Why I Write

I had the loveliest thing ever happen to me last week, and I've been hemming and hawing over whether or not to share it here, because it might sound a little like I'm tooting my own horn. But I've decided to share because, ultimately, this little story is about writing--and why I, personally, write.

While I was in Denver, overwhelmed by the number of successful writers around me, it was easy to feel a little discouraged. Sure, I have three poems published in a delightful anthology, but the high from one's first publication can only last so long before a writer starts feeling pressure for another publication, and then another and another. But then, I went back to our hotel one night, and found a positively uplifting email in my inbox.

It went a little something like this: A woman, a librarian in upstate New York, emailed me and told me that she loved Naomi Shihab Nye, and had run out and picked up her anthology as soon as she heard about it. When she finished reading the book, she looked back at her favorite poems, and realized that a lot of them were, well, written by me. She could have simply ended the email right there, and I would have been giddy simply knowing that I had stood out in a anthology of 25 poets to someone out there. But, she continued: at a faculty meeting at her school, she had decided she wanted to read my poem, "Rain, Snow, and Other Weather," at the beginning of the meeting. She read aloud, but when she got to the last two lines, she found herself crying and unable to finish. One of her co-workers had to finish reading the last lines for her.

This, my friends, is why I write. And in the literary community, in an MFA program, and surround by successful writers, it is sometimes easy to forget about this. Many people write to be "artsy," to be published, or to make money. But what I've always loved about reading was how it could touch you, how the words could leap off the page and mean something, even though they came from someone else's mind, someone else's experience. In the past, I've been told that my poetry is "sentimental" and often, there is a touch of distain that comes with that word, especially when uttered by writers who reach only for the artistic. But me, I'm fine with being sentimental if it means that I can touch the average person, if it means that my writing can go beyond just the literary community, and into the lives of those who might not have an MFA or a PhD, who let my words show them a mirror of themselves.

L. Stacks

Photo: weheartit

Back in Chicago, Sea-Level

Lovely readers, I'm back from Denver, and while I had a great time during my whirlwind visit, I'm glad to be back at sea-level. I was really surprised how much the altitude messed with me--I woke up with headaches each morning, and felt exhausted by 10 p.m. each night. Chicago is now fully green and blooming, and all the extra air sure feels nice in my lungs. I only took a few pictures during my trip, so here a just a few:

16th Street Mall, with its Free Mallride and streets without any cars allowed

Cute Larimer Square, where I ate at a delicious French restaurant.

The Capital Building, in Capital Hill, where we stayed.

Overall, my trip was a blast. I did tons of writerly things--attended a reading by George Saunders and listened to Michael Chabon speak (and I'm currently reading his book The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay!). I got lots of free literary magazines, made some great contacts, and even had lunch with a friend whom I met on a plane ride in January!

I attended some great panels, and others that weren't so great. But they all had wonderful titles: Mommy, I'm Having an Existential Crisis!: Voices of Children in Fiction; All Around Bitch: The Challenges of Writing Unlikeable Female Protagonists; and Sick Humor: What's Not Funny About Serious Disease? On Saturday evening, we went out to what is apparently a Denver hotspot, The Whiskey Bar, where baseball fans could bring their ticket stub and get a free PBR after the game.

I'd definitely love to go back to Denver when I have more time. And I'm already planning on attending next year's AWP Conference in Washington D.C.--I just haven't told my fiance yet.

L. Stacks

Lazing Around

This morning I woke up with a scratchy throat and a stuffy nose, and I'm afraid that means my weekend won't be as productive as I had previously hoped. I need to get a lot of writing done because I have a workshop piece due Monday evening, but all I want to do right now is curl up and doze. And maybe read a book, of course.

Cross your fingers for me that this won't end up as a full-blown cold, and that I'll be able to scrounge up some productivity in the next few days, okay? Thanks. :)

L. Stacks

Photo: weheartit & weheartit

Vintage Beauties

To help me get into the right era and mindset during my novel writing, in my spare time I've been browsing the internet for all things 1930s, 1940s and 1950s. Today I found all of these lovely ladies, and I wanted to share their slim, sleek lines, and the last woman's red, red lips with you all. (Not to mention the fact that I wish I owned most of the dresses above!)

