Tag Archives: writing

Writers Need Other Writers!

One day, back in the years when I taught writing in various adult-education venues in my home community, I opened my back door to find a young man on my doorstep.  He was one of my students, and his face was creased with concern.

“Marion,” he said, “how long does it take to write a novel?”

I might have laughed except it was so serious a question.  He was working on a novel, had been working on it for some months, I knew, and his girlfriend, his parents, his friends had all ganged up on him.

Aren’t you finished with that thing yet?  What’s wrong with you?  Why are you wasting your time?

I invited him in and assured him that his process, the length of it, the difficulty of it, was absolutely normal.  And when he left, I held him and his bewildering isolation in my heart.

Writers need other writers!

At whatever stage of our careers we find ourselves, poking a toe into the cold water of a first manuscript or polishing a story for an impatient editor, it is too easy to drown in the isolation our work demands.  And the truth is that most of those we love and live with don’t get it!  They don’t have a clue about and sometimes even resent the way we spend our days, and if we try to bring them into our circle, their eyes have a way of glazing over.

I remind myself from time to time that there are many others who can’t share the details of their working day with those they live with, often because their work is so technical that other folks wouldn’t understand if they tried.  But most of those people have co-workers around them during the day, others who do understand their process, who appreciate the significance of their work.

They don’t spend their days alone in a room rummaging through the contents of their own minds day after day after day.

I’ll say it again.  Writers need other writers!

Over the years I have satisfied that profound need partly, of course, by searching out other writers and keeping them close.  But because writers tend to be scattered, I have also served my need for legitimization, for understanding, for authentication by teaching.

Teaching developing writers keeps me in touch with others who love writing.

I have taught in many different venues, including my last and most satisfying position with Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults.  When I left VCFA, I was ready for retirement and glad to be able to focus entirely on my own work.  But while I continued to value my freedom from the demands of an MFA program, isolation crept back in.

Is there anyone else in the world doing this thing I am attempting, day after quiet day?

That was until my good friend, VCFA grad, and National Book Award finalist, Debby Dahl Edwardson, came to me with her dream.  Debby lives in Alaska now, but she grew up in Minnesota.  And she used to spend her summers on Elbow Lake in the pristine wilderness of northern Minnesota.  That place became part of her writer’s soul, and she has long wanted to share it with other writers.

LoonSong

Debby’s dream came to fruition as LoonSong, a writer’s retreat, and LoonSong has brought me back into the company of writers, writers talking writing.  What a blessing it has been!  This coming September, from the 6th through the 10th, we will gather for the third time, and I can already feel my energy rising as I move toward the event.

The retreatants come from every part of the country and represent every level of experience.  The faculty is always stellar.  (Check the website, www.LoonSong.org.)  And the conversation—oh, the all-day, all-evening conversation!—is nurturing and challenging and the best way I know to break through writerly isolation.

Come join us.  It’s a very small retreat, a boutique experience, and there are still a few slots left.

I would love to meet you there.

I would love to sit down and talk with you about this unique, blessed, complicated work that occupies our lives.

And then we will carry one another home in our hearts, banishing the isolation for another year!

Duck and Cover

In 1951 the US Federal Civil Defense Administration in consultation with the Safety Commission of the National Education Association produced a film called Duck and Cover.  The film featured an animated turtle named Bert, who, with a catchy lyric playing in the background, taught American children to duck and cover if/when an atomic bomb detonated nearby.  I was in seventh grade in 1951, but the film never came to my school.  Nor did the duck-and-cover exercises, for which I cannot help but be grateful.

(If you’re interested in seeing the film, go to Duck and Cover)

I can’t imagine what it would have meant to me as a child to practice dropping under my desk and covering the back of my neck to keep safe from a horrendous and almost inevitable bomb.  Maybe something similar to what it must mean to our school children today to go through drills to prepare against shooters.

I did participate more fully in the moment in 1961.  I was a young teacher standing in front of my high school English class when the principal came on the PA system to give instructions for evacuating the school and our city should a nuclear missile come our way.  The terror of the Cuban missile crisis and the years surrounding it is imprinted on my bones.  (As a young woman I used occasionally to read newspaper obituaries in towns where I didn’t know a soul just to note how many people had lived out full lives, a privilege I was convinced would never be mine.)

