Archives For inspiration

It’s been a busy and inspiring coupla months. Here’s a little recap of things I saw and did, starting with the AWP Writers’ Conference in Washington, DC, where I was on a couple of panels, did a reading, and got to sign some books at the Rose Metal Press table. Those are my books on the left side of the sign:

My colleague and friend, David Dodd Lee had a book release and art show at Lang Lab. Here he his reading from his latest Ashbury erasure book, surrounded by his fans and collages:

I was thrilled to have my visual essay, “Empty Nest/Emptiness,” published (in full color!!!) in the latest issue of Passages North. It’s 14 pages, something I made when my daughter left for college:

Speaking of my daughter, I got to see Mamma Mia in Bloomington, IN with her and her bestie for her birthday. The next morning I saw the whole cast and crew in the lobby of my hotel!

Colson Freaking Whitehead came to my campus, Indiana University South Bend, and I got to sit in the almost front row. Here he is talking to Darryl Heller of the Civil Rights Heritage Center:

I invited the comic artists Marnie Galloway and Scott Roberts to visit IU South Bend, and the room was full for their artist talks:

Then the poet Steve Henn came to talk to my classes about his new book by Wolfson Press: Indiana Noble Sad Man of the Year. Here he is showing off his “tour” T-shirt:

Another visual/collage essay published in Quarterly West!

I already blogged about being the guest author at Butler University’s Litfest and doing a workshop for the Indiana Writers Center, which was an honor and a blast.

And over the weekend, Wordman and I headed to Chicago and saw Lambchop at Lincoln Hall:

Then I got to read at Sunday Salon Series with amazing fellow readers and a fabulous crowd. Here’s Howard Axelrod reading:

Got some partial views of the Navy Pier Ferris wheel from the hotel window:

And made it to the Bean for the first time, and took the requisite selfie:


Mexico City Magic

August 3, 2016 — 2 Comments

I’m just back from three weeks in Mexico City, where I studied some Spanish, worked on a new project, visited old loves like Leonora Carrington and Frida Kahlo, and found new loves like Lilia Carillo, the painter, and Tlaloc, the Aztec rain god.

Here’s Leonora Carrington’s Cocodrilo on Paseo de la Reforma (and my quick watercolor sketch of it):

I almost didn’t go to Frida’s Casa Azul again (here’s a link to my 2014 visit), but I’m so glad I did:


I love her amazing collection of retablos, amateur paintings made to thank the Virgin of Guadalupe for interceding at life-threatening moments:


These influenced some of her most famous paintings, and the museum juxtaposes small reproductions of her actual paintings with the retablos that inspired them:



At the Museum of Modern Art, I got to see Dos Fridas in person for the first time:


This painting was made after one of her breakups with Diego and represents two sides of herself, one as a comfort to the other. She is dressed in European attire on the left and in her classic Tehuana dress (which Diego preferred) on the right.

In all my times of viewing the painting online, I’d never noticed that the heart on the left is gray and withered:


And I discovered the beautiful abstract paintings of Lilia Carrillo:

We saw an outdoor film at the Monument of the Revolution:


about this guy, Tlaloc, the Aztec rain god:


…who was removed from his original site in Coatlinchan and relocated to the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City. The film, La Piedra Ausente (The Absent Stone), tells the amazing story of the removal of the stone amidst the town’s protests and its celebrated/contested arrival in Mexico City.

[More Mexico City magic: The night before the film, we went to a birthday dinner for a friend and met a woman named Sandra. After we’d talked for a while, she said, “I made a film; it’s screening tomorrow night at the Monument of the Revolution. You should come!” So we did. It was awesome.]

