Katey Schultz's Blog, page 20
January 27, 2014
Revising the Novel: Ruts and Subzeros
So...I took a week off the blog. So...I've been pondering the same problem with Chapter 7 for 10 days. So...the pipes have frozen, the shower's broken, and more weather is on the way. What does it mean? It means I've got cabin fever. It also means I'm talking myself into a state that is far from productive. I've still risen early each day to do my work and I've still devoted 5 mornings out of 7 to the novel. But I'm not always writing...in fact, I did very little of that this week, although I read several hundreds of pages in those wee hours of the morning as the wind ripped down Winter Star peak and into the valley. The reading I did was what I call "studying" because I'm frantically trying to teach myself how to write a novel. Reading and critiquing someone else's is one thing; writing it for myself is entirely another.
The creative bursts I experienced last winter and the summer prior--all working with the initial first draft of the novel--were hard work, but they were joyful, too. That was my creative imagination at play. Now, I'm in Bambi-land as I try using my technical imagination and feel a bit like a fawn stumbling through first steps. I've got a lot to learn. I don't think in terms of beats and progressions, protagonists and antagonists, three acts or hero's journeys. And I don't have to, at least not forever...but I'm certainly at the point in my drafting where I need to be able to name the things that I'm doing and not doing on the page. If I can name what's working and what isn't, then I can start to look for a solution. As they say, "Knowing is half the battle."
The other half of the battle, or some fraction thereof, has to do with routines and refilling the well. I've always been good with discipline. And even though I'm constantly shifting between my house or my sweetie's house, I still manage to keep my routine relatively well. What's shifted, I think, is the depth of my focus. I'm not able to go deep enough, quick enough. Part of that is because I'm adjusting to sharing my life with someone after being alone for four very highly-productive years. But the other part is that I keep telling myself I don't know how to write a novel. I keep remembering that I didn't study this in grad school (my degree is actually in creative nonfiction). In other words, I keep psyching myself out.
Last night, I got sick of that feeling. I took out Wonderbook (see above photo), which I've been reading several pages of each morning, and started at the beginning. Thumbing through my highlights, I did what I did to get through undergrad: I took notes. Recopying important or inspiring information has always been an necessary step in the learning process for me. Somehow, I had forgotten this. In the process of copying pertinent quotes, I learned how I've been getting in my own way. I don't have to write only early in the mornings. I don't have to read the New York Times, then a novel I'm studying, then Wonderbook, then my current chapter in the novel. All that's just preamble. Just because it worked before as a warm-up drill for my creative juices, doesn't mean it will work every time. Even further, maybe I know more than I think I do. I don't have all the technical terms for things and I'm not a pro, but I'm dedicated to what I do. That will take me far...and can take me even farther, if I let it.
For context, here are a few quotes from Wonderbook that are helping me take a more upbeat approach:
"What you produce during blind inspiration is not necessarily superior to what you produce during the slow slog."
"Expectations put the wrong kind of voices in our heads. The voices of ambition say, 'Let's try to be great.' The voices of expectation say, 'You must be great. Or else you are nothing.'...Also, my single favorite piece of writing advice: 'Forget about grammar and think about potatoes.'"
"Your imagination thrives best when you live in the moment...Being distracted from your environment is a direct hindrance to your imagination--it blocks receptivity, it redirects passion, and it ultimately channels your curiosity down well-worn and uninteresting paths."
"Discipline balances the imagination by grounding the writer in pragmatism and structure. Discipline is learning craft, practicing craft, and on the micro level, isolating the partiuclar problems you need your imagination to solve."
"So the question is: How can you position yourself to dream well?"
The creative bursts I experienced last winter and the summer prior--all working with the initial first draft of the novel--were hard work, but they were joyful, too. That was my creative imagination at play. Now, I'm in Bambi-land as I try using my technical imagination and feel a bit like a fawn stumbling through first steps. I've got a lot to learn. I don't think in terms of beats and progressions, protagonists and antagonists, three acts or hero's journeys. And I don't have to, at least not forever...but I'm certainly at the point in my drafting where I need to be able to name the things that I'm doing and not doing on the page. If I can name what's working and what isn't, then I can start to look for a solution. As they say, "Knowing is half the battle."
The other half of the battle, or some fraction thereof, has to do with routines and refilling the well. I've always been good with discipline. And even though I'm constantly shifting between my house or my sweetie's house, I still manage to keep my routine relatively well. What's shifted, I think, is the depth of my focus. I'm not able to go deep enough, quick enough. Part of that is because I'm adjusting to sharing my life with someone after being alone for four very highly-productive years. But the other part is that I keep telling myself I don't know how to write a novel. I keep remembering that I didn't study this in grad school (my degree is actually in creative nonfiction). In other words, I keep psyching myself out.Last night, I got sick of that feeling. I took out Wonderbook (see above photo), which I've been reading several pages of each morning, and started at the beginning. Thumbing through my highlights, I did what I did to get through undergrad: I took notes. Recopying important or inspiring information has always been an necessary step in the learning process for me. Somehow, I had forgotten this. In the process of copying pertinent quotes, I learned how I've been getting in my own way. I don't have to write only early in the mornings. I don't have to read the New York Times, then a novel I'm studying, then Wonderbook, then my current chapter in the novel. All that's just preamble. Just because it worked before as a warm-up drill for my creative juices, doesn't mean it will work every time. Even further, maybe I know more than I think I do. I don't have all the technical terms for things and I'm not a pro, but I'm dedicated to what I do. That will take me far...and can take me even farther, if I let it.
For context, here are a few quotes from Wonderbook that are helping me take a more upbeat approach:
"What you produce during blind inspiration is not necessarily superior to what you produce during the slow slog."
"Expectations put the wrong kind of voices in our heads. The voices of ambition say, 'Let's try to be great.' The voices of expectation say, 'You must be great. Or else you are nothing.'...Also, my single favorite piece of writing advice: 'Forget about grammar and think about potatoes.'"
"Your imagination thrives best when you live in the moment...Being distracted from your environment is a direct hindrance to your imagination--it blocks receptivity, it redirects passion, and it ultimately channels your curiosity down well-worn and uninteresting paths."
"Discipline balances the imagination by grounding the writer in pragmatism and structure. Discipline is learning craft, practicing craft, and on the micro level, isolating the partiuclar problems you need your imagination to solve."
"So the question is: How can you position yourself to dream well?"
January 16, 2014
Revise Your Memoir: From First to Final Draft (Part 2)
Read Part 1 and the first draft right here.
Without further a-do, let's see how Idella opens scenes, adds and enriches detail, characterizes her father more fully, uses reflection, and spatially arranges/organizes her writing more powerfully in this final draft. My analysis follows:
Whistlin’ Joe (final draft)by Idella Ashton, excerpted with permission
My father, Elmer Isaac Ashton was born in Woodruff, Utah on May 14,1907 to George and Idella (Eastman) Ashton. He was the fifth child in a family of seven, four girls and three boys. In his lifetime he was a sheepherder, cowboy, coal miner, farmer, and logger. More importantly, he was the man I called Daddy.
From the stories I’ve been told, Daddy was a happy little boy and learned to whistle at a young age. His two uncles, Rawl and Marsh Eastman, nicknamed him “Whistlin’ Joe.” His name became Joe Ashton and he signed Elmer only on legal documents. Rawl and Marsh looked out for him and became his role models, as Daddy spent time with them and away from his abusive father. Daddy spoke highly of his mother, a kind, caring person, and a positive influence in his life. An accident while riding in a buggy caused injuries confining her to a wheelchair in the last years of her life. Even when in the wheelchair, she continued her job clerking at a small grocery store. Daddy told the story of her adding the bill in her head, faster than an adding machine, seldom making a mistake. Her death when he was a teenager devastated him.
At the age of fourteen Daddy’s father sent him out to a sheep camp to herd sheep, while he attended to business matters. Daddy had no choice but to do as his father told him. He talked little about his childhood when I was growing up, but admitted to being afraid going to the camp alone. I can imagine that during the daylight hours he did quite well keeping the herd together of and with the help of his dog, he brought them close to camp, where they bedded down for the night. As darkness fell, he would have felt brave, though surely on the inside he was as frightened as the lambs he had been sent to protect. Terrified at night with only a dog for company, he lay staring at the stars, listened to the howl of coyotes and prayed that all the sheep in his care, would still be alive come morning.
Sheep camps were lonely places: usually only one man, one or more dogs, and one or two horses. The “camp” was best described as a covered wagon or, simply, canvas stretched over a frame and set on wheels. Sheep camps had to be moved periodically, after the herder found new pastures for the sheep to graze. A sheepherder could go for months without seeing another person and often ate the same diet day after day. I imagine only the basics were included in Daddy’s camp. Most important was the rifle that stood near the doorway, then food, including flour, sugar, dry beans, bacon and canned foods. Packed away in a duffel bag was a change of clothing and a warm coat. In the summer he slept outside, under the stars, and in winter, a bunk with warm bedding was built into the sheep camp.
Daddy was lucky his first time out; his father returned to relieve him after a week. I imagine that week he was alone. On the first night, he might have had fresh lamb chops, potatoes, and biscuits
I’ll never forget when Daddy taught me to fry lamb chops and make gravy. When I was twelve, Mom spent a week in Utah with my older sister, helping her after the birth of a new baby. Daddy and I “batched it.” Both Mom and I helped Daddy outside, doing chores, milking cows, feeding chickens and gathering the eggs. Mom would leave us to finish up while she started supper. So on our first night of “batching it” Daddy sent me to the house early with instructions to fix supper. Lamb meat being a staple of our diet, we planned to eat lamb chops for dinner. I quickly washed up, set the table, peeled potatoes, got frying pans out of the cupboard and had the chops ready to fry when Daddy got to the house. I remember our conversation going something like this:
“Sister, I don’t smell anything cooking, what have you been doing?”