My entire adult life has been played out in an improbable bubble, a bubble free of world-wide nuclear devastation.  That we all came through the Cuban missile crisis whole is almost beyond improbable.  We know now that the nuclear warheads we were holding off with our threats were already in place.  We know, too, that we were attempting to bomb Russian submarines.  Just think if we had connected with even one target!

And if the potential for devastation has been less obvious in the years that have followed it has been no less real.

The grace of that nuclear-free bubble has nothing to do with peace.  In the eight decades of my life, my country has been in a nearly constant state of war.  The fact that we haven’t all been blow away can be attributed only to luck and happenchance.

Recently, I have been reading Daniel Ellsberg’s The Doomsday Machine, Confessions of a Nuclear War Planner.  Why?  I’m not entirely certain except, perhaps, to give credence to my lifelong nightmares.  Ellsberg does that very effectively.  To understand the myriad ways our planet might have been destroyed—may yet be destroyed—by accident or intent boggles the mind.  In fact, after a time, the boggled mind simply quits reacting.

At least mine did.

But what is the point of choosing to know?  It is clearly impossible in our system to vote a leader into office who would have the will and the power to stand against this obscenity.

None has for the last half century.  Not one!

Yet, these are our lives being played out . . . played with . . . lived.  The jeopardy is ours and our children’s and our grandchildren’s.

Ah . . . those grandchildren!  Sometimes I imagine sitting down with my grandchildren and trying to explain my failure to leave them a safe and habitable world.

Trying to explain why I have so few answers to offer, only more questions.  Lots and lots of questions.

What is it with the human race?  Do we still stand at the mouth of our caves, our hands filled with stones to repel the next intruder?  Certainly the stones have evolved.  Why haven’t we?

Each morning I emerge into the world filled with such questions.  And then what do I do?  I sit down and write another children’s book.  Whatever it is, it will at least be more honest, more useful than Duck and Cover. 

I often wonder what it must have been like to live in pre-World War II Germany.  Something like living in the United States today, perhaps?

“Things are awful.  I know they are awful.  But right now I have supper to fix.”

Supper is good, though . . . as is the choice to go on with our lives.

Maybe I could say that to those beloved grandchildren.

“Supper is good.  Every breath that fills your lungs and returns once more to the world is holy.  Now . . . go out and fight for those impossible-to-imagine leaders, the ones who understand just how precious you are.  How precious our world is!”

Feeling as Meaning

I have never been fond of the exercise that asks students to identify a story’s theme.  Most writers, I suspect, share my view.  In fact, I once heard a Newbery medalist tell about her grandson receiving such an assignment about her book. Having access to the source, he called to ask.

She thought for a moment, then said, “Well, I guess the theme is . . . ” and she spelled it out for him.

He called her again a few days later to report.  His teacher had given his answer a D.

I’ve seen some educator-produced materials designed to support On My Honor that explained the “theme” of my novel in ways I barely recognized.  And though most of my grandchildren read On My Honor as a class assignment, I’ve been glad none of them ever called to ask me to explain its theme.  I probably would have gotten a D on the assignment, too.

It’s not that stories don’t have meaning.  They do.  Always.  A story could be saying, “Isn’t life a lark?”  It might be, “Life is a dirty deal.”   Perhaps it’s “Crime doesn’t pay.”  Or maybe “Seems like we’re all in this mess together.”  A story reveals its writer in the most intimate way by holding up her world view.  Sometimes a story can reveal more of her world than the writer herself understands.

Stories—at least well-written, deeply conceived stories—are not intended to stamp a lesson in the middle of a reader’s forehead, no matter how young and stampable that reader might be.  What stories are meant to do, more than anything else, is to make us feel.

The meaning of a story, any story, emerges through the feelings the story engenders, and feelings are difficult to explicate on an exam.

On My Honor

So what do I want my readers to feel when they read On My Honor?  First, I want them to feel Tony’s sudden, unexpected death, the shock of it, the finality of it.

