Writers Need Love Too

There is a myth of the isolated writer. The writer shuts herself off from the world, curls up in a dark attic, and furiously pounds away at an ancient typewriter. Okay, the furiously pounding part is real. But a true writer cannot build a fortress of solitude and hide there. A true writer is one who experiences the world fully, not simply from her own perspective but from everyone she meets and everyone she imagines.

The writer must write, of course, and for this she must turn off the phone, sit down at the computer and write. But this is only one part of being a writer. Writing means interacting with people, taking notes, learning to read body language and listening to the way people talk. Then the writer takes all of this back to her quiet space and enters into her fictional world, bringing all of her observances with her. She creates a real world because she writes from a place of knowledge and experience.

The writer cannot—unless she is Thomas Pynchon—hide from the world after she has finished her writing. A writer must go out into her community and connect with others: writers, publishers, librarians, journalists, and readers. Especially when a writer is competing (I despise that word) with so many other books, she must be accessible.

Our modern technology has made this much easier than before. I credit my husband and Amy Guth, founder of the Pilcrow Lit fest, for instructing me in the ways of social media. Thanks to twitter, facebook, myspace, my two blogs, and my website, I am able to connect with potential readers near and far. I am able to make real connections with my audience. At last June’s Printers Row literary festival, I learned about teen bloggers. These teens read practically one book a week, or more, and write interesting reviews. They also do interviews with the author and contests to win the book. I was amazed at the web savvy of these Young Adult lit reviewers. Many of these blogs have hundreds of followers.

The past Wednesday, I experienced a wonderful part of being an author. I read at The Book Cellar (Jim wrote a wonderful description of it here) with three other YA authors. One of them I had read with at my first reading, J. Adams Oaks. I did an interview with him here. The other two, Pamela Todd and Diane Mayer Christiansen, I had the pleasure of meeting that night.

Diane was the first to approach me. She was animated and outgoing, but nervous about reading aloud because she is dyslexic. Her novel, Switcher, is written for kids and teens. She wants her stories to tell them that it’s okay to be different; you’re not alone.

Pamela was a kind and lovely person. Her well-written novel, The Blind Faith Hotel, deals with environmental issues, about which she is very passionate.

I was panicking all day about the reading, of course. Being a writer (there are reasons for that myth), I extremely dislike public speaking. Even reading in front of people makes me nervous. When I was in elementary school, I was supposed to be in a public spelling bee. I was so anxious that I refused to go. It didn’t matter how good I was at spelling (my skills have diminished significantly since the invention of spell check), I could not think or speak with a crowd of people looking at me.

But I want to be an author so badly that I push through the anxiety. Of course, a nice glass of La Fin du Monde goes a long way to helping me. I also had my devoted husband and a great group of friends, including the charming Jim of OS, to support me.

The best part of the night was afterwards when I sold a book to two people I didn’t know. One was a delightful woman who wanted to give it to her niece after she read it. The other was a staff member of the bookstore and our wonderful MC for the evening. It is wonderful to sell books to friends and family members, but they know you. It is quite another experience to sell your book to someone who heard you read for ten minutes and that made them want to shell out several bucks to read it. My mind is still blown.

Participating in the Chicago literary scene has made me feel like a real author, instead of being someone who loves to write. This sense of belonging has been invaluable. Chicago authors continuously impress me. So far, I have never been disappointed. They are delightful, down to earth, and passionate about writing. None of them has ever treated me differently for self-publishing my YA novel, rather than getting it published traditionally. They have always been generous with their attention and advice.

A writer cannot simply hide in her attics, intermittently hating and adoring her work. A writer has to write, but she also must interact. She has to talk and listen and observe and live. Writing is about communication. A writer has to see that her writing actually means something to someone else. This completes the circle.


"Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. […] It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship."

~Anne Lamott, “Bird by Bird”

November Update

Hello!

I just wanted to give you a quick update.

I will be participating in The Book Cellar's Local Author Night, featuring Young Adult authors. The reading will take place this Wednesday, Nov. 18th, at 7pm. I will be joining J. Adams Oaks (Why I Fight), Pamela Todd (Blind Faith Hotel), and Diane Mayer Christiansen (Switcher). If you're in Chicago, I hope you'll join me for a drink. The Book Cellar has a wonderful beer and wine list.

Over the past month, I was interviewed on a feminist blog, reminisced about Halloween in our home as a child, and had an adventure while trying to meet Sherman Alexie. I also discussed the inner conflict between being a peace activist and enjoying violent films.

I have to give a little plug for my sister-in-law, Tiffany Glover, who recently began an etsy store to sell her unique, handmade scrapbooks. She even does commissions and they're perfect for holiday gifts.

You should be checking David's website periodically. He is furiously painting his cheesecake series. New works will be posted frequently in the next two months.