“I have everything ready to cook, but Daddy, I’ve never fried lamb chops or potatoes or made gravy.”
“Well little girl, it’s about time you learned.” Daddy washed up and joined me in the kitchen. “Stand by the stove, next to me, so you can watch what I’m doing.”
I loved standing close to Daddy, his familiar smell of cigarettes and farm animals, not offensive to me, but comforting, as I felt safe near him. He was gentle and kind and wasn’t afraid to show affection. He loved all of us girls unconditionally and taught each of us, how to ride a horse, milk a cow, and drive a tractor. Always with a soft voice, never yelling at us, he explained, then let us try our hand, then explained again, until he was satisfied that we had learned the lesson.
He put bacon drippings in the fry pans and turned up the heat. He sliced potatoes, with lightning speed, his hand gripping the knife. The potatoes sliced and the grease sizzling, he handed me the bowl of potatoes and said, “ Now very carefully, so you don’t burn yourself, slide the potatoes into the hot grease.”
I did as I was told, then watched the potatoes cook, while Daddy floured the chops and placed them one by one into the hot grease in the other frying pan. They browned quickly, on one side, and Daddy picked up the fork to turn them. “Wait,” I said, “Let me turn them, I need the practice.” Handing me the fork, he watched as I turned the chops.
“That’s my girl, perfect.” He said. “Now turn the heat to low and cover the chops and let them cook.” Then with his calloused hand on mine holding the spatula, together we turned the crispy brown potatoes to the other side. Fragrant smells filled the kitchen; I couldn’t believe that I was really learning to cook. But with his help I learned quickly and was sure I could do it myself the next time. “Della, put the chops on a platter and into the warming oven and I will show you how to make gravy.” He poured out some of the grease and scraped the browned bits off the bottom and edges of the fry pan. “Okay, sprinkle flour into the grease with one hand while stirring with the other. When the flour and grease start to thicken, add milk and keep stirring, adding more milk until you have gravy.” I did as told and soon we had a fry pan full of delicious milk gravy to cover biscuits, warming in the oven.
As we dished up our plates and started to the table to eat, Daddy’s blue eyes twinkled and he said, “Tomorrow night I expect lamb chops cooking when I come in from the barn.”
“I’ll bet I can do that,” I said, and he hugged me tightly...
Wow! Is anyone else smiling? Moved? Can you see the movie in your mind's eye of the father and daughter in the kitchen? I sure can. Idella "comes out swinging," as they say, in her final draft. The first change in the opening paragraph is so subtle you might have missed it, but it steers the entire focus of the essay. Instead of saying Whistlin' Joe was "friend to all," she says "he was the man I called Daddy." Right away, we know we're going to get a personal look at their growing relationship and that's interesting. "Friend to all" could mean the writer will thrown anybody into this narrative to describe her father. But "the man I called Daddy?" Well, there's only one, and now readers feel better because they're in the hands of a more confident, focused narrator who knows where she is taking us.
Most of all, you likely noticed the changes Idella made to her descriptions of the sheep camp and her descriptions of learning how to cook lamb chops. By adding timely details and facts about sheep camps, Idella puts her father's story into a larger historical context, helping readers make meaning of the experience. By pushing that information further into a more finely imagined scene, as she depicts her young father falling asleep that night (remember--Idella wasn't even born yet! Not even a thought!), we are moved to connect with the brave boy. But we're also told that he was probably as "frightened as the sheep he'd been sent to protect." Human beings are complex and full of conflicting emotions. By painting the portrait of her young father so fully, she's created a more realistic and relatable human being. Those things that were merely echoes in her first draft--that her father was determined and kind--are now things we can believe in. We have proof. We've seen him in a sheep camp all by himself and how well he did. Of course Whistlin' Joe was determined! Of course he was kind!
But just in case we're not sure how kind he was...and just in case we're wondering more about the kind of father he was, after all--we need to know about the man Idella "called Daddy"--we get more. In the fist draft, the mention of learning how to cook lamb chops is summarized. It had its fine points, but still...it didn't stand out. Here, though, we can see and hear Whistlin' Joe move in the kitchen. We see him interact with his daughter by teaching and joking and behaving patiently. We understand how he speaks and how hard he works, too. Now, most certainly, we know Whistlin' Joe was a kind man, don't we? Just look at how he moves in that kitchen! How he takes his daughter's hand!
And what about Idella? Suddenly, she's a character as well and we feel invested and interested. Who is this young woman and how is her relationship to her Daddy going to change over the years? In the kitchen, we can tell she respects him and wants to please him, but there's also a bit of hesitation or mystery. The reader gets the feeling that the daughter doesn't necessarily know her father intimately, rather, just in a practical/functional sense. Life on a farm needed to be functional, after all, and we know Joe has come from harder times. Will the father/daughter relationship evolve and deepen over the years? How will the two become more realized in each others' eyes? We have to read more to find out...
And indeed we do read more...Congrats, Idella, on a great revision and hopefully many more strong chapters to come!
If you're curious, I do have room in my schedule for 1 or 2 more students. Email me or reach out on Facebook for more details. For an immersive experience, I'll be teaching Memoir Writing at Interlochen College of Creative Arts this August for one week, a brief Memoir Workshop at Carolina Mountains Literary Festival this September 5th, and a 10-week Memoir Course through Great Smokies Writing Program for their Fall 2014 course offerings. I'll also be teaching Flash Fiction in a Flash this March in Anchorage for 49 Alaska Writing Center. Use the links to find out more!
Without further a-do, let's see how Idella opens scenes, adds and enriches detail, characterizes her father more fully, uses reflection, and spatially arranges/organizes her writing more powerfully in this final draft. My analysis follows:
Whistlin’ Joe (final draft)by Idella Ashton, excerpted with permission
My father, Elmer Isaac Ashton was born in Woodruff, Utah on May 14,1907 to George and Idella (Eastman) Ashton. He was the fifth child in a family of seven, four girls and three boys. In his lifetime he was a sheepherder, cowboy, coal miner, farmer, and logger. More importantly, he was the man I called Daddy.
From the stories I’ve been told, Daddy was a happy little boy and learned to whistle at a young age. His two uncles, Rawl and Marsh Eastman, nicknamed him “Whistlin’ Joe.” His name became Joe Ashton and he signed Elmer only on legal documents. Rawl and Marsh looked out for him and became his role models, as Daddy spent time with them and away from his abusive father. Daddy spoke highly of his mother, a kind, caring person, and a positive influence in his life. An accident while riding in a buggy caused injuries confining her to a wheelchair in the last years of her life. Even when in the wheelchair, she continued her job clerking at a small grocery store. Daddy told the story of her adding the bill in her head, faster than an adding machine, seldom making a mistake. Her death when he was a teenager devastated him.
At the age of fourteen Daddy’s father sent him out to a sheep camp to herd sheep, while he attended to business matters. Daddy had no choice but to do as his father told him. He talked little about his childhood when I was growing up, but admitted to being afraid going to the camp alone. I can imagine that during the daylight hours he did quite well keeping the herd together of and with the help of his dog, he brought them close to camp, where they bedded down for the night. As darkness fell, he would have felt brave, though surely on the inside he was as frightened as the lambs he had been sent to protect. Terrified at night with only a dog for company, he lay staring at the stars, listened to the howl of coyotes and prayed that all the sheep in his care, would still be alive come morning.
Sheep camps were lonely places: usually only one man, one or more dogs, and one or two horses. The “camp” was best described as a covered wagon or, simply, canvas stretched over a frame and set on wheels. Sheep camps had to be moved periodically, after the herder found new pastures for the sheep to graze. A sheepherder could go for months without seeing another person and often ate the same diet day after day. I imagine only the basics were included in Daddy’s camp. Most important was the rifle that stood near the doorway, then food, including flour, sugar, dry beans, bacon and canned foods. Packed away in a duffel bag was a change of clothing and a warm coat. In the summer he slept outside, under the stars, and in winter, a bunk with warm bedding was built into the sheep camp.
Daddy was lucky his first time out; his father returned to relieve him after a week. I imagine that week he was alone. On the first night, he might have had fresh lamb chops, potatoes, and biscuits
I’ll never forget when Daddy taught me to fry lamb chops and make gravy. When I was twelve, Mom spent a week in Utah with my older sister, helping her after the birth of a new baby. Daddy and I “batched it.” Both Mom and I helped Daddy outside, doing chores, milking cows, feeding chickens and gathering the eggs. Mom would leave us to finish up while she started supper. So on our first night of “batching it” Daddy sent me to the house early with instructions to fix supper. Lamb meat being a staple of our diet, we planned to eat lamb chops for dinner. I quickly washed up, set the table, peeled potatoes, got frying pans out of the cupboard and had the chops ready to fry when Daddy got to the house. I remember our conversation going something like this:
“Sister, I don’t smell anything cooking, what have you been doing?”
“I have everything ready to cook, but Daddy, I’ve never fried lamb chops or potatoes or made gravy.”
“Well little girl, it’s about time you learned.” Daddy washed up and joined me in the kitchen. “Stand by the stove, next to me, so you can watch what I’m doing.”
I loved standing close to Daddy, his familiar smell of cigarettes and farm animals, not offensive to me, but comforting, as I felt safe near him. He was gentle and kind and wasn’t afraid to show affection. He loved all of us girls unconditionally and taught each of us, how to ride a horse, milk a cow, and drive a tractor. Always with a soft voice, never yelling at us, he explained, then let us try our hand, then explained again, until he was satisfied that we had learned the lesson.
