January poetry discussion: Something new for your new year...

We asked for help moderating our next online book discussion, and boy did we get a wonderful gift in response. Sandra Kleven, writer and MFA student at UAA's low-residency program, has created a wonderful website for this Thursday, January 7 online event.

The website has the full text of eight poems by four featured Alaska poets -- Anne Caston, Derick Burleson, Michael Burwell, and Elizabeth Bradfield -- as well as photos and biographical information. Read the poems anytime this week and then drop into 49 writers next Thursday, anytime between 3 pm and 8 pm, to leave your comments and follow the discussion.

You certainly don't have to be a poetry expert to take part. I'm not, which is why I asked for Sandra's help! Whether these Alaska poets are familiar favorites or entirely new to you, what a great way to get a little poetic infusion this new year.

A little more about our moderator, and a little more about the online book club...

Sandra Kleven is a published author, poet, student, clinical social worker, and much more. You'll find some of her own poems and links to other writings at her "Heartworks" website. Her latest project is a short film, "Where is Ted Roethke?" being shot in Seattle from January 1-16. Kleven's most recent published work can be found in the first issue of CIRQUE JOURNAL, "Jaden is Calling."

If you're curious about how our online book club discussions have worked in the past, check out the discussion of "And She Was" by Cindy Dyson, moderated by Deb Vanasse last September.

And one last request to our most passionate poetry lovers out there: can you help us spread the word about this event? If you'd reach out to friends and fellow readers by email, Facebook, or any other kind of word-of-mouth, we'd really appreciate it.

Resolved to have a new attitude toward writing

Yesterday was my birthday, tomorrow is New Year's Eve, and I've always been a goal junkie. (Maybe you are, too?) That means it's time for a resolution post. But this one is a little different.

For years, in the writing category -- never mind the exercise, moderation or other lifestyle categories -- I've been focusing on achievement-oriented resolutions. For example: finish writing this book. Publish that one. Apply for a specific grant. Practice public speaking.

Last year, I added a 5-year, 100-book, fill-in-the-gaps reading list -- part of a collaborative project still going strong.

But this year, I looked back over the past and found a disturbing mismatch that seems to be growing between what I do in a given year and how I feel about my writing life. The years I write or publish or even earn more from writing have not necessarily been correlated with my contentment levels. Sometimes production and contentment seem diametrically opposed.

I'll still resolve to get a certain amount read and written this year, but I'm thinking of my most important goals in a different way.

This year, I resolve: To try to become better at waiting. I love reading writer's biographies for clues to how other writers coped with various difficulties -- from F. Scott Fitzgerald's problems with household budgeting to John Updike's psoriasis and self-consciousness. But what those classic writers seemed to do better than us was wait. Email has given us the impression we should hear back from people quickly, but as every writer knows, months often pass before we get answers or feedback from agents, editors, even close colleagues. After a book is accepted for publication, there are still long waits between rounds of editing, waiting for marketing plans to unfold, waiting for a book to hit the shelves or get reviewed, waiting (well more than a year and sometimes two or more) to get a real handle on how a book sold or didn't sell. It feels like I spend about one-third to one-half of my writing life waiting for what feels like some essential development to occur, or for some magical information to be revealed. The best answer is to get started on something new -- and I do. Always. But you know how it is. In the back of your mind, you're still waiting for that email, phone call, or statement; still directing those magic mental rays into the ether, silently begging (sometimes hourly, as I happen to be doing now, even as I'm blogging -- oops) for a certain someone to contact you with much-needed feedback or news. This year, I resolve to remind myself: I can't put my mind and heart on hold. I have to move on.

I have to remember...

To focus more on creation, less on reception. Of course, it's exciting to be read, to see one's article in a magazine on the shelf or one's book in a bookstore. But how our work is received -- and even whether it's published at all -- is largely beyond our control. I need to celebrate creation more, and remind myself that if I don't experience maximum joy and gratitude during the writing process, I'm missing at least 90% of the good stuff. I don't mean joy every second, of course. In fact, sometimes it's good to wallow in thoughtful frustration, puzzlement, angst. Solitary struggle is the writer's main occupation, not just time lost on the path to publication.

And another resolution, easy to write but hard to do...

I want to get better at giving and receiving writing feedback. To that end, I just finished reading Toxic Feedback, by Joni B. Cole (not the best title, I'm afraid, because it makes the book sound negative when it is in fact charming, funny, and positive). I didn't learn anything radically new from this book, I just enjoyed the company of an intelligent woman reminding me of those things I used to know better and repeatedly forget, including: how effective positive feedback (not just negative feedback!) can be in helping writers; how few things we can focus on at any one time (and therefore how important it is to focus carefully when giving feedback to others OR editing ourselves), how hard it is for anyone to process criticism (and how useless it is to suggest that writers should simply be thicker-skinned and stronger-spined).

Cole, a long-time teacher, reminds us that in most workshop settings where writers provide each other feedback, "14 % feels dead-on; 18 % is from another planet; and 68 % falls somewhere in-between." And we all know how hard it is to make sense of the "in-between." That's why I need this resolution. The next time I give feedback, I am going to shape my message more carefully and selectively, and the next time I receive feedback, I am going to listen more actively, delay my reactions, be patient with my own processing time, and have greater confidence in my long-term ability to follow my own vision while being open to criticism -- and praise -- from others.

I have other issues to tackle, but that's probably enough on-screen introspection for one day. (P.S. I just checked email for the second time in an hour and I STILL haven't heard from a certain person from whom I am waiting to hear. This 'getting better at waiting' resolution is going to be tough.)

I invite anyone else to add their resolutions or self-improvement suggestions, and I wish everyone a creative new year.

Finding your voice: A workshop for writers

Several weeks ago, we posted about writing workshops, wondering if there were an interest among active and aspiring writers.  One thing led to another, and with the help of the Alaska State Council on the Arts (ASCA) and the National Endowment for the Arts, plus the fiscal sponsorship of Alaska Sisters in Crime, we're gearing up for our first 49 Writers Workshop:  Finding Your Voice.  Thanks to ASCA workshop grant funding, we're able to offer six hours of top-quality workshop instruction at the low rate of $35 per person.

Finding Your Voice will be held in two Saturday sessions:  January 30 and February 6, 9:30 a.m. – 1 p.m., in the upstairs conference room of the Elim Café, 561 W. Dimond Blvd, Anchorage.  Participation is limited to the first 15 who register with payment. (Pre-payments are non-refundable, but they are transferable.)  Participants must attend both sessions, and of course the $35 fee covers both.

Page through rejection letters, study agent blogs, interview publishers, and a common theme emerges:  Everyone's looking for authentic voice.  But what does that mean, and how does one achieve it?  Whether you write poetry, fiction, or non-fiction, developing voice is essential to good writing.  During our workshop, Andromeda and I will offer strategies, exercises, and critiques designed to help writers discover and enhance the key element of voice in all stages of their craft, from prewriting through revision. In Session One, participants will develop a working definition of voice as we discuss why voice matters. We'll examine models of both narrative and character voice, and through various exercises, we'll probe the origins of voice and pitfalls that stifle voice.
 
Following a week of individual practice, participants will bring their own working drafts to Session Two, where they'll tap the emotional core of their work to strengthen voice. Through various exercises, we'll explore how mimicry and manipulation can, paradoxically, free natural voice. We'll practice identification and correction of overwriting and underwriting along with revision techniques that refine and enhance voice, ending with a question and answer session and celebration of achievements in voice.

Intrigued?  Fill out a registration form and submit payment to secure your spot; if you prefer a form you can complete online, email me and I'll send it as a Word attachment.  Remember, registration is limited to the first fifteen paid participants.

We're excited to offer this opportunity to Anchorage area writers, and we're considering more workshops in the future.  Are there topics you'd especially like us to offer?  Leave a comment here, or vote in our sidebar Workshop Poll.  We're looking forward to exchanging great ideas and information in a productive workshop format.

Nature Writing Redux and Some Favorite Books: A Guest Post by Bill Sherwonit

I wondered if I could get through this month of guest posting without reference to my summertime exchange with Rich Chiappone about nature writing (and, when he got going, genre writing generally). Couldn’t do it.

I enjoyed returning to the scene of the fight (figuratively speaking) and rereading Rich’s pointed responses to my post. I envy his ability to incorporate humor into his writing, not an easy thing to do.

With my term of “monthly guest author” about to end, this is my last, best chance to use the position as something of a bully pulpit. How can I resist? So, in the spirit of better late than never, I’ll now – much belatedly – respond to some of Rich’s zingers (and maybe, if I’m lucky, re-stir the hornet’s nest).

First, Rich suggests that even I seem uncomfortable “with the sobriquet” of nature writer, despite continually calling myself one. He couldn’t be more wrong. Rich simply misinterpreted my hesitant, somewhat apologetic demeanor at the Kachemak Bay Writers’ Conference when protesting his attack of nature writers as people who write bad stuff while preaching to their very small choir. I almost always feel hesitant and perhaps appear apologetic when voicing strong opinions in front of a big crowd. To eliminate any confusion: I love being a nature writer.

