When I leave for Michigan, I’m not coming back.
My connections to the mountains and the communities here feel immeasurably rich. The time and love I’ve put in will be hard to replicate elsewhere, especially if I’m on the road as much as I plan to be. But I can carry the richness of place with me, know it when I see it happening in other places, and stop and stay for a while if things line up right.
What I do know is that I’ve been calling myself a “writer at large” for almost four years and have always envisioned that as a twofold duty: First, it is the writer’s duty to live in an engaged, aware way in the communities in which she finds herself. The more deeply engaged, the more deeply imagined her writing can become and the more likely she is to write in a manner which best serves/reflects/gives back to the community she invests in. A writer must be willing to plant roots and live through the seasons of an ecosystem, a subculture, an idea, an essay. One act mimics and enhances another.
Second, it is the duty of the writer to seek out places of discomfort with genuine curiosity and humility. Here, place is widely interpreted as physical, mental, social, and spiritual. A writer must give herself over to these “places.” A nonfiction writer will often cull her experiences afterward to make meaning of them through the personal essay, the memoir, etc., placing the experiences into a broader context. A fiction writer may let the experiences work their slow, quiet compost in the mind’s subconscious, trusting that the shiniest kernels will work their way onto the page—quite often in an wholly different form.
At the end of my time at Interlochen, I don’t know where I’ll go. I have a few ideas – Oregon for one month, Alaska for the “warmer” summer months, Vermont Studio Center after that. There’s also the dream I have to take the train across Canada. Come this January, I will pack up my car with whatever I think I’ll need for the next year and sell/donate/store all the rest. And then...
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Breaking the News
I’m at the dojo an hour early but that’s ok. Hanshi asked me to focus on kata for two weeks straight, working all the forms I know while I was in residency at VCCA. Tonight’s private lesson is to demonstrate how I may have improved and receive critique on how to strengthen specific movements within each form.
But first let me start by saying that I feel as though I am in a new body. Training for the Pine Tree purple belt tests in July took everything to a new level. I was away a lot of August and September, but cross-trained and practiced. I’m home for my final 3 months in North Carolina and my total weight loss is at 24 pounds. The clothes I wore senior year of college are too big for me now, which means that while my weight is the same as it was in 2001, my muscle mass is up and my fat percentage is down.
And so it is that I don’t recognize my arms anymore when I see them in the mirror...and I’m starting to see actual shape to my legs, where before I only saw hints of muscle beneath the heft. And so it is also that after 22 months training with Hanshi, I can walk in the door knowing I’m going to sweat bullets for 2 hours and still walk out with a bounce in my step. What I don’t know is how on Earth to tell him that I am I leaving...
It’s just the two of us so there’s no need to bow in, but I bow to him all the same. I begin with Wunsu Kata, where my timing and actions are on point but my shuto blocks hard and soft at the wrong times. My right palm down block after the kiai is facing the wrong direction and all of my nikodachi’s could be a bit more regal. Next is Anaku, which has always been my strongest form. I need to make my double block bigger but otherwise, just keep working it. Empi-Sho and Bassadai need the same nikodachi and shuto block corrections, which all boils down to refinement. Bassadai also needs stronger, more committed side kicks (better hip rotation with less torso dipping) and correct hand/foot timing with the closing collar grab.
Nate arrives a little before 7pm for adult class and joins me in working Naihanchisho and Gopeisho—my two most challenging forms and the newest in my repertoire. A few other students trickle in, and we begin class. Tonight, a line up of punches, partner drills, and kimenokata. As usual, we go past 8pm and it’s 8:30 by the time I’ve changed and jotted down notes in my book from the board (Example: the parts of zanshin, remaining mind). I’m sitting in the lobby, lacing up my shoes, trying to figure out a way to start the conversation without giving away the ending first.
Nate comes out of the changing room, pulls out a 3-ring binder, sits down next to me, and starts taking my pulses. He’s in a 3-year acupuncture certification program and likes to use his fellow karateka for practice. Scribbling in his notebook, next he asks me to stick out my tongue. Then, more pulses. Finally, Hanshi peaks his head around the corner and seems me scribbling in my notebook with one hand, the other hand tied up with Nate’s inspection.
“Your kata looked good tonight, Katey,” he says.
“Thank you sir, I appreciate the opportunity to come in early and train.”
“I can tell you worked hard while you were away.”
“Yes, sir, I did. I actually wanted to talk to you about that. I was wondering if I could up my training over the next few months and start to come in at 6pm every Tuesday and Thursday, just to sneak an extra hour in.”
“Of course! Yes, sure. Anytime. And if I can help I will, but if you just want to use the space and work the forms or one-steps on your own, you can do that, too. Use the weight room, do whatever.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
“Starting in January we’re going to be thinking hard about Shodan [1st degree black belt] for you. You need your brown first, but there’s nothing I want more than to see you through to yudansha [upper ranks] and earn your black belt. You have a strong heart for it and good skill.”
“Thank you, sir...Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that...about January...”
Nate looks at me, his fingers still taking my pulses, which by now must be haywire. Hanshi looks at me too. I stare at the floor.
“That is,” says Hanshi slowly. “That is, assuming you’re still here in January...”
I swore I wouldn’t do this but I choke up and my voice turns all froggy: “I have to move to Michigan,” I say. “I mean, I get to move to Michigan. It’s for a really important, good opportunity...”
We talk about training via distance, sending video footage of my kata and one-steps, emailing once a week, and setting up a training regimen. We talk about weekend seminars and me flying back to NC every few months for 1/2 personal lesson sessions with Hanshi. He congratulates me on the good career news and I can tell he is sincere. Then, he tells me a story about his first dojo that he had to leave. He said his girlfriend broke up with him, he got laid off, and his family didn’t live nearby. The only thing he had going for him anymore was the dojo and he had to move on. He did, but he stayed with the style and kept training wherever and however he could, and look where he is today.
“What we’re going to do is get going on your kumite [sparring],” he says. “We really need to get you up to speed, literally, with that. Your response time and your techniques, all of it.” Hanshi pauses and looks at Nate. “And you can’t do that alone. You need to train with people. We’ll work that as much as we can the next three months.”
Hanshi’s pacing now, hands on his hips, thinking to himself. “Yeah, and then we’ll keep at it with your forms. Because you have all the knowledge for a Shodan right now. It’s just that there’s a difference between knowing and doing. But we’ll get you there.” He keeps pacing, looking up at the lights, looking back at me. “It’s possible. I’ve had this kind of conversation with a dozen people before but I can tell that when you say you want to do something you do it. Where there’s a will there’s a way and I know this will work out.”
“Thank you, Hanshi,” I say. I tell him about my cross-training, about my weight loss, about my desire to still pay membership dues to the dojo while I’m in Michigan. I tell him that I already got permission from Interlochen to train in their dance studios (hardwood floors and good mirrors) after hours. I tell him I’m getting paid well for the job and I’ll be able to afford to fly back for a weekend or a seminar here and there.
“If all goes well,” he says, stopping mid-stride. He looks at me again. “If all goes well, we could test you for Shodon a year from now at PAMAI in Atlanta. We wouldn’t stop the whole conference for it, but we’d just take you aside into a separate room with a few other people,” he looks at Nate...”and we’d test you there. You’d be receiving your first degree as yudansha in front of 40-50 of the might highly trained karateka in our system today.”
He keeps talking, but I’m still stuck on the look he gave to Nate after he said that thing about being taken in “a separate room” with “a few other people.” I won’t know a true black belt test until I see one, but I’ve heard enough to know that it’s more than just a few people. And if I were to test at a conference as renowned as PAMAI, supposedly they’d recruit people for me to spar against from the legions of highly trained yudansha in town for the conference. My mind races. It’d be a stretch. More than a stretch.
I look up and see Hanshi is still talking, his pacing resumed. “I believe you can do this. I believe you can do it. We’re going to see this through,” he says, and with that, he pats me on the shoulders giving them a hard squeeze. Then he gives me a big old hug, simple as that, and another backslap.
