I am in love with the Newburyport Literary Festival for so many reasons, not the least of which is that it is truly a celebration of readers and writers. It all begins tonight with the opening ceremony and dinner with the authors. I will be at both, celebrating my buddy, Matthew Quick, who is this year’s honoree.
Then, bright and early, tomorrow morning I have my two events:
At 9AM, I will be at the Newburyport Art Association, reading from I AM HOLDING YOUR HAND
At 11AM, I will on a panel, Sustaining Momentum: The Art of the Short Story, at the Unitarian Universalist Church in Newburyport
The schedule is packed with author readings and panels. I hope if you live nearby, you will make the trip to Newburyport to enjoy the festival and our beautiful town.
When I lived in Jamaica Plain, I had two running routes: one through the Arboretum and one several times around the pond. Once, as I ran around the pond, a man came next to me and kept pace. He was in town from Africa, completing his training for the Boston Marathon. He liked the way I kept my slow pace and so we jogged side by side for a while and chatted until he got to the point where his body needed to go forward. He said good bye and ran ahead and I watched him go.
Long a runner, I’ve never run a marathon. In fact, one of my dreams has been to run The Boston Marathon. None other than this one. During all my years living in the city of Boston, I watched from the sidelines. I cheered for the runners. I felt a kinship with those around me as we celebrated the accomplishments of those who started and finished (and even those who just started and didn’t finish) the race.
You didn’t have to know a runner personally to feel the swell of pride through the crowd as each person crossed the finish line. You would marvel at the capacity of the human body to rise above pain and fatigue. You would marvel at the strength of the human spirit.
A marathon is about what we can overcome and not about what breaks us. It is about how strong we are and not about how vulnerable. It is about heart.
In truth, I’m not committed enough to running to likely ever make it into the race, but even if my body never makes it into the Boston Marathon, my mind will forever run alongside my brothers and sisters, coming from all over the world to run this race and become one body pushing forward.
They become one. One body. One blood. Runners and spectators. Loved ones and acquaintances. Strangers on the street, exchanging breath.
When they bleed, so do we all. And because of them, we keep pace with each other in fellowship.
To those who are hurting, my heart is with you. Peace to us all.
I just walked back into the house after dropping my son off at school. As I opened the door and walked into my mudroom, I realized I was talking to myself. Out loud. I’ve always talked to myself in my head. It’s been a near constant monologue for as long as I can remember, but this talking out loud stuff is new.
I suppose I should be worried. Have my brain scanned or something. But I’m not going to because I’m okay with it. It’s okay if I talk. It’s okay if I am heard.
I don’t need to please you with my silence.
***
A few weeks ago my son’s kindergarten teacher put a call out to the parents of the children in her class: would one of us be willing to come and speak to the incoming parents on information night about why we chose the half-day option for our child? I had specific reasons for why I had chosen this option and feel like it has worked out well for us and so I immediately volunteered.
I was not particularly nervous about getting up and speaking in front of this room of 50 or so people. I’m a happy public speaker. I enjoy it. I enjoy being on stage. It’s a familiar and comfortable place for me as that was my familial role as a child–the clown, the people pleaser.
But when it was my turn to speak, I lost my breath. My chest became hot. I choked out the words. I said what I needed to but my voice–the strong and confident one–was gone.
I was frightened.
It was back again. I had lost my voice.
***
Twelve years ago, my mother died. At the small outdoor service, I read a eulogy I had written for her. I read it strongly and confidently and with my own voice.
A week or so later, I was back at work. I was in a meeting that I had been in many times before when I was called upon to do what I had done many times before, get up and speak in front of the 50 or so engineers I worked with. They were friendly and familiar. They knew me and I knew them. But right there and then is when it happened: I froze. Choked out a few words. Sat down in utter humiliation.
In the five or so years that followed that, the fright clung to me whenever I was called upon to speak in front of a group. It wasn’t until after my son was born nearly six years ago, that I worked through my fright. I spent the time figuring out where it came from and why. I talked it down.
I practiced deep breathing. I told myself that I was having fun.
I let it go.
But then a few weeks ago, it was back again and there it was at the next thing I was called upon to do. It was there and there. It was there.
***
Last night, I had the honor of reading in front of an audience at Literary Firsts. I was going to read third and so I made sure I got there as early as I possibly could to give myself time to decompress from the drive and to give myself time to breathe.
In through the nose and out through the mouth.
In through the nose and out through the mouth.
In through the nose and out through the mouth.
In through the nose and out through the mouth.
In through the nose and out through the mouth.
Let go of the complexities of your fear and fall into the rhythm of breath.
When it came time for me to read, my fear was gone and I was able to read my words in my own voice. As I had in the past, I found the experience of sharing my words–in reading them aloud–entirely pleasurable. It was an opportunity to become one with the audience. We shared our breath.
It was intimate.
***
When you are dead, the thing that will first be forgotten will be the sound of your voice. When the person who loves you accidentally hears your voice in a video or on a forgotten voice mail, she will find herself very small and wishing to be in your arms. To be comforted by you. By your smell. By the sound of your voice.
