Things I love: Jhumpa Lahiri edition, part II

Perhaps the most endearing, interesting thing about seeing Jhumpa Lahiri read at Borders last night was the fact that she seemed so uncomfortable doing so. I'm heartened by writers who are just that: writers. And not performers. She struck me as someone far more at home lost in grappling with words at her computer than standing in front of a room full of fans. I like that. The author-as-rock-star phenomena is often so off-putting to me. Although, if I ever publish a book, I plan to only do readings in giant sports arenas. But that's just how I am. I was also moved, quite literally, to tears by her admission that some of her stories were two years in the making. I tend to be so hard on myself when my stories don't emerge fully formed or beaten into submission after a month of revision. I tend to be so impatient with the process because it is so very, very difficult, so very frustrating. And, along those lines, I also took great comfort in Lahiri's admission that winning literary prizes, in the end, makes no difference in the writing process because it is still hard and humbling and it doesn't make it any easier. She said:

"Every time I write something new from scratch, I am on all fours on the ground, trying to stand up...I am like a child, trying and trying and trying to stand up."

Which I think is so raw and beautiful and honest. I love her for not making it seem like writing is easy and, by extension, not giving me permission to give up just because it doesn't come quickly or easily.

And I loved her unabashed passion for the art of writing fiction. In response to one young reader's question, she said she thought that books and fiction are everything, that creating a good novel or a good story is one of the most important things anyone can contribute in a lifetime. Perhaps out of anyone else's mouth, those words would have seemed like hubris. But Lahiri has such humility about her that it was just obvious she was speaking of literature as a whole and not her own accomplishments, considerable though they may be. Of literature, of books and of writing, she said:

"They are my religion.... They give me faith and they give me hope and they guide me when I am lost."

Isn't it strange -- both wonderful and slightly uncomfortable -- to feel so deeply understood, to share such naked passion with someone you've never met, someone whose words and whose attitudes about writing give you faith, give you hope and guide you when you are lost?

Things I love: Jhumpa Lahiri edition

I'm in the midst of reading Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary for (gasp!) the very first time. How I missed reading a classic such as this in my expansive liberal arts education, I don't know. But I did. And now I'm making up for it. I could tell you that I am fueled by some passion for the classics but the truth is I kind of struck a deal with a writer friend of mine, whose favorite book this is, and am trying to make good on my end of the bargain. I'll be taking a respite from my reading this eve to head down to the downtown Borders (trivia: Borders started in Ann Arbor) for a reading by a very different writer indeed, the lovely and amazing Jhumpa Lahiri. She is, perhaps, about as different a writer as you can get from Monsieur Flaubert, even if both are given to plumbing the depths of human unhappiness within the family structure. If you haven't read her stuff, you may have seen the film The Namesake, based on Lahiri's debut novel and featured either Harold or Kumar is, of course, of course, not nearly as good. It doesn't count. You must still read the book.

It has been, in fact, a long time since I read and was instantly drawn to a writer the way I was when I first read Lahiri's short stories. (An exception may be Junot Diaz who, I was delighted to hear, just won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction yesterday for his novel The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.)

Lahiri is a spare writer, somehow achieving a balance that I find infuriating to accomplish: rich emotion without sentimentality. How? HOW, I ask you? I do not know. It is my hope, however, that if I go and bask in her presence and listen to her share with us her own written words, it will somehow rub off on me and I will become an equally magnificent writer through nothing other than proximity.

It could happen, right?

Bear River Writers Conference

I'm giddy with excitement. This week I sent in my registration for the Bear River Writers' Conference. Normally, I spend a week during the summer at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival but I had mixed feelngs about returning this year. I'm not sure how much I got out of last year's workshop, although the real indulgence is a week spent focused on writing, reading and the discussion thereof. Last year, when I was taking a fiction course in U-M's grad school, our esteemed instructor -- and accomplished author -- Nick Delbanco, pulled me aside and mentioned the Bear River Writers Conference. He thought I might be interested in it because this year's guest is...Amy Hempel. My jaw dropped. I can't really think of another writer who had such a direct and powerful effect on my desire and decision to become a writer.

When I read Amy Hempel's short story, "In The Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried" in high school, it was what made me want to be a writer. Up until that point, I knew I loved to write, but I wasn't making an emotional connection to the male-dominated texts we'd been reading for years -- Dickens, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Conrad. That's not to say that I didn't appreciate their work, just that it didn't speak to me on the level that moved me to say, "I want to do that." Amy Hempel did.