I bow and say good night, then walk across the dark driveway to my car. It’s a cloud cover night, stars and moon totally hidden. I can’t see a thing as I walk confidently through the darkness toward the general direction of my car. It’s black as a black belt out, and that’s when it hits me—I’ll find my way to my car just fine, and I’ll find my way through the rest of this training just fine, too. One foot in front of the other, slow and steady. Focused and determined as always.
But first let me start by saying that I feel as though I am in a new body. Training for the Pine Tree purple belt tests in July took everything to a new level. I was away a lot of August and September, but cross-trained and practiced. I’m home for my final 3 months in North Carolina and my total weight loss is at 24 pounds. The clothes I wore senior year of college are too big for me now, which means that while my weight is the same as it was in 2001, my muscle mass is up and my fat percentage is down.
And so it is that I don’t recognize my arms anymore when I see them in the mirror...and I’m starting to see actual shape to my legs, where before I only saw hints of muscle beneath the heft. And so it is also that after 22 months training with Hanshi, I can walk in the door knowing I’m going to sweat bullets for 2 hours and still walk out with a bounce in my step. What I don’t know is how on Earth to tell him that I am I leaving...
It’s just the two of us so there’s no need to bow in, but I bow to him all the same. I begin with Wunsu Kata, where my timing and actions are on point but my shuto blocks hard and soft at the wrong times. My right palm down block after the kiai is facing the wrong direction and all of my nikodachi’s could be a bit more regal. Next is Anaku, which has always been my strongest form. I need to make my double block bigger but otherwise, just keep working it. Empi-Sho and Bassadai need the same nikodachi and shuto block corrections, which all boils down to refinement. Bassadai also needs stronger, more committed side kicks (better hip rotation with less torso dipping) and correct hand/foot timing with the closing collar grab.
Nate arrives a little before 7pm for adult class and joins me in working Naihanchisho and Gopeisho—my two most challenging forms and the newest in my repertoire. A few other students trickle in, and we begin class. Tonight, a line up of punches, partner drills, and kimenokata. As usual, we go past 8pm and it’s 8:30 by the time I’ve changed and jotted down notes in my book from the board (Example: the parts of zanshin, remaining mind). I’m sitting in the lobby, lacing up my shoes, trying to figure out a way to start the conversation without giving away the ending first.
Nate comes out of the changing room, pulls out a 3-ring binder, sits down next to me, and starts taking my pulses. He’s in a 3-year acupuncture certification program and likes to use his fellow karateka for practice. Scribbling in his notebook, next he asks me to stick out my tongue. Then, more pulses. Finally, Hanshi peaks his head around the corner and seems me scribbling in my notebook with one hand, the other hand tied up with Nate’s inspection.
“Your kata looked good tonight, Katey,” he says.
“Thank you sir, I appreciate the opportunity to come in early and train.”
“I can tell you worked hard while you were away.”
“Yes, sir, I did. I actually wanted to talk to you about that. I was wondering if I could up my training over the next few months and start to come in at 6pm every Tuesday and Thursday, just to sneak an extra hour in.”
“Of course! Yes, sure. Anytime. And if I can help I will, but if you just want to use the space and work the forms or one-steps on your own, you can do that, too. Use the weight room, do whatever.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
“Starting in January we’re going to be thinking hard about Shodan [1st degree black belt] for you. You need your brown first, but there’s nothing I want more than to see you through to yudansha [upper ranks] and earn your black belt. You have a strong heart for it and good skill.”
“Thank you, sir...Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that...about January...”
Nate looks at me, his fingers still taking my pulses, which by now must be haywire. Hanshi looks at me too. I stare at the floor.
“That is,” says Hanshi slowly. “That is, assuming you’re still here in January...”
I swore I wouldn’t do this but I choke up and my voice turns all froggy: “I have to move to Michigan,” I say. “I mean, I get to move to Michigan. It’s for a really important, good opportunity...”
We talk about training via distance, sending video footage of my kata and one-steps, emailing once a week, and setting up a training regimen. We talk about weekend seminars and me flying back to NC every few months for 1/2 personal lesson sessions with Hanshi. He congratulates me on the good career news and I can tell he is sincere. Then, he tells me a story about his first dojo that he had to leave. He said his girlfriend broke up with him, he got laid off, and his family didn’t live nearby. The only thing he had going for him anymore was the dojo and he had to move on. He did, but he stayed with the style and kept training wherever and however he could, and look where he is today.
“What we’re going to do is get going on your kumite [sparring],” he says. “We really need to get you up to speed, literally, with that. Your response time and your techniques, all of it.” Hanshi pauses and looks at Nate. “And you can’t do that alone. You need to train with people. We’ll work that as much as we can the next three months.”
Hanshi’s pacing now, hands on his hips, thinking to himself. “Yeah, and then we’ll keep at it with your forms. Because you have all the knowledge for a Shodan right now. It’s just that there’s a difference between knowing and doing. But we’ll get you there.” He keeps pacing, looking up at the lights, looking back at me. “It’s possible. I’ve had this kind of conversation with a dozen people before but I can tell that when you say you want to do something you do it. Where there’s a will there’s a way and I know this will work out.”
“Thank you, Hanshi,” I say. I tell him about my cross-training, about my weight loss, about my desire to still pay membership dues to the dojo while I’m in Michigan. I tell him that I already got permission from Interlochen to train in their dance studios (hardwood floors and good mirrors) after hours. I tell him I’m getting paid well for the job and I’ll be able to afford to fly back for a weekend or a seminar here and there.
“If all goes well,” he says, stopping mid-stride. He looks at me again. “If all goes well, we could test you for Shodon a year from now at PAMAI in Atlanta. We wouldn’t stop the whole conference for it, but we’d just take you aside into a separate room with a few other people,” he looks at Nate...”and we’d test you there. You’d be receiving your first degree as yudansha in front of 40-50 of the might highly trained karateka in our system today.”
He keeps talking, but I’m still stuck on the look he gave to Nate after he said that thing about being taken in “a separate room” with “a few other people.” I won’t know a true black belt test until I see one, but I’ve heard enough to know that it’s more than just a few people. And if I were to test at a conference as renowned as PAMAI, supposedly they’d recruit people for me to spar against from the legions of highly trained yudansha in town for the conference. My mind races. It’d be a stretch. More than a stretch.
I look up and see Hanshi is still talking, his pacing resumed. “I believe you can do this. I believe you can do it. We’re going to see this through,” he says, and with that, he pats me on the shoulders giving them a hard squeeze. Then he gives me a big old hug, simple as that, and another backslap.
I bow and say good night, then walk across the dark driveway to my car. It’s a cloud cover night, stars and moon totally hidden. I can’t see a thing as I walk confidently through the darkness toward the general direction of my car. It’s black as a black belt out, and that’s when it hits me—I’ll find my way to my car just fine, and I’ll find my way through the rest of this training just fine, too. One foot in front of the other, slow and steady. Focused and determined as always.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Days 13-14: VCCA
Here are some photos of my studio and the grounds, the fun and the folks. It’s basically been like living in a small apartment complex with 20 other artists in the middle of a lovely 12 acre park. The park is ours to play in, write in, read in, and share. Each day we walk to our individual studios and observe the golden rule: Never disturb another artist in his/her studio without permission. Sometimes we each lunch together on picnic tables and other times we take it back to our studios to continue working in privacy. Nearby, we can visit a college library or gym and hike on 400 acres of trails if the mood strikes. Each night, we dine in a dimly lit, small dining room with a group supper and often wine. Open studios, readings, trips to the one local bar (karaoke) happen when the collective interest arises.
Unlike Alaska, the scenery doesn’t command your attention. There’s really no way to photograph the intangible magic that goes on between folks here, but at least these shots will give you a physical sense for where I’ve been the past two weeks:
These four are the view walking up to the studio (converted barns), inside my studio (bed and recliner included - these were in addition to my private room), and the horse view out of 1 of my FIVE studio windows.
