Packing for Travel

I had breakfast with a friend the other day; he's someone who has been a great supporter, a mentor, and something of a nudge (in the very best sense of the word). We were talking about how teaching takes such a commitment of time and energy and, because I'm an adjunct at two different schools, a sort of mental flexibility that can be challenging. Then he asked, "Are you writing?"

Not enough. I'm simply not writing enough. But I am thinking a lot about the work, which seems appropriate at this stage, when I'm revising the memoir. "Big picture stuff," asking myself the tough questions about whether this scene is necessary, have I gone off track here or does this chapter actually move the story along, did I serve the story well? Just as hard as the initial writing, certainly, yet progress is being made. Large chunks of marble have been turned to dust, revealing the shape hidden inside.

And there this: in one small sliver of my writer's mind, I've started to think about what to write next. So I was happy when, later in the day, I came across this:

There's a story here. I can't wait to find out what it is.

Snow. Again.

Again?

Or is it, more accurately, "Still?"

Just in case I was operating under the illusion that I have some kind of control over..Life, weather patterns, prevailing winds, cold and warm fronts continue to conspire to remind me that the only "control" I actually have is my choice of response.

This is the view through a window in my house.

It's kind of inspiring and, I must admit, beautiful. As fragile and insistent as Life.

Unflappable Normalcy

"When you write non-fiction, you have to at least pretend to be a person of some unflappable normalcy who is making reasonable judgments.” Nicholson Baker

I've been thinking about this quote since it landed in my inbox the other day, via The Writer's Almanac. As yet, I haven't come to any conclusions about it, but what a ripe juicy thing to roll around, to chew on a bit.

There are some assumptions to be made:
• He's probably not referring to writing memoir; rather, the non-fiction in this case is more likely essays or books about specific things, ideas or notable people.
• The "reasonable judgments" in question may be related to facts or statistics or something along those lines.

I keep thinking, though, that the very act of writing memoir does require one to situate oneself at a distance from whatever drives the impulse to write, the...abnormality? unreasonableness? dysfunction? surrounding the period about which one is writing. To be unflappable in looking back seems a minimal requirement, considering some of the events that haunt so many of us, making it necessary to write a memoir in the first place. Isn't there something hopeful about the idea of at least pretending to be "normal" (whatever that is) while involved in such an endeavor?

As I say, no conclusion at yet, but then there's this: the rest of the quote is about writing fiction, about which Mr. Baker says, “Fiction, on the other hand, allows you to be a little more provisional and vulnerable, and truer. You can think over the self-medicational function of rhyme and, on the same day, cut some of your finger off with a breadknife."

Now that sounds familiar.

Graduation

Last night was the graduation ceremony for the inaugural class of Fairfield University's MFA in Creative Writing—-a group of which I am a very proud member. To have witnessed the growth of these writers, to have shared the moments of struggle and of triumph, to have grown and struggled and triumphed in their company is a great privilege.

The ceremony had moments of particular magic—-lining up as a cohort, jittery about the hood ("is it right? is this thing on right?"); entering the chapel full of family, friends, the faculty, fellow writer-students; seeing everyone's proud smiles and hearing their applause; passing before the pew full of our writer-teachers who worked so hard for us; the call and response in Chris Belden's speech ("What are you going to do," he asked. "Keep on writing," we answered).

Then this: Baron Wormser, poet/novelist/essayist/wonder, called us forward and read our words as we walked across the altar to shake hands, receive hugs, get our diploma. Read our words.

One line. Chosen after much consideration--what one line can stand for all the writing we have done over the last two years?

Here's mine:

"The secret I carried closest to my heart, however, was that I still believed that if I could just say the right thing, my mother would remember that she loved me and she would come back."

Standing Still Sun

Here it comes—the winter solstice. I can already sense the shift from the lingering darkness, the failing light, the incremental tilting toward more sun.

My personal hemisphere is about to shift.

Done with the MFA (except for a few lingering details—a seminar to conduct, a reading to give, a ceremony).

Done with the semester—grades in, goodbyes to certain students with whom I felt a connection.

Amid the relief, I feel sad about both things.  I'm not great with endings, I often fail to remember that they are actually beginnings.

Now what?

Nothing is set, yet there are possibilities.

Perhaps more teaching; a thing I hope for because I found a joy in teaching that surprised me.

Definitely more writing. There is much to do, in spite of having finished my creative thesis—now I need to turn that promising beginning into a truly finished thing (as much as any "thing" of this sort can be considered finished).

I suppose what's next is really this: to take the steps necessary to have the life I want. Fortunately I know the elements of that life; even more fortunate, many of the elements are already in place.

Today, however, I am going to stand still and consider which way to turn.

Today I take heart in knowing that the daylight will soon last a little longer.

I hope you like this cool photo I found at www.freefoto.com.

A Cool Thing for Writers (And Readers)

So, I was perusing the Interwebs as I sometimes do and came across this very interesting project by Peter Selgin—a writer who also edits and teaches (because how many writers only have one job, right?). It's called "Your First Page" and, as the homepage states, it "is a craft forum to which authors are invited to submit the first pages of a works-in-progress (fiction or memoir) and get free critical feedback" from Peter and also get comments from followers of the blog.

I figured it would be an interesting exercise to submit my first page, the current beginning of my memoir-in-progress. Check it out here.

This enterprise seems like a remarkably generous and potentially compelling way of opening up the conversation about craft. I wish I'd thought of it myself, though the last thing I need right now is another project. Writer friends, let me know if you try it with your first page.

Robert G. Hilts

Late on the afternoon of Oct. 21, 1991, the phone on my desk at work rang. I worked as a secretary in a law firm in those days and calls were announced. My desk was, basically, in the hallway; I shared a space with another secretary and we were positioned for rapid response to any demands issuing forth from the lawyers' offices on the other side of that hall. When my phone rang, my boss and I would make eye contact while I announced who was calling—he'd shake his head yes or no to taking the call.
"Your dad is calling," the receptionist said and put the call through; before I could form the thought that this was odd, there he was.
"Lizzie?"
"Hi, Dad." My boss turned back to the work on his desk.
"Just calling to say hello, ask how you're doing."
Even though I knew, we chatted for a while because that's what he wanted. I told him about the hearing we were preparing for, the amount of work required to get the paperwork in order, the endless typing of motions and copying of pages and faxing of documents. "Dad?"
"Yah."
"Are you okay?"
"Well, Button, I don't know if you've heard, but I've got cancer. But I'm fine. I'm okay."
"Yeah, Dad. Listen...."
"Honey, I've got to go now. Just wanted to say hello. You be good. Oh! And, um, thank you for your letter. It means the world."
I told him I was leaving work in an hour and would be at his house as soon as I could be. He told me no. He ordered me not to come. "I love you. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay, then. Bye bye, now."
"Bye, Dad. I love you."
My cubicle mate had gotten up when I said hellp, closed the doors of all the lawyers' offices then disappeared down the hall.
After I'd cried and sobbed and cried some more, I stood up and opened my boss's door. But I stayed at work, very late, because I am my father's daughter and work has always been a kind of haven. Then I went home and got in bed and waited for the call that came at 4:30 the next morning.

Today is the 19th anniversary of my father's death.
I miss him, of course; it doesn't take the anniversary for that happen.