Writing – Page 13 – Writing. Life.

November 12, 2010July 11, 2011

Postcard from Siberia

Pictured above is one of my most cherished possessions. It’s a 1947 postcard sent from my grandmother in Siberia, addressed to her husband and children. It was sent to a town in Massachusetts where we had relatives, though at the time my grandfather and his kids (my father among them) were living in the UK. My grandmother wrote their church’s address from memory, I think, and sent it off as a kind of Hail Mary attempt to reach her loved ones.

Amazingly, it made its way out of Stalinist Russia and into the hands of distant cousins in the US. From there, the card found its addressees: my father, my two aunts and grandfather. It was the only moment of communication my grandmother had with her children between 1941 and 1955, when regular correspondence between Siberia and the West became possible.

The back of the postcard reads:

1947.II.16

My Dear Children Birutėlė, Janutė, Algutis and Antanukas [the latter, her husband, is addressed as one of her children, because she had told Soviet authorities her husband was dead],

It made me indescribably happy to learn that you were alive and well. I’m healthy, I work on a farm. In my thoughts and in my heart I am always with you.

The priest, my uncle, is still alive and lives in Liepalingis [Lithuania], as before.

Write to me, all. I await your letters.

Your mother,
Ona Šukienė.

After weeks of working my way through my travel notes from Siberia, I’m now back to my archives: reading my grandmother’s letters, and travelling in my mind across languages, time, space.

My grandmother wrote letters to her children from Siberia from 1955 to 1958, then from Soviet Lithuania from 1958 to 1965, when she joined her family in Canada. The above card marks the first step in their long process of return to one another. For me, now, it marks the beginning of my next stage of writing.

While working through my Siberian travel notebook over the past few weeks, I wrote a great deal in a very short span of time. It was going so well that I didn’t dare stop, question, or even re-read too much. In fact, I was working so fast that I became uneasy, and started bracing myself for the other shoe to drop.

Well, crisis averted. With the complex tasks of weaving past with present and of melding my life with that of another back in my sights again, the familiar feeling of wading through mud has returned. Writing hurts again and the book resists.

All is well with the world in this regard.

Onward. (Squish.)

[Photo: J. Šukys, Ona Šukienė’s Siberian postcard from 1947, private collection]

November 8, 2010February 16, 2012

How I write my books: Beginnings, Middles and Endings

My friend Rachel asked me about my writing process recently (OK, this morning). She wanted to know how I plan out my writing week, how I determine how many words to write, and what time of day I do my best writing. Essentially, she wanted to know about my process. So, here’s what I’ve come up with.

First of all, a confession: I’m a very slow writer. In terms of real writing, I max out at about 1200 words a day; I’m satisfied with 500, if they’re good. I write five days a week, and when I’m not writing, I’m reading, editing (sometimes for money), reviewing books, essays, blogging, translating, or applying for grants, fellowships and residencies. I do my best writing in the morning, and if I allow myself to get distracted too severely before noon, the day is shot.

As for my process and project planning, it all depends on what stage I’m at.

Beginnings (ca. 100 manuscript pages): At the very start of a project, I try simply to write. I don’t worry about quality, I just let ideas flow uncensored. I gather questions, comparisons, and avenues to explore in the future. Each day I sit down and try to fulfill a quota (minimum 500 words), even if it’s garbage. At this stage, I’m always buried in books and research, and the writing is about finding a footing on new terrain. Beginnings are light and fun and full of hope. At every stage of writing, I keep a list of what needs to be written next.

Middles (ca. 100-300 manuscript pages): This is where it gets hard, and it’s the stage I’m entering with my current project. I’ve had my fun, and now it’s time to figure out a theme, structure and direction for the book. I need to gather all the nonsense I’ve put down on paper and sort out the good from the bad. It’s very, very easy to get lost or stalled or overwhelmed at this point, since I’ve produced enough that there’s no turning back, yet not so much that there’s an end in sight.

One tactic that worked for me while I was writing my second book was to chop up my manuscript into very small pieces of 3 to 10 pages, and limit myself to one idea per piece. Dealing with a single idea at a time allowed me to see what didn’t fit, and to experiment with the text by removing or radically rearranging entire sections. In the end, my second book was made of thirty-two small chapters that I bundled into nine parts. This process worked so well last time that I think I’ll try it again.

