Writers Writing in Rooms in Winter. Sign me up.

A few months ago, while completing details related to teaching a three-day memoir workshop at the Winter Poetry & Prose Getaway (where I'm at this weekend), I hesitated at the question, Would you like to attend a complimentary master class for faculty, with featured special guest poets Denise Duhamel and Yusef Komunyakaa? 

This would require arriving about five hours earlier than strictly necessary, and on the last full day I'd have to prep for the start of the spring MFA teaching semester, which would begin the morning after my return. Could I really spare three hours? Still, I knew my schedule that day would likely be flexible. Also, the thought of getting out of hectic northern NJ and settling in to a sprawling old world/completely remodeled hotel by the ocean seemed appealing. 

What clinched it was that it occurred to me that I had not sat in the student/writer participant chair for quite a long time. Had not written anything resembling a poem in even longer, but have always loved being in the room with poets, which pushes me to think differently; I usually emerge with something that I later revise into a prose poem, or a piece of flash creative nonfiction (which is how this one got started a few years ago). Or even if not, I leave that kind of room lighter.

Sign me up.

A few things conspired to make me late. (You know those dumb scenes in movies where someone's suitcase explodes, spewing contents all over? Picture this, between my back door and garage, at 7:30 a.m., then me going back in the house, into the attic, to fish out the only remaining suitcase, so old there's no rolling wheels or pull handle.) So when I slid into a chair, the several dozen other writer-teachers were discussing intricacies of one of Komunyakaa's poems and it took a bit to settle in and catch up. But then, for the next two-plus hours, my pen moved, my brain slowed down. I was able to look off into space, and think, muse, wonder. Write. Consider.

Then Komunyakaa -- a Pulitzer Prize recipient and eminent voice -- said a few things that stopped me in place, lit me up with that familiar sense, a combination of intuitive understanding and driving curiosity. 

Here's some of what he shared; I'm paraphrasing here, and of course can't even begin to convey the richness of his speaking voice, his quiet wit alternating with gravitas:

- A poem is a dialogue, a beckoning. It's all about the tone, the music of a phrase.

- Titles should never be a resolution stuck on top of a poem. Titles are an invitation. The poem is not equal to the title.

- I always and only revise a draft of a poem from the bottom up, because that's usually where it's needed. I often write right on past the natural ending because I'm trying to explain everything, and I had not left that door ajar, as you must. I may start out with 150 lines, but the final poem is 40 lines. But that original ending is not usually the real ending. It all comes down to the right confluence of images and connections.

- A prompt can take you anywhere.

The prompt he gave next was to write an ode in praise of oneself, and I wrote about my love/hate relationship with my legs. Like most workshop-generated rough writing, I loved and hated it! What it may one day be, who knows.

After a brown bag lunch, Denise Duhamel asked us to engage with an excerpt from I Remember, a book-length poem by Joe Brainard in which every line or small paragraph begins with "I remember..." and then to write for 15 minutes in the same way. Since an "I remember" list is one of my go-to writing prompts in memoir classes, I sat up straighter in my chair, and wrote, mostly about what I remember of the two years I spent living in Orange County, California in my 20's, riding horses and competing in shows.

Next up was to consider three poems which all end on the word "life", to take one of those ending lines and make it the start of something. I went with (from "A Moment" by Ruth Stone), "you do not want to repeat my life," and wrote of how, at various times in my life, I did or did not want to repeat parts of my own life, my sister's life, my mother's life. 

Too soon, it was time to pick up my folder with my roster of writer participants who would be sitting around my workshop table the next morning. But when I got to my hotel room, before I pulled out all my materials and shifted back into teaching mode to prepare, I pulled on layers of clothing, hat, scarf, and gloves, and struck out to walk the paved cart paths of the golf courses behind the hotel for a chilly but restorative hour (in 34 but "feels like 23" degrees). Walking, and thinking about images, endings, about not explaining so much, about remembering and what we don't remember, and how to write about it all. 

At the opening reception, Peter Murphy, who began the Poetry & Prose Getaway more than two decades ago, reminded the 200-plus in attendance, we are all -- teachers, mentors, workshop leaders, special guest -- just writers together after all, writers writing in rooms, stoking energy and words and more.

The Strength of Your Memory Does Not Determine Whether or Not You Can Write Memoir

Much of my teaching of writing work is grounded in creative nonfiction, and especially writing memoir. In workshops and classes, we never run out of topics that are worth thinking about, discussing, studying in published works -- and sometimes, complaining or venting about! 

