Katey Schultz's Blog, page 10

New Fiction + NY Event

{source}I'm delighted to announce that I have new flash fiction published in Litro Magazine New York. The story, "Immortality," chronicles a broken-hearted twenty-something's train ride from Nashville to New Orleans, ending with a surrealist twist--all in a few pages! Please feel free to leave your comments about the story and read it here.

I'm also happy to say that I'll spend this Tuesday and Wednesay in Binghamton, New York, meeting with the creative writing faculty and students of SUNY-Binghamton. If you live nearby, please join us on Tuesday, March 24th at 8pm on campus for a free public reading. Thanks to poet (and fellow Pacific MFA alum) Abby E. Murray for bringing Flashes of War to the university's attention. Abby has several chapbooks of poetry, the most recent of which is Quick Draw: Poems from a Soldier's Wife. Her poems are as honest as they are tightly, gloriously written. I highly recommend reading her collection.

Revising the Novel: Hotels and What If's

Hard work, all spread out. Notice the yellow cards. Those are my "what if's."On a whim, Brad suggested I join him for his clinicals on Thursday and Friday of this week. Between his clinicals all over the state, my martial arts and running committments, and my once-a-month short trips to somewhere for the book...we've been a bit flustered. I loved his idea immediately, booked a room at Hampton Inn via Rocketmiles (my new fave), and tossed a limited number of items into a duffel.

The emphasis there is on the word "limited." Yes, I have two other major projects under deadline right now. Yes, I have three inquiries for new jobs awaiting reply in my inbox (sadly, I'm booked through August--or maybe that's a good thing). Yes, I could have used a few more hours sleep this morning instead of getting up early to hit the road. But when it came time to pack, none of the items necessary for completing those tasks made it into my bag.

A change of scenery, however bland, can work wonders. When I'm feeling overloaded, the kind of change that inspires focused creativity requires keeping it simple. I dropped Brad off at the clinic, checked into the hotel, and was at the desk by 8:30am, tearing into my second cup of coffee for the day. I turned my wi-fi off, closed the curtains, spread my papers across the bed, kicked off my shoes, changed into yoga pants, and got to work.

The task? Keep revising the novel, of course. Only this time, with a limited number of hours in my sterile. self-imposed cell, the pressure was on...and in a good way. I charged the cost of the room to my business credit card, upping the ante even more. This is a business trip. I'd better stick to business.

And that I did, stopping mid-morning for a workout in the exercise room (while I ran on the treadmill, I played a made-for-TV movie about a writer, trying to make it big, of all things) and then again in mid-afternoon for lunch and a quick glance at email (only to put out any fires). Then, back to work.

My goal for the first day was to re-read the revisions I've completed (116 pages) so far, watching for slivers of moments that I can more clearly characterize my protagonists. As I worked, I thought about what they want, how they act when they don't get what they want, and how far they're willing to go to get it. I thought about escalation, and what people do privately versus what they do publicly, when they're under the gun. By letting those concepts cluster in the back of my mind as I read and re-read my pages, I was able to make tiny, but crucial, changes to the work in progress.

...The point being that I need to pave my way for the final third of the novel as best as possible. If I can get my characters to be as whole, realistic, and developed as possible up to that point, I'll more confidently know what to do with them come end-time.

...The other point being that it's important to consider the what if's. These are the ideas that come creeping into my mind as I'm revising. And in the later stages of revising, when my brain knows things like structure, setting, and reaction are doing what they need to do on the page--it opens in a way that becomes crucial to deeper fine-tuning. I've worked hard to learn how to identify the teaser what if's versus the signifiant what if's, the latter primarily hitting me in the solar plexus as soon as the thought enters my mind. If it's a good idea, I can tell almost instantly, seeing precisely what needs to move (or be cut) and why. The changes I often choose to make end up increasing the tension, steepening an arc, or clarifying a theme.

My goal for tomorrow is to pursue some of those what if's. Here's a glimpse what's on my yellow card (see above pic) so far:

Move Chapter 5 so it follows Chapters 6 & 7. (Done--the result being that now Aaseya appears by page 35 of of the novel, instead of page 55, and all I had to do was change the sunrise/daytime references in Chapter 5 to sunset/evening references.) Make Folson disappear from the narrative for a while. (Why? So that readers forget about him, making the shocking end of his narrative arc all the more powerful.)Explore Rauchmann more. (Why? To distract from Folson, and subconsciously plant the seed that our worry and focus should be on Rauchmann. How wrong we'll be...)Make Folson's black eye reappear in the concluding scenes of the novel. (Why? It's mundane throughout the novel so far, but later, seeing Folson's full arc, readers will encounter the black eye one last time and see that it wasn't mundane at all--in fact, it was a hint at what lay ahead.)Do all what if's come from Hampton Inn hotel rooms? Of course not. But they do come from careful focus. With spring buzzing in my ear and wedding plans in full bloom, I had to get away. And yes, I'm already scheming for Brad's next clinical assignment in a few weeks...