L. Stacks

Bummer Tuesday & Thesis Work

My apologies to my faithful readers who have been waiting patiently for a new blogpost (that's you, Kristina!), but Monday and Tuesday were a bit hectic for some reason. Yesterday I was planning on blogging about the anthology release, but I just ended up really bummed out because neither Barnes & Noble or Border's had the book in yet, and mine hadn't arrived in the mail. (At one point, I looked outside and a brown box was sticking out of the top of our mailbox. Giddy, I ran outside in my slippers, but it was an Anthropologie box for one of my roomates... needless to say I was pretty let down, but at least it was a package from my favorite store.)

Anway, I did get quite a bit of my thesis writtten over the weekend, and then I also got an extension, which I really hate to do, but I want the chapters I turn in to be pretty decently revised so that my thesis readers don't just reiterate what I've already heard in workshop.

Writing takes a lot of time for me. I'm sure I've shared this before, but I'll go ahead and do it again... I always, always write by hand. If I don't write by hand, the quality diminished and people can actually tell the difference! (I had a professor in undergrad who picked out the 4 people in the class that had written an assignment by hand, and on the second day of class, even!) I write on lined paper, in all capital letters, very slowly. This is so that I don't get ahead of myself--in fact, I try to only think about the sentence that I am writing that very second.

Then, a couple of days later I take my computer out and type up everything that I've written, and do a very small first revision. I try not to make huge changes, but just tweak some things or add some minute description. This is the part that I dislike the most, the point that feel so time-consuming. But after 4 years of writing this way, I am 100% convinced that it is actually the fastest way to write. (Slow and steady wins the race, anyone?)

So this week I'm just taking it slow and working on the scenes that need some help in my thesis. I think I'll have about 12 more pages to write by Monday, but I'm not too worried--actually, I'm pretty excited because 12 more pages would put my total word count over 100 pages!

Happy (slow) writing,

L. Stacks

Love Notes

Today I've been researching love letters from WWII for my current novel section. It's really fun to read the sweet notes between couples from the 1940s. Here are some lines from "Al" to "Jill," found at this great site. I wish all research were this engaging--and heartwarming.

"Men sit on their bunks, light cigarettes, and agree silently when someone says, "Here we sit,

waiting for the war to end." Then the whistle blows and we learn about keeping our noses clean, and something about first aid. When all is done, we resume our passive state, known in the Army as "As you were!" spoken in threatening, harsh, and clipped tones."

"What a silly letter this has been -- all of it directed towards the last paragraph where I can finally say that I love you. They are all that way. After each entry, the little voice pipes up, "Can I tell her now, huh?" and I say "No, jerk, wait for a few more lines. Got to make her think something of importance is going on, even if it isn't." But now there are enough lines and I can sit back and scratch my arms and write it simply, with finality, a little as if I were actually reaching for your lips. You have all of my love, darling."

L. Stacks

ACM #50 "Another Chicago Issue:" Call for Submissions!

As many of you know, I have been interning with the award-winning literary magazine Another Chicago Magazine for the past six months, helping with editorial selections, organization, and slush-reading. ACM's #49 "Bestiary" was released mid-summer, and we are well on our way to produce another great issue in early 2010.

ACM #50 will be a Chicago-themed issue, "Another Chicago Issue." To be considered for publication in this issues, you need not submit a piece specifically about Chicago (although feel free to, if you're so inclined) rather, you need only to live in Chicago, and to represent what we feel to be true Chicago-writing style.

About ACM: "Above all, we prefer diversity and an eclectic variety of work, which in some way diverges from and chafes againt preconceived ideas of genre, technique, and form, as well as work that may be a particularly distinguished example of more conventional modes. We believe that our content continues to encourage the reading of contemporary literature that is not only outside the most popular “mainstream,” but somewhat outside the “literary mainstream” as well. In other words, we hope to strike a more adventurous path from our peers and we hope to break new ground in our consideration and inclusion of multiple aesthetic and social viewpoints. Over the past four decades we feel we have largely succeeded in achieving this vision."

Submissions must be postmarked by January 5, 2010 and addressed as follows:

Another Chicago Magazine

Jacob S. Knabb

2608 W. Diversey

Apt 202

Chicago, IL - 60647

Re: "Another Chicago Issue"

I'd love to see submissions from you all--and please feel free to spread the word, as we have always been a magazine that is interested in publishing quality writers regardless of their previous publishing experience.

L. Stacks

"Up North": The Ever-Elusive Poem

I spent the labor day weekend this year "up north" (any Michiganders out there will understand this to mean anyplace in Michigan north of, say, Mount Pleasant, the middle knuckle of Michigan's mitten). "Up north" is a place that I hold dear, it is a place that reminds me of family, of solitude, history and a place I always considered to be my favorite place ever since I was young.