Into that last category so often falls the subject of memory and how often we are vexed and perplexed by its unpredictable nature. One day, we sit at the keyboard or notebook, and our fingers fly, fueled by churning, detailed memory that seems almost unstoppable, offering up voluminous details, vivid visuals, sharp and full lines of remembered conversations. 

We recall with certainty the weather on a particular day, the clothing we wore, the way a loved one cocked their head, the inflection in their voice. Without thinking almost at all, we're describing the furnishings of a room down to the smallest bit of bric a brac, what the house smelled like, the lilt of a particular birdsong that drifted in an open window. The way we felt, what we thought, our hopes and fears at that moment in past time are as close and clear as if it all occurred yesterday.

And when that happens, bliss. Memoir seems to write itself.

Then, there are some other days. Or perhaps I should say, most of other days. The memoir writer's page remains blank, not for lack of ideas, but because those memories float just out of reach. We remember some of the event, but not all. We can't be sure if so-and-so said this-and-that, and if they did, was it in fact, on that day, at that moment? Where, exactly, did the interaction take place after all? And was it before or after some other event?

Elusive, spotty, incomplete memories are something with which every write of creative nonfiction -- memoir, personal essay, nonfiction narrative -- must learn to cope. Recognizing the fallible, hazy, unreliable nature of memory has caused many a memoir writer to push their project to the back burner, or abandon it completely, in the belief that memoir writing is reserved only for those with a stellar memory.

To which I say: nope. 

Yes, you can write memoir, even if your memory isn't great.

In fact, that's the title of a post I wrote this week for the blog of the New York Open Center on this very topic. I'd love to share it with you. Here's an excerpt: 

No one recalls everything with precision. When I wanted to know more about how memory works, I began researching and studying. Three of the most profound things I learned and which have significance for the memoir writer are: 

1.       It is impossible for the average human brain to record with total accuracy even something that happened just minutes ago

2.      Our current memory of a past event is influenced by the stories we’ve told (and heard) over time about the original event 

3.      The act of remembering itself often begets additional pieces of related memory (Great news! The more you write about a particular memory, the more you might retrieve.) 

This all suggests that even if my memory were better, I couldn’t rely on it completely anyway. Once I understood this, my writing opened up. Without the grinding pressure to be “right” about every remembered detail, I began to regard my own initial memories as a starting place for writing memoir, but not as the only resource... 

You can read the full article here.

And if exploring the relationship between memory and writing memoir is of interest, I'd love you to consider my day-long workshop on the subject at the Open Center in Manhattan on Saturday, April 13. 

A Jersey Day in May: Announcing - The Art of Short Nonfiction Prose. Write with me!

I know it's just a trick of the senses, that the unseasonably warm weather in northern New Jersey the past few weeks is lulling me into the false idea that spring is already underway. Which leaves me eager to traverse the intervening weeks to arrive at May 6, when no matter what, spring will be firmly in bloom in the Garden State.

I'm very happy to announce that I'll be leading a full-day writing event in Bedminster, NJ, on Saturday, May 6 -- The Art of Short Nonfiction Prose. Everything about the day has been thoughtfully arranged for an intimate, challenging, supportive, and edifying experience. 

We'll be welcoming about 10 to 12 writers, who will come together to explore ideas, generate new work, share, learn, and in short (!), dive deeply into the craft of writing short nonfiction. Short, in this context, will include the newer forms of mini-, micro-, and flash essays (from 50 to 750 words), as well as more traditional "short" pieces that are more than flash but less than long-form.

The Art of Short Nonfiction Prose will take place in a lovely countryside setting, and it's sponsored by Tiferet Journal. Tiferet (tagline: Promoting tolerance through literature and art) was founded and is published by Donna Baier Stein, my teaching colleague in other endeavors, and a champion of literary work that has meaning.

I'll be assisted by Ryder Ziebarth, who is a former student/mentee of mine, a graduate of the Vermont Center for Fine Arts MFA program, and a Tiferet associate editor. In fact, Ryder is hosting the event at Cedar Ridge Farm, which goes back generations in her family and is listed with the Smithsonian Institute of American Gardens. In addition to her expertise at nonfiction, Ryder is a dedicated steward of the land, and an accomplished cook (who's planning to serve a healthy farm-to-table lunch!).

I've spent time at her farm, and I'm certain that the gracious farmhouse, welcoming guest cottage, and spacious grounds, along with the lush gardens, and rolling hay fields will be a perfect backdrop. It's a place for deep thought, quiet contemplation, relaxed conversation and also the kind of spirited camaraderie that so often springs up between writers brought together for common purpose.