He put bacon drippings in the fry pans and turned up the heat. He sliced potatoes, with lightning speed, his hand gripping the knife. The potatoes sliced and the grease sizzling, he handed me the bowl of potatoes and said, “ Now very carefully, so you don’t burn yourself, slide the potatoes into the hot grease.”
I did as I was told, then watched the potatoes cook, while Daddy floured the chops and placed them one by one into the hot grease in the other frying pan. They browned quickly, on one side, and Daddy picked up the fork to turn them. “Wait,” I said, “Let me turn them, I need the practice.” Handing me the fork, he watched as I turned the chops.
“That’s my girl, perfect.” He said. “Now turn the heat to low and cover the chops and let them cook.” Then with his calloused hand on mine holding the spatula, together we turned the crispy brown potatoes to the other side. Fragrant smells filled the kitchen; I couldn’t believe that I was really learning to cook. But with his help I learned quickly and was sure I could do it myself the next time. “Della, put the chops on a platter and into the warming oven and I will show you how to make gravy.” He poured out some of the grease and scraped the browned bits off the bottom and edges of the fry pan. “Okay, sprinkle flour into the grease with one hand while stirring with the other. When the flour and grease start to thicken, add milk and keep stirring, adding more milk until you have gravy.” I did as told and soon we had a fry pan full of delicious milk gravy to cover biscuits, warming in the oven.
As we dished up our plates and started to the table to eat, Daddy’s blue eyes twinkled and he said, “Tomorrow night I expect lamb chops cooking when I come in from the barn.”
“I’ll bet I can do that,” I said, and he hugged me tightly...
Wow! Is anyone else smiling? Moved? Can you see the movie in your mind's eye of the father and daughter in the kitchen? I sure can. Idella "comes out swinging," as they say, in her final draft. The first change in the opening paragraph is so subtle you might have missed it, but it steers the entire focus of the essay. Instead of saying Whistlin' Joe was "friend to all," she says "he was the man I called Daddy." Right away, we know we're going to get a personal look at their growing relationship and that's interesting. "Friend to all" could mean the writer will thrown anybody into this narrative to describe her father. But "the man I called Daddy?" Well, there's only one, and now readers feel better because they're in the hands of a more confident, focused narrator who knows where she is taking us.
Most of all, you likely noticed the changes Idella made to her descriptions of the sheep camp and her descriptions of learning how to cook lamb chops. By adding timely details and facts about sheep camps, Idella puts her father's story into a larger historical context, helping readers make meaning of the experience. By pushing that information further into a more finely imagined scene, as she depicts her young father falling asleep that night (remember--Idella wasn't even born yet! Not even a thought!), we are moved to connect with the brave boy. But we're also told that he was probably as "frightened as the sheep he'd been sent to protect." Human beings are complex and full of conflicting emotions. By painting the portrait of her young father so fully, she's created a more realistic and relatable human being. Those things that were merely echoes in her first draft--that her father was determined and kind--are now things we can believe in. We have proof. We've seen him in a sheep camp all by himself and how well he did. Of course Whistlin' Joe was determined! Of course he was kind!
But just in case we're not sure how kind he was...and just in case we're wondering more about the kind of father he was, after all--we need to know about the man Idella "called Daddy"--we get more. In the fist draft, the mention of learning how to cook lamb chops is summarized. It had its fine points, but still...it didn't stand out. Here, though, we can see and hear Whistlin' Joe move in the kitchen. We see him interact with his daughter by teaching and joking and behaving patiently. We understand how he speaks and how hard he works, too. Now, most certainly, we know Whistlin' Joe was a kind man, don't we? Just look at how he moves in that kitchen! How he takes his daughter's hand!
And what about Idella? Suddenly, she's a character as well and we feel invested and interested. Who is this young woman and how is her relationship to her Daddy going to change over the years? In the kitchen, we can tell she respects him and wants to please him, but there's also a bit of hesitation or mystery. The reader gets the feeling that the daughter doesn't necessarily know her father intimately, rather, just in a practical/functional sense. Life on a farm needed to be functional, after all, and we know Joe has come from harder times. Will the father/daughter relationship evolve and deepen over the years? How will the two become more realized in each others' eyes? We have to read more to find out...
And indeed we do read more...Congrats, Idella, on a great revision and hopefully many more strong chapters to come!
If you're curious, I do have room in my schedule for 1 or 2 more students. Email me or reach out on Facebook for more details. For an immersive experience, I'll be teaching Memoir Writing at Interlochen College of Creative Arts this August for one week, a brief Memoir Workshop at Carolina Mountains Literary Festival this September 5th, and a 10-week Memoir Course through Great Smokies Writing Program for their Fall 2014 course offerings. I'll also be teaching Flash Fiction in a Flash this March in Anchorage for 49 Alaska Writing Center. Use the links to find out more!
January 13, 2014
Revise Your Memoir: From First to Final Draft (Part 1)
Some readers may or may not know that one of the ways I support myself is by offering mentoring and critique services to students across the United States. Typically, these are adults who have taken a class from me somewhere along the way (Interlochen, Fishtrap, 49 Alaska Writing Center) and decided to stick with it. Like most people I know, a little deadline and coaching goes a long way toward motivating these folks to continue writing, eventually bringing their manuscripts or life stories to completion.
Currently, I'm working with 12 students of all backgrounds, ages, and genders. There's a full-time professor, there's a former apple orchard owner, an acupuncturist, a mother, an Iraq war veteran, a motorcycle enthusiast, and a geologist, to name just a few of the many professions these students have had over the courses of their lives. They might come from different backgrounds with different stories to tell, but what they all have in common is the desire to make their stories more than just "good enough." Sure, some of them want to be published on a large scale. But the good majority of them just want to write their stories and write them well, happy to share them with family, friends, and perhaps the occasional magazine. I admire these students so much for their monthly dedication to the work--they send up to 20 pages every month and some tack on reading assignments from me as well! It makes me especially happy that they believe in the power of a well-told story enough to apply effort again and again. I also cherish the trust they give me, sharing their first, best, worst, and last drafts through thick and thin.
Idella Allen, daughter of Whistlin' JoeThis week--and I've never done this before--I'd like to feature the work of Idella Allen. Idella blogs at Oma with a View and lives in what I commonly refer to as "the most beautiful place on Earth" (also known as Wallowa County, Oregon). We've been working together since the fall of 2010 and she is nearing the completion of her memoir. This week, I received her "final draft" of an essay she submitted a while back titled "Whistlin' Joe," a tribute to her father. By way of instruction and demonstration, I'll reprint an excerpt from her first draft today and from her final draft on Thursday. My analysis follows each excerpt and my hope is, by the end of the week, readers will not only delight in Idella's writing but also see the many ways that a single line of memoir can blossom into a full scene of delightful, meaningful memories that anyone can enjoy. Here goes:
Whistlin’ Joe (first draft)by Idella Allen, excerpted with permission
My father, Elmer Isaac Ashton was born in Woodruff, Utah on May
He was a happy little boy and learned to whistle at a young age. His two uncles, Rawl and Marsh Eastman, nicknamed him “Whistlin’ Joe.” His name became Joe Ashton and he signed Elmer only on legal documents. Rawl and Marsh looked out for him and were more father figures, as his own father was sometimes mean to him. He spoke highly of his mother and was devastated by her death when he was twelve. She had been injured in a buggy accident and spent the last few years of her life in a wheelchair. Even when in the wheelchair, she continued her job clerking at a small grocery store. Daddy told the story of how she could add up the bill in her head, faster than an adding machine, seldom making a mistake. At the age of ten Daddy took a summer job, herding sheep to help support the family. He talked little about his childhood but I can imagine him trying to be brave, when inside he was a scared little boy. Terrified at night with only a dog for company, he lay in the bunk, listening to the howl of coyotes and prayed that all the sheep in his care, would still be alive come the next morning. He always had fresh lamb meat at the sheep camp and prepared his own meals, usually a lamb stew or lamb fried, along with potatoes, gravy and biscuits. He not only learned how to care for animals and brave the world alone he also learned the rudiments of cooking. When I was fourteen he patiently taught me how to make gravy. After he had fried the lamb chops he carefully poured out some of the grease, scraped the browned bits off the bottom and edges of the fry pan. Then he had me sprinkle flour into the grease with one hand, while stirring continually with the other. When the flour and grease started to thicken we added milk and kept stirring, adding more milk until soon we had a fry pan full of delicious milk gravy to cover biscuits, baking in the oven. A few years later as a new bride I didn’t know much about cooking, but I could make milk gravy.
Daddy’s schooling ended when he graduated from eighth grade...
Ok. Now that's not bad writing. It really isn't. We know from the title and the opening paragraph that this chapter is likely going to cover her father's life from birth to death, highlighting what the author/daughter can remember and what was passed down to her. We also know her father was "of a certain time and place," if you will, having grown up working to contribute to his family from a young age at a time when children did their part. Idella even hints at an imagined scene in there, one of the great permissions of memoir, when she says that "he lay in his bunk, listening to the howl of coyotes." Already, we get the sense that Whistlin' Joe didn't have much by way of personal possessions, but he had a lot of determination, personality, and love. That feeling is just an echo--a suggestions, really--but it's there in the opening page and that's a good thing.
That said, the writing doesn't fully open up. The moment of connection between the father and the daughter in the kitchen is summarized and there aren't very many sensory details. The mention of the sheep camp, which seems like a hugely rich opportunity for character-building details and descriptions of the natural world, is rushed through. And we can't really see or hear this man that Idella, the author and daughter, cares so much about. Add to this the fact that the paragraphs don't all have a feeling of intentional shaping or completeness. The suggestion of a new memory or scene drops into the middle of a paragraph, which is ok sometimes, but doesn't help the reader over the course of the long haul in terms of guidance, pacing, and shape. Keep all of this up for 13 pages, which the first draft did, and most readers are going to bug out no matter how much they love Idella! (She's heard all this from me before, no worries.)
