on being a writer

I haven’t had much time to sit down and really write these last weeks. Between my grandpa dying, a trip up north, a non-writing related freelance project, and limited childcare, I just haven’t had the time to spirit myself off to the coffee shop.

And this bothers me. It makes me feel unmoored, as if there is nothing holding me in place, keeping me from scattering here and there with the details of my life.

It’s interesting, then, that in the last few days, three friends have e-mailed me essays and quotes about being a writer. It’s as if they knew, somehow, that I needed that reminder.

This is the first. It’s an Ira Glass quote from Sally McGraw’s blog Already Pretty. Sally takes the quote and writes a wonderful post about how style evolves. But I love it for what it says to beginning writers:

What nobody tells people who are beginners — and I really wish someone had told this to me —  is that all of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, and it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase. They quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know it’s normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.

You’ve gotta fight your way through. I love that, and it speaks to something that I often say here and to my students: don’t ever give up. Keep writing. Even when it’s hard. Even when you get rejected. Even when you don’t have time. Take an hour or twenty minutes and sit down and put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard).

The next piece sent to me was a link to M. Molly Backes’ post on how to be a writer. A mother, whose daughter wants to be a writer, asked Molly what she needed to do to help her daughter. The mother was looking for some formula, some camp that would help her daughter realize her dream. I love Molly’s response. And it reminded me, as a mother, how I can best support my daughters’ dreams: love them, support them, and let them see me following my own dreams--working hard, never giving up.

And the last piece, also sent by one of my wonderful former students, was Jhumpa Lahiri’s recent essay, “Trading Stories: Notes from an apprenticeship,” in The New Yorker. I love Lahiri’s stories, so I loved reading about her journey into writing, her determination, the way she found a home at her desk.

Each of these pieces buoys me, and each reminds me that I am, indeed, a writer.

I have cleared my morning today, and will make my way to the coffee shop after I run and after I drop the girls at their 2-day-a-week summer program. And I will sit down and write the piece for my grandpa’s memorial service (which is Saturday). And I will let the words that emerge ground me in my dreams once again. 

kudos and upcoming classes

I finally feel like I can breathe again since finishing my manuscript. I hadn’t realized how much energy that last push had taken. In the last two weeks I knew I needed to turn my attention back to the work I had ignored in May, but I just couldn’t do it. I kept sneaking back to bed whenever possible and falling sound asleep. But today I woke up and stretched and thought, oh, I feel like myself again. Let’s hope it sticks.

And I'm excited to report that my fall Mother Words class at the Loft will be a ten-week class on Tuesday mornings, 10 am - noon, Sept 26 - Dec 5 (no class Nov 22).

Mother Words

Whether you are a new mom or a veteran, whether you gave birth to or adopted your child, in this 10-week class you’ll learn how to take birth and motherhood stories and turn them into art. Weekly lectures, reading assignments and writing exercises will focus on telling details, character development, emotional distance, strengthening your reflective voice, and revision. You can expect to generate a number of short creative nonfiction pieces and one long piece. You will receive feedback from your peers and from me in workshops.

I’ll let you know when registration is open. 


I’ll also be teaching Blogging: A Tool for Writers at the Loft on Saturday, October 29, 9 am – noon. More details on that workshop forthcoming.

Also, mark your calendar's for the 5th annual Mother Words reading at the Loft on Thursday, October 13th. I will be joined by the amazing writers Jill Christman and Sonya Huber! I can't wait. 

And as I’m thinking about teaching again, I want to share a couple of recent publications by former students. The multi-talented Andrea Lani has a wonderful review of Cassie Premo Steele’s Shamrock and Lotus and Kristina Riggle’s The Life You’ve Imagined over at Literary Mama. And Stacy Chase’s essay, “Exiled,” is now in Hyperlexia Journal. Stacy started writing this essay a few years ago in my Mother Words class, and I’m so proud of her for getting it out into the world. Congratulations to both Andrea and Stacy!

what's in a moment?

I’ve been thinking a lot about the moments that I don’t want to forget—moments with my children and other family members, especially my grandpa, who defies the odds at 102, but who won’t be able to forever. (He would give a disgusted grunt at my lack of faith, I know.)

Working from home is tricky—I have more work than work hours—which means that I’m often at my computer even when my children are home. I don’t “clock out” ever. I wake in the night thinking of writing or editing or teaching; yesterday I ended up getting up at 4 a.m. because I had an idea and I didn’t want to forget it. (I know; I could have written it down and gone back to sleep. Instead I got up and logged in.)