***
A few months after my mother died, my husband and I were in Death Valley. We had just gotten back into the car after walking out onto the salt flats at Bad Water, the lowest place in the Western Hemisphere. It felt a holy place to me. I was right there down closest to the core. I was farther from the sky than I had been while still being able to see it. There were no caves walls around me. There were mountains. There was sky.
As we drove up out of that valley, our cellphone came back into reception. We had a voice mail from an unfamiliar number. I listened to the message. It was a woman’s voice I did not recognize. She said, “Hi. It’s me. I wanted to let you know that I’m okay.”
I knew that the message wasn’t meant for me but also that it was meant for me alone. I did not know that woman’s voice, but her voice knew me. We were there together in that moment and she was okay.
She was okay.
I was not alone without her.
I’m going to be reading from I AM HOLDING YOUR HAND on Monday, April 8th at Literary Firsts. It’s the third anniversary for this reading series and I’m pleased to be a part of it. If you are in the area, I hope I will see you there.
For the past week I’ve been working on making a visual on iMovie (which is too much fun) to go along with my reading of the title story for the book. Here’s what I came up with:
We worked our $5 an hour jobs. We rode through the city streets without helmets on our stolen bikes. We stood on the corner smoking and talking with the homeless men who were our friends. We drank beer on our lunch break. We stayed out all night and still worked our full shift the next day.
Beyond everyone I loved then–all those who broke my heart; beyond how much we talked about the art we would make someday; beyond the passion we felt for everything we believed: What that time in my life represents is a great, unfulfilled sadness. I knew I wanted to be a writer and I had written plenty before but then I stopped and I couldn’t get back started. I wrote privately in my journals. I squirreled it all away. Every separate emotion categorized. Even when I was happy then, I couldn’t stop feeling like I would never get to be where I wanted to be. I couldn’t help feeling like I would always be unfulfilled.
During all the years I lived in Boston, I passed by the Hynes Convention Center hundreds of times. Thousands. I worked conventions there. I passed through. I stood in its shadow.
20 years ago I never thought that I would be there again but this time with 12,000 other writers at AWP. I never thought I would be among them. Beyond that, I never could have imagined that I would be there because people had said yes to me. Because people had published my books and because people actually wanted to buy those books and read them.
20 years ago, this thought would have been incomprehensible.
It was a moment to stand among you and realize that I had circled back to just beyond my beginning. It was a moment to realize that even though it took me 20 years, I was there.
The 2013 AWP conference is this week (starting on Wednesday).
Normally, I would be packing my bags and stocking the fridge for my family. However, this week the conference is a mere 30 miles from my home. You would think this would make it easier for me to get to all of the panels and events. Instead, it makes it more difficult as I remain active and present in my daily life, which includes caring for my son.
As such, I’m not going to be much of a presence at the conference, but I’m sure you will all bravely carry on without me.
With that said, I will be at the bookfair on Saturday. In fact, I have two signings on Saturday, March 9th:
I will be signing Echolocation at the Engine Books table from 10-12ish
I will be signing I Am Holding Your Hand at the PANK table from 1-3ish
I really hope to see you there.
p.s. My advice from last year still holds: do NOT drink that shot of tequila when it is offered to you (this advice is especially true if you are over age 40).
If you are a parent or educator of young people over age 15, please consider this book to which a friend of mine contributed…
…There have 14,000 wars in the last 5,600 years, and at least 160 since 1945. Children are far more likely to experience war at some point during their childhood than they are to grow up without it.” J.L. Powers, That Mad Game: Growing Up in a Warzone
I was rather reluctant when I got an email from J.L. Powers asking me if I would be interested in contributing an essay to an anthology she was editing about children growing up in warzones. I am uncomfortable talking about Lebanon because it feels rather narcissistic given how many children suffered far more in Lebanon back then and since those days. So we agreed we could make it about Lebanon a little but more about a boy from Gaza named Mutassem, a ten-year old amputee who had came to Los Angeles for medical treatment through the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund, a…
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I wrote 2013 for the first time this morning. Isn’t that always so strange–he hesitation and then the full commitment to the new year? Of course, if you are like me, you will find yourself voiding a cheque or two before the year becomes automatic. But the new year exists nonetheless. Whether you write it or not, it is here.
So, yes, now it is January and it is 2013 and what the means to me is that my collection of fiction I AM HOLDING YOUR HAND is no longer forthcoming; now it simply is.
With that, I offer my thanks to those of who helped bring this book into this world:
I offer my thanks to the wonderful human beings at [PANK]: Roxane Gay, M Bartley Siegel, and Abby Koski. Also, I thank Alban Fischer for his beautiful design.
I offer my sincere thanks and gratitude to all of the editors who said yes to my work and published it in their journals before it appeared in this book:
Me Three
Journal for the Compressed Creative Arts
Cranky
flatmancrooked
DZANC Best of the Web Anthology
Swivel
The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Flash Fiction
My thanks to the talented writers who took the time to read and endorse this book: Eric Spitznagel, Randall Brown, Ethel Rohan, and Kathy Fish.