At the Palacio Nacional, we saw the journals of the artist Francisco Toledo, which were part of an exhibit of — get this — art that Mexican artists give to the nation as payment for their taxes:

These inspired a couple of my own journal sketches:

I thought I saw a Dirty Dancing sculpture, but it was just a strange sculpture that happened to have an ad for Dirty Dancing, The Musical behind it:


Finally, I should mention that there was a tree hanging in the center of our airbnb apartment building:


Every year I have a theme. No resolutions, which I’d just break by tomorrow and hate myself for the next day. Just a guiding principle, a phrase to think of when faced with laziness, lack of focus, or a looming decision (or, more likely, indecision).

Last year it was Live Lovely because I really needed a fresh way of thinking of life after turning in my tenure dossier. The year before was Put Yourself Out There because I needed to be brave when my first book was published.

Sometimes I have subthemes for certain parts of the year. Like during my sabbatical this fall it was Finish the Fucking Novel. Which I basically did.

This year the theme is Dig Deep because that’s what I need to do. In my writing and thinking and reading and blogging, even my cooking with my daughter. We’re armed with lots of new kitchen tools and cookbooks. I’ve got essay ideas brewing and notes for blog posts. I’ve started reading Les Miserables, and I’ve finished 87 of 1463 pages.

And in Digging Deep, I hope to do what Neil Gaiman wished for us all this past year:

Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody’s ever made before. Don’t freeze, don’t stop, don’t worry that it isn’t good enough, or it isn’t perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life.

Whatever it is you’re scared of doing, Do it.

Make your mistakes, next year and forever.

Happy New Year to all my blog readers, and here’s to all of the glorious and amazing mistakes we’ll make this year!

I don’t make Top-5 lists. Because that always means leaving out so much awesomeness. But luckily for me, this one made itself.

I call this the International Version because none of them are from the U.S. and because that gives me a chance to do a separate Top-5 U.S. Women Writers if I want to. Only one of these women writes in English, so a huge shout out to translators everywhere!

Who are your top women writers (international)? Please share in the comments. I love to discover new authors!

In alphabetical order, then, because I cannot bear to rank these woman against each other, here they are:

1. Leonora Carrington

Leonora Carrington, Self Portrait

Her Words: “I didn’t have time to be anyone’s muse. . . . I was too busy rebelling against my family and learning to be an artist.”

When She Lived: 1917 – 2011

Where She Lived: Fled debutante British upbringing to go to France where she was with Max Ernst until the Nazis arrived. Fled to Mexico where she thrived for over 50 years.

What She Wrote: My favorite of her stories is “The Debutante,” about a girl who doesn’t want to go to her debutante ball and sends a hyena in her place. The hyena disguises itself by using the face of the maid. In order to get the maid’s face, however, the hyena had to eat the maid. (Note the hyena in her Self Portrait above. The painting and story were written at about the same time in her life.)

More Reasons to Love Her: She was a major painter and artist, and a fiesty old lady who gives interviewers a hard time. (See video, the first few minutes tell it all.)


2. Clarice Lispector

Clarice Lispector

Her Words: “So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.” – The Hour of the Star

When She Lived: 1920-1977

Where She Lived: Born to Jewish parents in the Ukraine, taken as an infant to Brazil where she lived most of her life

What She Wrote: In the short story, “Looking for Some Dignity,” Mrs. Jorge B. Xavier gets lost in Brazil’s large football (i.e., soccer) stadium and lost in the streets to her home and all of this echoes the way she is lost in the labyrinth of her aging mind and body. The story culminates in a fantasy of a love scene with a contemporary pop star. Lispector’s novella, The Hour of the Star, is similarly heady and dreamy.


3. Herta Müller

Herta Müller

Her Words: “I’ve had to learn to live by writing, not the other way round. I wanted to live by the standards I dreamt of, it’s as simple as that. And writing was a way for me to voice what I could not actually live.”

When She Lived: 1953-present (she lives!)

Where She Lived: Born and raised in an ethnic German minority in Romania, endured rule of Ceauşescu, now lives and writes in Berlin.

