Katey Schultz's Blog, page 7
August 25, 2015
The Power of Unplugging
{source}I realize the irony of blogging about best practices for time away from the Internet and email, but just hear me out: Having spent 4 1/2 days off the grid in the Upper Peninsula, joyfully out of cell phone range and wi-fi capabilities, I feel compelled to share a few reflections.We all know or can guess that less distraction and discursiveness in our lives leads to a happier outlook, a feeling of "being present," and an greater overall satisfaction with our circumstances. What may not have occurred to others is how time away can actually improve your focus later, when you do return to Internet-related tasks.
After a much-needed vacation and time to reconnect with the natural world, part of me dreaded seeing what my inbox would look like. But I had a very concrete list of tasks in mind that needed to be accomplished. Brad and I checked out of the campground, loaded up, and headed to a cafe. I had two critiques to complete (on deadline) and gave them my full attention before logging in to email or social media. We had 4 hours at the cafe before we had to leave for our next destination and the work simply needed to get done. I started by doing it.
Rather than letting email be my boss dictate my time, I remained my own boss and focused on the top priorities. Once the critiques were complete, I logged in and sent my private students their critiques. Only then did I turn off the auto-responder on my inbox and begin to address time-sensitive messages. Sounds simple enough, but honestly: How many times do we approach the desk on any given work day and know that there are certain tasks we need to accomplish, but we choose to check email first, then complete the tasks (or worse, put them off one more day)?
Of course, some tasks require logging in to get updated information or instructions before we can complete them, but I hope I'm not the only one guilty of clicking "next" on the screen and continuing through my new messages, even after I've found the information I was looking for. This is the beginning of "going down the rabbit hole," as they say, though it's cleverly disguised as "getting things done." Sure, it is getting things done, but only in the best possible scenarios. Usually, the things we reply to or get pulled into aren't the same as those things that actually need tending at the time. In most scenarios, what actually happens is we let email interrupt our best work, slow our progress, and destroy our focus. All in the name of supposedly getting more done...Hmmm...
A student in a class I recently taught told me she literally schedules her times to check email each day. She never checks it at any other time. I greatly respect this and have developed a somewhat similar model to balance my creative needs with my business needs. No email in the morning before I've done my writing on the novel--that's a given. But what I'm taking away from my time off the grid and from the student I met, is that I'm actually not going to log in to read emails until I've attended to as many other time-sensitive tasks for that day as possible. Only then would I actually need to see what someone might be sending me. After all, my tasks will be complete and I'll be ready for new ones. Chances are pretty good that I'll find new work waiting for me via email. The difference is that now the work will come at me when I'm ready for it, rather than stacking up and creating a sense of overwhelm.
August 13, 2015
Writing Mentorship Opportunities
I'm pleased to announce that I've updated my Writer @ Large business services as I ready to head into another "writing season" with all of my delightful, hard-working Writer @ Large participants. From Alaska to Canada to California to Virginia, and many places in between (Michigan!), I have the honor of mentoring anywhere between 12 and 30 private students at any given time.
What's new? Download the PDF right here.
First of all, I've settled on a twice-yearly occurrence for my popular Weekly Flashes program. The next offering will be in October!
Second, I've streamlined my services offered to artists and arts organizations.
Third, I've added a Google Hangout video chat component to one of my programs, and may experiment with more video offerings as the year unfolds.
I've also raised my rates. This decision is always hard to come by, but as my business continues to grow, the demand does as well. I'm already booking into the summer of 2016 for some services. I've also learned a lot--namely, that about 20% of my earnings go to taxes, that I continue to grow and excel as a teacher, and that I continue to greatly enjoy what I do--giving it my all.
I hope you'll consider signing up for a program that seems right for you. If you're unsure, my email is included on the new Services Flyer.
What's new? Download the PDF right here.
First of all, I've settled on a twice-yearly occurrence for my popular Weekly Flashes program. The next offering will be in October!
Second, I've streamlined my services offered to artists and arts organizations.
Third, I've added a Google Hangout video chat component to one of my programs, and may experiment with more video offerings as the year unfolds.
I've also raised my rates. This decision is always hard to come by, but as my business continues to grow, the demand does as well. I'm already booking into the summer of 2016 for some services. I've also learned a lot--namely, that about 20% of my earnings go to taxes, that I continue to grow and excel as a teacher, and that I continue to greatly enjoy what I do--giving it my all.
I hope you'll consider signing up for a program that seems right for you. If you're unsure, my email is included on the new Services Flyer.
August 10, 2015
Home Away from Home
Brad and I arrived safely at Interlochen Center for the Arts after a long, enjoyable two-day drive from North Carolina. Now that I've been coming here for five years, there's no doubt that Northern Michigan has become a home away from home.
This week, I'll be teaching my annual Making Meaning of our Memories memoir class through Interlochen College of Creative Arts. This is a great continuing ed or professional development program to be aware of, both for beginners or published professionals (and everyone in between). The College's offerings vary and, I must say, one reason I keep coming back as a teacher is that the participants in my classes are always kind, open-minded, well-intentioned, and willing to learn. From retired professors to MFA graduates to empty-nesters, to first-time writing class participants, everyone has something to learn and Interlochen is an inspiring environment to do this in.
I've blogged my reflections and some short teachings from this week-long course in the past, and wanted to share that writing here for those interested in what's going on this week:
Memoir Day 1 (2011)Memoir Day 3 (2013) or here (2011)Memoir Day 4 (2012)Telling Their Stories (2014)Meantime, the view from our lakeside cottage is truly stunning:
This week, I'll be teaching my annual Making Meaning of our Memories memoir class through Interlochen College of Creative Arts. This is a great continuing ed or professional development program to be aware of, both for beginners or published professionals (and everyone in between). The College's offerings vary and, I must say, one reason I keep coming back as a teacher is that the participants in my classes are always kind, open-minded, well-intentioned, and willing to learn. From retired professors to MFA graduates to empty-nesters, to first-time writing class participants, everyone has something to learn and Interlochen is an inspiring environment to do this in.
I've blogged my reflections and some short teachings from this week-long course in the past, and wanted to share that writing here for those interested in what's going on this week:
Memoir Day 1 (2011)Memoir Day 3 (2013) or here (2011)Memoir Day 4 (2012)Telling Their Stories (2014)Meantime, the view from our lakeside cottage is truly stunning:
August 7, 2015
Revising the Novel: "Self-Flagellation of the Final Lap"
My novelist friend from across the river has been away much of the summer. I was supposed to hand my novel over to her on July 10, but then this. Now this (deep focus). Last night, she came over for dinner to talk about process; she with her collection of short stories and me with my first novel. Although two decades separate us in age, and we have very different upbringings (I’m a Pacific Northwesterner; she’s French-American—that’s the short version), we both have a strong love for literary language, wartime stories, ordinary people, raunchy people, and an inexplicable affinity toward what some readers call “the masculine” identity or voice on the page (whatever that means). In any case, we “get” each other, and thank goodness for that. I could never chart the Bermuda Triangle (aka a first novel) without her.