If anything, I too happily, too proudly embrace the term. If I were smarter, I would eschew the label, because it likely prompts some folks to dismiss my writing without letting the work speak for itself. I happen to define nature writing very broadly, to include the world of humans. We are, after all, a part of nature, eh? The only stories that are not nature writing, I’d suggest, are those in which nature serves as a mere backdrop for the human drama. Of course there’s a great abundance of such stories.

I do agree with Rich that much of the best nature writing – like that done by Nancy Lord, Sherry Simpson (both of whom he names) and several other talented Alaskan writers – is writing that “shake[s] off the shackles of predictability . . . takes us into territory we have never been to before: the deep, dark interior of the writer’s heart.” The best of it is usually layered, complex, richly textured, nuanced, with a surprise or two as it does take readers into unexpected and perhaps unexplored territory. But not always. There is sometimes great beauty and meaning in simplicity. And there is sometimes a need for rants and remonstrations, for calls to action.

Second, I think it’s a good thing that writers and readers and critics – especially those who do “nature writing” (whether or not they call themselves nature writers) – be critical of the genre. Critical in the sense of noticing and pointing out both its strengths and weaknesses. Like any kind of writing, it has both.

I too admire David Gessner’s essay, “Sick of Nature,” though like Nancy Lord, I read the piece a bit differently than Rich. At the very end of the essay, Gessner writes, “Of course I’m not sick of nature at all. Just sick of being boxed in, and of the genre itself being boxed too narrowly. In fact, having declared myself done with nature, I suddenly feel the itch of the contrary.”

Like Gessner, I believe in the necessity of expansive, no-holds-barred nature writing, writing that is cross-pollinated by other genres and forms. In both life and writing, I join Gessner in his plea for wildness, freedom, “the exhilaration of breaking down the Berlin Wall of genre [so is that a paradox, or what?]. A plea for amateurism, variety, danger, spontaneity and honesty in a world growing increasingly professional, specialized, safe, pre-packaged, partitioned, and phony.” And yes, you can believe in all those things, and to a large degree practice them, and still consider yourself a nature writer. Because, like Rich, I’ve taken some of Gessner’s comments without the larger context, I heartily encourage anyone interested in these notions to find “Sick of Nature.” It’s a worthwhile, provocative read.

I would also encourage people who wonder about the worthiness of nature writing to buy, borrow, or steal (well, not really the latter) This Incomparable Land: A Guide to American Nature Writing, by Thomas J. Lyon. The author provides an intriguing “taxonomy” of nature writing themes, considers the relationship of the genre to the American setting, and also traces nature writing’s evolution from its early beginnings through the end of the twentieth century. In his preface, Lyon notes, “The crucial point about nature writing is the awakening of perception to an ecological way of seeing. . . . the capacity to notice pattern in nature, and community, and to recognize that the patterns radiate outward to include the human observer. . . . just the turning of our attention to the natural world tends to subvert our anthropocentric heritage.”

A key point there: the best of nature writing can be a subversive and transformative force.

Rich points out that too much of what passes for nature writing is “self-absorbed drivel.” I would simply respond that much of what passes for literature, period, is drivel. It’s not so much about genre, form, or type, as the quality of writing, the story telling.

One final comment: Rich defines “literary writing” as “writing about the human condition.” Who set those terms? I think writing simply about the “human condition” is an exceedingly anthropocentric and arrogant attitude. We’re part of a marvelously grand and mysterious world, filled with all kinds of amazing stories – but we’re only part of the story, not the center of it.

Lots more can be written, discussed, and debated about this topic, but I’m done for now. I’d love to hear more from those writers who do lots of nature writing, but back away from the label. You know who you are. What are your thoughts on this matter (Nancy Lord did have some observations to share following Rich Chiappone’s posting, but maybe she and others have more to say). Surely we haven’t exhausted the subject. Or have we? Time to move on? . . .

* * *
Finally I offer up “Bill Sherwonit’s Favorite Book List.” Or, books that have inspired, informed, or otherwise influenced my own writing and, more importantly, my way of being on this Earth.

First, my Top Ten, which over time has expanded into a Top 15 and may soon expand again. In no particular order:

• The Island Within, Richard Nelson. A lyrical, captivating, in-depth look at one man’s relationship with place. Shows the extraordinary to be found in the ordinary and also pulls in other cultural perspectives, particularly those of the Koyukon Athabascans, who became Nelson’s teachers while he lived with them as an anthropologist.
•Of Wolves and Men, Barry Lopez. One of my earliest influences when I moved from geology into writing. Still considered a classic, Lopez’s book was among the first -- if not the first -- to take an in-depth look at the wolf and, more importantly, our species’ relationship with Canis lupus. Lopez’s work grabbed me and didn’t let go. In some important ways, I think, it changed how I think about “the other,” and our relationship other creatures. Still my favorite work by Lopez.
• An Unspoken Hunger, Terry Tempest Williams. A collection of essays by one of my favorite writers. Lyrical, provocative, ambitious, risky. I also found great power in Refuge and, more recently, Finding Beauty in a Broken World (see below).
• Never Cry Wolf, Farley Mowat. This, like Lopez’s book, was an early influence as I moved into outdoors and then nature writing. It’s been heavily criticized in some quarters as fiction portrayed as nonfiction/reality. Yet Mowat captured many “truths” in his writing, while presenting new ways of looking at one of the world’s most historically maligned and persecuted animals. Delightful reading, with some wonderful humor.
• Song of the DoDo, David Quammen. An incredible book by my favorite contemporary science writer. Quammen somehow weaves numerous threads -- natural history, adventure travel, scientific theory, science history -- into a coherent and thought-provoking whole. It’s a big book (text alone is more than 600 pp), but I never lost interest. And I learned a lot.
• The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway. I was a big Hemingway fan in my twenties and this was -- and remains -- my favorite. I’m not as big a fan anymore, but this remains a spot on my A list. I’ve read it several times over the years. A “small” book with a big impact.
• The Immense Journey, Loren Eiseley. Another science writer, with a much different approach than Quammen, Eiseley is No. 1 in my book, among science writers. I’d recommend just about anything by him, but this is my favorite among the books of his that I’ve read. He somehow weaves science and mysticism and pulls it off. This collection of essays includes some of my all-time favorites, including “The Judgment of the Birds” and “The Bird and the Machine.” If you’re into birds or science or human evolution or have a mystical streak, check him out.
• Searching for Steinbeck's Sea of Cortez, Andromeda Romano-Lax. I must admit to some bias here, because Andromeda’s a good friend, but this is still a great book, written by a local author. Andromeda is another who weaves several different threads in this wonderful travel/adventure narrative: family dynamics, adventure, science, environmental issues, literary history, and philosophy. It’s a fast, easy read that offers lots to think about.
• Iron John, Robert Bly. Written by one of the leaders of the men’s mythopoetic movement of the 1980s and 1990s, this book explores contemporary masculinity by turning to a Grimm Brothers fairytale, while looking at such things as male initiation, mentoring, and mythic ideas about the “wild man.”
• Into the Wild, Jon Krakauer. Most Alaskans seemed to hate it. I loved this book. I think Krakauer does an incredible job reconstructing Chris McCandless’s life, particularly his final years and days, while providing insights into one young man’s quest to find himself -- and ultimately die in the search. Though many have criticized Krakauer for romanticizing McCandless, I think he touches on a universal (or nearly so) experience: almost all of us, at some time in our lives, took “crazy” risks while trying to separate from family or traditions while rebelling and searching for our place in the world.
• The Practice of the Wild, Gary Snyder. I came to Snyder late, but he’s become a hugely important influence, particularly on notions of wildness and reflections on our place in the larger world. This is one of the books I’ve underlined, highlighted, and tagged with many stickies. Each time I return to it, I gain something new.
• The Abstract Wild, by Jack Turner. Another book of essays, filled with rants, pleas, explorations, reflections, and darned good writing. Beside several of the essays listed on the Contents page, I scribbled “Excellent!” or “Yes!” or both. Powerful, provocative pieces.
• Life is a Miracle: An Essay Against Modern Superstition, Wendell Berry. One of America’s great cultural commentators and provocateurs, Berry here takes on highly acclaimed scientist and author E.O. Wilson (another person whose work I greatly admire) and Wilson’s “scientific credo,” Consilience. Berry thoughtfully considers the roles that science and religion – or as I prefer to think, spirituality – play in our culture, while questioning (some might say dismissing) the notion of science’s superiority to other ways of knowing.
• My Story as Told by Water, David James Duncan. Duncan is better known as a novelist (The River Why, The Brothers K) but I first met him as a nonfiction writer (though I have now read The River Why and highly recommend that book, too). I love Duncan’s rants, the risks he takes in his writing, his passion, his imagery and ability to tell a great story, his stimulating ideas. A most excellent collection of essays.
• The Accidental Explorer: Wayfinding in Alaska, Sherry Simpson. Sherry has been among my favorite essayists for a long time and her newest book (released in March 2008) has some of her finest writing. A self-deprecating writer with lots of wisdom, food for thought, and great writing skills.

