Lydia Pyne

***

“I have a good life but I must write because if I do not write a certain amount I do not enjoy the rest of my life.”

“And what do you want?”

“To write as well as I can and learn as I go along.”

–Ernest Hemingway, Green Hills of Africa

***

A couple of years ago, my husband and I lived in Philadelphia. He was a newly minted particle physics researcher for the University of Pennsylvania and I was slated to teach history of science and writing at Drexel University. The summer before our jobs started, we packed up our Nissan pickup in northern New Mexico and pointed ourselves eastward.

We experienced, shall we say, a bit of cultural shock. Settling into our faux chateau row house in West Philly, I found it difficult to concentrate on writing. I had a hard time blocking out the constant sounds of the City of Brotherly Tough Love. The clang of the trolley bell. The screaming negotiations over parking spaces. The neighbor’s dog running laps around the furniture. The honking, the honking.

One afternoon the first week in the city, it was particularly difficult to focus on an essay review for New York Journal of Books. As my attention wandered, I heard a faint pop!, pop!, pop! in the distance. I hurried over to the window of our third-floor apartment and I saw a guy hanging out the front window of a car, firing a handgun at the side of our apartment building. I was appalled.

I managed to jot down the license plate number and within five minutes, a police car arrived on the scene, lights flashing, and a couple of officers began to take witness statements.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one in the neighborhood with a sense of civic duty. By the time I made down to the street level, the officers were interviewing a dozen or so people milling around the corner. Amazingly, all of these folks seemed to know each other – conversation hummed. One of the officers turned to me, ready to take down my statement.

“Name?” he asked.

“Lydia Pyne.”

He wrote it down in the first box on the form. His biceps bulged. A tribal tattoo peeked out of his uniform sleeve. He exuded Tough Guy.

“Occupation?”

“I’m a writer,” I replied.

His pen paused mid-stroke. Standing at a modest five-foot-four, this guy towered over me. He dipped his head down to peer over his aviator shades. “Occupation?” he asked again.

“I’m a writer,” I repeated.

The cop turned and surveyed the crowd milling around us. I felt conspicuously overdressed in my slouchy sweatshirt and ratty yoga pants. The scene was an impromptu pajama salon straight out of Rent’s central casting, right there on west 48th Street. One bearded guy, in a tattered blue bathrobe, was describing a self-help book he was working on. A woman in a tres chic flannel set was chatting to another woman in bunny slippers about switching agents to one in New York. Another couple debated the merits of writing technical reviews. The shooting was merely an excuse for everyone to come outside and talk about writing – a teeming milieu of writers in an odd bit of street performance art.

The officer turned back to me. “You’re all writers,” he grunted, gesturing to Bunny Slippers and Company. He wrote “Unemployed” in box for my statement and strode off to interview the next bathrobed bohemian.

I was livid. I wanted grab the guy by the lapels, and scream, “Unemployed!?!? I’m not unemployed! I’m a WRITER! I’m an essayist! I’ve even published a book for god’s sakes!”

I turned to the guy next to me, ready to vent my irritation. He ran his hand through his uncombed hair and started talking about a travel memoir he was working on – his trip across the United States by historic railway.

I realized that I had gotten something so much better than career affirmation and my righteous indignation in that first week in Philly. As I had told Officer Krumke, I am a writer. And thanks to the Philadelphia Police Department, I had gotten a story.

 

Lydia Pyne is a writer and historian based in Austin, TX. Her interests in literary nonfiction focus on history of science; her research and writing projects have ranged from South Africa, Ethiopia, Uzbekistan, and Iran as well as the American Southwest. She is the co-author of The Last Lost World and a contributing editor for The Appendix. She reviews history, anthropology, and literary nonfiction for NewPages and The New York Journal of Books.  Visit her website at http://pynecone.org, or follow her on Twitter, @LydiaPyne.

Austin Lange

Recently, I found myself living in a college dorm again. In a bunk bed.

For a week in June, I served as the conference and workshop leader for the Young Writer’s Conference for the Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Richmond, VA.

I realized that going into this,
1) I’d be living in a dorm for a week with my students and also serving as a RA (Resident Assistant); and I was reminded of how much I felt my RA in undergraduate school gave me that look on the elevator in the mornings when I knew she could sense I was hung over and silently judging me for my new pink striped hair. I was secretly overjoyed to now be the one to enforce that look.
2) These are teenagers! They think they already know everything! Will they have a secret lingo I won’t understand?