Which is why, after she patiently listened to me explain the steps I’m taking in my process right now—that of interrogating my own work, a la Lisa Cron’s Wired for Story—my novelist friend, in her delightfully direct, French, commanding yet somehow diplomatic manner, relinquished me from any position of authority on my own work. How? She kidnapped my novel.
That’s right. The binder containing 235 printed pages of Still Come Home in its current state of disrepair, sat open on my desk across the room from where we ate. She eyed it. I eyed her eyeing it. It quite honestly did not cross my mind that she would ask to see it. After all, I didn’t hand it over when I said I would, and the academic year has already begun its drumbeat of deadlines in her university professor world. Yet by the end of the evening, she walked out of the Airstream with my novel in her hands and I felt at once relieved, exhausted, terrified, and ready to eat a pint of ice cream.
But before all that, she let me speak first, asking me to explain this interrogation process I’ve been going through.
“…And I know things now…” I said. “Like I know that Nathan’s internal goal is that he wants to be seen as valuable and capable and I know that his external goal is to get through the tour without a soldier dying on his watch and to get home and raise a second child.”
The novelist nodded. Waited. A skeptical eyebrow raised. I thought about guillotines; they had those in France, right? The morbidity of this thought would make her laugh, had I told her at the time (she’s that cool), but I suppose it meant merely that I knew my time was up. I knew she had a deeper secret she was about to share, and that she’d very likely be right.
I continued. “…And I also know that, to Nathan, these two goals are one and the same. In other words, he believes that if he screws up as a soldier or a father, that he is no longer capable. The novel is the story of him learning that you can fuck up and people still love you; that you can do everything right and still be wrong and still come home.” There was a lot more to say—I hadn’t even begun to explain Aaseya in the Afghan narrative thread (which is, in my current estimation, and entire effing pile of putrid barf, except for a few sentences here and there). I leaned back in my chair, breathless, and waited for what my friend might say.
In a nutshell, here’s what she offered: You are no longer in a position to make decisions about your own work. This is the “self-flagellation of the final lap.” You’re absolutely right about Nathan’s internal and external goals, but I don’t know that you—the writer—need to know those things. In fact, I’d argue that knowing those things could kill your novel. You weren’t meant to know those things. The novel is the work of the subconscious. Everything you read in Wired for Story may be right, but that doesn’t mean you have to entertain it.
Devil’s advocate, anyone?
Needless to say, I continued in my attempt at persuasion…but at that point, I was more trying to persuade myself than my friend. I told her about how I needed a sense of a “clock ticking” in the Afghan narrative, because otherwise the tension might not add up. I told her that I needed to make the build up to the details about the change in ROE have a “payoff” so that, when a soldier does die in the end, it happens through a situation that could have been avoided if it hadn’t been for that darn change in ROE. In other words, I told her how I needed to make everything tidy, according to this book…
My novelist friend listened again, so kindly. I mean this fully. She really is a thorough listener. But she’s also a no-bullshit-kinda-writer. She gave it to me straight, in effect advising: This extreme doubt and paralysis part of it. There’s nothing this novel will teach you that will help you with your next novel. There is no such thing as a foundation. This never gets easier. “I don’t enjoy the neuroses that go along with being a writer, but for me there is always story,” she said. “There is always the writing. There is always the freedom in that, the actual act of it. That will never go away for me.”
Her advice flowed further: Don’t kill this thing. You’re closer than you think. You got some good advice but there’s also bad advice. You have to sift through. You can’t take things too far. You’ve done a lot of good already.
By the time she left, I was ready to hand over the pages, albeit part of me still wanted to burst into tears. Tears of relief, of course, because now someone else will at least see what I’ve gotten myself into and perhaps help shed some light on how far (or how close) I may be to getting this beast off my desk.
Night descended and the Aistream grew darker. I turned on the living room/office/dining room light and it shone brighly, illuminating my empty desk. Sure, I can pull up the novel on my computer at any time. But the binder is gone. It’s in someone else’s hands. Maybe that’s for the better, right now. Meantime, I’m still going to do some deep thinking about the concepts in Cron’s book, but I’m not going to be as fervent or thorough. If something makes me queasy, I’m not going to push too hard. If something has the ring of hope, I’ll sit with it and see where it might take me.
Onward. Really. Onward is the only way I want to go.
Which is why, after she patiently listened to me explain the steps I’m taking in my process right now—that of interrogating my own work, a la Lisa Cron’s Wired for Story—my novelist friend, in her delightfully direct, French, commanding yet somehow diplomatic manner, relinquished me from any position of authority on my own work. How? She kidnapped my novel.
That’s right. The binder containing 235 printed pages of Still Come Home in its current state of disrepair, sat open on my desk across the room from where we ate. She eyed it. I eyed her eyeing it. It quite honestly did not cross my mind that she would ask to see it. After all, I didn’t hand it over when I said I would, and the academic year has already begun its drumbeat of deadlines in her university professor world. Yet by the end of the evening, she walked out of the Airstream with my novel in her hands and I felt at once relieved, exhausted, terrified, and ready to eat a pint of ice cream.
But before all that, she let me speak first, asking me to explain this interrogation process I’ve been going through.
“…And I know things now…” I said. “Like I know that Nathan’s internal goal is that he wants to be seen as valuable and capable and I know that his external goal is to get through the tour without a soldier dying on his watch and to get home and raise a second child.”
The novelist nodded. Waited. A skeptical eyebrow raised. I thought about guillotines; they had those in France, right? The morbidity of this thought would make her laugh, had I told her at the time (she’s that cool), but I suppose it meant merely that I knew my time was up. I knew she had a deeper secret she was about to share, and that she’d very likely be right.
I continued. “…And I also know that, to Nathan, these two goals are one and the same. In other words, he believes that if he screws up as a soldier or a father, that he is no longer capable. The novel is the story of him learning that you can fuck up and people still love you; that you can do everything right and still be wrong and still come home.” There was a lot more to say—I hadn’t even begun to explain Aaseya in the Afghan narrative thread (which is, in my current estimation, and entire effing pile of putrid barf, except for a few sentences here and there). I leaned back in my chair, breathless, and waited for what my friend might say.
In a nutshell, here’s what she offered: You are no longer in a position to make decisions about your own work. This is the “self-flagellation of the final lap.” You’re absolutely right about Nathan’s internal and external goals, but I don’t know that you—the writer—need to know those things. In fact, I’d argue that knowing those things could kill your novel. You weren’t meant to know those things. The novel is the work of the subconscious. Everything you read in Wired for Story may be right, but that doesn’t mean you have to entertain it.
Devil’s advocate, anyone?
