe this is especially true for fiction writers, I don't know. I just know that I can't plan or talk or write about anything else until I reach a point of being at home in the new work.

The writing needs to come out of a heads-down, eyes-&-heart-open kind of focus, kind of paying attention throughout the day to every serendipitous moment. Choosing not to get distracted. 

Well, I'll get distracted this once...

Last night I got an email from the editors at Glimmer Train that my story "The Rust Red Feather" made it into the top 5% of stories in their February short story contest for new writers. http://bit.ly/12FebSSAhonorablementions

Though this doesn't mean I'm published, this kind of recognition from a journal like Glimmer Train bolsters my legitimacy when I submit this story and others elsewhere (not to mention my confidence as I continue to write!). 

I wrote "The Rust Red Feather" from a place of such surrendered focus, and I'm extremely grateful for the response it's gotten so far. This is just another reminder to keep my priorities in order. To keep my eyes and heart open and choose not to get distracted. To me, the rewards of such discipline, even if I remain in relative obscurity, far outweigh garnering a huge blog following! But thank you to those of you who do read my blog, for sharing this moment of celebration with me. I love you all!

P.S. Here's to the top 25 & the three winners of the contest! I'm doubly intrigued by a short story that made the top 25 called "Diatomaceous Earth" by a writer named (coincidentally) Sara Schaff. I'll be watching for it to be published!

Taylor University interview

The English department at my alma mater, Taylor University, posted this interview of me on their blog:

http://english.taylor.edu/?p=120

Thanks to Dan Bowman (danielbowmanjr.com), creative writing professor, for a great interview!

And congratulations are in order on the nomination of Dan's poetry book A Plum Tree in Leatherstocking Country for the Great Lakes Colleges Association New Writers Award.


Happy Monday!

That thing you do: using action to show feeling

A couple days ago, I wrote about reading to learn and mentioned one way my writing needs to improve: 

"One of my tendencies in fiction is to summarize action in analytic, explanatory terms rather than using concrete, sensory details and in-the-moment action to let the reader jump into the story themselves."

And today I came across this in The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. All you need to know is Portia is Doctor Copeland's grown daughter, William his son. Doctor Copeland, an enlightened, philosophical man, had high ideals but ended up alienating his four children with his intense hopes and expectations. Now that the children are adults, Portia is the only one who visits her father on occasion, and he clearly misses having a relationship with all of them. She is about to leave from one such visit while her husband (Highboy) and William wait outside Doctor Copeland's house.

"Wait a minute," said Doctor Copeland. "I have only seen your husband with you about two times and I believe we have never really met each other. And it has been three years since William has visited his father. Why not tell them to drop in for a little while?" 

Portia stood in the doorway, fingering her hair and her earrings. 

"Last time Willie come in here you hurted his feelings. You see you don't understand just how---" 

"Very well," said Doctor Copeland. "It was only a suggestion." 

"Wait," said Portia. "I going to call them. I going to invite them in right now." 

Doctor Copeland lighted a cigarette and walked up and down the room. He could not straighten his glasses to just the right position and his fingers kept trembling. From the front yard there was the sound of low voices. Then heavy footsteps were in the hall and Portia, William, and Highboy entered the kitchen.

I love how those two sentences I italicized show Doctor Copeland's feelings without using any analytical phrases, or even adjectives (other than "right position"). In fact, as a test, I read just those two sentences, with no background information, to my husband and asked him what he thought Doctor Copeland was feeling. "Stress, fear, nervousness?" Exactly!


A student writer (myself) would have written something like "Doctor Copeland paced nervously..." And that he fidgeted with his glasses. But those two sentences Carson McCullers wrote describe just the right actions to show nervous pacing and the kind of obsession with tiny details we do unconsciously when we're nervous. 


Plus, the actions carry a secondary meaning, a deeper weight. The Dr. didn't just fidget with his glasses--he couldn't "straighten his glasses to just the right position." That detail implies failure, the sense he had of really trying to do something right but never succeeding. He couldn't "straighten" his kids out either, nor could he seem to repair the damage once he'd done it. 