I know I’m missing precious moments with my family because I lack strict work/home boundaries. I also know that years from now I will wish I had spent less time at my computer.

Over the last weeks and months, I’ve been reading my students’ wonderful writing about moments with their children, and their scenes, full of rich detail and nuance, make me understand just how much I’ve forgotten, just how little I sometimes pay attention.

Zoë has fully embraced being three—she is defiant and stubborn, changes her clothes twelve times a day, says “I HATE you!” when she’s scolded. She wants to do everything herself, insists that Stella’s size 6 and 7 dresses fit her because, “I’m growing up!”

She is absolutely, unequivocally, three. And most of the time I love this fact. Because she’s also a snuggler. She gives tight, almost painful hugs. She says, “I love you!” and “You’re the best mommy in the world!” She lines up her babies and stuffed dogs and protects them from the “bad guys.”

Yesterday after we had visited my grandpa (our Thursday ritual), she was beside herself, screaming and crying, trying to wrestle free of her car seat restraints because she was “uncomptable!” (And I’m sure she was uncomfortable; she was wearing Stella’s fancy Christmas dress—black velvet on top, stiff white skirt with sparkles on the bottom—and it was all bunched up around her waist.) She wailed as we drove down the River Road. I knew she needed a nap, so I told her we’d go see if we could find some geese, which congregate on the flat plains along the Mississippi River, across from the University of Minnesota. She didn’t care, she said. She saw them yesterday, she said.

But by the time we had reached their gathering area, she was craning her neck, trying to catch sight of them. We found three. They were napping—“in the mud!” she exclaimed, thrilled that any creature would sleep in a muddy field. And the uncomfortable dress was forgotten. By the time we reached our house, she was sound asleep.

Often I read in the car while she sleeps because she doesn’t transfer well, but I had a desire to hold her sleeping body. D has been home on break this week, so he carried her in and passed her into my arms, and I held her there, like a huge baby, her legs draped across my body, her white patent leather “tap shoes” still on. And I stared down are her closed eyes, her chubby cheeks, her parted lips.

“Remember how many hours we spent with her like this?” I asked.

D nodded.

And I just sat there, feeling the weight of her in my lap. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, brushed an eyelash from her cheek. I took her in, my arm quickly growing tired.

I’m not sure if I “captured” that moment. Is that ever really possible? But I’ve written it down, and years from now—when she is a sassy tween—I can scroll through this blog and remember holding her, remember how heavy her thirty pounds felt in my arms that one day when she was three and I didn’t read or turn to my computer—when instead I just held my daughter.

What are the moments with your children that you don’t want to forget?

inspiration and work

I am currently teaching three classes--two online Mother Words classes and a prose revision class at the Loft--and I'm busy, especially when you add the girls and Stella's spring break last week and writing and editing and family and friends (well, you get the picture). There isn't enough time in the day to keep up.


But--and this is a huge but--I love it all. I leave my Monday night class at the Loft elated. What an amazing group of writers. They are both fiction and nonfiction writers, and each person brings a unique perspective to class. They are warm and funny and talented. And they work so hard--each week they come to class with new writing and different ways to approach their revisions. Last night I got home and was ready to dive into my own writing, but it was ten o'clock, and the girls get up early, so I opted instead for a glass of wine and a book in bed. (I just started Tracy Seeley's new memoir My Ruby Slippers: The Road Back to Kansas, which I'm already loving. Seeley's prose is absolutely gorgeous. I'll post more about that in the coming weeks.)


This morning, I read some of the wonderful writing and dipped into the discussions of my online students--two groups of brilliant, thoughtful, talented mother writers. And I even snuck in some of my own writing. (Just a little, but it was something.)


So, the sun is shining. I wrote. I taught. Now I'm heading home to work on my current editing project. And maybe I'll even have time for a walk today. We'll see. We'll see. 


How is everyone's work going? What is inspiring you today?

retreat recap

I wanted to write about the retreat on Monday, but as soon as I arrived home, I had to shift gears and dive into class planning and prep. But I want to take some time now to say what an amazing weekend it was.

Friday and Saturday mornings were both spent in group craft meetings up in the Eagle’s Nest, the top floor of the Lodge that overlooks formidable pines and the snow-covered pond. When it’s sunny, the sun streams through the windows onto the pine table, and it’s the perfect place to read, write, and talk about writing.

Or sit by the fireplace and write...

And I was amazed again this year by the quality and volume of writing that was produced in a few short days. There is definitely something about Faith’s Lodge—built to offer comfort to those who have experienced tremendous losses—that unleashes something powerful -- a desperate need to connect, a hopeful rush of words. It's definitely a space built to allow people to dive into reflection.