These are some images from an open studio night that a handful of the visual artists hosted one night. There was a lot to see but this is a sampling. The encaustics are Suzanne's (Montana), the collage/paintings are Patrick's (Germany), the breathtaking girl with rabbit ears is Elizabeth's (Austria), and the gesso and charcoal are Nancy's (Maine):
Finally, here are some shots of my friends and I. One evening in the public living room with fireplace, grandfather clock, suede sofas, etc. (don't ask about the dress - it's a long story). The other evening was karaoke at the local bar. Anjana (India) poses with a pitcher of beer, Patrick (Germany) gets wild with the microphone singing "Back in the U.S.S.R.", and so forth:
Unlike Alaska, the scenery doesn’t command your attention. There’s really no way to photograph the intangible magic that goes on between folks here, but at least these shots will give you a physical sense for where I’ve been the past two weeks:
These four are the view walking up to the studio (converted barns), inside my studio (bed and recliner included - these were in addition to my private room), and the horse view out of 1 of my FIVE studio windows.
These are some images from an open studio night that a handful of the visual artists hosted one night. There was a lot to see but this is a sampling. The encaustics are Suzanne's (Montana), the collage/paintings are Patrick's (Germany), the breathtaking girl with rabbit ears is Elizabeth's (Austria), and the gesso and charcoal are Nancy's (Maine):
Finally, here are some shots of my friends and I. One evening in the public living room with fireplace, grandfather clock, suede sofas, etc. (don't ask about the dress - it's a long story). The other evening was karaoke at the local bar. Anjana (India) poses with a pitcher of beer, Patrick (Germany) gets wild with the microphone singing "Back in the U.S.S.R.", and so forth:
Friday, September 25, 2009
Days 10-12: VCCA
I lost myself in writing a short story for four days and forgot to blog. Yes, I actually FORGOT. TO. BLOG.
That's a good thing. It really, really is. Although I regret I didn't capture much of the liveliness of the residency each day in words to share here.
1 more submission sent out, 2 books finished, started 2 more books. Film screening tonight (8 minutes) from a visual artist.
Continuing to utilize the FREE gym everyday and loving it.
Absolutely DO NOT want to leave.
That's a good thing. It really, really is. Although I regret I didn't capture much of the liveliness of the residency each day in words to share here.
1 more submission sent out, 2 books finished, started 2 more books. Film screening tonight (8 minutes) from a visual artist.
Continuing to utilize the FREE gym everyday and loving it.
Absolutely DO NOT want to leave.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Day 9: VCCA
Well folks: It’s been another productive day here at VCCA. And tonight? A dance party in a visual artist’s studio. Freshly painted canvases on the wall, a playlist from the NEA genius, and all the pent up artsy energy of the day to dance into the night…
But first: I spent some time this evening updating my website…including BREAKING NEWS about being accepted as the Writer-in-Residence at TOP SECRET SCHOOL, which doesn’t have to remain top secret anymore! Follow this link to my website to find out where I’ll be spending January-May 2010…
Real winter, here I come!
But first: I spent some time this evening updating my website…including BREAKING NEWS about being accepted as the Writer-in-Residence at TOP SECRET SCHOOL, which doesn’t have to remain top secret anymore! Follow this link to my website to find out where I’ll be spending January-May 2010…
Real winter, here I come!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Days 7-8: VCCA
Two more submissions sent out. Finished a book, read more of another one. Started still another one. Wrote the bridge to a three-part lyric essay. Wrote some silly micro essays. Petted horses, fed them apples, smelled them on my hands all day (good).
During the daytime, life here is monastic.
At night, choose your madness: More silence, making music, drinking wine, staring into the darkness, or reading Cosmo.
During the daytime, life here is monastic.
At night, choose your madness: More silence, making music, drinking wine, staring into the darkness, or reading Cosmo.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Day 6: VCCA
Sent out 6 more submissions today. Read half a book. Started reading another literary journal. Went on two long walks. Got sunburned. Drank wine. Went trainspotting.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Day 5: VCCA
Last night I found my people…Songs, laughter, wine, whiskey. Tonight, someone’s organized a Salaon/Open Mic with 3 minutes per person. We’ll have a trombone player perform, an Afghani guitar player, a folksy Chicago musician, monologues from NYC and LA playwrights, and readings and prose and poetry galore.
Today’s 1st line prompt: “We bring our babies, blue-eyed babies, brown-eyed babies; we have come to watch the parade, the marching bands.” (Kelly Cherry, “The Parents”)
Concluding quotes on the lyric essay, as excerpted from Seneca Review’s Fall 2007 special issue:
Lia Purpura
“I, myself, in the last month, have suggested to some writers that their (very lyric) essays might be best realized as performances (with lights and various speakers moving on and off). I’ve suggested the addition of pictures to certain essays, thus inadvertently promoting a thing called ‘the graphic essay.’ And yet—I’m uncomfortable stretching the term ‘essay’ too far. Silly Putty used to make me nervous in the same way when stretched, especially when it spread the face of a comic-book character, making it slowly wide, then tall, then transparent until it wore through entirely and the face’s features blew around in the breeze like a ripped flag.” (98)
“Insistent Question: So for the purposes of this issue of Seneca Review, what then is a lyric essay? Sidelong Wish: May we—readers and writers both—remain in a state of wonder about just that. May we value novelty enough to protect it. And since the reasons for questioning elemental things change as we get bigger, may we, as the Magic 8 Ball so often suggests, Ask Again Later.” (100)
Marcia Aldrich
“The lyric essay does not narrate a story so much as express a condition—often named, sometimes called human, but still to us unknown. It reverses foreground and background, cultivating leaps and juxtaposition, tensing between the presentational and the representational. Associative, meditative, it abhors journalistic reportage. Its incompleteness is Romantic, revealed in lyric fragmentation, the unfusion of imagination into the debris of fact…” (111)
Vicki Lindner
“Although skeptics might say D’Agata and Tall had invented a genre that already existed, their clearly stated boundaries offered an overwhelmed real nonfiction writer a nook in a vast pocket park, where she could smell the lilacs when she let herself relax…i.e., the emotional essence of a writer’s experience resides in the words she records about it, not in her memory of events themselves.” (116/118)
Today’s 1st line prompt: “We bring our babies, blue-eyed babies, brown-eyed babies; we have come to watch the parade, the marching bands.” (Kelly Cherry, “The Parents”)
Concluding quotes on the lyric essay, as excerpted from Seneca Review’s Fall 2007 special issue:
Lia Purpura
“I, myself, in the last month, have suggested to some writers that their (very lyric) essays might be best realized as performances (with lights and various speakers moving on and off). I’ve suggested the addition of pictures to certain essays, thus inadvertently promoting a thing called ‘the graphic essay.’ And yet—I’m uncomfortable stretching the term ‘essay’ too far. Silly Putty used to make me nervous in the same way when stretched, especially when it spread the face of a comic-book character, making it slowly wide, then tall, then transparent until it wore through entirely and the face’s features blew around in the breeze like a ripped flag.” (98)
“Insistent Question: So for the purposes of this issue of Seneca Review, what then is a lyric essay? Sidelong Wish: May we—readers and writers both—remain in a state of wonder about just that. May we value novelty enough to protect it. And since the reasons for questioning elemental things change as we get bigger, may we, as the Magic 8 Ball so often suggests, Ask Again Later.” (100)
Marcia Aldrich
“The lyric essay does not narrate a story so much as express a condition—often named, sometimes called human, but still to us unknown. It reverses foreground and background, cultivating leaps and juxtaposition, tensing between the presentational and the representational. Associative, meditative, it abhors journalistic reportage. Its incompleteness is Romantic, revealed in lyric fragmentation, the unfusion of imagination into the debris of fact…” (111)
Vicki Lindner
“Although skeptics might say D’Agata and Tall had invented a genre that already existed, their clearly stated boundaries offered an overwhelmed real nonfiction writer a nook in a vast pocket park, where she could smell the lilacs when she let herself relax…i.e., the emotional essence of a writer’s experience resides in the words she records about it, not in her memory of events themselves.” (116/118)
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Day 4: VCCA Taking Stock
More breaking news:
1. My first every short-short (fiction) has been accepted and will be published in Cold Flashes, an anthology about Alaska published by the University of Alaska press. Wow!
2. I had my 2nd interview with TopSecret school today and it went well. (“How do you teach writing?” “What is a lyric essay?” “Tell me your life story in 3 minutes.” “What is a young student’s greatest challenge with writing and how do you teach them through it?” “What is your greatest challenge as a writer?”)
