Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category

An excerpt from “Felicity and Barbara Pym” by Harrison Solow

Monday, September 6th, 2010
Guest post by: Harrison Solow

Author of Felicity and Barbara Pym, Harrison Solow appears at the festival on October 9th from 9-10:15am for a writers workshop in room B118, and on October 9th at 11am on the OEA Stage

Felicity and Barbara Pym book cover

“You ask me again why you should read literature. I feel I should not answer you…Why ask me? I did not choose your course of study. You could have taken sociology, physics, or architecture. You have circumscribed your own world, for the coming semester at least. There is no point to the question if you yourself cannot answer it. Why should you read literature?

Perhaps you should not.

However, I suspect you feel you would like to, and that is the basis of your irritation with silly men, mousy women, tea, religion, and quotations, in the novel. Is this worthy of the august company of Dante, Proust, Dostoyevsky?

It may interest you to know that Barbara Pym felt as you do, when she was about your age – reading Aldous Huxley, and imagining herself in a more glittering, a more significant, world. And so to protect herself from an unbearable exclusion from that world, she wrote a novel, Young Men in Fancy Dress, in hope, her biographer says, of becoming part of it.

Her irritation with silly men was no different from yours, or mine, or anyone’s really, you see. The only difference is what each of us regards as ‘silly.’  Literature, or at least, books  (I will not presume to add Pym to the Masters, as you call them – although surely there are degrees of literature) offer a way out – out of a time, a space, a life, a status, a level of experience that is unsatisfactory to the reader. Not by virtue of escape, but by metamorphosis, via instruction…And although you may not now want to arrive in such a place, you have chosen it as your destination. But I suppose you must. After all, it does not make sense that you should have chosen to enter a fictional world you find irritating.

Oh ― but see what Miss Pym’s Huxley had to say in Those Barren Leaves:’ If we wrote it ourselves, we might find Etruscan literature interesting.’

Does it have to be your world, Felicity, in order to be habitable, respected, interesting, relevant? ‘It’s so provincial,’ you complained to me of Some Tame Gazelle in your first letter.

But you see

…provincialism does not signify in a writer, and may indeed be the chief source of his strength: only a fool or a prig would complain that Defoe is cockneyfied or Thomas Hardy countrified. But provincialism in a critic is a serious fault. A critic has no right to the narrowness which is the frequent prerogative of the creative artist. He has to have a wide outlook, or he has nothing at all…”

__________

Harrison Solow is a Pushcart Prize winning writer, professor of literature and writing and a writer for the professions. For more information about Harrison, please see:

http://redroom.com/author/harrison-solow

http://lamp.academia.edu/HarrisonSolow

For more information on the recently released Felicity & Barbara Pym, please see:

http://felicityandbarbarapym.wordpress.com/

BIO:

About the Author

Pushcart Prize winning American writer and one of the two best selling UC Press authors of all time (at time of publication) Harrison Solow has received many awards for her literary fiction, nonfiction, cross-genre writing, poetry and professional writing. Her most recent award is First Prize for Short Fiction in the Carpe Articulum Literary Review International Competition for 2010.

Harrison has lectured at a number of universities, colleges, arts and cultural institutions in the United States, Canada and Great Britain. A former faculty member at UC Berkeley, she accepted a lectureship in the English Department of the University of Wales in 2004 and was appointed Writer in Residence in 2008.

She is a strong proponent of the traditional Liberal Arts, the Fine Arts and the Utilitarian Arts as separate and equally respectable entities, an advocate for Wales and a patron of literary endeavours.

Harrison speaks various varieties of English as well as intermediate Welsh and rusty French. She is a member of The Association of Literary Scholars, Critics and Writers, The Intercollegiate Studies Institute, The National Association of Scholars, The Women’s Faculty Club of the University of California, Berkeley, The Association of Welsh Writers in English, The Claremont Institute, The Association for Core Texts and Courses, The Red Room, The Association of Writing Programs, The Welsh Academy, and The National Coalition of Independent Scholars, where she served on the Board in 2009 and 2010.

Harrison lives in the United States and Wales with her husband, Herbert F. Solow, the former Head of MGM, Paramount and Desilu Studios in Hollywood. She has two incomparable sons.

Q&A with Benjamin Percy

Wednesday, September 1st, 2010
Guest post by: Benjamin Percy

the wilding

Author of The Wilding, Benjamin Percy appears at the Wordstock festival on Saturday, October 9th from 12:00-1:15pm for a writer’s workshop in room B119, as well as October 9th at 2:00pm on the Columbia Stage and 4:00pm on the Wieden + Kennedy Stage.