BILL’S HONORABLE MENTION LIST (with any of these sneaking into my top 15 list, depending on my mood or interests at a particular time)
• J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy (which I haven’t read since college, but intend to return to some day).
• Desert Solitaire, Edward Abbey
• Savages, Joe Kane
• Talking on the Water: Conversations about Nature and Creativity, complied by Jonathan White
• Arctic Refuge: A Circle of Testimony, edited by Hank Lentfer & Carolyn Servid
• Holdfast, Kathleen Dean Moore
• Alaska Wilderness, Robert Marshall
• Hunting for Hope, Scott Russell Sanders
• The Stars, the Snow, the Fire, John Haines
• Ordinary Wolves, Seth Kantner
• Wilderness and the American Mind, Roderick Nash
• This Incomparable Land: A Guide to American Nature Writing, Thomas Lyon
• The Tender Carnivore and the Sacred Game, Paul Shepard
• The Wild Trees, Richard Preston
• The Soul's Code, James Hillman
• The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart: Poems for Men, my poetry selection, edited by Robert Bly, James Hillman and Michael Meade.

I’d also like to mention two books that I consider the best of the bunch that I read this year. LOST MOUNTAIN: A YEAR IN THE VANISHING WILDERNESS, by Eric Reece. Probably the best book I’ve read this year (though published in 2006), this is top-notch literary (and advocacy) journalism that explores the awful destructiveness of "radical strip mining" for coal in the Appalachian region, where entire mountaintops are removed to get at the coal, with devastating consequences to the landscape and the inhabitants in the region, both human and otherwise. After reading this, I am amazed that any mountaintop removal is still allowed. And I wonder how President Barack Obama can embrace the idea of "clean coal” (does he still?). What an oxymoron.

A second very powerful book I read this year was written by one of my favorite authors, already mentioned above, Terry Tempest Williams. I actually had a little trouble getting into the book, FINDING BEAUTY IN A BROKEN WORLD. But once I did, I found it to be a powerful story that weaves together the artistry involved in the creation of mosaics (which become the book's central metaphor and theme) together with the American West's persecuted communities of prairie dogs, her brother's death to cancer, and the aftermath of Rwanda's genocide. I loved her observations, reflections and study of prairie dogs, but parts of the section on Rwanda had me teary eyed. Very powerful stuff, both devastating and hopeful.

So, you see, my writing – and life – is informed by many genres and forms, even fiction and poetry. And on that note, I’ll say thanks to Deb and Andromeda for the opportunity to share ideas, opinions, and questions with this community of writers. All best wishes for the season and the year ahead.

49 Writers Weekly Round-Up

Ah, the holidays. After all the rush, it's good to relax and enjoy the company of those we love. So we'll keep the news short and to the point. But do read to the end, where you'll find our little gift to you.

The new year will bring several exciting developments here at 49 Writers. In conjunction with fiscal sponsor Alaska Sisters in Crime, we've received grant funding from the Alaska State Council on the Arts to subsidize a writing workshop on Finding Your Voice, to be held Jan. 23 and 30 in Anchorage. Andromeda and I will be the instructors, and to maintain a true workshop format, enrollment will be capped at fifteen. Watch for details next week.

In response to the changing market, we're also launching our 49 Writers Consulting, Critiquing, and Coaching (CCC) Services to help writers prepare their manuscripts for publication. We'll post more about that soon, but in the meantime this link will take you to our information sheet.

As if that's not enough, our online book club is setting up for a discussion of poems by some of Alaska's writers, to be led by Sandra Kleven. To preview the poems, go to http://www.heartworksak.net/alaskapoets.html

Speaking of poems, Ken Waldman kindly gave us permission to share this fitting tribute to the season. Enjoy, with best wishes from 49 Writers!

Anchorage, December 25, 3 P.M.

In sinking afternoon light,
the unattached spirits gather.
Some come as snowflakes,
others as bits of sky, or cloud,
or pieces of dirt hard asleep
under ice. Others as moose,
owl, raven, lynx. It's getting dark--
this winter day so ordinary,
windless, and perfect--when a single
warm breeze from above
blows gentle, strong, miraculous
as a wave. Or a glance. Or a smile.
That's all it takes now
for a whole outer world
to shift ever so slightly--
and for this latest season
to enter, or exit, this earth.

(first published in The Secret Visitor's Guide, Wings Press, 2006)

Your Turn: What are you reading (online)?

A day off work, hallelujah. There are family calls to make, a checkbook to balance, unfinished books waiting to be read and a sad and dusty cello sitting in the corner. But a quick post first, for those who might come looking over the holidays...

Bill's mention of Facebook ("Wastebook" as bikegirl called it) and some of our comments about avoiding online distraction made me realize something I'd overlooked: that although I'd been super-distracted by blogs and websites a year ago, I've now swung to the reverse position. Now, there are only perhaps two or three blogs I check regularly. More often, when I want a dose of online writerly inspiration, I'll google something ("kafka's cockroach" for example -- more on that another day).

What am I missing? What do you find worth reading? Where have you stopped clicking? (Example: a year ago I couldn't stop reading about publishing news, but I've taken a break from that lately.) How have your online reading habits changed in 2009?

Don't forget to mention any Alaska-specific sites you may have discovered that we have missed.

Wondering about Facebook and Other Random Jottings: A Guest Post by Bill Sherwonit

I’m not exactly a Luddite, but I am something of a technophobe, never quite comfortable around the latest technological gadgets. I remember my unease when computers were first moving out of research labs and into the general population. Maybe I was influenced by all the science fiction I’d read as a teenager and young adult, but computers seemed a scary and perhaps even a dangerous thing. I kept my distance from those intimidating contraptions until being forced to learn their basic workings when I joined The Anchorage Times in 1982. (The Times, unfortunately, had an ancient computer system that was prone to crashing on deadline and I lost lots of words to that techno-beast. Eventually I learned to hit the “save” key every few sentences or so.)

I was perhaps one of the last journalists to compose my stories on a typewriter; the first newspaper I worked at, the Simi Valley Enterprise, didn’t upgrade from typewriters to computers until after I left that small California paper’s newsroom to become a Times sports writer.

Given all this, it should come as no surprise that I’ve always gone with user-friendly Macs since getting my first home computer, sometime in the late 1980s. The latest is a 2008 model MacBook, my first laptop. Even with Apple computers, I generally use only the most basic functions. More than anything, they’re a great storage device for stories, research, online interviews, and email communiqués. And my computer has become invaluable for composing stories, though I still prefer to record notes in a journal, inscribing words on paper with pen or sometimes pencil. Even with the MacBook, I generally steer clear of the many little symbols that are stretched in a daunting row across the bottom of my computer screen. I have yet to explore iChat, iTunes, Garage Band, or Time Machine, to name a few of the programs – or is it applications? – I carefully avoid. I haven’t even experimented with the popular Power Point. Someday, maybe.

I think I was one of the last writers in the U.S. to finally – and, at the time, reluctantly – get email. I carry a simple cell phone, mostly for emergencies, and still haven’t learned how to retrieve messages (nor do I desire to learn). As for all the other small, hand-held devices that seem to be everywhere and do everything: Yikes!

All of this is leading, in a roundabout way, to Facebook. Over the past couple of years, several people have invited me to become a Facebook “friend.” I’ve been tempted to check out their Facebook pages, but that means I have to sign up and my technophobic side has been hesitant to do that. What strange new world would I enter? It’s a little like looking down the rabbit hole.

More recently a few writerly friends and colleagues have suggested that Facebook might be a good way to help publicize books and other literary matters. I’ve already seen the Internet’s value in helping to “spread the word” about my recent books via emails, blogs, and websites. So what about Facebook? I can feel myself edging closer to that doorway, anxiety building . . .

As if Facebook isn’t enough, now there’s Twitter, something that remains far off my personal radar screen, but apparently embraced by legions.

And so I wonder: does anyone out there have stories or opinions to share about Facebook? (I’m less curious about Twitter, although it might be interesting to get a writer’s perspective on that phenomenon, too.) What should a writer do?

* * *

Like other writers who endeavor to earn a living through their stories, I frequently struggle to balance the creative and business sides of writing. In fact I sometimes have to remind myself that they’re two very different animals. Two different ways of being. Creating stories is challenging enough. But to “sell” one’s work? That, for me, is a far bigger challenge, also a greater source of frustration, angst, and, occasionally, deep discouragement (though certainly it can sometimes lead to great rewards, positive reinforcement, unexpected opportunities).

