Great Beginnings

Awhile back, one of readers asked how to get started - how to get those first words on paper, moving the project from your head to the page. It’s tempting to say “just do it.” But beginnings are hard. Astounding, reader-grabbing beginnings are very hard. And so much depends on them in a world where agents, editors, and ordinary readers judge a book by its first few lines.

On happy occasions, a killer opening comes to the writer as the genesis of the book; then the middle or the ending usually play coy. But often the writer has to just dive into the story, starting somewhere, hoping and praying that along the way she’ll discover the perfect scenes and images to begin the book.

I try to make a habit of re-reading beginnings and endings of books I love. In my perfectly organized world, I’d keep a file of great beginnings. Several weeks ago, agent Nathan Bransford, whose blog (true confessions) is one of the few I take time to read daily, hosted an opening paragraph contest. Taste being subjective, every agent and editor would have his own take on the 1300 submissions. But I enjoyed reading Bransford’s remarks about the six finalists he chose. Some of what caught his eye:

-- evidence of a catchy, high-concept plot
-- very effective voice
-- a keen sense of style
-- describing and naming intriguing and unknown concepts in a way that allows the reader to deduce enough of the world to stay within the paragraph without worrying about understanding everything
-- steadily building a memorable image
-- details are that evocative and memorable; impeccable flow
-- two pretty descriptions that contrast an essential fact, coupled with a certain casualness and distance on the part of the observing character
-- steadily building a memorable character
-- the combination of a big idea with small details

Obviously, none of this can be taken as any kind of formula for first paragraphs. Writing isn’t like opening a can of soup. Every project is different, and a reader’s delight lies in the unpredictable.

Here, in his words, are openings Bransford recommends writers avoid:

1) Surprising sentence. Well, not the surprising sentence per se, but rather the surprising sentence is made more complicated by the fact that it is followed, in fits and starts, by conversational prose that, in its casualness, contrasts with the shocking statement and sets a breezy tone despite the shocking statement. That is, until the reversal.

2) Small, finely rendered observation. This is followed by the particular shape of the moon or the wisps of grass and the particular temperature that still night or perfect sunset that lulls us into a sense of place and setting. And then we linger in that scene still longer to see one more even more finely rendered detail, and still another, leading us to the very thing the author seeks. That is, until the shocking statement.

3) The tough protagonist shudders against whatever bad weather they are enduring. They check their timepiece, or weapon, and go back to the task at hand. Pithy comment. It's not easy being the tough protagonist.

“Anything can be done properly,” Bransford notes. “Even a conventional setup. But unless it's deliberate or subverted in some way, it can come off as cliched.”

A Guest Post by Donna Erickson: Keep Your Stitches Tight

A tip for anyone venturing into Iditarod country during the race: Don’t try going south when the mushers are headed north. At least not if you’re in a hurry. Planes are diverted to shuffle checkpoint workers and spectators, and there’s a good chance your flight will be delayed. For a long time.

But if you have to get stuck, I recommend Unalakleet. Bering Air agent Donna Erickson has a great reputation for service. She’s also an up and coming Alaskan author. As we chatted during the many hours I waited in the tiny terminal, she told me how she’d enjoyed writing workshops conducted by Velma Wallis and Sherry Simpson in Unalakleet. She also gave me permission to publish this narrative she wrote in one of the workshops.

Donna’s great-aunt Amelia Davis told her this painful but true story. Donna added her own details. Because she didn’t know her great-aunt’s Inupiaq name, Donna used her own, Sauraq. The setting is a cluster of five sod houses somewhere north of Shishmaref on the coast between Shishmaref and Kivalina. It is winter and the year is 1918.

Sauraq felt a pain in her heart as her mother spoke. The air in the sod house felt heavy and stiff. Why did Mother have to be telling her these things? Sauraq didn’t want to hear what Mother was saying. She sat uncomfortably at the foot of the sleeping platform. Father lay next to Mother as the seal oil lamp flickered, casting an eerie glow on his cold form.

“When I fall asleep, remember to put your baby brother at my breast. Cover him with many furs. Don’t let his crying bother you. Baby brother must join your father and me, for there will be no one to feed him.

Pain swelled in Sauraq’s chest, so big heavy it was hard to swallow. Could this really be happening? What had caused the great sickness to come? Even the old shaman whom everyone feared had fallen asleep. Someone surely had broken the shaman’s rules. Sauraq wondered if it was her, or perhaps her older brother Walluk, for neither one of them had felt weak, nor had the sickness come upon them.

Mother reminded Walluk of the ways she had taught him to set snares. “Don’t ever forget,” she said. “Always look out for Sauraq. Remember the ptarmigan will always keep you alive, for the ptarmigan leave droppings for people to eat.” Mother lovingly looked at Sauraq. “Remember to keep your stitches tight.”

Mother reminded Sauraq of all the things she had taught her. “Do you remember when we picked the masu root?” The masu root was like a potato. Sauraq thought of the sweet taste and how it felt in her mouth. Most of all, Mother whispered, the shaman’s rules no longer mattered. “If you find dried fish or meat in someone else’s empty hut, be sure and take it. No harm will come to you, for you must survive and live to see your own children.”

When Mother finally fell asleep, Walluk placed baby brother at Mother’s side and lifted her squirrel skin parka. Sauraq held onto his small fat fist as she felt the warmth of her mother’s body slowly grow cold. The heavy furs muffled her baby brother’s cries until they faded to silence in the darkness.

Walluk sat up stiffly as Sauraq leaned into him. Oh how Sauraq wanted Mother and Father not to leave them. She felt desperation as she clung to brother’s arm and studied the little tight stitches in the sleeve of his fawn skin parka. Her mother’s words danced with the flicker of flames from the lamp. “Remember to keep your stitches tight.”

49 writers weekly round-up

Just when spring's on the way and the Alaskan life seems a little too easy, along comes a volcano to shake things up. At least this week's calendar doesn't appear to have writers jetting to events while jets are grounded.

On a less volatile note, National Poetry Month begins next week, and we've got a couple of great upcoming events to celebrate. On Saturday, April 4 at 7 p.m at the Alaska Wildberry Theater, the Alaska Poetry League presents the State of the Hood Panel Discussion and Poetic Performance. On the panel are Richard Dauenhauer, Sheila Nickerson, Diane Benson. Featured poets include Mark Muro, Corinna Delgado, Ishmael Hope (Juneau), Nicole Stellon (Fairbanks), Jeremy Pataky, Diane Benson. Then on Monday, April 6 from 5 to 7 p.m. at the UAA Campus Bookstore, you can celebrate poetry with UAA MFA poets Arlitia Jones, Jeffery Oliver, Sandra Kleven, and John McKay.

If you were inspired by Marybeth Holleman's Poem a Day post, Writer's Market Editor Robert Lee Brewer is leading a poem-a-day challenge at his Poetic Asides blog. "Last year, more than 400 poets posted more than 4,000 poems during the month of April," Brewer notes. "This year, the participation may be even greater for two reasons: possible publication and well-known poet guest judges." Completing the April poem-a-day challenge will net you a certificate and an online badge for display on your blog or website. The top fifty poems will also be published in a free e-book.

Remember that the UAA MFA Program is also among the sponsors of a panel on Alaska's Land and Literature, featuring present and former Alaska State Writer Laureates, on Wednesday, April 1, from 5 to 8 p.m. at the UAA Campus Bookstore. Nancy Lord, John Haines, Anne Hanley, and Richard Dauenhauer will discuss how Alaska has informed their creative work. Time will be set aside for an audience Q&A, a mini-reading, and a book-signing. The event is being sponsored by: UAA’s Department of Creative Writing & Literary Arts; College of Arts & Sciences; UAA Campus Bookstore; Lila Vogt and the Poetry League; the Alaska Center for the Book; and the Alaska Humanities Forum. Light refreshments will be offered.

On Monday, April 13, also at the UAA Campus Bookstore from 5 to 7 p.m. will be the Alaska Mountaineering Literature Symposium, a panel discussion on the history and influence of Alaskan mountaineering books. Featured authors include Clare Chesher, of the UAA English Department, currently at work on a PhD dissertation about storytelling and narratology in mountaineering texts; Charlie Sassara, mountain climber who has ascended Denali and Mt. Augusta in the St. Elias Range and owner of Alaska Rock Gym; Bill Sherwonit, author of ten books, most recently, Living with Wildness: an Alaskan Odyssey and editor of To the Top of Denali: Climbing Adventures on North America’s Tallest Peak; and David Stevenson, Director, Low-Residency MFA Program at UAA, and for many years editor of the book review section of The American Alpine Journal.

Remember the Screenwriting Workshop for Writers we mentioned during our Movie Week? Film Office Development Director Mary Katzke announces details for the workshop, titled Every Film Begins with Story. "As interest in filming in Alaska grows with the new film incentives program, so grows the need for stories which can be filmed here," Katzke says. "Sometimes great storytellers may not know how to use industry standard formatting and this workshop targets writers hoping to crossover into writing for film and television."

