By Teri Blair
St. Paul’s Icelandic Lutheran Church, Minneota, Minnesota, where the services for Minnesota writer Bill Holm were held, March 2009, photo © 2009 by Teri Blair. All rights reserved.
Early on a Sunday morning in March, I drove three hours to attend the funeral of writer Bill Holm. Since that day, I’ve wanted to write about it. But I keep getting stuck. I pace. I try again. The paper is crumpled and thrown in the trash.
What’s wrong? I’m trying to make my writing as grand as Bill was, or as eloquent as I think he deserves. When I stop writing and try to do the dishes instead, I consider what Natalie Goldberg would tell me to do. She’d say, Just tell the story. The story is enough.
The First Settlement, sign outside the St. Paul’s
Icelandic Lutheran Church, March 2009, photo
© 2009 by Teri Blair. All rights reserved.
Bill was born on a Minnesota prairie farm, educated at the local public school, and grew to be six-and-a-half feet tall. He had a huge shock of red hair that turned white with age, ruddy cheeks, and a beautiful, booming voice. He left Minnesota after college to live around the world, but by the time he was 40 he had returned to his hometown, to his roots. He taught English and poetry for 27 years at Southwest State, and proceeded to publish 16 books. He bought a house in Iceland, and split his time between Minneota, Minnesota and a cottage near the Arctic Circle. He was bold and certain and convicted. He was funny and irreverent and warm.
I heard Bill speak a year before he died. He was reading from The Window of Brimnes at the Minneapolis Public Library. He was three weeks shy of retirement, and could barely contain his excitement for the next phase of life. No one in the audience could have guessed his new life would only last a year. When Minnesota Public Radio announced he had died after collapsing at the airport, I was crushed. Bill couldn’t be dead. I had just seen him. And he was just starting his new life, remember?
I knew I would go to his funeral. It was obvious. I now consider that I may have ignored that quiet voice telling me to go. I’ve done that before, argued myself out of following my instincts. But this time I didn’t.
I packed a lunch the night before, and got on the road the next morning before daylight. The funeral was at St. Paul’s Icelandic Lutheran Church, built in 1895 by immigrants. Because I knew there wouldn’t be much room in the small church, I got there two hours early. After securing a space in the back pew with my coat and bag, I went to the front to look at the floral arrangements. The flowers had come from around the globe, from everyone. An open copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass was in the bouquet from his wife. When I returned to my seat, another early-arriver walked in. Poet Laureate & Pulitzer Prize winner Ted Kooser. When I saw him, I knew what the day was going to be like.
One by one they began to arrive, the gray-haired authors. Many of them I knew, and some I only recognized from book jackets but couldn’t place their names. Ten of them were pallbearers. I was awed. Humbled. I’d watch them approach each other, hug, and weep together over losing their friend. Not competitive. Tender. Attached to each other. I was in the company of greatness, and I knew it. They were steady. Present. The media wasn’t allowed into the church, and there was a hush of holiness. We gathered, and honored, and were still.
The funeral service was a full two hours long. In addition to writing, Bill was an accomplished pianist. There were Bach piano solos and Joplin’s ragtime. An octet from the college sang Precious Lord Take My Hand. Bill’s poetry and essays were read. The preacher made us all laugh when he told how Bill sat in the choir loft during sermons and read the newspaper. Though he didn’t agree with all the theology of Lutherans, he valued his roots in that little church.
When the service was over, Bill’s wife was led out first. A tall woman who looked sad and grounded and strong and peaceful. The author-pallbearers followed her out. Some of them held hands, and they stood very close to each other. I wanted time to move slower, to be with them longer in that small place.
Minneota’s Library, the librarians would call Bill Holm,
and he’d walk there to sign books for the tourists, March
2009, photo © 2009 by Teri Blair. All rights reserved.
After ham sandwiches at the American Legion, I found the farm where Bill had been raised. On a deeply secluded road, the old farmstead sat on top of a hill. I got out of my car and looked at the beautiful rolling hills that Bill grew up on. I imagined the hundreds of times he walked down the same long driveway where I stood to wait for the school bus. I drove to the Icelandic cemetery and looked at the graves of his parents, imagining some of his ashes would soon be inurned there, too. I drove home slowly, filled with all I had seen.
Bill would appreciate me going to his funeral, but he wouldn’t want me to stay sentimental too long. He’d expect me to get on with it. Get on with it, now, he’d say. Be alive.
Westerheim Icelandic Cemetery, March 2009,
photo © 2009 by Teri Blair. All rights reserved.
___________________________________________
Letting Go of What Cannot Be Held Back
by Bill Holm
Let go of the dead now.
The rope in the water,
The cleat on the cliff,
Do them no good anymore.
Let them fall, sink, go away,
Become invisible as they tried
So hard to do in their own dying.
We needed to bother them
With what we called help.
We were the needy ones.
The dying do their own work with
Tidiness, just the right speed,
Sometimes even a little
Satisfaction. So quiet down.
Let them go. Practice
Your own song. Now.
___________________________________________
Poem copyright (c)2004 by Bill Holm, from his most recent book of poems “Playing the Black Piano,” Milkweed Editions, 2004.
Poet Bill Holm, 1943-2009, Memorial program photograph by QuoinMonkey, original photograph of Bill Holm © 2009 by Brian Peterson.
About Teri Blair: Teri Blair is a freelance writer living in Minneapolis and founder of the Poetry & Meditation Group of which QuoinMonkey fondly and frequently writes. (See Postcard From Billy Collins — Kicking Off National Poetry Month for the latest post on that group and Teri’s piece titled Desire And A Library Card — The Only Tools Necessary To Start A Poetry Group for a step-by-step on how to start your own.)
Teri is an active and valued member of the red Ravine community. Her other posts include A 40-Year Love Affair, about Bill Irvine’s passion for the Parkway, a landmark theater in Minneapolis that closed in 2008; and 40 Days, 8 Flags, And 1 Mennonite Choir and Thornton Wilder & Bridges, both prompted by the August 2007 collapse of the I-35W bridge in Minneapolis. Teri was also one of our first guest writers, with the piece Continue Under All Circumstances.
redravine.wordpress.com 
I loved this, Teri, as you already know. Such fine writing, vivid and touching. I feel like I went to that little church with you, watched those grey-haired writers carry the coffin. Thank you for driving all that way, for being our witness.
