Alli Marshall's Blog, page 7

Asheville’s non-white literary scene

“In a lot of places in the United States, you can still get a degree in English literature and not have to study any people of color,” says poet, author and educator Frank X Walker.

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This postcard of a child with a book is from the The East Riverside Photographs Collection associated with the East Riverside urban redevelopment project of Asheville. Photo courtesy of Special Collections, UNC Asheville

“It’s part of the whole master narrative that displays the idea of a hierarchy in our society, that suggests whose work in this culture is more valuable. And it’s not women or people of color.”

I spent several months working on a three-part series about the history of black writers in Western North Carolina, and why the voices of those artists have been excluded from the dominant narrative.

Find Part 1 here (with quotes from Walker, UNC Asheville history professor Darin Waters and Asheville-based author Monica McDaniel); find Part 2 here (with quotes from authors Meta Commerse and Ann Woodford and poet Glenis Redmond); and find Part 3 here (with quotes from poets Nicole Townsend, James Love and Damion Bailey and author Charles Blount).

Why writers need community, Part 2

[image error]This is a myth we often buy into as writers: that it’s solitary work. The stereotype is romantic — the novelist or poet locked into a small room, hunched over a typewriter, pouring inspired verse onto a page. Genius happens in solitude. Friends can be found and parties attended after the writing is published. Whenever that happens.

I don’t buy it.

Sure, we all need periods of quiet and focus to get our work done. But if writing is such a solo endeavor, why do we writers often get so much done in a class or workshop or write-in or group? Company — the right kind of company — bolsters creativity because it energizes and inspired and reminds us that we’re not alone. Others know this path, others can relate to our struggles, others appreciate our efforts and we will not languish in obscurity because we’ve already arrived in community.

This will sound like a conspiracy theory, I know, but I suspect the solitary writer cliché is supported (if not invented) by the writing industry. The big, patriarchal business. That mechanization has convinced so many intelligent people that our fates lie in the hands of just five mainstream publishers — and scores of agents and editors who chose to represent (or, more likely, to not represent) our work based on whim and mood and how pinchy their shoes are, rather than what they know of us as fellow humans in a social or work circle.

Not that those agents, editors and publishers are bad people. They’re writers with writing dreams, too. But we don’t know them, so of course their decisions to represent and sign and publish us have to be based on gut and whim and what the market predicts (Vampire zombies! Dystopian teen romances on Neptune!) because those agents, editors and publishers aren’t in our circles.

We don’t have circles.

We’re in our rooms, alone, typing one-handed so we can cross the fingers on our other hand that this project — this one! — will find an audience.

Let’s stop that nonsense. We need each other. We need to think more like packs and less like lone wolves. When musicians have an idea for a project, they enlist fellow musicians to make it happen. When they’re ready to make an album, if no record label or studio is available, they record in a bedroom or basement or garage. If no booking agent is available to line up a show, they team up with fellow musicians to create a showcase or share a tour. If no publicist is available, they flier and spread the word through friends. Music happens in community and it leans on community beyond the making and performing of the song.

Writers need to do that.

This is what I believe about any literary community: It contains all the editors, publishers, publicists, cover art designers, graphic designers, organizers of shows, emcees, performers and audience members needed to support all of its writers. Community is magic: It expands to meet every need of those who make up its numbers. But the magic can only occur when we ask for it. More to the point, when we ask each other for it.

We have to ask. This is hard for writers — in part because many of us are introverts and in part because we’re well trained not to ask. Just to hope and follow rules and stay in our rooms with our fingers crossed. That’s ridiculous. We need to ask. A lot. We need to get good at stating our needs. We need to get good at stating our dreams. And then we need to dare to dream bigger and ask bigger and, in turn, be willing to answer the big asks of our fellow writers in full faith that by granting the dreams of one of us we are fulfilling the creative desires of all of us.

The Literary Circus Rides again!