Needless to say, I continued in my attempt at persuasion…but at that point, I was more trying to persuade myself than my friend. I told her about how I needed a sense of a “clock ticking” in the Afghan narrative, because otherwise the tension might not add up. I told her that I needed to make the build up to the details about the change in ROE have a “payoff” so that, when a soldier does die in the end, it happens through a situation that could have been avoided if it hadn’t been for that darn change in ROE. In other words, I told her how I needed to make everything tidy, according to this book…
My novelist friend listened again, so kindly. I mean this fully. She really is a thorough listener. But she’s also a no-bullshit-kinda-writer. She gave it to me straight, in effect advising: This extreme doubt and paralysis part of it. There’s nothing this novel will teach you that will help you with your next novel. There is no such thing as a foundation. This never gets easier. “I don’t enjoy the neuroses that go along with being a writer, but for me there is always story,” she said. “There is always the writing. There is always the freedom in that, the actual act of it. That will never go away for me.”
Her advice flowed further: Don’t kill this thing. You’re closer than you think. You got some good advice but there’s also bad advice. You have to sift through. You can’t take things too far. You’ve done a lot of good already.
By the time she left, I was ready to hand over the pages, albeit part of me still wanted to burst into tears. Tears of relief, of course, because now someone else will at least see what I’ve gotten myself into and perhaps help shed some light on how far (or how close) I may be to getting this beast off my desk.
Night descended and the Aistream grew darker. I turned on the living room/office/dining room light and it shone brighly, illuminating my empty desk. Sure, I can pull up the novel on my computer at any time. But the binder is gone. It’s in someone else’s hands. Maybe that’s for the better, right now. Meantime, I’m still going to do some deep thinking about the concepts in Cron’s book, but I’m not going to be as fervent or thorough. If something makes me queasy, I’m not going to push too hard. If something has the ring of hope, I’ll sit with it and see where it might take me.
Onward. Really. Onward is the only way I want to go.
August 4, 2015
Revision: An Opportunity to Learn More
Here are some of my revision pages from the novel. I like to call revision "re-visioning."As often as I've traveled to Interlochen Center for the Arts since 2010, I've never seen northern Michigan in the fall. The book tour took me through Ann Arbor and Detroit in September, which was lovely, but still not quite "north" enough for my tastes. This October, however, I'll get my first real dose of fall colors up north. I'd be lying if I didn't confess my preference is still Alaska, but family and distance and life continue to prove to me that going north, rather than north and 5,000 miles west, may be my fate when it comes to seeker cooler climes.
All of which is to say, come join me in Michigan for a 10-hour weekend course in "Deep Revision" I'll be teaching through Interlochen College of Creative Arts. This is open to fiction and nonfiction writers alike. My teaching style is to focus on concrete skills, explainable concepts, and useful (however also challenging) exercises that writers can take home and work with on their own. While I believe in the intuitive power of writing, I also believe that there are skills that can be taught and tools that can be passed along. If someone is going to give me an entire weekend from their life, I want to make it worthwhile. For these reasons, I'll be teaching practical, take-away approaches that we'll learn about in class, practice in class, reflect on, and then send you home with. I hope you'll join me--spaces are already filling! Registration info is here, as well as the schedule. I'll cut and paste the full course description below:
This 10-hour course is designed to empower writers with a variety of workable revision techniques to use when revising memoir, a collection of essays, or fiction of various lengths. Whether trying to revise a stand-alone chapter or considering the broader arc of your full manuscript, these techniques are graspable, effective, and empowering. For sentence-level revision, we’ll consider techniques that focus on verbs and filler words. For structural revision, we’ll study the balance of scene, summary, and reflection and offer “antidotes” to bring a piece of writing back into balance. For overall narrative arc and character development, we’ll study metaphor and what the instructor calls “the essential sentence.” Along the way, you’ll practice each technique using excerpts from your own work in progress. You’ll come away with a greater understanding of your strengths as a writer, as well as systematic tools to address areas for improvement. This course is most suitable to writers who have worked through a partial or complete first draft of a full manuscript, or who have a solid draft of a single chapter/essay/story they can apply our revision techniques to during class exercises. - See more at: http://college.interlochen.org/deepre...
July 31, 2015
Revising the Novel: Deep Focus
Two weeks ago, I blogged about my crisis of faith with the novel. That post also included a plan to handwrite a compressed version of notes on author Lisa Cron's Wired for Story and then, according to this guide, get down to the very hard business of interrogating every move I've made in the novel. Gag me, right? I mean, this is the part where I sit in my chair and SQUIRM because I hate being cornered. I want to write. I want to imagine. I want to put tidy little bows on tidy little scenes and pat myself on the back every once in a while for a damn good metaphor and a knock-out image. I do not want to put my own work in the witness stand and record its deposition.
But, since when has writing a novel ever had anything to do with my own agenda? Um...never.
So, slow and steady, I've been plugging along. First and foremost, I discovered that it's not enough to devote a few hours in the morning to this work. While that approach suits novel writing (that is, the actual writing part) quite well, when the novel is on the witness stand, it's rather rude to leave it sitting there all afternoon while you tend to other things. Nope. Not gonna work. This requires deep focus. This requires all day. I adjusted my schedule, doing all my critiques for private students over the course of several days, buying myself 3 days to work on the novel (and tend to basic emails at least once a day, plus 2 hours of training).
Here's what a typical entry in my handwritten ledger might look like, as I'm walking myself through Cron's checklists and some of my own, modified questions:
Is something at stake on the first page, that the reader can see? Yes. Nathan has to live in order to lead his platoon and keep everyone else live. But he's tired, he knows he has blind spots, he's uncertain about home, and Rachmann is a burr in his side due to a past humiliation and failure.
Is there a sense in the first few pages that all is not as it seems? Yes, there are questions about Shanaz (and why she does what she does) as well as why the Taliban were using American currency in public. There is also a question about the shell casings that Ghazel shows to Aaseya.
Do the protagonist's issue, theme, and plot work together to answer the story question? The issue for Nathan is that he believes he has to do everything right in order to meet his external goals of keeping every soldier on his watch alive, as well as raising another child when he gets home. But according to the theme, right and wrong are subjective and messing up is part of life. This tension leads us to a plot constructed of events where the theme is overlaid against Nathan's efforts, exacerbating the impossibility of his external goals by thwarting his internal goal (to be seen as capable and valuable). Eventually, when a soldier is killed, Nathan's internal and external goals appear to be failures and Nathan feels like he can go no further. The story question is answered: No, Nathan will not succeed in his attempt to keep every man alive. But when Nathan goes home and realizes his goals were impossible (???), the other story question will, in fact be answered: Yes, he can have another chance at fatherhood.
What is the theme? What is the point? The theme (for Aaseya's narrative) is that you can't control your circumstances or how other people see you, but you can control how you decide to see yourself. The theme suggests that even though circumstances are out of our control, we can still find a measure of independence if we are willing to adjust and reframe our worldview and behaviors. The point is that powerlessness does not have to be fueled internally; you can make your own life even in the face of oppression.