Sponsored by the Alaska Film Office and Alaska Pacific University, a Screenwriting Workshop for Alaskan writers wishing to learn industry format and standards for original works or adaptations will be held on April 25th, from 2 to 5 p.m. on the APU Campus in the Carr-Gottstein Building, Room 102. Veteran screenwriter Dave Hunsaker will be the workshop leader. There is no fee. For further information, please call 269-8491.

Has anyone checked out the new website featuring 1.8 million author web pages launched by Filedby, Inc.?, According to a recent Publisher's Weekly post, Filedby.com hosts Web pages with brief biographies and lists of works for all American and Canadian authors. Users can write reviews or make comments about authors. Authors, or their publishers, can update or link to the page. The site offers social networking opportunities as well as links to buy the books. Filedby will host the site for free, but will charge a fee for authors or publishers who want to add more options such as media postings, event listings and online press kits.

Finally, from Patrick Race, news of an unrestricted grant to help older writers trying to get a start. The Speculative Literature Foundation has a $750 grant that is awarded annually to a writer who is fifty years of age or older at the time of
grant application, and is intended to assist such writers who are just
starting to work at a professional level.

A poem a day: Guest-post by Marybeth Holleman

Like most writers, I read a lot. OK, that’s an understatement. I depend on reading like other people depend on exercise or therapy or friendships: it centers me, guides me, defines me. Books are as necessary as food.

I came late to poetry. I rarely read it until my first marriage disintegrated in the widening wake of the Exxon Valdez oil spill. Then, on the frontpages of Refuge, I read Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese,”and was astonished at how that poem spoke to me. I picked up Linda McCarriston’s Talking Soft Dutch, and it was as if a friend counseled me. I hurried to more, and their poetry was like an oracle I could open to any page and get answers, or at least solace, or understanding.

Since then, I carry poems with me everywhere: in my head, memorized; tucked into my purse; squirreled into my trip journals. I begin every class, no matter the subject, with a gift poem. I pass along poems to everyone I love. For my mother’s 70th birthday year, I sent her a poem a month. Every morning, curled into my purple chair, I read a few poems before I write a word of my own. It settles me into good language; it helps me to, as Jane Kenyon recommended, have good sentences in my ears.

Poetry is an essential element of my diet, there when I need it. Just over a year ago, my brother was murdered. The books I had been reading suddenly fell flat, became absolutely irrelevant. This is what happens with trauma: that which tethers you to the world suddenly loosens and breaks. For weeks on end, I couldn’t find anything to read that didn’t offend me with its banality. Then, in desperation, I stumbled back to my poetry shelves. I picked up Anne Caston’s Flying Out With the Wounded. I read it in one long winter afternoon. This was a book I’d been unable to read because of its graphic depictions of suffering and death. Now these poems reached me.

I craved more. So I sent out a plea to [pelagicpoetry], a listserv of poets and readers of poetry, managed by Liz Bradfield. I wrote of my loss, I asked for poems – and received salvation. From friends as well as from strangers, with whom I shared only a love of poetry. They told me about http://www.poets.org/, a site listing poetry by subject. One woman wrote me, “I’m sorry you have to know this part of the world.”

I hope that none of you ever have to know this part of the world, but if you do, I throw you these lifelines:

Elegy by Mary Jo Bang
What the Living Do and The Good Thief by Marie Howe
After by Jane Hirshfield
Otherwise by Jane Kenyon
Without by Donald Hall
Red Bird by Mary Oliver
Poems by Rumi, Paul Celan, Czeslaw Milosz, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Kathleen Spivak, Ruth Stone, Moira Linehan, Naomi Shihab Nye.

I’m grateful to these poems, to the written word, and to gatherings of generous writers and readers, like [pelagicpoetry] and 49 Writers.

In my first post, I mentioned the power of words to effect change. Words save lives, too. Literally. A student once brought me a newspaper article about a small plane crashing into an apartment building in New York City. The building was evacuated, all except for an elderly infirmed couple on the 27th floor. Though each step was excruciating, they escaped down a narrow stairwell. The woman said she willed herself down by repeating a line from Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day:” “Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?”

So, read on. And if you don’t already, throw some poetry into the mix. They may just be lifelines for you, too. Here’s one I’ve been carrying around for the past year:

Kindness
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
You must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between regions and kindness.

To continue reading this poem, click here to see the full text at The Writer's Almanac.

Thanks to Marybeth Holleman for being our March featured author.
Photo by James Holleman.

Food policy writer coming to Anchorage Thursday and Friday

I'm double-posting today because I noticed an unusual addition to Title Wave's schedule -- a visit this Friday at 6:30 by Joel Berg, an expert on food policy. He'll also be at UAA's Student Union tonight (Thursday), at 7 pm.

Via email, Berg took a few minutes from his busy book tour schedule to tell 49 Writers, "I am coming to Anchorage because I was invited by the Food Bank of Alaska. The main point of my trip is to call attention to the fact that hunger and food insecurity rose at one of the highest rates in the union. According to USDA, in 1996-1998, fully 8.7 percent of the state's households lack sufficient food. That number skyrocketed to 12.4 percent in 2005 - 2007. My trip is intended to highlight this problem, as well as government solutions to it."

Description of All You Can Eat from the Title Wave event announcement:

With the biting wit of Super Size Me and the passion of a lifelong activist, Joel Berg has his eye on the growing number of people who are forced to wait in lines at food pantries across the nation-the modern breadline. All You Can Eat reveals that hunger is a problem as American as apple pie, and shows what it is like when your income is not enough to cover rising housing and living costs and put food on the table.

Lessons from an 'Outsider' who 'gets it right': Guest-post by Nancy Lord

One of the pleasures of travel is finding books related to the places we visit, thus enlarging our understandings of those places before, during, or after our visits.

After visiting Kaktovik, I read Charles Brower’s memoir Fifty Years Below Zero—not specific to Kaktovik but a work that filled in, for me, some history of the North Slope and serves as a testament to the strength and resilience of its people. Last summer I briefly visited Fort Yukon, and on my return was reminded of a 2006 book about the village’s high school basketball team--Eagle Blue by Michael D’Orso. I just finished reading this lovely book, which earned from Booklist a starred review and an apt description as “a mix of sports and cultural anthropology.”

Alaskan writers (and Alaskan communities) resent, often with good cause, the “parachuting writers” who drop in on Alaska from elsewhere and all too often get our place and our people wrong. And, as has been discussed previously on this blog, rural and Native communities are particularly at risk from insensitive reporting. Michael D’Orso, the author of 15 books of narrative nonfiction, may be from the dreaded east coast (Virginia), but he seems to have put in his time and done right by his research and his relationships with the Fort Yukon community.

I read with great interest the acknowledgment section of Eagle Blue, in which D’Orso described his book-writing goals and his process for gaining the trust of the Fort Yukon community to tell the story of its boys’ basketball team, their coach, the role of basketball in rural Alaska, and, along the way, other cultural issues. First, he visited, met people, and talked about what he hoped to do—to come live in the village for the basketball season (2005) and to “shadow” the basketball team as they practiced, played, and traveled to away games. (And, he hoped, eventually the state tournament.) Then, he wrote a letter to the tribal council in which he explained his intentions and said that he was “painfully aware” of the history of writers being welcomed into communities they then portrayed in ways that caused hurt or harm in those communities.

D’Orso wrote to the tribal council, “I can tell you that I approach every subject I write about with a great amount of humility. I am the outsider. I am the guest. I am the ignorant one. I have to be patient. I have to listen. I have to watch. I have to learn. I have to let the people who agree to bring me into their world show me the way. And from beginning to end, I have to honor the enormous responsibility of sharing with the world the lives of very real human beings who have agreed to trust me to get it right.”

The tribal council welcomed him to spend the winter in the village. He rented a place to live, arrived, and took the necessary time to get to know the community (and vice versa) before the members of the basketball team and their coach agreed that he could accompany them everywhere for the season and write about what he saw and heard. In an ideal world, I’m sure we (all writers) would all love to have the time (and the book advance!) to make that sort of commitment. Most of us can’t uproot ourselves to that degree, but the attitude about being a guest and a learner and honoring the responsibility granted to us as writers is something we might embrace.

D’Orso, without a doubt, made careful choices about what went into the book and what did not, but that doesn’t mean that he sugarcoated reality. He describes problems that some of the kids have at home, drug and alcohol use, and difficulties associated with the rapid cultural change so many Native villages have faced and continue to face. Overall, though, the book is a hopeful portrait—one that demonstrates the importance of basketball in such a setting, the virtues of friendship and team-building, and the effect a caring adult (the coach) can have on young people.

I have no first-hand knowledge of what Fort Yukon people think of Eagle Blue, but I did find a newspaper article on the author's website about D’Orso’s return to Alaska in 2006, when the book first came out. He watched the team play again in the state tournament, while George Bryson, the Anchorage Daily News journalist, noted how the Fort Yukoners on the team and in the stands responded (seemingly positively) to him.

For my own take, I could quibble with a very few facts of Alaskan history or politics that D’Orso seems to be a little off on, but for the most part he “gets it right.” (When he calls a borough a county, I wonder if that wasn’t some copy editor’s mischief.) The bibliography in the back of the book shows just what a serious reader/researcher/journalist he is.

