I've had to face my writer's block head-on these last few months as I explore who I am outside of the classroom, and I find myself with many of the feelings my composition students complain about:
I don't know how to start.
Everything I write sounds like shit.
I can't think of anything to write.
It takes me forever to write a few hundred words.
And worst of all:
I don't think I am a writer anymore.
A colleague at work, award winning author Jody Gerhman, recently initiated "writing dates." We meet for a few hours a week, spend some time talking about our projects, then spend time working on said projects.
These weekly sessions have forced me back into my creative life. I lost a great deal of ground in this aspect of my life because I was so focused on building my teaching resume, finding full-time work, then trying to prove that I am worthy of tenure. Now that I feel reasonably secure and I safely on the tenure-track, refocusing some of my brain power and effort certainly makes sense.
Jody's influence has sent me back to fiction writing; I am working on a new novel idea and begun reworking on an old idea. She introduced me to the Scrivner app ; this is lots of fun and so much better than using Word! I have pulled out a ten year old essay about the year I was molested by my guitar teacher and begun a heavy revision. I've submitted an essay to a literary contest. I have created an author page on Facebook and updated my website (although that still needs work).
Facing my writer's block has given me greater insight into my own process; I've had to take my own advice and learned to honor my writing process, to push the critical editor in my head aside. I haven't quite managed to put her into a jar as Anne Lamott suggests, but I do feel like I am gaining some ground over the negativity. I have a bit more sympathy for my students, which will likely improve my teaching this year. By re-immersing myself in my own creative life, I feel as though my full self is becoming more rounded, more healthy and more productive.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Revisiting Old Posts
FROM 2010
A reason for book lists
Here comes the cliche:
In order to be a good writer, an aspiring writer must be a reader.
I do read a lot. I have a very bad habit of going from one book to the next, a bit like an addict I suppose (big surprise). I don't always take the time to digest the contents before I move onto the next fix.
Instead of just chewing them up and spitting them out, I thought it would be interesting to begin a list of non-fiction books I have read (and enjoyed) in the last few years. I'll do this periodically, and possibly add in novels as I go.
Consider this Part 1. Some new and some classics (in no particular order):
The Possibility of Everything by Hope Edelman
Shot in the Heart by Mikal Gilmore
Columbine by Dave Cullen
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
Part 2 of my list of favorite non-fiction books, but this time I'm going to include some exploration of what I enjoyed about each one.
Fire in a Cane Break: The Last Mass Lynching in America by Laura Wexler
Lynchings are not a new concept, and one reason many stories are still timely is because the silence surrounding the perpetrators is slowly cracking. This leads, in a few cases at least, to prosecution of the evil doers. This book takes the time to solve a decades old mystery. The author spent probably hundreds of hours doing research and tracking down the living survivors, guilty and innocent, of a horrific and unjustified mass lynching. Wexler takes what could be a fairly simple story and tells it in a way that is always riveting. I find her combination of reporting and suspense building to be inspiring.
Wrapped in Rainbows: Life of Zora Neale Hurston by Valerie Boyd
I originally purchased this book because I wanted to work with Valerie in my graduate program. I did work with her, but didn't read the book until a few years later in preparation to teach a Hurston novel for a community college English class. This book is the first time that someone attempted to unravel the various stories that Hurston told about herself to get to the truth of an extraordinary life. A fascinating story, and great insight, about a fascinating woman.
Devil in the White City by Erik Larson
Why are we fascinated with serial killers? Never mind, don't try and answer that. Just read this book. Larson does a wonderful job of telling the stories of the Chicago World's Fair just before the turn of the 20th century, one of the first serial killers who preyed on people who flocked to the fair, and the detective who cracked the murder cases. The author's only flaw is his tendency to take on the lofty tone and sentence structure of the men of late 19th century Chicago, and to refer to historical happenings that were (sometimes only peripherally) related to the story as if we all know all the stories. It sucks to be on the outside of an inside joke without enough information to find the story yourself.
Let's Not Go to the Dogs Tonight by Alexandra Fuller
I could relate to most of Fuller's experience even though she grew up in Africa on a ranch and I grew up in a small town in the U.S. The woman simply has a great way of telling a story. An interesting life doesn't hurt.
Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy
On one hand this is an incredibly inspiring book. A young girl lives through cancer, the chemotherapy and years of failed reconstructive surgeries. She is a world-class poet and all around fun gal. On the other hand it is depressing because she ultimately died of a drug overdose. It is still a great read.