From the start, I stuck to my literary game. I had five days of workshops and discussions planned out and I was ready to take these kids on the heavenly train of Poe and other writers that I felt were godly. After meeting with a well-known editor from a Virginia based literary journal on the first day of workshop, the students sat motionless, adjusting their bandanas and reapplying their lip glosses. There I was waving my arms around with questions about the in and outs of a journal I admired while my students sat hungrily eyeing their iPhones for Instagram likes.

After the first workshop plenary, I reminded myself that I had a room full of fifteen writers who wanted to be there. I knew then that boredom wasn’t really the reason the questions weren’t coming during the first Q&A. I told each to look around the room at one another and reminded each of the unique opportunity that they were a part of for five short days. “This is our community,” I said. “We’re all here because we’re writers.” “This is your week to be with a community of people just as strange as you are. Embrace it!” After some of their jitters started to peel away, I begin to notice them loosening up, speaking to one another and finding their own commonalities amongst one another.

Sure, there were challenges during the week that I hadn’t prepared myself for:

• Some teens will share accessories (“You look totally epic in my flower crown, I’ll wear your neon aviators.”) and they change clothes constantly, (“Austin, I need to go back up to the dorm to change clothes, these shoes are just not right.”)
• They will make Snap Chat videos for everything.
• Teens will argue to walk two blocks to Chipotle instead of using their dining hall pass for a FREE meal. (“But, there’s a fro-yo station in the dining hall with rainbow sprinkles!” I would shout.)
• They struggle to set down their phones. “Okay, guys workshop is starting, please put your phones away.” “No, I mean, phone away and off the table. 2 hours from your iPhone is doable, promise.”
• They will ask you to play a game that you love and you’ll have say No because you’re the adult.
“Austin, you have to play Cards Against Humanity with us!”
“Um, I think I’ll just watch from this comfy chair and smirk.” (For the record, I am really good at this game and I love vulgarity.)

On the last night of the conference, the museum hosted a public reading for the student in their garden. Through the nervous jitters of crumbling their pages between sweaty palms, I noticed right away that I had fifteen writers and fifteen very different voices. As they read, I listened and found their progress from hearing my critiques of their work and their efforts to etch in those changes and new observations from their peers.

Some held paper pages and gripped the podium, while others balanced laptops or iPads and bundled their nerves and energy together to read to the few visitors and their peer community (Mind you, I sat in the back, wiping tears).

In my farewell to them, I realized I didn’t have to remind them of keeping base in the artistic community they had started there in Richmond or to use one another for new writing ventures, because it was already happening. The need to belong to their writing group had already dug itself in and given each the feverish desire to continue to support one another. They had demonstrated to me their own need to know more about writing and discovering new writers to read too (I especially loved that when I gave new writer recommendations, the students would iPad or smartphone “bookmark” them for their next trip to a bookstore.)

The point in writing this all down isn’t to come off as a sentimental blob, but to admit to myself, that in the end my students came together in a more significant way than just as writing workshop buddies or new Facebook friends, but as young writers looking to branch out together. It seems they adjusted better than my adult self at jumping into a literary circle, at forming relationships and creating a solid foundation for a start to a supportive literary community of their own. Since the end of the week with them, I’ve had time to process it a little more and realize the admiration I have for them and the motivation it’s given me to write a little bit more too.

My students and I made the news, check it out here: http://ideastations.org/radio/news/teens-pursue-literary-passions-edgar-allan-poe-young-writers-conference.

If you need Richmond, VA recommendations for your next road trip, I recommend:
Poe’s Pub, 2706 E Main St
University of Virginia Library/Special Collections
The Poe Museum, 1914 E Main Street
Penny Lane Pub, 421 E Franklin Street
Chop Suey Bookstore, 2913 W. Cary Street

 

Austin Lange received her MFA from Converse College and currently works in nonprofit. She has work forthcoming in The South Carolina Review and Nebo. She hopes this year to learn paddleboard yoga, to continue supporting Carolina arts, and to make progress on her novel.

Jacob Allard

I often hear many of my students and colleagues inquire about how they are supposed to tackle a specific problem within their writing. Each person is different in what stumps them: for some it’s characterization, with others it could be world building, and for a few it’s about authority. To each of them I will give an answer specific to their problem, but it doesn’t always click. When it doesn’t seem to help, I give them this one:

READ ESTABLISHED AUTHORS.

