She Ain't Dead Yet

 Oh, my dear, sweet, old, AML. Maybe you've got some kick in you yet.

What a wonderful weekend I've had in Berkeley, my old haunting grounds, with AML, also my old haunting grounds. I'm grateful the stars aligned to combine so many of my favorite things in one weekend. I got to share a hotel room with my dear friend Angela Hallstrom, who has been too much missing from my life since she moved away. I got to spend many hours in the car with people whose minds and work fascinate me. And then I was nourished all day long by thoughtful talk about the intersection of art and faith.

I'd love to go session by session, as I used to do, and maybe I'll take some time to do that later. But, for now, here are the thoughts yipping at my heels.

1. I was sitting in a session of student papers. By "student papers," I mean papers that were originally written for undergraduate sections of "Scriptures as Literature" classes at BYU, and tended and coached by the amazing Kylie Turley (one of the best professors at BYU, I'm convinced). Anyway, sitting there, learning about another way to see the words "as if" or "thrust" as used in particular passages, and how that might inform doctrine, or at least an interesting light in which to interpret, I was overwhelmed by gratitude that God has given me a mind. THIS is what a mind is for, I thought. A mind can be used to sing praises to God. I, as someone whose body is limited in its capacity for exertion, was able to experience the joy of exertion in a way I imagine my husband experiences it when he is deep in competitive play with a ball or frisbee or racquet. I'm blessed in that I have the stamina to follow an essay or argument or story, written or oral, to its epiphany. I know people who do not, some of whom recognize what they're missing and mourn, and others who do not and therefore sometimes become unwise in their decisions, beliefs etc. because they assume they've gotten the gist of subtle arguments (I'm talking about people susceptible to believing that a soundbite has informed them on an issue).

Yuck—I'm thinking that might have just sounded like, "I’m grateful I'm smart! Because some people are dumb!" I just mean that I'm grateful God has given me access to this particular joy—that of reasoning.

2. WOW! Eric Jeppson, and James Goldberg, and Andrew Hall, and William Morris (and I'm so sorry if I'm forgetting someone) have managed, by sheer will power, to resurrect AML once again. Simply by making sure the awards, Irreantum, and the conference happened. Well, I guess it's not that simple. But they cared. And they pulled it off. I have at several times in my life been sure that AML was over with for good, and I'm so, so grateful that they have proven me wrong once again. Congratulations, and well done!

3. Berkeley seemed the perfect place for this. Let's just do it here every year, OK, Eric? (Which means you doing all the work, I guess.)

4. There is, of course, still a need for AML, and still a group of people who are nourished by it, exhilarated, even, to find each other and to come together and talk. And I remain convinced that there are more of us than we know but we just have to figure out how to find each other. How can we get the word out about who we are and what we do? How can we find our likeminded and thirsty fellows? This is the recurring question we have struggled with for years, and I don't mind being less responsible for finding the answer than I used to be. But I still care quite a bit. Nothing has been as nourishing to me for a long time. Surely there are ways to share it with others, but I just don't know how. And I'm too old and tired, I guess, to be a big part of solving this.

5. I've said it before, and I'll keep saying it forever: there IS such a thing as rigorous, interesting, challenging art that is actually ART but which takes within it an attitude of faith. People are creating it. It's worthy. It deserves an audience, and support (and awards). Taking this more personally, I remind myself again and again: it is worthy and worthwhile to write for and about Mormons with all my heart and skill.

Some pictures:

MoPoWriMo

So, I invented this thing.

I have to give partial credit to James Goldberg, who gave me the idea years ago in some AML (Association for Mormon Letters) session or other, or maybe it was at a New Play Project talkback. The thing he said, which I remembered while pondering the relationship between talent and consecration and the "building up of the kingdom," was something about the concept of "tithing" talent. What this might look like for a writer, he suggested (or I remember him suggesting, or I thought to myself at the time), would be to try to make 1/10 of one's writing projects spiritual in topic or theme. Writing a gospel-centered poem, for example, every ten poems. Or (and again—I'm not sure if this was my own thinking in response to his suggestion or his suggestion), another option is Sabbath-oriented. For example, a writer would commit to writing something spiritual every Sunday, while writing other stuff on other days.