D’Orso is one Outside writer to join my short list of those I respect for approach, effort, and rightly-acclaimed book.

Silence in the Sound: An interview with Merle Savage

Twenty years ago, the Exxon Valdez disaster changed Alaska forever. In addition to witnessing environmental tragedy, oil spill workers encountered an abundance of corruption, waste, and mismanagement. Here Merle Savage, who served as a general foreman on one of the clean-up rigs, talks about her experiences and the book she authored to sort through what happened.

Tell us how you came to write Silence in the Sound. Had you always thought of writing a book, or did your experience working on the clean-up compel you into print?

I had taken college courses and written several short stories about my life, and my instructor encouraged me to write. My friends and family also encouraged me to put the story to print. With my position as a general foreman there were many stories to relate, and I began writing Silence in the Sound. After returning home to Anchorage after the cleanup, there was an adjustment as to what had been such a physical and mental ordeal, so life pretty much existed with doctor visits and trying to get my health back. I couldn’t understand why my health was slowly deteriorating, and I began to think that it must be the Alaska weather. After 7 years of recurring health problems, I decided to relocate to Las Vegas, to be close to family. To help keep my mind off my condition, remembering the notes in my journal slowly became stories about the oil spill cleanup.

We hear a lot about waste and corruptions in government endeavors, but none of it rivals what you observed in the corporate “clean-up” process. How much did that surprise you, and how did it shape your way of viewing politics and the world?

My position in Prince William Sound put me in direct operations with the corruption, and at times I was shocked at the demands that were made by people who thought they could control me. The only way I could survive through everything, was to remain true to myself, and my personal convictions of right and wrong. There were many people who wanted me to be relieved of my position, but that never happened. When decisions were made by me, it was the best choice at the time, with no regrets.
For me, making decisions, and remaining true to Veco and Exxon, was not that tough. I had my position, my world that I could control, and it was such a small part of the big picture. I had worked at Fort Huachuca, AZ for many years and knew about the corruption in government and corporations from a distance.

What are your thoughts about Veco, your former employer, now that they’ve been linked to so many political corruption scandals in Alaska?

Exxon and Veco were only channels I went through to get to Prince William Sound. There were some Exxon Representatives and Veco Superintendents who wanted to exercise their power over others for personal reasons. Many times it took some maneuvering to stay one step ahead of situations. My friend Ray Metcalfe was the one who constantly revealed corruption within Alaska politics, which caused the FBI to investigate Veco. He was the one who brought down Senator Stevens. I told him to watch his back, and he in return indicated that I should do the same, because of the stand I’ve made with Exxon. I never believed Exxon would ever be a constant part of my life, until I realized my health had been compromised by the toxic beach spraying.

What sorts of renewed interest have you noticed in your story as the 20th anniversary of the Exxon Valdez Oil Spill approached?

In October 2007, Dr. Riki Ott contacted me and sent copies of her book, which explained the toxic spraying authorized by Exxon during the cleanup. In her book it told about the many workers who had died and others who are still suffering with the same illness that I have. They had been trying to reach me since the cleanup, but at that time I was married and using the name Bailey, so Merle Bailey couldn’t be located. My web site has been dedicated to trying to reach other cleanup workers who have been suffering from the effects of the toxic spraying authorized by Exxon. At this time Melissa Dutcher, Environmental Coordinator at Masry & Vititoe, the Law Office of legal investigator, Erin Brockovich, has been investigating the many injury/illness claims of Exxon Valdez Oil Spill (EVOS) workers.

A Canadian film company has produced a filmed, “Black Wave”, which tells the stories in Dr. Riki Ott’s book, about toxic chemicals spraying and health conditions of the EVOS workers. Also the BBC filmed interviews of workers for their documentary for the anniversary of the spill. I flew to Anchorage in December to be interviewed with Dr. Riki Ott and others. This March it will be 20 years and the public needs to know how Exxon destroyed so many lives.

Tell us about the process of self-publishing. What advice would you give to other folks who are contemplating alternate routes to print?

I sent out letters to many publishers and three replied. Two wanted money upfront, and the other was Publisher America. Publish America will publish first time authors with no cost, but does very little to nothing in the way of promotions.
That was something I learned only after I had them publish my story. They printed without editing, which left some mistakes in the book. I do have the sequel almost completed, but will go to another publisher or self print.

You’ve got another book ready to go to press. Tell us a bit about what compelled you to write it.

I have Miracles for the Asking, which are events that occurred in my life to my family and me that is ready for print. I hope the simple way that I learned to approach the concept of asking and receiving would be an insight for others.
After many years of hanging on the fence of skepticism and not really being convinced about faith, I took a giant step in asking to see the face of God. The results that followed were amazing. The collection of stories is condensed and precise, so the miracles are seen for what they are – a Divine Revelation from God woven in normal everyday occurrences.

Just say yes

As Alaskan author Marybeth Holleman reminded us in her recent post on Art & Activism, writing is action. On the heels of that reminder comes a call to action as Alaska governor Sarah Palin joined two other Republican governors eying the 2012 presidential nomination by announcing she would accept only 69 percent of the federal stimulus funds available to Alaska.

Logic is lost on our governor. Her idea of employment includes only construction workers, not artists and educators. Because apparently the stuff they build requires no state funding for ongoing maintenance. It's only artists and educators, in the governor's skewed vision, who would somehow lock the state into continuing to fund their frivolous little endeavors.

That nonsense about the value of education, the value of teaching a person to fish instead of giving a person a fish? That's not how we do it in Palin country. Here, we dole out $1200 per person from our revenue surplus, assured that no one will expect that particular bonanza next year. But funding that helps Alaskans and contributes to our country's economic recovery? Schools and artists might come clamoring for more. In utter defiance of logic, our governor reportedly called the federal stimulus money "a bribe."

I'm weary of the insulting Orwellian refrain that every decision of our governor, no matter how transparently aimed at her national political ambitions, is "good for Alaska." There's nothing good for Alaska in refusing short-term funding with imaginary strings attached. Educators, of all people, understand nonrenewable grants. They know how to put them to good use. So do artists.

I just returned from visiting an Alaskan village where evidence of cultural decimation begun decades ago is rampant. The governor's solution, proposed on her one-day photo-op tour with Reverend Franklin Graham, is for Native young people to leave their villages for seasonal work in fish processing plants. The gap between this simplistic "solution" and the complex reality of what's happening in Alaska's villages is so huge it defies description. I suppose it's a little like unleashing a dozen grade-schoolers with washcloths to clean up the mess from the Exxon Valdez devastation and calling it good.

Writing is action. Your legislators face an uphill battle to secure funding that should have been a given. If you don't know who represents you, check with the Division of Elections.

Write to them. Now.

Cinthia on Saturdays: "Me and the cats, writing"

Another installment from the weekend diary of Cinthia Ritchie.

2 p.m.

My writing isn’t going well and I know just who to blame: The cats.

They perch on my desk, one on either side, like ornery bookends. Their faces wear the expressions of graduate students ready to criticize my work.

“Get down!” I order.

They stare at me with unblinking yellow eyes.

I try and write. Nothing comes. I throw a pencil across the room. “Fetch!” I order the cats. They yawn, look away. They are embarrassed by me. I am embarrassed by me. I cook rice and tofu, slide down in front of the TV, watch an episode of “Bones” on DVD.

“I’m researching material for my book,” I lie to myself. “I’m picking up dialogue cues. nuances, timing, blah, blah, blah.”

I curl up on the rug, cozy in my mindlessness.

I have soy ice cream for dessert. Two helpings.

6:30 p.m.

I return from a run on the Potter Marsh Trail, six miles to McHugh Creek and back, and all those hills. The dog, who is getting old, slumps on her bed while I cook her a rice and egg omelet. “Such a good dog,” I say. The cats stare suspiciously from the counter.

After I decide not to do the dishes, I sit down at my desk and read over what I wrote the night before. It sucks. I read over my last chapter. It sucks. I read over my first chapter—that sucks too.

I realize that my whole novel sucks.

I check my email: A note from a writer I’ve never met bragging about his new poetry book. I turn off my Internet, go back to my novel. Sit there for long minutes.

The problem, I suddenly realize, isn’t my novel at all. It’s the new trail shoes I bought last week at Skinny Raven. The bottoms are too heavy, the soles are too inflexible, my stride is off. How can I write when I’m so worried about my shoes?

6 p.m.

I’m standing in Skinny Raven in my old jeans, my hair still scattered from my run. I’ve smeared pineapple handcream under my arms, since I hadn’t time to take a shower. The young salesman’s nose twitches, but he’s too polite to say anything. I explain about the shoes, how inflexible they are, how my stride is off, how I can’t write my novel because my shoes are too heavy. He backs away slights and shows me to a pair of Adidas. I try them on, run for a few minutes on the treadmill.

“These shoes are more comfortable,” I say.

“So you want to trade them out?”

“Well, no,” I say, for I suddenly can’t bear to part with my heavy shoes. I flee the store, run out to my car. I cry on the drive home, cry so hard I finally have to pull over.

“Oh-oh-oh,” I sob, my stomach aching.

