[fill in the blank] in the time of Corona

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Remember the classic book (and more recent movie) Love in the Time of Cholera? I’m afraid I don’t, as I generally avoid epic romantic historical dramas like…well…cholera. BUT I do know the title, and have found myself applying it to our current pandemic situation with varying degrees of humor and horror. So for anyone looking to write the next gushy bestseller (or any college entrance essay for the next ten years), feel free to use any of the following:

  • Anxiety and Depression in the Time of Corona
  • Lipstick Futility in the Time of Corona
  • High School Math Remotely in the Time of Corona (:Why?!?!)
  • Parking Lot Lunch Dates in the Time of Corona (:Why my car is never clean)
  • The Front Page in the Time of Corona
  • Legging sales in the Time of Corona (:up)
  • Partisan Politics in the Time of Corona (Yikes)

I could, of course, go on, but would mostly like to add my new actual favorite to the list: Mountains in the Time of Corona. 

As I was lucky enough to experience this one firsthand last week, let me just say that yes, it’s as good as it sounds. Here’s to a newly heightened appreciation for quiet natural places that get us “above” the fray of it.

I’ll just put these pictures here and wish all of you literal or figurative Mountains in the midst of your own personal Coronas.

Road Balcony Fire Pit Quakies

 

i,i

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Bon Iver

I crossed off a bucket list item and finally saw Bon Iver perform live this weekend.  The band has been a favorite for a long time, but despite my interest in seeing them play, I’ve never been quite able to make their times and locations—which were generally small venues in just out of reach places.

In this tour (for their new album i,i), though, they’re playing large arenas and setting their indie folktronica music to blaring sound and flashing lights. The lead singer of Feist, who opened for them, prepared us by referring to the impending show as “the magic carpet ride” we were about to see—which it totally was.  The arena full of die-hard fans could do little more than stare wide eyed and drop-jawed at what we were witnessing, maybe with some head nodding and word mouthing when we could manage it. The lights were captivating and the cutting edge speaker system brought the music right to you and through you. It was unlike any concert I’ve been to.

And in the center of the sound and lights and a host of other talented musicians stood Justin Vernon, lead singer and the band’s founder in his t-shirt and sweatband, singing and playing his guts out.

I admit, I love to see artists doing their thing, sharing their art. It’s crazy to me how vulnerable it must feel to be belting your tunes and lyrics to hundreds of people—and he did make comments about how odd and surreal it was to be playing an to an audience that size. His humility was endearing, and I couldn’t help thinking about his first album, the one that first drew me to the band, For Emma, Forever Ago.

Apparently, Vernon wrote that album after his life kind of fell apart. After his band broke up and his relationship ended, he retreated with a bad case of mono and some recording equipment to his dad’s cabin in Wisconsin.  There he wrote and recorded the series of songs that became the album.  The songs are original, folksy, sometimes ethereal, and often sound just like a Midwestern winter to me.

It was fun sitting in that huge arena seeing and hearing the music on that scale and thinking it all began in a winter cabin with one guy writing songs.  Making his art. Having the courage to put it out there. It inspires me when I sit in my upstairs bedroom on cold Midwestern days and write my own stuff, hoping there’s something worth putting out there.

His songs aren’t perfection; in fact, sometimes they feel a little chaotic, and his lyrics are only marginally decipherable.  But through it all comes these moments of genius—a swell, a chorus, a phrase that cuts deep or inspires emotion or connection, and I think, “Wow. This is art.”

 

Relatability

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action-carnival-colorful-136412A few weeks ago, I decided to take my three kids up to the Wisconsin State Fair.  We’d never been before, and I was looking forward to giving them a chance to experience the things I’d loved at fairs as a kid: creepy rides, barns full of pristine livestock, deep fried everything, cases full of vegetables and handicrafts, and the noisy tones of cover bands playing on the thoroughfare.  I was not disappointed, and for my Midwestern city/suburb kids it was an absolutely original experience.

One of my favorite moments was when my son turned to me after a tour through one of the livestock barns and said, “I feel like such a city kid.”  This particular child of mine is a delightful person—but also an oldest child and teenager and is therefore a generally self-appointed expert on…everything. But after watching other kids his age grooming animals, cleaning out stalls, giving presentations, and generally preferring Wranglers and dusty boots to joggers and Vans, his world was turned on its side a little. As a parent there is little I like more than watching my kids have experiences that question their worldview a little.

It reminded me of this article I saw last year and (also this one it referred to) about relatability in literature.  I was interested in the idea that we place far too much value on how relatable a story is—and that more important than a character’s likeability or relatability is their ability to challenge us and force us to ask the tough questions.

Granted, some of my favorite characters over the years have been those I could empathize with, but the ones that have really changed my life are those not like me at all–the characters experiencing things I knew nothing about, who saw the world differently, who made me see my privilege or want to push myself in new ways.  I think it’s stories like this that help us see the humanity in humans we don’t relate to, and that is vital—especially in our current social/political climate. These are the kind of stories I’d like to read and, hopefully, write.