Whatever it was he meant, the concept behind it—that of setting aside time to use my talent to explore spiritual things as opposed to trying to write a killer poem that I could publish in the world (in order to get national exposure, perhaps, or to build my CV to make me more employable)—has sat on a stool in the back of my mind, clearing its throat every once-in-a-while, just to let me know it was still there.

So I got an idea. I have, at times, participated in NaNoWriMo (you can read about that here on my blog) and variations thereof. One of the variations that has proven very successful for me is having a goal to produce a poem a day for 30 days. So I decided to take a month and dedicate it to spiritual writing. The goal was to produce a poem each day which arose from my spiritual beliefs and culture. This was going to be good! I always produce better when I have an assignment. I also produce better when I have someone to be accountable to, so I asked James and a few others if they'd like to take up the challenge with me. And they asked a few friends. And they told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on.

I started a facebook group and invited everyone interested to join. As far as reporting to the group was concerned, the goal was simply to post each day. If you want, I said, you can post the poem you wrote. Or you can just report on what you did. But check in each day, if possible.

That was all the instructions I gave; everyone was welcome to set his or her own assignment and report as he or she wished.

What happened was monumental, at least for me. First of all, I produced a lot of work. In fact, after I was done with the month and began revising, I saw that, with my new work added to stuff from my thesis and before, I finally had enough work to make a collection, and went on to spend the next six months assembling what has become my first book. During the month, I didn't produce a finished draft each day, but I did so on many days, and on other days I got some good prewriting done that later led to poems. Of the 30 efforts I made during that month, I've gotten at least 15 solid, finished poems, and a bunch of other work that still might end up being used in some way. That's a fantastic percentage, I think.

Another thing that happened was that I felt more creative, more skilled, and more productive at the end of the month than at the beginning. Something happens when I am working hard and regularly. The more I write, the more ideas I get, the more "poetic" I feel, and the more "poetic" my first drafts feel. (By "poetic," I mean, in part, "surprising." As in, "No surprise for the writer; no surprise for the reader" [Robert Frost].  And surprise is a difficult thing to "work on" as an artist.) I found myself more interested in my work, and my work more interesting.

My favorite thing that happened was the sense of community that arose among the participants. There was a synergy. I believe that we were all writing better because we had each other to write for. It was not a critique group; it was simply a group of people who were an appreciative audience for each other. For me, anyway, there was a great sense of excitement, as I worked on my daily poem, in knowing that I would be sharing the draft that very day with others who would comment on it (but not critique it).

An audience is powerful. I think back to the time in my life when I felt ready to try writing seriously, and what a big impact the AML List played in that decision. (I've written about that here before.) I will be forever grateful for my AML friends who became the people I wanted to write for as well as about. They have always been the ones I have in mind as I write. Anyway, this group of people that came together for what I named "MoPoWriMo" (Mormon Poetry Writing Month) gave me a reason to write, to keep generating every day, to push myself to greater freshness. I loved the results.

So we did it again this year. Between the two events, President Nelson asked us to use different words to indicate members of the church, but I've kept the name the same because I want to communicate that we are talking about the culture in general, not anything official regarding membership or doctrine. We've switched from May to February, because May was a crazy-busy month for many, and February is just always in need of a reason for existing, right? (Being shorter helps, too. We don't mind being done a day or two early.)

This year, I put less pressure on myself to make the topics directly relevant to the church, its doctrines and culture, though I usually consider those topics first. The fact is that most of my life is infused with my worldview and beliefs, so most poems end up being spiritual in some way. But poetry is better with energy behind it, so I've learned to seize whatever impulse is strong and run with it. This year, especially, I've become more aware of the importance of taking care of my reading while I am participating in this project. Just as a runner training for a marathon needs to pay attention to nutrition, when I'm doing MoPoWriMo, I perform a lot better if I increase the quantity and quality of my poetry reading each day. I found, this month, that reading poetry that is quite different from my own style was especially helpful. It pushed me new directions, infusing energy when I was lagging in the last week or so.

One of my favorite things that happens during MoPoWriMo is what I call "sparking." It's when a line or image or subject from one person's poem sticks in the head of another writer and then makes an appearance somehow in the second writer's poem. One example I can think of actually happened as the month ended. Eric Jepson, eager for the hard work of the month to be over, posted one day about being glad that, come March, "trees will just be trees," not symbols for anything. I loved the phrase and the idea, and wrote a poem the next week about it. Someone else took a line from one of my poems complaining about February and wrote an entire poem about February. I love this synergistic phenomenon.