Is anyone else's head spinning? Don't get me wrong. Working on this kind of interrogation requires taking breaks. Yes, I'm deeply focused. Yes, I've got all day. But no, I do not know the answer to every question immediately. I have to reread chapters (which involves making some line-level changes as I encounter issues). I have to think about what I've written versus what I think I've shown. I have to think about the hard answer, the deeper answer, the answer that comes not as a first or second thought, but as a whole body insight. Then, I have to humble accept where I find holes, flag them for further revision, write on my handy yellow "What If? cards (for new ideas), and muster the strength to keep going anyway.
Needless to say, this week I've made: macaroons, chocolate moose, ginger cupcakes, granola, blueberry paleo muffins, and some rockin' good dinners. I've also run 20 road miles in 3 days and more bicep/tricep reps than I'll admit publicly. Point is: interrogation takes work, work usually means the good ol' toosh-in-chair method, but can sometimes mean run-like-hell but think while you're running, and always--ALWAYS--come back to the desk. Here's what mine looks like now:
But, since when has writing a novel ever had anything to do with my own agenda? Um...never.
So, slow and steady, I've been plugging along. First and foremost, I discovered that it's not enough to devote a few hours in the morning to this work. While that approach suits novel writing (that is, the actual writing part) quite well, when the novel is on the witness stand, it's rather rude to leave it sitting there all afternoon while you tend to other things. Nope. Not gonna work. This requires deep focus. This requires all day. I adjusted my schedule, doing all my critiques for private students over the course of several days, buying myself 3 days to work on the novel (and tend to basic emails at least once a day, plus 2 hours of training).
Here's what a typical entry in my handwritten ledger might look like, as I'm walking myself through Cron's checklists and some of my own, modified questions:
Is something at stake on the first page, that the reader can see? Yes. Nathan has to live in order to lead his platoon and keep everyone else live. But he's tired, he knows he has blind spots, he's uncertain about home, and Rachmann is a burr in his side due to a past humiliation and failure.
Is there a sense in the first few pages that all is not as it seems? Yes, there are questions about Shanaz (and why she does what she does) as well as why the Taliban were using American currency in public. There is also a question about the shell casings that Ghazel shows to Aaseya.
Do the protagonist's issue, theme, and plot work together to answer the story question? The issue for Nathan is that he believes he has to do everything right in order to meet his external goals of keeping every soldier on his watch alive, as well as raising another child when he gets home. But according to the theme, right and wrong are subjective and messing up is part of life. This tension leads us to a plot constructed of events where the theme is overlaid against Nathan's efforts, exacerbating the impossibility of his external goals by thwarting his internal goal (to be seen as capable and valuable). Eventually, when a soldier is killed, Nathan's internal and external goals appear to be failures and Nathan feels like he can go no further. The story question is answered: No, Nathan will not succeed in his attempt to keep every man alive. But when Nathan goes home and realizes his goals were impossible (???), the other story question will, in fact be answered: Yes, he can have another chance at fatherhood.
What is the theme? What is the point? The theme (for Aaseya's narrative) is that you can't control your circumstances or how other people see you, but you can control how you decide to see yourself. The theme suggests that even though circumstances are out of our control, we can still find a measure of independence if we are willing to adjust and reframe our worldview and behaviors. The point is that powerlessness does not have to be fueled internally; you can make your own life even in the face of oppression.
Is anyone else's head spinning? Don't get me wrong. Working on this kind of interrogation requires taking breaks. Yes, I'm deeply focused. Yes, I've got all day. But no, I do not know the answer to every question immediately. I have to reread chapters (which involves making some line-level changes as I encounter issues). I have to think about what I've written versus what I think I've shown. I have to think about the hard answer, the deeper answer, the answer that comes not as a first or second thought, but as a whole body insight. Then, I have to humble accept where I find holes, flag them for further revision, write on my handy yellow "What If? cards (for new ideas), and muster the strength to keep going anyway.
Needless to say, this week I've made: macaroons, chocolate moose, ginger cupcakes, granola, blueberry paleo muffins, and some rockin' good dinners. I've also run 20 road miles in 3 days and more bicep/tricep reps than I'll admit publicly. Point is: interrogation takes work, work usually means the good ol' toosh-in-chair method, but can sometimes mean run-like-hell but think while you're running, and always--ALWAYS--come back to the desk. Here's what mine looks like now:
July 28, 2015
War Lit Authors I'm Happy to Know (via The Daily Beast)
I'm very excited to share that author Jesse Goolsby selected "15 Great Books About Iraq & Afghanistan" in an essay for The Daily Beast. The list include Flashes of War and is published with author names, book titles, and opening lines alongside Goolsby's commentary right here. After I got over the shock of seeing my book on The Daily Beast (Brad and I were driving back from a weekend event in D.C. and my phone started going nutso thanks to a Twitter feed, but my phone isn't "smart" so it took me a while to put the pieces together.), I read the article in full and my first impression was how grateful I felt to have met and presented alongside almost every author on Goolsby's list.
(Screenshot from The Daily Beast )Hands down, I can say this is a smart, kind, considerate, and hard-thinking group. I'm lucky to be included, and flattered. These authors are not people who shy away from tough questions. They're also not people who veer toward easy answers. Going down the list, I've met 7 of the 14 other authors and read 11 of the 14 other books. That doesn't mean the war lit world is incestuous. It means that we seek and find the people and viewpoints we need the most--whether we need them for support, to expand our horizons, or to teach us more about what we love. It's a good family to be a part of and it would not be an exaggeration for me to say that I'm grateful for that every day.
For those who want to know more, here's the run down of this great crew (at least, the ones I know). In brief: I've presented at AWP with Jehanne Dubrow (Stateside) and will present for the Rose O'Neill Literary House poetry series she directs in July 2016. Her contributions to the conversation immediately set the bar high, blending academic inquiry with matters of the heart. I've presented at South Dakota State University and AWP with Brian Turner (Phantom Noise). He is generous, hilarious, and intuitive. A great "off the cuff" teacher. Author Siobhan Fallon (You Know When the Men Are Gone) and I presented at AWP as well, and secretly hoped to meet each other for years. This woman is whip-smart, fun, kind, and immediately put me at ease. I loved spending time with her.
David Abrams (Fobbit) and I also met at South Dakota State University, but I "knew" him for years before that through his noteworthy blog, The Quivering Pen. David is humble, a true book-lover, and always outwardly directed toward other people. A model literary citizen. Benjamin Busch (Dust to Dust) and I toured together in Michigan, presented at AWP, crossed paths and Interlochen, and just generally slung emails back and forth for quite some time as our books met the world. He's often called a "Renaissance man," for his work in photography, film, screenplays, poetry, and memoir.
National Book Award winner Phil Klay (Redeployment) and I also presented at AWP and while our interactions were brief, I very much enjoyed hearing him talk about the art of the sentence. Kayla Williams (Plenty of Time When We Get Home) and I presented together in Bethesda, MD at The Writer's Center, and likewise shared supportive emails through cyberspace as we alternately encountered new experiences with our books. I like to tell people that she is the author whose books are saving lives every day.