So how does a writer open up scene, and which scenes need to be opened? How long should they go on? What about using the past tense or a reflective, retrospective tone--would that add another layer? Maybe there are more details that can bring Whistlin' Joe to life early on, so readers feel they know him well enough to care. There's that echo again--this hint that our main guy is loving and determined. But we can't see that and verify it ourselves. We're not totally convinced. How can Idella reveal more? Stay tuned for Thursday, and her final draft...
If you're curious, I do have room in my schedule for 1 or 2 more students. Email me or reach out on Facebook for more details. For an immersive experience, I'll be teaching Memoir Writing at Interlochen College of Creative Arts this August for one week, a brief Memoir Workshop at Carolina Mountains Literary Festival this September 5th, and a 10-week Memoir Course through Great Smokies Writing Program for their Fall 2014 course offerings. I'll also be teaching Flash Fiction in a Flash this March in Anchorage for 49 Alaska Writing Center. Use the links to find out more!
Currently, I'm working with 12 students of all backgrounds, ages, and genders. There's a full-time professor, there's a former apple orchard owner, an acupuncturist, a mother, an Iraq war veteran, a motorcycle enthusiast, and a geologist, to name just a few of the many professions these students have had over the courses of their lives. They might come from different backgrounds with different stories to tell, but what they all have in common is the desire to make their stories more than just "good enough." Sure, some of them want to be published on a large scale. But the good majority of them just want to write their stories and write them well, happy to share them with family, friends, and perhaps the occasional magazine. I admire these students so much for their monthly dedication to the work--they send up to 20 pages every month and some tack on reading assignments from me as well! It makes me especially happy that they believe in the power of a well-told story enough to apply effort again and again. I also cherish the trust they give me, sharing their first, best, worst, and last drafts through thick and thin.
Idella Allen, daughter of Whistlin' JoeThis week--and I've never done this before--I'd like to feature the work of Idella Allen. Idella blogs at Oma with a View and lives in what I commonly refer to as "the most beautiful place on Earth" (also known as Wallowa County, Oregon). We've been working together since the fall of 2010 and she is nearing the completion of her memoir. This week, I received her "final draft" of an essay she submitted a while back titled "Whistlin' Joe," a tribute to her father. By way of instruction and demonstration, I'll reprint an excerpt from her first draft today and from her final draft on Thursday. My analysis follows each excerpt and my hope is, by the end of the week, readers will not only delight in Idella's writing but also see the many ways that a single line of memoir can blossom into a full scene of delightful, meaningful memories that anyone can enjoy. Here goes: Whistlin’ Joe (first draft)by Idella Allen, excerpted with permission
My father, Elmer Isaac Ashton was born in Woodruff, Utah on May
He was a happy little boy and learned to whistle at a young age. His two uncles, Rawl and Marsh Eastman, nicknamed him “Whistlin’ Joe.” His name became Joe Ashton and he signed Elmer only on legal documents. Rawl and Marsh looked out for him and were more father figures, as his own father was sometimes mean to him. He spoke highly of his mother and was devastated by her death when he was twelve. She had been injured in a buggy accident and spent the last few years of her life in a wheelchair. Even when in the wheelchair, she continued her job clerking at a small grocery store. Daddy told the story of how she could add up the bill in her head, faster than an adding machine, seldom making a mistake. At the age of ten Daddy took a summer job, herding sheep to help support the family. He talked little about his childhood but I can imagine him trying to be brave, when inside he was a scared little boy. Terrified at night with only a dog for company, he lay in the bunk, listening to the howl of coyotes and prayed that all the sheep in his care, would still be alive come the next morning. He always had fresh lamb meat at the sheep camp and prepared his own meals, usually a lamb stew or lamb fried, along with potatoes, gravy and biscuits. He not only learned how to care for animals and brave the world alone he also learned the rudiments of cooking. When I was fourteen he patiently taught me how to make gravy. After he had fried the lamb chops he carefully poured out some of the grease, scraped the browned bits off the bottom and edges of the fry pan. Then he had me sprinkle flour into the grease with one hand, while stirring continually with the other. When the flour and grease started to thicken we added milk and kept stirring, adding more milk until soon we had a fry pan full of delicious milk gravy to cover biscuits, baking in the oven. A few years later as a new bride I didn’t know much about cooking, but I could make milk gravy.
Daddy’s schooling ended when he graduated from eighth grade...
Ok. Now that's not bad writing. It really isn't. We know from the title and the opening paragraph that this chapter is likely going to cover her father's life from birth to death, highlighting what the author/daughter can remember and what was passed down to her. We also know her father was "of a certain time and place," if you will, having grown up working to contribute to his family from a young age at a time when children did their part. Idella even hints at an imagined scene in there, one of the great permissions of memoir, when she says that "he lay in his bunk, listening to the howl of coyotes." Already, we get the sense that Whistlin' Joe didn't have much by way of personal possessions, but he had a lot of determination, personality, and love. That feeling is just an echo--a suggestions, really--but it's there in the opening page and that's a good thing.
That said, the writing doesn't fully open up. The moment of connection between the father and the daughter in the kitchen is summarized and there aren't very many sensory details. The mention of the sheep camp, which seems like a hugely rich opportunity for character-building details and descriptions of the natural world, is rushed through. And we can't really see or hear this man that Idella, the author and daughter, cares so much about. Add to this the fact that the paragraphs don't all have a feeling of intentional shaping or completeness. The suggestion of a new memory or scene drops into the middle of a paragraph, which is ok sometimes, but doesn't help the reader over the course of the long haul in terms of guidance, pacing, and shape. Keep all of this up for 13 pages, which the first draft did, and most readers are going to bug out no matter how much they love Idella! (She's heard all this from me before, no worries.)
So how does a writer open up scene, and which scenes need to be opened? How long should they go on? What about using the past tense or a reflective, retrospective tone--would that add another layer? Maybe there are more details that can bring Whistlin' Joe to life early on, so readers feel they know him well enough to care. There's that echo again--this hint that our main guy is loving and determined. But we can't see that and verify it ourselves. We're not totally convinced. How can Idella reveal more? Stay tuned for Thursday, and her final draft...
If you're curious, I do have room in my schedule for 1 or 2 more students. Email me or reach out on Facebook for more details. For an immersive experience, I'll be teaching Memoir Writing at Interlochen College of Creative Arts this August for one week, a brief Memoir Workshop at Carolina Mountains Literary Festival this September 5th, and a 10-week Memoir Course through Great Smokies Writing Program for their Fall 2014 course offerings. I'll also be teaching Flash Fiction in a Flash this March in Anchorage for 49 Alaska Writing Center. Use the links to find out more!
January 9, 2014
Novel Thaws as Crabtree Falls Settles Into Deep Freeze
Local readers: I'll be presenting in downtown Spruce Pine today at the Episcopal Church at 12noon to the Rotary Club. Come on out!
Two days of deep freeze here, meaning subzero temperatures and wind chill in the double digits. I had to "abandon ship" in the Airstream and seek warmer temperatures up the mountain at my folks' house. I've moved around from place to place enough to know that a change in plans like that isn't enough of an excuse to miss out on valuable writing routines...though the excuse was certainly there if I had wanted to use it. I'm happy to report it's been a strong week of revisions as I've kept up with my 6am wake up (lovely to see the alpenglow creep across the high peaks so early in the morning), avoiding email and phone until 11am.
I've been focusing on Aaseya's first appearance in the novel. She is my female, Afghan protagonist whose narrative begins 3 weeks before Nathan's. She lives in the fictional village of Imar, placed between the real (and hopefully accurately described) cities of Kandahar and Tarin Kowt (also spelled Tirin Kot, for those of you who are particular about your Afghanistan geography). I began be reading and re-reading her sections without marking the printed page much, if at all. At first I felt hesitant--I couldn't find much that seemed to need revising. Suspicious, I slept on it. I read novels by others and contemplated their tricks (currently reading: The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards). Then, I returned to Aaseya's section once more.
Finally, I was able to see how Aaseya's husband Rahim's narrative butts into hers in a less than graceful way. I cut scenes that read more like "his," and this freed me up to expand existing ones featuring Aaseya, sometimes by just a line or two--in other cases by adding one or two full paragraphs. I honed the language a bit more so that it "referred back" to previously mentioned points (Kim Edwards does this a lot) or planted seeds for the future (a la rockstar editor and teacher Susan DeFreitas). I also read the work out loud several times to myself, from the printed page and the screen. I've got two more mornings of revisions left this week and I don't know if I can complete the entire section (including both Aaseya and Rahim's parts), but I bet I can settle on the pages that feature Aaseya. That will bring me to about page 70 in the drafted novel. About a third of the way, though I can't tell wether that's good or bad, since the novel should probably be about 20,000 more words. In any case...onward it goes, and delightfully so.
Meantime, one morning this week some friends invited me to hike to the deeply frozen Crabtree Falls, a 70-foot waterfall off the Blue Ridge Parkway not far from where I live. I worked late the night before to make up for taking "time off" the next morning, rose at 6, put in 3 hours, then hit the trails. It's important to keep a schedule, but just as important to know when flexibility is in order. Boy am I glad I didn't miss this:
Two days of deep freeze here, meaning subzero temperatures and wind chill in the double digits. I had to "abandon ship" in the Airstream and seek warmer temperatures up the mountain at my folks' house. I've moved around from place to place enough to know that a change in plans like that isn't enough of an excuse to miss out on valuable writing routines...though the excuse was certainly there if I had wanted to use it. I'm happy to report it's been a strong week of revisions as I've kept up with my 6am wake up (lovely to see the alpenglow creep across the high peaks so early in the morning), avoiding email and phone until 11am.