I recommend that all artists find ways to create challenges and assignments for themselves, but doing it within a community for a set period of time has brought me joy and greater productivity. Also, it has brought me new friends. What's not to love?

Book Report (revised! more about what I meant about Mormon fiction)

The past few months I've gotten better at abandoning books that aren't rewarding to me. This involves the skill of evaluating what "rewarding" means to me, the skill of recognizing relatively early on that the book doesn't measure up, and the skill of trusting that when I let go of something that isn't rewarding, room will open up in my life for something better, and that space will be filled soon.

What is rewarding to me isn't simple to define. It's not just what entertains. Well, not completely. Because it's true that I am less and less entertained by "empty calorie" reading than I was earlier in my life. Oh, boy, I'm running into definition issues right and left. I was going to talk about how I used to be satisfied with something that was simply a "good story," but am no longer. But that's not exactly right. It's that my definition of a good story has become more exacting, and fewer things feel like good stories to me.

Let's try this: it's not enough, any more, to have a story depend entirely on plot for its delight. Example: Game of Thrones. Gave up after about eight chapters. The Wheel of Time series—gave up after the first book. I felt like these books were just a series of Things Happening. And yet, I'm thinking of exceptions. I don't think I'd give up on Pelican Brief or Jason Bourne books if I were reading them for the very first time today. What's the difference? Is it that I didn't feel any progression or interest in actual characters (Wheel of Time)? Or that there were too many characters and plots to keep straight in my very memory-weak mind until the time that their interweavings became interesting (Game of Thrones)? I don't know. But even with these exceptions, I can't read them very often or more than one in a row.

I guess it's like growing up and moving to good, chewy bread instead of the childish preference for Wonder bread, or my love of dark chocolate when I only liked Hershey's as a child. In my reading, now, I want FIBER.

I also have no tolerance for when a narrator (author) betrays my trust, either through sloppy, cheesy writing or through the sloppy over-use of details and description.

Recently I abandoned an LDS-themed (Mormon characters) book, A Song for Issy Bradley (by Carys Bray). It reminded me very much of another LDS-themed book that was also written by a writer from the UK, The Friday Gospels by Jenn Ashworth. While I did finish The Friday Gospels, I felt very bogged down, in both books, by the time taken in world-building (that is, creating the sense of Mormon culture). I'd really like to hear others' opinions on this, particularly people unfamiliar with the LDS culture, but to me all the mentions of the inspirational wall-hangings, Sunday-school platitudes, kitsch, etc. felt inauthentic. Not because I didn't recognize these things, but that I felt it was a violation of the characters' points of view to NOTICE them. This is a tricky thing I try to explain to my students: when you are in a certain character's point of view (even if it's a somewhat distant third-person), mentioning details is tricky, because it feels to your reader in a subtle way as if the character is noticing those details. And so the mention of all these details, which are very common in my culture, made me lose trust in the narration because I think a character who has grown up with these things, seen them every day, wouldn't notice them in particular on this day just because his/her story has now begun.

I'm thinking now of Orson Scott Card's example of a bad description of a character leaving a futuristic room: "The door dilated and he went out." The point is that, in the future, no one would comment on the fact that the doors dilate; if all doors dilate and it's part of normal life, we just think/say, "He went out." It would be like us saying today, "The door swung on its hinges and she went out." Duh.  I feel that the use of all these details in books with Mormon settings is similar. I also see this problem in a lot of well-researched historical fiction (The Work and the Glory comes to mind, and quite a lot of setting-heavy young adult historical fiction). We don't really need to know about the style of the fire grate or the pleating on the sleeves of the dress, unless it's somehow pertinent to the story in a way that it makes sense that the character suddenly noticed something that is usually just part of the background.

So when there is so much (unnecessary) detail in a Mormon book, I assume it's there for one of two reasons: either the authir is not, or only minimally, LDS, and wants to show off her research, or she feels that this cultural stuff is somehow pertinent to the story. I like neither of these situations. I'm so tired of the "poor thing; look at the crazy stuff she had to grow up with" story, in which there is always the chastity anecdote of the fondled flower or the chewed gum. I want a Mormon fiction that is as complicated and beautiful (as well as sometimes tragic) as our culture is, and I think too many books go for the low-hanging fruit. And it shows. And I'm tired of it.

