Writing the Quotidian
April 15, 2019 § 20 Comments
By Iris Graville
Quotidian. I read that word in an essay I critiqued during my first semester in my MFA in writing program. I had to look it up. Ironically, it’s a fancy word for something that’s not, well, very fancy. Here’s how the New Oxford American Dictionary defines it:
quotidian |kwōˈtidēən|
adjective [attrib.]
- of or occurring every day; daily : the car sped noisily off through the quotidian traffic.
- ordinary or everyday, esp. when mundane : his story is an achingly human one, mired in quotidian details.
While this word hasn’t become a regular part of my vocabulary, its meaning resonates for me. Apparently it does for some other writers as well.
Patrick Madden wrote in praise of “Quotidian Nonfiction” in Issue #44, Spring 2012 – Creative Nonfiction:
I prefer, in both my writing and in my reading, meditative material that considers the quotidian, that pauses and ponders, moving slowly, calmly—the kind of work that would never incite a controversy, work that balances intellect and emotion, with perhaps a bit of spirit.
Madden, an essayist and writing teacher, claims to lean toward quotidian nonfiction “because my own life so rarely excites even me; I could never win over readers through shock or exoticism.”
I know the feeling. It crops up often for me as I write personal essays and especially did so as I drafted my memoir, Hiking Naked (okay, that might not sound very quotidian, but the title is mostly a metaphor). My life has been shaped by ordinary experiences of birth, loss, work, parenting, friendship, and spiritual seeking. Experiences described by many of the synonyms that the New Oxford lists for quotidian: typical, middle-of-the-road, unremarkable, unexceptional, workaday, commonplace, a dime a dozen. In short, “nothing to write home about.”
And yet, I do write about these everyday experiences. I’m compelled to craft essays about community, listening, patience, simplicity. I’m led to tell the stories of “ordinary, everyday” people whose voices often aren’t heard. Patrick Madden attests to the value of such writing:
This, for me, is the placid beauty of the best creative nonfiction writing: the opportunity to settle one’s buzzing mind for a few brief moments, to meditate on a focused subject, to escape the plangent assaults of the beeping, blinking world and find respite in the thoughts of another human being… I think we have a right to (and a hunger for) art that is quieter, more enlightening and uplifting.
Fortunately, an abundance of nonfiction writers create the kind of quiet and uplifting art that many of us yearn for. One of them, Ana Maria Spagna, was my thesis advisor at the Whidbey Writers Workshop. She taught me in the classroom how to tell my story through well-crafted scenes, settings, and characters, as well as through her own “quiet” writing (such as her essay collection, Potluck: Community on the Edge of Wilderness).
Another is Scott Russell Sanders, who I studied with one summer at Fishtrap on the Zumwalt Prairie in northeastern Oregon. I had met Sanders at my first residency in my MFA program and have become a devoted reader of his writing. Work that springs, as he explains in Writing from the Center, from accepting “the material that my life had given me, and… learning to say as directly as I could what I had to say.”
Also on my list of quotidian writers are Kathleen Dean Moore , Brian Doyle, and Brenda Miller. All of them practice what Madden urges:
…each of us, I dare say, can do with a little more wonder in our lives, can benefit by shunning the artificial and superficial to spend more time contemplating the quotidian miracles that surround us.
What quotidian miracles surround you? Perhaps it’s time to write about them.
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Iris Graville is the author of three nonfiction books: Hands at Work, BOUNTY, and a memoir, Hiking Naked. She lives on Lopez Island, WA where she publishes SHARK REEF Literary Magazine, writes essays and blogs, and teaches. Sometimes you’ll find her on the interisland ferry, working on a new essay collection about the Salish Sea, climate change, and Washington State Ferries.
A gentle, quiet reminder of the kind of writing I love. Thanks too for the referrals to other ‘quotidian’ writers.
Glad you enjoyed the essay, Cathy. Lots of good reading you’ll probably love by the writers I mentioned.
Ahhh, your post was just what I needed, many crazy days, rush by and at night I settle longing for what you speak of, what Madden described : “work that balances intellect and emotion with perhaps a bit of spirit” Thank you, Iris. I will look for yours.
Thanks, Nancy. I’m delighted to learn about you and your writing; just signed up for your mailing list!
I love this kind of writing too — both reading and crafting it. It’s a holy wellspring, too often unregarded. Thanks for singing its praises.
“A holy wellspring…” So true, Tara. Thanks for your thoughts.
I miss analogue TV. Each summer, distant signals wafted from America to excite and entertain me. Signals from Utah, Nevada, Wyoming, and other states would compete with one another for my attention. Now we have digital TV which doesn’t travel great distances. And my rabbit ears have dust on them.
I still hold on to an analog watch – with a second hand.
It’s amazing how ordinary things like rabbit ears and analogue watches can bring back such fond memories. I actually saw an old pay phone which hadn’t yet been taken away. They used to be on every busy corner until cell phones took over.
We also had a snow storm where I live today. Watching those large snowflakes drift down was one of those normally mundane experiences but it was sublime to me.
I worked with Pat Madden at Vermont College of Fine Arts, where he teaches at the MFA graduate program there, and he is the embodiment of the simple elegance of the quotidian, as is his work. I am a big fan of the quiet memoir.Thanks for this!
Lucky you, Ryder, to work with Patrick Madden! Best to you in your memoir writing.
What makes quotidians so relevant is that we can all relate to them. It’s like the smell of coffee in the morning or a rainbow after a summer storm.
So true, Bruce. I love these images you suggest, and I also know how difficult it can be to write about them in fresh ways. Thank goodness there are many fine examples (both to read and learn from). Thanks for reading.
These things are so evocative too. We’re often reminded of our childhood through the senses. And it is a challenge to write about common things in a fresh way. That’s where dialogue in fiction or non fiction stories helps.
I almost always prefer the quotidian to the alarming. Thank you for this.
I agree! Plenty of “alarming” just reading the daily news.
I also agree about the alarming. It’s much easier to form a bond with people who have had the same experiences as we had. Children especially appreciate ordinary things like huge snowflakes or the sound of wind in the wires.
Beautifully written piece. I think many of us desire to feel that our mundane lives have meaning, especially to others.
I agree. One thing I love hearing is how people grew up and the things they did. Maybe I should start making podcasts of interviews with seniors and the things they experienced.
Thanks, elderflower23. Your blog is an example of that – your writing speaks to me!