“Fill your pen with love or don’t bother picking it up.”

— Luis Alberto Urrea

How not to blog: about once a year, post overlong entries with way too much text and barely any photographs. With apologies to you, dear readers, here comes a download of my time last week at the Tin House Summer Writer’s Workshop. Though this was my 3^rd time at Tin House, it was very different from my previous experiences. In fact, it wasn’t like any other gathering of writers I’ve ever attended. Wordy is the only method I have to begin to do it justice.

Tin House assembles an impressive set of faculty, and as a result has gotten more selective each year about the students they accept. While this might result in a more competitive vibe overall, I found the opposite to be true. None of the faculty needed to prove themselves as writers, and that characteristic radiated out to the entire group of 200-plus attendees.

For the workshop part of the week, we gathered each morning in pre-assigned groups of 12 to work with a member of the faculty. I decided to give fiction a try. My workshop leader was Jess Walter, a writer whose work I’ve admired for awhile. I met Jess the last time I attended Tin House, and based on our conversation and the excellent craft talk he gave about narrative time, I had a hunch he’d be a good teacher.

Remind me to always trust my hunches.

Jess was a stellar teacher, leading our group with warmth and generosity. He is hilarious, and we laughed a lot in workshop, but we also had deep discussions about each of our stories. He treated us as a writing peer, sharing craft and ideas for improving our stories and even giving us access to his awesome music collection while we spent 10 minutes each morning writing. (We WROTE at a writing conference! Believe it or not, this is unusual.)

And then there were my workshop-mates, an exceptional group of writers, critiquers, and humans. I feel like I won the workshop group lottery. It wasn’t just Jess who was generous and insightful. It was everyone. Our nametags said “Team Jess Walter.” We wore our badges proudly, and we quickly became besotted with one another. Someone quoted The Big Lebowski during my critique. Anytime there’s a Coen brothers reference related to my work, no matter how tenuous the connection, I consider that to be a successful workshop.

Team Jess (clockwise from L): TJ, Gabe, Jill, Marrie, Jess, Michele, Annabel, Robert, me, Colleen, Earl.

If every other moment of the conference had been terrible, I still would have been glad I went. But the workshop was just the beginning of the awesome. Every afternoon, the faculty take turns giving talks on the craft of writing. On Day 2 of the conference, we settled into our auditorium seats as Kiese Laymon took the stage, having no idea what was in store for us. He read a powerful piece (an adaptation of this one) about sexual violence. Then he posed a question to the audience: “What is the responsibility of the American literary worker in this age of terror?”

For the next 30 minutes, people began to answer his question: what do we read, what do we write, who gets to go to literary gatherings? On and on it went, the question rippling out to the rest of the conference, and still ringing loudly in my ears over a week later and a few hundred miles away.

As the week went on, I noticed 2 of the themes introduced during Kiese’s mind-blowing talk got repeated throughout the week in the talks, the readings, and of course in the workshop: love and kindness. Steve Almond talked about writing our emotions, and had us create work about our childhood crushes.

Sharon Olds and Jericho Brown, gorgeous people, gorgeous writers, gorgeous voices. When Terry Gross retires and I take over as Fresh Air host, Olds and Brown will be my first guests, appearing together. They’ll have a conversation, and I won’t have to say anything.

Olds read a series of unconventional odes, including “Ode to My Hymen” that were both funny and gorgeous. I noticed that all 12 of the Team Jess Walter stories were about love – romantic, familial, love gone stale and the love between friends. Luis Alberto Urrea delivered a talk to close out the conference, a love letter to us in which he said, among other beautiful phrases, the one quoted at the top of this post.

“Make great work its own reward,” Jess told us near the end of the week. He was telling his publishing story, which included 7 years of rejections before his first short story was accepted by a journal. He talked about being happy for our friends when they publish, about being gracious. “It’s much more important to be a kind person than a successful writer.” Look at all of the quotes I have to pin above my desk.

A few years ago, I attended a writing conference that didn’t go very well. I put my memoir away for 6 months and wrote very little during that time. On the last day at Tin House 2016, I was exhausted. I averaged 5-6 hours of sleep a night all week, my brain buzzing at each end of my slumber, and by Saturday afternoon I was toasted. In dire need of a nap, I headed toward my AirBnB. As I walked I looked to my right at the quad and the light slanting through the trees. My need for sleep was overpowered by a need to write. I veered right and spent the next 2 hours writing.