What She Wrote: Her story collection Nadirs has mind-bending flash fictions that play with time and space. And the lyrical, wrenching novel, The Appointment, which I wrote about here.

More Reasons to Love Her: She won the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature, making her 12th woman to win in over 100 years!


4. Ludmilla Petrushevskaya

Ludmilla Petrushevskaya

Her Words: “Russian literature has been a kind of religion in this country–a religion based on the moral position of writers, on their suffering. All our greatest writers have been sufferers and saints.”

When She Lived: 1938-present!

Where She Lived: Russia. Many of her relatives were rounded up during Stalin’s Great Purge.

What She Wrote: I’ve only read her collection of stories, There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried to Kill Her Neighbor’s Baby, and the title pretty much tells it all. These are fairy tales set in Socialist housing units.

More Reasons to Love Her: She was banned by the Soviets.

Main source: The Nation


5. Virginia Woolf

VWHer Words: “For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.”

When She Lived: 1882-1941

Where She Lived: Britain, purebred

What She Wrote: Only the best novels of the 20th century! Mrs. Dalloway! To the Lighthouse! Orlando! The Waves!

More Reasons to Love Her: Not to mention A Room of One’s Own! Her takedown of the patriarchal systems that privilege the male perspective, literary and otherwise. What if, she asks, Shakespeare had a sister? What if her name was Judith? She would have been “as adventurous, as imaginative, as agog to see the world as [her super-famous brother] was. But she was not sent to school.”


Honorable Mention: Božena Němcová (1820-1862)

Božena Němcová

A Czech writer of Austrian and Bohemian parents, grew up knowing Czech and German. I’m working on a collage-biography project about her. I am as captivated by her story (her life story, full of affairs and death and disease) as for her stories (her fairy tales and famous book, The Grandmother), which are as dark as they are quaint. She’s hard to learn about without knowing Czech, so I’ve tried to learn a little. Czech, that is.

I wrote more about her here.

[Most basic source info taken from/confirmed by Wikipedia unless otherwise noted.]

Writing is like breathing.  We all breathe and think we know how to, but only a few of us pay attention to it.  I teach yoga as one of my many jobs and much of the practice of yoga is about breathing.

Joanne Avallon is a freelance writer living in Rockport, Massachusetts. She was awarded the Academy of American Poets Prize from Wellesley College and received an M.F.A. from Emerson College. Her work has appeared in Sundog, The Norton Anthology of Microfiction, Smokelong Quarterly, FictionNow, BlinkInk, and other online literary sites. She has read her poetry on National Public Radio. Joanne also teaches American Literature at North Shore Community College and consults for the Clean Air Task Force. She is married, with two children and a 70-pound dog.

Read more by and about Joanne:

Flash Fiction: “All This” & Interview

Flash Fiction: Beauty, Bridge Mix, The Game of Life

Flash Fiction: Mice Cube

Flash Fiction: Kapha

Interview: Smokelong Quarterly

How Joanne Avallon Became a Writer

This is the next installment in the How to Become a Writer interview series, which will post here at Ph.D. in Creative Writing every other Sunday (or so) until I run out of writers to interview, or until they stop saying yes. Each writer answers the same 5 questions. Thanks to Joanne for saying yes!

1.  Why did you want to become a writer?

I don’t know that I had a choice; as soon as I could write, it seemed to me that I should write.  I was a sensitive child and sometimes, for reasons I didn’t understand, I felt my heart was about to burst.  I wrote to find out why.  Poetry fit that purpose because I could ponder one idea – a few lines of verse – for a long time.  When I hit my teenage years, or they hit me, I discovered that I had a knack for telling stories.  When I was sixteen, I remember telling a story to my father – a voluble and busy man – and I had him stuck to his chair until I decided to end the story.  Now that is power.

