This year’s theme is Writing & Sustainability, and will include workshops, craft sessions, and readings about writing and sustaining ourselves and our world. Poet, essayist, and 2015 Guggenheim fellowship recipient Alison Hawthorne Deming will be the featured Keynote Speaker, with additional craft presentations by local writers Kate Brandes, Ben Cohen, and others. I will be co-presenting “Cross-Pollinating, A Conversation: How Literary Art and Science Can Enrich One Another” with Diane Husic, Dean of the School of Natural and Health Sciences at Moravian College and author of “A New Prosperity” Blog. Hope you can join us! Our session description follows:

Writers often begin their careers as something other than writers, and in the sub-genre of environmental literature, the pedigree of writers often includes a scientific background. Yet the scope of sustainability issues we face is challenging beyond a technical level, demanding that we seek other outlets to comprehend and communicate not only what we know as scientists, but what we feel as parents, teachers, and citizens of the world.

Panelists will discuss their evolution from professional scientists and researchers into writer-scientists, and how traversing disciplinary boundaries has enriched both their personal and professional lives. Topic areas to be covered will include using creative writing to metabolize and understand the life questions that science has uncovered, employing scientific research skills to inform our creative work, and using creative strategies to advocate our scientific understanding of important sustainability issues.

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Understated as it may sound, I’m sad.  We’re all sad, even though we are lucky to have a willing recipient (the Deschutes Public Library) to take some of NOW’s creative writing programs and carry them forward within their own program structure, to align with their own strategic goals.  Even with what I truly believe is an important and beneficial consolidation, I’m still feeling sad.  Because like it or not, NOW’s closing doors say something about this community, about what is happening here.

One thing I know for sure is that within this primordial stew of needs and ideas and blood and sweat and money and tears and everything else that exists within a community of passionate people — within this primordial stew, there are usually a few things around which we can coalesce.  For a while, at least when I first moved here, I thought that one of those organizing principles in Bend was the idea that art is a basic need.  That creative self expression is as necessary to human life as air, as food, as water.   Ask the residents of The Shepherd’s House homeless shelter, for whom The Nature of Words provided creative writing residencies as part of their healing and empowerment process.  I think they might agree.

But recently, I can’t help but wonder whether people do believe that art is a basic need.  I can’t help but notice that this feels more like a stressed ecosystem — where the culture part of our habitat is being leached to such a degree that a student’s first exposure to the personal essay might be on a college application.  Or that the occasional instruction of “Art-in-a-Box” at school has become an acceptable form of art education.  This cannot be the new standard for exploring creativity.  Don’t get me wrong, I love the parent volunteers who teach it, but I have to confess: Art-in-a-Box as a concept makes me die a little inside.

Here’s the thing: art is what connects us as human beings.  The arts are the means by which we inhabit one another’s experiences.  We become more human when we share our stories — and the truth is, as Brian Doyle would say, stories are our food.  Whether they’re written stories, spoken stories, painted, sculpted, and acted stories, or stories that are musically composed.  Culture is part of our habitat.  A basic need.  Necessary for us to thrive.

These needs are provided by a great many local organizations — The Nature of Words was among them, and is again lucky to have a partner who is capable of continuing to meet that need.  But what about the others?  What would happen if they went away?  How would we all get fed?

I think it’s easy for us to become complacent about the importance of the arts — until we’ve suffered a loss that reminds us of that particular nutritional need.  Example: how many Facebook posts of Dr. Maya Angelou did you read upon her recent passing?  And what would our habitat be like if she hadn’t shared her words?

I hope the vacancy left by The Nature of Words will be felt in this community, and that it will motivate all of us to ask ourselves how much we value our arts and culture organizations.  Not just appreciate, but value.  The distinction is important.

Photo credit: World of Paris Blog, http://worldofparis.wordpress.com/tag/art-is-a-basic-need/

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It had been an exhausting visit: I had just completed my final 10-day residency to earn my MFA from the Stonecoast MFA in Creative Writing Program in Maine, and my husband and kids had made the trip across country to witness my graduation.  It was the first time we’d seen my mother-in-law since my father-in-law’s funeral, so it was an emotionally charged celebration.

We took our seats and promptly fell asleep as the other passengers shuffled their way down the narrow aisle.  I don’t know how long I’d been dozing, but from the outer perimeter of my consciousness, I heard a flight attendant say, “We’ve called the paramedics; they’ll be here shortly.”

— Which pulled me right from my dream-state and into the reality of the 25th row.  Two flight attendants hovered in the aisle by the row behind us, leaning in to attend to the gentleman sitting behind me.  He wasn’t well — not well at all.

