By Carolyn Flynn
I keep telling my father to go away. But here he is in Austin, Texas, on the sign at the construction site one block from my hotel. FLYNN it says in all caps, Flynn Construction, and it’s red, white and blue like the logo for my father’s home building company. Just like it, except not, because here I am in Austin for the Agents & Editors Conference to pitch my book, and it’s Father’s Day 2007. He’s been dead for 12 years. He’s not supposed to be here.
I am staying in a hotel that is four blocks away from the conference hotel. I feel away, very away, though it is just two ups and downs on the pebblestone sidewalks. I feel exiled from this group of Texas writers. They are writing books about rodeo queens and trailer park murders. I am writing a memoir I call All: The Too-Blessed-to-Be-Stressed Life of a Single Mother of Twins, a title that strikes me as capturing the Zen (before the colon) and the frenzy (after the colon) of 21st century parenting life, which is in fact what the book is about.
Essentially the character in that post-colonic string is, well, me. Pitching a book about yourself is a challenge, not because people won’t read it or buy it – most of the people here are pitching memoirs. That is the literary fashion, the fastest-growing market, according to Lee Gutkind, founder of Creative Nonfiction magazine, professor at the University of Pittsburgh and godfather of the genre. The agents and editors gathered here want memoirs. In just two days, I have learned the sorting out words. They are “prescriptive” or “practical.” Prescriptive is the new “how-to,” and it’s the kiss of death. Apparently, and I would agree, there are already a lot of books telling us how — how to do anything from being a sex goddess to creatively visualizing your life. I have published six of them. No, the challenge of pitching a book about yourself is that, well, people might not like it.
Every morning, or really just the past two, I have walked the four blocks down the hill and up the hill to the Sheraton, which stands like an obelisk of Kenyan soapstone against the sky. It’s raining this morning, and on the radio cheerful people were expressing relief, because it hasn’t for two months and that’s not normal, like it is in Albuquerque, where I live. Every day I have walked down this hill, but on this day, what’s rolling around in my brain like a very Southern thundercloud is the NPR interview with a woman who wrote a memoir about her father, who was haunted by his time in the Vietnam War. Her father would take her along to the bar, where he would tell vivid stories, trying to purge the memories.
On my trail up the hill to sell my book, these are the cairns that keep me true to the path: the purple triangle flowers, the brilliant orange Mexican bird of paradise, hedge-thick clusters of spearmint, the limestone antebellum building that could easily be a courthouse on the square of any little town in Kentucky, which is where I grew up and where I like to keep my father. I’ve tucked him away in the memories of growing up there and not here, in a city to which he’s never been. But here my father is, his name on a sign on a chain-link fence, right at the doorstep of my hotel, reminding me: Time to write.
It’s annoying he would find me here. I told him I needed to do this alone. He has been hovering over my heart, echoing around in that atrial chamber that didn’t sound right on the EKG. They heard turbulence there.
For nearly 40 years, he tells me to write write write. I am driven, driven to the point of obsession. This past week I was up at 4:15, the witching hour, every morning to complete the book proposal. Let me just say I am not a morning person. I know why they call it the witching hour. In those pre-dawn moments, my twins’ new puppy, Snowflake, sat on my lap, occasionally popping her paws up on my keyboard to get a look at my screen. One of the last photos I have of my father is of him typing on his laptop with my sister’s cat Savannah stretched over his forearms. I am just like him. I don’t want to become like him. With each passing year, I am increasingly desperate not to be him.
TAKING YOUR MUSE ON A SPEED DATE
It’s intense to be in a room with 350 hopeful writers and 25 picky, snobby agents who don’t want to like what you’re pitching because they’ve heard it before and they’ll hear it again. Each of us signed up for a 10-minute moment with an agent to make a pitch. It’s like taking your muse on a speed date.
Only just one problem, my muse doesn’t date. If my muse were to be on match.com, it would definitely check off “quiet dinner at home” or “sunset walk on the beach” as ideal dates. Contrast that with the Agents & Editors Conference: “raucous whitewater rafting misadventure” or “three days in the Amazon jungle wrestling with boa constrictors.” Pitching your book to an agent is an extreme sport.
Speaking of dating, the first night mingle yields a few new contacts, including a single man who reminds me of my twins’ pediatrician (ybonesy knows who this is!). I had a wicked crush on him when I was a new mother and I didn’t get out much. That is, unless my twins had a sinus infection. So dressing to the nines for my children’s doctor appointment became a ritual, an event that required actually putting on makeup in front of a mirror as opposed to in the car. This continued until I realized I was in danger of becoming a pathetic post-divorce cliché. I’m guessing the twins’ pediatrician had seen this sort of thing before. Was I really that transparent?