When I get home I turn off my computer, climb in the bathtub with an Anne Tyler novel. The cats sit on the ledge and watch me with their yellow eyes.

10:30 p.m.

My whole novel doesn’t suck, I decide after skimming through the first three chapters (again). It’s the beginning. Well, not the beginning but the middle of the first and second chapters, when a false tone creeps up. This tone is embarrassing, like saying hello to someone you don’t really like, and how your voice rises with feigned enthusiasm.

I decide to smooth them out. I copy and paste a new document. The cats sit beside me, the dog snores at my feet. How cozy it is to be a writer!

The first chapter isn’t difficult, I know just how to fix it. But the second chapter! This is when the book begins to open up, it’s like walking down a hallway lined with doors, all of them shining with possibilities, and I can only open a few.

How do I know I’ve opened the right ones? What if that one door I’ve ignored is the one that would turn my book into a New York Times bestseller?

I eat more soy ice cream. I check my email: a note from a man I sometimes see inviting me over to watch a DVD. I imagine lying in his living room with the dogs, eating popcorn and laughing—is this how life is for people who aren’t writing books?

I put my new running shoes on. Are they really too heavy? How can they be too heavy when they feel so comfortable?

I get up, run around our very small living room, around and around. I decide I will take them back to Skinny Raven the next morning.

2 a.m.

I am slumped at my desk, the cats sleeping beside me. I resent their sleep, resent their pea-sized brains, their feline intelligence that takes them only so far.

“You’ll never have to write a book,” I hiss nastily.

I am still stuck in the middle of Chapter Two. I’m afraid that I’ll be stuck in Chapter Two for the rest of my life, that when I die they’ll write on my tombstone: “She died before she could get out of Chapter Two.”

I take off my shoes. Suddenly it seems important, no, critical, to have on the correct shoes as I write. I put on a pair of New Balance: I still can’t write. I try my old Nikes, my muddy hiking boots, my rugged sandals: Nothing.

I pull off my socks, paint my toenails bright red: There!

I sit back down: Nothing.

I throw the cats off the desk and immediately delete three pages—ouch. I cry a bit. Delete two more pages, reach up ahead to Chapter Three, pull out four pages and insert it in Chapter Two.

Sweat breaks out across my forehead. The cats jump back up on the desk, huddle around me as it for solidarity.

I keep going.

Cinthia Ritchie is a former Anchorage Daily News feature writer and columnist who writes for Alaska Newspapers. She’s the recipient of a Rasumon Foundation Individual Artist Award, the Alaska Council on the Arts Connie Boochever Fellowship, a Pushcart Prize nomination plus residencies at Hedgebrook and Hidden River Arts. Her fiction, essays and poetry can be found in over 30 literary magazines.

49 writers weekly roundup

"I see writing, music, film, and other art as a solution to the sense of hopelessness and despair felt amongst the youth of rural Alaska," said Alaskan author Don Rearden in response to our February 25 post, "Adapting the Kids from Nowhere." Here I am at Tukurngailnguq School in Stebbins, trying in three days to implement part of that solution. I asked some students how to pronounce the name of their school, but they couldn't tell me. Most of them speak Yup'ik only occasionally. None of them read or write it. Teachers - and tests - have identified writing (in English) as a major stumbling block for these kids. But after two days I've gotten great comments like these:

“I’ve learned that we can write anything, as far as our imagination can take us. And you, yourself, have taught me that I can be myself, with my own style of writing, only if I put my mind to it.” and "I want to learn how to be an author, like you. It looks like it is a lot of fun.”

If you're a writer, be thinking of whether you share Don's vision (and mine) to bring writing as hope and promise to rural Alaska. I'll have more to say about these possibilities in coming weeks. In the meantime, feel free to leave a comment expressing interest and/or ideas. And take a look over at http://www.alaskanauthors.com/, where I'll be posting some of the students' work.

In line with our discussion of new models for the changing world of publishing comes The Public Query, a blog started recently by aspiring novelist Rick Davis. If you'd like public critique of your query, you enter it as a comment to the invitational post. You can even include a few sample pages. Rick posts your query and hopefully you get some feedback. Maybe editors and agents will browse. Who knows? It's an innovative concept, though I suspect writerly paranoia may keep some authors away.

For more on new ways of thinking about writing, check out Ned Rozell's comment on last Tuesday's post, where he details his publishing experience with Amazon's CreateSpace.

Originally from Pakistan and now a longtime Alaskan, Shehla Anjum, UAA MFA graduate in nonfiction (2008), recently pubbed an op-ed in the ADN about the Taliban banning girls' education in the Swat Valley of Pakistan. With escalating troop levels in Afghanistan, Shehla fears we will be pulled into some skirmishes within Pakistan.

In the boo-hiss department, Publishers Weekly reports more bad news. "Barnes & Nobles results for the year ended January 31 confirmed what, in the words of CEO Steve Riggio, was “the most challenging year that the company and the industry have ever experienced.” Moreover, Riggio does not see things improving in 2009. Forecast for the first quarter calls for a 6% to 9% decline in comp store sales with same store sales falling 4% to 6% for the full year."


A P.S. update from Andromeda -- To those who were following Movie Week or are planning to get connected in the screenwriting scene, the Anchorage Daily News today ran a thorough front-page story by Elizabeth Bluemink about the local film industry, tax incentives, and local software whiz-turned-film entrepreneur Mike Devlin. This Saturday, Devlin's Evergreen Films will be publicly screening "Icy Killers," a documentary about Prince William Sound salmon sharks, for Natl Geographic Channel.

Headache, day 14...

... but I’m not complaining.

Twenty years ago, I was wearing braces, engaged to a garage-band drummer, trying to learn how to write. As of two weeks ago, I have come full circle. Old drummer guy is long gone, but my almost-11-year-old daughter just bought her own set of drums and is beating out some cool rhythms. (The man I married 17 years ago – not the drummer -- has said he might be willing to try learning the bass.)

And two weeks ago, I got braces. Again.

It’s more than cosmetic – I have a jaw problem that goes back decades, small screws from an old botched surgery hidden in my bones, and a date with an oral surgeon sometime after this recession ends. I’m a little embarrassed to be metal-mouthed and lisping after all this time, but I’m pleased to be attacking this medical problem before I have no teeth or jaw bones left to correct.

There’s no Alaska connection to all this (no oil spill connection either, despite the anniversary theme), but there it is a writing connection. It hit me this week, as I was souring my stomach on too much Advil and trying to remember that I paid good money for this pain, that twenty years ago I desperately wanted to write and didn’t have a clue where to start, except by sitting down and getting started. I understood I had a long road ahead. I figured it might take a while – years -- to become competent.

Here’s what I know now. The road to competency is longer than I imagined, by a factor of about ten. Writing is a good start, but reading is equally essential. I didn’t take my fiction self-education seriously until about 7 years ago, and I’m still catching up. It’s a pleasure, of course – but sometimes I worry I’m not making headway fast enough.

In connection with a newly released biography, the New York Times ran a touching portrait of John Cheever the other day (hidden homosexuality, joyless marriage and fatherhood, alcoholism, but nearly every sentence the man wrote – even in his journals – was, evidently, testament to his genius.) The NYT said, rather ominously, that as famous as he was in his time, Cheever has “largely faded from the literary map.” Say it isn’t so! I add the somewhat-forgotten Cheever novel, “Falconer,” to my long-term reading list, and feel guilty I don’t own any of his story collections.

A few days earlier, while my kids were watching a Harry Potter video, I was curled up on the couch next to them, reading a horrifyingly depressing but wonderfully acute New Yorker bio of David Foster Wallace, who ended his life last fall at the age of 46, having suffered from deep depression for at least 20 years. Another brilliant and tormented wordsmith. It’s surprising he managed to write at all, given the profundity of his illness. (A bad headache is enough to put me off writing, as I’ve been reminded for about 14 straight days now; imagine trying to write through paralyzing depression.)

I think about these two men, and I am aware of my own limitations as a writer, and as a reader. It makes me want to honor them by reading them, to honor myself by working harder, to fight the limitations of time and mortality.

And then there’s this other, secondary thought: Wait a minute. Amid all this reverence and awe and appropriate envy of great writing minds, I’m nearly forgetting: I’ve got a nice life, one I try (and sometimes forget) to feel grateful about every single day. I’m healthy and happy, most of the time, when I’m not plagued with writing-related self-doubts or financial worry, but I accepted that bargain a long time ago. I have the life I wanted 20 years ago – minus the straight teeth and healthy jaws. But I’m working on that, just as I’m still working, harder than ever, on learning how to write.

Would I trade any of the good things in my life for even a glimmer of the greater genius of our best contemporary writers? There is something intriguing and disturbing about the notion of such Faustian bargains. (Or maybe it’s just the screws in my head, picking up the electricity of dark thoughts.) But no, I don’t think so. I’d rather read the works of Cheever and Wallace than experience their suffering firsthand. And I’m grateful to them for making the most of their talent, and granting all of us another chance to better understand the human condition.

R.I.P. David Foster Wallace, long live the memory of John Cheever; cheers to straight teeth, reading lists, and other forms of minor self-improvement and repair. And blessings on the mental health of all writers, famous or obscure.

