Your essay “The Coverless Book” won our nonfiction contest last year and is also included in SolLit Selects: Diverse Voices –our first print anthology. It’s a beautifully crafted essay in which you explore your brother Daniel’s death, which followed a number of suicide attempts, by using excerpts from a notebook of his you found after he died. Can you talk a little about the process of writing this essay? I also understand it was your first contest entry ever and your first published piece, so congratulations! It was well deserved.
Thank you! This essay was a long time in the making; about four years, off and on. It took on many forms before it eventually fell into place. I had begun trying to pin down the elements of Daniel’s story a year or more before I found his notebook. Finding it was one of those serendipitous gifts that mystifies me even now. I was struck by how many portents the notebook contained, and by the poignancy of some of that little boy’s observations; how they were born out or refracted in his later life. Months later I picked the book up again and started to go through it, listing them, and boom: there was the scaffolding for the narrative I’d been struggling to structure.
Your Guide to All Things SolLit at #AWP15!
Visit us at booth 409 at the bookfair with our friends from Talking Writing! We’ll be selling copies of our brand new anthology SolLit Selects:Diverse Voices.
Thursday April 9
4 to 6pm
Kiernan’s Irish Pub
Poet’s Corner, 85 6th Street
New Rivers Press Book Launch & Readings
Come hear SolLit Editor in Chief Lee Hope read from her story “What To Take In Case Of Fire” with other finalists from American Fiction
Since I’ve started traveling and living abroad, I’ve developed a growing appreciation for foreign words in English text. While I enjoy the occasional italicized vocabulary, I love reading sentences and dialogue in a foreign language, even one that I don’t understand. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway practiced this regularly in their work. Both lived and worked abroad, and both had relationships with foreign women, making it easy for them to learn the language and incorporate it into their work. They wrote street names, food and drinks, and greetings in their original language, and they also incorporated full sentences and dialogue in French and Spanish. This gave their work a very authentic feeling, and an unapologetic, personalized touch.
The following is a conversation between SolLit Editor in Chief Lee Hope and Nonfiction Editor Richard Hoffman. Richard is author of the Half the House: a Memoir, and the poetry collections, Without Paradise, Gold Star Road, winner of the 2006 Barrow Street Press Poetry Prize and the 2008 Sheila Motton Award from the New England Poetry Club, and Emblem. A fiction writer as well, his Interference & Other Stories was published in 2009. His new memoir, Love & Fury, came out from Beacon Press in 2014. He is Senior Writer in Residence at Emerson College.
1. You have written collections of fiction and of poetry, yet recently your focus has been on the memoir. It is so impressive to have two books appearing in the last twelve months–your new memoir Love & Fury by Beacon Press, and the reissue in paperback of your acclaimed earlier memoir Half the House by New Rivers Press. What motivated you to write the second memoir, Love & Fury? Why did you wish to carry forward the story of your family and its cultural context?
The truth is that it wasn’t my intention to write another memoir. Not at all. When my father died, I felt all sorts of questions about him percolate to the surface, questions about his life, his values, his contradictions, his early and intense influence on me. I realized that without ever acknowledging it to myself I had declared a moratorium on writing about him after Half the House. That book was a challenge for him, and he met it with grace and courage. But now I felt he had left me with a tangled and confusing bequest I needed to try to understand.
I thought that what I was doing was writing an essay about him — that’s what I set out to do, anyway. I had eulogized him at his funeral, now a scene in Love & Fury, but I didn’t feel I’d done him justice. So I tried to write an essay, using James Baldwin’s Notes of a Native Son as a kind of model, but besides losing him, I had just become a grandfather, my son had flunked out of college and was back home struggling with the family illness of alcoholism, my daughter and her boyfriend and their infant were living with us, my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, and my grandson’s father was sent to prison. So, suddenly questions of race, class, gender, violence, and certain spiritual and philosophical questions were part of my life more acutely, or at least more apparently, than ever, and I saw that examining my father’s life and my relationship to him was the key to addressing all the rest of it. I just couldn’t deal with all that in an essay; I needed more room.