This may come as a seemingly obvious answer that won’t help at all, but you’d be surprised at how many people don’t realize how much this can actually help. I found this out the hard way.

I struggled for a long time with figuring out how to make a world different from ours seem real and enthrall my audience in a fictive dream. This troubled me so much that I made it my topic for my 3rd semester critical paper at Converse College during my MFA. In doing so it forced me to read much more critically and look at how the authors were able to do what they did, breaking everything I could down into its basic devices. I didn’t just read, I actually stopped at sections and reread them over and over again to see what it was that made their world seem so seamless. After a while I was able to pinpoint that (for myself) it was about details. But within those details I had to read over and over to see what led to each author’s authority. It took me a while, but I eventually figured out what I was looking for.

Now, I will sheepishly admit that while I loved reading, there were other things that distracted me before writing my critical paper and discovering how to read like a writer. Work, school, and admittedly the TV as well all stopped me from reading and reading closely. Now, I enjoy reading a good book and dissecting it; truly studying it, the way an artist studies the brush strokes on Dali’s canvas. For me, I had to specifically start by setting a clock to read every morning. I’d get up, brew a cup of coffee and read. Much like other writers need to set a clock to ensure that they keep writing or editing, I had to set a clock to read. Eventually I just started choosing the book over other media and have been thoroughly enjoying it. This helped me find the details that helped me solve my mysteries time and time again. Reading a lot is always helpful, but when I’m particularly stuck on a problem in my own writing I follow Newton’s advice in science and apply it to writing: I turn to the giants that came before me and have them help me see what I am doing wrong by what they’re doing right.

So the next time you’re editing your latest manuscript and keep hitting snags, before you give up, ask yourself: “What would my favorite author do?” If you can’t answer the question, start by going back to what hopefully triggered your writing bug: a book.

 

Jacob Allard is the Nonfiction Editor at South 85. He graduated Converse College with his MFA in creative writing in 2014. When he’s not writing or editing he is usually found teaching, improvising, acting, or enjoying the outdoors or the City of Richmond, where he calls home.

Richard LeBlond

Provincetown, at the tip of Cape Cod, has been an artists’ colony since the late 1800s. I moved there in the 1970s hoping to become a writer, without realizing hope had nothing to do with it. In the early 20th century the town had nurtured writers like John Dos Passos, Edmund Wilson, and Eugene O’Neill. The first-ever production of an O’Neill play, Bound East for Cardiff, happened on a Provincetown wharf in 1916.

When I came to the schizophrenic town – serene in winter, a tourist madhouse in summer – Pulitzer poets Stanly Kunitz and Mary Oliver were living there. Gregory Corso, the first Beat poet to be published, could regularly be seen in a Provincetown bar, even during the day. There always seemed to be an empty stool next to him, but I never had the nerve to go sit on it. I couldn’t help but look at him through the open door whenever I passed by. Along with the other Beats, Corso was like a religious relic.

But in that era, the literary elephant in Provincetown was Norman Mailer. Now that he is dead, I can drop his name with impunity. Although Mailer was a resident of New York City, he spent a good part of every year in the seaside town, where he owned a house. I eventually encountered him in casual social situations, but the tiny incident I am relating here involves a time before then, when he was just one of the world’s foremost authors.

In the summer of 1975 the two of us lived in separate apartments in the same waterfront house, he on the second floor, with me on the first floor directly below. Either he had not yet bought his house, or it was being used for another purpose, perhaps by one of his several ex-wives, who wouldn’t let him in.

At the time, I was doing my best to act like a writer, but really wasn’t producing much more than bad haiku, which is surprisingly easy to do. And the time spent in the apartment became a nightmare, because Mailer was assiduously applying himself upstairs, writing daily and at length, exposing the sham of my pretensions.

Although his obituary said he eschewed the typewriter and wrote by hand, he was prolifically typing something overhead, maybe a submission manuscript. And the endless tap-tap-tap produced the same effect as Chinese water torture in the apartment below, driving me out into the streets of Provincetown until the wee hours of the morning.

It took decades for me to accept that I was not going to be the writer I wanted to be. I wish I could say it was Mailer’s fault, but like hope, he had nothing to do with it. Not until after I retired did I find, or become comfortable with, my own voice. The epiphany came as I sat on a toilet in, fittingly, Provincetown, where I was visiting a friend on my way home to North Carolina from an adventure in Newfoundland. She kept a pile of literature on the commoner’s think tank behind me. In the pile was a catalog of courses for “Campus Provincetown,” a by-the-seat-of-your-pants education effort so typical of that town. Among the offered courses was one titled “Creating Conditions for Flow,” on overcoming artistic blocks. The brief description said “…when you are in ‘flow,’ you are highly productive and intensely concentrated on your work – so much so that you may lose all track of time. In flow, your inner critic is silent….”