It’s certainly true that some days I struggle to put together even a few coherent sentences, days when nothing I write seems to work. But by and large, the writing of stories feeds and fulfills me, helps me better understand my place in the world, maybe even offers hope. The selling or “marketing” of my work often wears me down. But if I want to make a living at the former – and gain an audience – the latter is necessary. I initially typed in “a necessary evil,” but in truth it’s not that; now and then spreading the word can actually be fun. But overall, it’s emotionally hard work and yes, wearisome.

By nature I’m introverted, like many if not most writers, I suppose. From my teens into my early thirties, I was painfully shy, often a loner. Both writing and reporting helped draw me out. To succeed in journalism, I had to engage more with people. For a long time, I think I instinctively followed the adage, “fake it ‘til you make it.” Finding a career – a calling – that I loved, and having some success at it, helped me along the way. So did my middle-aged discovery of “community.”

Once while attending the Sitka Symposium, a fellow participant joyfully announced, “Finally, I’ve found my tribe.” That’s how I feel about the community of nature writers, specifically, and writers generally. There’s a certain bond, I think, in how we relate to the world. Sure, the writing community is a vast thing, especially if you pull in the publishing world. I’m not saying I feel connected to all of it. That’s far from true. But I’ve found community within that larger, more intimidating world, especially here in Alaska. It’s a community that for me includes journalists and creative writers, essayists and novelists, poets and bloggers and activists (some writers wearing many hats).

While I still love my solitude and am content to spend hours of the day alone, I also now relish my participation in circles of friends and colleagues and other like-minded and -hearted souls. (For me writing overlaps with other circles, for instance with the “green” community of environmental/conservation activists and, more generally, nature-loving folks.)

Though I’m not by nature a salesman or promoter, I of course need to be one, at least now and then. I was intrigued by Ken Waldman’s four-part series “In Defense of Self-Promotion” because he clearly seems to embrace that part of his writer’s and musician’s life. On the other hand, I know talented, published writers who seem able to “let go” soon after their books are published and don’t fret about how well their books are selling or what more they can do to promote their work. (Yet even they must “sell” their stories or ideas at some point, no?)

I fall somewhere in the middle. Never having had an agent or a major publisher – and most recently published by a university press, which is about as far from N.Y. publishing houses as you can get, when it comes to marketing opportunities – I have had to be deeply involved in the marketing of my books. Sometimes I feel I should do much more. Other times I wish I wouldn’t obsess so much over how my book is doing on Amazon.com, the size of the audience that attends my book events, or whether I can get some mention in even the local media. In short, I can drive myself nuts!

The writing and selling of a book are challenging enough. But then comes the roller-coaster ride of book promotion. It’s exciting and uplifting to have dozens of people attend a talk and reading and, conversely, awfully disheartening to have an audience of one or two people. Having experienced both I now try to avoid the latter. No book tours for me at this point in my writing life, partly because the University of Alaska Press has no budget for that, partly because I’ve been tied to home by care-giving responsibilities, and lastly because it’s not something I yearn to do. Nowadays I pick my spots, choosing to do fewer “live” events and instead focusing my marketing efforts in other directions, for instance Internet connections (thus my curiosity about Facebook). Since my newest book came out in September I’ve spent way too much time online, not nearly enough time writing new stories. On the other hand, maybe I haven’t done enough to promote the book. Yeah, it’s crazy stuff.

* * *

I can’t talk about the business of writing without some mention of rejections. As I sometimes tell students, writing is the ideal lifestyle for people who need to work on their “rejection issues,” because most of us writers – even many of those who are considered successful – must face rejection again and again and again.

This is where persistence comes in. And a belief (even if it’s delusional) in the worth of one’s work. It also helps to grow a thick skin.

Writers sometimes discuss their many rejections in a gallows-humor sort of way. Some rejections, we agree, simply stink. Or hurt, immeasurably. Others can provide essential insights. Some are actually encouraging. And some are suitable for framing (well, almost). But there comes a point, as coaches and athletes like to say, when a defeat is simply a defeat and no longer a “moral victory.”

A couple of my books suffered long strings of defeats before finally finding a publishing “home.” For better or worse, I stubbornly believed in each book’s relevance, its value. I felt I had a story worth sharing and kept moving along my own quixotic path despite numerous rejections, some of them viciously mean-spirited, without any redeeming value. Others evoked chuckles. Upon reading an early version of Changing Paths, one New York agent described the writing as beautiful, but added that it didn’t stand a chance with any large publishing house. The story was too “quiet,” it didn’t pack enough punch, didn’t have enough drama or conflict. “You need to find a more compelling central character [i.e., not me],” he suggested, “or else get killed by a grizzly bear.”

I guess he had a point. I pitched the book to an assortment of agents and then several editors of smaller but high-profile presses and didn’t get anything more than some tantalizing nibbles. Then, miracle of miracles, I contacted the University of Alaska Press whose staff (as well as outside reviewers and an advisory board) didn’t need me to get mauled by a grizzly, but rather enthusiastically embraced Changing Paths. My potential audience is much smaller than what I’d initially hoped, but at least now I have an audience. And I have people whom I can regularly contact with questions, concerns, ideas, and suggestions. The press’s managing editor, Elisabeth Dabney, has been especially gracious, enthusiastic, patient, and accessible. I keep waiting for her to finally say, “enough already.” Instead she keeps answering my questions, allaying my anxieties, offering words of encouragement. Thanks for that, Elisabeth.

* * *

I always worry a bit when participants in my classes or attendees at my book events have little or nothing to say when I invite them to ask questions or make comments after a presentation. In a similar manner, I fret a little when my blog postings or opinion pieces (here and elsewhere) fail to elicit comments. What am I doing wrong? I wonder. Is anybody out there? Is anyone reading my stuff? I’d sincerely love to get your opinions, your ideas, and your stories about Facebook, Twitter, rejection, or the tension between making stories and selling them. Or maybe there’s something you’d like me to address in my final guest blog. So share a comment, maybe even start a conversation. Please don’t make me beg. (Or is that already begging? Arrrgh, there’s always so damn much to fret about when you’re an overly sensitive, angst-ridden writer, especially in the depths of winter, when everything seems darker.)

49 Writers Interview: Stephen Roxburgh of namelos

As an author, I feel fortunate to have placed eight of my books - seven for children - directly with editors of houses I respect and admire. But this year I had a manuscript that was a little different. I'd written it with a well-published, agented friend who asked to remain anonymous. Her agent wasn't interested. We believed in the project and wanted to place it. But as one another's best readers, where could we go to validate our feelings about the book and get the kind of advice you'd normally get from an agent?

New on the scene from highly-respected Front Street founder Stephen Roxburgh, namelos was our answer. Though neither of us had ever paid for editorial consultation before, we plunked down $200 and got fantastic advice, plus strong consideration for publication, from namelos editor Karen Klockner. Though ultimately our manuscript moved on, I still like what I see at namelos: a core group of committed, experienced publishing experts getting in front of the changing market by offering genuine options to authors who aren't afraid to try something different.

With pleasure, we bring you a 49 Writers exclusive interview with forward-thinking Stephen Roxburgh, founder of namelos.

namelos is billed as “the opening move in a new age of publishing.” What’s your take on how and why publishing is moving into a new age, and what prompted you to make an opening move?

Competition, the economic crisis, and technological developments have combined to create a “perfect storm” and it is transforming publishing. Only the largest, best financed, and most efficient of the major publishers will survive and thrive. Smaller publishers (and some not so small) will fail unless they adapt. Brand name authors will thrive. The rest will be dismissed. Insane risks will be taken on very few authors and books. Right now there is an enormous opportunity for alternate approaches to publishing. namelos is my best shot at forging a new path. I've published according to the old model for over 35 years. Every few decades a person should do something new. I'm ready, willing, and able to try something different. And the time is right.

Traditionally, authors have been discouraged from paying for the kinds of services offered by namelos. Why do we need to start thinking differently, and what sets namelos apart from services that authors should shun?

Authors have always paid for the kinds of services namelos offers. They paid by accepting 10-15% of the retail price of their books as compensation. The real difference is when they pay, not that they pay. By paying in advance, they share the risk in ways that they have not previously. But as anyone who participates in the stock market knows, the greater the risk you are able to shoulder, the higher the return. namelos offers a partnership, an equal share (50/50) of the profit. As for our "services", authors do not pay us to read their work. They pay us to give them honest, informed, constructive guidance in a timely manner based on our experience and knowledge. Publishers have always been the employees of authors, but they've done a great job of making authors feel it's the other way around. What sets namelos apart from services that should be shunned is that those services don't offer what we offer. Our credentials are available for all to see and assess. Our reputation is hard-earned and, so far, our clients seem to think they have received good value for their money.

Your editorial services serve as a gateway to your publishing and development programs. What do you look for in projects that move into either publishing or development, and what is the difference between the two?