I just ordered my first Bill Holm book of poetry.
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Jude,
I wonder if you ordered Playing the Black Piano; it’s one of my favorite collections of Bill’s poetry.
Bill had a fabulous reading voice. I hope, in time, his poetry will be available in audio. There’s nothing like hearing a writer read their own work.
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Beautiful. Stunning. Eloquent.
Thanks so much for sharing your gift of writing.
~Kristi
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Kristi,
Thanks for stopping by to read my essay about Bill. I appreciate your comments.
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Teri, I was moved by your piece on Bill Holm. And ybonesy and I both were excited to publish the piece on red Ravine. I remember when I heard about Bill’s death and we were discussing it in the comments on red Ravine. At that time, you were talking about going to the funeral and I just knew you would take the journey.
Through your pilgrimage to Bill’s funeral, I am able to experience it, too. Most of what I have learned about Bill Holm has been through your eyes. It’s a wonderful way to get to know him.
What struck me about your essay was the way the writers there all pulled together for each other and for Bill. It wasn’t competitive or all about them — they were there for Bill. The image of them walking out of the church and down the street made me proud to be a writer.
Why do you think that some writers are more competitive than others? Or why writers don’t pull together more to support each other or to support local writers in their state or towns? I wonder if that kind of camaraderie among writers is dying away or harder to find than before.
BTW, I love the photograph of St. Paul’s Icelandic Lutheran Church and of the Minnesota River. Does the Minnesota River run through Minneota? What about the Mississippi?
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QM,
Minneota means “much water” in the Dakota language. The Yellow Medicine River flows through the town. I passed over the Minnesota River to get to Bill’s hometown, a village in the western part of the state. It’s not far from the South Dakota border. I saw the Mississippi at the beginning of my journey (when I left Minneapolis), but that river is on the eastern side of the side of the state, closer to Wisconsin. I better stop with the geography lesson; people are going to start to glaze over.
We live in a competitive society, we’re taught to believe that’s the best way to be–the only way to survive. I suppose it’s true sometimes, but not always. It’s not the lens I want to walk through life with, at least when I don’t have to. What I saw in those writers was abundance of spirit; there was enough for everyone at the table.
Because I was sitting directly in front of Ted Kooser in the church, I could hear people coming up to him, trying to fawn all over him and his writing. He wouldn’t allow it. In his very classy, understated, quiet way, he wouldn’t let the day be one iota about him. That’s the way they all were.
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Actually, I love the geography lessons. I like to have my mind’s eye be able to place the towns and rivers. I haven’t traveled to that part of the state (that I remember). Or if I have, it was just passing through. So to get it straight — the church and cemetery are in Minneota which is his hometown. And then the Westerheim Cemetery sign, is that in Westerheim? I thought I read at that link that the congregation in Westerheim eventually ended up at St. Paul’s in Minneota. Those towns must be pretty close or have integrated? I like the history of places like that.
It seems like Bill Holm saw the value in going back and seeking his roots after traveling around the world. It reinforces the feeling I have that my pilgrimages back to Georgia and the South the last few summers to gather information for my book have been so inspiring and rewarding. It’s not something I would have (or did) do earlier in my life. And I’m so happy I am digging at my roots now. Mom called this morning from Georgia and we were talking about a few more pieces of the family tree on my Grandmother Elise’s side.
BTW, I wanted to say one other thing about how you mentioned Bill’s “booming voice” in your piece. When I was adding the links to your piece, I ran across a wonderful interview with Bill not long before he died. I’m going to add the links here. He was talking to Rick Steves about Iceland, Minnesota, his roots and the value of looking at the world through those lenses. It was only the second time I had heard his voice (the first time was when you played Bill reading one of his poems in poetry group). The interview is conversational and very enlightening. I just finished listening to it. I think people would like it and appreciate hearing what he sounded like.
Bill Holm: American in Iceland; Winter in Alaska — Interview with Rick Steves (LINK) (after you click on the link, scroll up a paragraph to the interview)
[If that link doesn’t work for you, you can also listen to it on Odeo on this (LINK)]
Rick Steves Bio on Public Radio (LINK)
Airdate: March 7, 2009
We meet writer Bill Holm, in one of his last interviews. He reflects on the view from his cottage on the coast of Iceland — how it illuminates the view of his home in small town America, and the important things learned in 65 years of life. Bill Holm was a celebrated writer and poet from Minnesota who recently passed away – a few weeks after his interview with Rick was recorded.
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Oh, I’m glad you’ve attached some links with Bill’s voice. I can’t wait to listen to them myself.
St. Paul’s Lutheran is in town, the cemetary is in the country–in the township of Westerheim. I believe the lion’s share of the Icelandic immigrants lived in Westerheim Township–all farm country.
Bill was an only child, and when he returned for good to Minneota, both of his parents were already gone. His book: The Heart Can Be Filled Anywhere On Earth is about his return to his roots. I really loved it, especially since I had just been to Minneota.
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That sounds like a book I would love. I’d like to check that out. Oh, I understand — the immigrants lived in Westerheim township, more in the country. That makes sense. And moved closer in to the city as the country population got more sparse.
About the interview, I want to listen to it again. It’s chock full. A couple of things that stuck out for me were how there are no titles in Iceland, except for the one for “Priest” and I think he said that one was for both genders. And the other was about how he came to understand that his America, the one he carries and is proud to talk to others about, is made up of the American poets he loves. In all his struggles with American policies, religion, etc., the poets are the ones he can relate to. The poets are his country.
I wish I had heard Bill speak now. I’m glad you got to hear him read. I also am glad you got to meet Ted Kooser. We have talked about him so much on red Ravine and read his poetry. It just seems fitting you would get to sit near him at Bill’s funeral. And how humble he seems. That’s the way I pictured him.
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Isn’t that just like Bill? To say that poets are *his* America? I’m pretty sure I saw them all in Minneota that day.
There is one scene from the American Legion (site of the ham sandwich luncheon), that I didn’t write about in the essay, but can’t get out of my mind.