If you're within driving distance, and you have a desire to dwell for a full day in the possibilities that short nonfiction allows, and do so alongside other like-minded writers, then I invite you to check out this unique event. (Enrollment is limited. I'd be happy to answer any questions, here or via email.)

As March approaches, and who knows what its winds may bring, I'll enjoy knowing that spring will arrive, and with it, this special day.

Images: courtesy Ryder Ziebarth

This Week in Writing Workshops, Post-Election

In three writing workshops so far this week, before plunging into anyone's pages, I tried to take the temperature of the room, post-election. Since we all hadn't seen one another since BEFORE, I had set aside 10-15 minutes to chat and maybe vent—longer than we typically spend on small talk.  

I wasn't surprised to find the range of emotion included sadness, rage, confusion, frustration, fear, resignation. (And while I knew I had to be prepared to hear and make space for those with the opposite view, as I'd predicted, that wasn't necessary. We live in a deep blue part of New Jersey).

Then I moved on. Or, tried to.

But when I asked my usual opening question, always some variation of, "So, how did the writing go this week?" I was unprepared for the strong responses, most at one or the other end of the productivity / concentration spectrum. Either no words had appeared on the page because writers were too paralyzed, distracted, or emotionally wrung out to write…or, writing was all that had gotten done, in an almost nonstop stream.

I was in the latter camp myself. Since November 9, my fingers had barely left the keyboard. While I wasn't writing political opinion pieces or essays about what the election meant for America, I found that staying busy at what I love to do and do best, was my own private way of avoiding a total emotional meltdown. That—and making batches of soup and other comfort food, alongside my elder son.

Maybe I needed to remind myself that I would survive. For me, the act of writing alone means there are stories yet to tell, that we're not at the end of our own story yet, that the creative well inside exists apart from, and often in spite of, outside vagaries.

The writers around the workshop table told similar tales. Putting their heads down and plowing on with plots and drafts and (solvable) prose problems provided much-needed focus. Writing was available too, in the worried hours of the night, the frightening mornings before (or instead of) turning on the news. Like me, those writers were glad to have something to work on that felt do-able, whether unraveling a fictional character's troubles or describing a narrator's dilemma.

Others had the opposite response: the election outcome shut down their writing drive, pushed the writing impulse over a cliff. Either writing felt meaningless in the face of the gloomy bigger picture, or the bad news had completely robbed them of concentration and focus. Sitting still at a writing desk was not possible, given the upheaval in their minds and heart.

A few reported that while they had been writing, none of it was probably going to be salvageable; but the act of writing had felt comforting and familiar, and let them feel in control of something. Others said they were glad not to have brought all their negative emotion to the keyboard, so that when they are ready to return to their works-in-progress, and when they read that work in the future, it won't have the taint of "I remember writing this the day after…"

Finally, in each workshop, as the talk waned, I noticed a kind of unspoken hunger to get down to what we were there to do: talk about writing, read and share writing, listen to and give feedback on writing. It seemed to me that the act of gathering as writers—no matter what kind of week we'd all individually had—was important, or at least useful. That it was reassuring to be together, doing something familiar, something that at its core, promises things can improve, that we have change at our fingertips.

Revision, after all.

Images: All Flickr/CreativeCommons. Fingers on keyboard - Adikos; Tacks - HDValentin.

Where Essays Begin: Sudden news, old friend, odd lyrics, far away

Sometimes an essay or piece of memoir begins in my head as a scrap of something that will not quiet--a phrase, a bit of remembered conversation, a line of lyrics. Like this one, a 1960s tidbit.

My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble.

That line circled my brain a few years ago, insisting that I write…something—in response to news I heard about my first real boyfriend. How the lyric connected to our story, or to my reaction to his news, was a mystery.

Still.

There it was, an earworm, a prod, that wonderful awful feeling as I'm drifting off to sleep or when just waking up, that says, Hey, you! Get out of bed, start writing.

Only, as I began to write, I heard the lyric differently, altered.

Your boyfriend's back and you're gonna be sorry.

Over the next few months, the piece took shape, fell apart. I put it away, pulled it out again. Pushed it aside again. Let it marinate. Let myself figure out what I had to say. Fiddled with it again. Forgot it for months. Tried again. 

Draft number four.

Then a few things happened.

First, I asked a half dozen readers for input; not my usual writer friends, but students in the MFA course I was teaching last fall. As a way of sharing in the psychic pain of their first graduate workshop experience, I invited them to comment on my draft.

Draft number five.

Next, I realized it wasn't only about an old boyfriend, but about how he helped me understand things—some then, more later—about romance, love, sex, kindness, passionate hobbies, and eventually, even a little about mothering teenage sons.

Draft number six.