Jogging Writer: Going the Distance

{source}On Sunday morning, I ran the farthest I have ever run in my life: 14 miles. The last mile and a half were run at a slightly faster pace, as part of my training, and the thought that raced around my mind as I pushed was: You might never run a 14th mile again in your entire life; make this one count.

It might sound morbid, but it worked.

I openly confess: the "bug" to go for a full marathon hasn't struck.

I'm certain I'll have some very long runs in my future, even after the Half Marathon at the end of this month, but the reason I may never reach 14 miles again has to do with choice. That much distance is hard on my knees. I can still feel it today, and I have 3 hours of training at the dojo to look forward to tonight. If 12 miles isn't too terribly hard on my knees but 14 miles is, why push it? Or if 10 miles feels like a good challenge that doesn't cost me anything, why not listen to that? In other words, what's so important about "a few more miles" that could persuade me to push and push and push again? Unless I'm training for a race, not much.

Which brings me to the downhill slope of my training regiment. For now. I'm officially done with my "peak" phase of training. Today, the "taper" phase begins. Don't get me wrong--I still have a workout 6-7 days a week, including 10 miles with intervals this weekend--but the bulk of my physical challenges are over between now and race day. So: consume slightly fewer calories since I'm running less, stretch more, be extra germ-conscious when traveling or eating out (to avoid food poisoning or illness), and try to get more than enough sleep. That's actually a lot to focus on for the next two weeks, and takes as much discipline, I believe, as running 14 miles. Tapering is still considered part of most official training programs, and for good reason.

If any bug has struck, it has to do with running for long periods of time at a relatively slow pace. I've found (and know by heart) a pace that feels like I could run forever. That's a gift. After race day, that will be a pace I can return to again and again for sustaining workouts or, simply put, for sheer pleasure. I look forward to it.

Has any running bug caught, then, after 6 months of training? Yes, in fact. First, I know how to run consistently without pain and am better for it--and will run more because of it. Second, I have a quiet little voice in the back of my head suggesting that I run thirteen 13.1 half marathons--a nice little thought indeed. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

One thing happened of note while I was on my big run, and that is--of course--I passed the 13.1 mile mark. At that time, I also looked at my watch, which read 2hr17min00sec. So that's how long it takes me to run a half marathon. And now, that's the time to beat on March 28th!

Jogging Writer: Springing Along Copper Creek

Copper Creek glimpsed from on high; I run down along the water's edge.
Early evening, I move through sunshine and snowmelt, the world a cacophony of colors after weeks of white, white, white. It's all a wonder as I run along Copper Creek and let the miles reel behind me. I love the pale browns of spring. The greens as fragile as silk threads. The bony arms of sycamores reaching for the sky.

Nearby, donkeys bray at a stubborn snowfield tucked back into the holler. Past the neighboring ranch where geese waddle and shit, waddle and shit. The river rises over the floodplain, knocking at the basement door of the empty Baptist church. I crest the hill and enjoy the ease of my stride, hard-earned after six months of training. I can run faster with less effort now, and though I'm not pushing it today, I admit it feels nice to glide along. The goats apparently agree, as they huddle at the fenceposts to meee-aaa-aaa-aaa me along. Shameless, I meee-aaa-aaa back at them. For a hundred yards we sing our chorus, not another soul around to interrupt. This is what we do.

I round the bend, up and away from the creek as the late-setting sun angles over the hills, infusing a flicker of green across dry grass blades. A glimpse of the season to come; a promise nearly fulfilled. During the final stretch, the neighborhood dog Molly joins me, collar tags jingling in time with the calls of the peepers. I push harder toward the finish, huffing through a barely visible cloud of bugs and swallow a mouthful of gnats--the undeniable truth of spring nearly choking me to tears.