Books Part 3
This time around are three completely different books; each is an incredible piece of literature for very different reasons.
Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage by Alfred Lansing
This story has been told already, several times in fact. It has been the subject of at least two other books, including a pictorial of the actual events as captured by the ship's photographer. Lansing's style of story-telling, however, takes the reader far beyond the retelling of a harrowing event. He spends time developing characters, much like a novelist would, and he begins with the ship herself as she struggles to survive long enough to see her crew off safely. Riveting, fascinating and sometimes terribly disturbing, I could not put this down.
Lit: A Memoir by Mary Karr
This is a follow-up to Karr's earlier memoir, The Liars' Club, where she danced deftly between observing her parent's demons and fending them off. Here she attacks only her demons, and does so in a brutally honest and incredibly creative way. Not may authors can get away with prose like:
"Through that fishbowl lens, you’ve been looking for the truth most of your life. Recently that wide eye has come to settle on me and I’ve felt like Odysseus, albeit with less guile and fewer escape routes, the lens itself embodying the one-eyed Cyclops."
AND
"I shit you not!"
And once again she goes beyond the naval gazing effect of the confessional memoir to share her descent into alcoholism and climb out into the arms of her newly discovered God. So good on so many levels.
The Kiss by Kathryn Harrison
This is not for the faint of heart. It is the story surrounding Harrison's incestuous relationship with her estranged father. There are no real details of the sexual encounters included, only the raw emotional truth that resulted. I kept asking myself how something so horrific could be written so beautifully. I have read some of her fiction, which is quite good, but the level of writing here is above and beyond the other attempts at retelling her story through fictional characters. As difficult as this must have been for her to write (and I once heard her tell a story about just that) the truth truly set her creative powers free.
A reason for book lists
Here comes the cliche:
In order to be a good writer, an aspiring writer must be a reader.
I do read a lot. I have a very bad habit of going from one book to the next, a bit like an addict I suppose (big surprise). I don't always take the time to digest the contents before I move onto the next fix.
Instead of just chewing them up and spitting them out, I thought it would be interesting to begin a list of non-fiction books I have read (and enjoyed) in the last few years. I'll do this periodically, and possibly add in novels as I go.
Consider this Part 1. Some new and some classics (in no particular order):
The Possibility of Everything by Hope Edelman
Shot in the Heart by Mikal Gilmore
Columbine by Dave Cullen
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
Part 2 of my list of favorite non-fiction books, but this time I'm going to include some exploration of what I enjoyed about each one.
Fire in a Cane Break: The Last Mass Lynching in America by Laura Wexler
Lynchings are not a new concept, and one reason many stories are still timely is because the silence surrounding the perpetrators is slowly cracking. This leads, in a few cases at least, to prosecution of the evil doers. This book takes the time to solve a decades old mystery. The author spent probably hundreds of hours doing research and tracking down the living survivors, guilty and innocent, of a horrific and unjustified mass lynching. Wexler takes what could be a fairly simple story and tells it in a way that is always riveting. I find her combination of reporting and suspense building to be inspiring.
Wrapped in Rainbows: Life of Zora Neale Hurston by Valerie Boyd
I originally purchased this book because I wanted to work with Valerie in my graduate program. I did work with her, but didn't read the book until a few years later in preparation to teach a Hurston novel for a community college English class. This book is the first time that someone attempted to unravel the various stories that Hurston told about herself to get to the truth of an extraordinary life. A fascinating story, and great insight, about a fascinating woman.
Devil in the White City by Erik Larson
Why are we fascinated with serial killers? Never mind, don't try and answer that. Just read this book. Larson does a wonderful job of telling the stories of the Chicago World's Fair just before the turn of the 20th century, one of the first serial killers who preyed on people who flocked to the fair, and the detective who cracked the murder cases. The author's only flaw is his tendency to take on the lofty tone and sentence structure of the men of late 19th century Chicago, and to refer to historical happenings that were (sometimes only peripherally) related to the story as if we all know all the stories. It sucks to be on the outside of an inside joke without enough information to find the story yourself.
Let's Not Go to the Dogs Tonight by Alexandra Fuller
I could relate to most of Fuller's experience even though she grew up in Africa on a ranch and I grew up in a small town in the U.S. The woman simply has a great way of telling a story. An interesting life doesn't hurt.
Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy
On one hand this is an incredibly inspiring book. A young girl lives through cancer, the chemotherapy and years of failed reconstructive surgeries. She is a world-class poet and all around fun gal. On the other hand it is depressing because she ultimately died of a drug overdose. It is still a great read.