Join us at the Asheville Fringe Arts Festival. The Literary Circus will stage two performances of Flying Clothes & Prose — two sets of spoken word pieces inspired by clothing, complete with costume changes and musical accompaniment by Nights Bright Colors.

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Photo by Vickie Burick

Filed under: creativity, poetry, Writing

Why writers need community, Part 1

It’s well established that writing is a solitary art form. It takes discipline and focus to forgo the social events and TV shows in order to slowly compose and polish a poem or short story or essay. And there are lots of books and blogs and, probably, TED Talks about how to make that happen. I mean, there’s an entire month — November — dedicated to writing a novel in 30 days.

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Beat writers at a cafe in New York City. Photo from Wikimedia Commons

But what’s equally important to the writer’s life — and this is less-often discussed — is community. I’ve spoken about this, recently, to creative writing students at my alma mater and a writing/marketing class, and was met both times blank stares and skepticism and protest. And I get it. We’re all too busy and meeting new people is weird and we’re comfortable with our own writing voice/style/process and don’t need outside input. Only, the thing is, we really do. Here’s why:

1. Like nearly all art forms, writing needs an audience. Our journals are our own, but our creative work has to, at some point, make the crossing from the private into the public. And when that happens — either through publication or a reading — the words magically change. Story, it turns out, is an amorphous thing capable of myriad interpretations. Putting the work out there not only informs our readers about who we are as artists, but informs ourselves about who we are as artists. And the endgame is actually about self-discovery. A book deal is how we get monetarily compensated. Finding an audience is how we grow as human people. Although it may not a popular opinion, I advocate for caring more about the latter than the former.

2. Other writers need an audience. Let’s show up for them. Every time we venture out to a book launch or open mic or reading, we learn something about the craft of writing. In fact, one of the best ways to study writing (beyond, you know, reading and practicing writing) is to go to author events, stay for the Q&A, and ask questions. Not only does that affirm the existence of the author who is sweating behind the podium, but it gives us valuable information. Ask about how he or she makes time to write, or deals with insecurity, or keeps a story going when inspiration has run thin. Ask how he or she got an agent or publisher, what was said in the successful query letter, what sort of mistakes he or she made and what literary advice they wished they’d received sooner. Ask anything: It’s all good information.

3. By being there for others, we build a base of writers who will be there for us. No matter how big our goals of fame may be, we first need to focus on our local community. Those are the people who will cheer us on at open mics, fund our Kickstarter campaigns, come to our book launches and BUY OUR BOOKS. So get to know them. Follow them on social media, go to their events, offer them words of encouragement. That whole golden rule thing: It’s legit.

4. And if such a community doesn’t exist, or if there isn’t a good fit for our writing genre, we should feel empowered to build the writing world we wish to live in. No flash fiction open mics? Start one. Can’t find a critique group? Invite someone. Just need some support, inspiration and encouragement? Host a networking meet-up where fellow writers of all genres can connect, commiserate and get out from behind their laptops for a glass of wine or cup of coffee. It all counts, and it’s all cumulative: The effort we put into building literary community and supporting the creative work of others will come back to us with compounded interest.

But don’t do it for the payback. Do it because building a writer’s life is its own reward. Some people say we should show up to our creative work like it’s our job. I say we should show up like it’s our joy. Our privilege, our turn on the dance floor, our truest expression of self — of which is worth sharing.

Why writers need community

It’s well established that writing is a solitary art form. It takes discipline and focus to forgo the social events and TV shows in order to slowly compose and polish a poem or short story or essay. And there are lots of books and blogs and, probably, TED Talks about how to make that happen. I mean, there’s an entire month — November — dedicated to writing a novel in 30 days.