I've been focusing on Aaseya's first appearance in the novel. She is my female, Afghan protagonist whose narrative begins 3 weeks before Nathan's. She lives in the fictional village of Imar, placed between the real (and hopefully accurately described) cities of Kandahar and Tarin Kowt (also spelled Tirin Kot, for those of you who are particular about your Afghanistan geography). I began be reading and re-reading her sections without marking the printed page much, if at all. At first I felt hesitant--I couldn't find much that seemed to need revising. Suspicious, I slept on it. I read novels by others and contemplated their tricks (currently reading: The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards). Then, I returned to Aaseya's section once more.
Finally, I was able to see how Aaseya's husband Rahim's narrative butts into hers in a less than graceful way. I cut scenes that read more like "his," and this freed me up to expand existing ones featuring Aaseya, sometimes by just a line or two--in other cases by adding one or two full paragraphs. I honed the language a bit more so that it "referred back" to previously mentioned points (Kim Edwards does this a lot) or planted seeds for the future (a la rockstar editor and teacher Susan DeFreitas). I also read the work out loud several times to myself, from the printed page and the screen. I've got two more mornings of revisions left this week and I don't know if I can complete the entire section (including both Aaseya and Rahim's parts), but I bet I can settle on the pages that feature Aaseya. That will bring me to about page 70 in the drafted novel. About a third of the way, though I can't tell wether that's good or bad, since the novel should probably be about 20,000 more words. In any case...onward it goes, and delightfully so.
Meantime, one morning this week some friends invited me to hike to the deeply frozen Crabtree Falls, a 70-foot waterfall off the Blue Ridge Parkway not far from where I live. I worked late the night before to make up for taking "time off" the next morning, rose at 6, put in 3 hours, then hit the trails. It's important to keep a schedule, but just as important to know when flexibility is in order. Boy am I glad I didn't miss this:
January 6, 2014
Winterize Your Airstream?
Sometimes, you just gotta drop everything and go when the goin's good. The Snowshoe goin' that is. Here's Roan Mountain around 5800 feet, where it was 9 degrees in the SUN at 2pm:
Meantime, it's cold. I'm publishing a tongue-in-cheek letter I posted on Facebook to Airstream and its founder, Wally Byam. This will help paint the picture of life on Racoon Ridge right now!
Dear Airstream and Wally Byam,
Did you know that liquid soap can freeze? Since you were the founder of Airstream, Wally, I know you're all about learning and an adventurous spirit, so I wanted to tell you that I learned that this morning.
I would like you to picture this: 7am and the sun barely crests the horizon. At 3000 feet along an arm of Woody Ridge sits a 1970 31' Sovereign on a rocky outcropping. About 300 feet above the Airstream is a toasty little house. The house is made of wood. Wood is good! My Airstream is made of aluminum. Aluminum is shiny! Can you see it?
Now, picture a frantic little me running in purple floral pajamas, wool hat, down vest, and slippers across the barely lit snowfield in single digit temps. I'm running, Wally, because I have an adventurous spirit. It's winter in the Black Mountains. To save on gas and electric costs last night, I bundled up in bed and lowered the heat in the Airstream. (Sorry Dad, I know you've told me not to do this.) I just can't help myself--that little wooden middle room feels so much like a foresty womb or a hidden stowaway on a ship that I get in there and just forget about the rest of the world. It's a delightful feeling. And very adventurous.
I woke to a beautiful icicle formation coming out of the kitchen faucet. When I turned it on,
While I squatted there in the snow, gusts of 30mph ripping over the ridge and bringing the wind chill to subzero, I thought about my adventurous spirit, Wally. I really did. My purple PJ's flapped in the wind. I thought about how every Airstream should probably come equipped with a hair dryer and that wouldn't it be great if there was some way my mom could knit an insulating cozy that fit right over the top of my entire 31' foot home or maybe Dad and I could build a hoop greenhouse on wheels that we slid around the 'stream every winter.
I'm happy to report that, within minutes, the pipes were open and the furnace in my little 'stream hummed its warming sounds. Now I'm drinking coffee (french press) and the dog sleeps happily on your smartly designed Goucho couch with a curved back that fits perfectly into the seam of the front of the Airstream. It's going to be a good day.
Warmly,
Katey Schultz
Meantime, it's cold. I'm publishing a tongue-in-cheek letter I posted on Facebook to Airstream and its founder, Wally Byam. This will help paint the picture of life on Racoon Ridge right now!
Dear Airstream and Wally Byam,
Did you know that liquid soap can freeze? Since you were the founder of Airstream, Wally, I know you're all about learning and an adventurous spirit, so I wanted to tell you that I learned that this morning.
I would like you to picture this: 7am and the sun barely crests the horizon. At 3000 feet along an arm of Woody Ridge sits a 1970 31' Sovereign on a rocky outcropping. About 300 feet above the Airstream is a toasty little house. The house is made of wood. Wood is good! My Airstream is made of aluminum. Aluminum is shiny! Can you see it?
Now, picture a frantic little me running in purple floral pajamas, wool hat, down vest, and slippers across the barely lit snowfield in single digit temps. I'm running, Wally, because I have an adventurous spirit. It's winter in the Black Mountains. To save on gas and electric costs last night, I bundled up in bed and lowered the heat in the Airstream. (Sorry Dad, I know you've told me not to do this.) I just can't help myself--that little wooden middle room feels so much like a foresty womb or a hidden stowaway on a ship that I get in there and just forget about the rest of the world. It's a delightful feeling. And very adventurous.
I woke to a beautiful icicle formation coming out of the kitchen faucet. When I turned it on,
While I squatted there in the snow, gusts of 30mph ripping over the ridge and bringing the wind chill to subzero, I thought about my adventurous spirit, Wally. I really did. My purple PJ's flapped in the wind. I thought about how every Airstream should probably come equipped with a hair dryer and that wouldn't it be great if there was some way my mom could knit an insulating cozy that fit right over the top of my entire 31' foot home or maybe Dad and I could build a hoop greenhouse on wheels that we slid around the 'stream every winter.
I'm happy to report that, within minutes, the pipes were open and the furnace in my little 'stream hummed its warming sounds. Now I'm drinking coffee (french press) and the dog sleeps happily on your smartly designed Goucho couch with a curved back that fits perfectly into the seam of the front of the Airstream. It's going to be a good day.
Warmly,
Katey Schultz
January 2, 2014
Writing Advice: Coach Yourself Through the Silence
When I write to my students each month to provide feedback on their submissions, one thing that often comes up is rhythm and its close relationship to style and punctuation. "Do you read your work aloud, from the printed page in your hands?" I often ask. I then go on to discuss the power of punctuation not just as a grammatical tool, but as a manipulative device with an impact that builds over time to create rhythm, meaning, and so much more.
This week, I want to point out another reason to read work aloud: hearing it for yourself might coax the imagination toward closure of a few loose ends. A few weeks ago, I spent a few mornings revising Chapter 4 by hand. The holidays hit, and in the back of my mind I knew the notes I'd scribbled in the margins of my printed pages awaited me. This week, I dove back in and by today, was ready to share Chapter 4 with my faithful companion, Brad.
It's worth sharing that I play a little trick on myself when I read aloud: Before I begin, I tell myself that I'm going to be reading very polished, excellent writing to a smart, attentive audience. I don't focus on the fact that the writing is mine and that it's only a draft. That doesn't really matter at all. Sometimes, I even go so far as to imagine the physical setting where this reading might take place. This exercise helps me infuse my voice with confidence, for better delivery of the work. I also find that sentences, words, or ideas that come up short are a lot easier to identify if they're read in a voice that implies they're complete...because, if in fact they're not, they really stand out. I can't stress this suggestion enough. When you read, read like you mean it. Or as my martial arts instructor used to tell me, "If you're going to say the wrong answer, at least say it correctly." Meaning, at least sound confident and speak up, delivering your message with your full, spirited presence. (I use this same trick to read aloud when judging submissions for a contest, giving the work complete benefit of the doubt.)
So when I got to the final sentence of my Chapter 4 and felt the silence at the very end, I knew something still wasn't right about the work. I could feel the problem in that silent space, but the solution was not immediately clear. I sat there and felt the silence a little more, then questioned Brad about his experience listening to the work. We finished our tea and I continued sitting on the couch, considering that silence and the problem it contained. When I revised, I thought I'd solved the issues as best as I knew how...What more could I do?
I flipped open my Levenger folio and reviewed my notes--a summary of formal and informal critiques I've received on the novel, in various forms, to date. This is my cheat sheet to help me focus on what really matters. In part, it reads: Avoid subtlety, especially when the convoy stops. Don't be coy. Tell a story that transcends the basic actions of the plot. Narrate through your transitions and section breaks whenever possible. Exhale and describe people, places, and things. Drive the plot forward by setting up promises and fulfilling them. Write with one, central consciousness. Create a protagonist that fully inhabits the heart. Let readers see change and know what it means for the main character.
Reviewing these, I was able to determine that I hadn't created quite enough conflict between my characters in the scenes with dialogue. Sure, those scenes weren't about conflict, but I could still revise a little at the line level to make sure my characters were speaking to each other in ways that demonstrated they had complex relationships and shared a past. A single, well-placed verb can do this job.
I was also able to see an opening for my protagonist, in a one-sentence reference to Ritalin. Ritalin? I didn't know my character had considered taking Ritalin. That was good, I reasoned, and I knew the surprise meant an opening. I could add a few sentences to imply a flashback where Nathan, the main character, seeks help from the Doc on base and is prescribed Ritalin, but never takes it. In just a few lines, I could amp up the tension, plant a seed for future problems, and add depth to my main character.