So with the single guy at the Agents & Editors Conference, it occurs to me to respond the way I normally would upon meeting a creative, attractive single man — that being to flirt. I think about all the usual tried-and-true ways, and I just feel tired-but-true. It’s time to be true to myself. Do I really want to put my brain through the cat-and-mouse chase-and-retreat game – or do I really just want to ask him interesting questions, then move on? I’m here to find an agent, not another boyfriend. I have plenty of those, currently two, fortunately in different states, though July could get dicey when one heads to a zip code near me. But this is June, July’s a long way off and I need to put on my war paint for the battle at hand: selling my book. I switch my brain over to longtime SAGE contributor Miriam Sagan’s definition of flirting: Flirting is attention without intention. This definition allows her to enjoy flirting as an extreme sport. The way she puts it is this: “I have an unlimited interest in people.” I get back on track: I mingle.
GREETINGS FROM SOUTH AMERICA
My father has been here the past few days, in secret, the same way he comes back in my dreams, looking very swank (my first clue that it’s not real), trim (my second clue) and not bald (the confirming clue). He announces he has been living in South America because he had been working as a spy and he really couldn’t tell us that, he just had to go into hiding. He hasn’t really been dead all this time. Today I rather suspect he’s been being a spy again, even though I have sent him away, only this time he was pretty stealthy, hiding in that sign. It took me three days to notice.
What haunts me is that last image of him alive, typing with the cat sleeping on his arms. I know what he was doing there. He was writing his mystery novel. And he was dying. He didn’t know he was going to die a week later. His heart gave out. I wonder now if it was the atrial chamber. I wonder now if anyone heard the turbulence.
I say I wonder if he knew a sudden death was near — because he typed so feverishly. I have been typing feverishly ever since. For 38 years, it seems, I have typed feverishly, from the moment I knew I was going to be a writer and he told me he believed in me, when he bought me a Brother typewriter and a collection of Hemingway short stories. In the 12 years since he died, I have typed, I think, because that’s how I know I’m alive and he’s not. It’s an important distinction.
THE DEVIL
Last night the agent from San Francisco gave me a kick in the pants. The agent said, “go write it. What are you doing here? Go back to your room. Write it!” I protested that I already had six published books, that I had most of this written and I was knocking on the door of refinement. I have one more essay (“Have a Plan: Nitro and Baby Aspirin Wasn’t It”) yet to write, maybe two. But he smoked out what no other writer, agent or editor had: I had yet to write what I really cared about. Even six published books can’t protect me from the turbulence. If 480,000 words won’t do it, what’s the cure?
“Write it,” he said. He wouldn’t let me protest.
“You’re flustered,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Why are you divorced?” he said.
“That’s not what the book is about,” I said.
“You have to be willing to lay yourself bare,” he said.
“But …” I said.
“Write it.”
Lately I’ve been reading Paulo Coelho’s The Pilgrimage, about the author’s spiritual journey on the Road to Santiago through France and Spain. At the beginning of the journey, one of the first people he confronts is a person disguised as his guide. He assumed that the man under the tree at the dusty edge of the southern French village was his guide. When the real guide shows up, Coelho learns the first man was his devil. Coelho had momentarily forgotten to confirm the identity of his true guide with the password. The true guide shows up, speaking the password. “It is good that you have met him early,” says the true guide. “Some people don’t encounter their devil until they are midway or later on the path.”
I greeted my devil early on at this conference. Coelho says in The Pilgrimage to name your devil so you will know him. Three weeks ago I named mine. I recognize him all the time now. (You never share the name of your devil.) The devil brings you to the brink; he is free and rebellious. He is the messenger, the main link between us and the world. He has much to teach us. Coelho says when we let him loose, he disperses himself. If we exorcise him, we lose all the good things he has to teach us. So the trick is not to banish him, but to hear the message. You have to live with him.
You thank your devil, but you always dictate the rules of the game, not your devil. It’s how you win the good fight.
I am typing now, typing feverishly as Boarding Group A clusters at the gate. That’s plenty of time to write this blog post; I’m in Boarding Group B. Natalie Goldberg says, “Write until the atom bomb goes off. And when it goes off, write until the radiation gets you.”
TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL
I had “an Elaine moment” when I pitched my book. An Elaine moment refers to Seinfeld when they were always getting themselves into awkward social situations – remember Jerry screaming “Delores” out the window when his girlfriend challenged him to remember her name, hinting that it rhymed with female genitalia? By then it was too late. Jerry and Elaine were always too late. Past the point of apology.