Then I want them to feel Joel’s misplaced guilt, the way he takes responsibility for Tony’s brash actions, the way he blames himself for daring Tony to swim to the sandbar.  (It’s curious that my readers, even my readers’ teachers, rarely seem to notice that the guilt is misplaced.  Joel made the dare because he was trying to prevent Tony from going on his own to climb the bluffs, something he assumed would have been even more dangerous than messing around in the river.)

I want them to feel the way Joel’s guilt becomes blame, becomes fury against his father.  I want them to feel the hopelessness of that blame, of that fury, whether directed inward or onto another.

And finally, I want them to feel the solidness of Joel’s father.  Like so many of us parents, Joel’s father has been trying so hard throughout the story to do the right thing that he has been  wavering and uncertain.  But when Joel needs him most, that man’s love is a rock.

“Will you stay?” [Joel] asked, reaching a hand out tentatively to touch his father’s knee.  “Will you sit with me until I fall asleep?”

“Of course,” his father said.

I want my readers to understand in their bones that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be wholly, solidly, reliably there.  And that it is love’s thereness that redeems.

When they feel that, it doesn’t matter whether they can wrap that feeling in words and call it theme or not.  They understand.

Where the Storyteller is Loyal

“. . . Where the storyteller is loyal, eternally and unswervingly loyal to the story, there, in the end, silence will speak.”

Credit: gracey | morguefile.com

Isak Dinesen

To Love the World

“I think our job is to love the world.”    Kate DiCamillo

Some days it takes courage to love this world of ours.  Some days it feels easier–simpler, anyway—to pretend this fragile planet, badly used in so many ways, isn’t owed anything so demanding as love.

And when I say “badly used,” I’m talking about more than greenhouse gases and plastic clogging our seas and a climate spinning out of control.

I’m talking about a world bristling with nuclear weapons.  I’m talking about leaders—especially those in my own country—who for the past fifty years and more have believed in such monstrosities, manufactured them, stockpiled them, brandished them, used them on a civilian population . . . leaders who clearly hunger to use them again.

I’m talking about laws in this “land of the free” created and interpreted and enforced to protect a tiny fraction of our citizenry, those who are rich, white, male, heterosexual.

I’m talking about the wealthiest nation in the world where every day food goes to waste by the ton while too many of its citizens go hungry.

I’m talking about  . . . but what is the point of more talk?

We know.  We all know.  And knowing seems to bring only despair, and despair does nothing to feed love.

Kate De Camillo, however, says “our job is to love the world” and Kate is a wise woman.

What does it mean, though, to love?  It is such an easy word to say, so friendly sounding, convenient, all encompassing.  But love takes thought and attention and lots and lots of hard work.  I know that from trying to live love every day within the confines of a family, within a community of friends.  I know, too, that love has very little to do with feeling and a great deal to do with doing.

Love is a verb, after all.  An active verb, any English teacher would be glad to point out.

So what does it mean to love the world?  This world.  The one we stand upon today.  The one descending into chaos all around us.

And how can my loving make the tiniest bit of difference?

I am a storyteller.  Only that.  The best of my energy and passion and talent turns itself into stories, stories meant to challenge and to heal.

Many years ago I cast a book into the world that spoke against war, hoping to build a longing for peace in my readers.  My book’s title was Rain of Fire, and the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom gave Rain of Fire a nice award.

Rain of Fire – Marion Dane Bauer

And war did not stop.  It did not even pause

Again and again I hold the natural world up in my stories.  I write about the flora and the fauna and the arching blue sky with reverence, hoping to generate reverence in my readers.

And the flora and the fauna and the arching blue sky go on being abused without end.

I write about families, struggling to nurture, to survive.

And families go on struggling . . . to nurture, to survive.

Clearly my stories are not a fix for anything.  And yet they are the deepest gift that has been given into my hands.

They are my love for this chaotic world made manifest.

I write these stories with all the honesty, with all the passion, with all the intelligence I possess.  They are my strength and my determined hope.  They are the gift—very nearly the only gift—I have to give the children coming up behind me.

Are my stories enough?  Of course, not.  Nothing I do alone will ever be enough.  Yet each story lives out its life as a fragment of a larger love.

And only love, all our love gathered together, has any hope of saving this beleaguered world.

What is your gift?  What is the work of your love?