2015: My Year of Re-Reads
Every year I try to read 52 books in 52 weeks. This has been my New Year’s Resolution for more than a decade, and most years, I’ve kept it. I love to devour fiction and poetry, and so far, I have read something new each week. This year, however, I am only re-reading. I am doing this for several reasons—to return to beloved texts, to teach myself patience and reverence for good works, to see what I’ve forgotten, and to try to figure out just how my favorite books work.
This project inevitably brings back memories of where I was or whatever else I was experiencing during first readings. It can be a pleasant experience—like falling in love all over again. Or, it can make me see how blinded, or damned young, I was when I first came into contact with an author or a collection.
Nothing has demonstrated the importance of rereading works for me like one particular poetry collection. I saw poet Antjie Krog speak at a release party for a new collection called Body Bereft when I was a junior in college, during the last month of a semester abroad in Cape Town, South Africa in 2006.
There is a belief that writing is a solitary act and in moments, I don’t disagree that it is. There are many times, as a writer, where I have had to shut myself off from the rest of the world and delve deep inside my mind to pull out the words that were bouncing around inside my head. I know the best way for me to do this is to sit by myself, away from any sort of distraction or potential distraction (i.e. suddenly, I need to reorganize the labels for each country of my coin collection), and sometimes even shut my eyes so all I see is blackness under my eyelids, and all I feel are the tips of my fingers hitting each key letter on my laptop.
But since beginning my fiction MFA program at Lesley University, I’ve been thinking more and more about how writing cannot be undertaken in a solely solitary state. A writer’s ideas are born from the influences and circumstances of their life, meaning every interaction they encounter with another human, animal, plant, object, plays into their subconscious and it is from this subconscious that a writer pulls out the needed words to create their story.
“When a writer is born into a family, the family is doomed,” -Czesław Miłosz
I write a lot about family, my father in particular. You might say I’m obsessed with him. Not in the way I was obsessed with him as a child, when I was a daddy’s girl. Then he was simply larger than life: a man who could magically drive a car with his elbows while lighting a pipe. A well-to-do psychiatrist in New York’s Westchester county who could cure any ill, who would pause from his busy patient schedule to play puppets with me. A man I believed to be fearless and invincible and perfect, as many children do.
This one-dimensional view lasted for about 28 years. Then, in 1997, inspired by a paper I wrote in a counseling psychology Master’s program (trust me – counseling programs will break you every time), I finally saw the flaws in my little girl perspective. There was more to my father…much more. And so I interviewed him.
In celebration of Black History Month, we are honored to share the work of many celebrated African American and Black authors who have contributed to our magazine over the years. We thank you for your voice, your work, and your willingness to share your pieces with us.
Contributors to Solstice (alphabetical order by first name):
Afaa M. Weaver
In Shin Lin Night Market with my Lover
Noodles in Guan Gong with Grandfather
Tea Plantations and Women in Black
Alysia Nicole Harris
Stephen Dunn Prize in Poetry Winner: Crow’s Sugar
Elizabeth de Souza
THE KNOTTY ONE: Obscurity and the Black Male Artist
There is no denial that for a writer, words are the strongest tool in our possession. We have a kinship with language and the words we use to describe our feelings and thoughts. We understand the weight of words, the difference, sometimes subtle, between similar words such as hit and strike, or lean and thin. The word a writer chooses is specific to the context they are applying it too, as well as the meaning or implication they are seeking for such a choice.
As a writer, this is why I know the phrase, “Where are you from?” can hold so much significance to the person who it is asked of. When you meet someone for the first time, a natural question to start up the conversation might be to ask them where they are from. From this question, any number of topics can begin. Someone might be from Tennessee, and start talking about their childhood in Tennessee. Or another person might be from Thailand, and the questioner can mention the time they visited Thailand as a college student.
Diana Abu-Jaber’s has been heralded as a writer that “gets it just right” and whose work “leaves readers breathless” (DianaAbuJaber.com). This well-deserved praise comes as the result of her award-winning style, captured in one food memoir, The Language Of Baklava (2007), and four novels: Arabian Jazz (1993), Crescent (2003), Origin (2007), and Birds of Paradise (2011).. Abu-Jaber lingers over words and experiences such that they leave an indelible imprint. She weaves together experiences from her own Arab American culture, the US multiethnic landscape, and her own logophilia. In a post-9/11 literary landscape, her creative offerings (and I use that phrase to invoke the food and meals she so richly describes) have been politicized both within and outside of the Arab American community.