[image error]

Beat writers at a cafe in New York City. Photo from Wikimedia Commons

But what’s equally important to the writer’s life — and this is less-often discussed — is community. I’ve spoken about this, recently, to creative writing students at my alma mater and a writing/marketing class, and was met both times blank stares and skepticism and protest. And I get it. We’re all too busy and meeting new people is weird and we’re comfortable with our own writing voice/style/process and don’t need outside input. Only, the thing is, we really do. Here’s why:

1. Like nearly all art forms, writing needs an audience. Our journals are our own, but our creative work has to, at some point, make the crossing from the private into the public. And when that happens — either through publication or a reading — the words magically change. Story, it turns out, is an amorphous thing capable of myriad interpretations. Putting the work out there not only informs our readers about who we are as artists, but informs ourselves about who we are as artists. And the endgame is actually about self-discovery. A book deal is how we get monetarily compensated. Finding an audience is how we grow as human people. Although it may not a popular opinion, I advocate for caring more about the latter than the former.

2. Other writers need an audience. Let’s show up for them. Every time we venture out to a book launch or open mic or reading, we learn something about the craft of writing. In fact, one of the best ways to study writing (beyond, you know, reading and practicing writing) is to go to author events, stay for the Q&A, and ask questions. Not only does that affirm the existence of the author who is sweating behind the podium, but it gives us valuable information. Ask about how he or she makes time to write, or deals with insecurity, or keeps a story going when inspiration has run thin. Ask how he or she got an agent or publisher, what was said in the successful query letter, what sort of mistakes he or she made and what literary advice they wished they’d received sooner. Ask anything: It’s all good information.

3. By being there for others, we build a base of writers who will be there for us. No matter how big our goals of fame may be, we first need to focus on our local community. Those are the people who will cheer us on at open mics, fund our Kickstarter campaigns, come to our book launches and BUY OUR BOOKS. So get to know them. Follow them on social media, go to their events, offer them words of encouragement. That whole golden rule thing: It’s legit.

4. And if such a community doesn’t exist, or if there isn’t a good fit for our writing genre, we should feel empowered to build the writing world we wish to live in. No flash fiction open mics? Start one. Can’t find a critique group? Invite someone. Just need some support, inspiration and encouragement? Host a networking meet-up where fellow writers of all genres can connect, commiserate and get out from behind their laptops for a glass of wine or cup of coffee. It all counts, and it’s all cumulative: The effort we put into building literary community and supporting the creative work of others will come back to us with compounded interest.

But don’t do it for the payback. Do it because building a writer’s life is its own reward. Some people say we should show up to our creative work like it’s our job. I say we should show up like it’s our joy. Our privilege, our turn on the dance floor, our truest expression of self — of which is worth sharing.

Filed under: creativity, essay, inspiration, Writing

Sponsor me during Mountain of Words

Now through Nov. 17, I’m participating in the fourth annual Mountain of Words, a Write-A-thon to support the work of Asheville Writers in the Schools and Community. I’ll be writing like a madwoman. You can help by sponsoring me.

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This organization changes lives through engaging children, teens and families with innovative writing and arts programs for those too often overlooked and unheard. Programming is centered in communities of color and provide learning and healing spaces where powerful voices can be shared and amplified to create a more just and equitable world.

Your donation will help to fund:

• an online magazine program for youth of color, who produce Word on the Street/La Voz de los Jovenes, a bilingual online arts and culture platform for youth.

• Family Voices, a family writing and arts program for schools and community programs.

• Artist mentor residencies in schools, afterschool, summer and community programs .

Click the link below to sponsor me for the amount you feel comfortable in giving. All donations are tax-deductible.

DONATE HERE

Want to send a check? Make it out to Asheville Writers in the Schools, mail to P.O. BOX 1508 Asheville, NC, 28802 and put my name in the memo line!