The morning of my pitch, I met my angel. It was Irish Goddess (Celtic knot tattoo on her ankle) from Wide-Spot-in-the-Road, Texas, and she needed business cards as much as I needed business cards, so we decided to join forces to get the job done at Quik Print, which turned out to be a few blocks away near the Capitol and the only place open on a Saturday. My angel let me rehearse my pitch as we sat at a café table outside Starbucks. From the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman sitting across the corridor from us, and I wondered if she was an agent. Because my agent was not pictured on the conference board, I thought briefly, “I wonder if that’s my agent.” Truth: I thought neurotically, “I wonder if I’m really blowing this because that could be my agent over there.”
My angel liked my pitch, but moments later in the waiting area before pitching, I asked the timekeeper to point out which agent in the room was mine. It was the young woman who sat across the corridor. Well, no matter, you make the best of it. Time to go Zen. No attachment to outcome, full mindfulness of effort. When I greeted her, I confessed my neurotic moment. It was a great opening line. I was lucky: She hadn’t heard the rehearsed pitch. I was even luckier: She liked the pitch and asked me to send a proposal.
“Send me a proposal” is like getting a third date when it comes to the Agents & Editors Conference. It was cause for high-fives all around.
One note: I got my first “send me a proposal” on the first mingle night, right after I cut myself off from flirting with intention. Like I say, I know my devil.
RIP IT UP, START OVER
“I’m still speaking to you,” I say to the San Francisco agent the next morning, though I really don’t want to see him again so soon. I am still raw. I have every reason in the world not to speak to him. At one point the night before he said, “Am I being an asshole?” I was too Southern to answer the question.
Last night I left the hotel feeling the ground shaking beneath me. In the cab, the driver was listening to sad Latin music, full of yearning. My eyes watered up. I bit my lip to hold myself down. I rested my brow on my interlaced fingers. The windows were open. I felt the breeze, felt it in my hair. The Latin song rose, unfettered, through the night. I was in tatters, white pulpy scraps of paper.
Natalie Goldberg says, “Don’t get tossed away.” Earlier in the day I had said, to encourage Fort Worth Dan, who did his pitch just before me. “It’s just a matching game,” I said. “You have to believe that. And don’t let yourself get tossed away.”
I almost got tossed away last night.
Your angel is your armor; your devil is your sword, Coelho says. You can use your sword, or it can fall to the ground and be used against you. But this morning the kick-in-the-pants agent reminds me that everybody here wants to publish good writing. He’s speaking softer now. “I just want you to write it,” he says.
WALKING POINT
Here’s why I sent my father away. I came to Austin because I wanted to get to the next level. I’m not making enough money writing books, and I’m not writing the books that are about what’s closest to my heart. I don’t have time to write that book because my clients come first. I have to feed a family. After eight intense hours in the Top Gun cockpit of a daily newspaper, my multitasked brain is too fried to remember the title of my book, much less keep writing it.
I’ve been doing what my father did in his 40s, running on fumes, taking financial risks — some shrewd, some scary — letting myself die inside because I’m not pursuing my dream. My life as a single mother of twins has become an extreme sport. I have vowed I wasn’t going to let my dreams die like his – cut short. He died at 62. I was 34. For most of my life, since I was 14, my father’s tragic life has motivated me to do the impossible. I’m unsinkable; I don’t know what impossible means.
It was feeling too heavy to believe “I have to do this because my father didn’t.” I could say I was doing it for me, but I have always been doing it to prove something about his life, to create a restoration of sorts, the happy reunion in my dream that there’s another outcome that doesn’t involve an alter-identity in South America.
Two months ago, I told my father I was going to take this from here. “You are making this too hard,” I said. My heart was turbulent. He had a hook in it. His ghost was haunting that atrial chamber. A clot could be forming. I told him I was going to go it alone. “This is my deal,” I said. “Not yours.”
ALTER-IDENTITIES
Alisa’s here! Can it be? The godmother of chica lit, who got a half mil advance for her first novel? Upstairs, waiting to talk to an agent is a woman who must surely be Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, best-selling author of The Dirty Girls Social Club and three others. But Alisa lives in the North Valley, is moving to Scottsdale to get her son in a gifted education program and was the keynote speaker at the SAGE Making a Difference luncheon. Alisa got a $500,000 advance — did I mention this? — for her first novel and doesn’t need to be waiting outside to meet an agent. But this woman has Alisa’s sleek hair. She’s stylishly dressed in a robins’-egg-blue A-line coat dress. I almost say, “Alisa,” but something stops me. I notice, for starters, that she’s with a woman who looks like Sara Ford, who moderated the panel on which I spoke at New Mexico Press Women. Then the two of them are whisked in to meet Agent-Who-Will-Later-Kick-Me-in-the-Pants.
I’m sure this can’t be Alisa, whose book is being made into a movie (and did I mention she got a half mil advance?) yet I’m stunned at the resemblance. I go down to the registration desk to ask if they have anyone by that name registered. Yes, they do. Are you sure? Yes, she’s a volunteer, they tell me. How many double-named people can there be? I want to say, “Well, lots.” But I think she just heard “big long Hispanic surname” and she figured it was a match.
