A reaction to what comes after having written

On re-beginning, creative temperament, and unlearning metaphor

Hi there! I’m here to kick off this newsletter, and really, I’m here to begin again.

My first book, Divination with a Human Heart Attached, was just released, and it’s been an an interesting window for observing myself in a new part of the creative process. You only get to watch yourself releasing a debut book once. I’ve been fascinated by that, because it’s like a test where you discover—or confirm—what it was really all for.

I think many of us tell ourselves lots of things about why we write. We write because we want to make something beautiful, or entertain, or find kindred spirits, or start a movement, or, or, or. It helps to have some sense of why you’re doing this, especially for the long stretches of writing and revising in solitude.

But the process of releasing a book has a funny way of outing the truth. A book release will say, “Ok, you said you wrote this because of X. But now the book is real, and Y is happening. How do you feel about that?”

If you’re disappointed about something, it’s a clue. If you’re thrilled about something, it’s a clue. Because it’s one thing to have a reason for writing, and it’s another to have a reaction to what comes after having written.

My brother is one of those people who can read the water. He can notice eddies and subtle shifts and say, essentially, Here’s what’s really happening in that river.

Releasing a book is one way to find out what’s really happening in your river. It’s a way to find out what kind of creative temperament you have.

I’ve been surprised to see how detached I can be, how relieved I feel, and how hungry I am to tinker with the next thing.

And then part of me clamors: But you must steward this first book! She still needs you, right?

And then some older, wiser, even annoyed part of me responds: She’s good. I’m still here for her. Detachment is not the same thing as abandonment.

And then I think: Oh. Oh, you’re right.

I’ve watched myself in this tussle for the past few weeks, realizing that part of what I’m learning is how to trust the book once it’s been written and published. How to trust that I’ve done enough.

I told myself I was writing to tell the truth and connect in a certain way—but if I don’t trust the book to actually do that now, all those “reasons for writing” are just mud slowing down the river.

So I’ve been letting go and turning toward those other reactions that came up: relief and the eagerness to move onto the next thing. Maybe the best way to show you trust your first book is to begin writing your second book.

That’s where I am now: in the beginning-again. And I’m shifting out of poetry and more fully into essays and memoir for the next one, so there’s lots of raw material and uncertainty and messy, open space ahead… I also realized this week that I needed the first book to be out so that I could devote myself to the next project. (It’s teaching me something about spaciousness, about how much overlap I can withstand between projects.)

I hope these letters will be a space for field notes from the messy edges of that project, and a space where we can trade ideas on staying with the process.

emily

in the wake of practice // questions that have surfaced in my writing practice recently, maybe portals into your own projects or prompts to take field notes //

Am I avoiding this story or am I giving it a rest? Would it help to start at the very beginning of all the material, to read it like it’s totally new, like I’m an outsider to it? What does momentum mean when my body gets in the way of writing as often or freely as I want? Does every artist have to arrive at their own definition of momentum? Why do I think momentum is akin to success? What if some writers work best in the land of fits and starts? How do you know which kind of writer you are? What if I embraced fits and starts? What if I left myself love notes at the end of every draft, knowing I might need to leave unexpectedly but hoping for the best that I’ll return? What if what matters is not how often or steadily we write but how thoughtfully we hold the door open for ourselves?

on unlearning metaphor

"Just tell me what you saw this morning like in two lines. I saw a water glass on a brown tablecloth, and the light came through it in three places. No metaphor. And to resist metaphor is very difficult because you have to actually endure the thing itself, which hurts us for some reason." — Marie Howe, in an interview with Krista Tippett

This reminded me of metaphor work (unlearning, really) I’ve been doing lately, thanks to work with Jerald Walker in a past fellowship. Moving from poetry to nonfiction has made me question where and why a writer leans on metaphor… how can an image used metaphorically end up hiding, buffering, avoiding, or layering the story to the point of missing the substance? For me, it’s turning into a different relationship to the speaker on the page… I have to catch her in the act of layering and then slow down to figure out what she’s actually talking about, so I can write the story itself and not just all the symbolism around the story.

It feels like it could be a revision prompt: revisit a piece of writing and “translate” a symbolic image or metaphor back into its original form, its root. (My hunch is this is an exercise of expansion, not tightening up—it may point out some absence in the work and lead to generating new writing.) For instance, the childhood toy or piece of clothing are no longer symbolic stand-ins for growing up too fast. Now they are only themselves again, waiting to be described in a scene that you probably have yet to write.

Thanks to

Shannon Hardwick

for sharing the interview originally on Twitter.

currently sharing + reading // I’ve heard from a number of folks from past workshops who are also working on nonfiction projects now and wondered about reading lists. Here’s a *small* sample of what I’ve been sharing, and if you’re interested, I can share more in future letters:

• A book that just came out, that I haven’t started yet but preordered the fastest in 2022 (my personal most anticipated book of 2023): Dyscalculia: A Love Story of Epic Miscalculation by Camonghne Felix

• This thread by T Kira Māhealani and her book, Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls

• Doireann Ní Ghríofa, A Ghost in the Throat, a favorite read in 2022, excellent if you're working with murky/obsessive material/themes and need to see how another writer deals with it

• Loren Eiseley, All the Strange Hours

• Best American Essays 2022, edited by Alexander Chee. I’ve been reading one essay at a time, kind of savoring this anthology and really enjoying that approach.

• Bassey Ikpi, I’m Telling the Truth, But I’m Lying

• Terese Marie Mailhot, Heart Berries

upcoming events

Virtual Book Launch Party
When: February 28 at 7 pm ET
​Where: Online via Zoom (link to come!)
Free and open to all. A virtual reading and live Q&A with me, hosted by my publisher, Game Over Books. Register here.

Body of Work: A Craft Conversation with Colleen Alles and Kristin Brace
​When: March 29 at 7 pm ET
​Where: Schuler Books on 28th Street in Grand Rapids, Mich. (We're exploring ways to make this event virtual too. I'll keep you posted!)
Free and open to all. Register here.

// take what you need, leave the rest //