During the short story revival of the eighties, Amy Hempel was one of the many young female writers who emerged to well-deserved critical praise. Along with writers like Lorrie Moore and Mona Simpson, she redefined the short story and blazed a path for writers of all ilk, but especially young women. Now "In The Cemetery" has been anthologized to death but still stands, I think, as one of the great short stories of all time -- beautiful, spare, poignant and funny. If you have dealt with loss or grief or, hell, even just thought about it, it will make you laugh and weep and wonder how on earth someone can do all those things without delving into melodrama, without taking it over the top. In other words, if you haven't read it, do.

All of that is my long-winded way of trying to explain why I'm giddy to be spending a week at Bear River in early summer in lieu of going to Iowa this year. The conference takes place in Northern Michigan -- a really beautiful part of the world -- at Camp Michigania, the U-M alumni camp. And while Hempel is not teaching an actual workshop, I'm hoping I can bribe Nick Delbanco to broker a very brief introduction so that I may drool all over her and perhaps have her sign the gorgeous hardcover anthology of her collected stories, which Chris bought me last year.

The fiction workshop leaders for the week are Delbanco and Elizabeth Kostova, the local writer who sky-rocketed to fame and best-seller status with her vampire tale, The Historian. So while I'm not really into fantasy writing, I signed up for Kostova's workshop as my first choice and Delbanco as my second, because I figure the latter has probably seen enough of me and I don't want him to think I'm stalking him. Plus, a different perspective is always good.

Now, how long until May 29?

A few snaps of St. Louis

I'm finally getting around to writing a bit about our trip to St. Louis a couple of weeks ago. In short, we had a grand time during our brief visit to our old stomping grounds a couple of weeks ago. While I love, love our new life in Ann Arbor, I've 17 years worth of friendships built up in St. Louis and there's just no substitute for that. I miss having so many good friends, the kind who know you really well, the ones who have been around you for years and know your back story. So while it was a tad exhausting going from one date to another and playing catch up, it was also really wonderful.

Amanda and I did Free Candy on the Sunday night and it was a blast. I wish I had some photos to share, but my memory card was full and the few Chris got were not, let's say, particularly flattering. (I reserve the right to censor such things so that we hosts can always remain in the most beautious light at all times.) The audience was great -- I can't believe that for nearly four years folks have loyally been coming out to catch this crazy live show that began as a goof in a coffee shop.

The evening was linked to the release of the new issue of 52nd City. I know I keep saying this but it bears repeating: but this St. Louis-based magazine is a thing to behold. If you still don't know it, if you still haven't picked up a copy or, better yet, subscribed, please, please do so. It's a collection of some of St. Louis' best writers musing on art, culture, life, following a specific theme for each of its quarterly issues. This issue's topic is Foreign Exchange and, as if the print edition didn't offer up enough solid reading, there's additional content on the website.

It is a labor of love -- and, yes, sometimes frustration -- for its dedicated editors, Thomas Crone, Stefene Russell and Andrea Avery and I really want to believe, despite history's suggestion otherwise, that St. Louis readers can and will support this kind of effort. Phew. I've said my piece. For now...and I'm not even IN the current issue. Wait until I get on my soap box for an issue I'm in!

Anyhoo, because we were linking Free Candy to 52nd City, we went with a theme that honored St. Louis writers. Thus, instead of a guest band to play "I Want Candy," our theme song, we had Thomas do a dramatic reading of the lyrics. And I must say it was one of those moments when I wished dearly we were not non-broadcast, non-recorded, because it was a funny as hell performance I'd love to toss up on You Tube and watch again and again.

In keeping with our writer's theme, our guests were Debbie Baldwin of The Ladue News and legendary St. Louis Post-Dispatch columnist Bill MacClellan, who's been musing on behalf of the everyman for three decades now. Debbie was a guest on one of our very first installments of Free Candy and she was just a blast again. Having MacClellan on our show as a real "get." I don't think he knew quite what to make of us but he was a terrific sport and good fun. He's a real throwback to the day of the old write-hard, play-hard school of journos, a dying breed, and there's great comfort to know that a few of these metro columnists are surviving as newspapers "retool" for new readership.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog posting about St. Louis... In addition to visiting old haunts, I also checked out a few new spots. I had tea with Amanda at the London Tea Room on Washington Avenue. Lovely space with tons of tea options and, important for ex-pats like myself, a solid selection of British sweets and foods also for sale.

I also met the aforementioned TC for breakfast on Martin Luther King Day at Rooster, a new spot on Locust. It's a nice place, decorated with a mish-mosh of deco light fixtures and ancient mirrors on the walls. They're known for their crepes, but TC and I both opted for egg sandwiches, which were big as our heads (well, my head, maybe not Thomas') and absolutely delish. Mmmm. In fact, writing this, now I really want one.

We stayed at the Ballpark Hilton again (thank you, Priceline!) and I'll tell you, downtown St. Louis was crazy-deserted. I felt like I was starring in I Am Julia Legend. Granted, it was a holiday weekend, but there's that odd combo of stunning architecture, empty streets and signs everywhere for new loft developments that all kind of baffles me.