3. While I did not get the $30,000 Andy Warhol grant for arts writers, I was notified that 45 applicants, including myself, have been selected as finalists for the International Art Critics Association Art Writing Workshop. Of this 45, only 10 of us will be chosen and, if chosen, we get an all-expenses paid trip to New York to meet for a four-day workshop with this association. Translation: The 45 finalists are sort of like the bronze medal winners. Not quite good enough to qualify as finalists (silver medal) for the real Andy Warhol grant (gold medal), but good enough to show “potential and promise of their writing and their ability to benefit from the workshop process.”
4. Three more copies of Lost Crossings have been ordered via PayPal and today a woman placed a large order for 25 additional copies to give as gifts to everyone in her family. That puts our total copies at 200, nearly all of which are already sold and spoken for. Yeehaw!
Efforts at VCCA thus far:
1. I have sent out 6 submissions.
2. I have finished 1 book and 2 literary journals and am far into several more.
3. New friends.
4. Lots of exercise.
5. Feeding apple cores to horses.
6. Completing a daily writing prompt. (Today’s first line: “Once I had visions of being a general,” from Richard Brautigan, “Corporal.”)
1. My first every short-short (fiction) has been accepted and will be published in Cold Flashes, an anthology about Alaska published by the University of Alaska press. Wow!
2. I had my 2nd interview with TopSecret school today and it went well. (“How do you teach writing?” “What is a lyric essay?” “Tell me your life story in 3 minutes.” “What is a young student’s greatest challenge with writing and how do you teach them through it?” “What is your greatest challenge as a writer?”)
3. While I did not get the $30,000 Andy Warhol grant for arts writers, I was notified that 45 applicants, including myself, have been selected as finalists for the International Art Critics Association Art Writing Workshop. Of this 45, only 10 of us will be chosen and, if chosen, we get an all-expenses paid trip to New York to meet for a four-day workshop with this association. Translation: The 45 finalists are sort of like the bronze medal winners. Not quite good enough to qualify as finalists (silver medal) for the real Andy Warhol grant (gold medal), but good enough to show “potential and promise of their writing and their ability to benefit from the workshop process.”
4. Three more copies of Lost Crossings have been ordered via PayPal and today a woman placed a large order for 25 additional copies to give as gifts to everyone in her family. That puts our total copies at 200, nearly all of which are already sold and spoken for. Yeehaw!
Efforts at VCCA thus far:
1. I have sent out 6 submissions.
2. I have finished 1 book and 2 literary journals and am far into several more.
3. New friends.
4. Lots of exercise.
5. Feeding apple cores to horses.
6. Completing a daily writing prompt. (Today’s first line: “Once I had visions of being a general,” from Richard Brautigan, “Corporal.”)
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Day 3: VCCA On the Lyric Essay
News Flash: My name, along with one or two others, has been passed on to the VP of TopSecret school for a second interview. A decision about the 6-month Writer-in-Residence position for which I am being considered will be made by the end of this month.
Note: There are artists here from Scotland, Austria, Germany, India, and France. The rest of the 20 of us come from Washington DC, New York City, and a few other places like Chicago, IL or Bakersville, NC. One lady is here on an NEA. One is about to depart for a six month funded fellowship to Japan. A southern writer living in LA will leave for Europe next month, pursing additional residencies. In other words, the people here are kind of amazing. Uber talented. Friendly, serious, smart, hard working. I’m getting a lot done. Haven’t “had a blast” yet, but that’s ok. Oh, and I’ve befriended Brian, gay playwright from NYC, with whom I go to the gym everyday (there is a college campus 1 mile away and we get free access). He’s funny and we can be loud together and that is a good thing because everything else here is very, very quiet. Almost like an abbey. Brian and I gossip on the way to the gym, sweat bullets for 2 hours, then head back to our respective studios and get to work.
Day 3: VCCA – On the Lyric Essay
When I applied for this residency, I explained that I wanted to spend two weeks focusing on the lyric essay. Since then, my infatuation with the short-short (fiction) has grown and I have decided to study both forms while I am here. I consider them cousins, to say the least.
Now, here I am in studio W8, where all the past authors who have stayed sign their names on the door. As it so happens, both Valerie Miner and Dorianne Laux—professors of mine from graduate school—have stayed and written in this very same private studio. How cool!
Part of my self-directed studies involves a free-write every morning, from which I steal the 1st line of an author’s short-short and go forth wildly into my own fictitious writing without censorship. I do this in an actual journal—less formal than the computer—and I write at least two pages, no stopping my pen. I’m going to share the 1st lines each day if anyone wants to try this at home.
Day 1 I used Dan O’Brien’s line from the short-short “Crossing Spider Creek”: “Here is a seriously injured man on a frightened horse.”
Day 2 I used Alan Gurganus’ line from the short-short “A Public Denial”: “Despite persistent rumors to the contrary…”
Today I used Carolyn Forche’s line from the short-short “The Colonel”: “What you have heard is true.”
BEGIN ESPECIALLY WRITERLY PART OF POST
I’d like to take this opportunity—especially for any of my readers who are also writers—to quote some of the authors I respect as they attempt to define “the lyric essay.” These are all taken from Seneca Review’s 2007 issue devoted to the lyric essay.
Brenda Miller
“The lyric essay doesn’t look too long at itself in the mirror. It is not ‘self-reflective,’ in that it does not really reflect the self who scribbles it down. Rather, it is the mirror, the silver film reflecting whatever passes its way…And that’s how the lyric essay happens: When there’s no bothersome self to get in the way. When the writing finds its own core. When it finds the language it needs on its own…What I’m trying to say is: The lyric essay happens in the gaps. In the pause before the next breath demands to be taken.” (23-25)
Philip Lopate
“…What is ostensibly so new about the lyric essay per se? Is it only historical ignorance of the classical essays’ resourceful capacities that allow the champions of the lyric essay to proffer it as something novel? What does the lyric essay bring to the table? One might cynically say: opacity, incoherence, mediocrity. Or, more hopefully: an attention to the movements and undulations of language as a subject in itself; a replacement of the monaural, imperially ego-confident self, the I-character voice, with a more multivalent, realistically unstable, communal or media-channeling speaker system; a wedding of contemporary poetry and nonfiction.” (30)
“What bothers me more is the lyric essay’s refusal to let thought accrue to some purpose. Over the years I have come to feel that what interest me most in the classical essay, including the memoirist personal essay, is the quality of rumination. It is the writer’s thought, or consciousness, let us call it, which hooks me, not the ostensible plot.” (31)
Amy Newman
“What if the lyrical content of the poem sexed the essay from out of its tie and didn’t wait for it to get dressed in the morning?...So this hybrid is serious about establishing itself as a unique species. Evolution is both science and desire. Did you just look at my legs?” (43-44)
Judith Kitchen
“…Like a poem, the lyric essay must not only mean, but be. It is a way of seeing the world. A hybrid—a cross between poetry and nonfiction—it must, as Rene Char said of the poet, ‘leave traces of [its] passage, not proof,’ letting mystery into the knowing. Or the knowing to incorporate its mystery. And part of that knowing is through sound—the whisper of soft consonants, the repetition of an elongated vowel that squeaks its way across the page, the chipping away of k-k-k-k, the assonance and consonance of thought attuned to language. The internal rhyme of the mind. “(46)
“To be lyric, there must be a lyre. That said, I believe there must also be some allegiance to the nonfiction aspect of the essay. The run-of-the-mill, workaday nature of reality. Of fact. The job of the lyric essayist is to find the prosody of fact, finger the emotional instrument, play the intuitive and the intrinsic but all in service to the music of the real. Even if it’s an imagined actuality. The aim is to make of, not up. The lyre not the liar.” (47)
“A lyric essay, however, functions as a lyric. Can be held in the mind—must, in fact, be held in the mind—intact. It means as an entity. It swallows you, the way a poem swallows you, until you reside inside it. Try to take it apart and you spin out of control. It is held together by the glue of absence, the mortar of melody, the threnody of unspent inspiration.” (48)
Stephen Kuusisto
Wise and humble as he is, I find the most direct information on the lyric essay in Kuusisto’s selection of an epigraph quoting Igor Stravinsky: “The real composer thinks about his work the whole time’ he is not always conscious of this, but he is aware of it later when he suddenly knows what he will do.”