Then, when the piece, eventually titled, "Your Boyfriend's Back," was accepted for the Spring 2015 issue of Front Porch Journal, smart editors had some thoughtful questions and intelligent revision suggestions.

Final piece (draft number seven).

Here's a very short excerpt of the longish piece:

...I tried to think about what Joe would look like now, and compared that to the tiny, poorly focused photograph in the magazine of him on a bike, wearing a helmet. Perhaps it wasn’t my Joe. But I didn't think M____ was such a common surname. And the age was right. The Joe I remembered had not been athletic. Yes, his arms always felt strong around me, and even then, he’d ridden his bicycle for miles, but a triathlete? But then, I hadn't seen Joe in decades. So much can change...

I'd love it if you would visit the journal and read the full piece.

Now, like all writers I suppose, in my head, I am circling another scrap of …something.

Image, top: Flickr/Creative Commons - Lee Haywood

Guest Blogger Kate Walter on Finding the Narrative Arc for Your Memoir

One of the perks of signing on to help present a panel at a writing conference is that, even before the conference happens, you sometimes make internet friends with other writers who know your fellow panelists and/or who are also on the schedule with their own panel. That explains how Kate Walter and I crossed paths: we have mutual friends, and upcoming panels at ASJA. 

Kate is the author of Looking for a Kiss: A Chronicle of Downtown Heartbreak and Healing, due from Heliotrope Books in June. Her essays and opinion pieces have appeared in The New York Times, Newsday, and the New York Daily News, and she teaches writing at City University of New York and New York University. 

Please welcome Kate Walter.

       I knew something was off with the structure of the first finished draft of my memoir manuscript when an agent said my writing was strong but, "The reader knows how this will end before the narrator does.”

       Ouch! That comment sent me back to the memoir drawing board. I had to rethink my book.

      Since a memoir is not autobiography, you must find the right framework for your

story. A memoir needs an arc, a trajectory, a focus. The narrator must start some place and end up some place else. Not necessarily a physical place but an emotional place. There has to be a struggle (conflict) and wisdom gained. You are not just telling your story but reflecting upon what happened and how these events affected you and changed your life in some way.

     It took me three drafts to figure out the container for my debut memoir, Looking for a Kiss:  A Chronicle of Downtown Heartbreak and Healing. In the first draft I was just writing out my story and creating major scenes but it lacked a narrative thread.

     My second draft had more structure but it ended with me getting my heart broken when my 26 year lesbian relationship ended. When I shopped around this version, the feedback from agents made me realize that structure was not working either. So the rejection was actually helpful.

       The third draft, (which I sold), instead began with the break up and showed how I healed my life. I had found a universal theme. The reader is rooting for the narrator to get her life back together and laughing along with her as she tries internet dating at age 60.

        For me, I had to write all three drafts over 10 years until I  figured out the narrative arc. Meanwhile, I was also writing and publishing personal essays. Two local papers were regularly using my work, which gave me steady emotional support, and was a boost, reminding me of the value of the material.

        Writing essays, which can be woven into your memoir manuscript, and writing shorter pieces, can help you find the larger focus or container for your long memoir project. I recently reread an essay I wrote five years ago for NY Press. Looking back, I can see how the first 50 pages of my book are an expansion of this tight

personal essay.  

       Beside a little income, and the professional support of those newspaper editors, I got emotional support and feedback from my weekly writers group in Greenwich Village, run by the author Susan Shapiro. I could not have completed this memoir without the ongoing critiques from my trusted colleagues, who pulled no punches. I workshopped every chapter and then rewrote each one.

       When I finished my third draft (about 225 pages), I hired an experienced book doctor to read the entire manuscript (cost $2,000); then I rewrote some more.  After my book saw the doctor, a chapter originally in the back of my book landed up closer to the beginning in the final draft.

     The weekly group did more than critique my pages; they believed in my project and

helped sustain my morale when I kept getting rejections from agents, which was frustrating because by then, I knew I had finally nailed the structure and had a powerful book.

      That’s when a member of my group (Royal Young) hyped my book to his publisher

(Naomi Rosenblatt, at Heliotrope Books). I met her at his book party and she encouraged me to send her my manuscript. The rest, as they say, is history.

            I owe a lot to my workshop members, and I’m grateful Naomi realized the potential of my story about break up and renewal. It’s been a pleasure to work with a small independent press and have hands on involvement as my manuscript became a book. I even took the cover photo.

      From inception to publication was a long journey of 10 years, but it has been

very rewarding, and for me, cathartic. Writing my memoir was literally part of my

healing process. And as a teacher of creative nonfiction, this book will open up new

doors for me.