 

Pieces of Glass

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adrien-olichon-1245433-unsplashThe other day I brought my husband, Jeff, out to help me find some new large flower pots for our front porch. Since our usual hardware store in town didn’t have what I was looking for, we drove fifteen minutes to a different store.

While waiting in line, I looked up at the boy running the checkout and realized he looked just like I imagine a main character in my current WIP looking—high school age, Latino, friendly countenance, medium height, athletic build.  Then I glanced at his name tag and saw he had the same first name as my character! I tried not to freak out so that this kid didn’t think I was a psycho, but I did have to nudge Jeff and tell him to look at the living incarnation of a person I thought I’d made up in my head.

It was pretty trippy, and reminded me of one of my favorite movies, Stranger than Fiction, where an author actually does meet the character she is writing and then has to decide whether or not to write his death as planned. It’s a great melding of fiction and reality, and seems to suggest that the two often mix more than we think.

I heard author Ann Patchett talking about another instance of this on a podcast this week, but her experience was much crazier than mine. In her book Run she wrote about a character named Bernard Doyle who was Mayor of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and had two adopted African American sons. About a year after the book’s release, she went to speak at Marquette in Wisconsin and people kept talking to her about their governor whom they assumed she knew. It turned out that the governor’s name was Doyle and he had two adopted African American sons.

Shocked, Patchett actually sent Governor Doyle a copy of her book and a letter informing him that he might want to read that and see a lawyer in case he wanted to sue her! He wrote back saying that his whole family had read the book and loved thinking that it was about their family.

That’s a pretty tight coincidence, and I’m sure some would like to explain it away, but just as I had never seen the boy in the hardware store, Patchett had not followed Wisconsin politics, and had gotten the name Doyle from a family member.  She attributed the coincidence not to some magical happenstance, but to the fact that there really are no new stories out there.

Mark Twain said, “There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope. We give them a turn and they make new and curious combinations. We keep on turning and making new combinations indefinitely; but they are the same old pieces of colored glass that have been in use through all the ages.”

It’s crazy to think about this as a writer, because I spend so much of my time trying to be as creative as possible to come up with something truly fresh and new. But this idea that I’m really just aiming to piece together shards of colored glass means that the real art of writing isn’t coming up with an entirely new story. It’s knowing what pieces of life to collect and how to arrange and display them in ways that seem at once familiar and also new and curious.

Tragicomedy

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This past weekend I went to see The Winter’s Tale at the Goodman Theatre. It’s not a Shakespeare that I’m super familiar with, and apparently isn’t staged very often. This could be for a number of reasons (including the issue of deciding how to handle the famous stage direction “Exit, pursued by a bear”) but is most likely due to the play’s shift from psychological drama/tragedy, to happily-ever-after-comedy.  It’s a breach of genre.

I was curious to see how this production (directed by the renowned Robert Falls) would attempt to blend the two halves. The answer was: they didn’t. They went straight from the jealous wrongful accusation of Hermione, the resultant death of her young son Mamillus(who spends the first scene playing in a heavy bear costume), the banishment (and abandonment) of a newborn infant, the anger of Pauline and the too-late regret of Leontes to…comedic shepherds, thieving minstrels, young lovers, singing, dancing and sunshine. Even the set decoration changed dramatically. The first half—in Sicilia—was drawn in grays and blacks, straight lines, low lighting and ghostly reflections. But in the second half, Bohemia was all colorful, larger-than-life scenery: big fluffy sheep, a huge shepherd marionette, giant hay bales, and silly costumes. All this change happened in an instant—without even an intermission.

The contrast was at once absurd and delightful, and I was struck by the genius of it. Perhaps Shakespeare knew what he was doing by not putting this story in a genre box.

We’re big on literary labels these days. It’s more convenient when buying and selling books to put them in a category. I get that. But watching this play, I was thinking about how if we really wanted to portray life in fiction it wouldn’t fit into a category. Life is all in the same sentence both horrifying and hilarious, tragic and ridiculous.

I’ve talked before about my experiences with infant loss. I recall that after the first stillbirth of my seven months gestation baby girl due to a chromosomal abnormality, I developed a taste for comedy—sometimes twisted and irreverent. It occurred to me that having experienced such pointless tragedy it helped to be able to laugh at pointless things. Life doesn’t make sense, so why should art? After we lost our second baby to a different abnormality we joked with people that we were collecting chromosomal defects (who knows what we’d get next!).  I don’t think most people thought this was funny, but we sure did.

Similarly, when in in the play Antigonus was chased off into the darkness by a vicious bear, and in the following scene his death was announced by dim-witted shepherds, the two of them tossing his bloody severed arm back and forth in some morbid slapstick gag, I admit, I laughed. Moments before I’d been angry, sad, serious and the next I was cracking up. There’s a reason why it’s called comic relief, I guess.

Still, even though the end did wrap up tidily—Hermione actually came back to life (or was alive all along) amends were made, young lovers united—there was a sense that happy endings don’t erase tragic beginnings. As the cheery party of people exited the stage, the curtain closed on the spectre of young Mamillus in the background, staring out at us in his bear costume as a reminder that behind our happiest moments are sad histories, behind joy is loss.

