Dorothy Allison about writing,
"Inspiration is the doorway,
Curiosity is the Engine,
Fear is the Gasoline
Lust is involved, lust to get it right."
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Torn Open
Yesterday I attended the Sonoma County Book Festival at the SRJC campus. I went primarily because I wanted to see Dorothy Allison speak. She is the author of Bastard Out of Carolina which I LOVE, and Cave Dwellers which I like. I knew nothing of the person, except that she lives locally (which excites me to no end), nor what kind of presenter she is. The buzz in the room was that she is a great public speaker. I initially sat four rows behind her (I saw her sitting in the front row in the minutes before her portion of the program began). I moved to the row right behind her (squeeee) to join a colleague.
In a throwback to my first rock concert, (he's pointing at meeeee) I felt that she saw me in the audience. More than once I felt that she was speaking to me directly. Maybe she was. She talked about writing; about how there are times when a story comes into our head and you transcribe it as best as you can. Then late at night the uncertainty creeps in and you realize that you know nothing. My head nodded, as did many in the room. She took note of the number of heads nodding.
When I handed her my book to sign, she said, "I saw you nodding in the audience." She did see me; she was talking to me directly. When I responded with, "I'm mildly starstruck and trying not to say something stupid," she patted my hand and said, "Honey, I can show you stars." The first stars I saw were the natural bi-product of the tears that welled up in my eyes. I had to sit down, my back to her and those still gathered around her, to fight back the tears. They were tears of joy, of inspiration, of awe, of being seen. Just a few minutes before, she had spoken about the joy that we feel when we are torn open by a writer's words. She so lovingly tore me open, and my joy was, and for now still is, boundless.
In a throwback to my first rock concert, (he's pointing at meeeee) I felt that she saw me in the audience. More than once I felt that she was speaking to me directly. Maybe she was. She talked about writing; about how there are times when a story comes into our head and you transcribe it as best as you can. Then late at night the uncertainty creeps in and you realize that you know nothing. My head nodded, as did many in the room. She took note of the number of heads nodding.
When I handed her my book to sign, she said, "I saw you nodding in the audience." She did see me; she was talking to me directly. When I responded with, "I'm mildly starstruck and trying not to say something stupid," she patted my hand and said, "Honey, I can show you stars." The first stars I saw were the natural bi-product of the tears that welled up in my eyes. I had to sit down, my back to her and those still gathered around her, to fight back the tears. They were tears of joy, of inspiration, of awe, of being seen. Just a few minutes before, she had spoken about the joy that we feel when we are torn open by a writer's words. She so lovingly tore me open, and my joy was, and for now still is, boundless.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)