Victories and Indiscretions

Changing patches, changing dojos; bittersweet and thrilling all at once!Re-entry into the dojo lifestyle feels like a slow and steady form of pummeling, interrupted by small victories of insight and elation. I trained for three hours Monday night and look forward to three more tomorrow night. In between, I run: 12 miles, rest. Forty-five minutes of intervals. Rest. An hour at a slow jog. Rest. I want to quit everything and become a dojo rat; just like that--it's back in my blood.

In town for errands, I nearly hit a parked car because grow so distracted driving by the deceptive storefront--J A P A N  K A R A T E--letters like a broken alphabet dangling from paint-chipped bricks. The place looks in shambles, and yet...already, I've learned so much. Already, I've paid membership dues, bowed to my teacher, and felt the zap-pow-power of becoming karateka (a student) angling for acceptance by a teacher and his school once again.

The small victories: I remember to bow when entering and exiting the mat. I remember words--shomen, re, ni, kata, giri, uke, muwashi, te, waza, ryu, dan, sempai, osu...I remember breakfall (and how much I still hate it). I remember how to listen and apply new information immediately. I remember to hit with the ball of my foot, the first two knuckles. I remember to move my hips to bring power into whatever I do.

Still...so much is lost to memory, time, three years writing a book and touring the country. So many things in Shito-Ryu differ than my trained style of Shuri-Ryu. They're little, in some cases, but they count. And even still, I'm not entirely clear on the name of the style I'm learning, as it blends with others seamlessly much as my old teacher blended Shuri with Jiu Jitsu. One thing is clear: Shihan Baker teachers the principle first, then the application. He's into the philosophy and spirit of training as much (if not more) than the physical components. In short, he's what I've been looking for.

The small indiscretions: When standing in formation to bow with courtesy at the start and end of class, I'm told to bring my left foot to my right foot, toes pointing forward. Not my right foot to my left foot. Then, I spread my toes apart but keep my heels together, forming a V with my feet. This is the proper stance at my new dojo. I'm also told to bow deeply and first, coming out of my bow only before the senior student or teacher has risen. I try, I forget; I try again, my feet are wrong. I try again. Again. I get it.

When in zen kutzadachi (forward stance), Shihan makes his point. Don't point both toes straight forward, like I was taught. Rather, keep my rear foot angled at 45 degrees. When Shihan tells me this--his face soft but direct, black hair, olive skin, and deep brown eyes oddly echoing an Asian face (although he's pure Appalachian)--I nod. It's difficult to hide my concern. His instruction goes against nearly everything I've been taught about hara (center) and balance. But when Shihan shoves me out of my zen kutzadachi (toes forward) with a one-armed push, I reposition as instructed (back foot angled at 45 degrees)--and he shoves again. I hold firm.

I learn my first kata, which Shihan calls Go Uke No Kata. I translate: Five Block Form. I'm right! We move along with relative ease--but I'm lost with the kibadachi (horse stance) until Shihan explains it's open/samurai horse stance. I correct my feet, pivot again. Correct again. "Yes," he says, "YES!" All goes well until we get to a sweeping side block. Say what? Stop. Learn something new. Bow. Start again.

On the way down the hall to separate changing rooms, Shihan stops me to offer one more kernel of advice. (All great martial arts teachers, it seems, are verbose.) "There are two things. The mind and the body. We're working with both. Mostly, I'm working with your mind, and your body follows. Eventually..." Shihan pauses to hold up two pointer fingers, then bring them together one behind the other. "Eventually, they become one."

"Osu," I say (the dojo reply for yes, among many other meanings). "But what about the third thing--what about spirit?" This is my old teacher talking through me. I'm pleased to find a new dojo, but it makes me miss the old.

"Mind and spirit--same, same," Shihan says. "So you have mind and you have body, and eventually they'll work together."

"I could hope for a glimmer of that," I say. "It sounds wonderful."

"Oh, you have a glimmer. You have more than that. I've already seen it." It's quiet, and not delivered with eye contact, but it's sincere. A compliment from my new teacher. A rare singling out. With these words, I understand he has welcomed me into his school. With these words, he has opened a world.

All at once I want to go home and fall over or stay up all night to practice what I've learned. One step remains: I have to take off my old patches, start over with a white belt, and call my former teacher to ask permission to formally change schools. It's been three years, a book, 2 races, one 93-mile backpacking trip, an engagement, and a broken foot since I trained. Still. This is the honor part of training. This is the courtesy. I scroll through my contacts list on my phone...press the green button...and get ready to leap into this next, great adventure.

