Kill The Butterfly

July 2016. I’m at the Creekstone Inn in Idyllwild, California. A bed and breakfast place with a lodge feel to it: old lady furniture, the smell of wood and jacuzzi tubs in every room. In the lobby three French women are drinking and playing pool and I want to be one of them but I’m trying to write instead.

I’ve spent the last six days at Idyllwild Arts Writers Week in a bunk with three other fellowship recipients. All women. Two poets and a nonfiction writer. We travelled in a pack all week and probably seemed clique-y but the truth is we just had no privacy so summer camp inevitabilities took hold.

Idyllwild Arts is actually a residential high school during the year. Everywhere you walk on campus you hear horn players warming up, you see paintings plastered on walls, sculptures tucked between buildings, kids with cameras studying how light falls, girls in ballet tights moving through the cafeteria with perfect posture.

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Yep.

My workshop leader was Samantha Dunn who is also my editor at Coast (I write a book round-up called Shelf-Awareness). On the second day of class, after several ice breakers and writing exercises and fun, I finally asked her about the real shit.

I loved playing with the prompts, I said but wanted to know how she approaches her work when she’s got a full draft and is doing major surgery, that part of writing that is endless decision-making and analysis. The ruthless part.

“How do you do it?” I asked.

“I get weird,” she said.

The class laughed a little.

“I do. I get weird,” she said. “I get up, I move around the room, I listen to Tom Waits. I do whatever it takes.”

Something clicked when she said this. It felt like she was giving us permission to make a mess.

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An eye I drew from a plaster model during Jane Bauman’s class at Coastline Community College in Newport Beach

Writing does not seem messy the way painting can seem messy, the way working on a student film can feel messy, the way my left hand is smeared with graphite when I draw. Writing is the opposite of tactile at times. You’re a million miles away on another planet while you work.

In 2015 I got so depressed I didn’t write for several months so I took a drawing class to trick my brain into a hard reset. Each class my instructor Jane Bauman would plop a model in front of us and force us to confront the figure. The expectations were simple: we were supposed to make a mark and deal with it’s inevitable imperfection.

David Ulin addresses this failure in one of my favorite essays on writing from the Paris Review:

“…writing…remains an unsteady process, a balancing act between expectation and an almost willful lack of expectation, between my aspiration and my failure, between what I want and what I cannot do….I’m familiar with this now…but then, it used to drive me crazy, the imperfection that sets in with the first written word.”

During his talk on structure at Idyllwild, Ulin talked about the need to transmit narrative without getting in its way. He quoted Burrows who said all that writers need to do is “function as the recording entity” and made me think of that brief foray into life drawing.

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“The only difference between fiction and non-fiction is ‘What if’… “-Samantha Dunn

Ulin said that as a kid when he set out to write a novel the first thing he would do is number the pages of a notebook.

“Okay, I will now write a 170 page novel.” He would say to himself.

It sounds funny but he explained that in some ways it made sense because he was defining a structure, even if only for himself and even if it was bound to be broken; it was a mark to be dealt with.

I am incredibly embarrassed about how long it has taken me to finish the book I’ve been working on and I haven’t been comfortable naming the actual cause of my delay until now, which is, quite simply: fear.

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Notes from Ben Loory’s lecture where I finally learned how a midpoint should operate

“Perfectionism has a marvelous way of tricking people into thinking that it’s there greatest trait,” -Elizabeth Gilbert

If you’re looking to kick start your creative juices in 2017, Gilbert has a great course on Udemy and it’s super cheap. In it she discusses perfectionism at length explaining how it is pretty much just fear in high-heeled shoes and a mink coat pretending to be really fancy.

I don’t openly love Elizabeth Gilbert but I definitely read “Big Magic” with simultaneous thoughts, which were:

Man I hate everything about this.

And: Man this exactly what I need to hear.

Though I am now beginning to realize it’s probably more like: man I hate everything about this because it’s exactly what I need to hear.

In this lecture Gilbert also quotes Rebecca Solnit in the New Yorker:

“…the perfect is not only the enemy of the good; it’s also the enemy of the realistic, the possible and the fun.”