David Shields
“It’s a category mistake to think of memoir as belonging to journalism; it belongs to literature. When a lyric poet uses, characteristically, the first-person voice, we don’t say accusingly, ‘But did this really happen the way you say it did?’ We accept the honest and probably inevitable mixture of mind and spirit. I think the reason we don’t interrogate poetry as we do memoir is that we have a long and sophisticated history of how to read the poetic voice. We accept that its task is to find emotional truth within experience, so we aren’t all worked up about the literal. We don’t yet have that history or tradition with the memoir.” (81)
“Great art is clear thinking about mixed feelings.” (84)
“The poem and the essay are more intimately related than any two genres, because they’re both ways of pursuing problems, or maybe trying to solve problems…One could say that fiction, indirectly, is a pursuit of knowledge, but the essay and the poem more directly and more urgently attempt to figure something out about the world…The lyric essay is the literary form that gives the writer the best opportunity for rigorous investigation, because its theater is the world (the mind contemplating the world) and offers no consoling dreamworld, no exit door.” (84-85)
Note: There are artists here from Scotland, Austria, Germany, India, and France. The rest of the 20 of us come from Washington DC, New York City, and a few other places like Chicago, IL or Bakersville, NC. One lady is here on an NEA. One is about to depart for a six month funded fellowship to Japan. A southern writer living in LA will leave for Europe next month, pursing additional residencies. In other words, the people here are kind of amazing. Uber talented. Friendly, serious, smart, hard working. I’m getting a lot done. Haven’t “had a blast” yet, but that’s ok. Oh, and I’ve befriended Brian, gay playwright from NYC, with whom I go to the gym everyday (there is a college campus 1 mile away and we get free access). He’s funny and we can be loud together and that is a good thing because everything else here is very, very quiet. Almost like an abbey. Brian and I gossip on the way to the gym, sweat bullets for 2 hours, then head back to our respective studios and get to work.
Day 3: VCCA – On the Lyric Essay
When I applied for this residency, I explained that I wanted to spend two weeks focusing on the lyric essay. Since then, my infatuation with the short-short (fiction) has grown and I have decided to study both forms while I am here. I consider them cousins, to say the least.
Now, here I am in studio W8, where all the past authors who have stayed sign their names on the door. As it so happens, both Valerie Miner and Dorianne Laux—professors of mine from graduate school—have stayed and written in this very same private studio. How cool!
Part of my self-directed studies involves a free-write every morning, from which I steal the 1st line of an author’s short-short and go forth wildly into my own fictitious writing without censorship. I do this in an actual journal—less formal than the computer—and I write at least two pages, no stopping my pen. I’m going to share the 1st lines each day if anyone wants to try this at home.
Day 1 I used Dan O’Brien’s line from the short-short “Crossing Spider Creek”: “Here is a seriously injured man on a frightened horse.”
Day 2 I used Alan Gurganus’ line from the short-short “A Public Denial”: “Despite persistent rumors to the contrary…”
Today I used Carolyn Forche’s line from the short-short “The Colonel”: “What you have heard is true.”
BEGIN ESPECIALLY WRITERLY PART OF POST
I’d like to take this opportunity—especially for any of my readers who are also writers—to quote some of the authors I respect as they attempt to define “the lyric essay.” These are all taken from Seneca Review’s 2007 issue devoted to the lyric essay.
Brenda Miller
“The lyric essay doesn’t look too long at itself in the mirror. It is not ‘self-reflective,’ in that it does not really reflect the self who scribbles it down. Rather, it is the mirror, the silver film reflecting whatever passes its way…And that’s how the lyric essay happens: When there’s no bothersome self to get in the way. When the writing finds its own core. When it finds the language it needs on its own…What I’m trying to say is: The lyric essay happens in the gaps. In the pause before the next breath demands to be taken.” (23-25)
Philip Lopate
“…What is ostensibly so new about the lyric essay per se? Is it only historical ignorance of the classical essays’ resourceful capacities that allow the champions of the lyric essay to proffer it as something novel? What does the lyric essay bring to the table? One might cynically say: opacity, incoherence, mediocrity. Or, more hopefully: an attention to the movements and undulations of language as a subject in itself; a replacement of the monaural, imperially ego-confident self, the I-character voice, with a more multivalent, realistically unstable, communal or media-channeling speaker system; a wedding of contemporary poetry and nonfiction.” (30)
“What bothers me more is the lyric essay’s refusal to let thought accrue to some purpose. Over the years I have come to feel that what interest me most in the classical essay, including the memoirist personal essay, is the quality of rumination. It is the writer’s thought, or consciousness, let us call it, which hooks me, not the ostensible plot.” (31)
Amy Newman
“What if the lyrical content of the poem sexed the essay from out of its tie and didn’t wait for it to get dressed in the morning?...So this hybrid is serious about establishing itself as a unique species. Evolution is both science and desire. Did you just look at my legs?” (43-44)
Judith Kitchen
“…Like a poem, the lyric essay must not only mean, but be. It is a way of seeing the world. A hybrid—a cross between poetry and nonfiction—it must, as Rene Char said of the poet, ‘leave traces of [its] passage, not proof,’ letting mystery into the knowing. Or the knowing to incorporate its mystery. And part of that knowing is through sound—the whisper of soft consonants, the repetition of an elongated vowel that squeaks its way across the page, the chipping away of k-k-k-k, the assonance and consonance of thought attuned to language. The internal rhyme of the mind. “(46)
“To be lyric, there must be a lyre. That said, I believe there must also be some allegiance to the nonfiction aspect of the essay. The run-of-the-mill, workaday nature of reality. Of fact. The job of the lyric essayist is to find the prosody of fact, finger the emotional instrument, play the intuitive and the intrinsic but all in service to the music of the real. Even if it’s an imagined actuality. The aim is to make of, not up. The lyre not the liar.” (47)
“A lyric essay, however, functions as a lyric. Can be held in the mind—must, in fact, be held in the mind—intact. It means as an entity. It swallows you, the way a poem swallows you, until you reside inside it. Try to take it apart and you spin out of control. It is held together by the glue of absence, the mortar of melody, the threnody of unspent inspiration.” (48)
Stephen Kuusisto
Wise and humble as he is, I find the most direct information on the lyric essay in Kuusisto’s selection of an epigraph quoting Igor Stravinsky: “The real composer thinks about his work the whole time’ he is not always conscious of this, but he is aware of it later when he suddenly knows what he will do.”
David Shields
“It’s a category mistake to think of memoir as belonging to journalism; it belongs to literature. When a lyric poet uses, characteristically, the first-person voice, we don’t say accusingly, ‘But did this really happen the way you say it did?’ We accept the honest and probably inevitable mixture of mind and spirit. I think the reason we don’t interrogate poetry as we do memoir is that we have a long and sophisticated history of how to read the poetic voice. We accept that its task is to find emotional truth within experience, so we aren’t all worked up about the literal. We don’t yet have that history or tradition with the memoir.” (81)
“Great art is clear thinking about mixed feelings.” (84)
“The poem and the essay are more intimately related than any two genres, because they’re both ways of pursuing problems, or maybe trying to solve problems…One could say that fiction, indirectly, is a pursuit of knowledge, but the essay and the poem more directly and more urgently attempt to figure something out about the world…The lyric essay is the literary form that gives the writer the best opportunity for rigorous investigation, because its theater is the world (the mind contemplating the world) and offers no consoling dreamworld, no exit door.” (84-85)
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Day 2: VCCA
Dear God,
There is something I need to tell you.
But first, please forgive the fact that I have not addressed you since I was a child. (Exception: I frequently say your name in vain and have found its usage quite diverse for emotional expression.) Anything I might have said to you not in vain, must have been written at an early age when I did not possess mature concepts such as skepticism.
Also, I ought to make it clear that I do not believe in you. I have, however, had the experience of being saved. When I was 12 years old I looked up the word “atheist” and found myself. My higher power is and shall remain the Oxford American Dictionary.
