From Virginia Woolf’s “Moments of Being” (and thanks to Marilyn Bousquin for delving into this book and reminding me of its beauty):
“And so I go on to suppose that the shock-receiving capacity is what makes me a writer. I hazard the explanation that a shock is at once in my case followed by the desire to explain it. I feel that I have had a blow; but it is not, as I thought as a child, simply a blow from an enemy hidden behind the cotton wool of daily life; it is or will become a revelation of some order; it is a token of some real thing behind appearances; and I make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together. Perhaps this is the strongest pleasure known to me. It is the rapture I get when in writing I seem to be discovering what belongs to what; making a scene come right; making a character come together. From this I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art.” (72)

Okay, I’m so geeked out with joy that I can hardly contain myself. This is a nerd thing…but it’s my literary hero-crush, George Orwell. They are putting his diaries up online starting TODAY!!!!! The diaries began on Aug. 9, 1938.
http://orwelldiaries.wordpress.com
Seventy years ago today Orwell caught a snake in his yard. Today I caught tadpoles in the Ogeechee River. There is little that connects us, but the ability to see how he lived his days is such a wonderful opportunity. I have no objectivity when it comes to this man. I just love him.

When people tell me they’ve read 1984 or Animal Farm, I can’t shut up…I end up rattling on about Homage to Catalonia (my favorite) or Down and Out in Paris and London, or his many, many essays. Sigh. What I most admire about him is his thoughtfulness, his ability to re-see his own positions, to interrogate his politics. And his sweet melancholy mixed with a dogged desire to keep seeing and creating relevant beauty in the face of the 20th Century and the horror it brought.

One of the major thrills of teaching at Ashland University’s new low-res MFA program for the past two weeks was hearing the closing reading and craft talk by Floyd Skloot, author of many books of poetry, four novels, and excellent works of nonfiction including the new “The Wink of the Zenith” and “In the Shadow of Memory” (from University of Nebraska Press).

This is the only talk on the craft of writing that’s brought me to tears. Skloot talked about the writing process for putting together his essay, “Kismet,” which dealt with the death of his brother. Twenty years ago, Skloot suffered a virus attack that resulted in brain lesions that damaged large sections of his memory and hindered his ability to process information. Despite this major obstacle he has continued a productive writing career. He spoke in this craft talk about the organic structure of the essay, a piece of seven sections that explore interlocking themes. One of his major points was the organic structure that resulted from the essay’s subject matter. He traced the evolution of the essay by guiding the audience through the insights and emotions that occurred after his brother’s death; since he had lost access to much of his childhood memories, he had to pay careful attention to any emotional triggers signaling a buried memory or association about his brother.

Although most of us don’t suffer brain damage, we confront the desire to overstructure our emotions, reactions, and memories, fitting them into a form that seems to us to make “sense.” Some of the most beautiful quotes shared by Skloot concerned his gratitude at having the process of writing nonfiction as a framework for reconstructing his sense of self:
“You get to say in the essay what you never say to others, what you never say to yourself.”
He also described writing as a “spiritual practice”: “You open yourself up and slow yourself down. Once you lose control and surrender to the material, you open the vents and other material can stream in. This requires a looser and more exploratory mode of working. It requires time and patience, a willingness to explore tangents, a willingness to be ruthless with the tangents.”

Her new book, “What It Is,” is IT. The book is indescribable and fantastic. Love. (For a bit more clarification: it’s a multi-modal collage memoir and account of her coming to be an artist. And a guide for getting art/creation into your life if you want that but have lost the way.)

From p. 81:
“The time for it is always with us though we say we do not have that kind of time. The kind of time I have is not for this but for that. I wish I had that kind of time. But if you had that kind of time, would you do it? Would you give it a try? This kind of doing both takes and gives time–makes live the dead hours inside us.”

And from p. 133 (On the evil questions inside your head, “Is it Good?” “Does this suck?”): “Give up because it’s hopeless. Make useless pictures. Waste time and materials. Have no purpose. Betray the pimps.”

Hey, here’s a link to an audio file of an interview I did with Rachael Hanel (a myspace buddy!) of the KMSU “Weekly Reader” radio show on April 3, 2008.

I talked about my book, Opa Nobody, and about research and family. And I noticed that as I talked to Rachael and heard her lovely Minnesooota accent I began to sound very Midwestern myself.

See if you can pick up on those vowels, ya know?

These are a few selections from a wonderful new book from Ohio University Press, Thomas Larson’s The Memoir and the Memoirist:

“Only by lingering on something outside the self, with which he has had intimate experience, can the author disclose himself. Memoir is a relational form.” (22)

“[T]he subject of a memoir is often the self in search of an earlier or later self, who is found in the person the book gives birth to and whose awareness of past and present, in turn, becomes the focus.” (66)

“What is it about you now that’s so interested in whatever stage you choose? Pressure from the now may help unearth the best phase to explore, especially the unfinished ones that haunt us the most.” (67)

“[T]he memoirist is she who sticks with the form long enough to undergo changes in how she sees the past. The act of memoir writing and its river of recollections has made her different from the person she would have been had she not traversed the rapids. The act has also changed and deepened those predictably indulged and semitrue stories she’s been telling herself and others, no doubt, for years.” (113)

“Once we realize that the here and now has the greatest control over the personal narrative, we are saying, in effect, that the core self can never be found. It can only be activated now and in the succession of now’s memoir writing activates.” (131) (Cool, very Buddhist!)

“Unlike the sum-happy autobiography or the sin-absolving confession, memoir allows a reanimation of, and a relational bout with, one’s authenticity.” (135)

“I think there’s a powerful link between creativity and death. We make things because we lose things: memories, people we love, and ultimately our very selves. Our acts of creation are ways of grappling with death: we imagine it, struggle to make sense of it, forestall or defeat it. When I sat down to write this essay, I realized that all my work–in film or on the page–has ultimately been about dying, and I know I’m not alone. These media are, quite literally, mediums, the means of traveling to the other shore. They are our imaginative transport to the land of the dead. We learn things there, and then return what we learn to the living. This journey is undertaken by anyone who has ever told stories, from Homer, to Dante, to Elizabeth Bishop. To tell stories is to practice of the art of losing.”– from “The Art of Losing: On Writing, Dying, & Mom” by Ruth Ozeki in Shambhala Sun March 2008 p. 73