In the early afternoons, I had individual manuscript conferences with the participants, and then, spent but exhilarated, I headed out the door, skis in hand. And around and around the small pond I went, letting the hiss of skis on snow propel me. I would stop periodically and stare up at the sky, at the tiniest snowflakes I’ve ever seen, glinting in the afternoon sun. 

On Saturday, after I skied the pond, I stopped at Sophia’s Bridge, named for the daughter that one of the participants lost to SIDS. And I just stood there, taking in the sun and snow and the incredible loss.

Saturday night, after we talked more about writing and had dinner, we went out to the bonfire and (after we finally got the wet logs to light) roasted marshmallows for s’mores and read our favorite poems. And when that was done, we dashed inside (it was 12º below zero after all).

Sunday morning was spent writing and reading and then goal setting. One of the participants (who had also recently lost a child) told me that it was the first morning in a long, long time that she woke up feeling inspired. What a gift to have been a part of that inspiration.

I’m hoping to raise even more money for Faith’s Lodge next year with a slightly bigger group. So mark your calendars for the last weekend in February 2012, and don’t miss out on three transformative days of writing, reading, and sharing with other mother writers. (Oh, and don't forget the wine and conversation and dark chocolate...)

Thanks, ladies, for making it such a wonderful retreat!

proud

Cecilia, one of my talented former Mother Words students, has a wonderful piece in Cassie Premo Steele's Birthing the Mother Writer column at Literary Mama this week. Lovely writing, Cecilia. If you don't read Cecilia's blog, you should. She's so fabulous. Congratulations, Cecilia!

mother words week at cribsheet!

I'm thrilled to announce that it's Mother Words Week over at the StarTribune's Cribsheet blog. I know many of you are regular readers of Cribsheet. If you're not, you should be -- May and Kay are fabulous!

This year's Mother Words week features essays from my online Mother Words students, and it's being kicked off with a lovely piece by Cecilia, who writes the wonderful blog, Only You.

Please check out Cribsheet each day this week for a new essay. And congratulations to my wonderful students!

my dancing girl

The last two nights, we’ve sat in a darkened auditorium and watched Stella prance onto stage and spin and twirl with a handful of other 6-year-olds in their line-up of Aristocats. As I sat and watched my composed daughter sashay and pirouette with incredible grace, I tried to keep the tears from my eyes.

Three years ago, after watching Barbie’s Swan Lake, Stella announced that she wanted to start going to dance class. I was dismayed. I even tried to talk her out of it. (Don’t you want to try a circus class? What about karate?)

Don’t get me wrong. I love to dance. When I lived in Costa Rica, I spent countless hours dancing. In fact, I heaved myself into the back of a truck (a truck that sometimes was cleaned of cow shit for the occasion, sometimes not) and held tight to the wooden planks of the cajón as we bumped and jolted our way along the dirt road to the nearest dance hall. And then I proceeded to dance until my toenails were chipped and my quads and the balls of my feet aching. I spent my Saturday nights for two years in this way, and when I came back to the States, I could salsa like I was born to do it.

But I never took dance lessons, and some of the girls I knew growing up who did take dance struggled with eating disorders. Even now, when I see the float of ballerinas at the annual Grand Ol’ Day parade, their ribs and collar bones protruding sharply, I feel so sad.

But three years ago, Stella insisted. “I want to take dance.” She would then point at Barbie on the screen, balancing on toe shoes, and say, “I want to do that.”

So, I did my research, scoured the web until I found a dance school that was “accepting of all body shapes and sizes” and was devoted to making dance accessible to all young people regardless of socioeconomic status. I called and spoke with the education director, who was warm and welcoming. Okay, I thought, we’ll try it.

But in the back of my mind, I thought Stella might dance for a year or two and then lose interest.

She hasn’t lost interest. She just finished her third year of classes and she’s talking about moving to the next level in the fall.

Dance parties are a daily occurrence in our house. I turn up the music and both girls spin and twirl across the floor, Zoë following behind Stella, trying to do everything that her big sister does. (Zoë has also taken to wearing tights and a leotard when she accompanies Stella to class every week. As she waits in the lobby, she performs for anyone who will watch her.)

The thing is that Stella not only loves to dance, she’s really good at it. And I don’t mean to brag. It’s just that I’m amazed by her, by this skill, this talent that has nothing to do with me. (I’m seriously lacking in the eye-hand coordination department. The bruises I often boast on my arms are evidence of my klutziness, which sometimes sends me into a door frame or chair. Maybe this is why running is my exercise of choice? Open space is good.)