Filed under: creativity, equity, fundraiser, Writing

THE SHORTEST DAYS

Because I am so happy for you and the life you made

beautiful from the scraps of what we were given. What

we thought were scraps but maybe was our precious

inheritance. I can see it, the guy on Antiques Roadshow —

the blond twin — saying, “This is a national

treasure,” and opening a forged metal box of red maple

leaves, tart apples, snow sky, the calls of Canada geese

winging in formation. Getting the hell out of there. That place

couldn’t hold you. Not even stitched in with my love

for the you who you were then, before you knew yourself. The love

I never said out loud. Words bitter in our mouths, cheap

beer, shadows long over cornfields, squinting into the middle

distance for the thing that hadn’t arrived yet. Someone

who would get you — the you who you were becoming — someone

who would blanket you with understanding. My love for you

was cold comfort. Early frost, raw hands stuffed in pockets

instead of reaching out for your hands. Still, I leaned

toward you. The sunny window of you, the southern exposure,

the narrative arc of geese, the migratory patterns

of birds, of small-town escapees, of lost kids with treasure

maps folded so tight the creases mark new routes to

who knows where. To where we were headed, where someone

waited with warm knowing, with a smile like a Homecoming

bonfire. You put away the box of red leaves

and snow skies, maybe on a shelf for safe keeping. Maybe

you’ll come back to it to remember, sometime,

the pang of winter on the air, breath a frozen cloud, cold

hands deep in pockets, the you still shivering back there

but kindling a fire, too. Even then, even from the scraps

you were given. Forging yourself new, you beautiful queen.

(With thanks and love and apologies to Michael Nolan because I borrowed heavily from his photo caption for the inspiration and, frankly, the heart, of this poem.)

 

Filed under: inspiration, poetry, Writing

REGENERATION

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There’s a candy wrapper and an unused match

on the bathroom floor. A covert picnic,

abandoned. I’ve come here to press my face

against the cool white tile. Summer is ruthless

today in its death throes. Where hurricanes can’t

touch land, the earth quakes. Where the flood water

doesn’t rush in, the earth burns. How

should I reinvent myself in the this exodus

from one season into the next? This liminal space

where even the mirror is a blank uncertainty.

I travel with less baggage these days, casting

ballast off like sin. Even my bones

grow lighter. I should be densely built

for the long winter; I am the dry ligaments

of a skeletal wing. A thing of parchment,

exhalation, the cellular memory of flight.

Filed under: photos, poetry, Writing

Danger comes easy

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The best beer I ever drank was a Sol tallboy

from a styrofoam cooler in a neighborhood park

in Merida. It was Carnival in Mexico

but that particular block party could have been simply

someone’s birthday. Still, a teenage boy

sold me the can, ice cold, almost

frozen. There was a parade that day — floats

for hours blasting pop music. Drag queens

in tall wigs and short skirts threw kisses

like candy. You wouldn’t think there’d be

so many queens in Mexico, or maybe it’s no

surprise. And ordinary, too, how the police

watched the parade from military transport vehicles

wearing helmets and assault rifles like sashes. No cause

for alarm. An officer chatted up a clown. A boy

with white shoes and complicated hair

rolled his marquesita cart closer

to the crowd. We’re born innocent

and then the world seeps in, salt water stinging

our wounds. Danger comes like that, easy,

from unexpected sources. We never understand

how little we know until the next wave brings us

face to face with drag queens and rifles,

the Caribbean ocean, a hundred varieties

of bananas. We think we know about bananas;

suddenly what we thought was a banana

all that time was just subterfuge

and marketing and we either give up

or we set off in search of the truth. Cold beer,

strange beauty, narrow scrapes

in far-away places, road maps

to who knows where. Tonight I stood

for ten minutes watching fireflies rise

in an abandoned lot. Passersby slowed to see

what I was up to. I am an interloper now —

middle aged and soft, so therefore dangerous.

Ask me how my day was, ask me

what I think of anything. I’ve come this far

through the parade crowds and the invisible war,

through a thousand shades of Caribbean blue.

I’ve caught all the kisses my pockets

can hold. I will not holster

my words anymore.

Filed under: inspiration, memoir, poetry, travel, Writing

Music venues shouldn’t be white spaces. Not even accidentally.

