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Writing: A Loooooooong Apprenticeship

In the traditional meaning: "apprenticeship" became prominent in medieval Europe with the emergence of the craft guilds. The standard apprenticeship lasted seven years, from age 14 to 21, for example. [Back then you died at 40, so there wasn't time for career burnout.]

I like to use the word apprenticeship to describe writing, because unless one is enormously freakishly talented at a disgustingly young age, [see The New Yorker's "Writers under 40" ] writing takes years of disciplined writing BIC* to get to a place where you sort of know what you're doing. A disciplined schedule, etc. etc. Sweat, howling pain.

Sort of like a blacksmith in the 1300's.

And once you know what you're doing, you know what you're doing wrong, so you have to learn to be kind to yourself, and patient, even as you squeeze your discouraged/lazy/weary self with an iron grip and shake and say get back to work. 

I don't know exactly where this is leading , except to say I thought of the loooong apprenticeship yesterday when I lead the Writing Room's Community Writing Workshop, and one of the 14 students asked how long it takes to learn to write. [They were a diverse group--from college age to retired.] A trick question. You don't want to discourage new--or returning--writers, but it's fair to say it's a long apprenticeship, darlin' so get cracking.

Which reminds me, too, of one of my favorite quotes, this one from Martin Luther King: The arc of the universe is long but it bends toward justice.

Which, among many meanings, reminds one that patience is a virtue.

*BUTT IN CHAIR

February 18th Book Inn Luncheon

I love events in January and February because there are-- rarely--any temptations to go outside and bask in the sun or sweat at weed pulling.

The Garden Angel, unflappable

It's book weather, and book club discussion season.  My next opportunity is the Author's Luncheon at Book Inn  in the Columbia, SC area, so if you're in central South Carolina or want to take a drive, I'd probably* love to see you.
*"Probably" being a caveat applied to escaped prisoners or old boyfriends.

Here are the where's and when's:

Friday, February 18th
The 1425 Inn at 1425 Richland Street, Columbia SC, is hosting the Author’s Luncheons. For more information about the inn, including directions, go to The 1425 Inn.
Beginning at noon, Ms. Friddle will address the group. Lunch will be served and a book signing will follow. Books may be purchased in advance or at the event.Tickets must be reserved by Thursday, February 10, 2011. The price of a ticket is $15 and may be reserved by calling The 1425 Inn at 252-7225.

Page Turner Luncheon

Yesterday's Luncheon benefited Newspapers in Education, an issue I strongly support.

The article from the Times and Democrat in Orangeburg.

The video of Questions & Answers:
http://www.thetandd.com/news/article_4e66480c-2e8c-11e0-bb4c-001cc4c002e0.html?mode=video

Each table had a clever beautiful flower arrangement:

The Zen of Writing Redux

I've written before about the zen of writing.

How writing is, for me, a spiritual practice.

Yes, discipline is crucial. The AIC principal-- Ass in Chair--followed daily--or at least three times per week-- will pretty much guarantee you grow as a writer.

But how you approach your writing is just as important.

I often find myself counseling writing students on their schedules. Make writing a priority in your life. Writing comes before Home Depot, reality television shows, Facebook, jobs and dinner parties. Schedule it, and you plan your loyalty.

Easier said than done, I know. But here comes the Zen part.


You sit down to write without expectations. You may find a goal helpful--two hours or 500 words-- but in the end it's your attitude that will open the portal, and welcome the flow.

That means reserving judgement and editing for revision, not drafting.

That means your work can--and often will-- surprise you.

You just walk the path.

I can't say it better than Richard Bausch, in his interview, which I have photocopied and posted near my desk:

When I sit down to write, I'm not thinking about pulling stuff out of myself. I'm thinking about going somewhere, walking around, and seeing what I find. And there's never a time when I sit down and it isn't there. You just walk the path . . . I never worry about whether or not it's good. I don't care, right then. I'm walking the path. I know that if I can bring enough attention to it, and be honest and open to it and not cheat it, it'll be fine. I love William Stafford's advice. Someone asked, 'What do you do about writer's block?' Stafford said, 'Lower my standards and keep on going.' --Richard Bausch, Interviewed in Writer

Stop Me if You've Heard This

Snow really is the great equalizer. Everybody's lawn the same, everybody's car. The snow gobbles up the differences. And it is rare here, rare enough that everything is closed, except a few gas stations.

It is also book weather...forget beach reading, snow reading is the real heavy lifting.

I'm reading ROOM by Emma Donoghue  now. At first I was curios about how the author could pull off first-person point of view from a five-year-old character, and in present tense no less [no reflection from the wise adult later] and in a tiny room.... After one chapter, I'm buying this book on my iPad. I'm hooked. Despite the fact present tense is usually my least favorite POV, and has often left me a grumpy reader.  And a five-year-old narrator has to be damn fascinating to stay with him as a reader.  But it just might work.

I'll leave with some favorite snow quotes:

it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. --Sylvia Plath

I used to be Snow White, but I drifted-- Mae West

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather. --John Ruskin



What's the difference between a snow man and a snow woman?
Snow balls.

To live anywhere in the world today and be against equality because of race or color is like living in Alaska and being against snow. --William Faulkner

Six-word Stories: wee squib

Can you capture the arc of a narrative in six words?
 You'd be surprised.
Submit to Narrative Magazine if you can.  No need to toil for 80k words or even ten pages.