So we headed to the Loop where, apparently, we had missed some sort of ice sculpture event. Thus, there were a few sad almost-melted statues in front of shops, but also a gigantic pile of ice next to Blueberry Hill, just waiting for some skate punk to jump on, break his or her neck and sue the pants off the city of University City. It didn't happen while we were watching, but the ruffians were circling and danger seemed imminent.

Speaking of Blueberry Hill, it has a new flashy sign up over its door. Or, at least, it's new to us. It features a nice, white retro couple dancing above a marquee that now flashes upcoming acts on the LED screen. It all seems a little Hollywood for the venue, but what do I know? Maybe Joe Edwards got a buy-one-get-one offer on flashy LED screens when he put up the one at The Pageant.

All in all, a very good trip. Never long enough to see all the people I love, for as much time as I'd like. I leave you with one last shot, the Vintage Vinyl tribute to MLK. I'm many days late and more than a few dollars short, but honor his dream, people. Word.

Snow, down time and Raymond Carver

On New Year's day we got another inch or so of snow, putting our total at nearly a foot in 24 hours. And I have to say, I love it. Chris always laughs at me because the minute snow starts to fall from the sky, I get a gigantic grin on my face, beaming like a giddy child. Can't explain it, but snow makes me happy. Check back with me in a few days, perhaps, when I actually have to venture out of the house for something more than a quick trip to the gym -- and when the roads are more traveled, turning the roadside piles black and grimy -- but for now, I'm still thrilled. I'm actually enjoying 2008 a lot so far. After the chaos that was December, it's very strange to have no deadlines bearing down on me and actually have time to do what I want. I've been mildly productive, continuing my organizing streak, making piles to go to Goodwill, etc. It also means more down time for doing the things I've wanted to for ages, including afternoons of knitting, sewing, crafting and reading. In fact, I finally got around to alphabetizing my books, something I've been meaning to do since we moved here. (Don't laugh! I just hate it when I look for a specific book or story and can't find it.)

That particular task did remind me that I have so much reading I want and need to do, so many volumes that just haven't been cracked yet. One of my goals for this year -- I'm avoiding the word resolution -- is to try to read the equivalent of one short story a day. (By equivalent, I mean I may have a day when I read five or I may be reading a novel, in which case, I just need to read a significant chunk.)

I've been helped in my initial attempt by The New Yorker's winter fiction issue. I'm now gunning to read more Junot Diaz and Jhumpa Lahiri. (Lahiri's story, about a college student coping with his father's remarriage, was particularly moving to me.) I know, add them to the list, right? There's a really interesting article in there about Raymond Carver's relationship with his editor Gordon Lish and the extent to which Lish cut -- and, it looks to me -- even rewrote some of Carver's work.

It seems Lish cut Carver's manuscript for Carver's seminal "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by a good 40%. It begs the question: was the minimalist style for which Carver is celebrated really of his own doing (and his own intent) or was it created by his editor? According to the article, Carver's widow, the poet Tess Gallagher, suggests that Carver was gut wrenched by Lish's edits on his first two collections, to the point that he nearly pulled the plug on the publication of "What We Talk About." (The New Yorker publishes a letter from Carver to Lish in which he long-windedly and reveals his sense of inner torture about the cut-down versions of his stories and begs Lish to halt publication.)

The article also includes an unedited version of the volume's title story, under Carver's original title, "Beginners." If you're familiar with the story -- which focuses on two couples drinking at a kitchen table and discussing love as the sun sets -- you'll likely be quite stunned at how different the original is, particularly towards the end. It becomes a very different tale with Lish's edits, ending on a different note and with, according to the New Yorker, lines that appear to have been written by Lish. (You can see the line by line edits Lish made to the story here, which include changing character names for what strikes me as no evident reason other than Lish's preference.)

I don't feel I know enough about fiction to say whether or not the original is a better story. I can certainly see some of the places where Lish may have felt there could be some reduction. But what startles me a bit, as a wannabe fiction writer, is how much the ending beat of the story is changed by the editor. Forgive me if it sounds dramatic, but it makes me wonder what the truth is in the rest of Carver's writing -- what he wanted us to experience, versus what Lish wanted to achieve. Gallagher's now hoping to re-publish "What We Talk About" with Carver's original versions of the stories in it, so perhaps we'll find out. For those of us who came to love short fiction in part because of Carver's stories, I'm not sure how much we want to know.

