Belated Good Idea

The Sewanee Writers' Conference is about to crank up again. Last year's conference seems like yesterday in that I can still remember every detail of every room I entered, etc. I'll just come on out with it--I didn't have a great time at Sewanee. I did find it a valuable experience, just not in the ways I expected to. Anyway, I don't feel like going into all that, I was only going to mention that I was struck by an idea today, approximately one year too late.

I was reading a book by Margot Livesey, who was on the faculty at Sewanee last year, and I was thinking that I guessed she and my own workshop leaders, Jill McCorkle and Tony Earley, would all be convening again pretty soon. And I thought, wouldn't it be neat if the story I took to be workshopped last year had been published since then. I'd mail Jill a copy and she'd get it after breakfast one day, on that table in the dining hall where they leave your mail.

And what made me mad was that if I'd had this brilliant thought right after I came home last year, I could have made it happen. The thought of Jill McCorkle picking that package up from the mail table would have been inspiration enough for me to actually submit the thing to the requisite four million places until somebody took it.

Instead, what really happened was that I procrastinated for months before I FINALLY revised it in light of the comments everybody in the workshop had made, and then one day in a burst of energy I had about ten copies made of it, and then I dumped them on my office floor where they've been gathering dust ever since.

I'm not sure whether to say that the Sewanee workshop dampened my enthusiasm for the story I took, but I don't know that I'd ever care to participate in another. I dislike dissecting the work of others--I always have, even in literature classes. And I'm afraid it's been detrimental to me to picture a roomful of people dissecting mine.

Before, when I sent out a story, I imagined a lone editor reading it (sometimes, I know, only a paragraph) and either tossing it on the "not my taste" pile, or continuing, liking it, maybe fighting to get it into an issue of the magazine. Now I'm afraid that the workshop--the one and only workshop group of my life--will stick in my head forever like a Greek chorus muttering. Passing judgment.

I think it's one of those life situations where I was happier when I knew less.

Unsolicited Artistic Advice

From the earliest time I can remember, I wanted to be a singer. I don’t remember a time when I discovered that I could sing and that I loved to; it was just always a part of my makeup. Yet I didn’t grow up to be a professional singer, and I’m totally at peace with that. How come, you might ax?
Well, I’ll tell you about my vocal abilities. If I were standing next to you at church, you might say to me, “Hey, you’ve got a really good voice.” Period. End of story. That’s exactly how good a singer I am. And I’ve realized over the years that in most cases, people who have a Grammy on their shelf have way more going for them than a nice tone and the ability to carry a tune. They might have dynamic stage presence. They probably have a true knack for making lots of friends easily. They might have outstanding looks, or the ability to write songs, or even just to read music. Perhaps most importantly of all, I think they have courage within them that makes them board a Greyhound bus for LA or Nashville the day after they graduate high school and pound the pavement until they make something happen.
I didn’t have all that stuff, so while I still enjoy singing, I no longer harbor any aspirations of making a career of it.
But I have this friend who’s a singer, too—we were in a band together years ago.He does possess a lot of those secondary characteristics that I never did. Recently he forwarded me one of those internet quizzes, one of those “get to know your friends” things, and I noticed that said that his number one dream was to sing again. So now he’s going into the studio to record something and he’s a nervous wreck, worrying about dynamics and how to breathe right and do everything perfectly. My advice to him was to just relax; he has the ability, just go in there and do it. Worrying about technical stuff is just screwing him up.
I don’t think he’s much of a fiction reader but I keep wanting to tell him things I’ve learned from my writing, which has turned out to be my real gift—one more suited to my personality than singing ever was.
First of all, I don’t think I could write anything worthwhile if I sat down and pondered all the rules first. If I sat down and thought, OK, I need to write something short, and keep some action moving, but I need some believable dialogue and a really unique plot with some amazing twists and oh, yeah, there ought to be some underlying theme behind it and some symbolism thrown in, and then I should tie it up with a really satisfying conclusion. Oh and also, before any of that, I need to research what magazines are buying these days so I can write whatever it is they like and better my chances of selling it. I’d be too overwhelmed to even begin. It just sounds so hard.
Besides that, it really doesn’t sound like any fun, does it? The best writing I’ve done is when I’ve disregarded all rules and plans and just let the words pour out. My singer friend was telling me that he remembered a chorus teacher’s advice to “Get your tongue out of the way.” My advice? Get yourself out of the way. Forget the fancy stuff. Open your mouth and just sing, because at our age, chances are slim that we’re going to be stars. Squeeze all the personal joy and satisfaction you can from your art, whatever it may be. And then if other people happen to like it too, so much the better.

Get Over It, SuperMom

I would like to take a moment amongst all the SHOES to rant, rave and generally complain about women who think they are the biggest deal ever because they have children. These are the type who would put a bumper sticker on their car that says "soccer mom." They're they ones who start a lot of sentences with, "Well, when you're a mom..." They'd never go on a trip with just their husbands--oh dear, no, they'd miss the kids too much. Pardon me while I gag.

I know this woman; let's say her name is Momica, who lives and breathes her children and thinks everybody else does, too. And I would just like to say to her, Momica, we are tired of hearing about your kids. We are sorry that one has asthma and the other has skin problems, and we are glad that one is in the Boy Scouts and the other is in the school band. Fine and dandy. However we do not much care that one put a rubber snake in your bed as a joke, and we REALLY didn't want to know that you caught the other one getting acquainted with what's destined to become his favorite body part. Momica, we have kids too, and futhermore some of us even have LIVES OF OUR OWN. We suggest you get one.

Momica is forever saying to me, Is Brandon excited about field day? Is Brandon staying after school to watch a movie on the lawn? Is he going to the dance/skate night/whatever whatever whatever??? To almost all of these questions I give her a shrug and sometimes a puzzled expression, because 1)I don't know until the time comes and have not concerned myself about it (neither has Brandon), or 2) I haven't even heard of the big event she's so excited about. Because once again, I have a life to lead, and amazingly, it does not revolve around skate nights and PTA meetings.

Career Move?

I am developing such a collection of hoochie shoes that I'm thinking about starting a website for foot fetishists. (That's just a joke but believe you me, if I thought I could make a living at it...)

Ya like these? I do. I wish the zippers were silver, but I still like 'em.