Dojo Dreams Continue

A world-class dojo, here? You'd better believe it.Where do I begin? Honestly, my obsession with martial arts training took over The Writing Life blog for nearly three years. Other than publishing a book, I wanted nothing more than to train my heart out, racking up as many hours with my esteemed teacher as possible. That's the short version. The longer version can be gleaned here (a summary of years spent training, with additional hyperlinks) and here (a real-time write-up of my green belt test from some time ago).

So when Brad and I first met and began falling in love, I found myself making the 2 hour drive from Celo to Manville more and more often. Over mountain passes, through a few cities, through Moccasin Gap, and down into the community of Manville I went, crossing two state lines and listening to books on Audible along the way. Just before the final turn of the drive, I'd pass a humble looking glass-front shop that read JAPAN KARATE in old, wet lettering. The front windows displayed tiers of trophies and, for many months, I wrote the place off. My teacher never trained for points, never held scoring or tournament fighting in high esteem. It had its uses, sure, but his passion lay with the traditional mind-body-spirit training of ancient Okinawa. As a result, mine did too.

But after helping my little nephew E train for his junior black belt test, I could no longer ignore the doors of JAPAN KARATE whenever I drove by. By September, Brad and I made the decision to spend 3/4 of the year at his place in Manville so he can get in-state tuition, and reside at my Airstream in Celo for summers. I packed up, moved most things to his place, and passed JAPAN KARATE on a regular basis.

Driving through town, the doors that read Seishen Kai beckoned. I knew enough to understand there was a good chance the karateka on the other side of that door were training a style not too terribly different than my own, Shuri Ryu. Still, I doubted the dojo was active, looking rather rough on the outside and on a small town block filled with closed-up shops, defunct businesses, and a few straggling attempts with limited hours. One night, feeling totally overwhelmed and overbooked, I decided I needed to do something for myself. Typical me--I added one more commitment to the list. I called the dojo. Shihan Baker answered, and thus began a series of long conversations that took place over several weeks, leading up to my first entrance into his dojo last night.

I'd be lying if I didn't tell you my hands trembled a bit as I bowed onto the mat. Lying if I didn't tell you I doubted I'd never find another teacher as incredible, skilled, enlightened, and passionate as Hanshi (now O Sensei) ever again. Lying if I didn't tell you I worried about entering this world after three years with no training whatsoever. But perhaps it's better not to talk about those things anyway. What really matters is that for three hours, I remained focused and attentive--completely drawn in. The words came back to me--sempai, shihan, dachi, giri, waza...a familiar language and somewhat familiar style, as I did my best to learn quickly and keep up. Stay tuned for more posts, if you're ready to ride the wave with me again. If my experience in martial arts has taught me anything so far, it's that life in the dojo never disappoints...

Travel Snapshots

Sometimes when you travel, there is only this:

The smell of the man from Zimbabwe's cologne--like a nightclub, only it's 5am and you haven't had coffee or breakfast yet and you will sit next to him for two hours. You will not dance. There is no dancing when the Captain has turned on the fasten seatbelts sign.

The germs--on every door handle, water fountain nozzle, counter edge, and ticket passed between hands.

The delays--6:20am departure, 7:48am departure, 12:55pm arrival, 2:36 pm arrival, 3:55pm arrival into a city you weren't supposed to go to.

The haze--There's Starbucks. There's Chili's. There's Hudson's News. You're in O'Hare, right? Scratch that, Charlotte. Which one has free wi-fi and which one has the 20-minute limit?

The hope--$500 voucher if you're willing to idle for 48 hours. $350 voucher if you'll sleep on the carpet stains at Gate H12. $300 if you're a fool.

The sound of the Captain's voice--Wahh waa, wahh waaa, waa. Waah waaa. 

The sound of the jets-- [            ]

The color of Lake Michigan with 80% cover ice--frozen teal, rippled and whipped like a frosted cake.

The feel of fake leather--crooked seat after crooked seat, as though you are in the shadow of a man with an incredibly large left ass cheek and he has sat in every chair before you, all afternoon. At least you have a seat tray in front of you. Unhook the latch. Go on. Try it. (It crashes down, crooked as well.)

A day later, 90 miles further north in a car (since you landed where you weren't supposed to), half a mile hike on snowshoes up the mountain (luggage in tow), it's all worthwhile:

Narrative Genesis and Imagination

This Saturday evening, I'll be giving a new craft lecture, "Narrative Genesis and Imagination" at Interlochen Center for the Arts at 5pm in The Writing House. A handful of The Writing Life readers out there actually live nearby, so perhaps we'll meet! For friends and readers from afar, I thought I'd share a snippet of my intentions for this presentation on my blog.

