...this is my brain on a writer's conference: i wrote 20 new pages for the book yesterday...i sat for 4 hours and worked, then spent another hour last night mapping out the final chapters, making notes to myself about how to improve the 20 pages i wrote, and getting psyched about editing the entire thing...my panel had a small, but attentive audience and was moderated by a wonderful psychology professor--Michelle Haney--who i'm sure was diagnosing my neuroses as i read...
...the feedback i got at the workshop on sunday morning was invaluable...Melissa Delbridge is not just a fierce writer, she's an amazing teacher...i needed a swift kick in the pants--way too many verbs of being (= lazy writing) and rhetorical questions (what was i thinking? whoops...there i go again)...she read a passage from my introduction and i actually cried...i'd never heard it in someone else's voice...and i couldn't help it...barry and tom would be so ashamed...i wanted to apologize afterward, but couldn't find her in the sea of writers at the final lunch where Dorothy Allison preached a sermon on writing...
...i had many refreshing and deep conversations about craft, life, faith...way too much to write here...but if you don't know these names, you need to find these women right now: Melody Moezzi, Lee Ann Pingel, Nancy Werking Poling, Alicia Clavell, Sandra Meek, Lynne Barrett, Deirdre Sugiuchi, and Caroline Young...
...i was sure to take notes, especially when someone said something so simple and yet so profound:
Barbara Hamby: "I have the attention span of a tennis ball."... "Put your writing first."
...her plenary talk was a huge dose of common-sense...she spoke, at one point, about having girlfriends who wanted to lunch once a week and it got to where all they did was talk about the same things and she found herself thinking she could be using that time to write...i'm at that point now...i'm so close to the end of the first draft, to getting into the editing process, that i feel like i need to hibernate for a while...she said her real friends understood, and those women who got offended weren't really her friends...
A. J. Meyhew: "Be persistent."
...here's a novelist who didn't publish her first book until she was in her seventies...her simple words reminded me of many of my friends from the MFA program who threw in the towel a few years after graduating...they were fresh voices with something to say and the world needed to hear them, but because they didn't get big magazine publications they gave up...
Josephine Humphreys: "Something can be salvaged out of a bad time."
...it was as if she was speaking just to me...she recalled quitting her teaching job to write...the enormous risk to self, family, friends this took...i left her talk knowing i'd done the right thing...
Melissa Delbridge: "Present the facts, then go a little deeper. Then present the facts and go a little deeper." ... "Creative non-fiction must answer one question: So What?" ... "Reflection is required."..."I've had enough good in my life."
...she blanketed me, and the other members of the workshop, in these words...she reminded us that at the end of the day, the words on the page are what matter, equally--if not more so--than the story...
Dorothy Allison: "I've always been writing to tell the story to the girl I'd been." ... "Grow an ego. Then break that ego down."
...my chair, at this final lunch talk, was directly in front of Ms. Allison, so i couldn't help but feel like a child in church, as if the preacher was looking and speaking directly to the dark parts of my soul...Berry College filmed her talk, and i'm hoping to find it on youtube and post it here...afterward, i told her my reaction: "All I could think was 'fuck.'" ... she laughed, her eyes sparkled, then she said, "So tell me what you're writing." ...such a gracious woman, and one of Americas most overlooked treasures...if you haven't read her, go to a bookstore immediately and buy everything with her name on it...
...again, i had to be reminded that authors are their own publicists...that even before we have books, essays, fiction, poetry published, we need an audience...we have to cultivate that audience and get our work out there...so i caved...i took the advice that was given to me directly...i started a twitter...with the caveat i will only be tweeting AFTER a full day of writing...so go ahead, follow me...tweetle deedlee deet...
9.25.2012
9.18.2012
The Closest Thing to a Soul I'll Ever Have
...i'm heading to the Southern Women Writers Conference at Berry College at the end of the week...i'll be on a panel with other creative writers, reading from my memoir-in-progress, specifically the essay that started it all...on sunday, i'll be part of a workshop with a small group of other non-fiction writers and they'll have comments and feedback for the introduction to the entire book...i'm looking forward to this conference because it'll be the first time that i'll sit down with another group of non-fiction writers and discuss our writing, projects, and aspirations...