There were three poets sitting in a circle with their plates of food. Ted was one of them. They were leaning toward each other, elbow on leg/sandwich in hand. They were intensely talking, the rest of the world didn’t exist for them. Do you know how much I wanted an invisibility cloak so I could join the circle?
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Teri, I like that description, “elbow on leg/sandwich in hand.” I have a vivid picture in my mind of the small circle of writers at the American Legion. Maybe one day that will be us, sitting around in support of a fellow writer. I like to think I have friends like that who will show up. I was thinking about something else in this post. The inherent fact of death — that the death was unexpected and after a prestigious award that would have allowed time and money to write. None of that makes any sense. It’s hard to get the mind around it. It drives home how much we have to live for today, take time to write and do the things that are important to us. No guarantees from Father Time. No favors from the Grim Reaper.
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Teri, what a vivid piece of writing. That’s one of the many things I appreciate about your writing style. You have an exceptional way of bringing people alive with words that I feel like I would know them if I met them on the street and had a chance to talk with them.
Your interviews with the one-room schoolhouse teachers created that same intimate feeling for me. I felt like I could see them in their classrooms with their students. I know those pieces also touched the readers of that publication that printed them.
You are a gifted writer. Never doubt it.
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QuoinMonkey,
How do we really live, keeping our inevitable death next to us in a way that serves us? It’s what everyone says makes for really being alive; have you found ways?
I have had my share of “Wake up, Teri” moments in the last five years, and yet, I still find myself drifting into the mist.
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Bob,
Thanks for your belief in my writing. I believe it in sometimes, but can be knocked off my game in quick order. Just this past weekend I determined to go back, back, back to my basics. To all the things Natalie taught me during the 4-season Intensive. I suspect the closer I stay to the basics, the less I will get tossed away.
I guarantee you the writers I saw at Bill’s funeral believed in each other.
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Yay, Teri, finally, I get a chance to comment on this piece.
First, the fotoblog aspect of it adds a dimension that didn’t strike me until I saw the post in its entirety. I think what the photos did for me was slow everything down. I could tell you savored this trip, that you walked slowly, and I feel the pilgrimage in this journey.
And I’m struck by how much like Bill Holm you are, and why he resonated with you in every way. I’ve always appreciated your appreciation for Minnesota, the Midwest, and for the farming life and culture, and it dawns on me that you and Bill are alike in that respect.
A lot of people spend their lives getting away from their roots or searching for their roots, but you’ve always struck me as someone who knows exactly who you are and where Home is. Like Bill Holm.
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I can’t say I mind being compared to Bill Holm, at any time…for any reason. 🙂
Yes, my Minnesota connection is strong; I have no desire to live anywhere else. And within Minnesota, there are only a few counties that interest me to live in. It’s a pretty narrow focus, and frankly, it feels like a gift to know that–not searching for the special spot.
It seems the same for you and New Mexico, didn’t you recently call yourself a Rio Grande Valley Girl?
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Yes, most definitely true. 🙂
I’m curious, how is it that you came to know of Bill Holm and his work?
Also, I’m curious whether the poem you selected for this essay was read during the services at all. It has the effect, at least for me, of giving solace.
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A beautiful tribute, expertly written.
I know firsthand how difficult it is to write about someone’s passing. Perhaps that is why this touched me as it did.
Thank you for giving us a glimpse of the man Bill Holm was.
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ybonesy,
I don’t remember when or how I first heard about Bill Holm–he was one of those people whose name was always around…an author talked about on MPR, one referenced by Garrison Keillor, someone who was reading at libraries, the person whose books were well-displayed in Minnesota bookstores. And once you saw him, you never forgot him. Ever. His physical presence was impressive, and his personality audacious.
The poem I included in this post was in the bulletin at his funeral.
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Corina,
Thanks for reading my essay, and for your gracious comments. It sounds like you’ve done some writing about someone you know who has died. I agree with you that it’s difficult; how do you summarize an entire life in a page or two? The whole time you write, you know it’s not enough.
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Teri, in answer to your question about inevitable death (LINK), I don’t know. I drift in the mist, too. I am woken up on occasion. Many times it’s when something might happen to others I am close to or they are sick or talk about their own death. That wakes me up. Sometimes I’m more sad at losing others than the thought of my own death. I have to think more about that. I don’t want to forget about those who have died though, those who came before us. I want their lives to matter. It think it’s why I go back in family history — to remember.
Death seems to be a common theme among writers. And, along with birth, something we all have in common. I think it’s one of the reasons Edgar Allan Poe is many times cited as a favorite writer and poet by many. When we all sit together in groups and meditate or do Writing Practice, I feel like we are holding those moments in the silence, in the writing. We hold everything — life, death, all in-between. For some reason, I feel most calm at those times. And seem to spin when left to my own devices if I don’t have a structure in place to help hold me.
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Lovely writing, so glad you told the story, no accident that you were there to witness.
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Janine,
Nice to hear from you. I’m happy I was able to be in Minneota that day, and now to share what I saw unfold.
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Teri – you already know this from our recent weekend together, but I want to mention this to other readers. I am currently reading a book called Nothing to be Frightened of by Julian Barnes, an English writer who has published many novels as well as some nonfiction. The book is about the question you raised, Teri, how do we hold the awareness of death close, letting it enrich each moment, without fear or avoidance? In this book, Mr. Barnes references the classic philosophers we all ran across back in Philosophy 101 class, but also other writers and scholars, contemporary as well as long-gone, who’ve addressed the big questions about belief in God, the afterlife, how to have a “good” death. He also shares stories about how some of these other writers/scholars actually died as well as touching and funny vignettes about his parents’ final years. I highly recommend it.
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Jude,
Thanks for the reminder about the book; it’s the one you were reading in Kansas City, right? I’m adding it to my list. Hey, we can now safely start saying “Summer Reading List,” can’t we? You absolutely sent me on the right path when you recommended Kent Haruf’s book Plainsong, and this one sounds really good, too.
I didn’t take Philosophy 101 (I think I was in Sociology 101 across the hall), so I’ll look forward to a primer in all the classic thinkers.
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Teri, thank you for the elegant introduction to Mr. Holm, and for inspiring me to find out more about him. This quote, which I love, is from an obituary: “He spent his whole life with his foot firmly on the accelerator.”
