Writing-Adjacent Activities as Diversion Tactics

September 5, 2019 § 2 Comments

By Chelsey Drysdale

chelseydrysdalephoto-1Writing-adjacent activities that don’t involve opening a Word document to craft new sentences kept me in the literary loop this past year. They are both essential to the process and exceptional diversion tactics. I reread published essays and my unpublished memoir as a reminder I once produced. I scrolled “lit Twitter” and retweeted essays with which I connected. I made a list of possible essay topics I will never write, including “What I Learned from My Dead Grandma about How to Stay Single.” I “Kondo-ed” my bookshelves, ditching 62 books that don’t “spark joy.” I submitted a personal essay 37 times (so far) and then wondered if Submittable was broken when the last submission remained “in progress” for eight months (and counting). Mainly, I did my best to embrace the opportunities of the Pacific Northwest as a Californian living in Washington for 10 months without close friends and family.

I attended the Portland Book Festival, where I absorbed wisdom from Jamel Brinkley, who reminded us to “stay curious” and “focus on things off to the side” to craft a fuller world. On the same panel, Rob Spillman said Tin House received 20,000 submissions a year—before its final issue was announced. As an editor, he’s looking for material he “didn’t know was possible;” characters not “on [his] radar.” He’s “interested in day-to-day survival.”

Despite being inspired, I didn’t write.

I signed up for a one-night Mindful Writing workshop at the Hugo House, a beacon of light in a dark Seattle. There I tried to get unstuck. Anna Vodicka talked us through freewrites in a candle-lit room. She cited Writing Down the Bones when she reminded us to “feel free to write junk” and “always have tremendous kindness for yourself in this process.” She asked us to name our pesky inner critic and send her on vacation. I named mine after my toxic sixth grade teacher. As part of my newfound, theoretical contemplative practice, I thought, “I hear you, Miss Salter, and I’m not listening.”

To curb our interior chatter, we inhaled for four counts; held for six; exhaled for eight. We beat our chests like Tarzan and did “goddess squats” and yelled, “Ha!”

Anna asked, “What is a reasonable writing practice goal you could set?” and suggested channeling other writers: “Hey, Mark Twain, what should I do now?”

I left with a temporary willingness to “put [my] energy toward the next sentence and let go of end goals” because “failure is integral to practice.” Vodicka propped me up long enough to revise the one essay I’ve been trying to publish. I quit holding back and spilled it all. Then an imaginary Miss Salter whispered, “You’re not good enough,” and paralysis was restored.

I returned to the Hugo House for a Maria Semple lecture series, of which I made it through three of five classes before succumbing to the flu. With her guidance, I realized the short story I had been trying to conjure was, in fact, a novel. I cursed out loud.

“At least you know what you’ll be doing for the next five years,” my novelist friend said, offering condolences.

Semple said, “The story starts when we see coping mechanisms not working. How are fears externalized?” She detailed what she called “gap scenes”: the gap between what protagonists want to happen and what actually happens. “Characters are forged in the gap,” she said. “True character is revealed in choices a human makes under pressure.” A character’s choice at the end of a scene should be a “one-way gate.”

After jotting ideas for my nonexistent novel, I put them aside, afraid my first real leap into fiction would land with a thud.

Then I went to AWP. On the first day, Pam Houston made me cry when she read an essay about learning to love a man like she loves a mountain. Later, R. O. Kwon said her book sold after eight-and-a-­­­half years. “I was happy for 27 seconds” before reaching “a whole new level of anxiety. I have stayed in that state since that phone call.”

That will be me, I thought.

“The life of an artist is being told no,” Garth Greenwell added. “The one yes is what matters. Don’t let them lie to you. Don’t lose hope.”

Like Houston, Greenwell brought tears to my eyes.

At a nighttime reading in a shoulder-to-shoulder packed room, Greenwell read a stunning sex scene.

“I need to up my game,” I said too loudly afterward.

The woman next to me fell over laughing.

“I meant the writing, but that too,” I said.