[The view from the cottage porch--feet up, rocking chair]

That said, I've been spending the last two years trying to put into words what this place means to me--most specifically, my grandparents' cottage near Cheboygan, about 20 minutes from tourist-y Mackinaw City. The cottage sits on chilly, clear Lake Huron, yet is tucked away by a winding dirt road, thick pines and bushes. For two years, I've had pieces of a poem playing in my head, with talk of beach grass like snakes, birch trees unwrapping like the paper on a present, and the springs that trickle from the woods into the rocky lake.

[Clear waters, smooth stones]

But still, still, I can't seem to catch the poem. I've written out numerous drafts, started from scratch, and had workshops and helpful comments. The question keeps coming down to: what is this poem about? why do you want to share this place? what does it mean to you that makes you want others to know?

And I can't put my finger on it.

Maybe the poem is meant to convey the calming lullaby that the scenery of "up north" is to me. But, still, the cottage is "Kabibanoka" (the cruel north wind) and the cold, refreshing, harshness of the cottage, of "up north" is something that needs to be conveyed as well. But, how can something be a soothing lullaby and harsh and cruel? How can I explain this to people who've never experienced Lake Huron's white sands, and freezing creeks, its wildflowers sprouting on the beach, and the dark runoff that looks like amber?

I guess I'll keep trying. Maybe this poem just isn't meant to be written yet. Maybe, for now, I need to let it sit, let it bob like a piece of driftwood, let it get smoothed down like the broken bottles on the beach until it turns into beach glass. Maybe then, the poem, and I, will be ready.

[Sandy beach, wooded trees]

L. Stacks

Home Improvement

So I'm officially a second-year MFA candidate, and seeing what it's like to live the life of a writer (with a few babysitting gigs thrown in here and there). So far, however, the life I've been living looks a lot more like I want to be a HGTV host rather than that of the next Hemingway. In the past week and a half, I've completed a move across the city (from Bucktown to lovely Lakeview) and have been hard at work making the new place into home--painting my Harry-Potter room Soothing Green Tea green, supplying a poem-of-the-week for my two ever-supportive housemates, and filling up my sturdy handmade bookcase (thanks, Dad!).

Now that I'm settled into the place, I'm hoping the inspiring photography on the walls, the fresh paint and our beautiful "secret garden" in the backyard will help me write.write.write.
So far, I've been working on a creative nonfiction essay about peas (yes, like the nasty little vegetables) and letting a few poems simmer (maybe I'll finally get my northern Michigan poem to feel just right). I have three poems due for workshop this coming Tuesday, and an eight-page creative nonfiction essay due on Thursday, so I'll have more writing updates to come--and maybe an excerpt or two!

Get out and enjoy the fall weather--I think I've decided this is my favorite part of the year.

L. Stacks

Loving This Article on Love

It must be a month for Hope College professors, because here is an essay in O (Oprah Magazine) written by my other favorite Hope professor, the lovely Heather Sellers. I took Fiction I with her in 2006 and fell in love with writing, and here I am now. I love this piece--it's funny, heart-wrenching and always, always quirky. Plus, it has three of my favorite things: coffee, love, and conversation. 

Funk Buster

I have the best writing group. Ever.

When I took advanced fiction my senior year in college, the professor assigned us to a small workshop group, so that we could get weekly feedback from our peers. Until this time, I had never received helpful hints or criticism from anyone each week, so it was really amazing to see how much that sort of dedication helps--especially when it comes to revising. 

After we had graduated, I spent the next summer--the summer before I was to attend Roosevelt's MFA program--not writing. So in the fall, when the three of us talked of starting a weekly workshop over Skype, I jumped at the chance. 

Each week, we all connect from Grand Rapids, Spain, and Chicago, and workshop one person's piece for about an hour. Sometimes the connection isn't great, and sometimes we'll only be able to squeeze twenty minutes in to meet, but it's always, always helpful. 

For the past month or so, I've had been in a writing funk. It seems to happen to me in the summer--I usually am best about staying on top of my writing during the school year, when I seem to have no time to do so. In the summer, I have loads and loads of time and yet the writing never gets done.

So last week, when it was my turn in a piece for workshop, I was stuck. I ended up just emailing the girls about 10 really rough pages of a plot point in my novel that I'm really struggling with. I went into the workshop dreading their comments. I felt like everything I had written was wrong and boring. 