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Barbara,
Good to hear from you! Yes, Bill lived fully–the sort of person who was able to stay in the moment and not miss his life. He also (from what I could tell) didn’t waste a lot of time worrying about other people’s impressions about him. He figured out who his was, and then…he was unstoppable.
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Hi Teri,
Thanks so much for sharing your beautiful story. Through your words I could feel the reverence, quiet and celebration of the day as if I were there with you.
Your writing is a great gift and I continue to be awed by your spirit, talent, sense of adventure and grasp of what truly makes for a rich life. You inspired me in so many ways and I feel so fortunate to know you are my friend.
Looking forward to seeing you Tuesday,
Love,
Pam
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Pam,
Thanks for reading my piece about Bill. When I went to Minneota that day, I didn’t know it would result in a story to share with other people. It’s been really nice to do exactly that.
I appreciate your support.
Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, and go hear the author Leif Enger…another Minnesota author.
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Teri, are you going to see Leif Enger at the Merriam Park Library? I saw he was going to be there and a little blurb about it:
Did you read Peace Like a River? I’m not familiar with his work but looks like it will be great.
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QM,
Yes, I’ve both read Peace Like a River *and* I’m going to hear him tomorrow night. Leif grew up in Osakis, a town not far from my hometown. Then on Thursday, I’m going to hear David Rhodes at the Minneapolis Public Library–a nice week for authors.
I’m going to hear these authors with my own agenda, not so much to hear them read from their books. Leif wrote his book, and it became a best seller. I want to see how he’s handled the success–the stereotypical dream of every writer that their first book will put them on the map. How did he keep going?
David wrote three books as a young man that established him as the new fiction writer to watch. His name was floating around in all the right circles. And then, he was paralyzed in a motorcycle accident and his entire life fell apart. 31 years later, he published Driftless. How did he crawl back?
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Teri, the background of those two writers, knowing more about their lives, makes seeing them sound all the more rich.
David Rhodes is at Talk of the Stacks, right? Yes, I read that he published three books in the 1970’s (’72, ’74, ’75) before the motorcycle accident in 1976. His book Rock Island Line actually sounds familiar to me. It’s hard to imagine the impact that accident must have had on his life. You read Driftless, too?
Have a good time tonight at Leif Enger. And celebrate the day! I know it’s a meaningful one for you. It will be great to hear if you come away with your questions answered.
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Rock Island…I know. What is it? The name of a famous railroad, or title of a song, or…something. Yes, David will be at the downtown library for Talk of the Stacks. I read his new book, Driftless, when it came out.
If I hear any great nuggets from Leif or David, I’ll pass them on for sure.
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I had to look it up. It’s a railroad line I gather, the Rock Island Line. Here’s a blurb from Milkweed Editions about Rock Island Line (LINK). There’s more at the link. It looks like another book where the main character leaves home and returns again, to the Hearthland of Iowa. I love the main character’s name — July Montgomery.
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You’ve got me interested in Rhodes now. There is a link at Poets & Writers that describes all his books: The Novels of David Rhodes (LINK). He worked in fields, hospitals, and factories across Iowa as a young man and received an MFA in Writing from the University of Iowa Writers Workshop in 1971. He must have been on fire after that with those three novels. You never know what life’s going to throw at you.
Here’s an interesting blurb from Poets & Writers about his first novel, The Last Fair Deal Going Down:
Then this about Rock Island Line:
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Oh, I really want to read Rock Island Line now! Likely they’ll be selling it at the library on Thursday; I may splurge on a copy. I keep telling myself, “No more books!” and then I buy more…
Having gone to a weekend workshop at the Iowa Writers Workshop in the summer of ’07, I’m always thrilled to hear about more alumni. I picture David on that beautiful, old campus with Flannery, Ann, and Lucy.
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Leif Enger Golden Nugget:
During the Q & A, I asked him how it was for him to have his first novel become a National Bestseller, and how he kept going after that.
He said while he was writing Peace Like a River, he never expected to publish it. And when he did (and it took off), he was naturally thrilled. He then went on to quote John Gardner from On Becoming a Novelist. Gardner said that the spiritual rewards of writing a novel “better be enough” for the writer, or the author will be sorely disappointed.
Leif said writing his second book became much more of a spiritual experience. He had to dig deeper, and he worked nearly assured he would never in his life experience the material success of his first novel.
I heard Elizabeth Gilbert talk about that, too. Pressing on, knowing that her biggest commercial success (Eat, Pray, Love) was behind her.
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Teri, thanks for the nugget about seeing Leif Enger last night. I suppose if you hit it really big with your first book, what’s left in terms of sucess? You aren’t going to top that. Maybe it’s freeing in a way, to not have that as a goal that’s remotely on the radar. It reminds me of Lisa Loeb (LINK), too; she hit it big with her first album. It gave her financial success and a solid platform from which to launch off into her other interests.
No guarantees in any of these creative pursuits. It definitely seems like it has to be enough to write and create from a spiritual place. If it’s meant to, the money will follow. But the bottom line is we can’t not write, paint, photograph, whatever it is we have passion about. The self-expression is essential to our lives. Thanks again for checking in on this. If you remember anything else, let us know!
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There is something Leif Enger said that blew me out of the water. I wasn’t going to insert it in my comment about him, since I was so flattened (and frankly in disagreement) about it. But after thinking about it for several hours, it’s actually freeing–a gift.
Someone asked him what the best and worst advice was he ever got about writing. I didn’t even hear the best advice, because the worst was ringing in my ears. He said the worst advice was to join a writer’s group. He explained all the reasons it has never helped him, and that he writes 8 hours/day in the loft of a horse barn in the woods. Period. In total isolation. Always. No community. It doesn’t interest him.
Because my writing communities are essential to my survival as a writer, last night I couldn’t accept what he was saying. But today, I find it helpful. We don’t all do it the same. When Seth Kanter accepted his Milkweed Award last winter, he said he only writes six months of the year. His hippie parents moved from Ohio to Alaska and raised him in an igloo, and that’s how they did it: six months for school, and six months to be outside. No discussion. It’s carried over to his adult life and it works.
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I’m glad you shared that, Teri. Enger’s “worst advice” makes some sense to me. I mean, yes, it’s also clear that there is no single practice or method that works. And what works for one person might not work for another.