Forget the micro flash fiction, this is quark genre, freeze dried tales, one scribble from your nib, a wee squib.

Here are two favorite examples they list:

Famous one you've probably heard: 

For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn. —Ernest Hemingway


Funny one you probably haven't:

Longed for him. Got him. Shit. —Margaret Atwood

The six-word story is a prose cousin of Haiku. What a family reunion that would be.

Crazy aunt in attic. Hear her?

or

Tea party? Pass the tofu, Gramps.

Don't Miss "Getting Closer"

In this issue of  The New Yorker: a gorgeous story, "Getting Closer," by Stephen Millhauser.
I admire Millhauser's fiction...he is a fabulist and a minaturist--totally unique voice--nobody writes like him.

This story is rather short, but every sentence glitters with hard beauty like a jewel. And such suspense! You know something is going to happen, something important.

The idea of time--the mind's concept of time-- is explored beautifully through a young boy's ordinary afternoon at his family's picnic.

Satori, the Zen Buddhist term for a flash of sudden awareness--that's what this character experiences.

An excerpt:

Everything has led up to this moment. No, wrong, he isn’t there yet. The moment’s just ahead of him. This is the time before the waiting stops and he crosses over into what he’s been waiting for.

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2011/01/03/110103fi_fiction_millhauser#ixzz19ywZwRdj

Happy 2011 and Why I'm Eating Beans and Greens

Wishing everyone a happy and prosperous New Year!

I did my part by cooking and eating "a mess of greens and beans." Black-eyed peas and collard greens, which you eat on New Year's Day to bring you good luck and prosperity.  The greens represent cash, and the peas are coins. The cornbread--corn pone-- must represent Debit cards...my cornbread was pretty flat and crusty.

But, surrounded by Yankees at one point, I couldn't explain to them why beans & greens bring prosperity.

So I did a little armchair research--via Google.

From Suite 101: One idea is that, "American slaves stayed up on December 31, 1862 waiting for the bill that President Abraham Lincoln signed - the Emancipation Proclamation – to go into effect. They celebrated with what they had – black eyed peas ad greens."

And the not so exciting theory: " Black eyed pea and greens tradition is shared across cultural and ethnic boundaries, so it seems more likely that black eyed peas which keep well when dried and collards which are seasonal in the South in December/January made sense for a New Year meal."

I've also heard that after the civil war and Sherman's march, there wasn't much left but greens and beans.

Never mind. It's a good meal..beans & greens.

I don't throw in a ham hock, though. I'm vegetarian, so I use olive oil and jalapenos.

From Suite101: New Years Black Eyed Peas and Collard Greens: Why Do Southerners Eat Peas and Greens on Jan 1? http://www.suite101.com/content/new-years-black-eyed-peas-and-collard-greens-a183025#ixzz19ua6zVtj

Guest Post: A Good Blog is Hard to Find

I've included a little more detail about the Willie Morris Award for Southern Fiction today on A Good Blog is Hard to Find...including how to nominate a southern author for next year's award.

See my previous post here, "My Arm is Purple," for details on how SECRET KEEPERS received this honor.

And speaking of purple arms--well, sort of-- my toes are blue. Blue from the cold, from a day that may not THAW, a day where temperatures don't so much HOVER around 30 degrees F, but cling to it with icy claws.

Photo credit: Red and the Peanut

 

I'm filling the bird feeder twice a day now-- early morning and late afternoon--because the birds are stuffing their little gullets to keep warm...It takes a energy and puffed up down to survive this chill, and it amazes me every day as I look out and see my feathered, downy winged friends chawing and cracking away at the suet and peanuts and sunflower seeds and safflower seed--how they can survive in this frozen hard cold earth. 

But they do. Rather cheerfully. And they sing, too!

It's the small miracles that astound.

 

http://redandthepeanut.blogspot.com/2010_03_01_archive.html

Ha ha. Ouch.

HBO's documentary on Fran Lebowitz was so good, I lost track of time and missed Conan's monologue.
 The girl is witty.

A few vinegary shots from Ms. Lebowitz:

Very few people possess true artistic ability. It is therefore both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort. If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass.
Fran Lebowitz

I prefer dead writers because you don't run into them at parties.  Fran Lebowitz

An Excerpt from my WIP

The autumn.

I love the autumn.

The maples. The maples!

This one is in my backyard...I can see it from my office window.

I've discovered the seasons influence whatever I'm working on...especially this season.




A raw paragraph, which may be edited, deleted, or stetted,  from a Work in Progress:

Miss Howard looked at her watch. She had forty minutes. She walked purposely past the community garden in the park, a brave little project begun by young, eager do-gooders. There, the season’s beauty lingered. The giant sunflowers, seeded heads cocked, looked down at her, the asters screamed purple, the Heavenly Blue morning glories having scaled the chain link, preened in the pink morning light.  A monarch fluttered past, bound for Mexico. The brash beauty of the golden maples and scarlet dogwoods demanded she stop, and admire.  While poets were besotted with spring, Miss Howard found the fall to be most poignant season of all. Every year she saw more clearly the effort the natural world put forth-- the last, stubborn throes of bloom--before winter killed and cut. Every year the wistful earth seemed to draw her closer. She might bother with Mall Walkers and a dozen pills everyday--calcium, the vitamins, the fish oil, the Lipitor, the aspirin, the Celebrex—but one autumn soon, the beautiful, fatal earth was going to welcome Miss Howard. She would be ready.