         I’m glad I never gave up. Maybe it’s because I’m a  Capricorn. If you

believe in your story and your voice, keep going, keep writing.

Note from Lisa:  Kate would like to give one reader a complimentary signed copy of her book when it's released in June. To enter, leave a comment here by midnight on 

Tuesday, May 12. (Must have a US postal address.)

You can connect with Kate at her website, and on Twitter, and read an interview with her at WestBeth. 

Images courtesy Kate Walter.

      

                          

Guest Blogger Alison Strack on Attending The Sirenland Writers Conference, in Positano, Italy

Though she's taken an (online) class or two of mine, and we live only a few miles apart, I haven't met Alison Strack "in real life". That's okay, even common lately. I still think of her as part of my local writing tribe. One reason we haven't met yet is she's an incredibly busy super-achiever in her field – Alison works as a neuroscientist and researcher in the pharmaceutical and biotech industries. Extensively published in scientific journals, Alison has now turned her attention to writing fiction, working on a novel and short stories. She also loves to travel, which is partly what brought her to the Sirenland Writers Conference in Italy this spring. When I heard she was going, I asked her to let us know about her experience.

Please welcome Alison Strack. 

It begins: my first workshop/writers conference. I had submitted a writing sample and a short essay about how I envisioned the experience would benefit me, and now I was sitting on the terrace of Le Sirenuse, a five star hotel on the Amalfi Coast of Italy, overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. I was wondering how the week would go.

A friend had participated the year before and raved about the instructors, the other writers in the workshop, and the setting. I assumed I'd be a long shot to be accepted, but decided there was nothing to lose, so I applied. A few weeks later, I stared dumbfounded at the email saying I'd be welcome at Sirenland. I was going to Italy.

There were three components to the conference -- workshop, networking, and craft lectures. For the workshops, like everyone else, I had sent in 25 pages of work I hoped to improve. Among the participants would be those writing novels, memoir, and short story; and the three groups of ten participants were each assigned an instructor.

View from the hotel. (photo Alison Strack)

This year’s conference instructors were Andre Dubus III, Dani Shapiro, and Meg Wolitzer. Each has an international reputation as an author, and to me, the list was quite intimidating. However, all are also known in the writing community as excellent teachers, so I trusted that there was no way I could go wrong with any of them

Every morning, each workshop group met for more than two hours and went through the work of two of the participants. As we’d all received everyone else's work ahead of time, we were already immersed in the story and the writing by the time each piece came up for discussion.

Our group was diverse—both in the individuals and their backgrounds and in the kinds of material they'd written. Our workshop leader, Meg Wolitzer, would let everybody—except the author—talk freely, as long as the discussion kept bringing new points. I had submitted a short story that I thought was good, but which I knew needed to be better, and I had studied it for so long I no longer had any insights on how to improve it. The group feedback was on-point—less telling, more showing, add more scenes, use more dialogue (my bete noire).

We spent a great deal of time discussing adolescent language and how to craft it to help show the world my characters inhabited. If we got stalled, and when we started winding down, Meg jumped in with her insights. Moreover, if there was a “teaching point” that she could provide, generalizing to some point of craft, she would do so, often citing examples from other literature.  

From the week, I came back with a long reading list. Since my short story is told from a first person point of view, and one in which the protagonist didn’t have a complete understanding of what was going on around her, Meg suggested Carson McCullers’ short story "The Member of the Wedding," and Mary Robison’s novel I Am Twenty One as examples of stories where the narrator understood—and could relay—more than the protagonist's point of view.

We talked about how often, unreliable narrators (especially adolescent characters) don't understand the meaning of everything that's going on in their world, and that the job of the narrator (as opposed to the character herself) is to make sure the events of the story (told through the eyes of the character) are described in a way that the reader gets it, even though the narrator doesn't understand.  She also suggested Sam Lipsyte’s New Yorker story, “The Dungeon Master” which illustrates a framework of how dialogue could help showcase the uniqueness in worlds of adolescents.

Our workshop leaders met with each writer separately to talk about their impressions of our pieces and how we could improve them, and to help us sift through the myriad of sometimes contradictory comments that we had received during the workshop discussion. Meg helped me weigh the merits of different strategies suggested and how they fit with my vision of what I wanted to accomplish on the page.

A second important element of the conference was the opportunity for networking. We had the chance to meet and mingle with not only the individuals in our own workshops, but also those in the other workshops, sharing coffee breaks during the morning workshops and drinks in the bar in the evenings. A terrace overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea is not a bad place to meet and make new friends!