That last phrase produced the eureka moment. I now see the inner critic for the stifling tyrant he was. He remains one of the voices in my head, but is no longer chairman of board.

 

Richard LeBlond is a retired botanist living in North Carolina. The majority of his working career focused on the natural environment. He also worked for newspapers and a magazine as an editor and columnist at various times before 1990. Since his retirement, he has been writing about life experiences and about travels to eastern Canada and the western U.S.

Timothy J. Nelson

“All of us contain Music & Truth, but most of us can’t get it out.” – Mark TwainWe write to express our selves, our voices, and, yes, our souls. It is a compulsion and a compelling force. Some call it the Muse speaking to us or through us. Writing about writing is a bit odd and solipsistic, but, because writers want to share truth and ideas, we do it over and over again. What we’re really doing is getting at truth.

Drawing and sketching were my first forms of creative expression. Initially, I perceived writing as something you did for homework and other school assignments. In college, I started seeing writing as an important extension of analysis and thinking. I write to make sense of the world, its complexities, its beauty, and its harsh realities. Writing is an act of humanity, a desire to connect to others. Some writers use fiction, others use nonfiction narratives, or poetry. Some use multiple forms of expression. Henry Miller and Kerouac liked to paint. Artists want to process their experience of the world.

After almost twenty years of writing, with some success as a journalist and poet, I continue to struggle with finding the time to write, or if what I have to say is worthy of people’s time. So what works for me is that I write as if my life depends on it. It does. It is a “message in a bottle,” an act of hope. Some days it feels like an act of desperation – a scream, yelling from a place that is drowned out by the din of technology, traffic, and the congestion of everyday life. Writers reflect on all of this. Again, they process experience for themselves and, ultimately, for others who seek their wisdom.

As Mark Twain said, we “all contain music and truth,” so writers reveal this truth to us. This is especially meaningful for people that know they have these qualities but cannot express them fully. Why else would we recommend books to others? It’s as if we’re saying, “Read this – this author gets at some truth I can relate to. Maybe you’ll relate, too.” As writers, we don’t have to be the next Shakespeare, Austen, Dickinson, Morrison, or Stephen King; we have to be ourselves. This is an act of courage. So writers are willing to risk comfort and practicality to get at this. The “great works” or “great books” are the ones that appeal to us at that moment in time. These works inspire us to want to inspire others. We learn from the masters on the way to mastery.

I want the courage to confront the truth of human experience. For me, bravery is living the writer’s life, this pursuit of knowledge and truth. The purpose is to share this with others, in my own way. Writers learn from our mistakes and take new risks, discover new techniques that help us reveal our ideas, our truth. We have to find the way, write our way to it. Along the way, reading can help us find the way.

Just as painters choose to paint to discover truth, using a chosen form and technique, I choose to write. I want to live a life that is contemplative and exemplifies the pursuit of truth. To me this is a type of spiritual quest, living my life, then reflecting, thinking, and writing about my experience. If, as the Tao indicates, the truth is within, a writer is open to that and listens, lets it out. Some may call it the Muse. Either way, this requires patience, time, enormous effort, and persistent courage. All I can offer is my self, my work. Perhaps it will help others discover their meaning and their truth.

Now is the time to write. What truth shall we reveal?

 

Tim J. Nelson earned a masters in professional writing from Towson University. In addition to freelance writing, he teaches college composition in Maryland. Tim contributes reviews to publications such as PopMatters.com. The Sacramento Free Press published Tim’s homage to Kerouac, “A San Fran Serious,” as part of its Poems-for-All series. He contributed poems to Poets’ Ink, a Maryland State Poetry & Literary Society broadside; Grub Street; and the online journal, Yes, Poetry. Visit timjnelson.com.

Meeah Williams

When Philip Roth announced his retirement from writing in 2012 at the age of eighty, many people expressed surprise, even disbelief. How could a writer stop writing? Isn’t writing a calling, like the priesthood? Isn’t writing something more than a profession? Can a writer stop writing any more than the rain can stop raining?