Finally, I realized a missed opportunity when the convoy drives slowly past the dead body of an Afghan male citizen. Don't be coy. Yes, that's right--I had a dead body on the page, and while that wasn't such a big deal in a war novel, it was still a stark opportunity to be a little more direct. With some slight revisions, I could ditch the subtlety and enhance meaning.
Would I have been able to solve these problems if I hadn't read my work aloud? If I hadn't mustered all the confidence that I possibly could to project my voice and stand behind my work, reading it like a pro? Maybe. But I bet I wouldn't have solved the problems as quickly or efficiently...and I might not have solved them in such a meta-cognitive way that helps nurture the habits I'm trying to form with this novel. A few touch-ups tomorrow, then onward to the next section of the novel!
This week, I want to point out another reason to read work aloud: hearing it for yourself might coax the imagination toward closure of a few loose ends. A few weeks ago, I spent a few mornings revising Chapter 4 by hand. The holidays hit, and in the back of my mind I knew the notes I'd scribbled in the margins of my printed pages awaited me. This week, I dove back in and by today, was ready to share Chapter 4 with my faithful companion, Brad.
It's worth sharing that I play a little trick on myself when I read aloud: Before I begin, I tell myself that I'm going to be reading very polished, excellent writing to a smart, attentive audience. I don't focus on the fact that the writing is mine and that it's only a draft. That doesn't really matter at all. Sometimes, I even go so far as to imagine the physical setting where this reading might take place. This exercise helps me infuse my voice with confidence, for better delivery of the work. I also find that sentences, words, or ideas that come up short are a lot easier to identify if they're read in a voice that implies they're complete...because, if in fact they're not, they really stand out. I can't stress this suggestion enough. When you read, read like you mean it. Or as my martial arts instructor used to tell me, "If you're going to say the wrong answer, at least say it correctly." Meaning, at least sound confident and speak up, delivering your message with your full, spirited presence. (I use this same trick to read aloud when judging submissions for a contest, giving the work complete benefit of the doubt.)
So when I got to the final sentence of my Chapter 4 and felt the silence at the very end, I knew something still wasn't right about the work. I could feel the problem in that silent space, but the solution was not immediately clear. I sat there and felt the silence a little more, then questioned Brad about his experience listening to the work. We finished our tea and I continued sitting on the couch, considering that silence and the problem it contained. When I revised, I thought I'd solved the issues as best as I knew how...What more could I do?
I flipped open my Levenger folio and reviewed my notes--a summary of formal and informal critiques I've received on the novel, in various forms, to date. This is my cheat sheet to help me focus on what really matters. In part, it reads: Avoid subtlety, especially when the convoy stops. Don't be coy. Tell a story that transcends the basic actions of the plot. Narrate through your transitions and section breaks whenever possible. Exhale and describe people, places, and things. Drive the plot forward by setting up promises and fulfilling them. Write with one, central consciousness. Create a protagonist that fully inhabits the heart. Let readers see change and know what it means for the main character.
Reviewing these, I was able to determine that I hadn't created quite enough conflict between my characters in the scenes with dialogue. Sure, those scenes weren't about conflict, but I could still revise a little at the line level to make sure my characters were speaking to each other in ways that demonstrated they had complex relationships and shared a past. A single, well-placed verb can do this job.
I was also able to see an opening for my protagonist, in a one-sentence reference to Ritalin. Ritalin? I didn't know my character had considered taking Ritalin. That was good, I reasoned, and I knew the surprise meant an opening. I could add a few sentences to imply a flashback where Nathan, the main character, seeks help from the Doc on base and is prescribed Ritalin, but never takes it. In just a few lines, I could amp up the tension, plant a seed for future problems, and add depth to my main character.
Finally, I realized a missed opportunity when the convoy drives slowly past the dead body of an Afghan male citizen. Don't be coy. Yes, that's right--I had a dead body on the page, and while that wasn't such a big deal in a war novel, it was still a stark opportunity to be a little more direct. With some slight revisions, I could ditch the subtlety and enhance meaning.
Would I have been able to solve these problems if I hadn't read my work aloud? If I hadn't mustered all the confidence that I possibly could to project my voice and stand behind my work, reading it like a pro? Maybe. But I bet I wouldn't have solved the problems as quickly or efficiently...and I might not have solved them in such a meta-cognitive way that helps nurture the habits I'm trying to form with this novel. A few touch-ups tomorrow, then onward to the next section of the novel!
December 30, 2013
New Year's Resolutions
While I know enough to steer clear of impossible New Year's resolutions (i.e. I will meditate 365 days a year, I will write 500 words a day 7 days a week, I will exercise 200 days per year), I've always found the turning of the calendar an inspiring time to consider making small changes. Last year, I turned my general rule of using canvas shopping bags into a hard and fast promise to myself: I would go the entirety of 2013 without accepting a single plastic bag at checkout. Maybe that sounds impossible, but since I was practicing this 90% of the time anyway, the change felt small enough to accomplish yet significant enough to matter. I also managed to put $100 per month into my savings account last year. Check and check!
Heading into 2014, I'm adding to those goals and tossing one more resolution in for good measure. Thanks to the Affordable Health Care Act, my health care costs will be reduced and I think I may be able to set $150 per month aside for savings. In the waste department, I don't use plastic bags for groceries/goods anymore, so that's taken care of. But what I want to start avoiding now are to-go cups (ex. coffee) and bottled water. The first one will be relatively easy...just a matter of remembering my stainless steel go-cup or my collapsible Sea to Summit X-Mug (which fits conveniently into a purse or pocket and is sturdier than it looks).
The hard part is going to be avoiding bottled water. I never buy the stuff. Trust me; that's not the issue. But wherever writers are gathered for a shared event such as a reading, conference, or meeting, bottled water tends to show up. I can't make sense of it: Why is this population of people, presumably interested in the good of humankind, so hellbent on the hideous convenience of bottled water? Bookstore owners and hosts of writer's reading series are, in fact, by way of courtesy and protocol, generally expected to provide bottles of water for their presenters. I appreciate that, and many-a-bottle has saved me from choking on my words at the podium in the past. Negotiating how to politely decline this water when it is offered, or--more challenging--fishing out my X-Mug to ask if there's a water fountain nearby just moments before an event begins...could prove tricky. With a little grace and planning ahead, however, I think it will be possible. I'm willing to try.
So what's going to be new about 2014? What have I left behind that I wish I hadn't? Two things: extended time outdoors and silence. The book tour life and everything it took to get where I am now with self-employment meant that I spent fewer days on the trail last year (and the year before that). It also meant I spent an insane amount of time on the Internet, an activity that I consider very "noisy." The Internet is the opposite of silent, the opposite of settling. I need it and it makes me antsy all at the same time. Not good.
Enter: New Year's Resolutions 2014. In the coming year, I will spend a minimum of two nights per month outdoors. They might not be consecutive. They might even mean simply camping in my own backyard. But come hell or highwater, I'm going to put in the time. Outside. Under the stars or in a tent, in high winds and rain or squelching heat. I'll find a way. And no, the 2 backpacking trips totaling 16 nights that I already have planned for next year will not "carry over" from month to month. I'm not aiming for 24 nights total outdoors, rather, a monthly ritual that helps me get back to my center and stay in tune with my surroundings. With these nights will also come time away from the Internet. More silence. Less frenzy. I'm stoked!
Heading into 2014, I'm adding to those goals and tossing one more resolution in for good measure. Thanks to the Affordable Health Care Act, my health care costs will be reduced and I think I may be able to set $150 per month aside for savings. In the waste department, I don't use plastic bags for groceries/goods anymore, so that's taken care of. But what I want to start avoiding now are to-go cups (ex. coffee) and bottled water. The first one will be relatively easy...just a matter of remembering my stainless steel go-cup or my collapsible Sea to Summit X-Mug (which fits conveniently into a purse or pocket and is sturdier than it looks).The hard part is going to be avoiding bottled water. I never buy the stuff. Trust me; that's not the issue. But wherever writers are gathered for a shared event such as a reading, conference, or meeting, bottled water tends to show up. I can't make sense of it: Why is this population of people, presumably interested in the good of humankind, so hellbent on the hideous convenience of bottled water? Bookstore owners and hosts of writer's reading series are, in fact, by way of courtesy and protocol, generally expected to provide bottles of water for their presenters. I appreciate that, and many-a-bottle has saved me from choking on my words at the podium in the past. Negotiating how to politely decline this water when it is offered, or--more challenging--fishing out my X-Mug to ask if there's a water fountain nearby just moments before an event begins...could prove tricky. With a little grace and planning ahead, however, I think it will be possible. I'm willing to try.
So what's going to be new about 2014? What have I left behind that I wish I hadn't? Two things: extended time outdoors and silence. The book tour life and everything it took to get where I am now with self-employment meant that I spent fewer days on the trail last year (and the year before that). It also meant I spent an insane amount of time on the Internet, an activity that I consider very "noisy." The Internet is the opposite of silent, the opposite of settling. I need it and it makes me antsy all at the same time. Not good.
Enter: New Year's Resolutions 2014. In the coming year, I will spend a minimum of two nights per month outdoors. They might not be consecutive. They might even mean simply camping in my own backyard. But come hell or highwater, I'm going to put in the time. Outside. Under the stars or in a tent, in high winds and rain or squelching heat. I'll find a way. And no, the 2 backpacking trips totaling 16 nights that I already have planned for next year will not "carry over" from month to month. I'm not aiming for 24 nights total outdoors, rather, a monthly ritual that helps me get back to my center and stay in tune with my surroundings. With these nights will also come time away from the Internet. More silence. Less frenzy. I'm stoked!
