Kathleen Nalley

At the conclusion of an alumni weekend during the Converse College MFA residency, I sat with three friends/colleagues/fellow alum who gathered for one final moment before parting (again) to return to our respective homes after a fun-filled, raucous, inspiring time.

As we reflected on various moments, all of us anticipating and dreading the impending depression that results from returning to the “real world,” the thought for this blog post struck me.

What’s more fitting, I thought, than to write about the friendships of writers? Most of us have heard stories of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, Capote and Lee, Ginsberg and O’Hara, but what of the friendships forged between emerging writers today?

So, with a nod to novelist and educator extraordinaire, Leslie Pietrzyk, who often uses the Top 10 format to convey tips and advice to students, I present to you:

The Top 10 Reasons Why Writers Make the Best Friends

10. They know a lot about things you didn’t realize you were interested in. Writers expose you to a wide variety of brain fodder: from the Epic Rap Battle series to the nesting habits of sparrows to how fast a Cadillac can accelerate in 0.2 seconds. Whether it’s the life cycle of squirrels, chinchillas in space, the chemical reaction of rust, nanotechnology, theatre, history, engineering, social media, robots, revolutionary women of the 16th century, backpacks, synesthesia, the type of tree grown in the southernmost region of Sicily, or the mating habits of spiders, you learn, through osmosis, just by hanging out with them.

9. They are protective. Writers will steal events and characters from your life, but they will always, always, always change the names.

8. They do not judge or criticize you. Are you self-conscious? Have an ugly zit on the end of your nose? Feel compelled to wear the same black t-shirt every day? Have daddy issues? Talk to ducks? No matter! Writers praise your faults, embrace your idiosyncrasies, and adore you as you are. In fact, writers often understand your impulses and motivations better than your therapist (and usually offer several potential conflict resolutions for the small price of a paperback).

7. They are generous. Writers put aside their feelings of jealousy to shamelessly promote your latest project on Facebook, fund your Kickstarter campaign, or retweet your Tweets. They also tell you about contest/fellowship/job/grant opportunities that will place the two of you in direct competition. Ever see a stockbroker give another stockbroker an inside tip so he has the potential to make more money? Yeah…a writer will do that.

6. Despite popular opinion, they are low maintenance. You may only see a writer friend once a year, twice if you’re lucky. (But the time you spend together is exciting, engaging, and memory-making enough to fill the gaps in between.) Further, writers rarely say goodbye, preferring to disappear into the shadows and drift away while you aren’t looking — making those typical, awkward, teary farewells nonexistent.

5. They understand rejection. Multiple times a year/month/week/day, writers receive the dreaded email that begins, “We loved your piece, but it is just not right for our journal at this time.” Such frequent communication primes them to be the perfect sounding board when your marriage fails, your dog refuses to come when called, your credit application for a new refrigerator is denied, or your family disowns you for living in the basement and playing Call of Duty 24/7, although you’re 43 and have a Master’s degree. Writers know what it feels like, man.

4. They are uber-productive, respectable citizens. Most writers maintain several jobs to barely eek out a living — teaching, writing, submitting, freelancing, reviewing, copyediting, raising kids, maintaining a household, waiting tables, cleaning toilets, etc., etc. While many writers schedule sleeping, they still make time for you (see #6.).

3. You can bring them to Thanksgiving. Writers become temporary experts on the details du jour — Fibonacci sequences, KISS song lyrics, metallurgy, gemstone properties, Greek architecture, cancer metastasis, etc., because, inevitably, such details will bring a character to life or become a metaphor for cultural deterioration in a capitalist market. Writers can talk someone’s ear off on just about any topic, saving you from having to explain why you’re not married, why you’re not employed, and/or why you’re not providing the anticipated grandchildren any time soon.

2. They are like those people you rolled your eyes at but secretly envied in high school. 97.5% of writers actively seek out the nearest karaoke bar and aren’t shy about wailing “Hotel California,” “Toxic,” and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” back-to-back, no matter the makeup of the audience, no matter how well s/he can sing. (Another curious note: writers often break into spontaneous song while walking up stairs, while in the bathroom, giving a reading, and/or in the middle of a workshop). A writer forces you out of your comfort zone, and you will be all the better for it.