2.  How did you go about becoming a writer?

I majored in literature in college with a focus on creative writing.  I thought then, and I still think now, that it makes no sense to be a student of literature and not write.  There were so many English majors in my class who had never actually tried to write what they studied so assiduously.  When I graduated, my parents told me that I would starve as a writer and that they would only pay for a graduate degree that would get me a job.  So, I followed the steps of Carlos Fuentes and went to law school and became a lawyer.  I practiced law long enough to earn the tuition for my MFA in Literature, Writing and Publishing at Emerson College.  In the middle of all of this, I got married and had two children.  I was pregnant or post partum for most of time I was studying for my MFA.  I defended my thesis when I was seven months pregnant with my son and endured endless puns and double entendres about that fecund period of my life.  I am glad I got my law degree.  It helped to me be a better writer and has come in handy when I needed to earn some money.  I did find it hard to write with small children and decided those years would be my “stockpile” years where I would develop my writing without worrying too much about publishing.  I am just beginning to get back into the publishing world now.

3.  Who helped you along the way, and how?

Frank Bidart, my poetry professor at Wellesley, was tirelessly encouraging and went over my senior thesis, a book of poems, word by word.  That thesis won me the Academy of American Poets prize.  At Emerson, Pam Painter opened my eyes to the world of flash fiction, which I consider the perfect storm between poetry and prose.  In her class, I wrote “All This,” which is in MicroFiction:  The Norton Anthology of Short Short Fiction.

4.  Can you tell me about a writer or artist whose biography inspires you?

My favorite piece of short fiction is Eudora Welty’s “The Wide Net.”  I had the pleasure of listening to her read it while I was at law school.  When she was done, the reading organizer presented her with a chocolate pecan pie and she said, “A pie is the best payment I ever got for this story.”

I love that story because it is a retort to all the male writers of her generation writing male adventure/journey stories.  That story is about a husband’s journey to find and understand his young wife.

Eudora lived in her hometown or nearby for a good long time.  I grew up in Beverly, Massachusetts and just recently moved to Rockport.  Many of my good friends I knew as children.  There is wisdom to be gotten in letting yourself grow old where you once were young.  I appreciate Eudora’s eye on small town life and on the way time passes.  She also has a wonderful hand with character, drawing them deftly with a few well-written sentences.

5.  What would you say in a short letter to an aspiring writer? 

Dear Friend,

You have no doubt already faced the blank stares of friends in response to your announcement that you are a writer.  Writing is like breathing.  We all breathe and think we know how to, but only a few of us pay attention to it.  I teach yoga as one of my many jobs and much of the practice of yoga is about breathing.  When you focus on your breathing – the simple inhale and exhale – you begin to notice how it makes you feel and how controlling your breath can help control your emotions.  And then you start wondering about breathing itself and about what it means to be alive.

Such a simple thing leads to huge insights.  Writing is simple, too.  Almost everyone in our culture is literate but few stop to focus on writing as a craft, to understand the power of it or the importance of it.  If writing does nothing else for you than force you to lead an examined life, then it’s a fair trade: work for insight.  Be brave and continue.

The other response you will get when you tell people you are a writer is the dreaded question, “are you published?”  This is a rude and inappropriate question asked by someone who doesn’t understand your art.  Always answer “yes.”  If they ask you where, say “The New Yorker” and then ask them what they do for a living.  No doubt they will talk happily about their careers, forget your name and walk away thinking they just had a wonderful conversation with a talented writer.  Do nothing to disabuse them of this notion.

Life is long.  Sometimes writing will come easily; other times it will not.  Be patient with yourself, keep working and remember, the journey is the reward.



Writer and professor Cathy Day has a terrific blog post that is framed as her last lecture of the semester. It’s about the relationship between publishing and the question her students really want to know: But am I a writer?

Here are a few exquisite tidbits from her post:

In my experience, a writing apprenticeship is about 5-10 years long. The timer starts the day you start taking writing seriously—meaning you stop thinking of writing as homework and start incorporating it into your daily life.