I arrived at Tin House as a nonfiction writer, and a week later I left brimming with ideas for how to turn my story into a novel.

How about that?

Six years ago today my dear friend Beth died. Every year since, I have approached this day with a sense of dread, the last week of her life in the forefront of my mind and a huge weight on my chest. The day itself is usually not as bad as the lead-up. I usually do something in honor of Beth, a little ritual or a special activity.

This year, though, I thought little about the date or what it marked until today. Maybe it’s because the time that has passed – 6 years, almost my daughter Helen’s entire life. Maybe it’s just other thoughts crowding my brain this week, a deadline for a writing workshop, a summer camp snafu for Caleb, an upcoming family vacation. For whatever reason, I barely thought about it until this morning, while I was out on a bike ride.

I have my first triathlon in over 2 years coming up in a couple of months, and this marked my first training ride in that long. (For the record, training rides for me mean that I ride a little harder and/or longer than I normally would, and reward myself with lunch after). I was smiling for most of the ride, when I thought about Beth, when I thought about my upcoming race. I thought about how I’m still not that fast on the bike and probably never will be, but look how far I’ve come since my surgery recovery when I was barely able to walk to the end of the block and back.

The sun was out and I could see glimpses of Mount Baker on my way up the Boulevard and Mount Rainier on my way back. Beth’s ashes were scattered at Rainier, and she was in my thoughts especially much as I gazed at The Mountain.

(Photo by Orin Blomberg courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons)

Now it’s overcast and some melancholy has set in as I sit at a café. If Beth would tolerate any memorializing of her today, she would insist that we steer our thoughts away from her last moments, and instead share happy stories. Here is mine. I miss you, Beth.

On my 26^th birthday, I received a card from Beth. Though she wasn’t a material person, she was fond of gift-giving, usually a small decorative item she bought from a local artist or fair-trade store. She wrapped her gifts in plain brown paper and made her cards by hand. This card, two years into our friendship, was a note written on the back side of a form letter she fished out of the recycling bin at work. A run-on sentence written diagonally in her loopy script takes up the entire back side of the letter. Onto the bottom she rubber-stamped a zebra, her favorite animal.

Beth talked constantly, an animated monologue with long tangents.

“But, I digress,” she’d say, then circle back to her original point.

The birthday card represents a Beth monologue in miniature, a verbal declaration recorded on paper. Ok, she began, here’s the thing. She went on to tell me that she’d planned to give me a birthday present even though I told her I didn’t want one. The card was a story of her attempt to get me the gift. She alluded to an argument with a city bus driver, among other obstacles she faced. Finally, near the bottom of the page, she explained the present: a gift certificate to Twice Sold Tales, a used bookstore near our office. Only the store didn’t sell gift certificates, so she wanted to take me book shopping. She concluded the letter, It’ll be more fun together anyway.

I don’t know which title I chose, but I remember the trip to the bookstore. After work, we drove the half-mile to the commercial district of the Fremont neighborhood. We parked by the Baptist church and walked down the hill.

It was April, early evening, warm enough for Twice Sold Tales’ door to be propped open. Jazz from speakers in the adjacent vinyl record shop filtered into the bookstore. The lone employee, a man our age, mumbled hello when we stepped inside. Incense burned in a glass vase next to the register, covering whatever musty smell emanated from the books.

I took my time. Upstairs, downstairs, back up again. Beth and I were the only customers in the store. We scanned the shelves separately, then together, searching for the perfect book. The narrow room and sloped ceilings made the upstairs feel like an attic. It grew dark as we shopped, and the employee walked to the corners of each room, flicking on lamps.

“Get something I like,” she said. “I’m planning to borrow it when you’re done.”

Did I choose a novel? Short stories? Classic? Contemporary? I don’t recall. I only remember the creak of the stairs as we climbed to the attic. Kneeling next to Beth on the dingy carpet, peering at the shelves like we were much younger versions of ourselves digging in grandmother’s trunk. Standing at the register next to Beth as she handed money to the man, then the book to me.