These alter-identities are coming up everywhere. Alisa, Sara, the twins’ pediatrician … who knows where my father has been hiding, though.
It’s time to write. At breakfast, I skip the sessions on publicists and query letters and I find the table next to the power outlet so I can charge up the laptop. A woman I met on the first day invites me over, but I say, “No, I need to write a blog post.” I have an assignment. It’s to keep the pen moving. My friend ybonesy and one of her Natalie Goldberg intensive friends have started red Ravine. I have a deadline. This is comfortable.
As I am writing, I feel the sudden stretching of time, a bliss wave. It is 8:52 for an hour. Diners come and go. My friendly, forgiving agent of the Elaine moment goes by. The godfather of creative nonfiction slips in with his son. I don’t even notice. When I look up, a woman is standing before me, asking me how I did. I tell her something that makes her sit down, and her proposal is a nonfiction book about motherhood. She writes for Austin Monthly and other magazines. We talk for 45 minutes. We’re speaking the same language. We see the same issues. I’m good now. I’ve reconstituted myself. Here’s another someone like me.
SWEET SUBTEXTS
It is Father’s Day. Of course that’s why he’s back. That hits me on my way upstairs for the last mingle. Fort Worth Dan walks up as I’m texting the firefighter I’m dating to wish him a Happy Father’s Day. I’m telling the firefighter that it’s been rough.
He texts back, “Are you OK?”
I text, “It’s all material.”
He texts, “It will all be OK when you are back.”
The room is emptying out. My shuttle has arrived. This all has a tinge of sweetness to it. On the way back down and up the hill, past the FLYNN construction sign, I break off a sprig of spearmint. I crack the stem to release the scent. I notice the building my father is working on is a buff-colored brick. Brick by brick, I think. The shuttle driver is waiting.
GREETINGS TO MY INNER CHILD
In the security checkpoint line, the woman behind me is reading Paulo Coelho, only it’s El Diablo y Senorita Prim (The Devil and Miss Prym). The devil again. She tells me she lives in Panama City, but she’ll be spending the night in Atlanta tonight because her plane is delayed. Panama City is a great city for international living, she says, clean and beautiful. “I love Paulo Coehlo,” I say. She got started reading Paulo Coehlo with The Alchemist: A Fable About Following Your Dream. Hmmm… I had forgotten that was the subtitle. The devil is my messenger.
On the plane to Albuquerque, I’m in Boarding Group A. I don’t hardly know what to do with myself; I am always a B boarder. But this means I have a choice about who I sit with. Near the front of the plane is a little girl sitting alone by a window wearing a child travel tag. She is so small, smaller than my twins. I whip back one seat to sit in her row. She tells me she’s 7 and going into second grade. She’s got curly red hair and a sprinkling of freckles like my son’s. I call them angel kisses. She’s got a Highlights magazine and a bag of candy. Her name is Faith.
Faith loved first grade, and her favorite subject was math. But they don’t make it hard enough, she says. “I could do math all day.” She has 12 cousins, and there are lots of babies in her family. She has sisters who are twins, but they are older. Her family took her to Paris, where she got to see “the Awful Tower” or the “Eye-full Tower,” she’s not sure. Faith is going to see her father because it’s Father’s Day.
Another mom sits in our row, and we two moms look out for Faith. I can’t imagine letting my child travel alone on a plane. She sparkles with innocence. She radiates pure sweetness. She will come to no harm. Faith has done this before, and she knows what to do. She’s not worried.
“I had curly hair when I was little,” I tell Faith. And I did. Just that color. The other mom asks her the question I always got asked, “Are there others in your family with red hair, or are you the only one?” I was the only one. There is a photo of me with my father, and my hair was still that vibrant auburn, the color no one could bottle. My father is prematurely bald, but young and slim, the way my mother remembers him, the way he comes back from South America in my dreams. We are playing with a toy Model T.
When the plane lands in Albuquerque, the flight attendant leads Faith by the hand down the jetway. She is tiny, a little gummy bear with stick legs and plump hands. She is wearing pink crocs that rattle loose on her stubby feet. When she sees her father, she runs and gives him a jump-up hug. He holds her there like a little X. Her arms are too short to fit around him. Faith asks her father how he’s been. “I’m OK, but I’m really good now that you’re here,” he says.
About Carolyn Flynn: As a single mother of twins, Carolyn has a big long to-do list. It includes catching snowflakes, flooding the house, saving the soccer world, doing Sufi laundry and pursuing economic independence, for starters. She is editor of the thought-provoking and ground-breaking women’s magazine, SAGE, published monthly in the Albuquerque Journal. She has six published books and is currently working on a memoir, All: The Too-Blessed-to-be-Stressed Life of a Single Mother of Twins. The only way Carolyn has time to write is because she keeps the pen moving, no matter where, even if the atom bomb goes off. Lately, she’s discovered no one will interrupt her at 4:15 in the morning, so that’s when she gets up to write.
