![tednotedward:
The barn where I’ll be writing until August 8th. I’m in the hayloft. There’s lots of hornets.
[Photo shamelessly stolen from my one and only carriegirl]
My friend Ted is hanging out in a barn in Iowa, finishing his novel, living the dream (when I say living the dream, I mean literally living my dream) (Okay maybe not a barn).
SO, Ted worked at 826 when I was an intern there back in 2006, a year some of you may remember, which for me was characterized by crippling paralysis and vodka cranberries. I am pretty sure I worshipped the ground Ted walked on, without even quite understanding it. Knows Dave Eggers? CHECK. Wears glasses? CHECK. Edits things I think? check, check, check. Then i found out he was a writer, then he read at one of our volunteer readings, then I found out he was a Real Writer who I imagined I would one day be teaching to my students at some community college in Queens or something.
He is one of those New York people I’ve come across who I seem to share an understanding with, a plane or what have you, that lends itself to lots of nodding and far off looks. We won’t talk for months then stand in the corner of some stupid charity event and talk about things like the Slow Burn (where you harbor a secret, inappropriate crush on one of your close friends or coworkers, hoping they will eventually give in a love you [something which also characterized the year of our Lord 2006]) or how oh, we actually have Big Dreams that we are afraid to talk about but totally Get.
I think it was the first time I ever read something I wrote aloud, [outside of a classroom full of misunderstanding 19 year olds (“This poem is clearly about rape…” dot com)], or maybe the second, when we talked after, exchanging the obligatory, “Great job”, that is so hard to convey when it is actually sincere, and he said my story did that Salinger thing where it made him want to call me up and talk on the phone and, let me tell you, when you are 22 years old and have no idea what the fuck is going on, that is the thing you call her mom and tell her about; it’s the thing that you write down in your journal and that once in awhile you are reminded of, and think, well, maybe I am good enough (keep in mind you’re 22, so this is sort of constantly up for debate) and maybe I do dare to do this.
The other night I saw Ted read at KGB Bar and it was one of those nights that make you want to sit on a bar stool alone and then go home immediately after (except, also, you want to go talk to Ted and tell him “Great Job!” but somehow convey it sincerely and hope that maybe a little bit of whatever he has going on will rub off on you.
Thankfully, Ted is finishing up his first novel, and documenting a lot of it on his tumblr, called Stay In The Room, so we can all read that and hope that some of it rubs off on us. This feels important:
Writing is solitary. Blogging is not. So this is what I’m wondering: will blogging about writing (and reading and craft and music and brussel sprouts that’re cooked in a pan with just a touch of olive oil and sea salt, and all the other delicious things in the world that I think about and that distract me while I work) be a productive and healthy thing? We’ll see. My plan is to try it for a few months and then, most likely, spending the rest of my life trying to erase it from the internet, which, I have on good word, is pretty much impossible.
I took the blog’s title from a great Ron Carlson lecture that he gave at Bread Loaf several years ago (and I’m sure about a hundred other places, too) about the writing process. His advice? When you’re writing and you hit a spot where not quite sure where to go, and you think hmm, maybe I’ll get a cup of coffee, that is precisely when you should stay seated. Stay in the room. 90% of the things he’s written that are worth keeping came after he forced himself to stay sitting an extra 20 minutes. Just 20 minutes. Sit there, see what happens. For me it tends to be when the imagination and the subconscious lead, and that’s usually where the unexpected heart of the story is hiding. I say it to myself every day. Stay in the room. Don’t flinch. Trust your impulses. All this New Age-sounding hocus-pocus. But I try to follow it. If it sucks, I can always fix it later.
…
OK, so that’s it for now. Off to the barn.](http://29.media.tumblr.com/bXgTFQKIRpz8sfgfbagAuSc9o1_400.jpg)
The barn where I’ll be writing until August 8th. I’m in the hayloft. There’s lots of hornets.
[Photo shamelessly stolen from my one and only carriegirl]
My friend Ted is hanging out in a barn in Iowa, finishing his novel, living the dream (when I say living the dream, I mean literally living my dream) (Okay maybe not a barn).
SO, Ted worked at 826 when I was an intern there back in 2006, a year some of you may remember, which for me was characterized by crippling paralysis and vodka cranberries. I am pretty sure I worshipped the ground Ted walked on, without even quite understanding it. Knows Dave Eggers? CHECK. Wears glasses? CHECK. Edits things I think? check, check, check. Then i found out he was a writer, then he read at one of our volunteer readings, then I found out he was a Real Writer who I imagined I would one day be teaching to my students at some community college in Queens or something.
He is one of those New York people I’ve come across who I seem to share an understanding with, a plane or what have you, that lends itself to lots of nodding and far off looks. We won’t talk for months then stand in the corner of some stupid charity event and talk about things like the Slow Burn (where you harbor a secret, inappropriate crush on one of your close friends or coworkers, hoping they will eventually give in a love you [something which also characterized the year of our Lord 2006]) or how oh, we actually have Big Dreams that we are afraid to talk about but totally Get.
I think it was the first time I ever read something I wrote aloud, [outside of a classroom full of misunderstanding 19 year olds (“This poem is clearly about rape…” dot com)], or maybe the second, when we talked after, exchanging the obligatory, “Great job”, that is so hard to convey when it is actually sincere, and he said my story did that Salinger thing where it made him want to call me up and talk on the phone and, let me tell you, when you are 22 years old and have no idea what the fuck is going on, that is the thing you call her mom and tell her about; it’s the thing that you write down in your journal and that once in awhile you are reminded of, and think, well, maybe I am good enough (keep in mind you’re 22, so this is sort of constantly up for debate) and maybe I do dare to do this.
The other night I saw Ted read at KGB Bar and it was one of those nights that make you want to sit on a bar stool alone and then go home immediately after (except, also, you want to go talk to Ted and tell him “Great Job!” but somehow convey it sincerely and hope that maybe a little bit of whatever he has going on will rub off on you.
Thankfully, Ted is finishing up his first novel, and documenting a lot of it on his tumblr, called Stay In The Room, so we can all read that and hope that some of it rubs off on us. This feels important:
Writing is solitary. Blogging is not. So this is what I’m wondering: will blogging about writing (and reading and craft and music and brussel sprouts that’re cooked in a pan with just a touch of olive oil and sea salt, and all the other delicious things in the world that I think about and that distract me while I work) be a productive and healthy thing? We’ll see. My plan is to try it for a few months and then, most likely, spending the rest of my life trying to erase it from the internet, which, I have on good word, is pretty much impossible.
I took the blog’s title from a great Ron Carlson lecture that he gave at Bread Loaf several years ago (and I’m sure about a hundred other places, too) about the writing process. His advice? When you’re writing and you hit a spot where not quite sure where to go, and you think hmm, maybe I’ll get a cup of coffee, that is precisely when you should stay seated. Stay in the room. 90% of the things he’s written that are worth keeping came after he forced himself to stay sitting an extra 20 minutes. Just 20 minutes. Sit there, see what happens. For me it tends to be when the imagination and the subconscious lead, and that’s usually where the unexpected heart of the story is hiding. I say it to myself every day. Stay in the room. Don’t flinch. Trust your impulses. All this New Age-sounding hocus-pocus. But I try to follow it. If it sucks, I can always fix it later.
…
OK, so that’s it for now. Off to the barn.