December 26, 2013
Top Five Books Read in 2013
Based on this year's 33 books read, I've chosen 5 that were grand slam hits for me. Making the Top Five doesn't always mean a book is "perfect" or "a page turner." When I read, I read like a writer. I'm constantly conducting an informal study of how other authors pull off certain moves that I'd like to emulate, that I find intriguing, or that I've never seen done in a particular way before. Likewise, I'm always on the lookout for something that is so powerfully written, the analytical part of my brain almost shuts off and I get lost in story. Thanks to graduate school, sometimes I can go for years without finding a book like that--after all, I paid to become professionally trained at dissecting every last participle on the page. But I can say that the magic combo of factors which make something "powerful" is dependent in large part on timing and perspective; what is breathtaking and mind-blowing to me one year, might seem old hat a decade from now. I'm okay with that.
When it's all said and done, we read books to find a little of ourselves within them, and who we are is constantly changing. It only makes sense that some years a book will strike, and others it won't. Given that, I can still say there are a few salient features to a story that takes my breath away: complex and fallible characters that reveal their depth over time, descriptive language that bursts at the line-level and arc level with both metaphor and sensory detail, and unforgettable circumstances that might have otherwise seemed mundane. With that, in no particular order, here's this year's Top Five:
1. Plainsong by Kent Haruf: Talk about conjuring a world...this unforgettable novel is one of many by this author who brings to life the residents of fictional Holt, Colorado. Haruf is a master at the art of exclusion, dropping just enough descriptive detail into a moment to keep the reader curious. He can describe a dimly lit room with a woman sleeping in it in such a way that you get the sense that woman has an entire history all her own, and if you just keep reading, you'll come to know that history and never see that woman or that room in the same way ever again. Without high drama, Haruf conjures emotions so distinct, genuine, and of the earth that you'll swear you've been to Holt, heard the rumors, voted in town elections, and fought for what you believe in. Can I say this without sounding cliche? This book is a masterpiece.
2. The Long Walk by Brian Casnter: Hands down, the best Iraq war memoir that I've ever read. Keep in mind, I'm reading for insight into the deeply personal. I'm reading because I'm interested in the shifting nature of identity. And I'm quite technically and personally obsessed with how people react to circumstances that seemingly have no appropriate response. If I was reading for history, tactics, or on-the-ground reportage, I'd point readers toward something else (such as Kaboom by Matt Gallagher or Horse Soldiers by Doug Stanton [Afghanistan]). But three years into war literature, this was the book for me and it came to me at exactly the right time--after Flashes of War and before deep revisions on my novel-in-progress. I can't say Castner's own insights (which are real, remember--this is memoir) are impacting my use of character development for fictional Nathan--not at all, there's no replicating what's so authentically Casnter's--but I can say that Castner's self-reflection and honesty have given me confidence to narrate through some of the more internal or uncertain moments of my charcater Nathan's fictional experience. Also, as a teacher of memoir, I read this book and sensed immediately that Castner is an intuitive writer. He's not "professionally trained," as they say, though I bristle at that term. What I'm trying to say is, this memoir strikes an enchanting balance: it's clearly something that needed to be said in exactly the way that Castner said it, and I have a feeling Castner was the only one who could have done it. I'm so glad he did.
3. Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout: This might be my first ever Oprah Book Club Top Five book, let alone such a massively read book on my yearly list. Here's my review on Goodreads. Let's just say, at the line level and in terms of character development and believeability, this book had moment after moment that burst off the page.
4. Black Pearls by Louise Hawes: Here's an example of being in the right place at the right time. I was sitting on my couch in the Airstream, reading a stack of Louis Hawes' books in anticipation of introducing her at the 2013 Interlochen College of Creative Arts Writer's Retreat. I picked up Black Pearls, more for "teen readers" (if you believe labels and shelving and marketing), and I couldn't put it down. "Cinderella" from the perspective of Prince Charming? "Snow White" from the perspective of a pervy little dwarf? "Hanzel & Gretel" re-envisioned? Yes, please. These are the kinds of stories that you read and wish you had written yourself. They're delightful, surprising, dark, beautiful, and imaginitive. Best of all, they're not dumbed down. The lessons on the nature of humankind ring loud and clear through Hawes' natural gift for storytelling and use of haunting, precise, metaphors that simultaneously create vivid images and distinct emotions. Buy this book for a friend, but read it first yourself. You'll tear through it and never forget it.
5. Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson: Like Salinger's Catcher in the Rye or Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion or even Hemingway's Nick Adams Stories, Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son creates a delicate, grotesque, underworld from the fringes of society in a matter of pages. While Johnson's world might not be as pretty as Hemingway's, it's precise and sparse in the same ways. How can a writer conjure so much depth in so few words? With so few curliques and tricks on the page? It's a rhythmic, gritty, kind of thing and I don't quite have the words for it but I know it when I see it. Author Thom Jones can do this, too, and Steve Almond's older work (My Life in Heavy Metal) nails this as well. In Jesus' Son, readers get to follow the same narrator from story to story, binge to binge, and even from stalker to sobered up and through this Johnson has written a world that makes it hard to deny how fragile and strange human beings are. We are a weird, harmful, and gentle species. That sentence seems impossible. Yet Johnson's writing makes it true...and in so doing, helps us see a little more clearly into the human predicament.
I'll offer an addendum by saying that Just Kids, the memoir by Patti Smith, came very close to making the Top Five, but ultimately did not because I found that her ability to step back and reflect on the experiences she shared was lacking. To do this in the middle of her chapters would have broken the trance she so aptly created--especially because so much of the tiny art world she described and took part in was selfish and self-referential. Interrupting that and reflecting might have shattered the glass around the world Smith worked so hard to construct. But an epilogue could have provided reflection and further meaning or context, and that's what this reader needed for the coda of Just Kids.
Another close second was The Wilding by Benjamin Percy, but believability, unresolved/unconvincing character development, and cheap tricks of convenience with the plot (especially in the last 1/3 of the book) ruined this one for me. Percy was a writer I'd followed diligently until the end of The Wilding. And if you haven't read his short stories, Refesh, Refresh, you should absolutely do so. But now, despite the fact that I like the guy, know his little sister, and think he's written some of the hottest sentences of the last decade, I have a strong resistance to picking up his next book, Red Moon--let alone reading it. If you're into genre benders, line-level circus moves, or learning about craft through the highs and lows, he's an absolutely great writer to study and dissect.
Two final thoughts about books that didn't make the Top Five, but could have: To Embroider the Ground with Prayer is one of my favorite books of poetry. It simply didn't make my Top Five because I read and write prose, and therefore am more apt to select those as "favorites" because I'm actively learning more from those writing in my form (lately, at least). But poet Teresa J. Scollon is a force to follow--a graceful, witty force--and certainly an author whose body of work I will follow for years to come. Last, A Few Short Sentences About Writing didn't make the cut, but if I was writing a Top Five for books on the craft of writing, this would be the #1 book on writing...that I've ever read. So if you teach writing, this is absolutely not to be missed.
When it's all said and done, we read books to find a little of ourselves within them, and who we are is constantly changing. It only makes sense that some years a book will strike, and others it won't. Given that, I can still say there are a few salient features to a story that takes my breath away: complex and fallible characters that reveal their depth over time, descriptive language that bursts at the line-level and arc level with both metaphor and sensory detail, and unforgettable circumstances that might have otherwise seemed mundane. With that, in no particular order, here's this year's Top Five:
1. Plainsong by Kent Haruf: Talk about conjuring a world...this unforgettable novel is one of many by this author who brings to life the residents of fictional Holt, Colorado. Haruf is a master at the art of exclusion, dropping just enough descriptive detail into a moment to keep the reader curious. He can describe a dimly lit room with a woman sleeping in it in such a way that you get the sense that woman has an entire history all her own, and if you just keep reading, you'll come to know that history and never see that woman or that room in the same way ever again. Without high drama, Haruf conjures emotions so distinct, genuine, and of the earth that you'll swear you've been to Holt, heard the rumors, voted in town elections, and fought for what you believe in. Can I say this without sounding cliche? This book is a masterpiece.
2. The Long Walk by Brian Casnter: Hands down, the best Iraq war memoir that I've ever read. Keep in mind, I'm reading for insight into the deeply personal. I'm reading because I'm interested in the shifting nature of identity. And I'm quite technically and personally obsessed with how people react to circumstances that seemingly have no appropriate response. If I was reading for history, tactics, or on-the-ground reportage, I'd point readers toward something else (such as Kaboom by Matt Gallagher or Horse Soldiers by Doug Stanton [Afghanistan]). But three years into war literature, this was the book for me and it came to me at exactly the right time--after Flashes of War and before deep revisions on my novel-in-progress. I can't say Castner's own insights (which are real, remember--this is memoir) are impacting my use of character development for fictional Nathan--not at all, there's no replicating what's so authentically Casnter's--but I can say that Castner's self-reflection and honesty have given me confidence to narrate through some of the more internal or uncertain moments of my charcater Nathan's fictional experience. Also, as a teacher of memoir, I read this book and sensed immediately that Castner is an intuitive writer. He's not "professionally trained," as they say, though I bristle at that term. What I'm trying to say is, this memoir strikes an enchanting balance: it's clearly something that needed to be said in exactly the way that Castner said it, and I have a feeling Castner was the only one who could have done it. I'm so glad he did.
3. Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout: This might be my first ever Oprah Book Club Top Five book, let alone such a massively read book on my yearly list. Here's my review on Goodreads. Let's just say, at the line level and in terms of character development and believeability, this book had moment after moment that burst off the page.