What is the responsibility of venue bookers, music promoters, club owners, and festival organizers to create a platform for artists of color? It’s a tricky conversation to introduce, because there are so many issues — ticket sales, popularity, potential tokenism — but I think it’s more important to have the conversation than to be graceful about it.

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Photo by Jorge Salgado from this year’s Neon Desert Festival

So I’ll start here: Asheville, where I live, is a predominantly white town with a nationally recognized music scene and a high per-capita number of excellent concert halls and listening rooms. But peruse the lineup of at least three of the most popular venues in town and you’re lucky to find one person-of-color-led act in any given month. I recently browsed the calendar for one such music hall that lists no artists of color from September through December.

At that point, it starts to look like those in charge of booking are actively, if unconsciously, only extending an invitation to white performers.

In this Americana, old-time, folk and jam-heavy region, it’s possible to attend several festivals throughout the summer months that include just the slimmest minority of artists of color on their rosters. Attendees seem to be fine with this: Ticket sales don’t suffer. Again, I don’t think most music enthusiasts or festivalgoers are deliberately seeking white-only spaces, but they also don’t recognize that such an event is segregated and exclusive.

Here’s the thing: To many of us white folks, all-white spaces are the norm. That’s how systemic racism works: It refuses access to minority groups while creating a sense of normalcy for majority groups so those who are allowed in never question why others are kept out. And after centuries of this behavior, we white folks have come to accept as status quo a landscape that is anything but equitable or authentic or just.

I’m talking about concerts, but I’m really talking about social justice, because one cannot be separated from the other. We think it’s simply entertainment. We think it’s supposed to be fun — not a tribulation. We think we should be able to escape the intensity and divisiveness of day-to-day life for a couple of hours — but that is privilege. To choose to shut down the conversation about exclusion and injustice is white privilege, afford us by a system that keeps those deemed “other” out so we can go to our fun, relaxing, happy place and not be bothered about our neighbors and coworkers and community members who have not been invited and, worse, might be barred by design, policy, intimidation or force.

Are we really allowing our communities to be separated by our artistic tastes? Are we using art as a means to exclude and farther marginalize creatives from communities of color?

I’m not in marketing, so it’s easy for me to say that money can’t be the answer. But it must not be allowed to be. Human creativity and ingenuity has to matter more than a financial bottom line, and so does the opportunity to hear voices that are different from our own, and that provide a wider range of experience and perspective. That’s what being alive is about. Those who just want to go to the same places, eat the same foods and have the same, safe conversations, day after day, probably don’t need art in their lives. (Or they really need it, but aren’t willing to engage with it.)

Those of us who do choose art must also choose multiplicity and all the elements of discovery, discomfort, challenge, and change that multiplicity unpacks.

And there’s this: When it comes to big-budget concert venues and festivals, there’s much more racial diversity than is seen in many small clubs and listening rooms. When Moogfest was held in Asheville, it brought in performers and thinkers from various walks of life. Asheville’s U.S. Cellular Center and Thomas Wolfe Auditorium — the city’s largest event spaces — also book nationally touring acts from across genres, as well as race, lifestyle and political view. And those shows sell well.

Is success the great equalizer? Do artists with a certain level of acclaim also achieve a measure of household acceptability? Are we tolerant on a national level but separationist on a local level? It seems the opposite should be true, yet our concert calendars suggest otherwise.

The unscientific data reveals that we, as a community, do not actively create space for diverse voices when it comes to our own neighbors. And if that’s true, what’s the hope for national unity or global peace?

If we can’t come together around art, then what?

And so I return to my initial query: What is the responsibility of venue bookers, music promoters, club owners, and festival organizers to create a platform for artists of color? I realize this is an essay with more questions than answers, but there’s an opportunity here to talk about our biases and blind spots, to initiate real change, and to make our communities better and stronger.

Filed under: creativity, equity, Music, social justice, Writing