Tune in Wednesday, July 30th to my “InnerView” with Kimmie and Steve on CBS Psychic Radio Network. 10:00 am (pst)/1:00 pm (est)
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Archive for July, 2008
I never met a writer who said “fuck” more than Joe Millar or Pete Fromm… until today. Dorothy Allison‘s talk on place at Tin House was nothing short of awesome.
She reminded us that writing about place is so much more than getting the details right. It’s not just the type of tile used in a truck stop or the manicured gardens at a college. It’s our reaction and response to those things that creates meaningful story.
She also issued a challenge: “We’re only getting Portland out of Charlie.” (Charles D’Ambrosio) “You people gotta get to work.”
Right now, Portland is easy for me because I just showed up. Stumptown, Powell’s, the Hawthorne Bridge… everything is a new experience and I’m taking it all in, noticing the detail. What my own challenge will be is to begin to write myself into the picture, whether as a character in fiction or as narrator in memoir. Me experiencing and responding to my place.
There is a tingling sensation that runs up my cheeks when I encounter something extraordinary. This happens each time I read my notes on Claire’s craft talk. I doubt we could we have had a more thoughtful and inspiring lecture to begin the residency.
“You must develop the habit of art,” she told us, versus just “doing the work.” There is always a gap between what we desire to do, and what we actually do. By making creativity habitual, we can close in on that which we desire.
“The real business is to write,” she said. “Counting the pages is irrelevant. This sentence, this word is what matters.” I needed to hear this to counter the various authors that discuss writing as a task designated by the specific number of words or pages per day. It is this moment that counts, every moment of our work.
Claire described “those who stood on the brink of something exceptional,” but didn’t make time to explore. I think of how often I am in that situation, distracted by email or internet, a victim of what someone called a “continuous partial attention.” How might my writing be strengthened if I were more present with the words/worlds on the page?
“Imagine. Now imagine more deeply,” she said, trying to coax us into understanding that we cannot arrive at the real story by skimming the surface of life. We must experience each moment deeply, and when we do, we find in them the magic of the muse.
The following is a section from Adrianna Buonarroti’s blog that I simply had to re-post.
“I am the world’s worst procrastinator. Except for Mindie Kniss. She’s worse than me. But she doesn’t think of it as procrastinating. She just thinks of it as living. Which makes me worse, I think. I feel horribly anxious about it. I even feel anxious about Mindie’s procrastinatory behavior. I feel better having discovered that Annie Dillard is a pretty good procrastinator herself. (This sounds like something a homeopath could use to figure out a remedy for this quirk. You know, worse when thinking about Mindie’s procrastination. Better when thinking about Annie Dillard. Any takers?)”
Read the whole post here: http://fivepercentchance.blogspot.com/
So I am worse than the worst? I can’t argue with that. Case in point: residency reviews are due tomorrow and I haven’t even started. I mean I have not written a single sentence on any of the mind-numbing (and simultaneously mind-expanding) talks we had during our low-residency MFA program at Pacific University. Every day since we left campus I have thought about starting, but more than likely I’ll begin tomorrow.
Our family vacations were always eastbound, usually from Chicago to coastal Carolina. I haven’t explored the western states as thoroughly as the east, even through four years of college in Colorado.
Driving across the country to Portland, where I am settling in to my new home was a great adventure. Even though I was pressed for time, I did a bit of sightseeing along the way. I skipped the Laura Ingalls Wilder house, but next time through South Dakota I’ll stop and reminisce on my love of Little House on the Prairie.
I am like a little kid when it comes to fireworks. I cannot help the foolish grin as they’re exploding across the sky. I especially like the ones that surprise me, those that look like nothing as they shoot up then take over my whole vision field as they burst colored flame.
I carried a book and a blanket the few blocks to the Willamette waterfront. The fireworks were set off from barges on both sides of the Hawthorne Bridge so there couldn’t have been a bad seat in the area. The people-watching was good too. I didn’t read much of the 1000+ pages of Didion I toted. With the Blues Fest jamming in the background, I scoped out my new city neighbors till dark then waited for the magic to begin.
Last week during my MFA residency I decided to skip one of the evening readings. Unfortunately Sandra Alcosser, Valerie Miner and David St. John were no match for the migraine threatening to ruin my night. I thought some food might help, so I headed for Pizza Schmizza.
Pizza box in hand, I retraced my steps toward campus. On the corner of Pacific Ave, a woman was lying on the sidewalk while another held a cell phone out above her. At first I wondered if they were enacting a scene for a photograph because the woman standing didn’t seem too distressed. “Is she ok?” I asked.
“No,” said the woman with the phone. I could see she was frazzled as I came closer.
From my perspective I could only see the woman’s back, but as I came around to her other side, I saw the pool of blood that spread out from her face. Pizza box and bag on the ground, I knelt and asked if I could help. “Have you called 911?” I asked the other woman. She dialed and I forced kleenex onto the only wound I could see. I laughed to myself thinking how Forest Grove was kind of like wilderness, so my wilderness advanced first aid training would be appropriate. I kept one hand on her back, assuring her of my presence, and asked her what had happened.
Of course, Forest Grove actually has an emergency response team that arrived in minutes. Apparently, the women were coming out of a church meeting when the older of the two tripped and fell, smashing her cheek on the cement and knocking out a tooth. As I spoke to other meeting attendees who were then congregated on the corner, I learned that Lois, the woman who fell, was 101 years old. Wow! The whole time I was with her she was perfectly coherent and more concerned about keeping her face and hair out of the blood on the sidewalk.
I have a pretty good feeling that she will be just fine, but I was glad to be there to offer a hand.