Thanks for your support. As usual, you can stay in touch with me on facebook, myspace, or on my blogs.

Cheers,
Gwen

P.S. Currently, blogger is not allowing me to link other websites. My apologies.

I am a Powerful Woman; I Eat Things

I am a powerful woman

I eat things

I open my mouth

and eat

all the darkness outside

I open my mouth

and chew

on the bones of broken dreams

I am a powerful woman

I eat things

Between my lips

is a wide hole with teeth

I bite down

on hard, evil things

I bite down

and convert them into potent energy

I am a powerful woman

I eat things

I grow strong and thick

like a deciduous tree

I can carry chubby cheeked children

on my ample hips

I can bear much weight

on my scarred back

and secure shoulders

I am a powerful woman

I eat things

I hunger for life

Eating is nourishment

for my blood, bones, and muscles

Arms that protect

Hands that heal

Feet that go places

I am a powerful woman

I eat things

I am not ashamed

I can swing my apple hips

to sultry music

I will not hide

I can lift my head high

to feel the sun on my face

I am a powerful woman

I eat things

THE MISSION: TO MEET SHERMAN ALEXIE

It WAS a dark and stormy night. But I’m not going to say that.

It was a Chicago night in late October. The cold rain made the roads slick and slowed everyone down. It was getting dark around five-thirty already and the menacing clouds made the sky even darker.

We were on a mission. The destination: the Harold Washington Library in downtown Chicago. The tools we had: a 1989 Dodge Caravan with a broken transmission. The countown: 57 minutes and counting. We were determined to see Sherman Alexie.

Sherman Alexie, one of our great Native American writers, has a remarkable biography. He grew up on the Spokane Indian Reservation near Spokane, Washington. Learned to read by age three and had read The Grapes of Wrath by age five. He received a PEN/Hemingway Award for Best First Book of Fiction for his collection of short stories, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, published in 1993. Since then, he’s been writing brilliant works of both fiction and nonfiction, inspiring Native Americans and the rest of us to work for our dreams. To not be afraid to dream.

"If you let people into your life a little bit, they can be pretty damn amazing." — Sherman Alexie (The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian)

"Imagination is the politics of dreams; imagination turns every word into a bottle rocket. . . . Imagine every day is Independence Day and save us from traveling the river changed; save us from hitchhiking the long road home. Imagine an escape. Imagine that your own shadow on the wall is a perfect door. Imagine a song stronger than penicillin. Imagine a spring with water that mends broken bones. Imagine a drum which wraps itself around your heart. Imagine a story that puts wood in the fireplace." — Sherman Alexie (The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven)

So now you understand why we would fight traffic to get downtown during rush hour. As anyone who lives in Chicago knows, getting from A to B can be quite an adventure. Having a car sometimes makes the travel easier. Sometimes not.

David picked me up from work at five sharp and we hit the road. Traffic was crawling along slowly, but the reading and interview didn’t begin until six so I thought we had plenty of time.
It took us almost an hour to get downtown and onto Michigan avenue, where we sat in traffic for ten minutes before turning off to find a parking lot. We found parking fairly easy for $10. It was six o’clock so we walked fast, huddling until my big clear umbrella.

The Harold Washington Library is huge and beautiful. We found the doors and made our way to where it looked like people were collecting. We were then told that the room was filled to capacity and they weren’t letting anyone else in to see Sherman Alexie.

Heartbroken, we wondered what to do. The “man in charge” told us that we could come back in an hour for the book signing. So we decided to get a cheap meal at the Dairy Queen and come back. Sometimes there’s nothing like greasy fries and soft serve ice cream to mend the heart.

We walked back to the library, chilled and damp by the time we reached our destination. We wandered a bit, trying to find the exclusive room. We followed the flow of traffic going in the opposite direction and found ourselves in a large, theater-like auditorium. I was amazed that this room had been filled to capacity. I spotted several groups of teenagers and students. We stood in a weaving line, leading up to the front where Sherman Alexie was sitting at a small table. We could see him smiling and taking pictures with his fans.

Apparently, everyone had been given a ticket with a number on it so that you had to get in line in numerical order. It took us about fifteen confusing minutes to figure this out. We didn’t have a number because we hadn’t been able to get in. We were accosted by librarians for not standing in the right order and I was afraid that they might call security. Worried that we were making a scene, I was about to abort the mission. David held fast though and, overhearing our predicament, a teenager gave us his number.

When we finally reached the front, I shook Mr. Alexie’s hand and told him what a pleasure it was to meet him. He was charming and funny even after a recorded hour-long interview and signing books for half an hour. We told him our story and he said he was sorry we were “outted.” He then wrote, “Sorry you were outted” and his signature in my copy of Reservation Blues.

I walked away on clouds. I had just met and spoken with a man of greatness. Maybe some of it rubbed off on me.