The teachers, as well as the invited guest artists, Andre Aciman and Scott Cheshire, were also often out and about too, and enjoying the same verve, so it was easy to have "after-hours" conversations. Each of the instructors also provided a formal reading of their recently published or in-progress works. Not only did the teachers and artists present for the students, but one evening—at the home of the Sersales, the hotel owners, who hosted dinner for all the participants and their significant others—each of the students gave a three minute reading of their work as well. 

The third element of the conference was craft classes, most often given by writer Hannah Tinti, one of the conference organizers. She regaled us with writing exercises, methodologies for rewriting, description, story arc, and more. Good reminders for those who came with significant academic experience in writing and solid fundamentals, and an excellent base for those who had made their way to fiction writing in more indirect ways. Much of the conference worked on this principle, whether intended or not: every element afforded something for the novice conference-goer and also something for the veteran of many conferences and published books.

 

Beauty at the market in Positano (photo Alison Strack)

Lastly, I have to mention that traveling to the Amalfi Coast of Italy after a long, dreary winter in New Jersey was anything but a hardship. The conference organizers were wise enough to give us blocks of time during the day to explore the hilly, wind-y streets, shops and restaurants of Positano. Le Sirenuse, the magnificent five star hotel, is opened up only to this conference every year in early spring, thanks to the owners and gracious hosts, Carla and Antonio Sersale, because of their strong interests in the arts.

Saturday breakfast, the morning we all prepared to check out and leave, was sad and invigorating. We were sorry to be leaving, yet inspired to go home to rewrite and to write, and to continue the relationships we’d developed there. We hugged and wished our new writing buddies well, hoping and maybe even knowing that these names will be ones to watch for, as their books and stories make their way into the world.

With hard work and luck, maybe mine will one day be among them.

Note from Lisa: The 2015 Sirenland workshop is scheduled for March 22-28. Learn more here.

More first-person accounts of experiences at writing conferences elsewhere on the blog:  Stonybrook/Southhampton Arts, AWP 2013 (#1), AWP 2013 (#2), Writers Police Academy, AWP 2009 (#1), AWP 2009 (#2), Nonfiction Now 2007 .

Friday Fridge Clean-out: Links for Writers - December 13, 2013 Edition

> Deflated by workshop feedback? Diana Munoz Stewart at The Write Catch has some excellent thoughts on what to do with all that comes your way across the workshop table, in "Why So Many Good Writers Can't Write".

> Good post by Bryan Cohen over at Memoir Writer's Journey, on "Using Sense Memory to Remember Story Details."

> Your book has won an award. Now what?  At Build Book Buzz, Sandra Beckwith has 12 good ideas on spreading the news.

> Cool slide show -- 50 narrative devices for nonfiction story tellers, over at Inside the Story.

> If you tweet to attract readers, build your platform, or expand your writing-related business, you might need these "50 Ways to Get Out of Your Twitter Rut."

> Like to make a donation that goes directly to helping kids and teens read good books? I favor the Books section at Donors Choose, where teachers post requests and you pick the classroom and project you want to help. Make a pledge, then get updates, and a note (and sometimes a photo) from the teacher when the project is fully funded, and books have been purchased and are in kids' hands.

> Interesting, detailed report on "The Ghostwriting Business" over at Priceonomics.

> Continuing with my new practice of pointing my readers to other blogs that post interesting links lists, be sure to check out Erika Dreifus's Friday Finds for Writers.

> Finally, two fun things... First, over at Rattle, Francesca Bell's hilarious poem that expresses what every writer who has ever received a rejection (hey, that's every writer, right?), might like to say in return.  And, "The Top Ten Reasons Not to Write", over at Brenda Moguez's Passionate Pursuits. Numbers 10, 5, and 1 said it all for me!

Have a great weekend!

Stuff My Writing Students Say, Part 16

"You're kind of cranky. But in a good way."

Last night, the final night of an 11-week memoir and personal essay class, a writer who attended each session (despite complicating situations in her life), said this to me by way of explaining why she'd always turned up. "It's partly because you're a bit of a grouch, in a good/funny way," she said, and she wanted to see what I might grumble about each week. She assured me my crankiness was limited to instances of lazy writing, sloppy editing, and last minute, half-hearted revising, and that otherwise I'm a nice person.

Okay, I'll take that.

Which gave me a chance to reiterate what I say on the first day of every class or workshop, but students tend to forget: I'm not the sort to spend our scarce few hours together telling you how wonderful your precious prose is, how talented and gifted you are, that your every word sparkles. I don't tell writers, or frankly, expect writers to believe, that I love everything about their work, that they are going to get published somewhere wonderful and quite soon, that an essay or chapter is nearly perfect as first submitted.