I do recognize the fact that millions of people on this planet allow for your existence and that, although this has caused countless wars over the eras, it has also fostered a sense of reverence and peace in many devoted hearts. Because of your supreme influence in these ways, I have taken it upon myself to write this letter.
Please do not take offense. What I need to tell you is this: I have made the most perfect cup of coffee. On this 15th day of September in the, ahem, year of our Lord 2009, I carefully pressed my French press into its fitted glass sleeve and hence poured the most perfect cup. The beans can be traced to Lighthouse Roasters in Seattle, Washington and to Ethiopia before that. The careful pressing skills can be traced to Portland, Oregon, where coffee obsession was my third parent. The physical cup (shown here) can be traced to Joy Tanner of Bad Creek, potter extraordinaire.
The beans, the French press, my uber-swift pressing skills, and the mug I poured it all into cannot be traced to you. Understanding that you are the only being-that’s-not-a-being who is allowed to make the most perfect anything, it seemed I ought to let you know about my perfect cup of coffee. I have no suggestions for how to deal with this—perhaps someone in your PR department can handle the problem—but you’re God, after all. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.
Best intentions,
Katey Schultz
There is something I need to tell you.
But first, please forgive the fact that I have not addressed you since I was a child. (Exception: I frequently say your name in vain and have found its usage quite diverse for emotional expression.) Anything I might have said to you not in vain, must have been written at an early age when I did not possess mature concepts such as skepticism.
Also, I ought to make it clear that I do not believe in you. I have, however, had the experience of being saved. When I was 12 years old I looked up the word “atheist” and found myself. My higher power is and shall remain the Oxford American Dictionary.
I do recognize the fact that millions of people on this planet allow for your existence and that, although this has caused countless wars over the eras, it has also fostered a sense of reverence and peace in many devoted hearts. Because of your supreme influence in these ways, I have taken it upon myself to write this letter.
Please do not take offense. What I need to tell you is this: I have made the most perfect cup of coffee. On this 15th day of September in the, ahem, year of our Lord 2009, I carefully pressed my French press into its fitted glass sleeve and hence poured the most perfect cup. The beans can be traced to Lighthouse Roasters in Seattle, Washington and to Ethiopia before that. The careful pressing skills can be traced to Portland, Oregon, where coffee obsession was my third parent. The physical cup (shown here) can be traced to Joy Tanner of Bad Creek, potter extraordinaire.
The beans, the French press, my uber-swift pressing skills, and the mug I poured it all into cannot be traced to you. Understanding that you are the only being-that’s-not-a-being who is allowed to make the most perfect anything, it seemed I ought to let you know about my perfect cup of coffee. I have no suggestions for how to deal with this—perhaps someone in your PR department can handle the problem—but you’re God, after all. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.
Best intentions,
Katey Schultz
Monday, September 14, 2009
Day 1: VCCA
It’s quiet at first and I don’t know what to do with myself.
Fork Mountain is quiet in its own way, but the wilds of the mountain and its hardwood forest are always apparent to me from my writing desk. Here, there is the sound of the 4-lane highway in the distance—Route 29 toward Amherst, Virginia—and the constant singing of crickets. But with open meadows, tended gardens, and brick buildings, I realize that my sense of sound is inherently linked to my sense of space. Decibel for decibel, it’s probably quieter on Fork Mountain than it is at VCCA. It must be the open, human-tended grounds that evoke the feeling of silence that contrasts so sharply with a burgeoning Appalachian forest at the end of summer.
Quiet…but then I hear it: the unmistakable rattle and hum of a train. I look out the window of my studio and see flashes of color through the trees about 200 feet away. I lean back in my chair and watch it roll on by. One, five, ten, seventeen…too many cars to count from this distance but it’s not the number that matters anyway.
When I left teaching full time to apply to grad school and attempt this writer’s life, my sentinel and symbol became the pileated woodpecker. Or rather, the pileated woodpecker chose me. After seeing them so frequently, I felt called to learn more about the myths associated with them and learned that their black and white colors can symbolize change. Native in Western North Carolina, these birds symbolized a change but not a major relocation or move for me.
Trains and bridges have become my new sentinel and symbol, and I’m certain they also reflect change. Though this time the change moves and connects. It is powerful and sturdy, always going from one place to the next—yet with the presence of mind to stay the course. I could hope for as much these next two weeks. Here goes…
Fork Mountain is quiet in its own way, but the wilds of the mountain and its hardwood forest are always apparent to me from my writing desk. Here, there is the sound of the 4-lane highway in the distance—Route 29 toward Amherst, Virginia—and the constant singing of crickets. But with open meadows, tended gardens, and brick buildings, I realize that my sense of sound is inherently linked to my sense of space. Decibel for decibel, it’s probably quieter on Fork Mountain than it is at VCCA. It must be the open, human-tended grounds that evoke the feeling of silence that contrasts so sharply with a burgeoning Appalachian forest at the end of summer.
Quiet…but then I hear it: the unmistakable rattle and hum of a train. I look out the window of my studio and see flashes of color through the trees about 200 feet away. I lean back in my chair and watch it roll on by. One, five, ten, seventeen…too many cars to count from this distance but it’s not the number that matters anyway.
When I left teaching full time to apply to grad school and attempt this writer’s life, my sentinel and symbol became the pileated woodpecker. Or rather, the pileated woodpecker chose me. After seeing them so frequently, I felt called to learn more about the myths associated with them and learned that their black and white colors can symbolize change. Native in Western North Carolina, these birds symbolized a change but not a major relocation or move for me.
Trains and bridges have become my new sentinel and symbol, and I’m certain they also reflect change. Though this time the change moves and connects. It is powerful and sturdy, always going from one place to the next—yet with the presence of mind to stay the course. I could hope for as much these next two weeks. Here goes…
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Mass Confusion
Okay. I formally admit that I am confused.
I have never been so deeply in love with these mountains as I have been in the past six months. Yet I have never felt so distinctly that my career and my romantic life need to develop in ways that are not possible in these mountains.
The release of Lost Crossings set firm in my mind the value of rooting in one place, investing, and giving back. Alaska set firm in my mind the importance of travel and new experiences to my work as a writer. On the heels of another residency, I’ve no doubt VCCA will prove to me the same thing.
But perhaps, more than the place or the career or the romance, it is the person. Me, that is…
Oftentimes we get the notion that something has to change or else, when in fact the thing that needs to change is our personal view. I have not felt very present in my life for the last 10 weeks (with the exception of Alaska, of course). Everything feels a mile a minute. I feel like I’m lifting off and I know where I’m going, yet the wind that’s taking me there is not moving at my pace or direction. This wind will take me there, but I’m not sure I like the rhythm of the ride thus far.
Something has to change and I can say it’s where I live or I can say it’s not falling in love or I can say it’s the isolated house…or I can change my view, take it all down a notch, and start living for one day at a time.
What is it, precisely, that I am so scared of?
I have never been so deeply in love with these mountains as I have been in the past six months. Yet I have never felt so distinctly that my career and my romantic life need to develop in ways that are not possible in these mountains.
The release of Lost Crossings set firm in my mind the value of rooting in one place, investing, and giving back. Alaska set firm in my mind the importance of travel and new experiences to my work as a writer. On the heels of another residency, I’ve no doubt VCCA will prove to me the same thing.
But perhaps, more than the place or the career or the romance, it is the person. Me, that is…
Oftentimes we get the notion that something has to change or else, when in fact the thing that needs to change is our personal view. I have not felt very present in my life for the last 10 weeks (with the exception of Alaska, of course). Everything feels a mile a minute. I feel like I’m lifting off and I know where I’m going, yet the wind that’s taking me there is not moving at my pace or direction. This wind will take me there, but I’m not sure I like the rhythm of the ride thus far.
Something has to change and I can say it’s where I live or I can say it’s not falling in love or I can say it’s the isolated house…or I can change my view, take it all down a notch, and start living for one day at a time.
What is it, precisely, that I am so scared of?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Capricorns
A friend sent along two horoscopes that are so fitting I'm going to post them here. (Oh, and Lost Crossings sold out at the literary festival in Burnsville today - yeehaw!)