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Portland-based poet Ed Skoog quotes Burrows and drops knowledge in his lecture about unfinishedness…

But the most compelling part of Gilberts lecture is her retelling of Ann Pachett’s analogy of “killing the butterfly.” Here’s Pachett’s original quote from her essay collection “The Story Of A Happy Marriage”:

“During the months (or years) it takes me to put my ideas together, I don’t take notes or make outlines; I’m figuring things out, and all the while the book makes a breeze around my head like an oversized butterfly whose wings were cut from the rose window in Notre Dame. This book I have not yet written one word of is a thing of indescribable beauty…and all I have to do is put it down on paper and then everyone can see this beauty that I see.

And so I do. When I can’t think of another stall…I reach up and pluck the butterfly from the air… and I press it down against my desk, and there, with my own hand, I kill it. It’s not that I want to kill it, but it’s the only way I can get something that is so three-dimensional onto the flat page… What I’m left with is the dry husk of my friend, the broken body chipped, dismantled and poorly reassembled. Dead. That’s my book.”

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Ms. Brandi Neal the girl in the black hat…

The perfectionist vision can either live on forever in your head or you can actually make something.

In our workshop in Idyllwild there was only one man in our class. He was in his 60’s, a veteran who’d travelled the world and said he was there to begin writing the book that he’d had in his head for over 30 years. On the first day we all went around the room and said what was blocking us. The guy listed his wife as one of the chief reasons why he wasn’t able to start writing, she just demanded so much of his attention you see? The rest of us all made eyes at each other. (I jokingly called him out on it later because I am an asshole like that.)

A couple days later that man did an amazing thing, when you think about it: he wrote 10 pages of that book that he’d had in his head for 30 years and then he shared those pages with the rest of us. The story’s potential was off the charts, the concept had Hollywood film written all over it but ultimately it read like it was written by someone who hadn’t written much.

He was in the first group to get workshopped and then never came to class again.

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Speaking of imperfection…here’s a horrible drawing of Bruce Bauman author of Broken Sleep. Sorry Bruce.

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An attempted portrait of my boyfriend in which I make him look very fat.

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Model from my life drawing class.

Stay In The Room & Other Writing Advice

In the last three months I’ve been to three writing retreats. The first was Lit Camp a small four-day deal in Calistoga, California. Then I was a teaching assistant at UCR’s ten-day residency in Palm Desert where I workshopped with other alumni. And finally I just got home from the Squaw Valley writer’s retreat.

I’ve put 1,109 miles on my car, have sat in over 50 lectures, have read 21 workshop submissions and have critiqued about 330 pages of other people’s work.

Needless to say I am so ready to get back to ACTUALLY FUCKING WRITING.

Seriously. If I have to sit through on more panel on “the future of the publishing industry” I think I might spontaneously combust.

Reading preference of Believer editor Casey Jarmen

Reading preference of Believer editor Casey Jarmen

I’m planning to write an essay for Lit Central about all this but in the meantime I have an entire notebook filled with bits of information–yes, I’m that dorky girl who takes out a pen and writes down the book you mentioned while you’re talking at a party.

What follows is just a random list of some of the things I wrote down and some doodles from the margins.

Quotes (I’m paraphrasing here): 

“I’m severely relieved when I find out that the people I need to talk to are dead” –Glen David Gold on researching for his memoir

A terrible attempt at drawing Glen David Gold

A terrible attempt at drawing Glen David Gold

“In American fiction nobody works” – Al Young (talking about giving your characters jobs)

“Poetry is to writing is what the piano is to music” – Al Young

“Workshopping should be for rough pieces, if not then that’s like cleaning up for the maid.” -Al Young

Three great statements from UCI professor Ron Carlson:

1) “Stay in the room.”

2) “Type yourself into the dark.”

3) “If you don’t know where you’re going why hurry?”

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“Writing is about building ramps to moments that matter. Then when the reader is in mid-air you slow down.” –Steve Almond

“You don’t get three adjectives you get two. It’s like accessorizing, you don’t want people to look at you and think “wow you’re wearing a lot of stuff” you want to look good.” –Susan Straight

“I don’t want to take 15% from a poet.” –Mollie Glick (in response to the question of whether poets have agents)

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“You don’t have to drink the whole carton to know whether the milk has gone bad” – Jennie Dunham (literary agent on reading submissions)

Recommended Reading (things people told me to read):