The good news is that so much GOOD writing is being done, and I'll never run out of things to read, even despite the books I’m abandoning.

And so here I'd like to tell you about a book I HAVE been enjoying lately. But not because it is great literature or even especially well-written. Rather, because its ideas have been changing me. It is called He Did Deliver Me From Bondage, by Colleen Harrison. This was written as a workbook, or handbook, to accompany Alcoholic Anonymous's 12-step program when used by Mormons. It is basically one women's scripture journal: the results of her search through the Book of Mormon for ways that it applies to the 12-step program (or, inversely, ways that the 12-step program applies to the gospel). I listened to this book on audio, and although I found the voices of the reader (not sure whether she is the author or not) and her co-reader (for the actual quoted scriptures) rather irritating at first (heavy Utah accents, for one thing), after a while I came to love their voices, because I came to love what I was hearing. I picked it up because I had seen the book referred to in another book I was reading, and the referral mentioned that Harrison struggled with an addiction to food. I had been wondering whether I had an addiction to food myself (because I spend so much time thinking about the next time I'm going to eat, and what it will be, etc.).

Through listening to the book, I came to realize that, yes, I do have an addiction—but not to food. I am addicted to feeling in control of my life (perfectionism, I guess, or a variation of it). And the things I learned through this book have given me a glimpse of another way to live. I feel like I have a lot of work ahead of me, that I'll need to listen to this again and again and probably actually work the program, but I am so grateful for the glimpse I got. I am learning, very slowly, how to apply it to my moments of unease (with myself and others). I think I'll talk more about this later, but I just wanted to put this out there in case there are others who might be helped by it. You can get the audiobook from the library.

Stories

I’ve been reading Eugene England’s amazing Reader’s Book of Mormon series. This is a reprint of the Book of Mormon (in 7 volumes) in which the text is printed in paragraphs, not chapters and verses. I haven’t actually been reading that part; I’ve been reading the introductions to each book, which were written by prominent Mormon scholars. I found the series because I was preparing for an appearance on a panel dedicated to celebrating the work of poet and teacher Susan Elizabeth Howe, and I discovered that she had written one of the introductions (which I enjoyed very much). Others who have introduced sections of the Book of Mormon include Claudia Bushman, Bill Wilson, Douglas Thayer, Linda Hoffman Kimball, and Steve Walker. And Robert A. Rees, whose introduction to the first part of Alma I read this morning. I highly recommend the series. Bill Wilson’s discussion on King Benjamin’s sermon about helping the poor was enlightening to me—really, all of them have been enlightening and nourishing and have sparked my mind in new directions as I consider anew this book that I have read so many times.

Today, as a consequence of reading the Bob Rees intro, I’ve been thinking about how much the Book of Mormon is a story about stories. I’ve noticed this before, one time marking everything that mentioned books, stories, telling or reading throughout the text because I was preparing an Enrichment Night presentation on the value of stories (including, gulp, that frivolous thing called fiction). Rees talks about the weight that past family issues carries for people (in this case, the Lamanites), about how it seems to be human nature to carry with us the scars of our family histories, the perceived wrongs we suffered, how we keep the stories of our injustices (perceived or real) alive. And we see, when it comes to the Lamanites, the ill effects of such negative story-telling. (When confronted by missionaries, they ask, “What are you doing with these liars who stole our inheritance from us?” even hundreds of years later, thus keeping themselves from the joy of progression in light and truth (in other words, damning their own progress, or experiencing damnation). And yet the Book is also full of examples of the benefits of positive storytelling. It seems that the prophets regularly suggest, as a first step in conversion, that we take time to “remember” what the Lord has done for us, and for our families in the past. “Behold, I would exhort you that when ye shall read these things . . . that ye would remember how merciful the Lord hath been unto the children ofmen, from the creation of Adam . . .” (Moroni 10:3).

So, the stories we choose to tell ourselves about the past are powerful. We can choose negative ones and be forever stuck in our progress, or we can choose positive ones and be launched on our way forward. I want to have more self-control in my life about the stories I choose to carry with me, and I want to make sure that I’m making plenty of time to fill myself with positive stories from the scriptures.