I love it!

read to learn and read to see

I've been working toward this idea that might turn out to be a novel. I'm not sure yet. I haven't actually written anything except scene notes and characters' names and ages. I'm still trying to let the big picture work itself out in my head. Dreamstorming (instead of brainstorming). I'm trying this based on advice from Robert Olen Butler's book From Where You Dream. I recommend it.

I've been on a reading kick the last couple weeks, too. The Illumination, Train Dreams, now Carson McCullers' The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. Next I want to read Eudora Welty's Delta Wedding. Trying to study how characters come alive on the page, and how voice and action bring that about.

One of my tendencies in fiction is to summarize action in analytic, explanatory terms rather than using concrete, sensory details and in-the-moment action to let the reader jump into the story themselves. I'm too much "in my head," as ROB would say. Which breaks the fictional dream for the reader and puts them in their head too, rather than in the fictional world of senses and feelings. One of my other problems is writing stories where the characters aren't really longing for anything. Or what they long for is a tired, easy version of a deeper, more nuanced longing. So as I read, I'm also paying attention to what the characters lack, what they yearn for, what drives them and makes me feel with them.

The novels I've been reading lately all happen to share a strong affinity to place--especially Train Dreams and The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. And Swamplandia! before that (another of my recent favorites). This story in my head also happens in very specific places, places that affect and change the characters. So I'm alert to how the environment matters in these novels I'm reading.

Mostly, though, I've been reading for the aesthetic pleasure of it. I've been aware after-the-fact of not having read these books so much "in my head" as in my heart. But I'm still learning a lot about writing from them. When I was in the MFA program, I read primarily "in my head," which is valuable for learning how to learn from great writers. I had to write 8 craft annotations per semester, so I got a lot of practice reading in my head. But, again to paraphrase ROB, I can't learn to write without being in my head, until I read without being in my head. Maybe this is one of those "you have to follow the rules before you can break them" deals.

***

So, my work in progress. I stopped myself this morning with this thought: What am I doing, trying to write a novel? I've barely grasped the short story form. Besides, everybody says they have 4 or 5 crappy novels before they finally write the one that they're proud of, that gets published. Why all this work if it's just going to be one of my "drawer" novels?

But then this: Whatever I write next will be better than what I wrote last.

It may not be publishable, but it will be my truest work yet. Provided I keep tuned into the voices of the characters and the true, deep yearnings I hear in the world all around me. Provided I keep reading and keep learning how to see, hear, and communicate those yearnings most effectively.

hello darkness my old friend

It's confession time. I'm ashamed, but I'm going to tell my story anyway. It has to do with writing. I promise.

This is Tiger. He's our shy kitty; seven-and-a-half years old and we got him when he was 6 months old, a rescue from the Humane Society. As a kitten, we were told, he was trapped under a porch--his mama and siblings let themselves be rescued, but he was the runt and too scared to come out. And the longer he stayed under the porch, the more the old lady who lived there tried to shoo him out with a broom. And so whether constitutionally or because of the trauma, he's always been a little skittish. We adopted him at the same time as Molly, who'd already adopted Tiger as her baby in the foster home they shared.

Molly

Andrew and I knew we'd be a good forever home for Tiger because we're so patient and quiet and give him room and lend him affection on his own terms. In the six years we've had him, he's been our darling. Our "special cat." He loves to get on the back of the couch when we're reading or watching a movie and rub up against the backs of our heads. When we pet him he gets overexcited and won't sit still. He'll stand up and tuck his head to the ground between his front paws, like he's going to do a somersault. He doesn't like to be held or sit in our laps, but he loves to get petted. As long as there's an "out." And we never force him past his comfort zone.