What are you reading now?

The Pale Blue Eye by Louis Bayard—and it’s fantastic.

Who is your favorite new author?

Siobhan Fallon. Look for her debut collection, You Know When
the Men are Gone
, this winter from Penguin. She’s going to make a big splash. www.siobhanfallon.com.

What is your favorite book of the year?

Galveston by Nic Pizzolatto

Favorite book of all time?

Blood Meridian

What is your favorite food?

New York strip, medium rare, seasoned with a dry rub.

Which writers have most influenced you?

Cormac McCarthy. Flannery O’Connor. Peter Straub. James Dickey. Dan Simmons. Alice Munro. Daniel Woodrell. Denis Johnson. Stephen King. Harry Crews. Rick Bass. Poe.

What are you working on now?

I always have a lot of irons in the fire. I recently completed a book of fables (all of them illustrated by Eisner-nominated artist Danica Novgorodoff, who adapted my story “Refresh, Refresh” into a graphic novel), which my agent is about to shop. I’m deep into a new novel. I’m pitching a comic book series. I’m hammering out articles for Esquire and the Wall Street Journal (which has hired me on to do these “Weekend Adventure” pieces – so far I’ve gone hang-gliding off the Tetons and scaled a 250-ft old growth fir and hammocked the night in it). I’m working on a book of craft essays (which have been appearing regularly in Poets & Writers magazine). And I’m co-authoring a screenplay with filmmaker James Ponsoldt.

What is your favorite website for writing/literature/etc.

The Rumpus

Oregon will eat you.

Tuesday, August 31st, 2010
Guest post by: Benjamin Percy

Author of The Wilding, Benjamin Percy appears at the Wordstock festival on Saturday, October 9th from 12:00-1:15pm for a writer’s workshop in room B119, as well as October 9th at 2:00pm on the Columbia Stage and 4:00pm on the Wieden + Kennedy Stage.

Ben Index Pic


Oregon will eat you. That’s what I told the filmmaker James Ponsoldt (whose excellent Off the Black starred Nick Nolte and Timothy Hutton) before we scouted locations in Central Oregon for the adaptation of my story “Refresh, Refresh.” Every year Mt. Hood crushes people in avalanches, swallows them in snowstorms. Every year hikers vanish in the woods. Every year the riptide sucks swimmers out into the ocean and fills their lungs with water. A wrong step takes someone tumbles off a cliff in the gorge. A wrong turn sends someone down a logging road from which they will never return. I went to school with a girl who skied into a tree and died. I went to school with a boy who snow-mobiled into a tree and died. In Central Oregon, where I grew up, turkey vultures turn in lazy circles, coyotes gnaw on bones, black widows scuttle under porches, and scorpions burrow under rocks.

Ponsoldt was unimpressed with Bend, Oregon. It reminded him too much of California with its Land Rovers and too tan platinum blondes and bubble tea and clothing boutiques. Even Tumalo now had a wine bar. When I visit there now, when I see how much the area has changed, I realize that I am writing historical fiction. He wanted—for the film—something rougher, truer, not crowded with high-end restaurants and million-dollar condos, but snarled with barbed wire, splashed with whiskey, so I took him to Prineville, where we bombed up and down streets snapping photos, knocking on doors, knowing we had found the ideal town for the shoot, a town that felt more like the Oregon I remembered.

He wanted more. He wanted to see the Oregon that would eat him, as I had promised. I took him to Smith Rock, to Lava Butte, to the Metolius. I took him down back roads, hiked him through dry canyons. And then we drove to Hole in the Ground, which has a recurring and sinister role in my story and the screenplay. Bad shit happens there. For those unfamiliar with the site, Hole in the Ground is commonly referred to as a meteor crater—several hundred feet deep and nearly a mile across—but is in fact a geologic formation.

This was January. The road to Hole in the Ground was closed. But we had driven more than an hour—and the snow didn’t look particularly deep—and this was one of the critical locations for the movie—so I slammed on the accelerator and blazed down the road. The SUV rocked violently over the ruts. The tires broke through ice and into a slushy water that splashed against wheel wells and doors. I began to wonder if this was in fact a wise decision, but said nothing and four miles later the woods opened up and the ground fell away and we parked at the edge of the crater. The cavernous space, frosted with snow, appeared lunar. We hiked around and snapped photos and talked about how to get a caravan of grips and costume designers and makeup arts out to this remote location. And then we hopped back into the SUV and I keyed the ignition and rolled forward, driving through a snowbank.