Roth’s retirement got me thinking. Then, shortly after his announcement, Alice Munro announced her retirement from writing, too. As a writer myself, I considered that maybe they were both on to something.

I’m not eighty and I haven’t achieved the phenomenal success that either Roth or Munro achieved so my retirement might seem more than a little premature, not to mention un-noteworthy, except to myself. I fell short of winning the Pulitzer Prize. Way short, as it happens. The National Book Award somehow eluded me. The Nobel Prize…well, even Roth retired before winning that. The fact is, I never rose higher than publishing a handful of backlist genre novels and a dozen or so short stories in obscure literary journals. But then again, not everyone can be a CEO no matter how hard they labor or how high their aspirations; the majority of writers are salary men (and women), middle-management types and plain old office workers. And, typically, they retire earlier than the corporate superstars.

So why not take an early retirement? It’s pitiful how I keep laboring on, having reached my limit, pounding my head on the ceiling of whatever potential I might have had. I remind myself of those poor souls who keep at a job long after retirement age because they fear the sense of obsoleteness and existential pointlessness that awaits them if they were to ever stop. Because they fear they will have no reason to live; that they will die without an office to go to, a report to read, a conference table to sit at. Why can’t they find an interest in life that absorbs them other than work? Why can’t I?

Sure, writing is supposed to be that interest—and I suppose it can be, for others, for mere amateurs. But for me, it’s always been more. I thought it was a calling, but now I begin to wonder if it was really a profession, after all. A way to achieve success and fame, reward and standing. I’m beginning to suspect that I’m no different than the ambitious company man with his briefcase of Powerpoint presentations.

Isn’t it time–long past time, in fact,–for me to accept retirement gracefully? Isn’t it time for me to acknowledge that my career, even if it wasn’t all I’d hoped it would be, is over? I’d done my best now it’s time to move on. Shouldn’t I find a nice hobby, like cross-stitch or gardening? Maybe I can take up watercolors? Isn’t there an adult education class in something I can take to fill my time? Didn’t I always want to learn the fine art of French cooking? An eight-week course in short story writing…whoa, not for me! Leave that to the retired stockbroker who never had time to write. Perhaps, I should take that business administration course that I never had time to take? Didn’t I always want to be an accountant? No? Then what else did I want to be but a writer?

I’m afraid for my post-writer future. I’m afraid I’ll end wandering from coffee-shop to coffee-shop, a sad, disheveled, disoriented figure with my battered laptop and a knapsack stuffed with rough drafts and rejection slips. I worry that I’ll end up that eccentric lady at the table by the window at Starbucks drawing sympathetic stares. That I’ll be nursing silos of coffee, scribbling away incessantly with no story to tell, like those men who dress in a suit and tie every morning, grab their briefcase, go down to the train station…but have no office to go to anymore. I can see my husband shaking his head sadly as he watches me head off to my writing nook every morning after breakfast. Why can’t I just stop?

This is not a calling, it’s a sickness, a compulsion, an obsession. If I don’t write, I’m worthless. That’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it? That’s my deepest conviction. It can’t be true, can it? No more than it’s true for anyone else with a job. Writers aren’t really in a special class of their own, are they? They can retire, too. They should retire. No one is exclusively what they do. Writers don’t disappear, lose all value and purpose if they stop writing. A policeman can retire. A doctor can retire. Even a priest can retire—and they do. The jobs they have are a lot more important, a great deal more essential, than what the average writer does.

There’s a life after every job. Surely there’s a life after writing. I just can’t imagine what in the world it is. What tragic irony! My job depended on my imagination and here my imagination utterly fails me! In fact, I can’t imagine that Roth or Munro have stopped writing either. That they don’t take out their pens when no one is looking and start filling a page with words. That they don’t let their fingers play over a keyboard from time to time. Just for the joy of it. Just to see what happens. That, paradoxically, they may have rediscovered why they started writing in the first place. That it really was never a profession. That it was play, sheer joy, a participation in life that only begins when we stop trying to make it a living.

If I can only hold on to that thought, and hope for nothing more, one of these days I may be able to finally retire, too.

 

Meeah Williams is a writer and graphic artist. Her work has appeared most recently in The Milo Review, Per Contra, Vagabond City and Dark Matters, among others. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.

Jeffrey R. Schrecongost

Greed. Guilt. God.

The big ones, yes? The ways in which the three interrelate are what I seek to explore in my fiction. People who need more than they need. The pain of remorse. The nature of a faith that comforts some and confuses and disappoints others.