...i know it's easy to become dependent on the workshop environment, to constantly need or seek feedback, but there's a part of me--the part that's been without that environment for several years--that is elated to participate and eager to talk shop...
...i suppose it's the part of me that doesn't see writing as a hobby, something to fill my nights or to work on between jobs...it's the same part of me that sees writing as, in the end, difficult, challenging, painful and liberating...it's the closest thing to a soul i'll ever have...it'll be refreshing to be surrounded by a like-minded group of women who see writing as more than fun, a trite endeavor to please a circle of friends...
...that isn't to say that writing isn't "fun"...sure it is...but i hate that adjective...i tell my writing students it's vapid, meaningless, and what i consider fun (pushing pseudo-artistic wanna-be's, who're nearly senior citizens but still rely on Daddy for opinions and perspective, down several flights of stairs) is probably not their idea of fun (an evening of apple TV)...there's always a better word or phrase...like "bleeding on the page"--that's fun for me, opening my veins for the world to see...or "telling the truth"--really fun, especially when it's about me and Adam...or my favorite "making the memories sing"--it's so much fun when i capture the exact phrase of a moment that i gift myself with an m&m...
...so i'll be off on a "fun" four-day jaunt, surrounded by writers who enjoy bleeding for their craft...who seek truth in their art...who'll be singing their verses and the verses of others...
...wish me luck...
...i know it's easy to become dependent on the workshop environment, to constantly need or seek feedback, but there's a part of me--the part that's been without that environment for several years--that is elated to participate and eager to talk shop...
...i suppose it's the part of me that doesn't see writing as a hobby, something to fill my nights or to work on between jobs...it's the same part of me that sees writing as, in the end, difficult, challenging, painful and liberating...it's the closest thing to a soul i'll ever have...it'll be refreshing to be surrounded by a like-minded group of women who see writing as more than fun, a trite endeavor to please a circle of friends...
...that isn't to say that writing isn't "fun"...sure it is...but i hate that adjective...i tell my writing students it's vapid, meaningless, and what i consider fun (pushing pseudo-artistic wanna-be's, who're nearly senior citizens but still rely on Daddy for opinions and perspective, down several flights of stairs) is probably not their idea of fun (an evening of apple TV)...there's always a better word or phrase...like "bleeding on the page"--that's fun for me, opening my veins for the world to see...or "telling the truth"--really fun, especially when it's about me and Adam...or my favorite "making the memories sing"--it's so much fun when i capture the exact phrase of a moment that i gift myself with an m&m...
...so i'll be off on a "fun" four-day jaunt, surrounded by writers who enjoy bleeding for their craft...who seek truth in their art...who'll be singing their verses and the verses of others...
...wish me luck...
9.14.2012
I Love Adam Because if he Died I'd be Shooting Heroin or Sacrificing our Daughter During the Zombie Apocalypse
...so here's the thing: the universe loves me...maybe not really, but since i found out that Mrs. Patrick Swayze is giving a public talk on the MSC campus next month, i've decided to believe that the universe has magnanimously shined upon me...
...perhaps i've already written about my pre-teen love affair with Patrick Swayze, my obsession with North and South and all things Dirty Dancing (yes, i own both soundtracks and the live concert DVD)...i've seen every movie he ever made...my 62-year-old grandma took me to see Road House in the theater...in my childhood reverie, i convinced myself i would one day marry him...
...when he died, i mourned...even though it had been 20 years since i'd gotten the stock 8x10 photo with his (somewhat speculative) personalized message...
..i get a go-get-the-straight-jacket feeling knowing i want to listen to Mrs. Patrick Swayze recount the last years of my childhood obsession's life...but i can't keep myself away...not only does the program promise to be about one of my favorite topics--death--it combines my other passion--pretending i'm a celebrity's secret wife...
...but the real reason i'm not going to miss it is that Mrs. Patrick Swayze is going to recount surviving the disintegration of the man she loved for 34 years...it's taken 8 years of marriage for me to reach a point where i actively fear my husband's death...a good friend of mine almost lost her husband this year and the panic that ensued from her experience nearly crushed me...i thank the universe daily for Adam, even on days he's so contrary i want to drown him in a pool of his own spit...