Capricorn (Dec. 22- Jan. 20)
You're crossing a bridge from the past to the future, and the longer you walk on that bridge, the longer it becomes. Your life right now is a meaningful invitation to be where you are and notice the incredible potential of this moment. The planets suggest strongly that you explore actual potentials that are available right now, rather than ideas or plans you have for the future.
Capricorn (Dec. 22- Jan. 20)
On the surface, to the world you may seem self-assured, but there's a deeper question you've been digging for an answer to. Who are you? What are the things you like about yourself and what do you feel is ready for a change? You've been gaining perspective and now comes a moment of truth. You've been working hard to expand your mind to the greater possibilities available. To get what you desire, you have to admit it to yourself first. If you have doubts regarding a financial and intimate partnership ask yourself why? Focus your deepest values even if there is some painful truth to confront there. This is not about your selfish gain, nor is it about praise, fame or life's transient pleasures. But about something that fills you with hope, pride and joy, worthy of your devotion. Dare to speak your truth –- the world is listening.
Capricorn (Dec. 22- Jan. 20)
You're crossing a bridge from the past to the future, and the longer you walk on that bridge, the longer it becomes. Your life right now is a meaningful invitation to be where you are and notice the incredible potential of this moment. The planets suggest strongly that you explore actual potentials that are available right now, rather than ideas or plans you have for the future.
Capricorn (Dec. 22- Jan. 20)
On the surface, to the world you may seem self-assured, but there's a deeper question you've been digging for an answer to. Who are you? What are the things you like about yourself and what do you feel is ready for a change? You've been gaining perspective and now comes a moment of truth. You've been working hard to expand your mind to the greater possibilities available. To get what you desire, you have to admit it to yourself first. If you have doubts regarding a financial and intimate partnership ask yourself why? Focus your deepest values even if there is some painful truth to confront there. This is not about your selfish gain, nor is it about praise, fame or life's transient pleasures. But about something that fills you with hope, pride and joy, worthy of your devotion. Dare to speak your truth –- the world is listening.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Setting Change In Motion
Bridges and trains: the metaphor couldn’t be any clearer. The ground is moving beneath my feet. I’m crossing from one thing to another. I’m on the cusp, ready to go. I’m not sure where or what, but I have resolved to make a major change by January.
That could mean moving to TopSecret school for the Writer-in-Residence position (I interviewed this morning). It could mean going to Oregon for two weeks to help out at the Pacific Residency, then to Washington for a week where I will have a reading at Whitman College. From there, who knows: Fishtrap in eastern Oregon? A winter excursion to Denali, where friends have offered to put me up in their extra cabin and show me their world of mushing? Vermont Studio Center? Move to a coastal town and search for new inspiration in the metaphors of the tides?
“I think it’s time for you to come out of seclusion,” a friend told me recently. I think she’s right. I’ve lived without television since I was 18. I do not own a cell phone. I use dial up Internet. I’ve lived alone in isolated cabins and houses for four years, bartering for my rent and devoting myself to writing. I know I can work the writing muscles in seclusion, now I’ve got to get out there and see if I can keep them working.
But first, there is this next, most immediate adventure to tend to. This weekend is Burnsville, NC’s annual Carolina Mountains Literary Festival and Shane and I have two presentations plus a panel. There are also many presentations going on that I want to attend as a participant. Sunday I’m packing up for Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, studying my road maps, and loading the car. Monday morning, I head out for a two-week residency there. Ready? Set? Go!
That could mean moving to TopSecret school for the Writer-in-Residence position (I interviewed this morning). It could mean going to Oregon for two weeks to help out at the Pacific Residency, then to Washington for a week where I will have a reading at Whitman College. From there, who knows: Fishtrap in eastern Oregon? A winter excursion to Denali, where friends have offered to put me up in their extra cabin and show me their world of mushing? Vermont Studio Center? Move to a coastal town and search for new inspiration in the metaphors of the tides?
“I think it’s time for you to come out of seclusion,” a friend told me recently. I think she’s right. I’ve lived without television since I was 18. I do not own a cell phone. I use dial up Internet. I’ve lived alone in isolated cabins and houses for four years, bartering for my rent and devoting myself to writing. I know I can work the writing muscles in seclusion, now I’ve got to get out there and see if I can keep them working.
But first, there is this next, most immediate adventure to tend to. This weekend is Burnsville, NC’s annual Carolina Mountains Literary Festival and Shane and I have two presentations plus a panel. There are also many presentations going on that I want to attend as a participant. Sunday I’m packing up for Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, studying my road maps, and loading the car. Monday morning, I head out for a two-week residency there. Ready? Set? Go!
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Lost in Translation
My poet friend offers his unsolicited “translation” of the train engineer’s email. I think he might be more jaded about men than most of the women I know. Here’s his interpretation of the engineer’s words:
"Meeting you was the highlight of my summer. Though there are these loose screws rattling around my head and swallows nesting in my innards. A clank is beautiful, though both the housing and the machine are off in separate worlds. Engine grease long ago congested my heart. Doctors call it failure. I just shrug and keep to the train. P.S. Suck my beautiful coal smoke as long as you want, I like the attention."
Well god forgive me for daring to hope, eh?
So I will tell you this, dear reader, because I suppose I need to hear it again myself: I like to think that I know a good human being when I meet one. I also like to think that while I might be a fool, at least I’m not a coward. I understand that it is better regret trying and failing than it is regret failing to try in the first place.
"Meeting you was the highlight of my summer. Though there are these loose screws rattling around my head and swallows nesting in my innards. A clank is beautiful, though both the housing and the machine are off in separate worlds. Engine grease long ago congested my heart. Doctors call it failure. I just shrug and keep to the train. P.S. Suck my beautiful coal smoke as long as you want, I like the attention."
Well god forgive me for daring to hope, eh?
So I will tell you this, dear reader, because I suppose I need to hear it again myself: I like to think that I know a good human being when I meet one. I also like to think that while I might be a fool, at least I’m not a coward. I understand that it is better regret trying and failing than it is regret failing to try in the first place.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Two Weeks Later
Here is what happens: You go some place amazing, Alaska, say, and you literally have to start from the ground up.
You do not have words for the very surface you’re standing on. Is it muskeg? Tundra? Permafrost?
You look up from your feet and gaze around you. Is this a forest, even though the trees are bent like Dr. Suess creations, tiny in the harsh climate? If it’s a forest, what kind is it? If it isn’t a forest, is it high alpine? Alpine desert? Dwarfed alpine?
You hike through a valley and see large piles of scat every fifteen feet. Is it bear scat? Black or grizzly? What’s the difference between a grizzly and a brown bear, anyway? If it isn’t bear, is it moose? What is the plural of moose, anyway? {Answer: musock.}
Later, you hike toward a glacier. But first there is the moraine. Is it fluvial moraine? Lateral moraine? How deep? How old? Melting at what rate? Up on the ice, how why do things melt in lines? In pools? What is the difference between a crevasse and a moulin?
There are the people, too. Start in the city, for instance, where on an particular summer evening it is 11pm and the Barnes and Noble is jam packed. There is free wi-fi and music over the loudspeakers. Couples walk hand in hand. Children jitter about. You feel certain your watch is wrong and that it must be 4pm, but it is not.
In the small towns, you blend in surprisingly well in your Carhartt’s and day pack. You sneak into the local spots. At night you try a few bars. In one of them you can see six men with red beards from where you are sitting – and that’s without turning your head.
You also take the train. The engineer mistakes you for a local too, gives you a prime open-view seat, and the rest is history. Three weeks later he emails you: “Keep in touch. I might not ever see you again but I’ll never forget you. You were the highlight of my summer. Think of me when you see a train in the distance…” He tells you perhaps you should join him for a few weeks in Mexico, where he lives each winter in this little house that he built. He is 32 and handsome and driven and you haven’t been right since you met him.
Right? No, that’s wrong. You’ve been more yourself than you ever have been before since you met him. And that’s the catch, isn’t it? That you go places and meet your best self out there in the great-big-beyond. You think you fall in love with the place or the person, and what you’re really falling for is the possibility that you could be a better, stronger, human being on this planet than what you are currently.