BMOC: Big Moron on Campus

Part of the whirlwind craziness of the past week or so has been my general anxiety at returning to college. Not in a big way -- it's not as if the Michigan MFA program took one look at its current crop of incoming students and decided they'd made a big, big mistake to leave me hanging on the waitlist. Rather, I was fortunate enough to be granted permission by Nick Delbanco to take his fiction seminar in the Rackham Grad school English Department this fall. In truth, I was not entirely sure what I was getting into with the class -- the description in the course catalog seemed a tad vague and maybe suggested that it was better suited for those making a transition between poetry and prose. But the professor was kind enough to offer me a spot and I am determined enough to get better at writing, so I jumped at the chance -- stupidly underestimating the web of academic virtual paperwork it takes to officially do such a thing.

It doesn't help that everything happens online these days and I come from the handwritten-paper-slip approach to signing up for courses. Then there was the matter of applying as a non-degree-seeking student to the Rackham Grad School and getting immediately rejected because I was supposed to apply as a different kind of non-degree-seeking student. Then there the matter of obtaining an "override" -- or official department permission -- to sign up for the class. And then there was the absolutely terrifying matter of signing up for the class online in a complex system that is no doubt completely intuitive to anyone born after 1980.

But all of that is in the past. I finally figured it out -- with an IMMENSE amount of hand-holding, guidance and encouragement from the Rackham English Department. (I'd name names, but I don't want anyone to get a reputation for being the go-to gal for the completely confused.) Class started last Wednesday and while it is a small group -- so far just six of us -- it looks to be an interesting endeavor.

Since a couple in the class are poets in the MFA program, we will be looking at the poetry-to-prose journey a bit, but we'll also have plenty of time for workshopping each other's pieces and getting individual guidance from Nick. To be honest, I'm not even sure at this point what I want to accomplish with the class. Of course I want to emerge with a stronger piece for re-applying to the MFA school in the Fall, but I don't know if that means reworking an existing story or embarking on something new. So many decisions!

Greetings from Iowa City

It's about 9 o'clock in the evening and I'm sitting on the front porch of the lovely Brown Street Inn in Iowa City (pictured above), enjoying the intersection of this place, which evokes a bygone era, and the wondrous advantages of wireless internet connections. It has been hot here the past couple of days, as it has been each year I've come, but the weather has actually broken and there's a cool breeze to be enjoyed.

I'm looking out on a leafy green street, with cobblestone brick roads and beautiful houses showing off their turn-of-the-century architecture. The sky's is the most amazing wash of pink and blue. An occasional car drives past but otherwise, with the exception of the early tree frogs, it's virtually silent. The little black kitty who makes the porch her home has come to perch nearby and keep me company. This is Norman Rockwell stuff, the backdrop for the perfect summer evening.

I'm in Iowa City, as you may know, for my third year attending the Iowa Summer Writing Festival at the university in the hopes that some of the decades-long prestige of the Iowa Writers Workshop will rub off on me. The jury's still out on the workshop I'm taking this week. It's called Advanced Short Story and I was actually nervous about whether or not my writing was far enough along to qualify, but we seem to be operating at a relatively tame level. Not sure how much I'll get out of it, but I'm willing to see what tomorrow brings.

We're workshopping three student-written short stories each afternoon, so the homework level is quite intense. Thus, I must sign off this brief update and get crackin' on tomorrow's fare.

It's beautiful here, right this minute. Chris, honey, I wish you were here.

Everything hurts

Turns out I held my own at Thursday's spinning class, although my ass was killing me by about 10 minutes in. I seemed to be the only person having rear discomfort as no one else was shifting and wiggling around in their seat quite as much as I was -- which seems strange because I have, by far, the most padding in that area and you'd think it would make life easier. It does not. It's a good thing I survived it so that Chris and I could attend a Stretch & Tone class on Friday that completely kicked my ass and all the other parts of me. Definitely more toning than stretching. I worked out parts of me that I hadn't moved since last doing the Jane Fonda workout circa 1988 (which is reponsible for the fact that any time I hear REO Speedwagon's "Keep the Fire Burning," I compulsively take my arms for wide circles).

Looking on the bright side, it turns out I do have ab muscles somewhere in there. I know, because they ache.

I've been running around like the proverbial chicken today as Fara and I are leaving for Iowa City tomorrow morning. We're each taking a week-long workshop at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. I had hoped to be organized and send in my short story in advance of the class, but then I remembered I was me, waited until the last minute to do a final edit/polish and got it printed and copied late this afternoon.

Also in there, I worked frantically on my second stab at sewing a summer top for myself (not counting "recons" of too-big tees, etc.). Turns out I'm just not getting it. Clothing is so finicky and so difficult to fit properly. A smart person would give up now and realize she could have just bought several tops for the amount she's spent on unwearable disasters thus far (other attempts include a disastrous sundress that wound up being a too-small, lopsided skirt). But I am not a smart person. I am frustrated and confused and challenged and plan to keep on throwing away money in the pursuit of getting just one damn wearable item out of all of this.