We are always looking for the same thing: quality. We will only take on a few good books. The difference between our publishing program and out development program is simple. For reasons having to do with our business model, specifically the quality and cost of print-on-demand technology, we are not publishing full-color books at this time. But we have considerable experience in developing such projects. And we really like them. Therefore, we have created the development program to enable us to do what we do best, i.e. editorial development, and then we place the books with other publishers whose business model includes full-color books. We have decades of experience in licensing rights, both domestic and foreign, and we bring books to publishers at a point where they can be involved in the development at whatever level they desire. If a book we take on fits our model, i.e. can be produced in one-color, we will publish it, presuming the author wants us to. We are working on some projects that we could publish but we won't because the author has an alternative plan; some have agents, some have publishers, but the authors have come to us for our editorial expertise. In any event, we will only take on books that we feel strongly are books we want to publish, even if, at the end of the day, we aren't the publisher.

Why would an author choose the namelos route to publishing over the more traditional agent-editor-publisher gateways?

That's a question you need to ask our authors and our clients. I assume it has to do with wanting to work with us, the substance and quality of the service they receive, the partnership, and the lure of doing something new, different, and exciting. People will come to us for a host of reasons, but we will only develop and publish a few really good books by authors who want work with us.

The focus at namelos is on books for children. Given the recent uproar over Harlequin’s new self-pubbing arm, what will it take for alternative publishing models to gain acceptance in all genres?

Success. And it will happen. Soon.

I expect you’re tired of this one, but I’m sure our readers are wondering: why call it namelos? And why lower case?

I believe that the important names on a book are the author's and artist's. I believe that editors should be heard (by authors) and not seen (by the public). My last publishing company was called "Front Street", pretty innocuous. I no longer have access to that name so I decided not to come up with some cute, catchy name, but to keep it simple. "namelos" is a medieval German word that means "nameless." It is the equivalent of "anonymous." The lower case is in keeping with the concept.

49 Writers Weekly Round-Up

As the madness of holiday preparation winds down, a period of rest settles in. A short one.

Here at 49 Writers, we're gearing up for 2010, starting with a new advertising opportunity for authors and booksellers. As you're probably aware, 49 Writers has been a labor of love, a way for Andromeda and I to give back to the community of writers that has nurtured us over the years. We've resisted organizing as an official non-profit, though we're starting to partner with some wonderful groups to offer writing workshops (more on that soon!).

But like most authors, our coffers often come up closer to empty than full. As readership at 49 Writers has grown beyond our best expectations, it's tempting to click the easy little Google button that would clutter our space with middleman-heavy ads, but we're resisting that too, for the moment. Instead, we're offering ad space directly to our readers that, at $10 per month (with no continued commitment), won't make us rich, but it feels like a nice way to help others get the word out while tipping our bank balance ever so slightly. We'll post your book cover or other appropriate photo linked to the URL of your choice, with a title and a caption, along with our books and those of our monthly featured authors in our sidebar. So talk to your publisher or run your own numbers: you don't have to sell many books to recoup ten bucks a month. Email me at debv@gci.net to get started.

We've got a manuscript critiquing service in the works for next year, too - more on in the next couple of weeks.

While we're on the topic of labors of love (and smart online exposure!) heartfelt thanks go to all of this year's 49 Writers featured authors, along with all who answered our call for 2010. The response overwhelmed us, leaving us wishing we could squeeze more months in a year. The result: we've got a stellar line-up for 2010, and equally fine folks on tap, with priority consideration, for 2011. Starting with 2010, we look forward to hearing from:

Joan Kane (January)
Mary Katzke (February)
Barry Zellen (March)
Kim Rich (April)
Heather Lende (May)
Charles Wohlforth (June)
Rich Chiappone (July)
Cinthia Ritchie (August)
Peggy Shumaker (September)
Don Reardon (October)
Tricia Brown (November)
Tom Sexton (December)

Also in 2010: United States Artists (see our post on Perry Eaton's big award earlier this week) has released details of upcoming artist residencies supported through the Alaska AIR (Artist in Residency) program. With a $1 million investment from Rasmuson Foundation, artists who have already received a fellowship from USA can apply to participate in the program, which partners them with an Alaska arts organization for 30 days of learning, creating, collaborating and sharing. January will bring residencies with Susan Power (The Island Institute), who turned to writing fiction after reading the works of Native American writer Louise Erdrich. Power is a member of the Standing Rock Sioux, and her stories are informed by her Native heritage. In February, Lê thi diem thúy, (also of The Island Institute)will visit; she is a poet and solo performance artist who left her native Vietnam by boat in 1978 with her family and who writes about the experiences of Vietnamese refugees living in the United States, in her words, the “floating casualties of history.”

Finally, kudos to Alaskan author Stan Jones, with thanks to the Alaska Professional Communicators for bringing the news to our attention: Jones received favorable write-ups recently in both People magazine and Entertainment Weekly. As reported on the APC website, a review in the December 7 issue of People gave Jones’ book Village of the Ghost Bears 3 out of 4 stars, calling it “the fourth book of this enchanting series set in Alaska,” adding that Jones has “created a richly populated universe you’ll be sorry to leave.” Entertainment Weekly reviewer Tina Jordon gave Village of the Ghost Bears an A- in her November 24 review, saying “Jones delivers a finely laddered plot…but the real fun, as always, lies in the dozens of mini-lessons he gives on hardscrabble Alaskan life.”

January online book club: poetry!

In response to some reader requests, we are doing something a little different with our next online book club: we are reading Alaska poetry

In line with our ongoing aim to introduce Alaska writers to our readership, we have asked local poet Sandra Kleven to be moderator (with Andromeda assisting -- and plenty of you, we hope, jumping in with comments). The tentative date is January 7; time and specifics of poems to be covered will be announced soon. We'll try to post some of the poems directly here so that anyone dropping in will be able to participate easily. We'll also hear more about Kleven's own activities, including her current work on a short film. Stay tuned.

And a poetry P.S.: Did any of you attend the Alaska Writers Guild Poetry Slam last night? If so, send a short report and/or photos to lax@alaska.net.

Alaska's New USA Fellow: A Guest Post by Perry Eaton

Diverging a bit from our focus on writers, we celebrate a huge honor bestowed last night on Alaskan mask-maker Perry Eaton, who draws from his Alutiiq heritage to carve tradition-based Sugpiaq Alutiiq masks. In a live-streamed ceremony last night, United States Artists (USA) honored Eaton as one of 50 USA Fellows in eight creative disciplines — spanning the visual, performing, and literary arts — with each receiving an unrestricted grant of $50,000.

Fewer than 150 original Alutiiq masks still exist. Once deemed heretical by Russian and American colonizers, these masks are now in collections all over the world. During the 1990s, Eaton and a few others began traveling to study the masks and revive this forgotten tradition. Besides making his own carvings, Eaton, who studied art at Gray Harbor Community College, is a dedicated teacher at youth camps and cultural organizations. He was the founding President of the Alaska Native Heritage Center and is still a member of the board.

To become a USA Fellow, one must be nominated. Each year nominations are made by a different anonymous group of arts leaders, critics, scholars, and artists chosen by USA. Nominators do not know one another; their identities remain confidential.
Nominators are asked to submit names of artists they believe show an extraordinary commitment to their craft. Artists at any stage of career development may be nominated. Artists must demonstrate expert artistic skills, artistic education or training (formal or informal), a history of deriving income from those skills, and a history of active engagement in creating artwork and presenting it to the public. Discipline-specific peer panels composed of leading artists and art experts meet to select the program finalists. The USA Board of Directors approves the final recommendations. Just back from Europe and in California for the USA Fellows award ceremony, Eaton graciously agreed to a timely guest post for 49 Writers.



Alutiiq masks have been the primary expression for my artist endeavors since 2000. In my travels in Russia in the late eighties I visited museums that housed masks from Kodiak. But it was only after Helen Simeonoff showed me pictures she had taken in the Chateau-Musee in Boulogne sur Mer, France, that I became artistically fixated on the art form. It wasn't as if I was going to renew the art form or start a movement or something like that - I just loved the masks. Artists like Jacob Simeonoff had already paved the way. He was doing beautiful work several years before I ever made my first mask.

Alutiiq culture has really undergone a resurgence in the last decade. It seems like everyone is contributing to the activity. Dance groups got all of us thinking and Koniag, the Kodiak area native association, the Alutiiq Museum, and all the tribal and village corporations as well as public institutions like the school district in Kodiak, have all contributed to the creation of a current awareness of Alutiiq culture.

I believe the Alutiiq experience is indicative of the renewal of Alaska Native culture in general. Actually it's not really a renewal at all, but a re-valuation of something that had not been held of value by the dominant society. Cultural diversity is now being discussed with more of an open mind than ever before in the American experience. Alaska Natives, in part due to the success of our corporations and a greater participation level in the non-native world, are being more accepted. We bring our culture with us to the table, and more people come to understand the beauty that is within our people.