My thanks and love to my friends and family who love me no matter what, especially my husband and my son. My thanks to those of you who have supported me in my writing efforts over the years; your encouragement has meant so much to me, friends.
My thanks also to those editors who said no to me over the years. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to reassess my work and improve it.
Finally, I thank those of you who will read this book. Whether you like it or not, I am grateful that you took the time to read what I had to say.
Sweat the small stuff.
Eat more and exercise less.
Drink more wine and less water.
Spend more time inside.
Speed past the roses.
Look a gift horse in the mouth.
Watch more TV and read fewer books.
Spend more time engaging in pointless arguments on social media instead of writing or having meaningful conversations with live people.
My son jumps off the side of the pool into the water without fear.
We visit the beach, even in winter, and remark on how lucky we are to live here.
My son turns six, and I turn 46, the same age my mother was when her husband, my father, died.
I finish the draft of a new manuscript.
My second book is published.
Someone gives the book a one-star review and I pretend that it doesn’t bother me.
We celebrate our 11th wedding anniversary.
I realize I have been married to my husband for longer than I knew my father.
We go on vacation and drink a lot of wine.
My son reads a book to me.
Someone hurts my feelings.
I hurt someone’s feelings.
We get a new dog.
My son asks me a question that is painful to answer.
I face a dark night of the soul.
My hope is renewed.
Someone dies.
A child is born.
The Next Big Thing is a blog chain/self-interview that has been meandering through the internet lately. A friend asked me to participate and I readily agreed.
A big thanks to a lovely writer and a wonderful friend, Bonnie Zobell, for passing the baton to me. Keep your eyes open for The Whack-Job Girls, her fabulous fiction chapbook, forthcoming in March 2013 from Monkey Puzzle Press.
And now, onto my interview:
Q: What is your working title of your book (or story)?
My forthcoming collection of stories is called I AM HOLDING YOUR HAND.
Q: Where did the idea come from for the book?
Several years ago I collected several of my short stories and, separately from that, I collected several of my flash fiction pieces. I submitted each collection separately to [PANK] Books and on one beautiful day they asked me if they could publish them both as one collection. Of course, I was delighted and said, “Yes!” I then worked on merging the two manuscripts into one. I ended up cutting from each of the original manuscripts in order to make a single collection that made sense.
I’m quite proud of it.
Q: What genre does your book fall under?
It is literary fiction and is, as I said above, a collection of short stories, flash fiction, and some flash fiction hybrids.
Q: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Well, as there are many stories throughout, it’s hard to say, but I would love for Catherine Keener to play the main character, Maggie, in my story HAVE YOU SEEN US?
Q: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
A collection of stories in which the characters seek a glimmer of hope within their darkest hearts.
Q: Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
My book will be published by [PANK] Books in January 2013.
Q: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
10+ years. Many drafts of each of the pieces collected within.
Q: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
This is a question I would rather ask those who read the book. Readers, what say you, please?
Q: Who or what inspired you to write this book?
My own dark heart. My own glimmer of hope.
Q: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
The book is lovely to look at. The folks at [PANK] Books did a beautiful job with the layout and design. I am so grateful to them for their care and their faith in my words. Thank you, Matt. Thank you, Roxane. Thank you, Abby. Thank you, Alban.
And now it is my pleasure to pick a few more writers to interview and next week they will post their interviews. Tag! You’re it:
Ellen Meister whose forthcoming novel is the fabulously-witty and beautifully-written, Farewell, Dorothy Parker
Pia Ehrhardt author of the breathtaking, FAMOUS FATHERS & OTHER STORIES
Courtney Elizabeth Mauk whose wonderful, page-turner of a debut novel is SPARK
Nan Cuba, whose forthcoming novel, Body and Bread (Engine Books, May 2013), is one I simply cannot wait to read. Nan’s interview will be posted on this very blog next week.
My thanks to them all for taking part and my thanks again to the lovely Bonnie Zobell for including me.
My son is sleeping. He knows nothing of the sorrow from the past few days. Not so lucky are the surviving students of Sandy Hook Elementary School.
Tonight they are in my heart.
Their families are in my heart.
Those dead are in my heart. And their families. Especially them.
Tomorrow, many of us will send our young children back to elementary school with a heavy heart. It is one more difficult letting go in a series of difficult lettings go.
All that we can do is trust in the goodness of humanity and rejoice in our simple gifts. All we can do is to focus on that which matters most to us, whatever it may be.
We can look upon our neighbors with empathy. We can treat each child as we would our own.
We can also take one small step ahead and hope that that step leaves a footprint large enough for others to step into and follow.
Step ahead, friends. Step ahead.
Simple Gifts Lyrics
Joseph Brackett
‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free
‘Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gain’d,
To bow and to bend we shan’t be asham’d,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come ’round right.
myfanwy collins 