The SUV lurched. There came a noise from beneath us like the dinosaurs in the movies make when angry. I cancelled the ignition and we climbed out to discover we had run over a boulder and were precariously balanced on top of it, none of our wheels touching the ground.

We had no cell signal. The temperature was hovering around freezing. The sun was setting and the world was going inky around the edges. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast. We had a four mile walk down this access road—and then a thirty mile walk to La Pine, the nearest town. I turned to the line producer, who was riding along with us, and poked him in the chest and said, “I’m going to eat you first.”

Life was imitating art. Oregon had eaten us. But rather than eat each other, as I proposed, we tried our best to figure out what the hell to do. And what followed was a little like a Survivor challenge. We had a collapsible shovel in the trunk and we used it to claw rocks from the snow and frozen ground. These we stacked under the tires, creating a wobbly bridge. With the jack, we were able to tip the vehicle—and then, with a stomp of the gas, with the jack spiraling like a weapon through the air, with the undercarriage scraping horribly over the boulder, we were free. “I wish we had a camera,” Ponsoldt said. “We could have put this in the DVD extras.” He was smiling, but his fingers were bleeding and his mouth trembled a little at the edges.

My novel, The Wilding, is a literary thriller that follows multiple storylines set in motion by a golf course resort that is going to be built in Echo Canyon in the Ochoco Mountains. Like James Dickey’s Deliverance, it is about the sometimes jarring intersections between wilderness and society, the moments like the one Ponsoldt and I found ourselves in, at the edge of the crater, with the darkness falling all around us, trying to laugh even as we scrambled about and bloodied our hands and felt terribly, vulnerably human.

How and Why I Wrote Little Green

Monday, August 30th, 2010
Guest post by Loretta Stinson

Author of Little Green, Loretta Stinson appears at the festival on Saturday October 9th at 4pm.

littlegreencover-jpeg

If you could have told my fourteen-year old self that one day I would hold two Masters degrees and have a published novel to my name I would have said you were crazy. Things like that don’t happen to girls like the me I used to be.

I ran away from home when I was fourteen and didn’t go back to school for real until I was in my early thirties—that was after the restraining order, the divorce, and the year of hiding out that I did to stay safe from the man I was married to.  His addiction and the resulting violence that accompanied it were my reasons for leaving but it took me almost sixteen years before I walked out for good. I left just about everything I owned—house, car, pets, that summer afternoon in 1991. I started over from square one, and one of the things I started over was my education. I’d always been a big reader but I regretted not having a diploma, just a GED.

During my last year as an undergraduate at Portland State University, I took a beginning fiction writing class. I loved it from the start. The class ended at 4 and I would ride the bus home already thinking of the assignment at hand—what the first line would be, how I wanted the reader to feel and think about my characters. I worked harder than I ever had at anything, but it was the kind of work that gives you energy and won’t let you go.

The final project was to write a short story using a list of props. The props happened to bring back a memory of something awful that I’d experienced during my relationship. In writing the story as fiction, the “real” experience lost its power to hurt me. I found myself writing all kinds of stories about that time in my life. They are indeed fiction informed by what I lived through, but not memoir. At a certain point as I was writing Little Green, Janie, the main character, became her own sweet self.

I wrote that book in order to understand those experiences and because the question asked most often of me, “Why didn’t you just leave?” had so many answers and was so much more complicated than someone never living in constant fear can imagine.

For me writing Little Green was like taking strong medicine. Stories have power both in the reading and in the writing. It’s my privilege to share this with you!

Writing Process/Writing Practice

Friday, August 27th, 2010
Guest post by Loretta Stinson

Author of Little Green, Loretta Stinson appears at the festival on Saturday October 9th at 4pm.

the-typewriter-leroy-anderson-martin-breinschmid-w-straus-festival-orchestra-viennaWriting is just writing—a practice, if you like, a discipline, an art, a craft. It’s not a mystery. If you write a page a day for a year you will have a first draft of a novel or several short stories or whatever it is you want to write. We sit down with our tools of choice—pad and pencil, laptop, typewriter and become still enough to hear the story that’s ours to tell. It whispers itself to us. It’s a very quiet little voice and if you’re too busy, too loud, too distracted you might not hear it. We practice coaxing the words out by writing so often and with such regularity that we become good friends with the process.  We quiet the mind and simply start regardless of how we feel about it. There is no good or bad, there is only you showing up with attention to listen to the story you need to tell. Later there will be revision of the story and time to shape and fix, but not at first. At first there is only sitting still and listening with openness.