And last, but certainly not least,

1. They know where to find the best and cheapest drinks. And if going out is not an option, writers will give you their last beer, just like the shirts off their backs.

Kathleen Nalley received her MFA from Converse College in 2012. Nesting Doll, winner of the S.C. Poetry Initiative Prize, was published in 2013. Her poetry has appeared in The Bitter Southerner, Country Dog Review, Emrys Journal, Real South magazine, and several other journals. She currently serves as Poetry Editor of South85 Journal and teaches English at Clemson University. This year, she hopes to win the lottery, gain equality for women, narrow the income/class gap, and/or publish a full collection of poems — not necessarily in that order.

Sara Kuhl

As writers, we often develop deep relationships with our characters. We talk to them while we’re in the shower. At night, we dream of them. Our characters live side-by-side with us for long stretches. So when it comes time to push their narrative to a place that forces us to make a choice that could hurt them, we may opt to give them a sprained leg when what’s really necessary is an amputation.

I’ve danced around causing my own beloved characters pain. In an early draft of a story about a boy who drowns, I refused to allow the parents to feel the anguish of that loss. I wanted to tie up their lives in neat little packages and allow them to go on their way.

I know. The impulse makes no sense. After ripping out their hearts, I wanted everything to be OK. How could I as a writer drown a child and then not allow the parents feel the deep and utter pain of that death? I wanted them to have a sprained leg instead of an amputation.

Back to the manuscript I went, taking the father and the mother to those dark places that can be challenging not only to explore but also to translate to the page. It is in those moments of harshness and despair that we writers often touch our readers deeply by allowing them to join in universal experience of our character. My story still isn’t right for many reasons, but in writing a scene about the father’s reaction to his son’s death, I wept. So maybe, just maybe, I am getting a little closer.

I like to think I’m not alone in this desire to protect my characters. I believe Willa Cather suffered from this same affliction. I have no concrete evidence to support my claim. She didn’t write of this issue in the recently released volume of her letters. (The Selected Letters of Willa Cather is worth the time for any writer. Her discussion of craft will have you thinking differently about your own process and characters.) As I thought about my own plight in terms of being an overprotective writer, I began to realized that one only need look at Cather’s prairie trilogy — O Pioneers!, Song of the Lark, My Ántonia — for an example of a highly accomplished and acclaimed author who also protected her characters, yet grew and changed as she matured as a writer.

These now classic stories of life on the Nebraska prairie were published between 1913 and 1918. The trilogy wasn’t her first foray into publishing. She already had a volume of poetry, a collection of short stories and first novel to her credit when the prairie novels were released. Cather struggled with those early publications and found little that she liked in the work and did not discover her voice until she wrote O Pioneers! Her voice only emerged after some serious pushing from her mentor, Sarah Orne Jewett. Orne Jewett told Cather, “Write it as it is, don’t try to make it like this or that. You can’t do it in anybody else’s way—you will have to make a way of your own. If the way happens to be new, don’t let that frighten you. Don’t try to write the kind of short story that this or that magazine wants—write the truth, and let them take it or leave it.”

Willa Cather followed her mentor’s advice and a century’s worth of readers are grateful. (Note to self, listen to your mentors.)

Cather begins her examination of life on the frontier in O Pioneers! Alexandria, Cather’s strong and capable protagonist, is anointed as the head of the family by her father as he lay dying. In that episode, Alexandria’s brothers are stunned that a woman would be given charge over them. Remember, this book was published seven years prior to the ratification of the nineteenth amendment, which granted women the right to vote. The stalwart father fades into the early pages of novel and life simply forges on for his offspring. I believe this is a case of Cather providing a sprain when something more dramatic may have been more appropriate.

Some may argue that Cather is brutal in her treatment of Alexandria’s brother, Emil, and his lover, Marie, with a murder scene in the orchard. However, even that episode is told from a distance, away from the pain of the death of two young and vibrant souls. The reader only hears the details of their deaths from Alexandria’s friend and confidant, the mystical Norwegian Ivar.