Finding your way around 49W

Hi friends. It's my day to do a post but I'm behind the scenes, tinkering. And while I am, can I point out a few things that may help?

I've just added label-related links to the photos (scroll down and right) of three of our most recent guest-posters -- Marybeth Holleman, Nancy Lord, Cinthia Ritchie -- so you can find their posts in one place. I'll continue to organize so you can find posts on other themes. At the far far lower right (the very bottom), a link will take you to nearly ALL the interviews we've done so far (they're adding up!) as well as a series of posts about agents.

Did you know you can subscribe to this site? (See the righthand bar.) When you do, you get a simple email with the latest post. I tried it myself, and it works (though do remember to confirm when you get a followup email from Google -- I forgot to click that link, duh, and had to try all over again a few weeks later).

Deb and I have been co-hosting this blog for only 3 months -- can you believe it? -- and the continuing challenge is how to arrange the good stuff we have. Suggestions are always welcome and -- as always -- thanks for visiting, for contributing, and for participating. We're getting more hits every day, and I feel proud of our ongoing conversations about important topics.

P.S.

And also, I'm always looking for more Alaska writer websites to add. Don't be shy!

This week I'm adding the website of Leslie Hsu Oh, an Eagle River writer, UAA MFA grad, 2008 Rasmuson Award recipient, and public health advocate (especially relating to Hepatitis B). Her bio says "Leslie Hsu Oh brings a unique voice from the perspective of public health leader, mother, daughter, and wife with roots from Asian American and indigenous cultures." Leslie has memoir excerpts forthcoming this spring and summer in Under the Sun and Rosebud Magazine.

And while I'm updating, I'll mention that the Rasmuson Foundation has its own ever-growing blog, which has been tackling issues about grantmaking, stimulus funding for the arts and more.

Alaska Northwest has entered the blogosphere as well. They asked what readers would like to see -- I suggested prizes! (Because I want my own turn to win a prize and I figure they have some nice books lying around. Or is that laying around? This is why we have editors.)

Anyway, the more the merrier. Into our blogroll they go.

20 Years, 20 Chances: Guest post by Marybeth Holleman

Last June, when the Supreme Court ruled that Exxon pay $507 million to Alaska Natives and fishermen harmed by the 1989 Exxon Valdez oil spill, I was visiting friends in Kodiak. “Well,” said a local commentator, “at least it’s a slap on the wrist to Exxon.” My friend, who’d captained a fishing boat in Alaska for decades, disagreed: “It’s no slap on the wrist; it’s a pat on the back between good ole’ boys.”

I have to agree. Two decades after the spill, Exxon finally pays—but it’s a tenth of the $5 billion awarded by a jury in 1994.

In Cordova, some posted banners decrying Exxon and the Supreme Court. When a life-long Cordovan refused a banner, protesters told her they’d boycott her cafe. “I just want to put this behind us,” she said.

The oil spill was, for many of us, a watershed moment. We all have them. But we rarely recognize them when they’re happening. We just respond to what’s in front of us. Oil, lots of it, and dead wildlife everywhere. “The day the water died,” said Chief Walter Meganack. Only later, sometimes much later, do we begin to comprehend the event’s impact in our lives. (That’s partly why it took 15 years to finish my book, HEART OF THE SOUND. The problem with memoir is, you've got to live it first.)

At this 20-year marker, I’ve noticed a shift in the way we talk about it. Now, it’s portrayed much like the 1964 Earthquake, as an interesting event in Alaska’s history, full of fascinating stories of heroism and loss.

Me, I feel like both the woman in Cordova who didn’t want the banner displayed, and the woman who threatened boycott. I feel relief that it’s passing into history. Relief that my son, and his generation, all born after the spill, can hear it discussed without so much raw anger and grief. It makes it easier to get through another anniversary. But I also feel regret. In part, my regret is, like the boycotter, outrage that the settlement was so long in coming, and so miniscule.

What I regret most is that we as a culture haven’t learned more from the oil spill. Our basic approach to our life on this Earth hasn’t shifted. Our oil addiction still runs everything, from the cars we drive to the leaders we elect. We are still willing to take increasing risks for what one OPEC founder later called el excremento del diablo.

They say time heals all wounds. Sometimes it’s more of a numbing. We go on because we have no other choice. For me, this anniversary is a time to renew my resolve. I’m not interested in reminiscing; there are no “good times” to recall.

We study history in order to do better. In the case of the oil spill, we didn’t need the passage of time to learn what needed to change. We knew immediately. Many knew before the tanker hit the rocks. Still, on we go. Oil spills flood the world’s seas: Spain, Scotland, Pakistan, Lebanon, Africa, you name it, oil has spilled there. Some are large, sudden events, like Alaska’s; others are more insidious, like the oil seeping into the Niger Delta from Shell Oil’s leaking pipelines, creating a fatal chaos for all.

Meanwhile, oil consumption worldwide has risen 30 percent in the past twenty years. Like the addicts we are, we scramble to get at it any way we can—from offshore leasing up and down both U.S. coasts to the energy-intensive and environment-destructive tar sands extraction in Alberta. (We’ll lose half of America’s migratory birds in this stunningly ill-conceived method of oil extraction.) Even President Obama (who’s such an improvement I hate to complain) continues to use the oxymoron “clean coal” We haven’t learned from the spill. We’ve ignored its lessons. We’ve turned our backs.

And the oil spill isn’t over. Pacific herring, critical prey for 40 different marine and terrestrial species, have yet to show recovery. Most species aren’t fully recovered, including pigeon guillemots, orcas and sea otters. There’s still oil in the beaches. Neither the private nor the government litigation is resolved. And all Exxon gets is a pat on the back, while making record profits. It’s criminal, really.

Yet we’re still fighting over the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and battling offshore oil leasing in Bristol Bay. What’s more, Alaska’s coastal communities are flooding and Alaska’s polar bears are drowning, all because of oil.

Lately I think of the oil spill as an ominous foreshadowing of the one in which we’re now awash: Climate Change. As if the Earth, or God, or whatever guides us through space, said, Hey, wake up! Look at what this devil’s excrement is doing! when that tanker hit that rock.

I recall the oil spill image of the brown bear, half his face stained black with crude. And now, alongside it, I see the face of a polar bear, half her face buried in sand, waves washing over her emaciated corpse.

Island photo by Dean Rand.

Marybeth Holleman is our featured author this month.

Publish, then filter

In last week's post on Risktaking and Gatekeepers, we talked about some of the changes in publishing and how they impact Alaskan authors. The good news is that we authors have lots of options. Yay, autonomy. Bad news: we have lots of sifting and sorting and decisions to make. Boo, more work.

Swapping ideas and experiences is no mere diversion for the serious writer. It's crucial to discerning not only the best ways to bring our books to market, but also to determining the best ways to bring markets to our books. If the model for our profession is truly moving from "filter, then publish," to "publish, then filter," as quoted in Bransford's blog last week, then we need to reorient our thinking and also our energy.

As Ned Rozell shared in his comment about Amazon's CreateSpace, authors can shed a whole lot of frustrations when they take control of the publishing process. I'm wondering what other options our readers have tried. Experiences or thoughts on Harper's Authonomy site? How about the new Namelos evaluation and placement service for children's authors? And what's your take on the suggestion in a recent New York Times piece that we may soon have more writers than readers?

PRODUCT PLACEMENT: Notes from the Road to Bestsellerdom

Another true confession: I hate book signings. But lest my publishers gasp, let me clarify: I do them, with a smile. Still, it always feels like holding up the walls at a junior high school dance.

So I was truly wowed by the great tour Alaskan author Michael Engelhard put together for his new anthology, Wild Moments. Here, Michael's thoughts from the road.

I had planned the promo tour for my collection of northern wildlife stories like a field marshal plans a campaign. A four-day Book Blitz South would target eight locations in the Anchorage and Mat-Su area: independent and chain bookstores, a café, a museum, a luncheon for professional communicators, and a nature center up in the mountains. In preparation, flyers had been printed and hung, emails and press kits sent, and the events listed in several papers as well as online. Reservations had been made at a cozy but pricey downtown B & B—at my, not the publisher’s expense. The publicist had worked overtime, constructing a collapsible poster stand from struts, spars, screws, and an old lamp foot; the book’s cover printed on cloth—in San Francisco, no less—could be hoisted on this contraption like a square sail on a mast.

I realize that words alone rarely draw crowds any more. Authors on book tours are encouraged to play Indian flutes, tap-dance, wear clown suits, juggle their books blindfolded, or at least to behave inappropriately. I enlisted support troops, inviting writers who had contributed pieces to the anthology. Owls and falcons were to deliver the coup de grace. The presence of live raptors—and their handlers from two rehabilitation facilities—was no mere publicity stunt. A failed raven rescue here in Fairbanks inspired the story collection, and one of the essays described the visit of an education bird (a great gray owl crippled in an accident) to the writer’s eco-literature class. I admired these volunteers and their wards, and piggybacking their act with mine was supposed to benefit everybody. My girlfriend, who also happens to be the book’s designer, acted as liaison, trip photographer, finance officer, driver (I haven’t driven since 1980), quartermaster, and motivational coach all in one.