Story Collections: Last Night At The Lobster by Stewart O’Nan, Spectacle by Susan Steinberg, Stay Up With Me by Tom Barbash, Twenty Grand: And Other Tales of Love and Money by Rebecca Curtis, Binocular Vision by Edith Pearlman, The Last Chicken In America by Ellen Litman, The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg, Like Love But Not Exactly by Francois Camoin, The News From Spain by Joan Wickersham, Nimrod Flipout by Etgar Keret, The Commuters by Cheryl Klein, Wearing Dad’s Head by Barry

Stories: Rock Springs by Richard Ford, Honeydew by Edith Pearlman, Incarnations of Burned Children by David Foster Wallace

Novels: Telex From Cuba by Rachel Kushner, Duplex by Kathryn Davis, Gardening at Night by Diane Awerbuck, Tinkers Paul Harding, The Butcher Boy by Patrick McCabe, Shards by Ismet Prcic, Henderson The Rain King by Saul Bellow, The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes, Confessions of a Teenage Jesus Jerk by Tony DuShaneimage-7

Nonfiction (essays & books on writing): Rose Metal Press: Field Guide To Writing Flash Fiction, The Lonely Voice: A Study of the Short Story by Frank O’Connor, On Swarm by Tom Scocca, The Empathy Exams by Leslie Jamison, Metawritings: Toward a Theory of Nonfiction by Jill Talbot.

Folks I actually got to meet/chat with: Janet Fitch, Karen Joy Fowler, Michael Jaime-Becerra, Tara Ison, Rachel Fershleiser, Steve Almond, Susan Straight, Casey Jarmen, Tony DuShane, Rebecca Rubenstein, Al Young, Edan Lepucki, Glen David Gold, Amy Williams, Molly Glick, Elise Capron, Danielle Svetcov, Michael Carlisle, Andrew Tonkovich, D.P. Lyle, Andrew Sean Greer, Joanne Meschery, Christian Kiefer

Random Factoids and One-Liners:

Amy Tan was working as a business writer the first time she attended the Squaw Valley Writers Conference. It was 1985 and she was thirty-three years old. The Joy Luck Club was published in 1989. File Under: Things That Make Me Feel Better.

Here are two of her rejection letters that were on display at the conference. There was a poster board filled with them.

"the voice has to compensate for the fact that the characters, lacking complexity, are simply heroes or villains or nonentities…"

“the voice has to compensate for the fact that the characters, lacking complexity, are simply heroes or villains or nonentities…”

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-Edan Lepucki attended Squaw for the first time in 2007 and it wasn’t until this year, seven years later, that her debut novel “California” came out. File under: Patience Is A Virtue.

-Micheal Jaime-Beccerra says he tries to write 500 words a day and that he’s lucky if he’s kept all 2,500 words by the end of the week. File under: How To Eat An Elephant.

-The first draft is for yourself. The other drafts are you adjusting the story for an audience. (paraphrasing Glen David Gold)image-6

-The first story in a collection is a statement piece.

-You should know how much money is in your character’s pocket.

-The fear of plaid and fear of buttons are actual phobias.

New BFF’s: Penina, Mike, Ian, Janet, Ploi, Becky, Dawn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Orange County, Red Neck

I am on my knees scrubbing black residue off of jacuzzi tiles at condo complex on Pacific Coast Highway. My hair is pulled back in a bun and I can feel the sun beating down upon my neck. I forgot sunscreen.

I’m scrubbing the tile because this month there’s been record heat in Orange County and relentless Santa Ana winds. Record heat means more swimmers and the wild winds mean there’s more debris in each pool, which can double the time it takes for my father’s employees to finish their daily routes. Being strapped on time, our guys have to prioritize. This means skipping the tile brushing and that’s where I come in.

This necessary neglect, combined with the influx of bathers, results in a thick black residue that builds up on the tiles along the spa’s waterline. It is a stubborn film made of human sweat and oils, as well as sunscreen and tanning lotion and the only way to get rid of it is with elbow grease. Lots of elbow grease.

Before pic. It doesn’t look like much but it’s really stuck on there I swear!

Over the weekend I went to a writing retreat and the whole time I felt like an outsider. About 80% of the group was middle to upper-middle class white women in their 40’s. They were all very polite, most of them were blonde and pretty and seemed like they were enjoying a much needed break from their hectic lives, lives that I can only assume were filled with children and husbands and careers.