“Here, sir, have some water.  Are you having any trouble breathing?”

I sat up and looked across the aisle at my husband, who was also starting to wake from the activity behind us.  Gav, I mouthed and pointed toward the row behind me.  Someone’s sick.

Of course, by sick, I was thinking something life-threatening, like a heart attack, which, given the recent events in our family, was not what my children needed to see.  PleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod, please do NOT let this guy have a heart attack.

“Sir? The paramedics are coming, but our boarding is complete and we will need to make a quick decision about whether you’re okay to fly.  Are you feeling any better?”

The man spoke in broken English: yes, is better with water.

“Do you think you will be able to go, or do you think you’ll need to get off the plane?”

No, he said, we go.

— And not 15 seconds later, I heard the splash of the contents of his stomach hitting the back of my seat.  Then again.  And again.

Oh, he said, sorry.

Now, at this point, everyone is awake and alert and has passed the motion sickness bags from their own seat pockets toward him.  I tossed some baby wipes in his vicinity, but kept the vomit bags to myself in anticipation of the domino-effect to which I expected my children might succumb.  But this is not the point of my story.

The point of my story is this:  After the vomit in seat 25-E, after the man then ran to the back of the plane and got sick again in the bathroom that 250 other passengers were supposed to use during the 4-hour flight to Denver, after he and his travel partner were escorted from the plane by the paramedics and the ground crew spent an hour *sanitizing* the area while we all sat buckled into our seats, trying to distract ourselves with iPhones, iPods, and the sudoku puzzle in the back of Hemisphere magazine — after all that, the poor woman who had been sitting next to him when he erupted had to return to her seat so we could finally take off.  It was a sold-out flight.  There were no other seats available.  Nobody could have imagined an unluckier scenario.

Except that about an hour into the flight, while this woman sat as close to the edge of her aisle seat as her arm rest would allow (probably wondering what might have splattered onto her purse stuffed beneath the seat), a different man walked up from the back of the plane and asked if he could sit in one of the vacant seats in her row.

At first she was silent, probably as stunned as the rest of us were.  But then she said, “Uh, yeah, I guess, but you know what happened here, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I know.  That’s okay.”

“I mean they sanitized it, but…”

“Yeah, I know.  That’s okay.  It’s still better than my seat.”

— Which made me wonder: what in God’s name was happening in the back of the plane where he had been sitting that would prompt him to knowingly nestle into the H1N1 row behind me?  Whatever it was, it must’ve been brutal, because he slid in and grabbed the seatbelt that was probably still wet from the de-con…

Nearly a week after the trip, I still can’t shake my curiosity about the details of this guy’s circumstances.  I want to know about his story.  What was so bad about his situation?  Did he not understand the medical drama that had played out in the seat directly behind me?  Or was I, perhaps, overstating the risk of sitting in that seat because I had heard the splash, smelled the smell, seen the floor…

Regardless, being the literary geek that I am, I can’t help but see a lesson in the Vomit On A Plane episode: that all characters have their own motivations.  And that these motivations are best understood with some insight about their perspectives. 

I had made an assumption when I said that nobody could have imagined an unluckier scenario than being that woman who sat in the contaminated 25th row.  Because obviously, somebody did.  And now the story seems incomplete, unbalanced without a little exploration of that perspective.   

—Which is exactly what I’m thinking I need to do as I revisit some of my own work: explore my characters’ perspectives.  Try to understand why they’ve done the crazy things they’ve done.  Perhaps I’ll learn a little more about them.  Perhaps I’ll learn a little more about me.

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Thank you, Dean Tuchinsky, Justin, Annie, Robin, Stonecoast faculty and staff, friends, families, graduates and distinguished guests.  I am so honored to be standing up here tonight and especially humbled to represent my fellow and extraordinarily talented Creative Nonfiction graduates.

We have shared so much with each other and I feel so privileged to have gotten a glimpse into each of your experiences and truth-telling journeys.  I want to thank our families especially, for supporting us through the all work that comes before our literary work — be it research… or therapy… or in my case, both.  And I specifically want to thank you for providing us with good material.  For the record, all writers use their families for material — CNF writers are just more forthcoming about it.

Now, as a member of this incredible group, I feel it is my duty to clarify a common misconception that is held about the Creative Nonfiction genre and CNF workshops here at Stonecoast:  We do not — I repeat, DO NOT pass tissues around the table when we workshop.  It would have been nice, though, because — and I know this may shock some of you — I am… the CNF Crier.