It's either that or every single person I know gets a tote bag for Christmas this year. And none of us wants that.

Anyway, the new shirt will not be accompanying me to Iowa...or anywhere outside of the house. But that's okay, because it's always damn hot in Iowa City, so who needs shirts anyway? Woo hoo! Actually, it's supposed to be 96 degrees here tomorrow and I'm abandoning Chris to a hot house while I bask in the cool A/C of the lovely Brown Street Inn, where Fara and I are booked.

Speaking of the lovely husband, Chris tucked a few surprises inside the Kinko's box containing the copies of my story for handing out to my classmates. In addition to a couple of trashy mags and a chocolate bar (does the man know me or what?), he bought me a lovely book called How I Write: The Secret Lives of Authors. I haven't had a chance to do much more than glance through it, but it's a collection of pragmatic advice from a range of writers (including Athony Bourdain, Douglas Coupland, Jonathan Franzen, A.M. Homes and Rick Moody) about how they write -- where, when they go about the most difficult part of this writer's life, the actual act of writing.

Isn't that the most thoughtful gift? "Go write," my husband said as he gave it to me. "Go do what you're meant to do." I'm the luckiest woman alive. I swear, I am.

Speaking of said husband, I meant to mention last week that he was interviewed by a lovely reporter for Wired Magazine who flew into town for the occasion. Don't know when the piece is coming out, but it may be the first Sharesleuth.com article that actually focuses on Chris' work and the journalism rather than bickering about the business model. About time, I say.

Anyway, I've still to finish packing -- as tossing things on an armchair doesn't quite do it -- so I'll dash off. I'm trying to keep my expectations in check. This is my third year in a row going to Iowa for a week and I always set such high expectations for myself -- that I'll write a novel, have an epiphany, lose 30 pounds. This time I'm going to try to focus on being in the present, doing what's in front of me, enjoying the time without pressure. That should be a piece of cake, no?

Those who can't...blog?

You know the addage. Those who can, do, those who can't teach free workshops on it at 826 Michigan. Perhaps I'm paraphrasing. I am having, you may be able to tell, a crisis of conscience directly related to just what it is I might want to be when and if I ever decide to grow up. Perhaps the latest tug on this thread of doubt was my rejection from the Breadloaf Writer's Conference. You may see it simply as a lack of acceptance, but I prefer the word "rejection." It's more pathetic; it merits, somehow, more sulking.

I suppose I should have seen it coming. Breadloaf is, after all, a writer's conference of great repute. And I did apply in the genre of fiction (in which I am an infant) and not in the genre of non-fiction (in which I am not.) So why did it hit me so hard that I didn't get in? I knew it the moment the envelope arrived -- a thin #9 envelope. Anyone who's ever applied for college or, well, anything knows that a thick envelope is what you want. Something with housing info, forms to sign, pages on which to write "I'm terrific! I got in," fold neatly and mail back to them in a SASE.

I just wanted to get in, you know? I wanted to be good enough. Sure, I'm going to the Iowa Summer Writing Festival next month for a weeklong short story workshop. And, sure, I come back from there every year feeling pretty invigorated. But let's face it...the only challenge in getting into Iowa for a summer workshop is whether or not your check clears.

So I'm left to conclude that I have a lot to learn about fiction. I can live with that conclusion. It seems reasonable and, perhaps even beyond that, true. What I'm tempted to conclude and am not yet sure about is that I suck at fiction. That I can't write it. This could be true.

Yet here's what's baffling...I just wound up my third six-week session at 826 Michigan teaching a narrative writing workshop to teens, 14-16, along with my good friend and fellow writer, Jason. And I love it. I really do. Sure, there are moments when I want to jump across the table and strangle the participants, but they are nothing compared to the moments when you can see the gratitude and passion in these kids eyes because someone's taking their writing seriously, someone wants to talk to them about their writing.

When I'm in there, I'm confident that I have something to share. Somehow, I know this stuff. Maybe not all the technical stuff -- I'm not an expert on plotting and themes. But I do know a lot about writing fiction and I can help them learn to love writing and to love talking about writing. I can help them become better writers.

So how can I know all this about what good fiction looks like and yet I can't produce it? Is this a case of the old addage? I can't do it, but I can teach it? Does that make me a phony, talking to these kids about how they should be writing when I can't pull it off? It's very strange for me to possess such passion and knowledge about something I can't do.

And I like talking about writing fiction far more than I like doing it. All the writers out there know exactly what I mean when I say it's hard frickin' work. It's torturous. It's painful. It takes years off your life, puts inches on your waist and adds wrinkles to your forehead.

So that's what I've been thinking about lately instead of blogging. Productive, no?