When I talk about "narrative genesis," my intention is to point your attention to the place where story begins. That "place," however, is largely ephemeral and deeply person. Why write a craft lecture about that? Furthermore, doesn't talking about it, kill it?

Yes and no. As a teacher, I consider it my duty to bring awareness to my creative process and share what I learn with others. It makes me a better teacher, because if I can name what's working (and what's not working) for myself, in the very least I can articulate that to others who might see a parallel. And at the very best--which I encounter more often than not--it can spark conversation between artists that inspires, informs, and leaves each participant involved feeling a little more sure about where their work comes from and how to nurture it so that it keeps on coming.

When I talk about "imagination" in the context of "narrative genesis," what I'm interested in is the millisecond occurrence between that first birth of story and that next, imaginative leap. This is where things start to get really intangible. But if we can articulate the sensation, the series of events, or the balancing factors in our lives that precipitate and encourage that leap, we might be able to replicate it. Again and again. Not "replicate" in terms of copy, but replicate in terms of generate.

In short, the more we nurture the foundation of narrative genesis and imagination, the stronger, deeper, and more consistent our output as artists can be. That doesn't mean everything that comes out will be glorious, but it does mean that--to a certain extent--we never have to worry about not knowing what to write. Ever. Again. We have trust in our process. We can dance around where it starts. We can even, sometimes, seduce the process into action on the spot and let narrative unfold from the confidence we've gained through practice and insight.

Revising the Novel: Thoughts on Agendas

Last week, I had a breakthrough. Not on the page. Not yet...

But in my mind.

It hardly seems worth writing about now, but I'm dedicated to trying to articulate and share my process. It helps me find my way. Writing a novel can feel so disorienting. If we know we're not alone and that disorientation is normal, that can't hurt. It might even help.

To that end, I want to briefly discuss "agendas." We've all heard the notion that those early sparks of creative output can't be personally, egotistically, politically, or harmfully motivated if they're going to burst into true, literary form at some point down the page. What I mean by that is, we can't just sit down and say, "Now I want to write something that proves my belief that all people who eat fast food are lazy." That's not the stuff of good writing, no matter how many cartwheels your sentences can do.

Even though I believe this, I managed to approach Chapter 4 of my novel, through all 4 revisions, with an agenda. I grew intent on using a scene between the Captain and my protagonist, the Second Lieutenant, to show the reader that something fishy was going on with regard to how U.S. dollar bills were being spent in Afghanistan. This agenda was problematic for two reasons. First, although I have a personal investment in exploring that particular truth (and it is true--U.S. dollars have been funding Taliban efforts against our own troops), I don't know that exposing it would advance my novel in any way that had significance on my protagonist. Besides, even if I could work it in, would it "matter" in a relatable way to the reader? I don't know.

The other reason my agenda for Chapter 4 grew problematic has to do with point of view. I'm writing in limited 3rd POV, hugging the shoulders of my protagonist. The conversation between the Captain and my protagonist is revealed as if seen through Nathan's eyes. Given that limitation, there's no way I could rightfully get the message across clearly, without violating point of view. I did certainly try, though--I drafted scenes where the Captain drops hints, I drafted scenes where the Captain and Second Lieutenant observe things in their surroundings that are symbolic of the U.S. money situation, and I even tried a story-within-a-story that was allegorical. None of it was hitting. It might have been revised and finessed, it might have had surgery at the line level, and parts of it might even have been well-written. But in the context of the novel as a whole, time and time again, Chapter 4 was not working.

By free-writing about my character Nathan's desires, I was able to see once and for all that my agenda for Chapter 4 simply did not belong. I was ready to toss the whole idea in the can, when an idea came to me: Who would know about how the American money was moving? Who would have a compelling, character-revealing reason to get involved with such action? What would make the most sense for readers to see in relation to this truth? All answers pointed to the same thing: The Taliban commander in my novel, who appears only as a side character in a few scenes, needs to have his own chapter written in limited 3rd POV. This chapter will reveal what I want to reveal, appeasing my agenda (if you will), but it will do so in a way that matters to the novel, matters to the character, and feels fitting and appropriately-timed to the reader. It will also take the pressure off some of my other characters for a few pages, something that I think can be a very powerful narrative tool--especially when dealing with situations that have mounting tension.

Jogging Writer: Improvise