The apprenticeship period is key. I have addressed my own ten-year apprenticeship in a previous post: Get Back to Me in Ten Years

And other writers in my interview series have also set 10 years as a crucial developmental period. Check out Robert Flynn’s interview here, and Molly McCaffrey’s interview here.

The Great American Novel
Jenksinson’s Boardwalk, Point Pleasant, NJ
summer 2012

Day continues to quote from and respond to her students:

You say things to me like: “I just want to publish a book and hold it in my hand.” Are you sure that’s all you want? Because these days, you can publish a book and hold it in your hands fairly easily. What I’m trying to talk about are all the different ways to publish. Only you can decide what it means to you to be meaningfully published.

This is one of my favorite points from the post. How it’s not just about being published, but deciding for yourself what it means to be “meaningfully published.” And the thing is, this will change over time. As soon as you have reached the level you wanted to achieve, you’ll set a new level.

Day, who has published two books and achieved lots of acclaim for her writing, closes with the following point:

I’m 43 years old, and I thought that publishing a book meant I was a writer, but I was wrong. Convincing yourself each day to keep going, this means that you are a writer.

Read the whole post here:

And keep an eye out for my interview, How Cathy Day Became a Writer, coming this fall!

How can I learn to be wild, to be bewildered,
to be wilderness?

Jennifer Perrine’s first collection of poems, The Body Is No Machine (New Issues, 2007), won the 2008 Devil’s Kitchen Reading Award in Poetry. Her second book, In the Human Zoo (University of Utah Press, 2011), received the 2010 Agha Shahid Ali Prize. Perrine lives in Des Moines, Iowa, where she is an associate professor of English at Drake University.

Visit Jennifer’s web page:

Read more by and about Jennifer:

Book: In the Human Zoo
Book: The Body Is No Machine
Poem: If Life Gives You Lemons, Make
Poem: When the Dazzle Isn’t Gradual
Poem: Gender Question #2: Butch, Femme, Androgynous, or All Over the Map? – .

How Jennifer Perrine Became a Writer

This is the next installment in the How to Become a Writer interview series, which will post here at Ph.D. in Creative Writing every other Sunday (or so) until I run out of writers to interview, or until they stop saying yes. Each writer answers the same 5 questions. Thanks to Jennifer for saying yes!

Book Giveaway: Enter here for a chance to win both of Jennifer’s books!

1. Why did you want to become a writer?

This is a trickier question than it seems because of that word want. I wanted to become many things—as a young child, I wanted to become a teacher; as a teenager, I wanted to become a peacemaker; by college, I wanted to become a visual artist and an activist for social justice. In some ways, I might say the desire to become a writer wasn’t an overt choice, but arose out of my attempts to become these other things. When I left college at 21, two courses shy of finishing my degree, I had grown disillusioned with the possibility of ever finding a way to do any of this work that I so longed to do. Instead, I worked two or three minimum wage jobs at a time, doing work that made me feel like I contributed nothing to the world—I sold people donuts and sold them CDs and made institutional meals and scrubbed toilets.

During those years, though, I read rabidly and filled notebooks with writing. I had always been an avid reader and enjoyed writing, but this was when I began to send my writing out into the world, not because I wanted to “be a poet,” but because I ached for connection, both to other people and to a wonderstruck, bold self that seemed to be rapidly disappearing in the rigor and monotony of earning my daily bread. Looking back on my writing from that time, I feel a certain fondness for how earnest it was—I love those poems, even at their most didactic and sloppy, because I see now how they began carving out a space in the world for me to be unabashedly feminist and anti-racist, for me to experiment with the visual aspects of language, for me to assert that I had something worth saying, something worth teaching. I became a writer as a way of finding peace with work that felt soul-crushing and inescapable, and then I wanted to become a writer because writing reminded me I had a soul and that I could escape.