Goolsby's list is a fine start and survey of an ever-growing dialogue. I can only hope that one day, we all have something else to write about. Something that still covers the terrain of the human heart, but is wishfully far from the landscape of 21st Century warfare. Until our wars end, though, I look to this crew to help me make sense of the mess day in and day out.
(Screenshot from The Daily Beast )Hands down, I can say this is a smart, kind, considerate, and hard-thinking group. I'm lucky to be included, and flattered. These authors are not people who shy away from tough questions. They're also not people who veer toward easy answers. Going down the list, I've met 7 of the 14 other authors and read 11 of the 14 other books. That doesn't mean the war lit world is incestuous. It means that we seek and find the people and viewpoints we need the most--whether we need them for support, to expand our horizons, or to teach us more about what we love. It's a good family to be a part of and it would not be an exaggeration for me to say that I'm grateful for that every day.
For those who want to know more, here's the run down of this great crew (at least, the ones I know). In brief: I've presented at AWP with Jehanne Dubrow (Stateside) and will present for the Rose O'Neill Literary House poetry series she directs in July 2016. Her contributions to the conversation immediately set the bar high, blending academic inquiry with matters of the heart. I've presented at South Dakota State University and AWP with Brian Turner (Phantom Noise). He is generous, hilarious, and intuitive. A great "off the cuff" teacher. Author Siobhan Fallon (You Know When the Men Are Gone) and I presented at AWP as well, and secretly hoped to meet each other for years. This woman is whip-smart, fun, kind, and immediately put me at ease. I loved spending time with her.
David Abrams (Fobbit) and I also met at South Dakota State University, but I "knew" him for years before that through his noteworthy blog, The Quivering Pen. David is humble, a true book-lover, and always outwardly directed toward other people. A model literary citizen. Benjamin Busch (Dust to Dust) and I toured together in Michigan, presented at AWP, crossed paths and Interlochen, and just generally slung emails back and forth for quite some time as our books met the world. He's often called a "Renaissance man," for his work in photography, film, screenplays, poetry, and memoir.
National Book Award winner Phil Klay (Redeployment) and I also presented at AWP and while our interactions were brief, I very much enjoyed hearing him talk about the art of the sentence. Kayla Williams (Plenty of Time When We Get Home) and I presented together in Bethesda, MD at The Writer's Center, and likewise shared supportive emails through cyberspace as we alternately encountered new experiences with our books. I like to tell people that she is the author whose books are saving lives every day.
Goolsby's list is a fine start and survey of an ever-growing dialogue. I can only hope that one day, we all have something else to write about. Something that still covers the terrain of the human heart, but is wishfully far from the landscape of 21st Century warfare. Until our wars end, though, I look to this crew to help me make sense of the mess day in and day out.
July 24, 2015
10th Blogiversary
It's hard to believe that, 10 years ago, The Writing Life Blog began. I wasn't yet a writer. I was a 26-year-old coffee-loving, mountain-loving, Oregonian living in rural Appalachia who had worked herself so hard as a middle school teacher, she'd worked herself sick. I mean that quite literally. I loved teaching teens--and the school I worked for even paid for my Montessori Certification. It was an incredible community to be a part of. But three years and $4,000 worth of medical testing (the school paid for that, too, thankfully) later, the verdict was in: you're stressed.
That was putting it mildly. I'll spare readers the physiological details of what that level of stress looks and feels like on the body. Suffice it to say that, at a relatively young age, I crossed a bridge. There would be no going back to teaching full time. Ever. Again. I swore to it and I meant every syllable. I had no regret about "losing" this career. No guilt. I knew with every cell in my body that I could never, ever work in an environment again where there was always more to be done. Teens and boarding schools in particular are a tough setup for that, and the combination proved more than my younger self could handle. I also learned that I needed to get a grip on my own limits. What would "balance" look like? Time to try and find out.
I told the school I wasn't coming back at the end of that academic year. I moved across the river into an off the grid cabin and bartered for my rent. I put in a kitchen sink and water line. I peed into a bucket on the porch. I pooped and showered at the neighbor's house. For rent, my barter was raking, splitting and hauling wood, housesitting, weeding, and various other tasks on the 5 acres owned by the owners of the off the grid cabin. I lived right up against the Black Mountains, the highest range in the east. I decided I'd spend some time writing to prepare a portfolio of my best nonfiction and apply to graduate school. I had free rent and my parents had recently moved from Oregon to North Carolina, so I didn't feel like moving. I loved the South Toe Valley. I opted for low-res MFA programs only, and researched them online with dial-up Internet access, there in the middle of the woods, in a tiny little cabin.
I had enough saved to get by for a while, but I did need work. I did the only thing a Portlander looking for work ever does: I applied for work as a barista. Thing was, at the time, there were only 2 coffee shops in all of Mitchell and Yancey Counties. One was in downtown Spruce Pine and used only "to go" styrofoam and didn't wash the wand between foaming cow's milk and soy milk. The Oregonian in me couldn't get near that place, and still won't. The other was at a place called Penland School of Crafts. They had an opening for two shifts a week, 9-11pm at night. It was 30 minutes away. I lost most of my wages in gas but I didn't care. It was work, it was community, and it was free coffee.
Fast forward three years and I'd earned my MFA from Pacific University, worked up to Assistant Manager at the Coffeehouse (25 hours a week, plus 10 meals per week, plus health insurance, plus paid winter lay-off). Things were looking good.
Winter of 2009, my graduate loans kicked in, the Great Recession roared, and I was laid off. After a mild freak out, I hit the road. For three years. There were too many people like me out there in the world--recently graduated MFAer, qualified to teach, glowing references, the whole bit. I had to do something to make myself different. I had to do something that would end with a book, a fellowship, or some sort of self-employment that enabled me to live simply and write forever and ever. My dream was that simple. It still is.
Don't get me wrong--I had many doubts. There were a lot of tears on the road. I threw fits. I was not always graceful. I asked for too much. I had bad timing. But I also smiled widely. Helped others. Volunteered. Had great timing. Made friends. Taught children. And wrote something about a very tender subject in the American psyche. Other people liked it enough to publish it. That, plus the memories, made it all worthwhile.
I guess I'm saying all of this, because in retrospect, I had no idea what I was doing on dial-up Internet access in the backroom of the Penland Coffeehouse that first night after my first shift in my "new job." There were these things called blogs, and in 2005 they sounded nifty and new. I thought I'd start one. The manager had me come in early that day to work with her and train, before the evening shift. I decided to write about it. Here's a screenshot of that first post, in full, way back when LiveJournal was all the rage:
That's it. A scene. It marks a beginning, though, a leap of faith. Now, The Writing Life attracts almost 10,000 monthly viewers. I feel connected, in ways both big and small. This connection, however anonymous, has provided a space and invitation for 1,953 blog entries over 10 years. While I prefer to use this space to celebrate new ideas, raise questions, or capture a moment, today I want to use it to say THANK YOU for reading. Without you, without this, thousands of words would never have been written, and surely as many road miles would never have felt possible. Last but not least, I never would have found my way home.