One of my Mother Words students once said that you don’t raise kids; you wait for them to reveal themselves. This was years ago, and I remember thinking, oh, that’s an interesting way to look at it. But Stella was only two then, and I couldn’t fathom what she would be like in one year, much less four.

Last night, as I watched the older students from the studio leap and shimmy and fly into the lights, I could feel time fast-forward. And I saw D and myself sitting in that same auditorium ten years from now, watching a grown-up Stella leap and shimmy and fly into the lights, her arms and legs powerful and propelling.

Stella was not nervous before her performances; she was beside herself with excitement. And as I watched my composed and self-confident daughter move with such incredible grace across the stage, I realized that this is what my student had been talking about. Stella is revealing herself, and all we have to do is sit and watch her (and of course encourage and love her and cheer her on). I can do that.

teaching, writing and lee

The other night I went to see Chang-rae Lee read and talk about his new novel, The Surrendered. I haven’t read much of his fiction, but I absolutely love his essay “Coming Home Again,” which he was gracious enough to let me use in my Introduction to Creative Nonfiction class at the Loft.

I like to use this essay when I talk about character development because it’s such a lovely portrayal of his mother, a first-generation Korean immigrant, and of Lee’s relationship with her. The essay describes the last months of Lee’s mother’s life and her quarrel with herself over sending Lee away to Exeter for high school. This is one of my favorite scenes:

I remember washing rice in the kitchen one day and my mother’s saying in English, from her usual seat, “I made a big mistake.”

“About Exeter?”

“Yes, I made a big mistake. You should be with us for that time. I should never let you go there.”

“So why did you?” I said.

“Because I didn’t know I was going to die.”

I let her words pass. For the first time in her life, she was letting herself speak her full mind, so what else could I do?

“But you know what?” she spoke up. “It was better for you. I you stayed home, you would not like me so much now.”

I suggested that maybe I would like her even more.

She shook her head. “Impossible.”

On Tuesday night, Lee read the beginning of The Surrendered, which is stunning, and then spent over a half hour answering questions. I asked him, as I am wont to do, how he balanced teaching—he teaches at Princeton—and writing and family. (He has two young daughters.)

He admitted that it was challenging, especially when his daughters were very small. But he said that because his teaching predated his publishing, he’d always been a writer who taught. But he also said that it’s difficult to teach when he’s writing and write when he’s teaching. He needs to compartmentalize these two things because writing involves turning inward and teaching involves turning outward, being empathetic and supportive. (I’m paraphrasing badly here…)

I guess I agree with this, though I don’t know when I’ll have more than a month at a time when I’m not teaching, when I can really immerse myself in my own prose. Maybe I'll never have that kind of time.

And maybe that’s okay. What I like about teaching and writing simultaneously—juggling the two—is that the elements of craft I’m discussing with my students are then at the forefront of my mind when I’m writing. As I sit down for my twenty minutes here or an hour there, thoughts about craft are swirling in my busy brain. I like to think it makes me a better writer.

And there is no doubt that teaching energizes me. Oh, the prep and getting myself in my teaching frame of mind can be exhausting, but it also feeds me. When my students have break-throughs or get a piece published, I take great pride in their work and the part I’ve played in it.

And that brings me to Brain, Child. One of my lovely and talented students has a wonderful essay in the latest issue. If you don’t already subscribe to Brain, Child, you should. And when you do, check out Andrea's “Raising Private Milo,” which she started in my online Mother Words class last year. Congratulations, Andrea! You can also read Andrea’s writing online—she writes the wonderful blog Remains of the Day.

Now, I'm off to write for twenty minutes before I start my teaching prep.

retreat recap

I wrote about arriving at Faith’s Lodge on Friday, about the feeling of that place, the incredible energy there. This energy only intensified, crystallized, as the weekend progressed.

The weather was perfect—in the 40s, bright sun, blue sky. (Don’t be afraid of Wisconsin in February!) As we sat in the top floor meeting room, sun streamed in the windows, melting snow dripped from the roof.

Of course, it wasn’t just the weather that filled us up. I have never been in a room full of women with such powerful stories; women who were willing to share these stories, grapple with them, write to the heart of them.

We talked about craft, about writing and publishing. We wrote. We listened to each other read what we’d written. We cried—a lot. We laughed—a lot. We drank a lot of wine. And by Sunday afternoon, everyone had made major breakthroughs with their writing: rethinking structure, making discoveries, focusing in on scene, reframing.

It’s amazing to be part of a writing breakthrough. There is something incredibly powerful in asking the questions, making the suggestions that help someone crack open a piece of writing and take it to the next level.