Endings (300+ manuscript pages): This is where I stick to a time-line. It’s time to nail the text down, and write the hard sections that I’ve been putting off. I plan a schedule out on a calendar and stick to it. (I think I allotted two weeks per chapter at this point for my last book, but this will vary with each manuscript.) Accountability is key at this stage, even if it’s manufactured. For me, it’s enough to announce my schedule on Facebook to feel like I have to stick to it or face public humiliation (never mind that it’s a mind-game – the key to to find a game that yields results).

Final Endings: Once the book is off my desk and in the hands of an editor, his or her schedule takes over, and a healthy fear of authority keeps me in line. You need the book by October 1? No problem. I’ll work day and night to meet the deadline. At this point, it’s important to have a new project in mind and to go back to the fun and hopeful Beginnings stage, since nothing (short of actually giving birth) brings on postpartum depression like finishing a book, and the Final Endings stage (what with review, copy editing, and proofs) can be really long. For me, overlapping projects are the way to go.

If you have a different process, I’d love to hear about it. And if you have any questions you’d like me to tackle, or themes you’d like to see explored on the blog, drop me a line via the contact page.

Until then, happy writing.

[Photo: uploaded by l-frings]

October 27, 2010January 4, 2020

Five things I learned from writing an essay that got rejected over and over until it finally found its home

Since my most recent essay, “Pregnant Pause” came out in print, I’ve been reflecting on what I learned from the journey to its publication.

It was an incredibly hard road for that essay, for a variety of reasons. First, it’s a hybrid and relatively experimental piece of writing (part literary, and — I must admit — part academic) which makes it hard to place. Second, at 5,000 words, it’s lengthy — longer than many publications are willing to consider. And, finally, it took me ages to figure out what it was about, face what was wrong with it, and determine how to fix it.

So here’s what I learned:

1) Do what comes naturally. If first-person writing, haiku or journalism feel good and seem right, don’t fight it. In my case, I fought the first-person voice (where I feel most at home) for far too long, and wasted a lot of time.

2) Give your text to trusted friends and colleagues to read, and listen to what they say. If they are getting confused by what you’ve written, it’s probably not because they’re stupid, but because there’s something wrong with your text. Accept feedback about what isn’t working, swallow your pride, and fix it. At one point I was told that there were too many names in my piece and that it was hard to follow as a result. At first, I got my back up, then I tried listening, started paring, and things got better.

3) Sometimes, it isn’t you; it’s them. If you can see that the text is really good and it’s still getting rejected, the problem may be that you’ve been knocking on the wrong doors. I finally found a home for my essay when I figured out who its audience was, and which publications catered to those readers. I started to get positive (in some cases overwhelmingly positive) feedback and good advice once it began to land on the right editors’ desks

4) Don’t give up on a text just because it’s taking too long. Writing is a craft, and learning it takes time. My many-times-rejected essay took crazy long to write — as long as the book that grew out of it — but it represents a whole new level of understanding on my part about writing.

5) Shake off rejection as best you can. Don’t talk about it too much, don’t obsess, don’t let it kill your confidence and belief in what you do. Take what lessons you can from the experience, then get back to work.

Happy writing. Be courageous.

[Photo: BookMama]

October 25, 2010October 25, 2010

Technological breakthrough! Pregnant Pause essay now up

A few weeks ago, my new essay on mothering, writing, research and on “my” librarian (the subject of my forthcoming book) appeared in Feminist Formations. I’ve finally figured out how to upload PDF files onto the site. So, here’s the essay for anyone who wants to read it. You can also find it under Publications on the right margin.

The essay is called “Pregnant Pause: On Ona Šimaitė, Research, Writing, and Motherhood.” I share it with the journal’s permission.

As the day goes on, I’ll use my new-found skills to link to more publications.

[Photo: loungerie]

October 7, 2010

Revisiting the question of titles

I recently joined a women’s writing network called Shewrites, and have been following a discussion on titles. People post their working titles, and the community reacts. On the one hand, it’s a great opportunity to get a lot of quick feedback. But on the other, it’s made me realize that we’re not all on the page when thinking about what makes a good title. So I wanted to raise the question here again.

There have been objections to titles put forth on the Shewrites list on the grounds that they don’t tell exactly what a book is about. It’s an objection I struggle with a lot, especially since I write non-fiction. But, as I look around my study and at some of my favorite books of non-fiction, here’s what I see:

The Year of Magical Thinking
Algerian White
Nox
Autobiography of Red

I, for one, like titles that hint rather than baldly declare what the book is about. I like titles that are evocative and a bit poetic. I like titles that reveal their meanings fully once you’re part-way through a text. But I may be in the minority in this respect.