So your better self is wandering around The Last Frontier. She’s digging her toes in, making a nest, hunkering down, planting roots—whatever you call it. Back in Carolina, the every-day self closes her eyes at night to the sound and feel of the train car rolling along those hot, steel rails. It’s a lullaby, really, cradling her memory of seeing her best self through the eyes of a man. It’s dangerous territory, that train in the sleepscape of memory. Dangerous but so, so sweet.
You do not have words for the very surface you’re standing on. Is it muskeg? Tundra? Permafrost?
You look up from your feet and gaze around you. Is this a forest, even though the trees are bent like Dr. Suess creations, tiny in the harsh climate? If it’s a forest, what kind is it? If it isn’t a forest, is it high alpine? Alpine desert? Dwarfed alpine?
You hike through a valley and see large piles of scat every fifteen feet. Is it bear scat? Black or grizzly? What’s the difference between a grizzly and a brown bear, anyway? If it isn’t bear, is it moose? What is the plural of moose, anyway? {Answer: musock.}
Later, you hike toward a glacier. But first there is the moraine. Is it fluvial moraine? Lateral moraine? How deep? How old? Melting at what rate? Up on the ice, how why do things melt in lines? In pools? What is the difference between a crevasse and a moulin?
There are the people, too. Start in the city, for instance, where on an particular summer evening it is 11pm and the Barnes and Noble is jam packed. There is free wi-fi and music over the loudspeakers. Couples walk hand in hand. Children jitter about. You feel certain your watch is wrong and that it must be 4pm, but it is not.
In the small towns, you blend in surprisingly well in your Carhartt’s and day pack. You sneak into the local spots. At night you try a few bars. In one of them you can see six men with red beards from where you are sitting – and that’s without turning your head.
You also take the train. The engineer mistakes you for a local too, gives you a prime open-view seat, and the rest is history. Three weeks later he emails you: “Keep in touch. I might not ever see you again but I’ll never forget you. You were the highlight of my summer. Think of me when you see a train in the distance…” He tells you perhaps you should join him for a few weeks in Mexico, where he lives each winter in this little house that he built. He is 32 and handsome and driven and you haven’t been right since you met him.
Right? No, that’s wrong. You’ve been more yourself than you ever have been before since you met him. And that’s the catch, isn’t it? That you go places and meet your best self out there in the great-big-beyond. You think you fall in love with the place or the person, and what you’re really falling for is the possibility that you could be a better, stronger, human being on this planet than what you are currently.
So your better self is wandering around The Last Frontier. She’s digging her toes in, making a nest, hunkering down, planting roots—whatever you call it. Back in Carolina, the every-day self closes her eyes at night to the sound and feel of the train car rolling along those hot, steel rails. It’s a lullaby, really, cradling her memory of seeing her best self through the eyes of a man. It’s dangerous territory, that train in the sleepscape of memory. Dangerous but so, so sweet.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Lost Crossings Opening
Well folks – we couldn’t have asked for a better opening. Every framed first edition photo on the wall sold, as well as the 40 remaining copies of the Lost Crossings book. We took orders for additional books and a few second edition unframed prints sold as well. The show will be up for another two months, so more sales are possible. About 70 people came to the opening, which included a fabulous ceramic show downstairs as well, and Shane and I were asked to do our lecture twice to accommodate all the guests. In addition, $450 was donated from several people to go toward a second printing of the book, which will be available in about 10 days! Here are a few pics from the evening, showing Shane, myself, the gallery owners, and one wall of the exhibition hall.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Craft Talk Sneak Preview
I will not be blogging tomorrow night, as it’s party time for Lost Crossings. But here is a sneak preview of the craft talk Shane and I will present at the public lecture tomorrow evening:
SHANE - Thank you:
Crimson Laurel Gallery, The Design Gallery, Alessa Leming, Gina Phillips and Great Meadows, Jean McGlaughlin, and the Canipe family…
Transition – Katey invited Shane to be the photographer
KATEY - How I started:
1. Simple infatuation/Honeycutt Bridge
2. Research for Our State
3. Collaboration:
a. Field work, typical day—whole experience, both sides of bridge
b. weekly meetings to get the work out there
c. Fundraising
d. Printing and framing
e. Writing and revising
Katey’s reflection:
1. Struggled some with what I had to offer as an outsider, what I could write that would make a contribution…found an entry point
2. Ran into limitations with my own research skills and found I was most interested in the experience itself…contemplative
3. How this work fits into the subgenres of Nonfiction:
a. Immersion or obsession writing is journalistic in nature, but puts the “I” voice or the narrator directly into the story. Examples include: Into the Wild, The Orchid Thief, A Year of Living Biblically, The Bookseller of Kabul, and Eat, Pray, Love. While concept books such as these can sometimes be viewed as gimmicky, when they are well-written they both inform readers and invite them to consider larger questions.
b. The meditative essay uses the self as a starting point, then it escapes into another world for a moment but always has a way of coming back to real time in the end. There is almost always the presence of a question and a sustained moment of stillness. Authors who do this include Robert Vivian and Annie Dillard.
c. “Contemplative conservation”
Shane’s reflection:
{He’s working on it…}
Close: Q&A, thanks
SHANE - Thank you:
Crimson Laurel Gallery, The Design Gallery, Alessa Leming, Gina Phillips and Great Meadows, Jean McGlaughlin, and the Canipe family…
Transition – Katey invited Shane to be the photographer
KATEY - How I started:
1. Simple infatuation/Honeycutt Bridge
2. Research for Our State
3. Collaboration:
a. Field work, typical day—whole experience, both sides of bridge
b. weekly meetings to get the work out there
c. Fundraising
d. Printing and framing
e. Writing and revising
Katey’s reflection:
1. Struggled some with what I had to offer as an outsider, what I could write that would make a contribution…found an entry point
2. Ran into limitations with my own research skills and found I was most interested in the experience itself…contemplative
3. How this work fits into the subgenres of Nonfiction:
a. Immersion or obsession writing is journalistic in nature, but puts the “I” voice or the narrator directly into the story. Examples include: Into the Wild, The Orchid Thief, A Year of Living Biblically, The Bookseller of Kabul, and Eat, Pray, Love. While concept books such as these can sometimes be viewed as gimmicky, when they are well-written they both inform readers and invite them to consider larger questions.
b. The meditative essay uses the self as a starting point, then it escapes into another world for a moment but always has a way of coming back to real time in the end. There is almost always the presence of a question and a sustained moment of stillness. Authors who do this include Robert Vivian and Annie Dillard.
c. “Contemplative conservation”
Shane’s reflection:
{He’s working on it…}
Close: Q&A, thanks
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Updates
Still sick, but slightly on the mend. Thus, a short post tonight of newsworthy items:
Lost Crossings update:
T-minus 45 hours and counting until show time. We’ve received reviews and press in the following publications: Our State Magazine, Mountain Xpress online, The Laurel of Asheville, and Yancey Common Times. About 2/3 of our books have sold and we haven’t even formally debuted at our two local events yet. Shane and I have a few hundred dollars left of the monies we fundraised and it looks like we are going to have to use it to express order a second printing of the book!
Writing update:
No from Quick Fiction.
Yes to a residency from Vermont Studio Center (yeehaw!).
Yes to an interview with TopSecret School for a six-month Writer-in-Residence position. My phone interview is next week – wish me luck – and then a final decision is made between the candidates.
Yes to a pay raise from one of the national magazines that I write for frequently.
Lost Crossings update:
T-minus 45 hours and counting until show time. We’ve received reviews and press in the following publications: Our State Magazine, Mountain Xpress online, The Laurel of Asheville, and Yancey Common Times. About 2/3 of our books have sold and we haven’t even formally debuted at our two local events yet. Shane and I have a few hundred dollars left of the monies we fundraised and it looks like we are going to have to use it to express order a second printing of the book!
Writing update:
No from Quick Fiction.
Yes to a residency from Vermont Studio Center (yeehaw!).
Yes to an interview with TopSecret School for a six-month Writer-in-Residence position. My phone interview is next week – wish me luck – and then a final decision is made between the candidates.
Yes to a pay raise from one of the national magazines that I write for frequently.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
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