I’ve been thinking a lot about something that Kate St. Vincent Vogl mentioned in her interview a couple of weeks ago. She alluded to something I’ve heard writers—and especially writers of creative nonfiction—say before: that writing isn’t therapeutic. So many writers balk at this idea.

I think the reason they balk is because they want their work viewed as art and they think if it’s tied in any way to “therapy,” this will somehow undercut the work they’ve put into crafting their story.

I’ve talked about this with both my classes in the last weeks and I talked about it on the retreat. And this is what I think: if you are really diving in and fearlessly searching for your story in the material of your life, it’s impossible for you not to make discoveries, to gain perspective on the life you’ve lived.

I love what Philip Gerard says: “[A memoir is] not simply a scrapbook of memories to brood over or cherish, but a reckoning. That’s the reason to write a memoir: to find out what really happened in your life; to drive toward the fact behind all the other facts, and come to some understanding, however limited, of what it means—and accept that truth.”

But if you are really doing this work of “reckoning,” you will change, you will be able to make sense of the life you’ve lived in a new way. What’s not therapeutic about that?

Now, that the thing that differentiates writing for yourself—journaling—and successful memoir and essay lies in craft. Is it crafted? Has the writer been able to craft the raw material of his/her life?

But you can experience a transformation in the writing process and still end up with art.

It’s my job to help my students craft their stories into art, to find the best way to tell the stories they need to tell. And I hope—I really do hope—that in this process they make discoveries, process the material of their lives, let go of what they need to let go of.

This is the kind of thing that was happening all weekend—this kind of tremendous and important work. Maybe it was therapeutic. It was definitely the work of artists.

Now I’m home, and I’m filled with gratitude for these fine women with whom I spent the weekend, filled with gratitude for D and my girls. (Stella made me eight presents while I was gone—paper flowers and bags decorated with glitter, drawings of our family. And when I pulled the car up in front of our house on Sunday, she and Zoë were waiting on the porch, waving, smiling.)

And now I’m ready to write. I’m ready to walk bravely into words, just as I witnessed these fine writers do all weekend long.

(I’ll post photos in the next few days.)

a difference

Sometimes as a teacher, it’s difficult to know whether I’m making a difference. It’s certainly easier now that I teach adults because adults—and especially mothers—are more vocal in their appreciation than, say, a bunch of 18-year-olds. But even now, I sometimes wonder whether what I do matters.

Needless to say, it made my day the other day to get the following e-mail from a former student (from my first year teaching as a first-year MFA student at the University of Minnesota):

“It was a kick to see your story today at Brevity’s website. I thought, “Is that the same Kate Hopper who taught me first year creative writing at the U?” And sure enough, I believe you are! Gosh, that was almost 10 years ago when you were a TA for Maria-somebody. Anyway, I wanted to say hello, to tell you that I enjoyed your Brevity essay, and that I think of you often. I’m finishing up my MFA now in California, but you were my first creative writing teacher, the very first person who said, “Hey, these stories are pretty good. You can do this.” Since then, I’ve published several short pieces and am working on my first book.”

I sat at my computer beaming as I read that. I know I can’t take credit for Teri’s wonderful writing or the fact she’s finishing her MFA, but maybe my words of encouragement helped set her on the writing path? Perhaps. It feels like enough to me.

And her message offers me the encouragement I need as I gear up for my two spring classes and start pulling together exercises and a schedule for the first Mother Words writing retreat. I have one spot left in my online Mother Words class, which begins on February 10th. There are also a few spots still available for the retreat (and Faith’s Lodge decided to institute a sliding scale—$300 to $500—to make it more accessible.) So if any of you have a hankering to write more this spring, sign up.

mother words essays on cribsheet

Hey, I wanted to let you know that it's Mother Words week over at the StarTribune's Cribsheet. May and Kay are featuring essays from some of my lovely and talented Mother Words students. Bravo, ladies!! A new essay will be posted each day. Check it out!

guest-blogging

Thank you all for your kind words and encouragement. Your thoughts and good wishes are a virtual buoy, helping me stay afloat. Thank you!

I am guest-blogging over at the Minneapolis StarTribune's Cribsheet today. And each day for the rest of the week, Cribsheet will post a short essay from one of my Mother Words students. Please check out Cribsheet each day this week to read my students' wonderful writing.

I also want to take a moment to highlight other recent publications by former students. Check out Patty's "Ready or Not," at mamazine and Deb's "Camping While Black" at The Mothers Movement Online. Way to go, ladies!