It isn’t until her final book of the trilogy, My Ántonia, that Cather gives insight into the harsh realities of immigrant life on the unforgiving flats of Nebraska. Of the three novels, My Ántonia, is the most acclaimed. The writing is beautiful and sparse. Cather honed her use of episodic writing to such an art that most readers never realize they are not reading a traditional narrative. And she creates characters with depth and emotional anguish that surpass any of her previous writing. Compared to the quiet death of Alexandria’s father, Cather retells a story she first heard when she arrived in Nebraska at the age of nine. Ántonia’s beloved, soft and kind father commits suicide in the family’s barn one night after dinner. The story of the actual death is retold through the eyes of a hired man. Again, Cather places distance between the reader and the violence. But that suicide alerts the reader that Ántonia’s future will be different from the easier life of Alexandria and Cather carries through giving Ántonia a challenging, but rewarding path.

I’d like to think that Cather deeply pondered the fate of her characters. I know she spent time talking with them each day and living with them while she wrote. She loved Thea from The Song of the Lark so much that the novel is overwritten despite efforts to winnow it down. I picture Cather asking herself questions like, “What is the worst thing that can happen to my character and will the action be believable to the reader?” Then, I see her talking it out with her characters, debating the outcomes, and finally delving into her stories, and pulling out the sharp amputation saw when necessary.

Now, I look toward Cather’s example anytime I return to the page. I think of the joy and the suffering of my characters, for without the full emotional experiences aren’t our stories just one-dimensional pablum? In my story of the boy who drowns, I take the father to the place where his son is lost. I put the father in the water. I allow him the experience of trying to relive the those last moments, to feel the pull of the Wisconsin River’s violent current and I let him make the choice to let the current take him or pull himself back to the shore to face life with a child gone.

Sara Kuhl is a fiction writer who is working on her MFA at Converse College. Through the wise guidance of a writing mentor, she only recently found her soul sister in Willa Cather. Kuhl, a northerner by birth, feels fortunate to be privy to a cabal of strong Southern writers at Converse. When not attempting to push her characters to emotional extremes, she is the director of university marketing and media relations at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater.

Karin Gillespie

I once ran into a Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist in a ladies’ room at a writer’s conference. She slipped into a stall and I could hear her peeing. The whole time I was thinking, “Pulitzer Prize-winning novelists have to pee?”

Obviously they do. They also probably burp and sneeze and maybe even snore but their writing is so impressive sometimes it’s hard to imagine it comes from mere mortals.

In fact, when I was a beginning writer I used to assume that certain authors had a direct pipeline to the writing gods who sent them down a steady supply of flawless prose any time they sat at their computers. I also thought that these gods were exceedingly elitist, and only showered special writers with their gifts. When I put my fingers on the keyboard, I imagined the gods rolling their eyes and saying, “Her again? Toss down a few clichés and some stilted sentences.”

But then one night, many years ago, I was writing a freelance theater review on “Richard III” for my local newspaper; it was a rush job and had to be completed in two hours. I was in panic because I’ve never written anything decent in that period of time, and I was still pretty new to the writing game.

I threw myself into the review and the next day when I read it in the paper, I was afraid it was going to be terrible, but, to my surprise, it was fresh and invigorating. In fact, it was so good I couldn’t believe I’d actually written it.

Artists at all levels of mastery have had similar experiences. I once read that the actor Lawrence Olivier came off the stage after his most brilliant performance of his life. Supposedly he said, “I know it was my best work ever, but I have no idea how I can replicate it.”

I can relate to his bewilderment. How can we repeat those moments in writing when we are just not at our best, but better than our best? How can we more consistently unearth gems and gold doubloons instead of old shoes and rusty nails?

The obvious advice applies: learn your craft, keep butt in chair. But I would also add some additional advice: Get the hell out of your way.

I think the reason my theater review was so good was because I didn’t have time for my usual writing mind games, i.e., the need to impress, the near constant belittling, and the occasional delusions of grandeur. My mind was clear and focused on my purpose, making me an excellent conduit for the writing gods’ gifts.

Of course getting out of your way is easier said than done. For me, meditation helps enormously. Twenty minutes every day I sit and listen to the voices in my head. The more I observe those voices in action, the more I understand how frequently they undermine my creative work. Those voices are like kindergarteners in need of a nap. They always seize onto the first idea because they want to get the writing over with or they’re attracted to derivation because “it made that other kid famous and I want to be famous too.” Or they resist a needed revision because “It’s good enough. I’m so sick of this.”