To unite these themes, to create the vivid dream, I strive to employ the following: poetic prose to enhance atmosphere; tight, realistic, substantive dialogue to propel the plot and reveal characters and conflict; internal tensions and gradual, deliberate character revelation to maintain suspense and verisimilitude; and allusions to music, film, and other elements of popular culture to shape and/or reflect mood and setting.

It’s a good plan, for sure, but how does the writer keep all those syntactical fireworks from either 1) sputtering out or 2) burning down the house?

Careful (as in life or death careful) word choice.

Faulkner, in As I Lay Dying, and Fitzgerald, in “Winter Dreams,” do it this way:

Faulkner writes, “The lantern sits on a stump. Rusted, grease-fouled, its cracked chimney smeared on one side with a soaring smudge of soot, it sheds a feeble and sultry glare upon the trestles and the boards and the adjacent earth.” The lantern is first personified, making for a more-important-than-average lantern. Its role, its purpose, is to illuminate the creation of Addie’s coffin, so it deserves the attention it gets here. Next, we learn that the lantern is in bad shape – rusty, greasy, broken. But the lyrical fashion in which the author gives us this information is particularly effective. Faulkner’s use of alliteration – with ‘s’ sounds — reflects the lantern’s dirty, slippery surface. Smeared, side, soaring, smudge, soot, sheds, sultry. Additionally, these ‘s’ sounds mimic the flame’s hiss which, in turn, enhances the creepy mood. Faulkner then gives us more on the lantern’s condition. The light is feeble yet sultry. Sensual? Torrid? Passionate? Yes. It is a light languid and sexual in nature. Like the way a brothel room’s dim, solitary light dances with darkness to reveal a leg here, a breast there, closing eyes, slow-moving hands. This dense, poetic imagery works to liken Cash’s coffin construction to something resembling sexuality by calling attention to his mysterious physical movements and manipulation of the boards. Oh yes, it’s weird, gloriously weird, and it’s all accomplished in just two sentences.

Let’s see how Fitzgerald does it. He writes, “The dark street lightened, the dwellings of the rich loomed up around them, he stopped his coupe in front of the great white bulk of the Mortimer Joneses’ house, somnolent, gorgeous, drenched with the splendor of the damp moonlight.” Wow. Again, we have personification in the neighborhood’s introduction. But first, there is this surreal shattering of the darkness, an image suggesting the power of wealth. Then the homes loom. They threaten Dexter as old money always has. The Joneses’ home is a white giant, dazzling even in its slumber. But the key word here, the astonishing image, is drenched. The moon heaves a silver wave over the home. It drips with the shimmering of everything Dexter thinks Judy is not. So, Fitzgerald has, with one sentence of dreamy, lush, poetic imagery, given us an atmosphere that is a story in itself – a story about both the possession and lack of wealth, power, and privilege. When the prose is this great, most individual passages in a text can, on their own, stand tall as thematic microcosms of the larger piece.

Lombardi, in Writing Fiction, states that, “With fiction, more than anything else perhaps, it’s the description that envelops you because really everything in a work of fiction, except for the dialogue, is a description of some sort. […] [With great description, the] reader will be swept along by the words, believing every moment of the story, as if it’s a dream or a movie, or as if it were actually happening.”

A dream. A movie. Actually happening.

Faulkner and Fitzgerald are masters of poetic description, and their prose works to mingle multiple forms of sensory data to create that dream-like, filmic, and/or realistic experience. But, as Ringo Starr reminds us, “It don’t come easy.” Hard choices must be made. My relationship with a story’s first, final, and next word is always rocky. It might, for days, weeks, months, remain on the page — my perfect, lovely word – until a more appealing word saunters by and my loyalty fades. Or maybe that perfect, lovely word draws too much attention to itself and so must go. Maybe all the surrounding words hate its guts (I’ve seen this happen – Flagstaff, AZ, 1994), and who wants to get in the middle of that? As a fiction writer I suffer many falls, but getting that one, best word down on paper, followed by the next best word, and the next best word, until all the words are my best words, well, that’s what gets me up in the air.

 

Jeffrey R. Schrecongost received his M.F.A. from Converse College and teaches English at Ivy Tech Community College and Spartanburg Community College. His fiction has appeared in Blood Lotus, BlazeVOX, and Gadfly. He lives in Greenville, SC, with his loyal Golden Retriever, Molly.