Calliope's Call

This is a place for sharing our hopes, pain, and joys as writers. The videos address issues, such as dealing with fear, or feature interviews with well-known writers. The blogs below focus on the day-to-day of a writer's life. Share your questions and shape the content of this site.   ~Cynthia Lamb

Clarity at Last

I'm sorry for the long silence. My new managing editor gig is great, but has been consuming. The good news is I like it. I'm also prepping for the BEA (BookExpo America), the big publishing convention at the end of May. Whenever it's on the West Coast I go with my publishing buddy. I met my friend 22 years ago when she was a sales rep. About eight years ago she became an agent -- a perfect fit for her. My intention is to come home with the contacts that directly lead to the sale of my second novel.

I've talked about feeling stuck around the novel, and I knew that part of the reason was concern about hurting my father. (The novel is loosely based on my search for the little sister my parents gave up for adoption.) Last month, I finally had a conversation with him about my concerns and sent him the manuscript. To my delight and surprise, he loved it. I realized that the real hold-up had been that I needed distance from the ms. so that the main character no longer was me. As I printed it out for my father, my eye would catch lines, and I fell in love with the main character, felt a deep compassion for her that brought tears to my eyes. That's when I realized what had been holding me back. Now, nothing is. I'm ready for the novel to go out into the world. And I'm excited about what will come. (Still superstitious, I'm knocking on wood.)

Inspiration

My great Aunt Helen died last week at 91. I wrote about her in the Afterword of my novel, Brigid's Charge. She inspired me as a little girl, sending me off on a quest to learn about my family's connection to the creature now known as the Jersey Devil. A quest that resulted in Brigid's Charge.

Balance

I see a yogi on one foot, the other tucked into her upper thigh, outstretched arms bearing plates. That's a good metaphor for what I'm trying to maintain today.

I'm self-employed, so I have stretches of no work from clients -- which is great for my own writing -- and times when all my clients have work for me. I mentioned before that I just started a new gig -- as managing editor for five newsletters. It's a great opportunity and I love it, but it's not full-time enough to support me, so I still need other work. My longest standing client recently gave me two books to lay out. I had hoped to finish both before production on the newsletters starts next week, but I only finished one. I'm not sure how I will manage, but there are still a few days left, so I trust that I will.

A Sister Lost is Found

In about an hour I'm leaving to pick up my sister at the airport. Every time I see her it feels like the first time. Our parents gave her up for adoption at birth, and we found each other 15 years ago. Ours is a story with a happy ending, and part of the reason for that is we both were looking, we both were ready. I had been searching for five years, ever since I found out about her, and she had been searching for a year. She says she had to get to the place where she was willing to find out the worst case scenario, and instead, she says, she found the best: two parents, two siblings, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles.

For me, learning about Sheila was confirmation. I always felt that someone was missing. I was two-and-three-quarters when she was born, before verbal memory, but I do have a sense of my mother's pregnant belly, the day she went into labor. A few months after we found each other, I started the novel. It took me several years to figure out why my main character was mute. Finally I realized that she represented the two-year-old who couldn't speak of the loss she suffered. That's when I fell in love with the book and understood that I was writing it to fully comprehend my own loss.

The novel is done, but I still haven't sent it out, and I wonder, often, why not. I feel protective, yes, of the book and my family, and likely, myself. It's so different from my first novel, I feel nervous about whether fans of Brigid's Charge will embrace this one as well. I could go on; I do go on in my head, but I decided today that I am going to read it again, fall in love with it again, as I always do, and then send out the queries. It's time.

Five Days without Power

Day 1: When does a leak become a torrent?

After saturating six towels with rainwater blown in the leaking bedroom window, I make a canal with the towels, directing the stream into a bucket on the floor.

A limb from an ancient cypress breaks, tearing two of three prongs of the electrical cable away from the house and crushing the cable against the roof.

Call to PG&E: "Isn't that a fire hazard?"

"I don't know."

"When will you be here to fix it?"

"I have no idea. Just stay away from it."

While the wind gusts to 60 mph, a robin takes refuge in the gap of another broken limb as it sways and jerks below.