It seems ludicrous that we would actually listen to these wrongheaded voices, but the truth is, many of us not only listen to them but are ruled by them. Meditation doesn’t completely quiet them, but we are then less likely to give into their wily demands.

Sometimes I’m tempted to yell at these voices, “Quit being such brats!” but I think it’s a better strategy to be kind and patient with them and say, “You kids play nice for a while. I have to work right now.”

Then I sit down and write my head off before the voices get restless. Does this make me write like a Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist? Nope. I still write like Karin Gillespie but sometimes, with the help of the writings gods, I write even better than she does.

Karin Gillespie is the author of five novels and has MFA in creative writing from Converse. Visit her Karingillespie.net.

Leslie Pietrzyk

I know, I know. We’re all too busy to write. And yet…we’re writers. Write we must. But how? Here are some ideas for ways to try to keep your creative juices flowing when real life is getting in the way. Maybe you’ll feel like you’ve discovered that 25th hour of the day:

–You’re waiting, anywhere—let’s say in line at the grocery store. Instead of flipping through the magazines or glaring at the customer ahead of you who pushes past to run back through the aisle for a forgotten can of tomatoes, mentally describe what you see, what you hear, what you smell. Does anyone around look like your characters? Are there any gestures you can snag for one of your scenes? I was riding the DC metro recently and watched a girl twisting her hair into corkscrews, over and over, her arm lifted straight over her head. She wasn’t even aware of her actions! You can bet that will show up somewhere. Whenever you’re standing around or sitting around waiting for someone or something, use that time to observe.

–Don’t pull out your phone when you’re waiting to meet someone or you’re somewhere left to your own devices. The phone is the devil, keeping you away from writing! (Okay, I exaggerate, slightly, but you’re not going to be observing and thinking and daydreaming if you’re checking your email, and observing and thinking and daydreaming are part of the work of the writer.) Just…be. Be in the moment and see what you think and see. I know, totally subversive.

–Get out of the habit of assuming you need hours of time to make progress. I belong to a neighborhood prompt group that meets once a month. We write to two different prompts for fifteen minutes each. Fifteen minutes! People have written amazing things in that short time. I’ve written a number of pieces that I later stretched into stories or scenes.

–Don’t be snobby about writing prompts. There’s something about the prompt process that is especially helpful. If I say, “Write a short story in fifteen minutes,” either you’re rolling your eyes or you’re quaking in fear. If I say, “Write about snow for fifteen minutes,” you can get going. And who knows what will result?

–And use writing prompts (or exercises) to your advantage: Write about snow, sure…with your characters in mind. As part of a possible scene for your story. With dialogue you can slip into your novel-in-progress.

–No one manages time better than a busy person. START a prompt group yourself, either with friends or strangers. They don’t have to be professional writers, just people who are interested in writing. If you make a commitment and put a date on the calendar, there you’ll be…writing.

–Your calendar is your friend. Find some chunks of time you can steal for yourself and block off your writing date. Keep it. In an ideal world, this could a weekly event, but if it’s not, don’t beat yourself up. Also, your friend is your friend: find a buddy who wants to write or read or knit or whatever. Plan time to meet up and each do your own thing, together but separate. Save the chat for afterwards.

–Can’t sleep because you’re stressed out? Welcome to the club. But use that time…it would be great if you got up and started writing. I can’t do that, though…something about leaving a cozy bed is against my nature. But my mind can leave. Instead of reliving the endless to-do list, think about the story you’re working on. Think about the novel you want to write one day. Think about the stories of your past. The benefit is that often once you do fall back asleep, your subconscious mind does some work for you and will make interesting connections and find solutions to problems that will be apparent when you wake up.

–Think about writing when you exercise. Admittedly, I’m not a heavy-duty exerciser, so maybe this isn’t possible for you people who know what a kettlebell is. But don’t tell me you can’t think about your work while you’re on a treadmill instead of watching CNN headlines blare by. Take a walk—and instead of listening to music, think about your work.

–Always carry a pen/tiny notebook. Like the Boy Scouts say, Be prepared.