Margaret Elysia Garcia lives in the northern Sierra Nevadas with her family in exile from her Los Angeles roots. A contributing editor for Hip Mama Magazine, she also writes a comic zine called “The Adventures of Sadgirl the Superheroine,” illustrated by her daughter, Paloma. In 2014, she wrote, co-directed and co-produced the play “Before You Barefoot: A Dark Comedy of Revenge.” She is also a DJ, radio host and director of the “Listen to Your Mother” show in Plumas County, California. Ariel Gore calls Margaret’s work “a hauntingly beautiful new voice in American literature.”
How did Sad Girls come about?
I’ve written many stories set in and around Whittier, California where I grew up from 1984 to 1995 (I was born in nearby Montebello, with grandparents and various other family in both Pico Rivera and Whittier; I was an army brat so Whittier was always home but I didn’t always live there until we moved back to the states in 1984). Early on I’d write stories about what I knew: My Whittier, Mexican-American, and Okie upbringing of middle and lower-middle-class kids making their way through first and second-generation attempts at college. But when I’d send pieces out in the ‘90s and even in the 2000’s, I’d often hear back from editors that my stories, while good, didn’t seem believable. What Los Angeles County was I writing about? There were no gangsters. There weren’t very many homeboys. There were however, Mexican-American kids who couldn’t speak Spanish very well and loved the Smiths, Andy Warhol, and getting lost in books. I briefly freelanced for a magazine whose target audience was exactly ‘my people’ and advertisers told the managing editor that our demographic didn’t exist. It’s a weird thing to know that people don’t think you exist. So that’s when I decided that I would create characters like those I knew growing up in high school and college in Whittier. I would create the people who others insisted didn’t exist. The other, Los Angeles, if you will.
Whenever we can, we like to bring you news of helpful resources for writers, and here’s an innovative resource we just learned about:
Writer’s Infusion is an internet show designed to bring the experience and support of a writer’s group to the writing community, for free. It’s the the brainchild of Susan Zall (that’s her in the pic), from Walpole, Massachusetts who writes:
“I created Writer’s Infusion because I strongly believe in giving back to the writing community, and I want to help as many writers as possible avoid the years of frustration I experienced in writing without a support system. ”
Each episode consists of a panel of critiquers reading a few pages of a writer’s story and then providing detailed feedback on his/her submission.
Watch, submit and learn more here.
Who but the Maenads, repentant, clothed, and in their right minds.
(from Jane Harrison, Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion)
For a long time I’ve been searching for a way to describe my own poetic process that also explains what takes place inside me when I read certain poems. As far as I know, no one has adequately explained the correspondence between the two seemingly distinct experiences. So I have been craving a theory that is versatile—one that goes both ways, plays both offence and defense. A scheme worthy of someone like my childhood hero, Chuck Bednarik, who played both offensive center and defensive linebacker for the Philadelphia Eagles in the 1960s.
My first lead came from a seemingly throwaway remark by Robert Hass during one of his ecstatically meandering and leapfrogging talks. He might have been talking about metaphor as transport or he might have been discoursing on Pseudo-Dionysus and the language of angels. At one point, he presented us with a variation of Tevye’s quaint, faux-Talmudic, Fiddler on the Roof wisdom: “If you spit in the air, it lands on your face.” Hass’s version, which he said was from Vietnam, provided a twist:
Spit in the air / Learn something
Being an English major combines many of the things in life that I enjoy deep down to my core: I love reading, which is nice because most of my assignments are lengthy portions of text. I love writing, both creatively and academically, so hunkering down to bang out an eight-page paper, if I have enough time, is not a burden, but an adventure. I love learning, so researching for papers and assignments is my favorite part. And because I love learning, I love workshops. Well, I’ve grown to love them, as mentioned in my previous blog post. I realize constructive criticism will only improve my writing, and therefore I welcome it with ready ears.