More on memoir

It's Memoir Week over at online mag Slate. Last week I wrote about Dave Eggers' advice about telling people you've written about them. Slate is offering up a series of relevant articles by memoir authors -- including Frank McCourt and Sean Wilsey, whose memoir Oh, the Glory of It All was name-checked by Eggers as a must-read -- writing about how they told their families and friends about their memoir. Interesting stuff if you're interested in that sort of stuff.

On writing if not well, then at least some

Trying to keep my  nose to the grindstone in terms of writing. It's hard to stay motivated to write creatively when using your brainpower writing for clients -- especially if you have extremely limited capacity in that area. Still, I'm determined to stay focused with some writing classes and workshops in the future. I think I mentioned in a previous post that I'd applied to the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference for August. I haven't heard anything back yet, but thought I'd post a little more info on it in case you're interested. It's well-reputed ten-day summer writing conference at Middlebury College in Middlebury, Vermont. You have to apply to be accepted.

The price is kind of steep for those on a shoe-string budget ($2,000-plus) but you can also apply as a scholarship student, meaning you wait tables during meals and get to attend the conference for free. The price does include lodging and meals. My friend Maureen (currently enjoying the adventure of opening a restaurant with her boyfriend Tom in Manchester, NH) went a few summers ago and highly recommends the experience, although she suggests skipping the work study part and splurging so you can enjoy the idyllic setting and seclusion to really immerse yourself in writing.

In July, my friend Fara and I are going to the Iowa Summer Writing Festival in Iowa City, Iowa. It's hosted by the infamous Iowa Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa in June and July and week- and weekend-long workshops covering just about any range of topics. They have an impressive list of workshop leaders (past and present.) It costs $500-525 for each week long workshop and $250 for the weekend workshops -- you're on your own for lodging and meals.

Iowa City's a great little writers' town to spend a week or so in and I've enjoyed my workshops the past couple of years. You don't need to apply to get in -- your check just needs to clear. Which can be a good thing and a bad. You'll find yourself amidst eager, serious writers, hobbyists and a slew of post-middle-age housewives trying to find themselves through poetry. Not that I'm judging.

Today, my friend Margaret sent me an email with three wonderful sounding Summer Writing Workshops in Europe.They seem to be the brainchild of a handful of writers who are offering week-plus-long workshop this summer -- fiction writing in Florence, memoir writing in Barcelona, poetry in Dublin. Talk about a fantasy deal! Oh, I'm aching for some Euro-travel and the thought of playing around with words in Florence or Barcelona sounds too romantic and evocative!

Of course, it also sounds expensive. Although, considering the cost of Bread Loaf the about $2,000 price tag to study in Europe and be able to receive college credit for it too is pretty tempting. Lodging is included but not meals and you're on your own with airfare. Definitely out of my price range for this summer, assuming Bread Loaf comes through, but something to keep on the radar for next year, no?

I'm also feeling out a couple of friends here regarding forming a writing group. I'm really intrigued and inspired by Dave Eggers' advice to start with your one best anecdote. I thought it would be interesting to start a writing group on that premise -- everyone beginning with their one best anecdote and working to make it better and better. Everyone I know is so busy though and it's hard to gauge whether peoples' interest in an idea would translate into commitment in the follow-through.  

Also on the writing front, I've got another 826 Michigan volunteer project in the works while I await for my next workshop session to start again mid-April. One of the small, private schools here is trying to get its students interested in starting a newspaper. Right now, they've no one to help them figure out what that means or how to go about it. Chris and I volunteered (meaning I volunteered both of us) to help figure out what that might look like.

At this point I'm envisioning a four- or six-week project where I bring a different journalist into the school each week to discuss with the kids different aspects of journalism -- what makes a news story, how to write a lead, interviewing techniques. My hope is that, at the end of the session, they'd be in a place where the students and their advisor (a parent who is eager to learn but has no background in journalism) can fly solo. 

Wow. That sounds like an even bigger undertaking than before when I write it down on paper. I imagine I'll be keeping you updated on that, eh? Write on!  

What Dave Eggers said

I've driven past the Kerrytown Concert House countless times since I've been in Ann Arbor but I've always wondered what went on inside. Yesterday, the answer to that question was: Dave Eggers. Yes, that Dave Eggers, author of the best-selling memoir A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, founder of the fantastically original online lit mag McSweeney's and its publishing house, and founder of 826 Valencia, the parent organization of, among others, 826 Michigan. In fact, Eggers was in town for a couple of fundraisers for 826 Michigan, including a two-hour workshop entitled Writing & Publishing the Memoir, which I attended with my friends Fara and Jason. Let me start by saying that if some part of you is saying, "Man, Dave Eggers seems so annoying on account of how accomplished he is," the pisser is that he is extremely affable and in the intimate setting of the Kerrytown Concert House seemed genuine and generous with his passion for and knowledge about writing.