I so enjoyed this piece…just wanted to know tho…..now that the SF editor gave u that kick in the pants, r u gonna stick with the memoir or did u come away feeling like there’s something else u need to write about? Coincidentally I just finished the last of Alisia Valdes-Rodriguez’ books—very much enjoyed those, too.
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You bet I’m going to work on this memoir! Now I’m all fired up! All it takes is someone to tell me I can’t do something for me to prove them wrong. … Seriously, it was easy to get the two agents interested who requested proposals, and that’s a good sign. Also, I’ve done my market research, and while there are a lot of mommy books, there aren’t a lot by single moms. That’s because they’re too exhausted. … Are you talking about Alisa’s young adult book, “Haters?” Or another one? … Alisa was a very inspiring speaker at the SAGE luncheon, and she was delightful to meet. She and I hit it off from the first phone call.
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I’m not a “young adult” but…..loved Haters but actually just finished “make him look good” i can hardly wait to see her movie when it comes out….i’m glad ur writing about single moms….i’m one, too…keep writing..
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Alisa’s movie is supposed to go into production soon, with much of it being filmed in ABQ … Re: single mothers. Forget second shift. It’s third shift.
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Having done writing practice with you for several years, Carolyn, I found that whenever you wrote about your father, there was energy and juice. And it’s palpable in this piece, too. Where was I reading, was it in comments on another post or maybe someone else’s blog?, the idea of bending in toward the pain versus away from it. What I don’t know is, have you written very many other finished pieces about your father? Do you plan to write more? (I’m also reminded of something I know I’ve heard Natalie Goldberg say on more than one occasion, which had to do with how much more difficult it is for writers whose parents were struggling writers. I wish I could remember exactly what she said, but the gist was that seeing a parent not produce/publish can become another barrier to overcome for a writer. Obviously you have overcome it; you’re a prolific writer with many published pieces, but one of the strong themes in this piece is the weight of your father’s legacy on your shoulders as you work toward publishing the kind of book you want to write.)
By the way, my first thought when I read this piece was, you should send the link to the book agent (either the SF kick-in-the-pants one or she of the Elaine moment) – then he or she will see what you have to offer. It’s a great piece, masterfully written. I’ve read it and re-read it several times, and there are so many threads I’d like to comment on. I love the title of your memoir. I imagine it has the same wry quality this piece does. (Has the fact that you’ve been working on the memoir strengthened that particular voice for you?)
My other immediate question has to do with how you put this piece together. Did it come together naturally this way with the various sections or did you plan them out ahead of time? Maybe just some insight into how you got from the assignment of writing about this conference to this particular approach to the finished piece.
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ya, 3rd shift…just wait till they get to college….4th, 5th, …..I’m never an A boarder…can’t seem to ever get there on time…
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I wish I could tell you I agonized over writing that piece, but the truth is that when I write about what I care about most, the voice comes, and the details are just right. I wrote it in one day. I knew there were several threads I wanted to weave into it, and so I just kept workin’ it. It’s really a series of fully rounded 10-minute writes.
I really think it’s the combination of Natalie Goldberg writing practice and 25 years in journalism that made it easy and natural to write. After so much practice, you just get a rhythm in your head, and you listen to it.
Also, I think one of the most valuable tools for a writer it to hone your powers of observation. Notice the details. Be willing to leave out the details that don’t bolster the story. To me, that’s how you can write about real life but have it transcend the idiosyncratic details of your life and strike a universal chord.
Yes, the little girl’s name really was Faith.
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Is it just me, or was San Francisco agent a real pill? I’ve never pitched a book, so I admire your bravery, to go it alone at a big conference, and to listen to a stranger tell you what maybe you already know, or maybe he’s entirely wrong. Whatever is in your heart is subject to change, and probably already has. I feel sure your memoir will be published, if this essay is any reflection of your writing style. A very enlightening piece.
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Carolyn, you had me from the first few paragraphs on this piece. The weaving in of your father on Father’s Day, haunting you through the sign, being an out of state writer at a writing conference, the title of the memoir you are writing, and Zen.
You set the stage and then skillfully wove all the characters in and out of your piece. I found it to be a delight to read. And taught me a lot about the emotional fortitude needed for a writer to attend a conference like this.
If you could give writers a short list of things to consider when planning to attend a similar writer’s venue, what would that list be?
Also, I loved your last comment:
“I knew there were several threads I wanted to weave into it, and so I just kept workin’ it. It’s really a series of fully rounded 10-minute writes.