Yet, I would imagine that when one is an established writer, you know what to do. And you’ve homed in on the essence of writing, which is to hole up and write. Also, I imagine there is some self-preservation in the idea of not being a part of the established writing community, and by that I mean not so much a small group of fellow writers, close friends, etc., but the writing “scene.” Publishers, agents, writers who are at the moment hot–that kind of thing.
And, I know for myself, I have in the past filled myself with being active versus producing. And one time I got terrible feedback from a writing group that almost caused me to quit writing.
What resonates in his advice is the single-minded focus that must come when one is writing. QM and I have had conversations about how something like this blog could interfere, if we let it, with a big writing or painting project. I’m not sure we know the answer yet on how or if we can do it all, but it’s certainly a question we ask.
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I wonder if I had such a strong reaction to Leif “isolation technique” because something in me knows I need to adopt more of it. There is so much available for writers where I live; I could easily be gone every night under the guise of “filling up the well.” It looks so productive, but can simply be an avoidance tactic. In one of Natalie’s books, she talks about people rushing off to writing classes or reading endless books on writing…never just writing.
ybonesy, I’m glad you didn’t stop writing after the destructive feedback you got. I’m sure there are many who have.
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I did stop for a while, Teri. It took a while to come back. But the thing of it was, the fellow writer was being truthful. The piece sucked, my writing was stuck. Remember the time Natalie talked about feedback and how you need someone who can just tell you whether you hit the mark or you didn’t, and you don’t need someone to say, I want to hear more about this character or that character? Well, this person gave me the type of feedback (the honest type) that Natalie was talking about, but I was so new to writing that what little confidence I had was shattered.
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Teri and ybonesy, I’m glad you both left your comments about feedback and community in writing. Lots of good food for thought. There are so many different ways to be a writer or show up in writing and the ways we have been taught are just a few of them.
I think however people can enter into writing and feel supported, whatever works for them is the way to go. I can see why a person would have to hole up and get to work, not be in much communication with others at all. And I can also see the value in checking in on goals so that we are held accountable. Particularly if it’s hard to stick to those goals or times we feel like we can get easily tossed away.
ybonesy, your story about being shattered as a fledgling writer is one I’ve heard a few times before. And most often by teachers or friends who might say something like that to a student or a friend. But like you say, the other side is that it might be true about certain pieces. Maybe it’s in the delivery. And the timing. It’s not something to say to someone who is just starting out. I’m glad you had the strength to keep going!
Teri, one thing that I think works about the small group of writers we sometimes meet with is that we give little feedback — we simply set our goals, then check in on our goals. Not much crosstalk. And when we get together, we mostly do Writing Practice, meditate, slow walk. There is little feedback about the individual writing. That’s one of the strengths about what Natalie has taught us.
That said, writers need feedback on their work. And I have read many writers who say they have a trusted “editor” friend or person who reads their finished work for them when they are ready. Ann Patchett mentioned it. Flannery O’Connor had that, too. And I think that is the route I might want to go. Someone who’s not emotionally tied into ways I might be successful. Someone who is generous of spirit and confident in their own work and isn’t threatened by someone else’s success. Someone who will tell me the truth — it works or it doesn’t.
It’s a lot to think about. It’s good to hear the way many different writers and artists make their lives work as creative people.
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I went to a poetry class last weekend, one where we spent three hours on five poems–looking at what the author did in form, structure, content, etc. The poets were all masters, well-known names. The students in my class felt free to rip apart the poets’ work (the teacher didn’t monitor it well). It was absurd…beginning poetry students critiquing Pulitzer prize winners. If these were the only writers available to form an alliance with, you can bet I’d be alone in a horse barn like Leif.
I like your idea, QM, of finding a reader further down the road. When the writing isn’t in danger of being exposed to an early frost.
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LOL, Teri. I would be alone in a horse barn, too. Other than that, how did you like the poetry class?
Hey, I admire how deeply you’ve emerged into poetry. Are you loving it? Is it helping your prose/narrative writing?
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The great thing about my new-found interest in poetry is, since I don’t ever expect to become a poet, it has no emotional hook or charge. I’m just learning about it; I could be in a high school or college English class. I don’t have a pressured feeling in the back of my brain that I have to learn how to make money as a poet. It’s a real treat.
I’ve signed up for another poetry class in August. The course is called “How to Read and Fall in Love with Poetry.” For three hours I’ll listen to someone walk me through poems. I can’t wait.
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Hi Teri, sorry to be so slow to comment. I loved this post when I first read it and just as much again reading it today. You are a wonderful storyteller and your descriptions of the service and the town are rich with detail. Complimenting the post with your good pictures, I feel I am right there with you. Thank you. I like Bill Holm’s poem at the end, too. Perfect.
Also, the end of this comment thread is thought provoking to me. I learn from your collective experience. I have joined my first writing critique group this year. Only one person in the group is someone I’ve known for a long time. The others are new to me. This is a positive thing because they don’t already know my “story.” They don’t know what to expect from my writing. After so much study with Natalie, just writing and reading, I felt very vulnerable at first subjecting my writing to be critiqued. I could feel an internal defensiveness.
At first it was hard for me to really take in the criticism. I still just wanted to love my piece, defending it, in my own mind, rather irrationally as if it were a child, not words on the page. But, a wonderful thing this group does is to send the work to be critiqued out a week in advance. People print it out and write comments and then give those marked copies to the author at the end of the night. This is so helpful to me, because I can’t always take in all the suggestions from four or five people on the night of the meeting. Later, I go back and look at the marked copies and then it is easier for me to see how much of it is really good advice. It has helped me to be clearer and to develop a stronger voice in my writing.
Teri, I like what you said about poetry being a real treat for you, because you are not trying to be a poet. I have a regular haiku writing practice, but hesitate to ever call myself a “poet.” I think my reluctance relates to what you referred to as that “pressured feeling” to measure-up to some standard. If I call myself a poet, I will suddenly have to start writing much better haiku. It’s kind of silly, I guess, but I recognize the difference between just loving poetry and feeling pressured to produce it.