Now before someone grabs the Polly-Anna stick to beat me a few good licks up the side of my head, let's just say we have come a terrifically long way in a very short amount of time. And celebrating our culture is one of the great ways we can take pride in our achievements and insure a future for our children. The entire Alaska Native community has been a lifelong inspiration for me. I can't imagine anything other than what I am doing now being more fulfilling in life.

As I learn more about the USA fellows program I hope to inspire others in Alaska to apply and be recognized. It's so new to me my head is still swimming!

Musings on Passion and Paying Attention: A Guest Post by Bill Sherwonit

I recently gave a craft talk of sorts at UAA, titled “Notes from a Literary Journalist: The Importance of Passion, Persistence, and Paying Attention.” I’d like to pull a few thoughts from that talk to give a sense of my own process in crafting stories and then sharing them with the world – or at least a tiny slice of the world. Of the many elements involved in writing, the “three Ps” have proved especially essential to me, or so it seems now that I’ve been doing this for a while. In this blog entry I’ll focus on passion and paying attention, leaving persistence for another time and entry since it, in my experience, becomes most important when the writer begins the quest of seeking a (publishing) home for his or her stories.

Perhaps because I bring a nature writer’s – and amateur naturalist’s – perspective to the craft and art of writing, for me the entire process begins with paying attention.

Especially when writing personal essays and now a book-length first-person narrative, much of what I’m sharing with the reader is my experience in and of the world. Such stories demand that I be alert to what’s happening both outside me and within. (Even when I’m in more of a journalist mode, I must pay careful attention to the event, person, experience, etc. that I’m reporting on.) Perhaps this seems obvious, but I think I had to learn – or re-learn – what it means to have a focused, deeper awareness while working my way along the writing path. I also think people naturally have that deep, fully present awareness when new to the world (as evidenced by the intense, wide-eyed gaze of an infant) but then most, if not all, of us gradually lose it as we become acculturated. That seems to be part of the human experience, especially in our modern, western, high-tech culture; as adolescents and adults, we spend so much of our time being distracted as we hurry about, make plans, worry, multi-task, go from one electronic device to another, etc., etc.

As briefly touched upon in my earlier posting, one of writing’s great gifts to me is that it helps me – or perhaps better put, requires me – to really pay attention, to be in the present moment. Even now, it’s something I generally do only in comparatively short bursts, most easily when immersed in wild nature. Inevitably my busy mind eventually “wanders” to past or future matters. (Paying attention in my human relationships remains much more challenging; more than one partner across the years has complained about my “selective” attention. But I’m gradually getting better with people, too.)

I reap the benefits not only in my writing, but, more importantly, in how I live. As much as I love writing and sharing stories with an audience, what’s most important is to experience life. Put another way, my most memorable moments are not those I spend in front of my computer, composing a story; rather they are the moments in which I experience wonder, delight, fear, anger, love, or any other powerful emotion (and associated thoughts), while in the company of people, animals, landscapes, or whatever.

And yet, paradoxically, the writing of a story – or the reading of journal notes while working on a story – allow me to vividly revisit and relive extraordinary times in my life. While working on Changing Paths, for example, I was transported back to the Central Brooks Range. In a quite visceral way, I relived my solo trek and encounters with wolf and grizzly and Mount Doonerak; I re-experienced my step-by-step trepidation while crossing large, braided rivers, my battles with mosquitoes, simple dinners of pasta and coffee and chocolate, pounding rainstorms, and conversations with Anaktuvuk Pass’s Nunamiut people. I’m sure many of those experiences wouldn’t have remained so vibrantly clear inside my psyche, my being, if I hadn’t so closely paid attention to my trials and revelations – and recorded them, in great detail, in my journal – because I knew I would later write about them.

I love the phrase that Stephen Trimble uses in his anthology, Words from the Land: Encounters with Natural History Writing, to describe the kind of paying attention that I’m discussing: “the naturalist’s trance.” (Elsewhere he attributes the phrase to acclaimed scientist/author E.O. Wilson.) I should mention here that I highly recommend Trimble’s book, even more for his introduction than the stories he’s compiled, written by a variety of top-notch writers. Trimble explores the elements of natural history writing – simply another term for nature writing – through the practices, techniques, and ideas of such accomplished writers as Barry Lopez, John McPhee, David Quammen, Gretel Ehrlich, John Hay, Ann Zwinger, Gary Nabhan, and Edward Abbey. It’s great stuff for anyone interested in such writing, or even writing generally.

As suggested above, the writer’s practice of paying attention should ideally be accompanied by the act of recording experiences, observations, streams of thought, etc. in a notebook or journal. All of this reminds me of the handout that I give to my nature-writing students and from which I’ll borrow here, with a few changes. I created the handout for a class that emphasized writing about place (“from your backyard to remote wilderness”), but much of it is applicable when writing about other relationships, whether with people, wildlife, plants, bugs, pets, you name it. I should also mention that these are “instructions” that I’ve learned to subconsciously give myself whenever something – or some being – has caught my attention and I’m pretty darn sure there’s a story waiting to be told.

No. 1: Get out there, wherever “there” is. Leave day-to-day routines behind. Do something different, even if it’s in your backyard. (Even the house can be a starting place, however, as I’ve learned from my middle-aged passion for birds and bird feeding.) And don’t be rushed. Take the time to settle into place.

Intention: Make a commitment to record your experience on paper. Perhaps because I came to writing as a journalist, I consider note taking essential. I won’t – I can’t – rely on memory. [I will add here that in recent years I have in fact come to depend on that trickster, memory, while exploring and writing about my boyhood years in Connecticut. Memory and memoir really are tricky things and worth a posting in themselves whether by me or some other writer down the line. But that’s writing about the past. In the present, I greatly depend on notes.]

Bring along the necessary gear: notebook and pencil [or pen], all your senses, an attention to detail and an open mind. It also helps immensely to allow yourself a sense of wonder and delight in the world. And humility. Be open to the unexpected; allow the possibility of surprise.

Often it helps to spend some time tuning into the surroundings. If possible, slow down. Allow yourself the experience. Stop thinking and start feeling. Open up to the world, using all your senses. Start paying attention.

At some point you might ask yourself: what’s going on around me? Inside me? What responses, feelings, thoughts are my experience/outside stimuli producing? Notice any memories, dreams, or other connections that are stirred. Of course once you’ve begun to do any such “inventory,” you’ve pulled yourself out of the experience. As Trimble puts it, “Each experience begins as raw sensation. But as soon as writers attend to it, sensation becomes perception and starts to move out of the present and into the past. The naturalists begin to ponder, analyze, and make choices.” So even in this stage, choices are being made, by the simple fact of where you put your attention.

In some circumstances, then, this curious, paradoxical thing begins to happen. There is, in a way, a moving in and out of experience. From experiencing to perceiving to choosing and back into experiencing. The experience, of course, is primary.

I can’t emphasize this last point enough. It can be a big mistake to pull yourself out of an experience too soon in order to begin recording or even “pondering” it, because you risk missing or diminishing the power of what’s happening. While hiking in the Chugach Mountains this past summer, I encountered a wolverine, an animal I’ve longed to meet for years. Though I had my journal with me, I wasn’t at all tempted to begin taking notes until after the wolverine had departed. Yet somewhere inside I instinctively instructed myself to pay close attention to the details of the animal and our interaction, knowing that I would write about the encounter. Immediately after the wolverine loped off, I rushed to my journal and begin writing furiously.

I could go on and on (and I do in my “Writing about Place” handout), but you get the idea.

* * *

Equally as important as paying attention is passion. In fact (despite what I wrote to begin this blog) I’m not entirely sure which comes first; each probably feeds the other. In any case, I have a working theory – or maybe it’s simply a belief – about passion that guides my own work. Simply put, I believe that the best writing – at least in the creative nonfiction genre – is done by people who are passionate about the ideas, relationships, issues, places, etc. that they explore in their stories. This makes intuitive sense to me. Could it be any other way? Yet many beginning writers – at least many of those people who have taken my classes and are new to creative writing – don’t seem to understand it.

Over the years, a surprising number of students have struggled for ideas, for stories to share. That amazes me, because I see stories everywhere. So what I tell them is write about the stuff that matters, the things in life that stir delight or rage or grief. I see the fruits of this approach most clearly in the “free writes” or stream-of-consciousness exercises that we do in class. I am consistently impressed with the quality of writing that results when writers, including those new to the process, focus on what’s important to them, whether family or critters or wildlands or cultural and political issues.

I think too about the writers who’ve touched me deeply, writers to whom I turn again and again for inspiration and insight and because their ideas resonate – or, conversely, because they have somehow encouraged me to rethink my own understandings and ways of seeing. It’s not something I can prove, but I feel the passion in their stories. And I’m sure that at some level, their passions have touched and fed my own, whether they are nature writers, theologians, philosophers, scientists, journalists, psychologists, historians, novelists, or poets. The forms, styles and subjects of these writers are remarkably varied, but all bring a kind of fervor to their work.