After the first draft, when you know what the story is about (which is rarely what you thought it was when first you started) you will do that other kind of writing called revision, but at first it’s all about sitting down, showing up and being open and attentive.

The other part of the writing process is reading. In order to write well you must read. Read what you love and find books that speak to you. Read the books you love more than once. Study the way books you love are written. Figure out what makes the book so compelling to you. Let yourself fall in love with the beauty of words. Read books that challenge you, but if a book doesn’t keep you turning pages even if it is a classic close it down and start a new one—life is too short to read something you don’t love.

There are some techniques and skills you will need to learn to write a story. You’ll learn these things by reading and by practicing short assignments, not by trying to write a novel right off the bat. You wouldn’t expect to run a marathon if you’d never run short distances. Writing short pieces works like distance training. Short pieces prepare you for the long haul and give you the muscle and discipline to continue.

Q&A With Loretta Stinson

Thursday, August 26th, 2010

Author of Little Green, Loretta Stinson appears at the festival on Saturday October 9th at 4pm.

Loretta Stinson pic

What are you reading now?

Saving Fish from Drowning by Amy Tan

Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver

Who is your favorite new author?

Right now I’m smitten with Julie Orringer, Gina Ochsner, and Amy Hempel.

What is your favorite book of the year?

These four books all fell into my lap this year and I constantly recommend them to others:

Away by Amy Bloom

A History of Love by Nicole Krauss

The Russian Book of Color and Flight by Gina Oschner

A Gate at the Top of the Stairs by Lorrie Moore

Favorite books of all time?

I re-read House of Mirth by Edith Wharton, Ceremony by Leslie Silko, Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston, and Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison.

Which writers have most influenced you?

Writers have come into my life and turned it sideways more than once. I’ve always loved to read, and different writers have called my name at different times in my life. First it was John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Thomas Wolfe when I was about fourteen. Then at sixteen or so I discovered Joan Didion, Toni Morrison, Tom Wolfe, Ken Kesey, John Barth, and Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove.  I love Raymond Carver, Tom Spanbauer, Sherman Alexie, and N. Scott Momaday.

What are you working on now?

A big wandering novel set in a time and place gone by. It’s about mothers, mothers in law, daughters, daughters in law and granddaughters—and food, lots of food.

Viva Las Vegas part 1

Monday, August 23rd, 2010
Guest post by Viva Las Vegas

Author of Magic Gardens: The Memoirs of Viva Las Vegas and The Gospel According to Viva Las Vegas: Best of the Exotic Years, Viva Las Vegas appears Saturday, October 9th at 3pm on the Wordstock stage, and Sunday, October 10th at 2pm on the Wordstock stage.

Magic Gardens book cover

From the moment I took the stage at Magic Gardens—a small dive strip club in Portland’s Chinatown—I knew I had to write about it.

I was a shy twenty-two year old tomboy with short dirty-blonde hair, dressed in a white satin slip and a pair of second-hand too-big rhinestone-covered ruby-red seven-inch heels. As I tottered around precariously on the Magic’s tiny wooden stage for the very first time, every step brought a new inspiration, a new revelation. I’d always been a writer (was first published at age seven in Highlights Magazine), and could hardly wait to pull on my blue jeans, scrub off the makeup, and process all that I’d seen over coffee and a notebook. And that, in a nutshell, is how I spent my twenties: dancing around in various states of undress before crowds of people, then chastely bundled in denim and cashmere writing for hours in solitary confinement.

Much of my writing about the industry was published during that time in Exotic Magazine, a sex-industry digest of which I was editor from 1998 – 2005 (with a year or so off for good behavior). I wrote a monthly column and lots of interviews with bands and intellectual luminaries (many are compiled in The Gospel According to Viva Las Vegas). The immediacy of the columns frequently bit me in the ass. I could, say, get in a squabble with a boyfriend, write my side of the story, and see it published while the wounds were still fresh. This was never very appealing to my beaux, but the strippers would squeal about it all month long in the dressing room, the customers would guffaw at the bar, and I’d be pleased because ultimately it was they who were my chosen audience. Still, the only romantic liaison that I managed to maintain for more than a year was with a fellow writer—someone who understood that all’s fair in love, war, and periodicals.