The AWP book fair was a writer’s candy store. There I met a former editor in person who said my work in her journal was still one of her favorites. I chatted with another editor about my unpublished piece. He told me to “slice and dice” it and send it to him. That weekend, I cut 900 words to make it 2,000. He sent a form rejection.

Back at the Hugo House, I stepped onto a stage twice to read excerpts from my memoir to a large room filled with strangers. On the train three months after the first reading, a man approached me and said he was relieved my mom didn’t die in childbirth.

In spring I jumped at the chance to transcribe three episodes of my favorite literary podcast, which chewed up weeks of writing time but made me feel productive.

There are endless ways to avoid creating art while staying connected to the writing community; I’ve found them all.

I “finished” my memoir manuscript two years ago. Now it needs a fresh ending.

“Maybe you haven’t lived it yet,” a writer friend said.

Maybe. But I can’t let that become another excuse to sidestep blank pages.

Living out of state with ample time and a traveling roommate was a self-imposed writing retreat I squandered. But, back in California, writing about not writing is writing.

So, I’m back? I sure hope so.
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Chelsey Drysdale’s essays have appeared in The Washington PostThe Manifest-StationBustleBrevityRavishlyGreen Briar ReviewBlack Fox Literary MagazineLuna Luna MagazineReservoir JournalBook Lovers: Sexy Stories from Under the Covers, and other international publications. She is a Best of the Net Anthology nominee and has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

On Failing a Poem and Writing Responsibly

November 29, 2011 § 2 Comments

Anna Vodicka discusses the art of economy and the genesis of her essay “Girl/Thing”  from Brevity 37:

When I wrote “Girl/Thing,” I was attempting to write my first real poem—not the quaint, rhyming lyrics I wrote as a kid that my parents framed on the wall, not the occasional St. Patrick’s day limerick fueled by bar talk and brews. A grown-up poem. A sober poem. Most of all, I wanted to capture on the page a specific moment of metamorphosis between girlhood and adulthood, that breath of a moment where you make the passage from one room to the next and a door clicks behind you. I wanted to put that on paper, to see the door, to sound the click.

“Awfully prosaic, don’t you think?” said my teacher, poet Robert Wrigley, when he read the pages I turned into him, which opened with a short section titled “Girl/Thing.” I was enrolled in his Contemporary Poetry class at the University of Idaho, where I taught and studied creative writing.

Wrigley was right. The poem bore the straightforward storytelling tendencies of prose, embellished with line breaks I happily executed from the keyboard: return, return, return, a revolving door of white space. Not the door I was after.

When I looked back at my attempt, I started to realize my own complicity in what one might think of as a literary iteration of the “diffusion of responsibility” phenomenon. Social psychology holds that the greater the number of people involved in a situation, the weaker the sense of individual responsibility to take action. If I’m alone in a building that sets on fire, I’ll call 911; if the place is crowded, I might figure someone else will do it.

Translate this to the writing craft, and notice how words crowd the space of twelve or twenty or two hundred pages. Our scenes can digress. Sentences can sprawl. They might all bear witness to the central idea and take action in supporting it…or they might get distracted and wander, or sit there lamely, uncertain about their exact role in this particular story, letting others carry the weight. They might even manage to get away with it.

But not in a poem. In a poem or piece of short prose, each paragraph/sentence/word becomes more apparent to us. An image cannot stand half-rendered, a sound ignored, a character left to flounder or die out completely, alone in the muddle. Every one shoulders a sense of duty to the whole.

When I wrote that first attempt at a poem, I had just read Galway Kinnell’s long-form poem The Book of Nightmares, a response to Vietnam that reads like a gorgeous and terrifying walk through the Valley of the Shadow. Reading it, for me, was an ecstatic immersion. His words acted out, took responsibility for their space and fired up the senses, page after page after page.

The poetry class did not make me a poet. I wrote a lot of bad poems. But it did turn my attention to the short form—the art of economy and responsibility. With Kinnell’s poem and Wrigley’s words in mind, I thought, “Yes. Prose, it is.”

I plucked a few lines from their stanzas, let them settle responsibly into the new space of a paragraph, and cautiously let prose in. That’s when I heard the sound. It went, “click.”

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