“Happy Birthday,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder. We wedged ourselves through the doorway arm in arm, and climbed the hill to Beth’s car in the dark.

It turns out that, even if you run slowly, you can mess up your foot. And even if you stop running, and cut down on other on-your-feet activities, and go to physical therapy, and acupuncture, and change your diet, and have your own plasma injected into your foot, it can continue to stay messed up. For 3 years. If your main source of exercise motivation has stemmed from racing in triathlons, what do you do?

Step 1: go for your free consultation with a personal trainer at your gym. Choose to meet with Paige. Paige is awesome, will clearly become a champion of yours even though she’s not the rah-rah type. Don’t exchange high-fives with Paige after a difficult set. That’s not her thing, and it’s certainly not yours. Instead, sign up for more sessions. Paige will get you hooked on strength training. Paige will tailor your workouts so they don’t aggravate your injured foot. Paige will show you that, despite your 3 abdominal surgeries and your colostomy, you can make your core strong again. She will teach you the word proprioception, your body’s sense of its position and movement in space.  In her patient, gentle way will tell you yours is poor. You can still learn the moves, though, despite this flaw. Another obstacle overcome.

Step 2: learn of a new surgical technique that might help your foot. Fork over more money. Undergo the procedure, which involves sucking the badness out of your heel: calcified bone, damaged tendon. Keep going to the gym with the boot on your foot. Feel badass.

Step 3: Receive a letter from your ostomy nurse, Laura, another champion. A group of people with ostomies are getting together to do a triathlon in August. Team Ostomy United. Would you like to join? Even though your doctor told you you could start running again, you’re not ready yet. But you can walk. There’s a sprint-distance option. 5 kilometers. You can walk that. Visit Ostomy United’s Facebook page. Learn another new word: tri-ostolete. Think: that’s me.  Read stories of cancer survivors who just signed up for their first endurance race. Cry. Register.

Step 4: Tell Paige about your race plans. In response, Paige declares on the spot that she will sign up too. Even though she’s a runner, a trainer, a badass, she’ll walk the run course with you. It will be her first triathlon. Argue about who will be slower, who will have to wait for whom. Up your exercise routine. You’ve got a race to train for again. Finally.

You, Lavaman Triathlon, 3/24/13

This August, I will have the pleasure of teaching as a member of the guest faculty at the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts’ MFA residency.  I’ll be teaching a seminar called “Writers Talking to People” alongside fellow NILA MFA alum and good friend Stephanie Barbe Hammer.  Stephanie and I had a fabulous time teaching this class last year, and I am really looking forward to teaching again.

I’ve been asked to answer the questions below.  To learn more about the residency, which is open to all writers, not just those enrolled in the MFA program, check out the NILA website.

1. What’s your favorite thing about teaching writers?

I love the energy that writers bring to a class and the bravery they exhibit in their desire to tell their stories and hone their craft.

2. How would you suggest students approach a writer, agent, or editor they admire?

Do what you need to do to get over your shyness and go talk to them.  Tell her how much you admire her, her work, etc.  Don’t approach with the intention of pitching or anything business-like, but do be prepared to talk about your own work (in a non-pitchy kind of way) if they ask.

3. How about a sneak peek of what we can expect to learn from you in your sessions at Whidbey Writers Workshop MFA?

For the entire 3-hour session, my co-teacher Stephanie Barbe Hammer and I will take turns reading from our works in progress.

Kidding!  It will be a very interactive seminar about the public aspects of being a writer.

4. Tell us what “literary community” means to you.

A group of people and/or organizations who love the written word, who support each other in their writing endeavors.  My literary community keeps me motivated and buoyed; I’m not sure I’d be able to survive as a writer without it.

5. When not teaching or working at your “day job,” you can be found…

Chasing my 5-year-old daughter and 7-year-old son around our Seattle neighborhood, reading, doing crosswords, or swimming in cold bodies of water.

BONUS QUESTION:

The MFA residency includes a FREE POLAR BEAR PLUNGE in which we all jump into the lovely, refreshing waters of the Puget Sound. On a scale of 1-5, with 5 being the most likely, how likely are you to participate?

10 [see above]

This will be our 5^th annual plunge.  We should do something special to mark the occasion, don’t you think?