But the comments I received were uplifting. I had convinced myself that I was writing off-the-mark, that I was taking too long to write what really needed to be written. I had allowed the little writing demons in my head to take me over. 

My workshop group, two people I trust with my writing more than anyone else said: no! you've got it! just keep going! it's almost there! 

And so I sat down that night and wrote. And again last night. And what has been coming out surprised even me. I wrote with the fuzzy feeling in my stomach when I know this is it. this is it.  

So if you don't have a writing group to hold you accountable, and to know your writing better than you do yourself, you should really try to go out and find one. 

L. Stacks

End Of the Semester Reading!

I will be giving a five-minute excerpt from my creative nonfiction piece, "Chasing After My Sister," tonight. Other students in Roosevelt's MFA program will be reading as well, so it's bound to be a pretty fun night. If you'd like to attend, the reading starts at 7 pm at the Book Cellar (on Lincoln Ave, in Lincoln Square). The Book Cellar is a pretty neat hangout, with books, coffee, beer, and wine. Hope to see you there!

Drip, drip.

It's a dreary day in Chicago. Overlooking the city, Buckingham fountain, and Lake Michigan from my favorite spot in RU's library, everywhere I look it is wet, wet, wet. 

Walking to school, I was annoyed. My umbrella turned inside-out, people were taking up too much room on the sidewalk. I was cold and I didn't wear rainy-day shoes. 

But now, in the soft, golden glow of the library, warm and dry, I feel better. I feel like writing. I have a creative nonfiction piece simmering in my head, in my fingertips, about fathers and daughters and about crying. Looking outside, I know that today is the day I should start that piece. 

---

My blitz for the day:

Rain

[Raymond Carver]

Woke up this morning with

a terrific urge to lie in bed all day

and read. Fought against it for a minute.

Then looked out the window at the rain.

And gave over. Put myself entirely

in the keep of this rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?

Make the same unforgivable mistakes?

Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

L. Stacks

In Response to Feb. 5 Memoir: Who Cares? [Notes from the AWP]

At the AWP last weekend, I attended a session entitled Why Would You Say That?: Issues of Nonfiction and Fiction in Young Writers' Lives. It really cleared up a lot of things for me when thinking about creative nonfiction and was sort of an aha! moment.

During the panel, the speakers discussed the importance of narrative tension. Too many times you writers think that CNF is writing a story exactly as it happened--and not adding narrative tension and heightening the plot arc. Just because something's true doesn't mean you still can"t craft it into a compelling story. 

There's a difference between what happened and what the author makes out of it. 

There's also a difference between the you as an author and you as a character. 

A key suggestion for CNF stories that are struggling is to find to stories that aren't quite related, but can but juxtaposed, and stick them together to create a compelling piece. 

One question to ask of your CNF piece: Is it inviting or showing off?

And finally, one thing the panelists (some of whom are editors of literary magazines) all agreed on was this: they love beautiful CNF writing that goes to a realization beyond itself.

Thank you, panelists, for speaking eloquently, for patiently explaining, giving helpful hints, and being honest. Thank you, because know I have a better idea what to do with some of my own CNF and feel like plenty of people out there do care.

---

Just took an internship position with Another Chicago Magazine this week (site has not been recently updated). I'm doing some marketing and business related stuff, as well as helping to choose submissions for publication and help edit the mag. Currently working on issue 49, with a very special 50 Chicago issue coming out later in the year! I'll update with news on this publication and my work there!

L. Stacks

Memoir: Who cares?

The one thing that makes me the maddest about writing memoir is that fellow writers and professors are always asking "Why should I care about this story? What makes this story different than other memoirs about the same material?" They say, "Sure, this is a very interesting story and it's well-written, but what makes me care?"

When one picks up a fictional novel, and finds it interesting and well-written, then they become invested in the story and they care. Why does it have to be any different for memoir? Why does the author have to state clearly: "This is why my story matters to you. This is what you should take out if it. This is why I'm different than everyone else"?

I write memoir because I think that people might be interested in my story about growing up with a sister with a rare Autistic disorder. I share funny, sad, insightful, and frustrating moments from my life with my sister and if people can get something out of those moments, then great! If they simply find it an interesting story, and want to learn more about Angelman's Syndrome, then I'm happy with that, too. 