That was putting it mildly. I'll spare readers the physiological details of what that level of stress looks and feels like on the body. Suffice it to say that, at a relatively young age, I crossed a bridge. There would be no going back to teaching full time. Ever. Again. I swore to it and I meant every syllable. I had no regret about "losing" this career. No guilt. I knew with every cell in my body that I could never, ever work in an environment again where there was always more to be done. Teens and boarding schools in particular are a tough setup for that, and the combination proved more than my younger self could handle. I also learned that I needed to get a grip on my own limits. What would "balance" look like? Time to try and find out.
I told the school I wasn't coming back at the end of that academic year. I moved across the river into an off the grid cabin and bartered for my rent. I put in a kitchen sink and water line. I peed into a bucket on the porch. I pooped and showered at the neighbor's house. For rent, my barter was raking, splitting and hauling wood, housesitting, weeding, and various other tasks on the 5 acres owned by the owners of the off the grid cabin. I lived right up against the Black Mountains, the highest range in the east. I decided I'd spend some time writing to prepare a portfolio of my best nonfiction and apply to graduate school. I had free rent and my parents had recently moved from Oregon to North Carolina, so I didn't feel like moving. I loved the South Toe Valley. I opted for low-res MFA programs only, and researched them online with dial-up Internet access, there in the middle of the woods, in a tiny little cabin.
I had enough saved to get by for a while, but I did need work. I did the only thing a Portlander looking for work ever does: I applied for work as a barista. Thing was, at the time, there were only 2 coffee shops in all of Mitchell and Yancey Counties. One was in downtown Spruce Pine and used only "to go" styrofoam and didn't wash the wand between foaming cow's milk and soy milk. The Oregonian in me couldn't get near that place, and still won't. The other was at a place called Penland School of Crafts. They had an opening for two shifts a week, 9-11pm at night. It was 30 minutes away. I lost most of my wages in gas but I didn't care. It was work, it was community, and it was free coffee.
Fast forward three years and I'd earned my MFA from Pacific University, worked up to Assistant Manager at the Coffeehouse (25 hours a week, plus 10 meals per week, plus health insurance, plus paid winter lay-off). Things were looking good.
Winter of 2009, my graduate loans kicked in, the Great Recession roared, and I was laid off. After a mild freak out, I hit the road. For three years. There were too many people like me out there in the world--recently graduated MFAer, qualified to teach, glowing references, the whole bit. I had to do something to make myself different. I had to do something that would end with a book, a fellowship, or some sort of self-employment that enabled me to live simply and write forever and ever. My dream was that simple. It still is.
Don't get me wrong--I had many doubts. There were a lot of tears on the road. I threw fits. I was not always graceful. I asked for too much. I had bad timing. But I also smiled widely. Helped others. Volunteered. Had great timing. Made friends. Taught children. And wrote something about a very tender subject in the American psyche. Other people liked it enough to publish it. That, plus the memories, made it all worthwhile.
I guess I'm saying all of this, because in retrospect, I had no idea what I was doing on dial-up Internet access in the backroom of the Penland Coffeehouse that first night after my first shift in my "new job." There were these things called blogs, and in 2005 they sounded nifty and new. I thought I'd start one. The manager had me come in early that day to work with her and train, before the evening shift. I decided to write about it. Here's a screenshot of that first post, in full, way back when LiveJournal was all the rage:
That's it. A scene. It marks a beginning, though, a leap of faith. Now, The Writing Life attracts almost 10,000 monthly viewers. I feel connected, in ways both big and small. This connection, however anonymous, has provided a space and invitation for 1,953 blog entries over 10 years. While I prefer to use this space to celebrate new ideas, raise questions, or capture a moment, today I want to use it to say THANK YOU for reading. Without you, without this, thousands of words would never have been written, and surely as many road miles would never have felt possible. Last but not least, I never would have found my way home.
July 21, 2015
Smart Surprise in Flash Fiction
This week I've thrown myself full bore into developing course content using Haiku Learning, an online platform that hosts courses for instructors and learning institutions across the world. This course, which will launch February 2016 as Interlochen College of Creative Arts' first ever online class, will devote 4 weeks to flash fiction. As much as I prefer teaching in person or engaging through long-term one-on-one mentorships, I have to confess that I've been surprised at how much fun putting together an interactive class feels.
I have tools at my fingertips that typically don't come into play when I'm mentoring: videos, audio clips, screen casts, excerpts, quotes from conductors, digital distribution rights, slideshows, images of sculptures, and more...not to mention widgets. Weather? Twitter feed? World map? Slideshow? Polls? What once seemed like a potential time-suck now seems like a well-meaning tool. These things do have an appropriate place in the online classroom and I can envision how they'll connect my students and incite conversations across the wire. A widget alone can't do that, but a widget with a teacher who puts something in context using a platform that encourages creative thought and considerate communication can. What can I say? I'm stoked!
Meantime, I've also been writing lectures for the course, and was happy to find a moment this week to sit down and ponder that age-old craft question: What is smart surprise? When it comes to flash, I have a thing or two to say about this. Here's an excerpt:
Smart surprise refers to an insight or revelation previously unknown to the character and/or the reader, as it pertains to the story. We might be able to tell that Mel isn't living up to his potential just by reading about the way he sloppily collates documents. We might even get a little annoyed that he isn't applying himself--he's earning well above minimum wage, after all, and didn't his parents just pick up his car insurance bill? Smart surprise comes into play when readers get to see Mel realize he isn't living up to his own potential, though, and in this way the internal struggle Mel's been bottling up (and hasn't even been able to articulate for himself) finally meets the external world when he experiences epiphany. That's smart. That's surprise. It may not blow the roof off your head, but it certainly speaks to the human predicament and makes an impression.