Daily Reminder

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I’m querying a new book right now. It’s great and dreadful.

This morning, I remembered seeing this random interview years ago with Jessica Chastain (and others).  An audience member asked what advice they had for aspiring actors and she said “You have to do something every day to remind yourself that you’re an actor.”

I think it would be safe to substitute writer (or probably any other artist) for actor. What is it about artists? Why do we need to be reminded who we are? You would think that based on the amount of time I spend writing, thinking about writing, and analyzing/revising my writing—that I would feel like a writer. But probably inherent in any kind of creation is self-doubt. We say I’m won’t be a real writer until ______” and then fill in the blank with any number of milestones—until I’m published, until I have an agent, until I sell x number of copies, until people I’ve never met start inviting me to speak at book clubs or actually show up at my author signings…and so on.

So, today I’m doing things to remind myself that I’m a writer. I’m sending queries and revising my manuscript and mentally drafting the next one. I’m writing this. I’m a writer because I have something to say, and I’m saying it. I’m a writer because I write.

Mormon Lit Blitz

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57067548_sThis year I entered the Mormon Lit Bliz competition, and was selected as a finalist for my essay “The Back Row.”  I won first place! You can read my essay and many other excellent pieces here.

On Writers’ Groups

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This post is to celebrate a good writers group–largely due to the fact that I love my current group so much.  We are (mostly) pictured above at group member and excellent author Emily Bleeker‘s (center) launch party for her second book WHEN I’M GONE.

Unfortunately, not all writers’ groups are created equal. Here are some things I suggest looking for/establishing in a group.

Atmosphere of Safety and Respect

As authors, our work is highly personal, and sharing it with others can be daunting.  It’s important to find a group where you can feel comfortable sharing and where you know members of the group are going to treat you and work with encouragement and respect. Some of our members have read their work aloud for the first time in our group–and are now sharing more regularly and working to branch out to wider audiences.  A writers’ group should be a place where you can build confidence and not the reverse.

Structure and Schedule

It’s important to find a group that works best for you and your time constraints.  Our group meets once a month at a central location for (a strict) two hours.

Also the meeting itself can take on a variety of purposes. Some groups merely read their work.  Some actually take time to write at the group–sharing prompts and ideas to jump-start inspiration.

We have found what works best for us is for each member to share (usually aloud) excerpts or pieces of writing they have completed, and then we give them (constructive) feedback as a group.  We set goals for the following month–which can be anything from word count to making submissions or writing query letters.

Feedback

Someone once told me that the most reliable reviews were mixed reviews. Anything all bad or all good is rarely reliable.  I feel the same applies to feedback from fellow writers/readers. A good reader should always be able to find something good about your piece and almost always something that can be improved. Don’t ask people to read your work and expect them to only have good things to say.  You will not be able to become a stronger writer if you are unwilling to see the ways you can change and improve.

Learn to trust your instincts so that you can recognize which criticism is really going to help you improve your work and which is subjective or unnecessary.  Then when you find peers whose feedback most often feels productive you know you’ve found a good group.

Be Open

Some writers find it productive to meet entirely with authors who are at the same place in their writing career, or who write the same genre.  I kind of think that good writing is good writing.  We have everything from relative beginners to successful published authors. We write everything from women’s fiction to middle grade, to fantasy, to picture books and poetry. and each group member has something original to add.

I have learned so much from my writers’ group friends, and I know that each of us has come along way in our writing as a result of our association. I highly recommend starting/joining a group of your own.

 

 

 

What do you require in a book?

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heartThis week I started reading Sweet Tooth by Ian McEwan. While I haven’t made enough headway to fully recommend the book, I came across something I quite liked early on  when the protagonist, Serena Frome, describes her reading tastes.

My needs were simple. I didn’t bother much with themes or felicitous phrases and skipped fine descriptions of weather, landscapes and interiors. I wanted characters I could believe in, and I wanted to be made curious about what was to happen to them. Generally, I preferred people to be falling in and out of love, but I didn’t mind so much if they tried their hand at something else. It was vulgar to want it, but I liked someone to say ‘Marry me’ by the end. Novels without female characters were a lifeless desert. Conrad was beyond my consideration, as were most stories by Kipling and Hemingway. Nor was I impressed by reputations. I read anything I saw lying around. Pulp fiction, great literature and anything in between—I gave them all the same rough treatment.

For the most part, I share these preferences.  I have mentioned before, I think, that duty rarely factors into my reading choices.  Like Serena, I care little for names or reputations. I read across genres; want genuine, relatable characters; and I wholeheartedly agree that books/movies without women/girls (of which there are far too many, in my opinion) are “lifeless deserts.”  I am also admittedly if embarrassingly romantic.  I like a love story, and I rarely read (or write) anything without one.

While I do read very fast and skim unnecessary descriptions, I can appreciate “themes” on occasion if they don’t overshadow plot too much.  I also can set aside other preferences if the writing is particularly beautiful, or there are symbols to decode.  Otherwise, her statement could just as well be mine.  Can you relate to this as well?  What are your reading preferences?