I really think it’s the combination of Natalie Goldberg writing practice and 25 years in journalism that made it easy and natural to write. After so much practice, you just get a rhythm in your head, and you listen to it.”
It reinforces the importance of writing practice. I find my finished pieces come together from a series of practices, too. And I never used to get that when Natalie said it – until after I did years of practice. It’s not easy. But after a while, it all makes sense.
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Carolyn, I just thought of one other thing I wanted to ask. I met with several writers last night that I sat with in Taos last year. We had all been on the road recently researching writing pieces.
One of the things we talked about was how when you start digging into the details of memoir, all kinds of details, facts, tidbits about yourself and the characters in your memoir start to come out.
I wondered – how do you decide what to write about someone, what to leave out? For instance, with your father. Do you ever wonder that you will say the wrong thing or someone will be offended by what you write? I think for me, I think about this most with people who are still living.
Natalie often told us not worry about it until after we wrote the book. If we did, it might block us. But it sounds like you are well into your memoir. So how did you deal with revealing details about other people in your life?
I also wondered how long it has taken you to write your memoir. I have just begun collecting material and it seems overwhelming. Sometimes I worry that it will take me years.
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Many worlds traveled through me reading this:
1) My own tiredness (of 30 + years) of pitching ideas, riding the ups and downs of getting rejected and being published, and mingling with writers who always seem so much more confident.
2) A refreshing peek into another writer’s world and saying, yes, yes, yes to the power of scribbling down words no matter what, the doubts of doing it and doing it anyway.
3) Being up myself at 4:15 today to once again move words around because some things just need to be written–even with fathers looking over our shoulders, breathing down our necks and maybe even glaring at the truths we need to say.
4) How fortunate to read a blog that’s well written and kept me to the end.
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“In those pre-dawn moments, my twins’ new puppy, Snowflake, sat on my lap, occasionally popping her paws up on my keyboard to get a look at my screen. One of the last photos I have of my father is of him typing on his laptop with my sister’s cat Savannah stretched over his forearms. I am just like him. I don’t want to become like him. With each passing year, I am increasingly desperate not to be him.
What haunts me is that last image of him alive, typing with the cat sleeping on his arms. I know what he was doing there. He was writing his mystery novel. And he was dying. He didn’t know he was going to die a week later. His heart gave out. I wonder now if it was the atrial chamber. I wonder now if anyone heard the turbulence.
I say I wonder if he knew a sudden death was near — because he typed so feverishly. I have been typing feverishly ever since. For 38 years, it seems, I have typed feverishly, from the moment I knew I was going to be a writer and he told me he believed in me, when he bought me a Brother typewriter and a collection of Hemingway short stories. In the 12 years since he died, I have typed, I think, because that’s how I know I’m alive and he’s not. It’s an important distinction.”
But this morning the kick-in-the-pants agent reminds me that everybody here wants to publish good writing. He’s speaking softer now. “I just want you to write it,” he says.
I agree with the kick-in-the-pants agent “I just want you to write it,” — this story begs to be told.
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I’m like Cindy. I love writing, and I won’t stop doing it no matter what anyone says or doesn’t say. (Cindy, by the way, has a new book out about journaling, and a beautiful memoir in the works!)
QuoinMonkey: Writing practice is my lifeline, and I really believe it’s the secret for getting it written, passage by passage, or bird by bird, as Anne Lamott says. (Anne Lamott, by the way, is a big inspiration for me. ybonesy gave me “Operating Instructions” as a gift when I became pregnant with my twins, and one of my on-the-shelf manuscripts is about the year of preparing for them to come into my life. Interestingly enough, I pitched that manuscript to this same agent about five years ago, and he was interested, but I wasn’t ready. I was too busy doing a divorce then to ship it off. So there on the shelf it has remained. I had completely forgotten about it until the Kick in the Pants.)
Anyhow, with memoir, I think you can get buried by the details. A friend calls it “marshaling the minutia.” I think it’s as important to know what details don’t tell the story. What’s the one detail that tells the whole story?
About your question concerning people being offended by what you write: I have already crossed the line. Once you have crossed the line, you realize it’s not so bad. I have a story about this: It’s about my first book, which is about astrology. I didn’t really set out to write a book about astrology, but when someone said they would pay me to write a book about astrology, I said yes. I thought of this book as another journalism assignment — just another article I’m writing. Well, I come from a fundamentalist Baptist family, and little did I know, but astrology is evil. When one of my sisters looked at my book on the shelf at Joseph Beth Booksellers in Lexington, Ky., my hometown, she looked like she’d swallowed a bee. She said stiffly, “I’m happy for you that you’ve realized your dream of writing a book,” and she placed it on the shelf.