I started writing my book in earnest at age 29. Before that I suffered numerous false starts. I was quite disciplined, worked as a writer, and had plenty of flexible time, but I just couldn’t shelve friendships/ relationships/ living in New York City/ other artistic endeavors to make the time necessary to produce a book. Finally, with my thirties looming, I quit one of my jobs, resigned myself to being single, and—THIS WAS KEY—stopped working out first thing in the morning.

It still amazes me that this was the key. Certainly life coaches are known to say, “If something really matters to you, do it first.” I guess I always put my health first, and it was a big deal to delay my meditation/ yoga/ swimming/ running until later in the day, but it turns out that’s what it took. Of course, during this time I also got cancer, but writing requires a certain sacrifice and may, in some instances, actually be deadly.

I’d wake up alone, put the coffee on, and before the caffeine had penetrated my brain, I’d be stringing words together across a blank page. Soon my kitchen was papered with Post-it notes, I had dug out old journals, columns, and soundtracks, and within two months I had ONE HUNDRED PAGES of single-spaced manuscript! And I still managed to work out in the afternoons.

Seeing the project through to publication proved an even greater challenge. It took five years after that initial flurry of activity until I held the bound book in my hands. Relationships, career changes, buying a house, and cancer upended things. But there’s a lot that’s comforting about returning to a well-loved project, one that you’ve sacrificed so much for, and seeing how it can nourish you. You only get out what you put in, right? Indeed, lots of maxims were proving true.

I’ve always loved the Hunter S. Thompson quote about the music industry: “The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There is also a bad side.” The publishing industry as I’ve experienced it is not much different. There are a lot of stripper books on the market, and most of them are crap. I had a very difficult time finding a willing publisher or agent. Finally, on the eve of being diagnosed with breast cancer, a reading I did of my work-in-progress segued into me being signed by Portland’s own Dame Rocket Press.

It was pretty nice timing. Had I been diagnosed before finding a publisher, the book may never have seen the light of day. And then I wouldn’t have had the wonderful distraction of working on my book with a brilliant creative team while I underwent a mastectomy and chemotherapy (something that is explored at length in the Gospel, with permission from Portland Monthly).

In the end, when I finally held my baby in my hands, was it all worth it? Hell yes. People are taking my book to bed with them, and, even more dear to me, taking it to heart. The feedback I get from readers makes every sacrifice worthwhile. I’m proud of myself—that I saw this project through to the end. I consider Magic Gardens a gift to Portland, to my scintillating co-strippers, and to my starry-eyed younger self.

As for the new book, The Gospel According to Viva Las Vegas…. Permit me to apologize in advance, and yet again, to all those ex-boyfriends.

Guest post: A brief interview with Heidi Durrow

Wednesday, August 18th, 2010
Heidi Durrow, author of The Girl Who Fell From the Skyheidi-algonquin-photo
Published by Algonquin Books
Heidi Durrow can be seen on Sunday, October 10, of the festival on the Columbia Sportswear Stage at 11am. Heidi Durrow, in addition to her individual appearance, is on a panel entitled “What Works for Me” on Sunday at 3pm on the  McMenamins Stage; AND is teaching a Wordstock for Writers workshop:”Write Yourself into Fiction,” Saturday
9 – 10:15am Room B119.

Wordstock: What are you reading now? Who is your favorite new author? What is your favorite book of the year? Favorite book of all time?

Heidi Durrow: Right now I am reading a bunch of different novels that are inspired by real historical figures. I’m particularly enjoying Samantha Hunt’s The Invention of Everything Else. I’m not sure who counts as a “new” writer, but a new-to-me writer is Percival Everett. He’s written a ton of books and I’m just now reading him. But he’s awesome. I love love love Glyph—it’s smart and laugh-out-loud funny. My favorite book of the year? I’m not sure. My favorite book of all time? That’s like picking a favorite among your children—I love The Book Thief by Markus Zusak & Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison. I could read those books over and over again.

WS: What is your favorite food?

HD: Bread and cheese. That’s the Danish in me I suppose. But really, I could eat a good hearty bread with a good slice of cheese for every meal of the day—for breakfast accompanied with coffee I drink through my bendy straw; dinner with a glass of white wine. Oh, and I love radishes. I love to have a glass of white wine and radishes with just a little sea salt.