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breathepeace,
I am happy to hear of your experience in the critiquing group. How did you find these particular people, and were there ground rules put in place initially? When you talk about receiving 4-5 copies of your writing with suggestions, it sounds like a gift. Of course, I’d be like you were initially–defensive and irrational. But with trust-worthy people, what a way to take your writing to the next level.
I’ve gone without a local, garden-variety writing practice group (Natalie Goldberg style) for a long time. I’ve had some fits and starts with people, and the groups have fizzled. I’m going to run an ad again, and see what the Universe sends my way. I miss writing, reading around the circle, and writing some more.
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Teri,
What a pleasure to be in your hands and behind your eyes for another experience. I felt the intimacy and desire of this piece and I’m grateful for the introduction to a poet who gripped me immediately.
I’m glad you followed the voice that said “Go,” and then the one that said “Write.”
Anna
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Anna,
Thanks for reading my piece; I’m thrilled to have introduced you to Bill Holm. I hope someday you’ll be able to hear some excerpts of him reading his own work–a sensational voice.
I want to determine to live the sort of life that allows me to hear the voice that says “Go.”
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I went to the 20th Annual Sinclair Lewis Writing Conference this weekend. It was held in the Nobel Prize Winner’s hometown of Sauk Centre, Minnesota. There were four well-known Minnesota writers who held wonderful workshops, some of the best I’ve ever been to. In years past, Bill Holm had been a speaker there, too.
One of my favorite parts was the panel discussion. The moderator told a “fun fact” about Sinclair Lewis, and then asked a related question to all the authors. I wrote down the questions (and the author’s answers). Here are a few:
-Sinclair Lewis was known to take long walks to work out story lines. What do you do? (Two of the authors said swimming at the Y.)
-Sinclair left Yale to work on a ship that transported cattle across the Atlantic. He said after that dirty, rough, wild work, he could write about anything. How important are great life experiences for writers? (Will Weaver said it’s more important to read than go on a Safari.)
-Lewis wrote on trains, and sometimes while standing by the kitchen sink. What makes for bad writing conditions? (They all talked about being distracted or tired, and finding a way to enter your own private bubble.)
Sinclair Lewis read 14 books a month. What books do you recommend? (William Kent Krueger said there are three books he has read every year for decades: Catcher in the Rye, The Great Gatsby, and To Kill a Mockingbird)
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Wow, Teri, what great “excerpts” from the writing conference. Interesting responses from the writers. Especially Will Weaver’s, more important to read than go on a Safari.
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Wang Ping (a writer from China who came to Minnesota for college 20 years ago and never left) said in response to the great life experiences question, “Pay attention to your life. Don’t travel around the world. Ask yourself why you want to share your story, or what right you have to write about other people’s joy or pain.”
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Teri, these are gems that you took away from the Sinclair Lewis Writing Conference this weekend. It inspires me to want to answer these questions for myself. And couldn’t come at a better time. I feel pretty overwhelmed with everything I need to do before I travel to Pennsylvania and Georgia this weekend. At the Lake Michigan writing retreat last week, I set some solid goals that felt good to me. I started to type them up to send to Bob and, whew, I’m trying to imagine how I’m going to complete them with the current job schedule. But I’m not complaining. Whether off of work, or working full-time, details of how to manage a writing life have to be worked out.
I’m struck by “How important are great life experiences for writers?” Are Sinclair and Will Weaver (and Wang Ping) all saying that the writing and reading are more important than the experiences? Just curious what your take is on that (or anyone else who would like to chime in).
I can relate to writing anywhere because I do it. When ideas come, I have to jot them down, no matter where I am. I notice I think about details of pieces and stories while I drive. Driving is meditative for me (well, some types of driving). Depends on how quickly I need to get somewhere. Thanks so much for dropping these into this post. I may have more to say after I digest a bit more.
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Though all the writers on the panel have lived interesting lives (and gone to faraway places), they all concurred that aspiring writers are much better off reading ( and being keen observers of their own lives) than running off for one adventure after another trying to get inspired to write an amazing book. Will Weaver talked about the Ernest Hemingways of the literary past, and how it appeared they were all going to Africa or Paris to write…that there was some macho, exotic edge to the way they got their material. In contrast, he talked about a book entitled Miss Brill. I haven’t read it, but the whole book takes place while someone sits on a park bench.
This morning at the grocery store I was looking at the Campbell’s soup. An aggressive shopper with flyaway, frizzy hair raced up with her cart, and started reaching and grabbing soup in front of me…shoving me out of the way by her actions. I felt instant hostility and disgust toward her. Then I thought about being an observer of my life. This woman is a whole character waiting to be written–and all I had to do was go to Rainbow Foods.
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Teri, your experience at Rainbow strikes me because it’s exactly what Bob was talking about last weekend when we were going over our writing goals. That just being and observing what’s around us when we go to the bank, in the grocery store, on the way to work, is a great way to access character development — in real life. Right before your very eyes. And then, there it is at Rainbow. Cool.
I haven’t read Miss Brill either. But now I want to. Writers that make what we might normally consider mundane come alive have so much to teach. Is it that they have found their own voice? Is it in the details? Is it the ordinary as extraordinary? As a photographer, it’s so easy for me to see the beauty in everyday objects. Or old historic objects. Rusty objects. As a writer, it’s harder to remember to turn everyday routines into extraordinary moments.
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Teri, I finished the memoir Without a Map by Meredith Hall, and it is definitely in the Top 10 memoirs I’ve read, ever. Maybe the Top 5. Why I bring it up is because Hall told a most common story for her day, which was about her pregnancy at age 16, in the late 1960s, and the way she was shunned by family, church, school, community.
She then went on to live an extraordinary few years, traveling through the Middle East and buying a boat and fishing and sailing with a crazy boyfriend.
Later in her life, things settle down. She eventually meets her lost child (who she’d given up for adoption).
The telling of every part of her life–whether ordinary or extraordinary–left me amazed. I just can’t say enough about the magic of her writing. I imagine that no matter what her life would have been, it would have been the kind of book I’d not want to put down until I was finished. Was it what her life was? Yes, but also the way she was present to her life and her interior world–the what and why behind the choices she made and that were made for her.