***

Tiger has a bad cold. Or at least what we think is a cold. For the last five days he's been sneezing a lot and his nose runs and all he does is sleep and--delightfully--want to cuddle. (He sat in my lap Saturday for a whole hour while I read.) But we're concerned. He seems to have a hard time breathing. He snorts and wheezes. He doesn't seem to be improving, and while we've seen him nibble once or twice at the dry food, Sunday night he wouldn't even accept the wet food I set in front of him. He'd sniff it then turn his back and walk away. When he sat down I'd place his bowl beneath him again. And once again he'd sniff and walk away. [Repeat several times.] I worried that I hadn't seen him eat all day and I remembered hearing something like if cats don't eat in a 24- or 48- or 36-hour time period, they can do serious damage to their kidneys and even die. That's what the voice in my head said. I'm not even sure it's true.

Then I got the bright idea to try to force-feed him. We have a dropper/syringe thing specifically for water and liquid medicine, so I thought I'd try to get nutrition in him that way. I got a little wet food in the dropper, sequestered the two of us in my study, and picked him up and laid him upside down on my lap. Since he'd been so lax lately I thought I could get away with this.

He was okay at first, but as soon as the dropper came near his mouth, he flailed. Kicked my hands with his back claws. Ripped at my shirt and my pants with his front claws. I let him go, then tried again. Worse. I tried again. This time I didn't let go when he flailed. I held him tighter, even though my mind was telling me--this is making it worse! I let him go. I petted him a little, but only with a show of tenderness. I don't normally lose my temper--I'm an even-keeled person--but I wanted to shout "I'm doing this for your own good!"

I picked him up again and tried to restrain him, overpower him, keep him from clawing me up so I could get a little food down his throat. In a flurry of failed attempts, his feral-fear, and my feral-frustration, I wanted to yell and grab him and make him let me feed him. At one point, after I let him go to prevent him from tearing my hands to shreds with his back claws, I had to stifle the urge to throw something at him. I'm glad I resisted, but it felt like I was one variable away from doing serious harm. What was the variable? Food? Sleep? Would I have acted out if I knew Andrew wasn't in the next room?

I wanted so desperately for him to eat--"please, don't waste away!"--that I took my frustration out on him . . . as backwards as that logic is for any situation. I know I can't expect him to understand. I know I can't hold him responsible for the scratches he gave me. I know that the first time force-feeding didn't work I should have quit. But I forged ahead anyway, and when I finally let him out of the room, he headed straight for the bed and didn't come out from under it for two hours.

And I had time to consider the dark possibilities inside me. I hated myself for those 15 minutes of futile anger. I'm an animal lover. A vegan. A proponent of treating all living things with care and compassion. Who was this person with the fury and the desire to bear down on another creature to impose my will?

***

I make this part of myself public because I just read in From Where You Dream that true artists are those who acknowledge this nasty, chaotic nature, who allow their unconscious to go to those dark places, those white-hot centers, searching for the truths that can only be reached by acknowledging the whole spectrum of human experience. Chapter one of the book starts with a quote by Akira Kurosawa: "To be an artist means never to avert your eyes." And chapter two starts with this quote: "All good novelists have bad memories" -Graham Greene. These statements describe the artist more than they prescribe what someone who wants to be an artist should try to manufacture. But there is an element of intention in this way of seeing.

"Artists are intensely aware of the chaos implied by the moment-to-moment sensual experience of human beings on this planet. But they also, paradoxically, have an intuition that behind the chaos there is meaning; behind the flux of moment-to-moment experience there is a deep and abiding order. ... If the artist sees the chaos of experience and feels order behind it and creates objects to express that order, surely that is reassuring, right? Well, at some point maybe. But what do you have to do first? And why is it so hard? This is why--and this is why virtually all inexperienced writers end up in their heads instead of the unconscious: because the unconscious is scary as hell. It is hell for many of us. ... But this is the tough part: for those two hours a day when you write, you cannot flinch. You have to go down into that deepest, darkest, most roiling, white-hot place...whatever scared the hell out of you down there--and there's plenty--you have to go in there...and you can't flinch, can't walk away." *

We all--for survival--have learned to stuff, ignore, avoid, those places in our psyche. We want to believe we are smarter than they. We are kinder than they. We are better than they. But if I as a writer hold myself at arm's length (or further) from those real or imagined people who most need to be shown, and shown within, the meaning and the order behind the chaos, then I cannot empathize with them. I cannot reach them. I cannot love them. I cannot write about them.