As a newspaper journalist, I sometimes had to write about events, people, or issues in which I had little or no personal interest. There was, I admit, considerable merit to that. If nothing else, it taught me discipline and sometimes opened me to possibilities I never would have encountered on my own. And since becoming a freelancer, I have certainly taken on writing/editing projects that didn’t particularly excite me, simply to help pay the bills. But passion has always fed my creative writing. Because so much of nature writing is deeply personal, it’s the perfect avenue for writing about the things that really matter.

49 Writers Weekly Round-Up

We're engaged in a flurry of year-end planning here at 49 Writers. We've enjoyed a great response to our call for featured authors for 2010; December 15 is the deadline for tossing your name in that hat. Watch for our new book advertising guidelines to be posted soon, along with news about possible workshops and manuscript critiques.

In the meantime, let's not forget the joys of the current season. Former Alaska Poet Laureate Tom Sexton's poem "Snow," published in the winter issue of The Hudson Review, will also be part of the Review's holiday greeting.

Eric Heyne brings to our attention a call for submissions for an upcoming conference, The Fictional North, to be held at The Pas Campus in The Pas, Manitoba, March 30-April 1, 2010.

From the invitation: "Iconic images of the North, the relationship of North to South, and ethnographic models of “Northernness” often promote political and cultural paradigms from elsewhere. At best they reveal little about the North or Northerners; at worst they may be downright misleading. Ironically, Western culture has enshrined North as that direction in relation to which all others are defined, yet its topography eludes definition. North is not one but a number of Netherlands; and like all frontiers, the North is in its essence imaginative, its being magicked out of ice and snow, muskeg and tundra. Storytelling is its generative principle, the activity through which the North, and Northerners, call themselves into being."

Well said! The Fifth Annual University College of the North (UCN) Conference invites abstracts, papers or stories on any aspect of the following topics: Tall Tales and the North; The Lure of Gold in the North; Northern Storytelling; Fictions about the Aboriginal North; Ice and Snow; Animals and the North; The Ethnographic North; Northern Histories; Northern Stereotypes / Northern Icons; (Hi)stories and Travelogues of Northern Exploration; Northern Myths and Legends; Hollywood’s North; Mysticism and the North; Northern Tragedies; The North and Comedy; The Supernatural North; Northern Documentaries.

It is anticipated that selected papers will be published as a compilation of conference proceedings. Proposals for both individual and panel presentations are welcome. Abstracts of 250 words (with accompanying biographical information of no more than one page) should be submitted by mail, fax or email by January 15, 2010 to:
Sandra Barber, University College of the North, fax: (204) 677-6736, sbarber@ucn.ca.

Fairbanks author David Marusek sends this link to a Publishers Weekly article introducing author Cory Doctorow's comprehensive and well-documented experiment in self-publishing as well as a link to Doctorow's December update on his project. I hope Santa can stuff half this guy's marketing energy in my stocking this year.

On the sad subject of the November 13 filing of bankruptcy by Graphic Arts Center Publishing Company, author Ann Chandonnet reports some difficulty finding the price to buy back rights to her manuscript. In consideration of others who may be in the same boat, here’s what she has learned:

The case number is 09-39457-TMB7, filed with Portland Bankruptcy Court: 503 326-1500.

The hearing is now scheduled for December 21.

The counsel for GACP is Jeannette Thomas of Portland. JThomas@perkinscoie.com, or 503 727-2075. That office will mail to authors documents needed to file a claim.

On a happier note, Ann also reports that www.imaginingheaven.com is looking for poems, and artist Rebecca Poulson of Sitka has released her 2010 Outer Coast Calendar, centered on the theme of art. The calendar includes poetry: the January poem is by Ann Chandonnet; February’s poem, “Village Boy,” is by Tlingit artist Robert Davis Hoffman (Hoffman’s poem was originally published in the Alaska Quarterly Review); November’s poem is “My Best Work” by John Straley from his collection The Rising and the Rain (University of Alaska Press). Calendars can be ordered from rebecca_poulton@hotmail.com.

For the third year in a row, Amazon and Penguin have teamed up for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, an international writing competition that offers new writers a chance at publication. Earlier this week, it was announced that there would be two prizes for this year’s competition, one of which will be for the best young adult novel. Also new this year: the competition is open to novels that have been previously self-published.

Up to 10,000 manuscripts will be accepted for the contest, which will then be narrowed down—in turn by Amazon editors/top reviewers, Publishers Weekly reviewers, and Penguin editors—before arriving at three finalists in each category. On the young adult side, the panel critiquing the finalists consists of authors Sarah Dessen and Nancy Werlin; Amy Berkower, president of Writers House; and Ben Schrank, president and publisher of Penguin’s Razorbill imprint. Amazon customers will then vote on a grand prize winner in each category, with winners receiving a $15,000 publishing contract with Penguin.

Our condolences to the family and friends of Fairbanks author Marjorie Kowalski Cole, who died of cancer last Friday morning at Fairbanks Memorial Hospital. As Dermot Cole notes in a tribute published in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner, "Marjorie wrote two novels and her poems and essays appeared in many prestigious publications. For her novel, Correcting the Landscape, she received the $25,000 Bellwether Award in 2004 from Barbara Kingsolver. No other novel set in Fairbanks has ever received the critical acclaim that her book did."

Previously married to Terrence Cole, she is survived by her husband Pat Lambert and two sons, Henry and Desmond, as well as sisters Karen, Marie and Louise, and her brother Paul. Services were held Tuesday at St. Raphael’s Catholic Church in Fairbanks.

I'm usually wrong, thank goodness: Here's to Deb!

I was going to leave today blogpost-free, all the more to encourage you to read yesterday's post about whether we need a writing center. (Please read, please comment; please?)

But I've had this thought I just need to share this week about my co-blogger, Deb Vanasse. You may know that I'd never met Deb before we merged our blogs just about one year and over 100,000 web hits ago, and in that time, I have been astonished by all she accomplishes. She is an organized dynamo. She is also a basically happy and optimistic person, according to her post on Monday, which is a nice balance for my own self-critical, sometimes moody (especially in December) self.

Deb's inherent optimism might explain why she charges ahead where I tend to tread carefully. For example, about a year ago, she suggested we find featured monthly authors to blog for us. I thought we wouldn't get many sign-ups or consistent follow-through. She was right; I was wrong. A year later, I can say that having new guest-posters every month here at 49w has been one of the main things that has kept me going and allowed me to keep co-running the blog without burning out. I love meeting other Alaska writers through their posts here.

Last month, Deb told me it was time to find another dozen authors for 2010. I thought we'd already tapped out and/or tired our contributors. She was right; I was wrong. We have a fantastic list of writers who will be writing for us in 2010. I can't wait!

Deb has many more ideas for 49 writers in the year ahead, and I don't want to steal all her thunder by announcing news too soon. For now, I think it's enough to say that Deb is usually right. We plan to keep growing, keep improving, keep reaching out. If it works, I'll have a lot of people to thank: her, and all of you who read, write, comment, or pat us on the back in other ways. Full steam ahead!

Your Turn: Do We Need a Writing Center?

Several of us in the Alaska writing community have been having this conversation over the years, and tomorrow, I'll be meeting with a few folks to discuss it in greater depth (more on that soon). So I thought I'd ask you: Do we need a writing center in Anchorage? Have you had any experiences with writing centers in other cities -- for example, 826 Valencia in San Francisco *(founded in 2002 by Dave Eggers and Ninive Calegari) or Boston's Grub Street (founded in 1997 by Eve Bridburg)?


And what is a writing center, anyway? Here's how Grub Street explains what they do:

Grub Street is a non-profit creative writing center dedicated to nurturing writers and connecting readers with the wealth of writing talent in the Boston area.

Our mission is to support creative writers at all stages of their development so that they can achieve their goals of publication, social and professional networking, gainful employment in the field, and/or personal enrichment.

We accomplish this by providing university-level instruction via multi-week courses, seminars and conferences; bringing the transformative power of creative writing to underserved populations – specifically teens and seniors – via innovative programs and community events; financially supporting and offering unique professional development opportunities to creative writing instructors, seminar leaders and administrative staff; elevating the literary profile of the city of Boston to increase its relevance among major publishing houses and prominent authors in all genres; and maintaining a vibrant, inspiring and accessible space where writers can find professional resources and connect with each other in a spirit of mutual support.

Grub Street builds on Boston's proud literary tradition by making the city more welcoming for writers, and more inspiring and culturally alive for all of us.

What could this mean for Anchorage? I think it could mean: a regular place for workshops that don't cost the university rate of $400-600. A place where top visiting writers could come and visit with us, now that we don't have the Writing Rendezvous. A drop-in center with fun writing classes for underserved young people; or a place from which to organize programs that we send out to prisons and other places that might benefit from the occasional workshop.