I’d like to think of it as a position of honor, like a Town Crier, except that instead of wearing a fancy pirate hat and carrying a bell to deliver important proclamations, I have this ridiculous head of hair and carry snacks and actually cry.  Sometimes during workshop.  Once in front of faculty (if Deb Marquart were here, she’d be nodding her head).  I am, unfortunately that one who feeds the cliché.  You know, the image of Creative Nonfiction writers that depicts us gathered around the table, burning candles, doing deep yoga breathing, confessing our deepest sorrows.  The stereotype that sometimes saddles this genre with the unfortunate reputation of ‘therapy over craft,’ of ‘confession above literature.’

Well lucky for us, this is Stonecoast.  And at Stonecoast, nothing rises above literature. Here, literature is the medium not just for telling stories, but for challenging unfair stereotypes, for lending voice to the voice-less, for advocacy and activism.  And for creative nonfiction writers, these stories are not just true, they’re often personal, and —whether through literary journalism, or memoir or essay— wrestle difficult issues like freedom and oppression, racial and sexual discrimination, love and grief, abuse and neglect.  So yes, what we deal with stirs emotion.

Perhaps that’s why I, and undoubtedly other Creative Nonfiction writers, feel the distinct and pointed pressure to pay particular attention to our craft.  To pour all of our intellect into the rhythm of our sentences, the vibration of our imagery, the lyricism of our prose.  It has to be good, because… well, you know.  We’re telling stories that are true, and when they’re about us, we haven’t anything behind which to hide.  Not the structure of a sonnet or the made-up name of a fictional character.   This makes some of us feel a little more sensitive, a little more exposed.

Now, as the CNF Crier, I feel a certain duty to the other genres to do some nation-building around this issue — become an ambassador, if you will, to the virtues of being a Crier.  So I will share with you some of my own daily Stonecoast affirmations:

1.        Crying makes you sexy.  It’s true!  Everyone looks good when they cry, and this is especially true if you have blotchy, freckly skin like myself.
2.        Crying serves as an important function in the ranking of an academic program.  For instance, the more of us who cry after the blunt trauma delivery of Rick Bass-kicking wisdom, the more the legend lives, right?  Tough faculty = tough program = high marks, which benefits all of us.  Faculty, administration: you’re welcome.
3.        Crying serves as an excellent ice breaker between fellow students.  Better than stickers or drawings on your name tag.  Trust me, when you’re a Crier, everyone knows who you are.

But in all seriousness, what I’m talking about is vulnerability — something with which Creative Nonfiction has specific experience and particular advantage, because again, our stories are often personal.  And I think the vulnerability in our stories is what makes readers lean in.  Vulnerability is what bridges the gulf between two otherwise separate groups until they’re close enough to admit of each other’s conditions: “Hey, yeah, — me, too.”  The authenticity of our stories is what connects us, what becomes the building blocks for community, the agents of social change.  And this, my writer friends, cuts across all genres.  There are no genre boundaries around the human condition.  No mutually exclusive ownership of longing, pain, empathy and love.  — Which brings me to my final affirmation:

4. Crying reveals what a supportive and nurturing community we have here in Stonecoast.

Last residency, I stood up in front of several of you at Open Mic to read a short piece that I had written about my family.  I’d had plenty of practice in writing through what Creative Nonfiction writers call “the hard place.”  So I thought nothing of standing up in front of my peers to read something revealing about my youth.

Well, writing through the hard place and reading through the hard place are two entirely different learning curves.  And I was not nearly far enough along when I stepped behind the podium.

For those of you who weren’t there, I’ll summarize: I started to cry.  But what really happened is that I tried to restrain a surge of emotion that felt a little like stomach-pounding nausea with the urgency of childbirth.  I panicked, so when I glanced up and saw Trevor the Timekeeper doing his little dance, I gulped and said something like, “So maybe I’ll just… stop?”

But everyone in that room was listening, leaning in, urging me to finish. I looked at Trevor.  He looked at me with serious eyes and —like we were in a Rocky movie or something— gave me one pump of his fist that said, Go on.  You can do it.
— Which I did, and when I finally finished, it was for more than just myself.  That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?  That electricity between storyteller and listener, between writer and reader.  Electric moments generated by the current of vulnerability in our work.  So my parting words to you: Don’t be afraid to cry a little in your work.  There will be a family —in whatever broad sense you define— waiting to embrace you.  The first one will be your Stonecoast family.  Congratulations and thank you.  I love you all.

The post On the Virtues of Crying: A Graduation Speech appeared first on Mary Heather Noble.

I once submitted an essay to a Famous Editor with a note that read “Enclosed is a lyric essay, blah, blah, blah…,” and he sent it back saying, “Yes, good, we’ll take it, etcetera, but shouldn’t ‘lyric’ be something someone else says about your essay?”