Feeling like I had little in common with these women, I ended up spending most of the four days hanging out with an old writer guy named Mike. Mike is a retired bricklayer/stone mason with the same leathery brown skin and friendly bullshit-detector as my father and every other blue-collar guy I know. He also had a great laugh.

At the retreat the hot tub was a big deal. There was lots of drinking and hot tubbing but I never went in. I tried to be social anyway and spent most nights watching the hot tub crowd from the comfort of a patio chair set near the edge of Jacuzzi. The bright moon and yellow spa light were the only sources of light so I was sort of in the shadows of the pool deck talking to Mike about writing and the perils of working for your old man.

“Why don’t you come in the hot tub!”

I was asked this several times.

I shook my head and scrunched my nose and shrugged. “I just don’t like it.”

But in my head I was thinking: Ugh, because it’s fucking gross!

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After! (The calcium deposits need bead blasting that’s not my job)

That was Saturday night and now here I am Monday morning on my knees in front of another hot tub (this one’s unfortunately twice as large) scrubbing off stains.

It’s kind of funny right?

I’m back to working for my dad to save up for yet another writing retreat, the next one is the Squaw Valley Writers Workshop. I’m working on an essay for Lit Central that gets into whether all this stuff seems worth it or not. I do sort of feel like a sucker doing this shit when I just buried myself in debt from the whole MFA thing. We’ll see how it goes.

This week I reviewed Jim Gavin’s short story collection Middle Men for The Coachella Review. It’s a book that is mostly about working class guys living in southern California, guys whose lives haven’t quite met their expectations, who are usually trying for something more but often come up short.

It was really refreshing to read because there were a lot of similar themes that I’ve been trying to wrap my head around since working for my father again. I’ve been working on this sort of jovial flash piece called “A Day In The Life Of Your Pool Man,” as a way into some of these concepts.

Here’s the part I wrote that gets at some of the stuff I identified with in Middle Men:

“Though you may never suspect it, there are times when your pool man contemplates the inconsequential nature of his life. How he’s spent day after day, year after year, picking debris out of water knowing full-well that the wind will blow and undo an hours worth of work in a matter of seconds. He wonders if this is the way life was meant to be lived or whether he should have wanted something more. Other times he feels comforted by the same simplicity.”

It’s probably bad luck to post a piece of a story that isn’t finished yet but there you have it.

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Random Classic Pool Guy Truck Parked Near My House

I think growing up in a working class family has always made me feel inferior to people that have more professional jobs. People who have to wear nice clothes to work, who sit in meetings and cubicles all day sending memos and shit.

Neither of my parents went to college and it seems like my father and most of his peers wanted something more for their kids. They wanted us to go to college and get jobs that would require us to use our minds–jobs that would keep our hands from becoming as torn up, coarse and weathered as theirs were.

They associated office jobs as the first step toward moving up in the world. Expected us to full take advantage of opportunities they’d missed. So my brother and I did end up getting degrees (the first on both sides of the family) but we both kept working with our dad anyway. So much for that idea… (though I know he secretly loves it).

I guess this whole class thing is just something small that has made me feel a little bit different than a lot of writers I’ve encountered lately. Something that makes me seek out Mike the bricklayer instead of the ladies in the jeweled sandals and maxi dresses.

There were actually some of those same types of women by the pool while I was scrubbing that tile. When I finished, I ran the jets to make sure the jacuzzi’s foam wouldn’t overflow (without defoamer that stuff will bubble over like that car in Willy Wonka).

That’s when one of the ladies addressed me in a friendly voice:

“You should’ve brought your suit girl!”

I smiled and tried to think of something equally friendly to say but I just nodded and stared at them behind my giant sunglasses. It was so hot all I could think about was how relaxed they looked laying there all slathered in tanning oil. And conversely how ugly and gross I must have looked sweating in my stained Pool Perfection t-shirt.

I could already see the nice even tans they had going. Then I touched the back of my neck, which was already starting to burn. I couldn’t see it of course, but I knew it was already bright red — burnt by the same sun that had kissed their skin so beautifully.

And I thought: I can’t wait for June Gloom.

Here's a random sign I saw near Lit Camp at Mayacamas Ranch near Calistoga

Here’s a random sign I saw near Lit Camp at Mayacamas Ranch near Calistoga