I’m interested to hear what you think is important in a title. How much does a title have to tell you? How tolerant of the abstract are we when it comes to titles? What are your favorites, and why?

[Photo: sleeping sun]

October 5, 2010October 5, 2010

Summer Literary Seminars Contest: Kenya, Montreal, Lithuania

Summer Literary Seminars is announcing its annual Unified (Kenya, Montreal and Lithuania) Literary Contest, held this year in affiliation with The Walrus Magazine. Jayne Anne Phillips will be judging the fiction, and Matthew Zapruder the poetry.

Contest winners in the categories of fiction and poetry will have their work prominently featured online in Canada’s premiere literary magazine, The Walrus, as well as published in print in a participating literary journal in the United States (TBA). Additionally, they will have the choice of attending (airfare, tuition, and housing included) any one of the SLS 2011 programs – in Montreal, Quebec (June 12 – 25); Vilnius, Lithuania (August); or Nairobi-Lamu, Kenya (December).

Second-place winners will receive a full tuition waiver for the program of their choice, and third-place winners will receive a 50% tuition discount.

A number of select contest participants, based on the overall strength of their work, will be offered tuition scholarships, as well, applicable to the SLS 2011 programs.

Read the full guidelines at: http://sumlitsem.org/slscontest.html

[Photo of Habitat 67 Montreal: swisscan]

September 27, 2010September 27, 2010

Call for Submissions: Prose Writers

18th Annual Short Prose Competition for Developing Writers
$2,500 PRIZE

The Writers’ Union of Canada is pleased to announce that submissions are being accepted until November 10, 2010 for the 18TH ANNUAL SHORT PROSE COMPETITION FOR DEVELOPING WRITERS. The winning entry will be the best Canadian work of 2,500 words in the English language, fiction or nonfiction, written by an unpublished author.

PRIZE
$2,500 for the winning entry and the entries of the winner and finalists will be submitted to three Canadian magazines.

JURY
Writers Tarek Fatah, K.V. Johansen, and Sharon Pollock will serve as the jury.

ELIGIBILITY
This competition is open to all Canadian citizens and landed immigrants who have not had a book published by a commercial or university press in any genre and who do not currently have a contract with a book publisher. Original and unpublished (English language) fiction or nonfiction.

HOW TO SUBMIT ENTRIES:
•   Entries should be typed, double-spaced, in a clear twelve point font, and the pages numbered on 8.5 x 11 paper, not stapled.
•   Submissions will be accepted by hardcopy only.
•   Include a separate cover letter with title of story, full name, address, phone number, e-mail address, word count, and number of pages of entry.
•   Please type the name of entrant and the title of entry on each numbered page. This is not a blind competition.
•   Make cheque or money order payable to The Writers’ Union of Canada. Multiple entries can be submitted together and fees can be added and paid with one cheque or money order, $25 per submission.
•   Entries must be postmarked by November 10, 2010 to be eligible. Results will be announced in February 2011.

• Mail entries to:
WFC Competition,
The Writers’ Union of Canada
90 Richmond Street East, Suite 200
Toronto, ON
M5C 1P1

Results will be posted at www.writersunion.ca. Manuscripts will not be returned.

[Photo: Visentico / Sento]

September 22, 2010September 24, 2010

On the pleasure, pain and panic of working with archival materials

I’ve been working with archival materials for more than a decade now.

While writing my dissertation, I sat in archives comparing drafts of novels, tracking authors’ corrections and studying the process of composition and revision. More recently, I’ve been working on diaries and letters, telling the story of a life on the basis of private papers. Archival work can be slow and painful: you have to read some twenty or fifty letters before you find one that grips you, speaks to you, or tells you something new.

Piecing together a narrative from a million seemingly inconsequential details is the hardest literary thing I’ve done yet. You can’t know what will be important, so you have to copy everything, read everything, and take copious notes. The result is a lot of paper, loads of post-its, a stack of storage boxes as tall as me, and a chaotic office. Only after thousands of hours of reading and reflection will a thread start to emerge.

Waiting for the thread takes faith and patience.

Still, there’s little that thrills an archival researcher more than making a connection or accidentally finding a key piece of evidence: these moments of pleasure that make the pain worthwhile.

So here’s where I’m at: after years of work, of mastering my subject’s writings, and having finally completed my manuscript, it dawns on me that I don’t own this material. While writing my book, I had put the issue out of mind, but now that I’ve finished, it’s time to face facts.

And the fact is that it’s not mine to publish. Not yet.