Even in my fiction, I don't like to point out the obvious or even write flashy plots to attract readers. I hope that my writing quality and content are enough to bring my writing an audience, and I believe that memoir isn't really any different.

I read memoirs because the writer has evoked something in my in their descriptions, in their emotions that bring me to identify with the author, not because they point out a lesson that I, too, could learn from their experience. That is why I care about memoir.

---

Sorry for the long break from blogger. I've been having internet issues, and the start of the new semester has been a little hectic. I'll post a lot more from now on, promise.

L. Stacks

The Method: How I Write

For some reason, I can only seem to sit down and write two pages at a time. And that's not even two single-spaced pages, or even two typed pages. My imagination, my out-of-shape hand, and my attention span only allow me to get two handwritten pages out each time I write. 

I suppose it's like running or any other exercise, and I just need to "train" myself for longer writing workouts. 

Part of it, I'm sure, is the way I write. I use what my college fiction prof, Heather Sellers, dubbed "The Method," which is essentially a very regimented, concentrated way to get a scene (not a plot) down on paper. 

You start by putting yourself into the scene, into one of the characters (there should be at least two, and if there aren't then something like the weather or a pet should act as if they are a character). Think about, even write down, what is above you, below you, on each side of you. When you are well-acquainted with your scene, then you're ready for The Method.

Basically, The Method consists of 4 basic writing prompts, which you repeat over and over until your time is up, or until your scene is finished. These prompts are:

I am... 

You are...

We are here because...

The worst thing is...

Sometimes, after several rounds of this in one scene, the second two prompts tend to drop out, leaving just the "I am," "You are" action (which, can also be dialogue). 

And that is The Method, my method. 

---

On a different note, I may be headed to California for a little mid-January vacation here soon... it kind of just came up, and I really hope it works out. 

L. Stacks

Home Again

"Snow is cold, rain is wet,

chills my soul right to the marrow.

I won't be happy 'til I see you alone again,

'til I'm home again and feeling right."

Song: Home Again

Artist: Carole King

Album: Tapestry

---

It's like you're scattered in a million different places, living like this. Family three hours away, a boy two and a half, friends all over the country--and yet, you want to be here, in this city, in your apartment with your books, your clothes, your quilts. It's hard being apart, feeling like you're apart from yourself because there's always something missing. But when you walk through the frosty streets, see the lights from the tallest buildings, and simply look around with amazement every second you're in this city, it almost makes your forget you need anything else.

I'm back from my holiday break, and I've resolved to really get this blog here going. I returned without finding any rejection letters in the mail, so that's one blessing. I'm determined to write five days a week, because this story just keeps rustling around between my ears, sometimes whispering and sometimes shouting, and until I get it out there won't be any peace and quiet. Oh, and there's also a bet, and I really don't want to lose. I'm determined to get through this season without my usual wintertime-blues, to try and smile a little more each day, as corny as that sounds. I guess you could say I'm figuring out my 2009 resolutions right here, right now, although I'm pretty sure I usually think NY resolutions are pretty lame and disappointing. 

Anyway. Loved Ben Button. Definitely go and see it if you have 3 hours to spare. A pretty perfect love story, in my opinion. 

Reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Thoughts to come. 

-L. Stacks

Something New

The last time I attempted to become a blogger was five years ago, during the summer before my freshman year in college. From what I remember, it mostly consisted of my ramblings on what I did each day--for example, how I cried my eyes out the first night in my dorm room after a framed picture of my then-boyfriend shattered into pieces on the floor, leading to a later breakup with more tears. All the blog actually amounted to was leading me to become involved with another boy, luckily, one whose framed photograph has remained intact over the past three and half years. 

I suppose writing this on a very slow-moving, very cold Amtrak train is leaving me feeling nostalgic, thinking about other times I embarked on something new: my first writing class when Heather Sellers had us yell "Die, demons, die!" at the white concrete walls; my move to Chicago just three months ago, with my first glimpse of flowers in a city park; or even that day when I sat on a park bench on a cold evening in spring, and jumped--or leaned, rather--into in new relationship. The places we come from, the journeys that we've taken, and the way we've worn down the soles of our shoes are the stories that I think are the ones to be shared. 

Not that this blog intends to be an expression of my day-to-day activities, but instead a reflection on what influences me as a writer, what my opinions are on what I'm reading, and everything I'm discovering in my creative writing MFA program. I won't be as sassy as bookslut or as smart as word by word but I figure that in this age of computers all aspiring writers need a blog--well, and five more hours in every day, too.