{source}Exactly how a writer decides to show Mel's realization is up to the writer, but whatever happens, the very action that incites change in Mel needs to be carefully selected. For instance, let's say the mail clerk brings Mel a pink envelope sprayed with perfume and, as he slowly lifts the paper to his nostrils, he realizes he's not living up to his potential. He asks the mail clerk on a date and he sees that his life is small and unrealized and he resolves to change. That's too easy--we all know as much. Why is it too easy? Because readers aren't likely to believe the pink envelope was enough to incite change in Mel, since the pink envelope has nothing to do with his actual desire. His desire is not to share his life with someone (at least, not yet). His desire is to live up to his potential. To, perhaps, be the kind of person who doesn't let the Grand Canyon slip by on a road trip [as previously discussed]. So as tempting as the mail clerk's pink envelope might be, it's probably not the "smartest" route toward encouraging convincing revelation for Mel. A better fit might be something that more directly and clearly relates to the source of Mel's longing.Instead of a pink envelope, perhaps Mel witnesses an epic thunderstorm during his lunch break, high up on the 38th floor at corporate headquarters. What about this thunderstorm might cause Mel to start to see his own life as lackluster? How can the storm and his reaction to the storm be described in such a way that Mel takes pause as his internal struggle meets the world? Like the Grand Canyon, the storm is a natural phenomenon that inspires awe. Like the spring break when Mel watched, nose pressed to the car window while his bully-of-a-friend drove on by...he's watching the storm from a window at work--at once so close, but so far. The inciting incident of the storm, then, "echoes" the moment of longing from his past. This echo subconsciously provides a more convincing (read: "smart") point of revelation for Mel. Do we believe that whatever he saw in that storm lead him to apply for the opening on the Development Team and nail the interview, surprising everyone on the 38th floor on down? Yes, yes we do. At least, we believe it more than we'd believe the pink envelope, and in the world of flash, that belief is worth its weight in gold.
I have tools at my fingertips that typically don't come into play when I'm mentoring: videos, audio clips, screen casts, excerpts, quotes from conductors, digital distribution rights, slideshows, images of sculptures, and more...not to mention widgets. Weather? Twitter feed? World map? Slideshow? Polls? What once seemed like a potential time-suck now seems like a well-meaning tool. These things do have an appropriate place in the online classroom and I can envision how they'll connect my students and incite conversations across the wire. A widget alone can't do that, but a widget with a teacher who puts something in context using a platform that encourages creative thought and considerate communication can. What can I say? I'm stoked!
Meantime, I've also been writing lectures for the course, and was happy to find a moment this week to sit down and ponder that age-old craft question: What is smart surprise? When it comes to flash, I have a thing or two to say about this. Here's an excerpt:
Smart surprise refers to an insight or revelation previously unknown to the character and/or the reader, as it pertains to the story. We might be able to tell that Mel isn't living up to his potential just by reading about the way he sloppily collates documents. We might even get a little annoyed that he isn't applying himself--he's earning well above minimum wage, after all, and didn't his parents just pick up his car insurance bill? Smart surprise comes into play when readers get to see Mel realize he isn't living up to his own potential, though, and in this way the internal struggle Mel's been bottling up (and hasn't even been able to articulate for himself) finally meets the external world when he experiences epiphany. That's smart. That's surprise. It may not blow the roof off your head, but it certainly speaks to the human predicament and makes an impression.
{source}Exactly how a writer decides to show Mel's realization is up to the writer, but whatever happens, the very action that incites change in Mel needs to be carefully selected. For instance, let's say the mail clerk brings Mel a pink envelope sprayed with perfume and, as he slowly lifts the paper to his nostrils, he realizes he's not living up to his potential. He asks the mail clerk on a date and he sees that his life is small and unrealized and he resolves to change. That's too easy--we all know as much. Why is it too easy? Because readers aren't likely to believe the pink envelope was enough to incite change in Mel, since the pink envelope has nothing to do with his actual desire. His desire is not to share his life with someone (at least, not yet). His desire is to live up to his potential. To, perhaps, be the kind of person who doesn't let the Grand Canyon slip by on a road trip [as previously discussed]. So as tempting as the mail clerk's pink envelope might be, it's probably not the "smartest" route toward encouraging convincing revelation for Mel. A better fit might be something that more directly and clearly relates to the source of Mel's longing.Instead of a pink envelope, perhaps Mel witnesses an epic thunderstorm during his lunch break, high up on the 38th floor at corporate headquarters. What about this thunderstorm might cause Mel to start to see his own life as lackluster? How can the storm and his reaction to the storm be described in such a way that Mel takes pause as his internal struggle meets the world? Like the Grand Canyon, the storm is a natural phenomenon that inspires awe. Like the spring break when Mel watched, nose pressed to the car window while his bully-of-a-friend drove on by...he's watching the storm from a window at work--at once so close, but so far. The inciting incident of the storm, then, "echoes" the moment of longing from his past. This echo subconsciously provides a more convincing (read: "smart") point of revelation for Mel. Do we believe that whatever he saw in that storm lead him to apply for the opening on the Development Team and nail the interview, surprising everyone on the 38th floor on down? Yes, yes we do. At least, we believe it more than we'd believe the pink envelope, and in the world of flash, that belief is worth its weight in gold.
July 17, 2015
Arrowmont School of Arts & Crafts: Writer-in-Residence
Friends following The Writing Life on Facebook will know that I spent last week in Gatlinburg, TN as the first Writer-in-Residence in the 100+ year history of Arrowmont School of Arts & Crafts. This opportunity came about as a result of years of conversations between administration leadership and board members, as well as more recent informal conversations between myself and Program Director Nick DeFord (who is also an artist).
In short, the school had reached a point where it was ready to discuss dates and numbers, getting real with this very knew and unknown programming element incorporating writers. Arrowmont is and has been a place where people go to have conversations. Yes, they go to make art, to learn, to connect, and to be challenged. But they also go for connection through that age-old medium of language. Writers, it seemed, ought to be a natural part of that selling point.
For my part, I had nearly given up on the idea of finding a place that provided an equal home for literary fiction and arts writing. Indeed, those two parts of my writing life have been kept so separate, most readers of this blog aren't even aware that I've written over 70 essays featuring contemporary American craft artists and their creative processes. It's a "side job" as a freelancer for various publications, but it's also a deeply gratifying fascination I've maintained ever since I enrolled in my first aesthetics course as a Philosophy major in undergrad. I love thinking critically, deeply, and precisely about the parallels between an artist's conceptual and technical processes and the final form and function of any given piece of finished artwork. Sound heady? Maybe so. But it's become my job to avoid headiness, and in that regard, to also avoid "art speak" (saying nothing while attempting to sound like you're saying everything). As often as possible, my art essays are written in 1st person and include dialogue, scene, descriptive detail, and of course--information about the work itself.
After an afternoon of one-on-one tutorials assisting artists with their artist statements, web content, and marketing strategies, I was invited into the Figurative Clay studio for a general talk about approaching magazines and freelance writers, and advocating for yourself and your work in the print media world. A great conversation was had by all!
But let's get back to that buzz word in my opening sentence: Gatlinburg. That's right, folks, the "Vegas of the South." If you're into the arts, chances are pretty good you're not into Vegas. Or at least, when you think of "making art," the last place you want to go is Vegas. So, too, here in the South. If you're into "making art," you think in terms of peace, quiet, Appalachian history, tradition, solitude, or a carefully selected and intentionally secluded community. You don't think of arcades, BOGO Big Gulps, casinos, and neon lights bursting over the Smoky Mountains.