–Keep a character scrapbook. I guess this is what Pinterest could be for, but I like the tactile feel of magazines and paper. Rip out pictures that make you think of your characters or their houses. Keep ticket stubs to movies your characters would like, or hate. If you read a poem that makes you see something differently, throw it in there. Don’t get all worked up about arranging these items prettily or buying a bunch of Martha Stewart brand organizing supplies, because that sounds like a to-do list time killer; a folder or large envelope or a stack will be fine. Flip through it from time to time for inspiration before you sit down to write.

–Sit in your car and write. (This is best done in temperate weather…we don’t want any heat stroke victims!) There’s a park I like to drive to because I can park and stare at the river and no one knows where I am. But there’s no reason you couldn’t steal fifteen minutes before walking across the parking lot into the grocery store.

–Create a routine: this pen, this music, this coffee shop, this day, this much time. Whatever it is so that when you pick up THAT pen and hear THAT music, you automatically think, “Time to write.”

–Read. Remind yourself why you’re writing; remind yourself of the transformative power of words. Maybe you don’t have time for The Goldfinch, coming in at 771 pages. Okay—spend fifteen minutes with a poem. You will be nourished.

–Plan an escape. Apply to a writing residency where you will be given the gift of all the time in the world. There are residencies in a variety of locations, and most are looking for a mix of promising writers at various points in their careers, so don’t despair if you haven’t published a book. Many are free or offer reduced fees depending on financial need. Here’s a great place to start your search for a writing residency: http://www.beltwaypoetry.com/ (look for the “resources” link on the far right).

–Create an escape. Make your own writing residency. Can you housesit? Stay in someone’s vacation house? Buddy up with some writing friends to rent a cabin somewhere? Hide in the basement? Do it.

Do I do all of these things? No. But I don’t have to do all of them, only some of them. Same for you. Pick one or two ideas that fit into your life and that make sense for you. Come up with more ideas on your own.

In the end, we can whine all we want about being busy, and we can despair that we’ll never have enough time, because it’s true: we are busy, and there isn’t enough time. Or we can simply push and shove and wedge and find and create that time for ourselves. If I were to write one page a day, at the end of the year, I could have the draft of a novel—that, at 365 pages, many agents would tell me was too long! I know it’s not easy. But, honestly, NOT writing is the thing that isn’t easy.

Leslie Pietrzyk is the author of two novels, Pears on a Willow Tree and A Year and a Day. Her short fiction has appeared in many journals, including Gettysburg Review, The Sun, r.kv.r.y., and Shenandoah. She teaches fiction in the graduate writing program at Johns Hopkins University and is a member of the core faculty at the Converse College low-residency MFA program. Her literary blog is Work in Progress.

Cheryl Russell

Yes, you. The concept behind literary citizenship is a simple one—become involved in the reading/writing community to support the work of others. It’s not that difficult to do, really. It requires time, but what worthy endeavor doesn’t? Does lit citizenship require money? If you have it to spend in a literary way, great, but even if you don’t, you can still be a solid lit citizen and grow the community.

How can you become a productive lit citizen?
1) Write a note of encouragement to an author whose work you admire. Email, snail mail, tweet, leave a comment on their blog—but let that author know you admire their work.
2) Have a blog? Lit journal? Then do an author interview.
3) Talk up books you like—in person, on Amazon, Goodreads, other social media.
4) Read and support journals—if you’re reading this, then good for you! You’ve taken a step as a lit citizen.
5) Buy books—preferably new, preferably hardback, so the publishers notice. But if you’re strapped for cash, then request them at your local library.
6) Support your local library. Volunteer, donate. Ask what you can do.
7) Give books as gifts.
8) Donate books to local charities—in the past, I’ve donated books to children’s hospitals, and Toys for Tots, among others. What about your local elementary library?
9) What about local elementary schools? Know a teacher that could use some books for the classroom?
10) Volunteer to combat illiteracy—turn someone else on to the joys of reading.
11) Support local readings—go and listen to an author.
12) Visit book festivals.
13) Start a little free library in your neighborhood—littlefreelibrary.org.
14) Join a book club or start one of your own.