...when he's snoring next to me at 2am or wakes me in the middle of the night because i'm sleeping entwined with him, i have a moment of flash-forward where i see myself as an old woman with sagging titties and no bed partner...i glimpse myself in a quiet house, no guitar strumming, no recliner in the living room...and when the aaahhhh moment passes, that permanence freezes me, fear creeps in under the covers, and i want to hold Adam so close i can't tell where one of stops and the other begins...
...then i send a request out into the universe that goes like this: please let the zombies eat me first during their inevitable apocalypse...if they don't, i'll kill my own child rather than have her eaten and spend the final moments of my own life hopelessly running in circles
...then i calm down and get serious: i ask just to die first...i know that i could never survive very long without Adam...even if he dropped tomorrow...i'd be a complete train wreck, Ellie would have to raise herself because i'd be too busy hiding, crying, and otherwise thrashing against circumstance...child services would inevitably intervene...she'd end up living with one of my sisters...i'd turn to heroin, maybe even a little cocaine...eventually i'd fade off the grid, my child's life ruined, my husband dead...
...so, universe, while you're feeling magnanimous, please please please take me first...
...perhaps i've already written about my pre-teen love affair with Patrick Swayze, my obsession with North and South and all things Dirty Dancing (yes, i own both soundtracks and the live concert DVD)...i've seen every movie he ever made...my 62-year-old grandma took me to see Road House in the theater...in my childhood reverie, i convinced myself i would one day marry him...
...when he died, i mourned...even though it had been 20 years since i'd gotten the stock 8x10 photo with his (somewhat speculative) personalized message...
 |
the photo i got in the eighth grade from Mrs. Anderson,
my PE teacher who knew the Swayze's veterinarian,
and who passed along the 4-page letter i'd written
(in green ink) where i told Patrick Swayze all about
my obsession with him, including my desire to waltz
with him in my garage...the photo is signed "Joyce,
Thanks for the Letter Love Ya, Patrick Swayze"
...i framed it and kept it next to my bed until i went
away to college...
|
..i get a go-get-the-straight-jacket feeling knowing i want to listen to Mrs. Patrick Swayze recount the last years of my childhood obsession's life...but i can't keep myself away...not only does the program promise to be about one of my favorite topics--death--it combines my other passion--pretending i'm a celebrity's secret wife...
...but the real reason i'm not going to miss it is that Mrs. Patrick Swayze is going to recount surviving the disintegration of the man she loved for 34 years...it's taken 8 years of marriage for me to reach a point where i actively fear my husband's death...a good friend of mine almost lost her husband this year and the panic that ensued from her experience nearly crushed me...i thank the universe daily for Adam, even on days he's so contrary i want to drown him in a pool of his own spit...
...when he's snoring next to me at 2am or wakes me in the middle of the night because i'm sleeping entwined with him, i have a moment of flash-forward where i see myself as an old woman with sagging titties and no bed partner...i glimpse myself in a quiet house, no guitar strumming, no recliner in the living room...and when the aaahhhh moment passes, that permanence freezes me, fear creeps in under the covers, and i want to hold Adam so close i can't tell where one of stops and the other begins...
...then i send a request out into the universe that goes like this: please let the zombies eat me first during their inevitable apocalypse...if they don't, i'll kill my own child rather than have her eaten and spend the final moments of my own life hopelessly running in circles
...then i calm down and get serious: i ask just to die first...i know that i could never survive very long without Adam...even if he dropped tomorrow...i'd be a complete train wreck, Ellie would have to raise herself because i'd be too busy hiding, crying, and otherwise thrashing against circumstance...child services would inevitably intervene...she'd end up living with one of my sisters...i'd turn to heroin, maybe even a little cocaine...eventually i'd fade off the grid, my child's life ruined, my husband dead...
...so, universe, while you're feeling magnanimous, please please please take me first...
9.05.2012
For a Week I've Been Contemplating Forgiveness
...in all of the letters my father has written to me over the last year, not once has he ever asked for my forgiveness...i'd overlooked this until last week when i began rereading them all again to develop some new chapters...i spent a few hours specifically looking for any phrase that might hint at a plea...in dozens of pages, not one...
...nor have i ever told him that i've forgiven him...