—Which reveals a common misconception about the lyric essay: that it is merely an ornamental device, a compliment to one’s writing, a label to which one’s work aspires, like “powerful” or “poetic.”  When in fact, the lyric essay is a thing, an intended form of essay that seeks to deepen the artistic experience of creative nonfiction, just like modern art and contemporary performance art movements seek to evolve their own forms of artistic expression.

For me, the lyric essay was like opening the door to the Secret Garden.  It was a place that provided permission and space for me to play and explore so I could discover my authentic narrative voice.  All great, but here was the problem: when I would share my lyric essays in workshops and writing circles, I noticed that people were often reluctant to critique, like they didn’t know whether to eat what I had served with a fork or with a spoon.

I love this quote from Brian Doyle’s “Playfulnessless,” in Vol. 15, No. 1 issue of River Teeth:

Thesis: the essay is the widest fattest most generous open glorious honest endlessly expandable form of committing prose not only because it cheerfully steals and hones all the other tools and talents of all other forms of art, and not only because it is admirably and brilliantly closest to not only the speaking voice but the maundering salty singing voices in our heads, but also because it is the most playful of forms, liable to hilarity and free association and startlement, without the filters and mannered disguises and stiff dignity of fiction and poetry and journalism, respectively. Discuss.

What Brian Doyle is talking about is the malleability of the essay as a form, the flexibility of the structure itself.  And that, to me, is what the lyric essay is all about: bucking tradition and playing with form, so that instead of the predictable circle-and-dive structure of a more traditional personal essay, the lyric essayist’s narrative “hawk” does something different and unexpected in its pursuit of the truth.

So what are the ways in which the lyric essayist essays?  In the Fall 1997 Special Edition of Seneca Review, in which The Lyric Essay was first defined, editors John D’Agata and Deborah Tall noted that this new hybrid form “gives primacy to artfulness over the conveying of information, forsaking narrative line, discursive logic, and the art of persuasion in favor of idiosyncratic meditation.”  Meaning that the reader is invited into a the stream-of-consciousness view of the narrator’s essay process, rather than a constructed representation of the issue(s) they have already wrestled.

For me, the difference between a more traditional essay and a lyric essay is not unlike the difference between the realistic, still-life paintings of Norman Rockwell and the more contemporary art of Robert Rauschenberg or Jackson Pollock.  Rather than holding the reader’s hand along a guided trail of thought, the lyric essayist provides clues, using the juxtaposition of contrasting images or ideas to convey emotion or explore a theme.  The lyric essayist texturizes his or her prose with layers to convey the complexity of the content, presenting different threads, patterns of thought, and points of intersection.  It’s like walking on a path made of stepping stones — more fun than just walking on dirt.

And rather than being strictly disciplined in form and movement, formulaic in its positioning —like ballet or a 5-paragraph essay— the lyric essay is more organic in its movement, free to borrow devices and techniques from other genres and art forms to illustrate the quest for understanding.  Some traits:

1.    Experimentation with form:

•   Exclusion of linear, logical sequence — organized by themes other than chronology
•   Distilled language, use of poetic imagery and rhythmic sentences
•   Use of fragments and white space, section headings and numbers — taking shape with fragments assembled into mosaics or narrative strands woven into braids
•   Inhabiting other unexpected forms to tell a story (disguising)
•   Omission of smooth narrative transitions — movement involves associative leaps

2.    Uses the power of inference — more active reliance on reader’s intuition to complete the narrator’s thought

3.    Main craft element is the juxtaposition (or associative leaps between) language and imagery

Still, even with an understanding of its traits, many wonder how to go about critiquing the lyric essay.  And while I would no sooner advise someone on this than I would critiquing contemporary art or the mechanics of modern dance, I do think it’s fair to ask whether the piece works, whether it has succeeded in making a connection with a reader on an emotional level.  Of course, like any art form, critiquing a lyric essay is subjective, but I offer some questions to consider:

1.    What is the essay’s aesthetic appeal?  Visually? Rhythmically?
2.    Does the imagery in the piece work?
3.    Do the juxtapositions of imagery and language resonate? Do the contrasts “thrum”?
4.    Can the reader follow the organization and associative leaps between sections?
5.    Is the content best handled in lyric form, or does the construction seem “gimmicky”?
6.    Can the reader understand what the essay is about?  What issue(s) it wrestles?
7.    Is the reader left confused, or does the essay compel the reader to think or consider something new?

So.  These points may not clarify whether you should enjoy a lyric essay with a fork or a with spoon, but perhaps it will empower you to simply dive in with your heart.  Happy reading.

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