Many thanks to fellow Northwest Institute of Literary Arts (NILA) alum, friend, and fabulous writer Kaye Linden for including me in The Writing Process Blog Tour.  You can read her responses to the same questions I answer below here.

Kaye has an MFA in fiction from the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts, is past short fiction editor and editor with the Bacopa Literary Review, teacher of short fiction at Santa Fe College, current assistant editor for Soundings Review and medical editor for “epresent learning lecture reviews.”  Kaye’s first short story collection  TALES FROM MA’S WATERING HOLE is available where all books are sold.  Kaye is completing her second short story collection SHE WEARS HOT PINK JEANS and is currently writing the second sci fi novel in the Prasanga series. Visit her at her website and her blog.

What am I working on?

I’m writing a book-length memoir about friendship, illness, parenthood, loss, and triathlons.  It’s called GUTS.  I also write short personal essays.  I like to use the essays as a chance to explore topics not covered in the book, as well as taking the opportunity to try out different forms and types of essays.  I just wrote my first nature essay, a fun challenge for me.  It was a finalist for Oregon Quarterly’s Northwest Perspectives contest, which served as a good lesson that it’s important to take breaks from a long project to work on shorter pieces.

How does my work differ from others in its genre?

This is a hard question to answer, since memoir is such a diverse genre.  One thing that distinguishes my work is that I often write about more than one topic, both in short and long form.  Another aspect of my writing that readers often comment on is how I write about illness with a sense of humor and in a way that makes my experiences accessible.

Why do I write what I do?

I write nonfiction as a way of making sense of my experiences.  I write to connect with others.  I heard David Sedaris say something at a reading once that has really stuck with me.  I am sure I am botching it in the paraphrasing, but he talked about how we are as readers.  When we are kids, he said, we need our books to be mirrors, identifying only with characters whose lives are a close imitation of our own.  As adults, though, we find those mirrors in all kinds of characters and all types of stories.  That is my aspiration as a writer: to provide that mirror to a reader, the comfort and catharsis that I get from writing.

How does my writing process work?

Thanks to a very supportive husband, I have a pretty luxurious writing life for an unemployed person with 2 young kids.  I write on the 4 days of the week that both of my kids are in school/preschool.  I am unable to write in my house, so most of my writing is done in an office space I rent above a store that sells local art, much of it made on site.  I love my tiny office with its view of trees through the doorway, a bookshelf crammed with poetry and writing craft books, and no dirty dishes or laundry.  I am slowly converting myself to a morning writer out of necessity, and I do my best to keep my mornings free of appointments and stay offline until after I’ve finished writing for the day.  I create the occasional writing retreat for myself, sometimes even setting aside “retreat” days in town when it’s all my schedule allows.

My writing progresses by carrying over some of the practices started in graduate school.  I exchange work with other writer friends and revise after getting their feedback.  I also continue to set deadlines for myself.  I read a lot in all different genres, and continue to take classes and attend conferences.  Finally, I continue to be active in my writing communities, and NILA, here in Seattle, and by connecting with writers around the country.  Solitude is something I may seek as a writer when I have been at it longer.  For now, my community of writers and non-writers is an essential part of my writing process.

**

The Writing Process Blog Tour continues next week with 2 more fabulous NILA writer friends.

 Iris Graville’s profiles and personal essays have been published in national and regional journals and magazines, She is the publisher for Shark Reef literary magazine, and the nonfiction editor for Soundings Review.  She’s a student in the MFA program at the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts.   She’s the author of the award-winning Hands at Work—Portraits and Profiles of People Who Work with Their Hands.  She is writing a memoir, Hiking Naked—A Quaker Woman’s Search for Balance, a personal narrative about what she learned while living in the remote mountain village of Stehekin, WA.  You can read her thoughts on writing and spiritual matters on her blog.

Sandra Sarr has an MFA in creative writing from the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts.  She has 20 years of experience as a national magazine editor, writer, book publisher, and college communications director and has won numerous awards from national and regional organizations for her articles, magazines, and publications. Founder of the Story Catching Program with Franciscan Hospice in Tacoma, Washington, Sandy has found great satisfaction in writing the core life stories of people who are dying.You can read about the making of her first novel THE ROAD TO INDIGO, on her blog.