There are a few aspects of working towards an English degree that aren’t as wonderful (how heavy my backpack can be on any given day is one of them), but there is a single factor that stands out as the worst part.
Oh, so you want to be a teacher?
Yesterday I got a letter from AWP attempting to win me back as a Writer’s Chronicle subscriber (I have no excuse except that I forgot to renew). Inside the envelope was a solicitation letter. And this bookmark:
My first thought upon reading this bookmark was: Right on Joan! Potential bottomless pit of potential humiliation! Amen! My second thought was: wait a minute –that quote is from the interview I did with Joan Wickersham, which was published in the September 2013 issue of The Writer’s Chronicle! Cool. And my third thought was: How ironic that Joan once wrote a column for The Boston Globe about receiving too much unwanted “swag” in the mail and now her quote had been transformed into said “swag.”
Marianne Leone’s essay “The Official Story” is a Featured Nonfiction piece in the fall issue. She is an actress, screenwriter, and essayist. Her essays and op-ed pieces have appeared in the Boston Globe, The Bark magazine, and WBUR’s Cognoscenti blog. She had a recurring role on HBO’s The Sopranos and has appeared in films by John Sayles, Martin Scorsese, Nancy Savoca, Michael Corrente, Larry David, and the Farrelly Brothers. She is married to the actor Chris Cooper. Her memoir, Jesse:A Mother’s Story (Simon & Schuster) is a chronicle of the remarkable life and untimely death of her child who died suddenly at age seventeen. His life is celebrated through the Jesse Cooper Give Back to Society Scholarship, the Jesse Advocacy Fund at the Federation for Children with Special Needs, and the Jesse Ho, an outrigger named for him at AccesSportAmerica, a charity supported by the Jesse Cooper Foundation.
The Writers’ Workshop is one of the most important lessons in writing. Workshops are designed to offer writers an array of critiques in order to improve a specific piece. Most college programs, to some extent, incorporate a workshop aspect.
As I mentioned in my first blog post, when I initially walked into a class called Prose Writing, I thought I had accidentally interrupted a business meeting. Seeing the tables in a circle, I stood stunned, wondering if I’d misread the room number. Nope.
This was Prose Writing.
I recently read that Judith Kitchen passed away from cancer. I didn’t know Judith personally; we’d never even met. I discovered her via the flash nonfiction anthologies she created and edited, with the aptly named titles: In Short, In Brief and Short Takes.
I fell hard for the flash nonfiction form when my friend Janet introduced me to the series. I read all three books, highlighting phrases and passages. This was sometime in 2006 I believe, shortly after I graduated from the MFA program at Lesley University, and right around the time I had my first child. (Trust me: flash is the form to read when you’ve got an infant).
I remember laughing at pieces like Brady Udall’s “One Liar’s Beginnings,” and gasping at the end of Harriet Doerr’s “Low Tide at Four.” The brilliant essay “The Mother,” by Ann Panning hit home in a big way, at just the right time.
Once upon a time, when I was a young twenty-something server at a restaurant just outside of Boston, my manager called me into his office.
“Amy,” he said solemnly. “I need to tell you something. You’re not the stronger waiter.”
“Um, I’m not a waiter,” I corrected him. “I’m a waitress.”
Looking back, however, if we were to interpret my manager’s remark literally, the guy was spot on.
I’m a horrible wait-er. The worst.
This is a difficult attribute to have as a writer, not to mention a neurotic writer with shaky self-esteem, whose world pretty much revolves around receiving that email announcing “About your Submission.”
I was driving to work a few weeks ago, listening closely to a news report about the survivalist Eric Frein, who had just murdered a Pennsylvania State Trooper and managed to evade capture by hiding out in the dense forests of the Pocono Mountains. Although hundreds of people were engaged in a desperate and dramatic search for the killer, he had thus far evaded capture.
I listened closely to the report. I grew up in Philadelphia and the Poconos almost rivaled the Jersey shore for vacation fun—summer camp, ski trips, hiking, camping, and later, gambling casinos. When I was older, I became more and more fascinated by the old mining towns and patches, the abandoned anthracite coal breakers, the eternally burning mine and town of Centralia, the gold-domed churches of immigrants from Russia, Ukraine, Slovakia.