2. How did you go about becoming a writer?

I see now how much, for me, the process of becoming a writer was and is tied to the reasons why I wanted to become a writer. I went about becoming a writer, at least initially, by writing enough to discover that writing could change my world and so, in some small way, change the world.

But there’s more to it than hope and hard work, no? Inspiration and perspiration do account for quite a lot of the process, but there’s something to be said for serendipity, too, as well as for the kindness of relative strangers.  For me, that kindness came from Cynthia Hogue and Saundra Morris, both of whom taught at Bucknell University during my slog through those lean years I mentioned above. I don’t know precisely why they decided to reach out to me—one of their former students was a close friend of mine, and I’d often attended poetry readings at Bucknell, but beyond that, I don’t know quite what they saw in me. In any case, they invited me to apply to the graduate English program in which they taught, were patient while I finished my undergraduate degree, and helped me through the process of acclimating to becoming a writer in academia. Perhaps because of when and where I began becoming a writer, doing so in the context of academia has always been both exciting and perplexing—academia continues to both foster and challenge the ways in which I become a writer, even now that I’m a tenured professor. Perhaps I’ve stayed in academia so long because it does perplex me, and being a bit lost and confused helps me to keep searching for the clarity that writing can bring.

As you might expect, between that initial kindness and my current place in the world, I engaged in many of the predictable ways one might become a writer—I participated in many classes that introduced me to literature and theory with which I’d been unfamiliar; I continued writing and shared my poems in workshops, in journals, in books; I placed many poems in the mail and received many form-letter rejections. I also became many other things while I was becoming a writer, though, and I wouldn’t want to divorce those processes. I became—or more aptly, rediscovered—a person who loved to explore the world, who wanted to try things that were difficult or uncomfortable or even downright frightening, who aspired to understand people and situations that seemed incomprehensible, who found empathy when finding apathy would have been so much easier.  I learned about anatomy and religion and history, and I also learned how to tend a garden, how to care for animals, how to love well. I learned to speak, to be assertive, but also to remain patient, to listen. I’m still learning all these things, but each has helped me become a writer, by leading me to discover what writing might also have to teach me about the world of which I’m a part and how to care for that world, about the importance of the right word and of silences.

“Ex Ovo Omnia,” Poem by Jennifer Perrine, art by Julie Evanoff

 3. Who helped you along the way, and how?

Who hasn’t helped me? I’ve been tempted, with both books, to write an acknowledgments page that reads like liner notes, shouting out to every person who’s helped me become a writer, but the list grows and reaches its tendrils into every bit of my life, until it could become a book of its own. So, I’ll offer here a Cliff’s Notes version of that book.

I’ve been lucky to have a few close friends who are also writers—Stacey Waite, Susanna Childress, Sara Pennington—who have supported and inspired me, both as a writer and as a human being. They’ve read my poems, shared their work with me, given me ideas about what to read next, but more importantly, they’ve been good friends and good people, consistently willing to speak the truths and ask the questions that I most need to hear.

My teachers have helped me, too—every one of them. I’ll mention some that I didn’t have the presence of mind to thank at the time, though, in the hopes that they’ll read this and know how grateful I am.  I’ve had a number of literature teachers who have shown me the power of writing and then have given me gentle nudges, suggesting that I, too, might be capable of becoming a writer. Jeanne Zeck, Susan Bowers, Larry Roth, Harold Schweizer—they each helped guide me on the path to becoming a writer, partly by expecting more of me than I expected of myself, and partly by knowing how to handle with compassion the rough, raw person I was a decade or more ago.

Sonia Sanchez

I also want to acknowledge one teacher who gave me a not-so-gentle nudge: Sonia Sanchez, who led a poetry workshop in which I participated, once began a meeting in her office by telling me that, though my poems were carefully crafted, I had no wilderness in me. I broke into tears, and then made up a ridiculous excuse for my crying because at the time, I prided myself on being tough and did not want anybody, let alone Sonia Sanchez, to know that they could so easily reduce me to rubble.  Later, I raged—How dare she say I have no wilderness? She doesn’t know me! Later still, I puzzled over her statement—how does one go about finding wilderness? I’ve spent the last ten years trying to answer that question, and that question has shaped not only my process of becoming a writer, but also my life as a whole. How can I learn to be wild, to be bewildered, to be wilderness?