4. Black Pearls by Louise Hawes: Here's an example of being in the right place at the right time. I was sitting on my couch in the Airstream, reading a stack of Louis Hawes' books in anticipation of introducing her at the 2013 Interlochen College of Creative Arts Writer's Retreat. I picked up Black Pearls, more for "teen readers" (if you believe labels and shelving and marketing), and I couldn't put it down. "Cinderella" from the perspective of Prince Charming? "Snow White" from the perspective of a pervy little dwarf? "Hanzel & Gretel" re-envisioned? Yes, please. These are the kinds of stories that you read and wish you had written yourself. They're delightful, surprising, dark, beautiful, and imaginitive. Best of all, they're not dumbed down. The lessons on the nature of humankind ring loud and clear through Hawes' natural gift for storytelling and use of haunting, precise, metaphors that simultaneously create vivid images and distinct emotions. Buy this book for a friend, but read it first yourself. You'll tear through it and never forget it.5. Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson: Like Salinger's Catcher in the Rye or Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion or even Hemingway's Nick Adams Stories, Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son creates a delicate, grotesque, underworld from the fringes of society in a matter of pages. While Johnson's world might not be as pretty as Hemingway's, it's precise and sparse in the same ways. How can a writer conjure so much depth in so few words? With so few curliques and tricks on the page? It's a rhythmic, gritty, kind of thing and I don't quite have the words for it but I know it when I see it. Author Thom Jones can do this, too, and Steve Almond's older work (My Life in Heavy Metal) nails this as well. In Jesus' Son, readers get to follow the same narrator from story to story, binge to binge, and even from stalker to sobered up and through this Johnson has written a world that makes it hard to deny how fragile and strange human beings are. We are a weird, harmful, and gentle species. That sentence seems impossible. Yet Johnson's writing makes it true...and in so doing, helps us see a little more clearly into the human predicament.
I'll offer an addendum by saying that Just Kids, the memoir by Patti Smith, came very close to making the Top Five, but ultimately did not because I found that her ability to step back and reflect on the experiences she shared was lacking. To do this in the middle of her chapters would have broken the trance she so aptly created--especially because so much of the tiny art world she described and took part in was selfish and self-referential. Interrupting that and reflecting might have shattered the glass around the world Smith worked so hard to construct. But an epilogue could have provided reflection and further meaning or context, and that's what this reader needed for the coda of Just Kids.
Another close second was The Wilding by Benjamin Percy, but believability, unresolved/unconvincing character development, and cheap tricks of convenience with the plot (especially in the last 1/3 of the book) ruined this one for me. Percy was a writer I'd followed diligently until the end of The Wilding. And if you haven't read his short stories, Refesh, Refresh, you should absolutely do so. But now, despite the fact that I like the guy, know his little sister, and think he's written some of the hottest sentences of the last decade, I have a strong resistance to picking up his next book, Red Moon--let alone reading it. If you're into genre benders, line-level circus moves, or learning about craft through the highs and lows, he's an absolutely great writer to study and dissect.
Two final thoughts about books that didn't make the Top Five, but could have: To Embroider the Ground with Prayer is one of my favorite books of poetry. It simply didn't make my Top Five because I read and write prose, and therefore am more apt to select those as "favorites" because I'm actively learning more from those writing in my form (lately, at least). But poet Teresa J. Scollon is a force to follow--a graceful, witty force--and certainly an author whose body of work I will follow for years to come. Last, A Few Short Sentences About Writing didn't make the cut, but if I was writing a Top Five for books on the craft of writing, this would be the #1 book on writing...that I've ever read. So if you teach writing, this is absolutely not to be missed.
December 23, 2013
2013 Book List
Well, it's another year in books, folks, and although I'm certain I'll read a book over the holiday, the time has come once again for my annual book list. Looks like I read 33 books this year, plus the Sunday New York Times (um...it's really thick) and 3 manuscript critiques. In 2013, I also began using Goodreads, so if you prefer reviews, you can get more details here. Miss last year's list? Here it is. And if you're really into shelving and how authors organize their books, check out this guest post I wrote for David Abrams about my Airstream library. Thursday's post will feature my top 5 from 2013, with written explanations and writerly musings. Meantime:
1. To Embroider the Ground with Prayer by Teresa J. Scollon
2. Eleven Days by Lea Carpenter
3. The Long Walk by Brian Castner
4. Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout
5. Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson
6. The Cellist of Sarajevo by Stephen Galloway
7. The Watch by Joydeep Roy Bhattacharya
8. Just Kids by Patti Smith
9. Raven Girl by Audrey Niffenegger
10. The Shambhala Principle by Sakyong Mipham
11. Contents May Have Shifted by Pam Houston
12. Traveling Light: Chasing the Illuminated Life by Deborah Marchant
13. Homebody/Kabul by Tony Kushner
14. Rosey in the Present Tense by Louise Hawes
15. Black Pearls by Louise Hawes
16. Pulling Down the Barn by Anne-Marie Oomen
17. The Places In Between by Rory Stewart
18. Charms Against Lightning by James Arthuer
19. Baghdad Burning by Riverbend
20. In My Father's Country by Saima Wahab
21. Fobbit by David Abrams
22. American Salvage by Bonnie Jo Campbell
23. Several Short Sentences About Writing by Verlyn Kilnkenborg
24. The Owning Stone by Jim Peterson
25. The Wilding by Benjamin Percy
26. Stardog by Jack Driscoll
27. A Hundred and One Days by Asne Seierstad
28. Stickelbacks and Snowglobes by B.A. Goodjohn
29. This is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz
30. Plainsong by Kent Haruf
31. Flashes of War by...um... (yes, I actually re-read it when it came out, for the first time in over a year and a half--such a strange experience)
32. Kaboom by Matt Gallagher
33. Dogs by Abigail DeWitt
1. To Embroider the Ground with Prayer by Teresa J. Scollon
2. Eleven Days by Lea Carpenter
3. The Long Walk by Brian Castner
4. Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout
5. Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson
6. The Cellist of Sarajevo by Stephen Galloway
7. The Watch by Joydeep Roy Bhattacharya
8. Just Kids by Patti Smith
9. Raven Girl by Audrey Niffenegger
10. The Shambhala Principle by Sakyong Mipham
11. Contents May Have Shifted by Pam Houston
12. Traveling Light: Chasing the Illuminated Life by Deborah Marchant
13. Homebody/Kabul by Tony Kushner
14. Rosey in the Present Tense by Louise Hawes
15. Black Pearls by Louise Hawes
16. Pulling Down the Barn by Anne-Marie Oomen
17. The Places In Between by Rory Stewart
18. Charms Against Lightning by James Arthuer
19. Baghdad Burning by Riverbend
20. In My Father's Country by Saima Wahab
21. Fobbit by David Abrams
22. American Salvage by Bonnie Jo Campbell
23. Several Short Sentences About Writing by Verlyn Kilnkenborg
24. The Owning Stone by Jim Peterson
25. The Wilding by Benjamin Percy
26. Stardog by Jack Driscoll
27. A Hundred and One Days by Asne Seierstad
28. Stickelbacks and Snowglobes by B.A. Goodjohn
29. This is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz
30. Plainsong by Kent Haruf
31. Flashes of War by...um... (yes, I actually re-read it when it came out, for the first time in over a year and a half--such a strange experience)
32. Kaboom by Matt Gallagher
33. Dogs by Abigail DeWitt
December 19, 2013
Revising a Novel: Early Reflections
I'm going to be completely honest here: revising the novel has been slow going. I got home around October 19th, flew out again 10 days later, and finally exhaled on November 3rd knowing that I wouldn't get on a plane again until the end of February. The next morning, November 4th, I began my 6am waking ritual and set out to devote 5 mornings a week to working on the novel. (More on that ritual here, in my Avenue Varietal interview.) Some mornings, I put a few hours in at the keyboard and had only a few hundred words to show for it. Others, I read more than I wrote because I was desperately trying to teach myself how to address the craft issues I'm facing by studying how the pros do it. At the end of November, I had devoted 17 out of the 20 designated mornings to the novel but revised only 3 chapters, adding just 9 pages (and of course, cutting/editing others).The first week of December, the pressure finally broke. I had two major insights. First, I realized that there was no way my creative pace could match the pace I maintained while writing Flashes of War. I'm not revising the novel at an artist residency. I'm revising a novel while fully supporting myself financially through my teaching, public speaking, editing, freelancing, and mentoring skills. While it's still absolutely crucial to set aside the time to write, I'm also going to be faced with interrupting that momentum every day in order to do the "other" work--writing-related work that I love, but that indeed breaks the creative rhythm I'm working so hard to nurse along.
Second, I reminded myself
And so December is over halfway through. I kept my goal to work on the novel in the mornings for only one week this month. Other mornings went to taking on two extra paid writing jobs to help cover my expenses from the book tour, as well as about 20 hours sorting belongings in my parents' attic that I could sell (also to pay off the book tour). I viewed these asides as necessary and valid work. I had to pay those bills and that's a reality. The good news? I paid them, on time and in full. The bad news? The little rhythm I'd fostered again was lost to me.
Speaking about this last night with mentor and friend Anne-Marie Oomen, we both agreed that in the bigger picture of things, even a few weeks lost on the novel is not that big of a deal. Since May 27th, I've had 37 public events for the book and over half a dozen radio interviews. That's thrilling and exhausting. It also meant that for months at a time, I didn't take time off. If that time off is happening now, around the holidays with the ones I love, I can't imagine a more fulfilling thing. (For tips on writing through the holidays, check out this awesome post by poet Mendy Knott.) The heart must be filled before it can give out again to the characters on the page. Slow and steady, I'm rejuvenating my creative output. Slow and steady, I'll get there. And of course, by the first week of January, I'll have the edits I've committed to paper on Chapter 4 typed into the computer. I'll be zeroing in on Chapter 5 by the middle of the month. And onward we go...