As we rolled into town, thousands of animal lovers thronged the streets. Alas, they had come to see . . . dogs.



In my ignorance of Alaska pastimes, I had overlooked that the Book Blitz weekend coincided with the Iditarod, the world’s most prestigious sled dog race. At the B & B, all the other guests turned out to be volunteer dog handlers, one a British police officer visiting from Hong Kong. Another, a Connecticut retiree, had attended the race start eight years in a row. None quite struck me as the literary type. Still, the outdoors theme and commercial vibe were encouraging, and we spotted some wildlife fans in the crowd:




I was hoping a trickle-down from the human surge would reach bookstores between the ceremonial (“fake” according to hardcore mushing aficionados) race start and the time around which bars would get busy.

The luncheon at a posh hotel seemed an auspicious beginning. My choice of reading — an essay rejected by Gourmet, about a friend who feeds his family on road kill — elicited gasps, eye-rolling and even chuckles, but might have curbed book sales somewhat. The audience was grey-haired and looked as if they knew their coq au vin from their bouillabaisse.

The campus bookstore looked deserted, as most students had already left for spring break. The museum was being renovated, and foot traffic through the bare lobby, behind the owl’s back, made the bird nervous and incontinent. A guy on crutches parked himself in front of my table. “Glad they didn’t put you upstairs.” He commenced telling me his lengthy medical history, then walked away without buying a book. Each signing appears to attract one of these attention hogs, and I’m convinced they are taking turns.

The chain store manager put me in a prime spot, at a table facing the entrance, where I could make eye contact with customers as they entered. Light from the low-angle sun made me squint like a shortsighted bookworm (not look sharp-eyed as a wilderness guide and auteur should) or, when I tried to remedy that, like a sun-glassed Mafioso. With each gust from the sliding doors, my poster swiveled on its stand, causing the printed grizzly to scan the room as if in search of prey. The store policy did not allow a raptor to be brought in, for liability reasons.

The large independent downtown store had advertised a panel discussion of the book. Unfortunately only one of my authors showed up — and didn’t reveal her presence until after my improvised reading. Her friends made up the bulk of the audience, literally, as fishermen and – women are put together impressively. The performance took place in the kids’ books section, where I wrestled with a defective microphone. Trying to maintain eye contact while keeping close to the too-low mike, I felt like a hunchback talking out of the side of his mouth. Book clerks shook their heads as squeals of electronic feedback filled the place. The birds, as always, drew scores of youngsters and their cash-carrying guardians.

At the café, with my voice beginning to sound like a raven’s, I worked hard to be heard over the hissing espresso machine and coffee grinder. The next day, the action and masses moved on to the real race start at Willow, and we followed suit. The Eagle River Nature Center was a retreat from urban mayhem, a Zen oasis for birdwatchers. The turnout was good. When I opened the floor for questions, a kid in the first row who had endured my reading, piped up, “When do we get to touch the owl?” The owl, though, was not in a petting mood. Halfway through the presentation, it had noticed a stuffed eagle with fully spread wings, mounted below the log ceiling; it went into a hooting frenzy and kept diving off the handlers glove, flapping upside down because it was leashed and had to be put back in its cage.



At our final venue, a bookstore-cum-café north of Anchorage, the manager had expected a signing, not a reading. There were no chairs for an audience, and I found myself separated from the handlers and their birds by a shelf full of gadgets. (Has anyone else noticed how these increasingly augment book sales?) In a last-ditch, desperate bid for customer attention, I rearranged some books on a shelf, placing my brainchild between two bestsellers, hoping to profit by proximity:



After two hours of signing, or rather non-signing, I had sold five books total—four of those to the bird handlers. Because each bed within a two hundred-mile radius had been claimed for the night and we had no reservations, my girlfriend and I hit the road around sundown, trying to make Fairbanks that night. Near Denali State Park, snowflakes illuminated by our headlights and rushing toward the windscreen began to resemble galaxies seen at warp speed. Black ice on the road glared like a disgruntled publisher. We pulled out near some trailhead and fretted for a few hours, cramped in the back of the Subaru, amidst boxes of unsold books, waiting for dawn to come.

Descending the last hill into Fairbanks, I let the trip pass in review. Perhaps I did compete with myself, pitting wild animals against words about wild animals, a contest I can’t ever and possibly shouldn’t win. The timing could have been better, the audience more receptive, the arrangements with store managers and – owners - bomb-proofed beforehand . . .

But there had been encounters that made the whole trip worthwhile:

The gap-toothed teenager from Anaktuvuk, telling of the wolf that bit his granddad.
The grandmother, mother, and daughter trio — diligent birdwatchers all.
The bird handler-airplane mechanic, who cleans cages and shows birds after work and talked about going back to school to become a raptor biologist.
The reader complimenting us on the book’s cover and typography.
The naturalist-volunteer at the nature center, revealing a copy of Walden — prefaced and signed by Ed Abbey — as if it were an icon.

And, just as impressive:
The merlin that had helped its presenter overcoming her fear of public speaking.
The great horned mesmerizing kids with its yellow gaze.
The northern saw-whet, blind in one eye, and barely outweighing its mouse prey.
The red-tail that, after suffering gunshot wounds, learned to trust humans.

Regardless of how many, or few, books were sold this time around — I can hope that the stories will circulate, touching a life here and there.

49 writers weekly roundup

Spring break. Long days, sunshine, lots of visitors, and a little slowdown in writerly news. But what we've got is good. How about Willie Hensley takes Alaska back from Sarah Palin, by virtue of his 2009 memoir Fifty Miles from Tomorrow? That's the word from the Alaska Ear in the Anchorage Daily News, reporting on a recent assessment in New York Magazine.

Arlitia Jones, one of Alaska's leading women playwrights featured in a 49 Writers interview a few months back, opens her new play Make Good the Fires today at Cyrano's in Anchorage. The drama takes place in territorial Alaska,1912-1917, as the railroad is being built, and Anchorage is in the process of becoming an official townsite. Socialism is a viable third party, women have the right to vote and Lena Morrow Lewis is making quite an impact as one of the nation's most active women socialists. Performances are at 7 p.m., Thursdays - Saturdays and 3 p.m. Sundays. Tickets are available through CenterTix.net, 263-ARTS, the Performing Arts Center box office or at Cyrano's the day of performance (274-2599).

Ten poets celebrate Alaska's 50th Birthday this weekend at Palmer's Fireside Books. Join in the celebration Saturday, March 14 at 6 p.m.

Good news for Alaska's writers! The Rasmuson Foundation reports that the federal stimulus package contains $50 million for the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) over and above its normal funding. The NEA is fast-tracking to get money out as soon as possible. The deadline for applying is April 2, 2009, with grants being awarded as early as July 1, 2009.

NEA will distribute 40 percent of the stimulus funds to state arts councils, including the Alaska State Council on the Arts (ASCA). ASCA will meet with arts organizations this month to discuss the program.

Art & Activism: Guest post by Marybeth Holleman

Twenty years since the Exxon Valdez oil spill. Has that much time really passed? Just in time for that dark anniversary, Marybeth Holleman -- author of The Heart of the Sound -- brings us her first post as the March Featured Guest Author.



In college, I read Edward Abbey’s Monkeywrench Gang, and sat up late nights with friends, plotting ecotage on the nuclear power plant under construction a few miles from campus. Should we pour sand in graders’ gas tanks? Bury spikes in construction roads? Spraypaint messages on new cement? In the end, all we did was make banners, pile into a van, and join the No Nukes rally in Washington, D.C..

It took a few more years—during which I finished my degree in Environmental Science and worked for the state’s alternative energy division (the first time around that we tried to kick our oil addiction)—before I realized what Abbey’s book had to say to me. Words have power. Literature is a primary force for instigating change. Think Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Think The Golden Notebook. Think Silent Spring.

So, yes, I was an environmentalist, and an environmental scientist, before I was a writer. It was just a matter of time before I put all my loves together: reading, nature, wildlife, justice.

Still, the primary tension throughout my writing life has always been whether to pick up the pen or the banner. I oscillate. I try to do both. In some ways, they help each other. In other ways, not so much. So I’ve learned a few things about working in the intersections of writing and activism. (Caveat: These are, as they said in “Pirates of the Caribbean,” more like “guidelines.”)

1. I can’t escape it. I don’t have the patience to write about subjects that don’t engage me, and what engages me are those where I believe something vital is at stake, and I have some new thing to add to the conversation. It’s the only way I can sustain the effort it takes to bring a project to completion. The driving force for Crosscurrents North was political: to amplify voices who speak for Alaska’s wild. This carried co-editor Anne Coray and me through many travails with the publishing industry. Susan Griffin once told me, follow your obsessions. They’ll lead you to your best work. I believe her.

2. I get my message off my chest right away, and then keep writing, researching, thinking, so the work (hopefully) moves beyond my initial assumptions into new territory. As Robert Frost wrote, “No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.” Open-mindedness allows for wonder and imagination, as I try to illuminate my own blindness. How to do this when I also come to the subject with a burning passion to save polar bears or prevent the next oil spill? In “What Happens When Polar Bears Leave,” I expressed my astonishment immediately, and then dissected the ways in which their fate haunted me, with hope of some solution or at least some new comprehension.