I don't laud praise all over a manuscript, and then slip in a few small quiet words about something that you may, perhaps, possibly might consider changing just a bit, because, at least in my opinion, and I may be wrong, it could use, you know, just a bit of tweaking.

I developed this philosophy from having been on the other side of the table for years, sitting across from all kinds of writing teachers, workshop leaders, and editors. Long ago I concluded that if I wanted to grow as a writer, praise is lovely but not entirely helpful. And, it's not what I'm paying for, what I'm there for.

If I'm in the student/client chair, I'll take cranky and tough--which I'm fairly sure is mostly another way of saying demanding--over sweet and nice. Mind you, cranky/tough/demanding has to come along with: helpful, resourceful, encouraging. So I may be cranky but I try hard to be all those things, too.

Cranky/tough/demanding works if backed up by precise feedback, and focused, specific editing suggestions; with questions that help/force a writer to re-think, re-imagine, re-see (revise!) their work. So I work hard to do a lot of that.

Cranky/tough/demanding, when coupled with genuine interest in seeing the student writer challenge him/herself, also requires a willingness--in order to push that writer's craft toward growth--to sometimes not be liked. (Kind of sounds like parenting teenagers, huh?)

I'm occasionally, no maybe frequently, not liked by some folks in the early stages of working together. Most of the time, they like me again later on. But not always. That's okay.

My students and clients can think I'm grouchy or a bit of a crank, or tough or demanding, and I don't mind. As long as they also think I'm helping their writing develop, go new places, leap forward.

Growth, development, leaps forward usually aren't the result of patting anyone on the head and telling them how wonderful their work already is. Let's face it, you can get that from Mom, your best friend, your sweetheart.

The teachers, mentors, workshop leaders, and editors I had who were tough, who seriously challenged me, who were daring and smart enough to draw a line through a paragraph of mine and write in the margin "Who cares? Rewrite," are the ones who propelled me to work harder, to revise, rewrite, shred, and start again-- and to raise my own standards. The ones who were sweet and soft left me feeling good for a few hours -- and then very soon after, I felt cheated, out of money and time.

Anyway, I'm not always cranky. Sometimes I do tell students how much I admire their writing, but this typically occurs when writers have gotten through three or six or 16 drafts, and by then are beginning to be a little tougher, a little more demanding too, of their own work. 

When I can see how hard a writer has worked to make each word sparkle, each page shine – and that they've moved on in their writing development, I've been known to say, "This is GOOD."

I could say "great" I suppose. But let's not get carried away.

Read the other 15 installments of  Stuff My Writing Students Say.

Image:  Flickr via Creative Commons / mootown

Guest Blogger Christi Craig on a Writing Retreat, Place, Atmosphere, and a Nod from the Universe

I was linking to posts at writer Christi Craig's blog for a while before we officially connected, in several different ways over the last few years. Now, we're staff colleagues for the literary journal, Compose, where Christi is an editorial assistant (and I'm nonfiction editor).  When I heard that Christi was jetting off to a writing retreat/workshop on a sunny island last month, I was happy for her – and, you know, jealous!  From the first pictures she posted on Facebook of her adventure, I knew I wanted her to write about the experience here. Christi lives and writes in Wisconsin, where she works by day as a sign language interpreter. She has stories and essays forthcoming in Hippocampus and Deep South.

Please welcome Christi Craig

Long ago over coffee with a writing friend, I uttered a half-spoken prayer that all I needed was a week away from work and life’s day-to-day to focus solely on my novel.

I had no idea those words would carry me from Wisconsin to the Bahamas.

I rarely travel such a distance from home. My discretionary income is slotted mainly for blueberry muffins and coffee. I do not have vacation time at work. Then last August, my friend and author, Rebecca Rasmussen, suggested I apply to attend the Salt Cay Writers Retreat. I thought, Ha, funny!  Rebecca was serious, though. She knew I was working hard on a novel, she’d read my writing, and she thought this would be a great opportunity for me to work on my manuscript under the guidance of amazing professionals. At the same time, I learned of a private funding source for which I might qualify that would substantially lessen the financial blow.

I considered the location and how I didn’t have a passport, hadn’t traveled internationally since I was a teenager—and never alone. I studied the dates, which fell in the middle of my fall semester at work when no one dares to breathe a word of time off. I perused the list of faculty: Best-selling authors Jacquelyn Mitchard and Robert Goolrick, agents from Folio Literary Management, Executive Editor Chuck Adams from Algonquin Books. Amy Einhorn!

I thought of my husband, who would have to take on my responsibilities at home along with his own for a solid week.