For even more ideas, visit websites such as Cathy Day’s www.literarycitizenship.com site. She teaches at Ball State University and teaches a class on literary citizenship, and is the main reason I’ve become a lit citizen. Follow #litcitizen and @litcitizen on Twitter.

What ways can you think of to become a literary citizen?

Cheryl Russell received her MFA from Converse in 2013. Her work has appeared in Infuze, Title Trakk, Focus on Fiction, The Storyteller, Ruminate, and Rose and Thorn. She currently teaches at Malone University. She resides in Ohio with her family, but they would all rather live in one of their favorite vacation spots, Alaska. Read more of her blog posts at whythewritingworks.com.

Travis Burnham

The Paris Review is chockablock with interviews. What would happen if you pitted two interviews against each other—iron cage match style?  Take Stephen King vs. Haruki Murakami as an example.

King’s and Murakami’s interviews are reflective of their personality. Murakami tends to write about lonely, alienated men on the outskirts of society, whereas King usually writes about the everyman and everyday existence that is disrupted by supernatural events. King himself seemed to be more of an everyman, and I got the feeling that I’d like to hoist a drink with him—though not a beer, he’s a recovering alcoholic. Murakami comes across as more aloof in his interview. He states: “I’m not intelligent. I’m not arrogant. I’m just like the people who read my books.”  My feeling is that if you’re just like everybody else and you aren’t arrogant, you don’t have to go out of your way to say it. He also said: “I could have been a cult writer if I’d kept writing surrealistic novels. But I wanted to break into the mainstream, so I had to prove that I could write a realistic book. That’s why I wrote that book. It was a best-seller in Japan and I expected that result.” This statement smacks of arrogance. The interviewer does preface the interview by saying that Murakami readily laughed throughout the interview, so it really may be the language barrier.

Murakami seems to reject his culture, whereas King embraces it. Murakami stated: “I didn’t read many Japanese writers when I was a child or even in my teens. I wanted to escape from this culture; I felt it was boring. Too sticky.”  There are many aspects of Japanese culture that are stifling, and challenging, such as long work hours and stratified social roles, whereas King, when asked about his use of brand names (the distillation of a culture) in his writing, said: “…nobody was ever going to convince me that I was wrong to do it. Because every time I did it, what I felt inside was this little bang! like I nailed it dead square—like Michael Jordan on a fade-away jump shot. Sometimes the brand name is the perfect word…”

Though King received some recognition when the National Book Foundation awarded him a Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, I still feel he’s considered more of a populist, whereas Murakami was nominated for the 2012 Nobel Prize for Literature.

If you read these two interviews back-to-back, it brings to mind the nature of literature. It often seems there’s a division between the high ideal of “LITERATURE” ‘pon its lofty pedestal, the canonical works; and then there’s the bourgeoisie writers toiling in the trenches and shoveling junk food to the masses. It’s very polarizing. Matt Haig, in his blog post, “30 Things to Tell a Book Snob,” summarized at least a portion of my thoughts very well: “There is something innately snobby about the world of books. There is the snobbery of literary over genre, of adult books over children’s, of seriousness over comedy, of reality over fantasy, of Martin Amis over Stephen King. And it is unhealthy. If books ever die, snobbery would be standing over the corpse.”

We’re living in a media drenched time where competition with books is ever increasing. There will always be room for storytellers, but why provide fuel for the book competitors by means of division? I’m not arguing for bad writing, I’m arguing that all good writing is good writing, whether it’s for escapism or loftier ideals or deeper meanings. Even John Gardner, in his On Being a Writer,agrees: “Just as it is easy for the student of literature to believe he, his teacher, and his classmates are better people than those unfamiliar with Ezra Pound, it is easy for him to be persuaded by his coursework that “entertainment” is a low if not despicable value in literature.” I feel that there’s room at the table for both literature and genre, so why be judgmental?

With regards to John Gardner’s fictive dream, King was, at a very young age, already thinking about it on a gut level. When he went through a phase of reading Thomas Hardy, it ended when he read Jude the Obscure: “…so I read a whole bunch of Hardy. But when I read Jude the Obscure, that was the end of my Hardy phase. I thought, This is fucking ridiculous. Nobody’s life is this bad. Give me a break, you know?” Hardy, in the case of this one reader, didn’t maintain a believable world—was so cruel to his characters that King couldn’t suspend disbelief. Murakami, who is much more surrealistic in his writing, addresses this differently in that the characters are often pointing out how weird the things are that are happening around them. Something of the opposite of how surrealistic writing deals with this issue. In The Metamorphosis for example, Gregor Samsa never questions the veracity of the things happening to him; they simply are.