Yet despite the fact that this school is located just a few dozen meters off the Parkway drag of Gatlinburg, it is a world unto itself. Trust me. I'm a picky writer who is obsessive about sights and sounds, grumpy about interruption, and obsessively attuned to the natural world. I live in a quiet, private, beautiful place. Why would I leave all that just to be near "the strip"? Because Arrowmont is a place where the conversation starts. Who knows what talking to the painter, whose work has been "translated" into tapestries woven in Mexico might lead to the next time I sit down at the desk? Who knows what material my enter a ceramicists mind after we shared lunch, talking about the meditative parallels between the spinning potter's wheel and the click of buttons across a keyboard?
I wrote several thousand words a day while at Arrowmont, and that was just putting in half-days at the desk (I spend afternoons wandering the studios or meeting one-on-one with artists). Even walking outside, along the sloping lawns or curved gravel pathways, the sights and sounds of the very nearby strip were nearly invisible and inaudible. What did I hear instead? Cicadas. Laughter. An impromptu picnic. A pot of dye hissing on the burner outside the Textiles studio. What did I smell? Smoke from the wood-fired Anagama kiln. Cedar shavings from the wood-turning class. A pleasant must from wool being woven into tapestries. Freshly baked muffins. Coffee, coffee, and thankyouverymuch more coffee. What did I see, taste, touch? I could go on for pages...
In five short days, I came away with a very clear feeling that writers are needed on craft campuses. Not only because many writers can more readily "put words to" other artists mediums than those artists themselves. (Ask a glassblower to write an artist statement, and he might simply turn up his iPod and pretend you're not even there--for many artists, the written word is simply not fun.) But because the conversation works both ways. I certainly couldn't write my novel in blown glass, but I might feel the wall of heat walking into the hot shop and incorporate details from that sensory experience into the scene I'm writing in my novel right now, which takes place in a desert. Art inspires life inspires art, just as the wood-turned bowl shown in this photograph inspired a textiles artist to make a unique dye that highlighted the grain, which in turn inspired me to take a photo and share it, which then lead to an interesting conversation on Facebook in which a fellow writer told me about a childhood memory she had of her father's wood shop. Will that memory turn into an essay? Quite possibly.
But more than anything, what this week instilled in me is that there's genuine joy in connecting with other artists. No matter what your medium or what you're making--or even if what you make falls apart in the end, gets deleted, or breaks during firing--it's beneficial to put ourselves in situations where conversations can happen. Across mediums, across cultures, across campus. Arrowmont made that possible, and by including me as Writer-in-Residence, it was also financially and professionally viable. I learned, I helped, I wrote, I worked. And I certainly hope to go back.
In short, the school had reached a point where it was ready to discuss dates and numbers, getting real with this very knew and unknown programming element incorporating writers. Arrowmont is and has been a place where people go to have conversations. Yes, they go to make art, to learn, to connect, and to be challenged. But they also go for connection through that age-old medium of language. Writers, it seemed, ought to be a natural part of that selling point.
For my part, I had nearly given up on the idea of finding a place that provided an equal home for literary fiction and arts writing. Indeed, those two parts of my writing life have been kept so separate, most readers of this blog aren't even aware that I've written over 70 essays featuring contemporary American craft artists and their creative processes. It's a "side job" as a freelancer for various publications, but it's also a deeply gratifying fascination I've maintained ever since I enrolled in my first aesthetics course as a Philosophy major in undergrad. I love thinking critically, deeply, and precisely about the parallels between an artist's conceptual and technical processes and the final form and function of any given piece of finished artwork. Sound heady? Maybe so. But it's become my job to avoid headiness, and in that regard, to also avoid "art speak" (saying nothing while attempting to sound like you're saying everything). As often as possible, my art essays are written in 1st person and include dialogue, scene, descriptive detail, and of course--information about the work itself.
After an afternoon of one-on-one tutorials assisting artists with their artist statements, web content, and marketing strategies, I was invited into the Figurative Clay studio for a general talk about approaching magazines and freelance writers, and advocating for yourself and your work in the print media world. A great conversation was had by all!But let's get back to that buzz word in my opening sentence: Gatlinburg. That's right, folks, the "Vegas of the South." If you're into the arts, chances are pretty good you're not into Vegas. Or at least, when you think of "making art," the last place you want to go is Vegas. So, too, here in the South. If you're into "making art," you think in terms of peace, quiet, Appalachian history, tradition, solitude, or a carefully selected and intentionally secluded community. You don't think of arcades, BOGO Big Gulps, casinos, and neon lights bursting over the Smoky Mountains.
Yet despite the fact that this school is located just a few dozen meters off the Parkway drag of Gatlinburg, it is a world unto itself. Trust me. I'm a picky writer who is obsessive about sights and sounds, grumpy about interruption, and obsessively attuned to the natural world. I live in a quiet, private, beautiful place. Why would I leave all that just to be near "the strip"? Because Arrowmont is a place where the conversation starts. Who knows what talking to the painter, whose work has been "translated" into tapestries woven in Mexico might lead to the next time I sit down at the desk? Who knows what material my enter a ceramicists mind after we shared lunch, talking about the meditative parallels between the spinning potter's wheel and the click of buttons across a keyboard?
I wrote several thousand words a day while at Arrowmont, and that was just putting in half-days at the desk (I spend afternoons wandering the studios or meeting one-on-one with artists). Even walking outside, along the sloping lawns or curved gravel pathways, the sights and sounds of the very nearby strip were nearly invisible and inaudible. What did I hear instead? Cicadas. Laughter. An impromptu picnic. A pot of dye hissing on the burner outside the Textiles studio. What did I smell? Smoke from the wood-fired Anagama kiln. Cedar shavings from the wood-turning class. A pleasant must from wool being woven into tapestries. Freshly baked muffins. Coffee, coffee, and thankyouverymuch more coffee. What did I see, taste, touch? I could go on for pages...
In five short days, I came away with a very clear feeling that writers are needed on craft campuses. Not only because many writers can more readily "put words to" other artists mediums than those artists themselves. (Ask a glassblower to write an artist statement, and he might simply turn up his iPod and pretend you're not even there--for many artists, the written word is simply not fun.) But because the conversation works both ways. I certainly couldn't write my novel in blown glass, but I might feel the wall of heat walking into the hot shop and incorporate details from that sensory experience into the scene I'm writing in my novel right now, which takes place in a desert. Art inspires life inspires art, just as the wood-turned bowl shown in this photograph inspired a textiles artist to make a unique dye that highlighted the grain, which in turn inspired me to take a photo and share it, which then lead to an interesting conversation on Facebook in which a fellow writer told me about a childhood memory she had of her father's wood shop. Will that memory turn into an essay? Quite possibly.
But more than anything, what this week instilled in me is that there's genuine joy in connecting with other artists. No matter what your medium or what you're making--or even if what you make falls apart in the end, gets deleted, or breaks during firing--it's beneficial to put ourselves in situations where conversations can happen. Across mediums, across cultures, across campus. Arrowmont made that possible, and by including me as Writer-in-Residence, it was also financially and professionally viable. I learned, I helped, I wrote, I worked. And I certainly hope to go back.