WS: Which writers have most influenced you?
HD: Toni Morrison, Sandra Cisneros, Jamaica Kincaid, Michael Cunningham, Adrienne Rich, and William Stafford. And of course, the Harlem Renaissance writer Nella Larsen who was half black and half Danish like me—and is my literary muse! Her work really gave me the “permission” I needed to write my novel, The Girl Who Fell From the Sky (Algonquin Books). I sought out Larsen’s gravesite a few years ago—it was a kind of pilgrimage to say thank you to her for her work. When I saw that her grave was unmarked, I contacted the family and got permission to erect a headstone for her. I don’t want her to be lost to history again.

My Nella Larsen: Remembering Her

Nella Larsen video

WS: What are you working on now?
HD: I’m working on a book of what could loosely be described as historical fiction. It’s set in the late 1800s in Paris and London and “stars” a mulatta strongwoman, a hairy Laotian girl, and the painter Edgar Degas.

WS: What is your favorite website for writing/literature/etc.

HD: I like to read other writers’ personal blogs—particularly when I’m feeling stuck. It’s a way to commiserate and then realize that everyone has a bad day or two but then it’s time to get back to work!

Braiding the Truth

Tuesday, August 17th, 2010
Guest post by: Ana Maria Spagna
Author of Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus: A Daughter’s Civil Rights Journey
Published by Bison Books
A212-674635-Product_LargeToMediumImage-thumbna Maria Spagna can be seen on Saturday Oct. 9th of the festival at 5pm on the McMenamins Stage. In addition to her individual appearance, Ana Maria Spagna is teaching a Wordstock for Writers workshop, “Where Stories Converge,” Saturday 3 – 4:15pm Room B116.

Once at a writing retreat, I gave a talk about telling two stories at once. I even had a clever metaphor for how it works. Here’s how it went: About five miles from my house two major rivers come together at the end of a narrow spit of land. As you walk the spit, you can hear both of them, but you can’t see them. They sound different: one is charging, making a boulder-y clatter, while the other is rolling, shushing along. And when you finally see them, they look different, too: one is gray from glacial silt, the other green with snow-melt. When you stand at the confluence where the two streams come together, colors bleeding, well, it’s plain magic.

At the retreat, I talked about how so many good books, and even short essays, are like that: two separate narratives moving forward, different in subject, tone, and characters. The essential tension lies in wondering: How will they come together? Where? When? And there’s such satisfaction when they do. The confluence!

After my talk, another more experienced writer came forward to congratulate me graciously…and to tell me I got it dead wrong. It’s not like a confluence, she said. It’s more like a single river, the sloughs of which braid across the floodplain as it moves toward the sea. She was right. In the best books, both fiction and nonfiction, it’s not just a matter of telling two stories that eventually come together, it’s telling many stories—all disparate parts of the same whole—and braiding them together.

When it came time to write Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus after two solid years of research, I thought back on the conversation. The book has two main tributaries: my father’s experience in the civil rights movement in the 1950s and my own present-day search to understand it. Two different time periods. Two different writerly tasks: one history, one memoir. But it wouldn’t work to simply tell them separately, in segregated sections or alternating chapters, then bring them together at the end. I needed to figure out how to braid them. Once I did, the writing of both sections became more fluid and lively. More stories flowed in—my mother’s battle with cancer, my father’s beatnik bookstore in San Francisco, my own life in the backwoods of Washington State—and each built upon the next until the truth became whole.

When Fiction Takes Over

Tuesday, August 17th, 2010
Guest Post by: Bo Caldwell

Author of City of Tranquil Light
Published by Henry Holt & Company
Bo Caldwell can be seen on Saturday Oct. 9th of the festival at 12pm on the Wieden + Kennedy Stage

Recently I’ve developed a liking for going to the movies by myself.  Going alone lets me sink into the dream more quickly and deeply than I can when someone I know is sitting next to me, because I’m not tempted to chat or worry about what they’re thinking.  I love that getting-lost feeling, and if the movie does its job, when the lights come back on I have to think for a second about what day it is.  On a good day, writing has the same effect on me.  Once a piece of work has taken root in me, the fictional world starts to feel as real as this one, so that when I leave my work to walk the dog or pick up dinner, my life feels a little less solid, and the fictional one beckons me back.  For me, that feeling is the payoff – it’s what makes all the difficulty and doubt that come with writing worth it. And it’s what makes me start again, knowing full well there are no guarantees – but plenty of possibilities.