Both of these interviews were great, though I probably enjoyed King’s interview more because of King’s easy going manner and humor, but this isn’t 100% fair, as both interviews were conducted in English, and Murakami had to grapple with a second language. Read the interviews and see if they spark an internal debate for you.

As with most writers, Travis Burnham has had heaps of jobs, such as: nuclear power plant custodian, project manager, laborer, dishwasher, carpenter, painter, convenience store cashier, office rat, photocopy jockey, etc. He has a BS in Biology from the University of Maine, Orono, and an MFA in Creative Writing from Converse College in Spartanburg, SC. He likes to travel, and has lived in Japan, Colombia and the CNMI, and traveled to many other countries. He lives and teaches in the Upstate of South Carolina with his wife, Chika.

Susanna Lang

This winter, the cold and snow began to feel like an assault, as if an ice queen from the old stories had turned her malevolent gaze on the eastern half of the country. Week after week, the temperatures hovered a little below or a little above zero, more snow had to be shoveled, and the wind found every crack in the walls. Our delivery of heating oil was delayed. The schools closed for more days than ever in my 30 years of teaching, but we were locked in by the cold so it didn’t feel like a release.

Then I fell on snow packed slick and shiny as porcelain, and the malice became intensely personal. I broke my right arm above the elbow, requiring surgery. I am strongly right-dominant, and of the generation that only feels comfortable with illegible scribbles for first drafts. I would never leave the house without a notebook and a pen.

On the other hand, while my poetry is not confessional—I don’t find myself endlessly fascinating, so why should anyone else?—I do use writing to work through what troubles and intrigues me. As I have grown older and watched my parents and friends struggle to stay upright, my poems have meditated on loss. When it snowed outside, it snowed in my notebook. I couldn’t imagine getting through this new and excruciating pain without words, but I couldn’t form the words I needed.

Of course, nights were the worst. The pain came in waves, sleep was impossible, and my devoted husband had collapsed in exhaustion after a day of juggling his own work, both our chores, and my needs for a glass of water, more pills, a bath, another ice pack. During the first nights, I counted the hours on my smartphone. I followed developments in Ukraine. I found I could lose myself in the poems that the Academy of American Poets and the Poetry Foundation sent to my inbox (bless them!). Then I discovered that the memo app worked fine for first drafts. I wrote this post in the same way. Typing left-handed was slow, but there’s something to be said for moving slowly. Fewer falls that way.

My students use their phones for every phase of the writing process. They research their papers, they write drafts, they text each other suggestions for revision, and ask me to read their tiny screens. I have always refused. I pleaded ignorance of technology. I pleaded my old eyes. But in the watches of the night, my phone offered a way to travel safely through the pain and the dark. When writing friends suggested that I make my medical leave into a writing sabbatical, I thought they were insensitive. It turned out they were merely sensible. I was the one with a fragment of ice in my eye that kept me from seeing the obvious.

I wrote in my notebook on February 9, the morning of my fall—in fact, at 3:00 am, and I must have turned on the light, despite my sleeping husband. I opened my notebook again on March 16, and found I could write with a pen, but even a page tugged on my elbow, created a strain, the first pangs of what would become intolerable before I’d finished a second page. As we enter April, I am still in physical therapy, though I can write comments on my students’ papers (submitted the old-fashioned way on paper), and I can write on my classroom white board, even the date at the top. Still, my notebook remains on my desk, not in my purse—extra weight—and my newest poem began as a middle-of-the-night draft on the memo app of my phone. I don’t know whether I will continue to write on a tiny screen with a tiny keyboard once (if?) I regain the full use of my right arm. But although I miss the texture and expansiveness of paper, now I think of my notebook as a luxury, not a necessity. Words are the necessity, while the technology—pen or pixel—is only their tool.