Crazy, I said.

Then I remembered that conversation over coffee and my mantra for the year: Fearless Writing, which meant doing things that move my writing career forward, even when those things seem impossible or frightening.  

I filled out the application to Salt Cay and attached my writing sample; I applied for  funding. I took a deep breath and hit send. I thought at best someone might read my work and think it decent enough to file away for another year. I mentioned the retreat to my office mate at work in a “This will never happen,” kind of way.

Less than a week later—on my birthday—I learned two things: I was admitted to Salt Cay.  And, I'd gotten the funding.  The bulk of the retreat would be paid for. Now, all I had to do was get there.

What happened next still amazes me, down to the last tiny detail: my boss at work made negotiating time off easy; my husband didn’t balk at the expenses we would have to cover, nor a week of handling work and life with kids solo. I found my misplaced birth certificate needed for the passport, and paid for the passport fees at the post office with the last check in my book. Everything happened quickly, easily, and, when I held my passport in my hands, I understood how writing is about taking risks.  About having faith.

Two months later, I stepped out of the airport in Nassau and into the tropical sunshine, where a tall, official looking Bahamian man smiled and said, “This way, Beautiful.”

Those words—This way. Beautiful.—struck me with the same intensity as the sun and warmed my back, urging me forward.

When I climbed into the cab, I left the loose seatbelt hanging and the window open and settled in—to the winding roads and the roundabouts; the palm trees and warm breeze; the blue waters of the harbor and white sands of the beach.

I hadn’t participated in a writing conference before, but I’d read about them. I knew enough to worry how a fledgling writer like myself might fit in with the high caliber faculty and authors at Salt Cay. But the hosts from BACKSPACE, Karen Dionne and Chris Graham, designed a retreat where the typical dynamics of a conference fell to the wayside. We were not compressed in small conference rooms, nor herded in lines for one-on-one meetings; and I shared only a handful of my business cards. Networking was a big part of the retreat, yes, but it evolved in a less-structured way.

Most of the retreat events took place in an open shelter with a backdrop of palms and clear skies and ocean waters. There’s a shift in the way people relate when you’re all wearing flip-flops and swimsuits and beach hats, and the effects on me in Salt Cay were ease in conversation, plenty of laughter, and more time spent focused on the work instead of obsessing about my credentials.  

 I took notes in pictures and in pencil on everything: the wayward crab that clicked across the tile of the shelter in a zig-zag pattern, because he resembled me that first day, navigating the unfamiliar and the exciting; the dolphins, because they seemed so carefree and kept giving me the eye and hinted of a message I’d heard before, Relax. Take it easy. Do not struggle.

I soaked up discussions from panels and workshops. When Robert Goolrick spoke on opening pages, I wrote his words in caps: More important than clever plotting, confidence in your writing brings authenticity to your voice. Confidence and authenticity were two qualities sometimes missing in my manuscript.

On Dialogue and Sentence Structure, Michelle Brower, an agent from Folio, stressed that a good sentence—especially a good first sentence—has story written inside of it, where the who, the what, and the mood of the book are layered within a handful of words. Later, I met with Michelle for my one-on-one, and she showed me in my work where I do that well and where I could do it more. Michelle illustrated a quality of agents I hadn’t recognized before, that they know story as much as they know publishing, and they work hard to ensure an author’s manuscript reads at its best.

In daily break-out sessions, I sat with five other writers at a picnic table with Chuck Adams, who pointed out areas authors tend to ignore in first drafts and revisions, like character development. For my manuscript in particular, I’d neglected to make the antagonist relatable, and, as Chuck said, even a menacing character needs a redeemable quality. He was right, of course. 

During structured writing time, I put lessons into action, working on a character interview that probed background more than physical description, a natural course of inquiry with surprising insights that only come from loose structure and trust in the process.

By the end of the week, I did not go home with twenty more pages of my manuscript. But I left with a better understanding of the craft, with more direction, and with appreciation for the time spent with professionals I might not ordinarily meet, at least not at this stage in my career. I left with sand in my shoes and hope in my story.

I could blather on. Really.

My week at Salt Cay was a gift, an experience that would be difficult to replicate. In fact, I wouldn’t even try. Because, when it comes to personal success at a writing retreat/conference, place is as important as faculty; atmosphere as critical as the number of workshops. The notebook I carried all week has become a Bible of sorts, its pages full of revelations and action steps and even a few new characters. 

One half-spoken prayer, one nod from the Universe, a new perspective.

Note from Lisa:  You can connect with Christi on Facebook and be sure to follow her on Twitter. You won't be sorry!

All photos by Christi.