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I’ve got Miss Brill on hold at the library. The author is Katherine Mansfield, and it’s in a collection of old, classic short stories. I’ll check back after I’ve read it. I haven’t heard of Without A Map, ybonesy. Per your suggestion, I will add it to my reading list.
Something Wang Ping said at the S.L. conference is haunting me. I’ve heard what she said before, but this time…it’s different. She said we have to write about the thing in our life, our past, that is unspeakable. Why, oh why, is that always the case? A woman at the conference raised her hand and said she has had a terrible life, and she knows she has to write about it, but year follows year and she doesn’t. A few minutes later she ran out of the room. Literally. Everyone tried to get her to stop (we’ve all done our own running), but she was determined. At the next workshop, I noticed she bolted again. I say this not to judge. I totally get it.
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ybonesy, I’m adding Without a Map to my list, too. Had not heard of it either. Teri, will look forward to hearing about Miss Brill. The more short stories I read, the more I like that genre. I don’t know how I would be writing in it though. Have to think more about that.
Writing about the unspeakable…that can be so hard. The fear that arises, about being judged. Amazing that the woman at the conference ran out of the room, yet not surprising. Some kinds of pain can be unbearable. I once ran out of the room in a therapy session; I think it was in my 30’s. I used to blush with shame. Do not feel it in that same way anymore. I feel for the woman who ran out of the room. But it sounds like she was among friends, even though it may take a while to recognize it. Wang Ping sounds like a wise woman.
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Wang Ping teaches writing at Macalaster, and I plan to make a point of watching for other workshops she’ll give in the Twin Cities. She was amazing. Yes, very wise.
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I’ve come back to check in about Miss Brill, the short story recommended by Will Weaver. It was used as an example of how one needn’t feel compelled to travel around the world in order to write.
It’s six pages long, written by Katherine Mansfield, and was in a book published at the turn of the century. Though there’s a sad ending for the the sweet and earnest Miss Brill, I did see what Will Weaver meant. From her park bench vantage point, the whole world moved before her. She witnessed human longing, jealously, joy, despair, aging, fear, and triumph.
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I went to Beverly Rollwagen’s book signing tonight–a woman who was in Natalie Goldberg’s first-ever writing class!
While there, poet Phebe Hanson told me a book of Bill Holm’s poetry has been published posthumously. There will be a public reading on November 2nd of Bill’s work by favorite Minnesota authors. Will I be there? One guess only.
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Yes, indeed. That’s my guess. 8) How can you not be there? That would be impossible. Looking forward to hearing about it. Will the poet Phebe (love her name) be reading his poems, or will there be several poets reading them?
BTW, Teri, I wanted to ask you about the book of short stories where you found “Miss Brill.” Was the book all by the same author? I was intrigued that she was a woman author publishing at the turn of the century. Don’t hear too much about women authors of that era.
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Yes, Phebe (who was an honorary pall bearer at Bill Holm’s funeral) will read, plus Robert Bly and others.
“Miss Brill” is in a collection called Great Modern Short Stories (or something like that). Though I’ve already returned the book to the library, I remember “Heart of Darkness” was one of the stories. Jane Hamilton was doing a reading in Minneapolis recently. She said it took her forever to get through Joseph Conrad’s book…many attempts required. I may try that one next.
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A Journey for Bill…reprise…
Last night many (most) of Bill’s pall bearers read poems from his new, posthumously published book, “Chain Letter of the Soul” at Plymouth Congregational Church in Minneapolis. There was a packed house, a freewill offering that will be given to the small library in Bill’s hometown, and Birchbark Books was the evening’s book seller.
We arrived early, and sat in the front row. Some of the literary legends needed help getting up and down the stairs to the podium…getting on in years. There were ten readers, many of them took on the cadence of how Bill used to read.
The shock of Bill’s sudden death has passed, and we all sat together enjoying the written word. A gift.
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Teri, I was hoping to hear about the reading. Curious as to who read. Can you share a bit more?
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Robert Bly was the first to read. He’s got one of those fabulous voices I could listen to all day. He leaned on the podium, leaning into the microphone and crowd. Each author had been assigned 2-3 poems, and Robert read one of his twice: “Oh, you’ve got to hear that again!” Bill’s wife, Marcella, read a poem he had written about marriage…very tender. Phebe Hanson (raised by a Lutheran minister, a widower) read one about religion.
At the end, we all read “Letting Go Of What Cannot Be Held Back” in unison.
As it turns out, this reading had been scheduled long before Bill died. It was going to be his book-launching reading.
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Teri, it’s great to hear about the Bill Holm readings at Plymouth Congregational Church. Liz said she heard there were about 400 people there. How did they get 400 people into that church? I remember walking in the rain with you to see Mary Oliver there a few years ago. A good place to hear authors read. Did not know the event was scheduled before Bill died. Something kind of eerie about that.
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I was fortunate enough to be at the reading. It was a wonderful way to remember the man I have come to think of as the best friend I never met.
There were 400 copies of “Letting Go Of What Cannot Be Held Back” given out that night. I hung back as the audience left hoping to pick up a few stray ones. In that whole church I only found one, I assume the rest are treasured.
Teri, thanks for your story of his funereal. It is a vivid and touching piece of writing and makes up – in some small part – for my missing the gathering.
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Erick,
Oh, it’s great to hear from someone else who was at Monday night’s reading. My friend and I kept looking at each other during the evening as in, “Can you believe what we’re witnessing?”
I read that those copies of “Letting Go…” are called broadsides…presumably an old printing press term. Considering that Milkweed Editions was his publisher, I’m not surprised they came up with that way to honor Bill.
Thanks for reading and commenting on the piece I wrote about Bill’s funeral.
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[…] – August 2009 Louis Robertson – July 2009 Barbara Rick – June 2009 Cathy Wysocki – May 2009 Teri Blair – April 2009 Lesley A. Goddin – April 2009 Bob Chrisman – March 2009 Elizabeth Statmore – March 2009 Linda […]
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I saw this headline in the daily paper today: “Does Poetry Matter?” A small town in central Minnesota is sponsoring a contest to answer this question. Wouldn’t Bill Holm be pleased?