Books Part 3
This time around are three completely different books; each is an incredible piece of literature for very different reasons.
Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage by Alfred Lansing
This story has been told already, several times in fact. It has been the subject of at least two other books, including a pictorial of the actual events as captured by the ship's photographer. Lansing's style of story-telling, however, takes the reader far beyond the retelling of a harrowing event. He spends time developing characters, much like a novelist would, and he begins with the ship herself as she struggles to survive long enough to see her crew off safely. Riveting, fascinating and sometimes terribly disturbing, I could not put this down.
Lit: A Memoir by Mary Karr
This is a follow-up to Karr's earlier memoir, The Liars' Club, where she danced deftly between observing her parent's demons and fending them off. Here she attacks only her demons, and does so in a brutally honest and incredibly creative way. Not may authors can get away with prose like:
"Through that fishbowl lens, you’ve been looking for the truth most of your life. Recently that wide eye has come to settle on me and I’ve felt like Odysseus, albeit with less guile and fewer escape routes, the lens itself embodying the one-eyed Cyclops."
AND
"I shit you not!"
And once again she goes beyond the naval gazing effect of the confessional memoir to share her descent into alcoholism and climb out into the arms of her newly discovered God. So good on so many levels.
The Kiss by Kathryn Harrison
This is not for the faint of heart. It is the story surrounding Harrison's incestuous relationship with her estranged father. There are no real details of the sexual encounters included, only the raw emotional truth that resulted. I kept asking myself how something so horrific could be written so beautifully. I have read some of her fiction, which is quite good, but the level of writing here is above and beyond the other attempts at retelling her story through fictional characters. As difficult as this must have been for her to write (and I once heard her tell a story about just that) the truth truly set her creative powers free.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Spring Emerging
The essay submission from my last post wasn't accepted for publication. Ah, well. Onward.
I did post a link to an old essay, One Simple List on Facebook that got a little bit of friendly attention. It felt good.
Despite the fairly high level of stress that I am current dealing with (see my other blog Visceral Musings), I am also experiencing a creative emergence of sorts. In the last week I have posted three new blog entries (counting this one), and started a brand new short story. I am also revisiting another short story idea, and am about to dive into a revision of an essay that I wrote earlier this year.
I find myself thinking about writing as I drive or walk between classes, then jumping on my computer to work. It feels darn good, let me tell you. I wonder if I am experiencing a thaw, a renewal of energies, a bit like the spring I see emerging around me.
Hey, no matter how long it lasts, I'll take what I can get.
I did post a link to an old essay, One Simple List on Facebook that got a little bit of friendly attention. It felt good.
Despite the fairly high level of stress that I am current dealing with (see my other blog Visceral Musings), I am also experiencing a creative emergence of sorts. In the last week I have posted three new blog entries (counting this one), and started a brand new short story. I am also revisiting another short story idea, and am about to dive into a revision of an essay that I wrote earlier this year.
I find myself thinking about writing as I drive or walk between classes, then jumping on my computer to work. It feels darn good, let me tell you. I wonder if I am experiencing a thaw, a renewal of energies, a bit like the spring I see emerging around me.
Hey, no matter how long it lasts, I'll take what I can get.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Stumbling through
Stumbling and lurching through a renewal of creativity. Yep. That's me alright.
I submitted an essay to Lunch Ticket through the online submission site. Then I realized that I had misspelled the title in the entry. So I withdrew and re-submitted it. Once that was done I realized that I didn't include the word count that was required. I'm not withdrawing again; I'll just sit here quietly and wait until they reject it and try again later. *sigh*
At least I submitted something...
I submitted an essay to Lunch Ticket through the online submission site. Then I realized that I had misspelled the title in the entry. So I withdrew and re-submitted it. Once that was done I realized that I didn't include the word count that was required. I'm not withdrawing again; I'll just sit here quietly and wait until they reject it and try again later. *sigh*
At least I submitted something...
Saturday, February 1, 2014
It's About Time
It's been just over a year since I sent anything out, but I did! I pulled out a favorite essay, cut 600 words and submitted it to A Room of Her Own!
Go Me!
Go Me!
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Inspiration is the Doorway
Dorothy Allison about writing,
"Inspiration is the doorway,
Curiosity is the Engine,
Fear is the Gasoline
Lust is involved, lust to get it right."
"Inspiration is the doorway,
Curiosity is the Engine,
Fear is the Gasoline
Lust is involved, lust to get it right."
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.
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