I always thought that the moment when I wrote something that offended or hurt someone would come when I wrote about the deep, dark tragedies of my father’s life. But instead, it sort of came up and bit me in the butt.
Now, though, the glass is already broken.
That said, I would not write about my divorce because it would hurt my children. That’s the fence I’ve put around it.
The rest: Well, the news is already out. With Carolyn, it’s all material. (My friends are used to knowing that eventually they’ll be in SAGE.)
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That’s good clarification on what you won’t write about, because when the SF agent said you needed to lay it all bare, comment after he asked why the divorce, I wondered if you’d go there. I mean, it could be a chapter in your memoir that gets you to the place where you become single mother of twins. But it doesn’t need to be there.
I think it goes back to what you’re saying about what details (or one detail) tells the story and which ones don’t need to be there. Sometimes it takes another person’s eye to pick that out for you (for me). I make the mistake usually of telling too much. I wonder if being an editor (as you are) helps you from the get-go on seeing for yourself what is “just enough” and not too much.
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“No, the challenge of pitching a book about yourself is that, well, people might not like it.”
This is the biggest challenge of memoir, I think…to be true to the story, to tell it as it is…without worrying about whether people will like you (it.) As you observed with flirting, the writing comes from a totally different place if you are focused on wanting someone to like you.
I look forward to reading your memoir.
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Really, I credit writing teachers such as James Baker Hall (University of Kentucky creative writing program) and Ron Carlson (was at Arizona State University, one of the premier short story writers of our time, has a new collection out) for teaching me about the telling detail. It’s the one tip-of-the-iceberg detail that gives you the picture of the whole iceberg.
As for worrying about whether people like me, 25 years in daily journalism just about cures you of that. You develop a pretty thick skin.
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On ybonesy’s question of sitting in the editor’s chair: I definitely think it’s a good way to develop your skills — to edit other writers. It’s so much easier to see how to tighten other people’s writing. I’ll be the first to say that when I’m the writer, I violate all the rules that I, as editor, guard against. But at this stage of the game, I have honed the ability to treat my own writing with the objectivity of an editor.
Of course, there’s a time to let the editor edit and tell the writer to sit still. Then there’s a time to banish the editor and let the writer write. That’s the beauty of writing practice. Writing practice sends the editor on a fool’s errand for just a little while so the writer can write.
So the other advantage that I have — and I think ybonesy and QuoinMonkey and other Natalie Goldberg devotees have, too — is writing practice. I’m willing to write crap and know that it’s practice and I can get back to neutral.
I compare it to being a chef at a high-end restaurant. You keep your mistakes in the kitchen. Usually the servers get to eat the mistakes, and they’re pretty tasty. They just aren’t up for the polished presentation. That’s the difference between writing practice and a finished piece, I think.
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Carolyn,
I was waiting with bated breath to see what your response would be to QuoinMonkey’s question about offending readers with the details of memoir. I probably audibly gasped when I read that you were raised Baptist, wrote a book about astrology, and your sister saw it at a bookstore. I get it, born-and -bred Baptist myself. I left that denomination years ago, but long to write about it…and its lasting impact. I feel myself getting closer to breaking the glass (as you say), but am not sure how to expedite that process. Any thoughts? Oh, besides becoming a journalist for 25 years. haha
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[…] 23rd, 2007 by QuoinMonkey I noticed that one of the last comments in The Devil Came Down To Austin contained the phrase waiting with bated breath. It struck me as poetic Old English and I wanted to […]
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Sinclair,
I’ve already had many difficult conversations with my family about why I”m not Baptist anymore, and we have come to a peace about it. Sometimes this is possible in a family, sometimes it’s not. Some conversations need to be had, and any material you are creating is richer for it. Some conversations can be had, some can’t. The wisdom is in knowing the difference.
Some conversations can be fatal to your creative work, and it’s important for a writer to recognize that. Sometimes our exploration of material leaves us too tender to have the conversation. Then the creative work is stillborn.
A lot of inner conversations and surrogate conversations need to happen to explore this — whether that conversation ever happens with a person who would simply never understand or forgive you for what you wrote. All of those inner conversations and surrogate conversations go into creating the creative work, I think. Then you make the choice whether to take the conversation to the next level — with the person who did you harm or whom your words may harm.
Time really does help. I do believe there is a timing for all creative work. Writers often take on the hardest work first. You know how you hear agents and editors say everyone needs to get the first novel out of their system before they can write their defining work. Thats the terrible beauty of this craft.
ybonesy raised the point about what areas of our lives we fence off vs. areas we mold into memoir, creative nonfiction, narrative nonfiction, essay — any of the truth genres. I mentioned that my divorce is not material for nonfiction because I honor my children’s relationship with their father. So that’s my conscious choice.