...and rightly so...after all, i wasn't a woman he brutalized...if i were in his shoes, their forgiveness would be much more important...even not in his shoes i somehow wish those women would forgive me...i can't quite put my finger on an explanation for this except to paraphrase some of the research i've done about children of incarcerated parents...we usually internalize our parent's behavior, to the point where we often feel in the wrong...the scientific research on this phenomenon, and the case studies about children of incarcerated parents, all support this thesis: my desire for forgiveness is normal...so perhaps what i've done, essentially, in writing to him and uncovering the details of his past, is forgiven myself...
...what do we really do when we forgive someone? do we tuck away the grievance, like it's an old movie stub or a wine cork? does forgiveness entail what pop psychologists call purging? do we have to vomit every minor infraction in order to reach the pinnacle of compassion?
...or do we somehow erase the grievance from our memories?...the old adage "forgive and forget" (mostly interpreted as "to forgive is to forget") kept running through my head this week...this is a paradox for the memoirist--we cannot forget, because we must remember in order to write...but to write well, to achieve perspective, we have to forgive...or should we read the adage as forgiveness causes forgetting, forgetting is a result (by-product?) of forgiveness? when we truly forgive do we have no memory of the crime against us? does forgiveness cause that to happen? as a writer attempting a memoir, i can never forgive my father because i must remember what he's done...it's a part of him as much as the blood in my veins...
...is forgiveness a rationalization of an action: X happened because of 1, 2, and 3...if we dabble too long in the because, do we lose sight of X? do we forgive X because of 1, 2, 3 or do we understand X because of 1, 2, 3? what is the difference, then, between understanding and forgiveness?
...today the dalai lama offered this message: "Along with love, compassion is the face of altruism. It is a feeling from deep in the heart that you cannot bear others’ suffering without acting to relieve it. As compassion grows stronger, so does your willingness to commit yourself to the welfare of all beings, even if you have to do it alone. You will be unbiased in your service to all beings, no matter how they respond to you."...in writing this memoir, i am acting to relieve much suffering...my own and that of my family...even my father's torment...i hope i've reached a point of unbiased service...
...nor have i ever told him that i've forgiven him...
...and rightly so...after all, i wasn't a woman he brutalized...if i were in his shoes, their forgiveness would be much more important...even not in his shoes i somehow wish those women would forgive me...i can't quite put my finger on an explanation for this except to paraphrase some of the research i've done about children of incarcerated parents...we usually internalize our parent's behavior, to the point where we often feel in the wrong...the scientific research on this phenomenon, and the case studies about children of incarcerated parents, all support this thesis: my desire for forgiveness is normal...so perhaps what i've done, essentially, in writing to him and uncovering the details of his past, is forgiven myself...
...what do we really do when we forgive someone? do we tuck away the grievance, like it's an old movie stub or a wine cork? does forgiveness entail what pop psychologists call purging? do we have to vomit every minor infraction in order to reach the pinnacle of compassion?
...or do we somehow erase the grievance from our memories?...the old adage "forgive and forget" (mostly interpreted as "to forgive is to forget") kept running through my head this week...this is a paradox for the memoirist--we cannot forget, because we must remember in order to write...but to write well, to achieve perspective, we have to forgive...or should we read the adage as forgiveness causes forgetting, forgetting is a result (by-product?) of forgiveness? when we truly forgive do we have no memory of the crime against us? does forgiveness cause that to happen? as a writer attempting a memoir, i can never forgive my father because i must remember what he's done...it's a part of him as much as the blood in my veins...
...is forgiveness a rationalization of an action: X happened because of 1, 2, and 3...if we dabble too long in the because, do we lose sight of X? do we forgive X because of 1, 2, 3 or do we understand X because of 1, 2, 3? what is the difference, then, between understanding and forgiveness?
...today the dalai lama offered this message: "Along with love, compassion is the face of altruism. It is a feeling from deep in the heart that you cannot bear others’ suffering without acting to relieve it. As compassion grows stronger, so does your willingness to commit yourself to the welfare of all beings, even if you have to do it alone. You will be unbiased in your service to all beings, no matter how they respond to you."...in writing this memoir, i am acting to relieve much suffering...my own and that of my family...even my father's torment...i hope i've reached a point of unbiased service...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)