Susanna Lang’s newest collection of poems, Tracing the Lines, was published in 2013 by the Brick Road Poetry Press. Her first collection, Even Now, was published by The Backwaters Press (2008), followed by a chapbook, Two by Two (Finishing Line Press, 2011). Her poems have appeared in journals including Little Star, The Green Mountains Review, The Baltimore Review, Kalliope, and Jubilat; “Migration” is forthcoming in South85 Journal. She lives and teaches in the Chicago Public Schools.

David Colodney

Sure, I was up late that night, when I turned on the TV and Jimmy Fallon was writing his thank you notes, the piano-tinkling accompanying music going through my head.

OK, I’d had some wine, too, so I was certainly thinking my clearest after reading some of Kenneth Koch’s Selected Poems before I flipped on the TV. Koch’s poem, “To Jewishness,” was still on my mind as I started thinking about how we all have these outside identities that help define us. Or, maybe, that help others define us.

If you don’t know the poem, this is the poem where he realizes the identity of being a Jew was different from the actual practice of the religion, and he confronts his Jewishness throughout the poem, addressing it as “you” throughout.

Koch, not only one of America’s greatest 20^th century poets but a professor and author of wonderful craft books on the writing of poetry, was on to something. If he had his Jewishness as his alter ego, I had one too: I had writing. I have often wrestled with the writing thing. I’ve struggled with it. I’ve fought epic one-on-one cage matches with it in my head. And, like Koch ultimately realized with his Jewish identity, I need writing.

And so, to you, writing, I would like to write you a Fallon-esque thank you note. But we need to clear the air on a few things first, ok, writing?

I realize now I had you even when I was a little kid, when my dad brought home both The Miami Herald and The Miami News, and I’d cut out all the sports stories and paste them together to form my own newspaper.

I had you as I became an editor on two college newspapers, but fought the urge to pursue you for a living because it was kind of a crapshoot and I needed to have a regular 9-5 like my dad. So I held a bunch of jobs I hated, yet I still came home to you and caught up with you first via typewriter, and now via my little 10” laptop I carry around, but also in the notebooks that take up a shelf in my closet.

I had you through my first marriage, and the raising of my sons. I cursed you as I covered high school football games on rainy September Florida nights. When my first son was born, it was in a hospital down the street from the Fort Lauderdale bureau of The Miami Herald where I worked; since my wife was being induced I knew I’d have time to finish and file the two stories I was working on for the Prep Preview edition, although if I had more time, the second story would have been better. And when my second son was born, my Herald editor was right with me. I mean, literally, right with me. His son was also born October 17, 2000.

When I went through my divorce, you were there for me in a rented apartment equipped with strange furniture and pictures on the wall of people I didn’t know. When my younger son was so seriously ill, it was you I lashed out at and cried with and, when he was better, the one I celebrated with first.

When all the numbness wore off and I fell in love again, you were happiest for me, even though we took a little break from each other for a while. But you knew I’d be back, and you were right. I mean, you were the one who helped me sort out my feelings for this new woman in my life.

For sure, there were times I hated you, and times I resented you for distracting me from things other guys my age cared about, their golf clubs, washing their BMWs, watching the stock market. I know a guy who has had the same job for 12 years and always seemed perfectly content. As much as I may have wished, Mister Normal Suburban Guy could never be me because I had you gnawing at me constantly. Damn you, writing, it was you who made me go back to grad school in my mid-40s! It was my way of trying to understand you, I think.

Sure, I get angry when you wake me in the middle of the night with your words, your damn words, and ideas, oh, man, don’t get me started on the ideas, too. Good thing I keep my iPhone next to my side of the bed, so I can type in your better thoughts before I forget them.

And so, to you, writing, I thank you. You know I need you. Hell, you’re like a tattoo: branded on me forever. I guess I’m grateful you found me.

Now if I could just get you to stop with that waking me up stuff…

After realizing from an early age that he had no athletic ability whatsoever, David Colodney turned his attention to writing about sports instead, and has written for The Miami Herald and The Tampa Tribune. He currently studies poetry in the MFA program at Converse College, and serves as Assistant Poetry Editor of the 85South literary magazine. His poetry has appeared in Shot Glass Journal and Egg. David lives in Boynton Beach, Florida.