The issue is copyright.

In order to cite from unpublished archival materials, international copyright law requires permission of the author’s next-of-kin. In the absence of an heir, you must prove that you have made a good-faith effort to find one.

To be fair, I have a long-standing and good relationship with the nephew of my main biographical subject who controls the copyright of ninety per cent of the material that is important to my book. But permission for the other ten per cent now needs to be secured. I waited to finish the manuscript before starting the permissions process, because only now do I know what’s important to my story

For the past two days, I’ve been writing emails and making cold calls to Eastern Europe in my good-faith effort to locate the heirs of the authors of additional archival documents I cite.

And although it’s going well, the realization that I’d written a book that I might not be able to publish kept me up all last night.

This is the panic of archival work.

May the heirs be kind and generous.

Fingers crossed.

[Photo uploaded by anvosa]

September 17, 2010March 28, 2011

What is “Creative” or “Literary” Nonfiction?

A friend recently asked me what creative nonfiction was. I must admit that I find the term a bit clunky. I might prefer “literary nonfiction,” though only just marginally. Both seem a bit affected, and protest too much. In any case, this does seem to be the genre which has chosen me, whether I like its current appellation or not.

So, I’ve been mulling my friend’s question over, and here’s what I’ve come up with: creative non-fiction tells facts, but uses techniques of fiction (character building, dialogue, atmosphere) to do so. It’s concerned not only with the content and truth of what it communicates (as is often the case with journalistic writing) or with the argument it puts forth (as in academic writing), but with how it is crafted. Form, rhythm, flow: these too are the life-blood of a writer of creative nonfiction.

The best elucidation of creative nonfiction comes from Lee Gutkind, which should come as no surprise, since he publishes a journal called Creative Nonfiction and works seriously in the genre. Here’s how he sums what it is best at:

Perhaps creative nonfiction’s greatest asset: It offers flexibility and freedom while adhering to the basic tenets of reportage. In creative nonfiction, writers can be poetic and journalistic simultaneously. Creative nonfiction writers are encouraged to utilize literary and even cinematic techniques, from scene to dialogue to description to point of view, to write about themselves and others, capturing real people and real life in ways that can and have changed the world. What is most important and enjoyable about creative nonfiction is that it not only allows but also encourages the writer to become a part of the story or essay being written. The personal involvement creates a special magic that alleviates the suffering and anxiety of the writing experience; it provides many outlets for satisfaction and self-discovery, flexibility and freedom.

Our kind of writing has been called the essay or New Journalism in the past, but both are somehow wrong too. Too narrow for what we’re talking about.

I, for one, used to think of creative non-fiction as “real” writing (juxtaposed in my mind to academic writing, where I always felt like I was in costume, faking it).

In any case, whatever we call it it, this genre of prose sits comfortably with me and feels like home.

What is real writing to you?

NB: Click here for a follow-up posting called “Take Two: What is Creative Nonfiction?”

[Photo: Sudhamshu]

September 14, 2010September 14, 2010

The Missing Paragraph

On the second morning of last weekend’s writers’ retreat, I woke up thinking about A.’s missing paragraph. The one that got lost before it was written into the poem she read on Saturday.

How had she known it was supposed to be there in the first place, I wondered.

A. has a kind of serenity about her that is so palpable, so present that it seems to walk beside her. “I gotta get me some of that,” I whispered, watching her.

You don’t have to be around A. for long to understand that she sits atop a mountain of knowledge: for example, she cycles easily through Sanskrit terms, playing with them in her free writes.

Who was she, I wanted to know. So, after she alluded to her relationship to “radical feminism” for the second time, I asked simply: what do you mean? The oral history of mothers and foremothers that poured out of her in response should have come as no surprise. Still, it was impressive.

It was the story of mentorship, sketched out hastily, as if she feared boring or alienating her audience. Then she told of strife and division, of women uniting into Utopian communities, then dividing and falling apart. I’m surprised to hear among these comers and goers the names of women whose work I love or whose writings now form part of a feminist canon.

To me these women are history, to A. they are her personal past and, in some cases, her personal pain.

What happened? How did it come to that?

I think about her missing paragraph.

Would those absent words have provided a bridge? Or somehow prevented the fragmentation that A. told of? Or would it simply provide an explanation, changing nothing, merely a headstone of sorts, a burial site marker? Could it have been otherwise?

I don’t know. I haven’t known how to start to know, so when she speaks her history, my ears open wide.

I think about the missing paragraph.

[Photo: cavale]