Here’s a link to the piece: http://www.startribune.com/local/112749529.html?elr=KArksUUUoDEy3LGDiO7aiU
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Teri, that’s pretty cool. Just checked out your link. I had never heard of New York Mills. Now I see that it’s a farming town of 1,200 people in central Minnesota, about 170 miles northwest of Minneapolis. Bill Holm would be pleased. It looks like it’s an amateur philosophy contest? It’s a good question to debate. Kind of like — Do the Arts matter? It’s hard to explain in words how important art, writing, music, poetry, the performing arts are to the fabric of our lives. They make people aware of the connections between all of us, educate, and inform. Teach about “other” and community and giving back. It would be fun to see the debate they have around the contest.
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My hometown (Glenwood) played New York Mills in sports.
Maybe I’ll write my own 750 word essay about what our Poetry and Meditation group meant to all of us. If I’m a finalist, you could come with me to New York Mills. 🙂
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YES! I think you should enter the contest, Teri. That little poetry group changed lives. It was a passion for you, and a practice. And that spilled over to those who participated in the group. Do it! And I’ll definitely come with you to New York Mills. What a cool thing for a small town to do.
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The idea of “debating the philosophy of the question” leaves me with a big, blank, introverted stare. But I can tell our story, right? I’ll let you know if I give it a whirl.
Sinclair Lewis would like this contest, too. He’d say, “There’s hope for the small town, yet.”
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Yeah, that part is a little strange. It makes me wonder if there are actually going to be people who debate in the other direction, that poetry doesn’t matter. Do you really think that will happen? I can’t imagine what they would say. But then I am firmly in the POETRY DOES MATTER camp. I was never very good at debate. I’m one of those reflect, ponder, write people. I think telling the story would be all you would need to do. Don’t let it stop you from entering! I love small towns. I grew up in a rural area. But now that I think about it, the places I have lived have been near fairly large cities. You grew up in a very small town. It so much shaped who you are. A friend told me today to “remember who I am” — in the way that I could find strength in that. It’s another good philosophical question to ponder.
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I just sent Teri B a link to this article. Then I start telling QM about it and she is so all over it already. Guess I should have been here on the blog before going to the news site! Teri should TOTALLY enter this contest. Yes, debating is probably not something most writers would jump at, but just say what’s in your heart and leave it at that. Let others swirl around the philosophical question, just write what you know!
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sky and Quoin,
There is a pretty extensive website for the New York Mills Cultural Center. I think if I take the time to read it all, I’ll understand what they mean by “debate.” Maybe they’re using the word in a less-aggressive way that I picture…people at podiums attacking each other’s point of view.
Thanks for your votes of confidence. To be continued!
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I woke up early this morning and listened to Cathy Wurzer on MPR. Guess what she announced? The “Think-Off” in New York Mills. By the way Cathy asked this year’s question, “Does Poetry Matter?” I think she sings in our choir.
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Teri, that’s pretty cool. I love Cathy Wurzer. She’s up there with Kerri Miller for me! I have no doubt, POETRY MATTERS. I hope you write that essay and submit it. So many good fiction and creative non-fiction writers started as poets. I read it all the time in interviews. I do think poetry is meant to be read aloud. That’s the way I enjoy it most.
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When I was at my aerobics class last night, I was telling my friend U. about the “Think-Off.” She doesn’t attend any cultural events, but is very aware of the goings-on in the world. She knew all about it…that it’s held in New York Mills, that it’s been going for nearly 20 years, etc. She’s seen it announced in the Star Tribune. She said, “Oh, yeah. People come from all over the country for it.”
Isn’t it wonderful to discover these sorts of events in our own backyard?
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That’s amazing, Teri. I would not have thought that people would come from all over the country to New York Mills. I love learning new tidbits about the Arts and how they are thriving in small towns. Your friend sounds wise.
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As we approach the second anniversary of Bill Holm’s death (February 25, 2009), I come back to Teri’s piece about making the pilgrimage to attend his funeral in Minneota, Minnesota. I had one of those days today where I wondered what it was all for. Why write? Why do art? What am I doing. Then I read the end of Teri’s piece:
Bill would appreciate me going to his funeral, but he wouldn’t want me to stay sentimental too long. He’d expect me to get on with it. Get on with it, now, he’d say. Be alive.
Get on with it. Be alive. No time to waste. I ran across this quote from Bill Holm in a book today. I just love it:
Call me island. Or call me Holm. Same thing. It’s one way to start, though like so many other human starts—or human books—it’s not original. We stand on the shoulders of our ancestors no matter how many machines we invent. Only our memory and our metaphors carry us forward, not our money, not our gadgets, not our opinions.
–poet Bill Holm from Eccentric Islands, 2000
Thinking of you this week, Bill. And all of the poets who came before us. You live on through your work. And those who carry it forward.
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We miss you, Bill. But what you stood for inspires. Your courage to live a life that mattered. Honestly. Consciously.
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Teri, the more I read of his work, the more I like him. He did seem to live by his convictions. He seemed fearless and that inspires. I ran across this excerpt from Bill Holm’s Artist’s Statement after winning the McKnight Distinguished Artist Award in 2008. For the fine threads that connect us all:
“I write not just to amuse and divert (though I hope that happens, too), but to make connection to all of human history on the planet, to the fine threads that connect us into a tribe, quarrelsome and idiotic though we sometimes are. I have a history, you have a history. At our best, they touch and bind us together, like it or not.
I scribble for the pleasure and benefit of the dead. I am an afterlife skeptic; if we wish to keep hold of our dead, we must put them on paper—in bound books. Though books are certainly only a little more eternal than we ourselves, those scribblings have kept Gilgamesh, Antigone, Achilles, Aeneas, Jesus, Buddha, Njall, Don Quixote, Hamlet, and Faust (to list only a few) alive in us.
At birth, we begin to keep the register of our personal dead: parents, mentors, lovers, friends. As we age, the size of this register swells until—if we live past, say, 100—it includes everyone we have ever truly known with only us left alive to join someone else’s register. I have tried to make that register part of my books so that my parents, both dead too young, unlucky friends who disappeared early, and now in the last years, my literary mentors, have been given a little more life in print for those who can never know them alive.”
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[…] into a few words. I’m informed, assured I’m not alone, and given direction. I’ve read Bill Holm’s “Letting Go of What Cannot Be Held Back” dozens of times since my dad died. It gives me […]
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