I’ve been fortunate to have people who help me practice seeking wilderness on a daily basis. I try to encourage this wilderness in my students, and this helps keep me vulnerable to being wild myself. After all, when I speak to them of risk-taking, of discovery through failure, how can they trust me unless I show them that I’m engaged in that process, too? My students challenge me, ask me to think and feel more deeply and broadly, and continually remind me, as I work with them, why I wanted to become a writer. I’m delighted to have work that helps me become more compassionate and creative, more exuberant and empathetic, but I’m gobsmacked that I’ve been lucky enough to have a partner who understands that the process of becoming a writer is an ongoing one and who encourages me to walk that path even when it’s confusing or frightening. I know how cheesy it might sound, but to live in the world with someone who is also becoming is a pretty wondrous thing.

4. Can you tell me about a writer or artist whose biography inspires you?

I’ve always tended to be inspired by writers’ work, rather than their life stories. Perhaps because I have heard so many artists’ biographies cast as one long tale of trauma, suffering, and madness, punctuated by drugs, alcohol, and suicide, I’ve shunned learning too much about the lives of artists I love. I made a recent exception, however, for Jeanette Winterson, whose fiction I have read eagerly and repeatedly. When I discovered she had published a memoir, I knew it would be beautiful and difficult, but I really had no idea how much it would inspire me. Because I had read her semi-autobiographical novel, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, I expected certain parts of her memoir to resonate with me—and indeed, her relationship with her mother, with religion, with her body and sexuality all fulfilled those expectations. What surprised and affected me most, though, were the parts of her life where she found language. In a household in which only religious books were allowed, she saved every cent to buy novels, which she read and stored in piles under her mattress until her mother discovered them and promptly burned them all. Winterson writes in her memoir about how this was an empowering moment for her—the spark that led her to memorize passages of books and to write her own because, while books could be so easily destroyed, her memory and her creativity couldn’t.

Jeanette Winterson

Winterson also writes quite frankly about what she describes as “going mad,” as well as the process of allowing herself time to become healthy and sane. While I appreciated her courage in showing that vulnerable part of her life to the world, what inspired me wasn’t so much her recovery as her acknowledgment that after becoming one sort of writer for 25 years—one who believed that the measure of love is loss—she would now have to find a new way to become a writer—one who is learning to love and be loved well. Though my personal struggles haven’t been so dramatic, nor my writing so prolific or widely read, I find myself in a similar place in my life—one in which my way of being in the world has changed quite significantly recently and in which I know my writing must change, too. Winterson inspires me with her willingness to embrace that change—I aspire to be so intrepid.

5. What would you say in a short letter to an aspiring writer?

Whatever your means, have broad, deep, varied experiences with the world. Discover what makes you uncomfortable, and then be in that place, spend time with that person, do that thing—the discomfort might remain, but you’ll find that the edge where you reach that discomfort gets further and further away. Cultivate a desire to learn—not just literature or the craft of writing, although those will certainly serve you well, but also anything that could end the sentence, “I’ve always wanted to…” Take risks with your writing—experiment with every possibility you can imagine, and love your “failures” for all they’ve taught you. Get lost in your writing, find some mystery and wilderness there, and let your craft be a vessel that sets you adrift into unexplored territories that your words will map along the way. Practice being in your body, with all its sensations and emotions—this may entail watching less TV. Be kind to other writers—encourage them, inspire them, seek out community and fellowship with them, and don’t let competition and ego undo your good work or theirs. Examine your reasons for writing, your ethics of writing—answer these questions as a way to start that examination.  Enjoy your life.