I was not expecting him to come across as...accessible as he did. Why? Probably because writers are, generally speaking, odd sorts and, frankly, if I had that man's success I think we all know my ego would be off the charts. But Dave Eggers is not me, as we all also know. He is, however, my age. In case you wanted to, say, compare accomplishments and, say, beat yourself up about it.

Eggers is also kind of dreamy in person. Maybe even a little McDreamy, with twinkly eyes and deep dimples when he smiles, plus a headful of thick, slightly unruly curly hair. Just sayin'. He kicked off the workshop -- which was really more of an informal discussion with questions and answers volleyed back and forth throughout -- by presenting a large pad of paper, propped on an easel. On the first page in large slightly slanted green marker, he had written: "Why? Good Lord, why?" Indeed, it's probably a question every memoir writer asks him or herself. Or, at least, should ask. Those who seem to be 100% convinced that their story is worth telling in the first place are often misguided.

So why, then, do we have the drive to tell our stories? According to Eggers we share our stories because we're supposed to. Language, paper, sentences, words -- they all exist for a purpose and we are, at our core, human beings who communicate our stories to one another. "It's much less logical to not tell your story than to tell it," he said. And once I battled through the double negatives there, I concluded that he may be right. "To not write your story own story is a very strange thing. We have a limited amount of time on this earth."

Eggers credits the memoir boom of the past decade to the fact that people are waking up to the fact that their story needs to be told. "They need to write themselves into existence," he said, talking specifically about working with kids and encouraging them to tell their own stories. "This is the greatest power that they have."

Eggers also said this: "You learn everything when you write your story." I think that's definitely true for me. Writing is a process of discovery and whether it's nonfiction or fiction, I rarely approach a piece of paper with any certainty about where I'm headed. There's a wonderful and frustrating magic to it that's nearly impossible to describe to someone who doesn't have that...thing that writers have.

Frankly, Eggers said a lot. Too much for me to convey here, but here are some ideas he tossed out there, which may prove useful to any of you toying with the idea of writing your own story:

- Memoir is a lot more democratic than other forms of writing. It belongs to anyone and everyone.

- Decide if you are writing your story for you (and your family, ancestors) or for them (readers). I agree that's important, but I also know that most people who want to write memoir are mostly interested in writing best-selling memoir and I think few people are enthusiastic about the idea of battling through the process only to have it sit in a dusty attic until your grandkids uncover it. In fact, most people I know who say they want to be writers don't even want to write -- they want to have written. And that's kind of a huge distinction.

- Start small. Pick your one best anecdote and start by getting that down on paper. (Memoir is, after all, essentially a collection of linked anecdotes.)

- The #1 problem with a lot of memoir is it reads like a pity party. Recount honestly. No weeping. Write scenes like commentary with as much emotional detachment as possible. Cut back on your anger. In dealing with adversaries, Eggers advised, "The villainy comes through if you just write down the facts."

- Then he contradicted himself a little. If your writing is driven by passion and anger, Eggers suggested getting the first draft out of you with all the anger and passion you have inside -- and then go back and cut it all back.

- Russell Baker calls memoir "inventing the truth" and Eggers himself says memoir "is an incredible amount of fiction." In the nonfiction I've written -- and even that I've read -- I've always struggled with the idea that scenes are recounted and recreated, characters combined. Eggers said of memoir: "It's truth but it's not fact." That's an important distinction for me and is helping to shape the way I think about some of my writing -- the idea that you can apply fiction techniques and recreate stuff so that it may not be factually accurate but still contains and represents the truth. Freeing notion and, as I'm sure James Frey would agree, a potentially slippery slope.

- So how do you cope with the reader's trust? Eggers suggests using notes, footnotes, and indexes if necessary to let the reader know where you stand from the start. You strike a bargain with the readers, let them know what you've done, how and why.

- Going back to the idea of anger and vengeance -- which seem to be all-too-common motives for memoir writing -- Eggers suggests extreme caution. Books are permanent and "anyone who gets hurt is going to get hurt for many years." What you put down on paper, what you publish, will never go away. Even stuff you write in passing can have much greater impact on the people you're writing about than you'd ever imagine.

- Eggers suggests showing drafts to your family (or whoever is featured in your memoir) as you go along. You need their help to make sure you have things factually accurate, but also to make sure your perspective is fair. You may not agree with everything your family remembers (and vice versa), but Eggers suggests measuring each battle carefully. Consider the consequences and ask yourself, is it worth it as a writer?

- It may take years before you develop enough perspective to write about certain periods of your life. You have to be far enough away to see it with a dispassionate distance to really know the shape of your story. "Usually to have the distance to see a shape," Eggers said, "it's going to take a long time."