3. I avail myself of all forms. On the oil spill, on Prince William Sound, I’ve written radio commentary, op-eds, poems, essays, and my book, The Heart of the Sound. On polar bears and climate change, I’ve written essays, poems, a short story, a white paper for Defenders of Wildlife, and a talk on “Climate Change and the Literary Imagination” (a livestream video, introduced by Sue Ellen Campbell and with Linda Bierds). Multiple forms allow me to approach the subject from different angles, like a prism, generating more illumination with each turn.

4. I don’t force resolution. As a writer and teacher, I’ve seen how forcing a resolution can damn an essay faster than you can say “rejection.” As a culture, we like the quick fix, the clear solution. But increasingly, in the complex world we have created for ourselves, there are no easy answers. At least, not to the questions I am obsessed with asking. (This is also my excuse for why I’m such a damn slow writer.)

5. Sometimes I drop the pen, but not for long. It’s easier when there’s an end date, like an election: when Sarah Palin got nominated for V.P., I campaigned for Barack Obama. It’s more tricky when the issue is never-ending. I often think about Nigerian novelist Ken Saro-Wiwa: he dropped his pen for political action, only to die for the cause. What new light might his novels have shed?

In the end, they’re the same—writing is action. It’s in the interplay between the two that I’ve arrived at my favorite work. Immediately after the oil spill, I was driven to sop up oil, rescue birds, clean sea otters. Much later, in Heart of the Sound, I wrote about those experiences and what they meant—for the otters, the Sound, and the Big Picture in which we all stand.

My moral obligation is the same as it is for anyone: to leave the world a better place than when I found it. As an artist, a writer, that way is through understanding something that hasn’t been understood, seeing what hasn’t been seen, illuminating something that hasn’t been lit.

When I get overwhelmed by all that remains in the dark, I recall what a Buddhist monk advised: you can’t enlighten the entire world, so just shed light on your little corner.

Bear Tooth / Moose's Tooth Gift Card Winner!

Those green slips are the names of dozens of readers who left recent comments; that penguin tie and pink sleeves belong to my daughter, who picked the random winning slip.

AND THE WINNER IS: SUSAN MORGAN. Hope your weekly food plan has some room in it for Bear Tooth tacos or Moose's Tooth pizza, Susan. Contact me so I can mail the card directly to you!

Thanks again to our Bear Tooth/ Moose's Tooth sponsor.

Risktaking and gatekeepers

Alaskans are innovators. Risk-takers. Maybe even opportunists. We're not afraid of change. (I refuse, however, to embrace the M word, leaving maverick to the Texans, the occasional Arizonian, and Alaskans with large political aspirations.)

Stereotypes aside, I think there's a fair pile of evidence behind these assertions. Indigenous Alaskans are ingenious, master of developing and adapting technology. And most of us newcomers embraced change by journeying far from the familiar, embracing adventure.

So where do we stand when it comes to changing paradigms in publishing? Consider this excerpt from agent Nathan Bransford's blog post, "It's the End of Publishing as We Know It: Do You Feel Fine?":

"In essence, it's the best of times and the worst of times. If you're an enterprising author there is a world of opportunity out there. Never before have we had a book publishing world where truly anyone could publish and potentially find their readers. Before there was a fundamental obstacle: distribution. That's going away. Anyone can publish. It's a massive, groundbreaking shift! I suspect soon there will be even more opportunities for collectives and online communities to boost sales, build brands, and become real players in publishing. Out of chaos comes order.

At the same time, when faced with such a multitude of choices, people tend to go with the familiar, and publishers are following that trend and filling that niche. The blockbuster model carries a great deal of risk, and there are drawbacks to putting so many eggs in a few baskets, but it may not be an irrational choice. And of course, this means that precious few new authors will get the backing of the publishers, making it that much harder for them to break out. But once an author is able to break out and convince a publisher to invest in them, no one can match a major publisher's combined efforts in publicity, production, and distribution.

It certainly is a brave new world. After changing so little for 75 years, the book industry is in for a wild ride."

I'm enterprising. I embrace opportunities. Heck, I'm even part of an online community with the potential to boost sales and build brands. When I was an educator, I had a reputation for trying new approaches and initiating new programs. So why as an author do I cling to the traditional routes to publication, chasing after editors and agents who, by virtue of the system, spend a good chunk of their time slamming the gate?

In her review of Shopping for Porcupine, Amanda Coyne bemoaned the fact that traditional publishers had passed on some of Alaska's finest writing. With paradigms shifting, will the path to viable regional literature for Alaska mean passing on traditional publishers?

If you liked Ordinary Wolves...

First, our thanks to all who weighed in with insights, comments, and questions during our book club discussion of Seth Kantner's Ordinary Wolves. I've come away enriched, and I love knowing that readers can keep returning to ponder these threads in our archives.

A couple of great Alaskan titles came up during our discussion. Today I'd like to add another: Flight of the Goose by Lesley Thomas, a book I learned of through the 49 writers community. I stumbled a bit with the first few pages (as I also did with Straley's The Big Both Ways), but the tale soon drew me in. The setting and some of the themes are reminiscent of Ordinary Wolves, though the style and vision differ enough to make it a great companion read. Kayuqtuq,the protagonist is an Inupiaq woman, an aspiring shaman. "I wanted to explain we were good actors up north," she says, "who hid our feelings because others were so good at hearing the unspoken. We were mimics who could lie with our gestures, laying false trails to survive."

Because it was published by a press I didn't recongize, I might never have picked up Flight of the Goose. That would have been my loss. Later I'll be posting about the changes plowing through publishing these days - how they affect all of us as authors and readers, how some of our assumptions about big and small and known and unknown and self are being stirred and shaken and washed away. But first, a chat with author Lesley Thomas:

Flight of the Goose feels epic in its vision. Tell us about how the story evolved.

“Epic” is a nice word. I’ve also seen “The author fell prey to writer intoxication” or “A ten pound door stop.” But you mean epic not as length, maybe. I looked up “epic” - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epic_poetry - and I do have elements of an archaic epic. My novel opens in media res with both protagonists “in the middle of things” and “at their lowest point”. It begins with an invocation and statement of the theme, uses epithets, moves over a vast landscape, with divine intervention in human affairs and heroes that embody the values of the two civilizations. Both my heroes are on a quest, face adversaries and return (or not) transformed.

Many threads converged to weave me into an epic novelist. Such stories are in my blood and upbringing. My dreams are mostly mythic, with animal guides, time travel, shapeshifters, heroes, battles, poetry. My parents were itinerant and literary and always on a big quest, bringing my many brothers and me along with no regard for contemporary childrearing practices, thank god. We lived tragicomic epic adventures on homesteads, in a coastal Northwest Alaskan village, on a salmon troller in Southeast Alaska, and on subsistence trips in the Interior taiga and coastal tundra, immersed in powerful landscapes infused with multicultural archetypes and meaning. We were often in danger. We encountered amazing, storybook-like characters in old-time Alaska, and, of course, mysterious ruins and bears. Mom made us learn survival skills, animal lore and writing -- my first epic composed at seven was the quest of a migratory goose. We had no TV, but crates of classics, world mythology (of note were Bering Strait hero tales illustrated by George Agapuk), and ethnographies of hunter gatherers. This was formative material for when we weren’t outside exploring the wilds with no adult supervision.

Storytellers also abounded in diverse family branches. Grandfather from the Norwegian Arctic wrote epics in which we starred – the antagonist was a wolverine or evil sea-captain. My great grandmother was a Metis/Scot who grew up in the NW rainforest and a great orator. My blood father was from Mountain People stock and told humorous yarns and cartooned sociopolitical satires. My first stepdad (also a bush pilot) was a journalist for the Juneau Empire as well the perpetual writer of the great Alaskan novel, and Mom was a poet and novelist. Professors of history lectured at family gatherings. My Inupiaq stepdad took me hunting and scared me with supernatural tales, and his mom taught me about nomadic life on Seward Peninsula and her spiritual journey. Later, living in Norwegian, Israeli, Japanese and Taiwanese families, I listened to old people’s personal epics. I took mental notes and started writing about the tragic clash of cultures and ecological destruction, the cross pollination and alliances, redemption. At first it was sci fi or “speculative fiction."

Flight of the Goose incubated for decades but hatched suddenly. It was when I’d settled to raise a child in a big city, teaching English. This may sound schizoid, but the ending and beginning hit me as a vision while I was hiking, like a burning bush. I ran home to record a flood of imagery I could barely keep up with. I had to find the media res but it was easy, the bulk was written in a few weeks (the revisions took years). Material came in dreams, bird auguries, oracles, it fell out of books in synchronicities and chance meetings and many trips to Nome. The motive – late at night after chores – in part was to escape grading five-paragraph essays but also to get back to the landscape and the culture and family I missed. Fiction to me is like soul flight or a hallucinatory, hypnotic state – it removes me utterly to another world, yet it is legal and safe and is a free and easy way to travel. I had no money to travel.