But I also believe that a writer should write with great courage (see Ralph Keyes, “The Courage to Write,” for more about this) because great writing comes from those places where conversations haven’t been had and need to be had, if not literally then through the creative work. I teach a “Live Wire” writing workshop that’s exactly about how to go there — to that deep, dark, gut-wrenching place — and not get fried by the live wire. It’s about how to let the live wire “juice” your writing.
Notice that I said my divorce is not material for NONFICTION. Where does this leave us? With fiction. But for a fictional piece to work, it must transcend the details of autobiography and morph into something else. The characters must be fictional and must take on lives of their own. They have to go beyond the boundaries of the real-life people who got the creative inspiration started.
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You bring up a great point that I forget. I don’t need to have conversations with absolutely everyone informing/gaining approval about what I am writing about. I feel this guilty compulsion to have to explain myself to those least likely to understand. I know it is impossible before I even start. I will look forward to reading Ralph Keyes, and rereading your response about breaking the glass. I take it seriously knowing you’ve walked the path.
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Interestingly enough, it always seems to get out of the gate, no matter how much you want to hold it back and protect others or yourself from what you write. I showed this to one sister, and she loved it, which is great, but that meant she showed it to another sister and our mother. I wasn’t quite ready for that. But it was all OK.
But yeah, Sinclair, I think it’s all about deciding which conversations you want to have/are prepared to have and which ones you never need to have (and have peace about that).
I have this theory that many of the great visionaries of time — many of the great healers and leaders — are people who couldn’t have the conversation with a someone they loved and wanted to help. So they channeled that love and vision into helping other people.
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I think I may be the single man in your story. If so, I appreciated the flirting at the conference and engaged in it myself. And I enjoyed the good questions–something I rarely encounter out there in the world of dating.
Your piece is terrific, and I relate to it on many levels. As so many have said here, the virtuosity of your writing suggests that your memoir will certainly get published–even *needs* to get published for the sake of all those who will be rewarded by reading it. And I’d imagine any agent who had a chance to represent you and blew it will some day regret their blindness. I like the idea someone posted: you should send this piece to the SF agent and see how he responds!
It was a real pleasure meeting you and reading your story.
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I just had a thought. If you as “single man” found this piece on the internet, then who’s to say “SF agent” won’t find it? Even “she of the Elaine moment” might find it. Good thing Carolyn only had nice things to say about you in the story, Jim ;).
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I think I’m having another Elaine moment!
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Carolyn:
I truly enjoyed this piece, and I really think you did lay it bare. You should definitely send it to the SF agent. Whatever else he may have done, he lit a fire under you, and perhaps that was his intent.
Personally, I am really looking forward to your new book.
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Carolyn,
So nice to read your piece! It’s been a long time since we met at Natalie’s workshop at the Mabel Dodge House. I’m glad to read this more revealing piece–it has heart and energy. Your family has always been a tug for you in your writing, and as ybonesey notes, has also been your energy–go there.
Just one note, as a single mother with no father involved, I envey your days off from parenting. Dates? Whoa, sounds nice!
I enjoyed all the blog comments too–encouraging, got to get back to writing practice, but, as usual, am noticing it is 1 am and too soon the sun/son wakes me in Tucson. I will try to return to read more soon, and try to do some writing practice. Thanks, all, for the reminder.
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[…] see by the conversations and comments on recent posts (this post, and this post) that writers are at different stages of coming to terms with telling their truth. […]
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WOW! I loved you piece and want to read “Too Blessed To Be Stressed” You will get there. I was immediately drawn to your piece and put things on the back burner to read it.
I did wonder how long it took you to write this but you answered above.
Thanks for sharing. Did you think of me when you wrote the “Elaine Moment” piece?
Hope to cnnnect with or without our twins.
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A mother of twins! She gets it! I don’t even have to fill in the picture.
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I agree, Carolyn, that the writing is virtuosic. I love in your essay the way your father keeps rolling back into the forefront of the narrative. The rhythm is beautiful and insistent, not at all like a heart giving out. You say that you want to go it alone in Austin, and I believe you, but only up to a point. My own father just died a month ago, so my belief about what you say may be my take and not yours, but it seems more as if what you want is to be writing on your own, for yourself, but that you really want him there with you, in exactly the way that you have brought him there in your narrative. It is a beautiful memorial, because it is alive. Your memory is palpable like all great memoir. Hurry up and finish the book. We’re dying to read it.
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[…] noticed that one of the last comments in The Devil Came Down To Austin contained the phrase waiting with bated breath. It struck me as poetic Old English and I wanted to […]
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[…] The Devil Came Down To Austin by Carolyn Flynn […]
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[…] Gilbert & Anne Lamott after seeing the two writers together in 2008 on the UCLA campus and The Devil Came Down To Austin about seeing ghosts of her father while attending the 2007 Agents & Editors Conference. You can […]
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