I see now that I could write about a character who goes all the way--who abuses an animal. And I hope I wouldn't lose this simmering empathy, that I wouldn't be the judgmental, moralistic author. That I could see the humanity even in the inhumane.

*from From Where You Dream, by Robert Olen Butler, pp. 11, 18.

And the real work begins

I officially have my MFA in creative writing, but when people ask me how it feels to be a graduate I can only stammer something like "pretty much the same as when I was a student."

I'm back to work and back to trying to find a daily writing routine, or asking myself if I even need a routine. I don't fancy the idea of routine... but is that just my laziness? Is it my personality? Would I thrive under self-imposed routine? Or dry up?

Sitting at my desk this morning, catching up on writerly to-dos like figuring out which literary journals and magazines to subscribe to. (Glimmer Train, Tin House, or Ploughshares? Poets & Writers or The Writer? AWP or Writers Digest?) I've got to check the local library to see which ones they get.

I've been gone for 10 days and my cats are especially affectionate. Despite the show they put on of being aloof and un-needy.

I have homework from my wonderful advisor A.J., who apparently isn't done with me yet. I'm not complaining! And my list of books to read now includes The Accidental Tourist and Train Dreams, per her recommendations.

And I want to set tangible goals: like reading x number of books per month, writing x number of new stories, submitting x stories to x journals. Anyone else working on submissions, I recommend registering on Duotrope.com. They have a lively resource of journals and markets, well categorized, and make tracking deadlines and themed issues a breeze.

So there's where my mind is--a flurry of ideas and questions, trying to figure out life post-MFA.

weekend internettery

Throughout a typical week, I email myself a dozen links to articles, contests, literary magazines, online stores, and then I read or peruse them when I have free time. While I'm sure I'm not the only one to stockpile online reading material, and I'm sure no one sits around on their computer thinking "I wish I had something to read on the internet," I think I'll still share some of the most interesting links I found.

You may add these to your weekend reading list, if you're so inclined.

• First, an article from the Chronicle of Higher Education on what defines success post-MFA. If you know me, you can guess why this is the first on my list. People always ask me, "So, what are you going to do once you graduate?" I tell most people I'll probably do more of the same until something else comes along. Definitely hope to publish stories and a book, and then maybe teach. Unlike many graduate programs, the MFA doesn't feed directly into an academic job, as this article explains: 

"substantial publication is a prerequisite for a good teaching job in creative writing, and that almost always means a full-length book. Unlike young literature scholars, who need a book to keep the job they get, creative writers almost always need a book to get the job, plus another to win tenure." 

I'm not even sure I want an academic job. I think I'd like it, but as I like to say, the career options for a writer are endless.

• Second, this interview with Josh Weil on the Fiction Writers Review about that overlooked middle child: the novella. Again, if you know me, you know why I find this interesting. A big part of my work this semester was on a novella. I read Weil's The New Valley back in August, and the three novellas it contains still inspire me. I learned that the University of Miami holds a novella contest every year. Big Fiction Magazine and Nouvella both specifically publish and promote novellas. Will the novella finally get the attention it deserves?

• Next, a series of questions and answers on writing with Barbara Kingsolver. I love this:

I struggle with confidence, every time.  I’m never completely sure I can write another book.  Maybe my scope is too grand, my questions too hard, surely readers won’t want to follow me here.  A novel is like a cathedral, it knocks you down to size when you enter into it.  I falter and fidget and worry it won’t be good enough, and then the day comes when I give myself permission:  just write, I tell myself.  No one has to see it, you can throw everything away if it’s terrible, we’ll keep it a secret unless or until it becomes wonderful.  And then I get to work.

• Fun poster designs of fairy tales and children's stories from Square Inch Design.

• A couple of unique writing opportunities: The Masters Review, a journal featuring the fiction and non-fiction of students in masters and PhD programs; and Escape Into Life, which combines literary, visual, film, and music arts, is holding its first fiction (and non-fiction) contest. Read more about the guidelines for each. Both close to submissions on December 31.

Have a great weekend!