I wrote also to process all I’d experienced growing up that lay in wait in my unconscious; I was studying Jungian ideas then, but had no money to try psychotherapy. Raising a daughter seemed to trigger what was buried and wanted to be brought to light and turned over like an artifact, and the novel was a way to do that. But just as important a motive: I am idealistic with an ecologist’s training, and the rapacious destruction in the 80s and 90s to the Mother, to indigeneous cultures, made me want to take action, and I was too shy to go out and be a rabble rouser.

Anyway, the urge to write this novel was like a Calling or what a salmon feels to go upriver, something I couldn’t resist.

Recently at 49 writers we discussed different perspectives on writers treading carefully on cultural ground. What are your thoughts on this complex issue?

I wanted to write about the changes that came to Northwest Alaska, --social, environmental, economic, religious-- that all go together in reality, and I wanted to look at how they affect the small communities I am connected with. But the story wanted to be told through the intersection of two cultures, so the Muse sent one protagonist from the Inupiaq culture and one from the Euro-American.

I know some say you can't fictionalize another culture, and there is some truth in that. I don’t have wise advice to give writers, but at least, you don’t want to characterize people as “the Other” who have historically been so wronged. I think a reparation of heightened sensitivity and respect is owed. Tread on that thin ice or knife’s edge with care. But non-Native writers shouldn’t fear creating non-white characters, or the story ends up being racist – and bland - from lack of representation. Nor should non-Anglo characters be just like whites, or mere sidekicks, or so noble and likeable they have no depth. (A great manual is African-American Nisi Shawl’s “Writing the Other”).

My relatives cautioned me “Whatever you do, don’t make your Inupiaq characters all the same!” They said it made them so mad. I wouldn’t have made that mistake, since it’s easy for me to see the diversity and range of humanity even in a tiny village. My outsider status is different because Inupiaq culture helped form me, I internalized values and assimilated young. Growing up, I was in and out of Inupiaq village households being taught lessons any kid would learn. Besides input from my Inupiaq step-father (and his mother), I got it all my life from friends, mentors, and my three brothers' Inupiaq and Siberian Yupik in-laws. To get that voice right was a challenge I took very seriously. If I didn’t get it right, I’d be in so much trouble.

The western Alaska Native readers I've talked to say I caught reality really well. Elders tell me the story brings them back to that period. Younger Native readers tell me the story moves them, in particular those in cross-cultural families. The book also has fans from other parts of the world -- East Asia, India, Africa, Latin America…and apparently I walked the knife’s edge safely.

I understand there’s some talk of your story making its way toward film. What can you tell us about that?

There’s strong interest. I can’t give details yet but can say it would be filmed in NW Alaska, would remain true to the story and have Native Alaskan actors. The birdman, however, might be changed to a blonde from Chicago, I don’t know why. The story might be brought into 2009 to make filming easier, and we could just use our current wars instead of the Vietnam war. The other elements of oil drilling and climate change, species loss are still here, far worse.

Tell us about your current project. Do you envision it coming to market in a similar way, or do you have other plans?

My next book will no doubt be epic, though my agent wants something trimmer. One project is set in the borderland of my own ancestors, the Sami and Viking, and one is a thriller in the circumpolar north. I’d like to get published by a high status press, for more cash. I could fly more to New York, where my daughter lives. But I’d get way more flack from my relatives, who already tease me as a city slicker.

Readers, start your discussion!

The 49 writers book club is officially in session. Anyone can chime in, anytime this weekend, with thoughts, questions, and comments related to this quarter's selection, Seth Kantner's Ordinary Wolves. Character you loved? Hated? Passages or scenes you found especially moving? Head-scratchers? Reasons you'd recommend it to others, or not?

Don't feel limited by my questions - they're just a starting point. Take off and run with it. I'll pop in every now and then, in between watching the ceremonial start of the Iditarod and entertaining some out of town guests. But no need to wait on me. This is your book group.

A few how-to's on leaving comments: If you have a Google account, sign in. No account? No worries. Proceed by clicking the Comment button at the end of the post (as comments are added, a number will appear in front of it). Type your comment in the comment box. I highlight and right-click to copy as soon as I'm done. That way, if my comment mysteriously vanishes as it occasionally does (don't you love technology?), I can go back to the comment box and with a right click, paste it back in. If you're not signed in, you'll have to type the captcha (the funny letters) and choose an identity. Name/URL is a good choice - you can pick a name and skip the optional URL box. Then publish your comment and make sure you see the message at the top saying your comment has been saved before you navigate away from the page.

Easy enough. We're looking forward to hearing from you. And did I mention that if you comment your name gets tossed in the drawing for the free $50 gift certificate from Bear Tooth. Even if you don't live in Anchorage, it's worth a shot - great barter material.

49 writers weekly roundup

At last, at last. Our long-awaited 49 writers book club discussion of Seth Kantner's Ordinary Wolves begins tomorrow, Saturday, March 7, at 7 a.m. AST, and ends Sunday, March 8, at midnight (or whenever people stop posting). No membership, no sign-ups - just stop by and read the comments, speak your piece, then stop by again, and again. By the time we're through we should have a nice collection of responses to the book. For a reminder of how it all works, look back at our November discussion of John Straley's The Big Both Ways.

And don't forget!! Everyone who comments at 49 writers from February 23 through March 8 gets a chance at the $50 gift certificate from Bear Tooth Theater in Anchorage. That's a lot of great movies, pizza, and beer.

"I got a delightful package in the mail last week," reports Ketchikan librarian Charlotte Glover. "A brand new picture book from former Alaska resident and picture book author extraordinaire Nancy White Carlstrom called This is The Day from Zondervan Press. The short poem like text on each page sing the praises of nature. The illustrations by Richard Cowdrey look like a love letter to Southeast Alaska, with their large scale paintings of otters, deer, islands, tidepools, herons, whales, seals, foxes and lighthouses. They are among the most attractive paintings I've ever seen in a picture book...just stunning. Reminds me a bit of what Jon Van Zyle did for Nancy's Raven and River." As we mentioned in introducing last month's guest post, Nancy lived in Fairbanks for decades and was a big part of the literary scene there. After her kids grew up she moved back to Seattle a couple of years ago and also spends time in Friday Harbor, WA.

Alaska's State Writer Laureate Nancy Lord has a busy schedule this month. On March 7at 10:30 a.m., she'll be giving a talk at the Juneau Public Library. That evening at 7 p.m., she'll join multiple readers participating in "Rouge et Noir: A SE Alaska Community Writers' Show" at the Silverbow Restaurant in Juneau. On March 9 from 3:30-5 p.m., Lord will be conducting a writing workshop for young people at Petersburg Public Library, followed by a 7 p.m. reading, also at the library, and an
adult writing workshop at 6:30 p.m. on March 10. On March 13, she has a 7 p.m. reading at Kettleson Library, Sitka. Finally, on April 1 from 5-7 p.m., Lord will join past writer laureates John Haines, Richard Dauenhauer, and Ann Hanley for "Alaska State Writer Laureates: Alaska's Land and Literature" at the UAA Campus Bookstore.

Nominations are now being taken for the ninth annual Mayor's Awards for the Arts, a wonderful program that recognizes the contributions of individuals and organizations. The awards honor those who've made on-going contributions to the Anchorage arts scene. Among the categories are Individual Artists, Outstanding Arts Organizations, Champions of the Arts, and Youth Arts. Mail or email your nomination (it can be made anonymously) by March 14. The award ceremony will be April 8.

UAA presents a bilingual reading by the internationally acclaimed Russian poet Vera Pavlova and her translator, Steven Seymour, whose work has been featured in The New Yorker. The reading will take place at UAA on Thursday, March 19, at 6 PM in SSB 118 (across from Starbucks). Admission is free, and refreshments will be served. The reading is co-sponsored by the College of Arts and Sciences, the Department of Languages, the International Studies Program, the Creative Writing and Literary Arts Department, Alaska Quarterly Review, and Khleb da sol' (the UAA Russian Club).

"Your invoice has been submitted, but due to a temporary cash flow problem, payments are going out late." That's the word I got this week from a very legitimate magazine publisher for whom I wrote a couple of months ago. "Payments are going out every week and we hope to be caught up soon. I apologize for the inconvenience and assure you that the delay in payment is not a reflection of your work. Thanks for your patience." Welcome to the economic downturn, creeping north to impact Alaskan authors. Another casualty? One of my publishers announced this week that they're no longer supplying books to Borders - too risky.

From Homer, Alaskan author Arne Bue reminds us that he has five Alaska eBooks at http://home.gci.net/~bue/Page4.html. We'll plan an interview with Arne on his e-pubbing efforts in a future post.

"I am a Dana Stabenow fan first and foremost," writes Ursula Foster after reading this week's 49 Writers discussion on cultural ground. "But I will read something by a Native Alaskan author. Since I live in Virginia, I'll depend on 49 Writers to give me suggestions. I'm an avid reader." How about it, 49 Writer fans? Suggestions for Ursula? She says the books don't need to be mysteries. I gave her a couple of suggestions but said I'd share her request with everyone here.