- Show your work to people as you go. Pick people to whom the story matters and other people who don't have anything invested in the story. Eggers suggests having five to ten readers for any story or piece. If you're writing about a specific topic, pick an expert on that topic and see if it rings true to them. Think about people you know who seem like your ideal readers and give it to them, people you need to like or appreciate it. Make sure you knock the socks off your 5-10 readers before you even think about showing it to an agent or publisher or submitting it somewhere.

- What if not much has happened to you in your life? Eggers says there's an inverse relationship here - the less that happens to you, the better writer you need to be. "You have to breathe life into the little things -- that's what being a writer is." Also, know what your story is. Know what the interesting part is, know the motifs of your life.

- In terms of publishing, be honest with yourself about where your work belongs. Eggers believe there's no better time to be trying, with more literary magazines abounding than ever before. Don't submit your work just anywhere. If you think you're not going to bother writing unless it winds up in the pages of Harper's, you'll miss out on a million other opportunities.

- And about that whole writing thing. I love to quote Dorothy Parker (who doesn't?) who said, "The art of writing is the art of applying the ass to the seat." I cannot tell you how much I appreciated Eggers' honesty when he said that for every four hours he spends at his computer, he estimates that he gets about 45 minutes of real writing done. The rest is farting around, delaying and procrastinating. That's why, he said, it's important to give yourself specific chunks of time to write -- "acres of time, as far as the eye can see." Goals are useful too. Hemingway, he said, set a daily word count goal of 400 words and when he'd met that, he quit. Of course, then he went out and drank and eventually killed himself, but that's probably not the point to take from that.

Eggers mentioned the following works during his talk as essential memoir reading, in addition to Frank McCourt's seminal Angela's Ashes:

Memories of a Catholic Girlhood by Mary McCarthy

The Devil is in the Details: Scenes from an Obsessive Girlhood by Jennifer Traig. (Traig is a volunteer at 826 Valencia and is working with Eggers on a book about writing memoir that will be published soon by 826.)

Oh, the Glory of It All by Sean Wilsey

Smith Memoir - a website devoted to the genre of short memoir

Also, not memoir, but worth noting, Eggers called The Known World by Edward P. Jones the "best American novel in the last ten years."

What're you reading?

Rupert Everett was the first to wish me a happy birthday last week. Unfortunately, it was not in bed as he rolled over and sighed, "You know, it turns it was just that I hadn't met the right woman!" Or over tea and scones at some English tea room as he shared witty tales of life in the theatah and I imagined skiing down the slopes of his finely chiseled cheekbones. No, I didn't even get to lay eyes on him at all. Rather, he wrote me what I'm sure was a very sincere wish for a happy birthday on the inside of his new book, "Red Carpets & Other Banana Skins." It was a lovely and thoughtful gift from my friend Jennifer Brooks, who got to see him read in Glasgow last week.

I'm only a few chapters into it thus far, as distracted as I've been by polishing some shaky fiction for my MFA application, a process that has me feeling more terrified and insecure about writing than I have in years. In addition, I've been picking my way through "A Drinking Companion," which you'll be glad to know isn't a guide book. It is, as its subtitle explains, a look at "Alcohol & the Lives of Writers," which interests me. For no reason whatsoever.

The book is by Kelly Boler who, I discovered in the author's notes, is a journalist in Asheville, NC. Since I happened to do a great deal of drinking in Asheville, I thought that a good omen. Boler examines how alcoholism affected the writing careers and lives of such notable authors as Kingsley Amis, John Cheever, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Anne Sexton, Tennesse Williams and Carson McCullers. While I think it's a terrific topic for a book, it seems to rush through each writer's story and doesn't feel quite...full, I suppose. Plus, when you're talking about the destructive qualities of alcohol, I have to question the judgment of starting each tale off with a description of and recipe for each author's favorite drink.

I'm also starting to read the screenplay for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, by Charlie Kaufman, as we start studying that next week in screenwriting class. Screenwriting class which is, by the way, kicking my ass. The more I learn, the less competent I feel, the less equal to producing this strange and unfamiliar type of product. The fact that the majority of the rewrite is due Monday and I currently have no idea where the story is going, is not a good sign.

The only book I've read in its entirety lately is People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive issue, (the answer - Clooney) which my sweet husband purchased for me as bathtub reading. Wait...what? That doesn't count as a book? Then I'm really screwed. Which I may have been anyway, since I'm apparently no good judge of what sexy is, disagreeing with a good 99% of their picks. (I mean, really, Diddy? Vulgar, yes. Sexy? Nope. Matt Damon? I'd like to give him a pat on the head, but that's about it...)

How about you? What're you reading? Register to comment below and let me know and I'll add your picks to my long, long list of actual books I may someday get around to reading.