We already have some great organizations and programs, from Alaska Sisters in Crime, to the Writers Guild, to 49 writers -- and there are many more, with no shortage of talent and energy out there. But do we need a nonprofit that ties some of these services and populations together (hopefully, in a physical building)?

Share your ideas, connections, doubts, and opinions here, friends.


*P.S. The other cities that have 826 Valencia chapters are: Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, Brooklyn, Ann Arbor, Boston, and most recently, DC.

Taking the Long and Winding Path to a Writing Life: A Guest Post by Bill Sherwonit

When talking about the writing life, I like to tell a story from my geology days, about a boss who absolutely loved the work we did. As I recount in Changing Paths, “Inwardly I cringed when a crew leader named Joe talked about our work. ‘You know,’ he said with gusto, ‘geology isn’t just a job to me. It’s my hobby, too.’ For me it was more chore than challenge. I think of Will Rogers’ joke about golf: a nice walk ruined. That’s pretty much how I felt about stream sediment sampling and pounding on rocks while hiking through one of North America’s wildest landscapes (the Central Brooks Range).”

Nowadays I smile when recalling Joe’s words and my wincing response to them, because I better understand his perspective. He and my other geology buddies would eventually become role models of a sort. Only four years after earning an MS at the University of Arizona, I decided to seek a new career, one that I could love as much as they loved geology. (Passion for the work – or rather my lack of it – was only one of several factors that prompted the change, but it was a crucial one.)

Here I’ll again borrow from Changing Paths, which in part chronicles my evolution from geologist to journalist and eventually nature writer and wilderness advocate:

“What that (career) would be, I had no idea. Many friends and family members thought I must be nuts, to throw away all the years of hard work, the MS in geology, and the opportunity to work in a profession where I’d already had some notable success. But the void beckoned. I had to make the leap into the unknown, because the real craziness lay in doing work I’d found to be either boring or destructive to what I loved. . . .

“A serious amateur photographer for several years, I decided to return to school and see how photojournalism suited me. Without much savings, I focused on local junior colleges, which seemed ideal for experiments like mine. As a California resident (where I’d settled in the late seventies) I could take a full load of courses for under $20. Among the schools that taught photojournalism, one immediately caught me eye (for reasons I explain in the book): Pierce College.

“I wouldn’t learn until later that Pierce’s journalism department was nationally acclaimed. Nor could I know that its staff would quickly recognize some raw talent in this serious new student – in writing and reporting, more than photography – and shepherd me toward a new and then unimaginable life. My three-semester apprenticeship at Pierce led to a real newspaper job at the tiny Simi Valley Enterprise and my entry into the life of a professional journalist. But more than that, it led me to something that soon became a passion: writing. All that remained was one final link to a lifelong love, wild nature.

“Much like the circumstances leading from grad school to Alaska, this turn of events initially seemed to be a string of coincidences or lucky breaks. But with a quarter-century of hindsight, I now hear the words of Joseph Campbell, who in talking with Bill Moyers during The Power of Myth series referred to the ideas of nineteenth-century German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer: ‘When you reach a certain age and look back over your life, it seems to have had an order; it seems to have been composed by someone. And those events, that when they occurred seemed merely accidental and occasional and just something that happened, turn out to be the main elements in a consistent plot. . . . ‘ ”

Ah, life as a plot. Now there’s something that should resonate with creative writers. I won’t continue with Schopenhauer’s ideas here, but the notion that accidents or coincidences or lucky (or unlucky) breaks might in fact be more than they seem resonates with me. So does Campbell’s famous counsel to “follow your bliss.” I don’t have his exact words at hand, but essentially he says that to follow one’s true passion, a person must heed “the call” – and act upon it. To do so often requires a leap of faith. Such a leap may appear intimidating, even dangerous. But the potential rewards are great.

In taking the leap, a person may discover a path that has been there all along, though unrecognized. And once on that path, all sorts of miraculous things seem to happen, as doors open and new possibilities emerge. It sometimes also seems that “invisible hands” are there to guide a person along the way.

It’s hard to write or talk about such a thing without seeming a little “woo woo,” a bit weird in a new-agey sort of way. Indeed, it seems a strange thing to me. And yet it somehow makes sense. Or at least I see it in my own life. It’s as if a path were always there, waiting for me. Maybe I actually walked (or crawled) upon it in my earliest days, but then got sidetracked by other forces, other influences. But in “leaping” from geology to journalism/writing, I found – or rediscovered – a path I was meant to take. (Though I’m not sure it’s the only path I might have followed and still found my passion.)

The ideas of being called and finding one’s own path are linked to the notion that our lives have meaning, a purpose. Whether or not that’s true, I think that most of us humans believe in the notion of purpose and we look for meaning in our lives. Or we at least want to live in a meaningful way. We want to leave a positive legacy of some kind.

It makes sense to me that my life’s purpose somehow would be closely tied to the larger, wilder world of nature. It’s always been a refuge, a home, a place of solace, inspiration, wonder and hope. (It is also sometimes intimidating and frightening.) The writing part is harder to explain. I don’t remember being a voracious reader or passionate writer when young. As a member of a deeply religious Lutheran family, mostly what I read – or had read to me – were the Bible and “Bible stories.” I sometimes feel envious when people talk about their favorite early books. None come to mind for me. Could I have blanked them out?

In grade school my favorite class was spelling. And I was pretty good at penmanship (when older I’d be praised for my handwriting). I suppose those might have been early hints of the importance that words and writing would later have for me. But in high school and college, I was a “math and science guy.” I didn’t particularly like English or history or more generally “the arts.” I remember reading classic novels in high school, for instance The Scarlet Letter, Ivanhoe, and A Tale of Two Cities. But they didn’t particularly inspire or excite me, though I do vaguely remember enjoying Ivanhoe. I was more into books about baseball, stories about fishing.

Sometime in college I became interested in Ernest Hemingway and eventually read several of his novels, but I’m not sure I can call him an important influence. I also began keeping a journal, off and on. In those journals I recorded my thoughts and experiences, reflected upon puzzling aspects of my life, tried to better understand my life. But they were very private, nothing to share.

Even after writing became my livelihood, I paid little attention to literature for years, either as writer or reader. My earliest creative efforts were the newspaper columns I wrote about sports and “the outdoors,” which sometimes took the essay form. But I didn’t begin to more seriously explore essay writing or longer narrative nonfiction until I’d embraced the life of a freelance writer, after The Anchorage Times lost its newspaper war with the Daily News. Becoming a freelancer, too, was something of a leap of faith, and something I’ve never regretted, despite the inevitable ebbs and flows – and rejections by all manner of publications.

What still amazes me is that I had no awareness that there was a literary genre called “nature writing” until I’d reached my late thirties, maybe even early forties. Though I’d read – and loved – Barry Lopez’s Of Wolves and Men and Arctic Dreams, I knew little or nothing about Henry David Thoreau, John Muir, John Burroughs, Aldo Leopold, Rachel Carson, Ed Abbey, Gary Snyder, Wendell Berry, John Haines, Richard Nelson, Terry Tempest Williams, Robert Michael Pyle, Scott Russell Sanders – the list goes on and on. Many, if not most, of the above would hesitate to call themselves nature writers, but they have contributed greatly to the body of work that is called “nature writing.” And all have joined my personal library, inspired and fed my own writing efforts, since they made their way into my life.

As I’ve reflected in an essay, “Anchorage’s Wild Coastal Fringes,”

“There are strong links between my middle-aged ‘discoveries’ of songbirds and Anchorage’s coastal refuge and several other things that have become important to me – and to my understanding of the world – over the past decade or so (now closer to 15 years). Two examples are nature writing and a yearly Alaskan event called the Sitka Symposium (which recently ended after a run of 25 years) . . .

“Looking back, it seems I had a dim awareness of all those things – songbirds, coastal refuge, nature writing, symposium, and more – for years, as they moved in and out of my life. Yet I didn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, sense their power, their ability to expand, deepen, enrich, even transform a life, until some triggering event opened my eyes, my capacity to understand. The trigger itself might be perfectly ordinary. . . . But each somehow lifted a veil, opened a door, revealed a previously hidden path. And suddenly my world opened up. I learned a new way of experiencing the world that I had never before imagined. Of course such opening up isn’t limited to middle age; it can and does happen throughout our lives, if we’re lucky. Or paying attention.

“I think about all these things in my own life, because I want to know more about the ways we humans broaden our perspectives, the circumstances through which we willingly change or reshape our core beliefs and behaviors, the triggers that open us to new possibilities.”

Among writing’s greatest gifts to me is that it helps me pay greater attention to what’s happening around and within me. It is also one of the primary ways that I explore life’s mysteries, reflect upon my place in the world, and better understand wild nature, human nature, my nature. Yes, I’ve been fortunate enough to earn a living as a writer. But like Joe’s relationship with geology, writing has long been more than a job or career to me and something closer to a way of life, a way of being in the world. Writing is also a reminder to remain open to possibilities – and the way that a life can blossom when a person pays attention to his intuition, his heart.