The cable phone stops working. My cell phone only works in one place in the house and only if I stand very still.

Day 2: Things to be grateful for

During a break from the rain, Incredibly Resourceful Landlord fixes the window and the generator in the barn so that the well pump runs and we again have water. He also gives me a propane bottle so that I can cook over my single burner camp stove.

Call to PG&E: "When are you coming?"

"By 7 p.m."

"Tonight!" I ask.

"Yes."

Later that night, while cooking on the front porch, the dark sky clearing, faint candlelight shines from homes around the valley. I feel blessed, grateful for the robin's reminding me about the strength in broken places, the warmth of the woodstove, and the stars shining for me.

Day 3: Isn't that a fire hazard?

I test the insulation of our hot water heater -- not enough to wash my hair, but at least I get a short shower.

Power is restored around the valley. Because the electrical cable is still partially attached, we have power for the refrigerator, the cable phone, and one outlet at a time. No lights, electric heat, or stove. Tired of the cold on the front porch, I open the curtains and watch the camp stove from inside.

PG&E calls; they're coming tomorrow.

"You said you were coming last night. I'm losing sleep, worrying about that limb and the live wire. Isn't it a fire hazard?"

"It shouldn't be. Just stay away from it."

I'm surprised to find that with a hat, a sweater over my nightgown, and the bedroom door open to the living room's woodstove, I'm warm enough at night. For the first time ever when she's allowed access to the bedroom, Lila, the cat, lets me sleep past dawn.

 Day 4: "When are you coming?"

PG &E: "Today or tomorrow."

"You said that yesterday."

"We're doing our best, working 'round the clock."

Braving the fluctuating power in the outlet, I check my email and post the Ellen Bass interview. Unlike the other videos, it uploads correctly the first time. The downstairs bedroom is the brightest room, so I work there until darkness sends me scurrying to light candles.

After dinner (packaged Palak Paneer and rice heated from the steam above the package), I decide not to heat water for dishes. Someone can do them tomorrow.

Day 5: Waiting for hot water

Evening plans mean I can't warm up the house enough so that the woodstove will provide enough heat for the night, but it will be great to eat a real meal for the first time since the storm.

The familiar blue PG&E truck drives by and I run out into the rain to flag it down. Maybe it just missed the house -- everyone does the first time. A minute later it's back and weary men approach.

I beam. "I'm so happy to see you!"

"My power's not on either," the younger man snaps as he brushes by. The older man smiles back.

Forty-five minutes later, I'm running around the house, turning everything on, then try to take a shower. I let it run awhile, but it's not hot enough yet. No problem. I sit down and write this, while I wait.

Blows and Beginnings

I envy those who are able to write good books while working full-time jobs. I seem to lack that kind of energy, so I only work part-time, freelance, in publishing. Sometimes, like today, working full-time, having a regular job, looks good. I lost funding for a writing gig that I knew was only temporary, but had hoped would last a bit longer. Whenever I suffer a blow, it throws my whole life into relief. I am asked, again, to commit to the choices I've made. Those disappointments also threaten to take me under, and I'm struggling against that right now, reminding myself that I knew it was only temporary, that it was a great opportunity that polished old skills, and that another job will come, as they always have. I believe that, but it's hard to feel when the disappointment is fresh and strong.

There is good news as well (I remind myself). I'm starting a new job tomorrow, one that will bring together what my partner calls my mousey skills (attention to detail) and my editorial eye. It's very part-time, but should be stable, and that will be a great thing for my income, which too often has been on shifting sand. I've also worked for this client before, so I expect that we'll have a good, productive relationship for a long time.

Internal Support?

Keith, thank you for your blurring, your passionate articulation of the site of your creation, your borderlands. As I read, I wondered if we're talking about the difference in orientation between a novelist and a performance artist. My experience of writing is solitary. My form draws me inward for years at a time. Given that, it's not surprising that I would rely upon internal validation -- the external kind didn't arrive for me for ten years. If I didn't find internal support I never would have finished Brigid's Charge. I see writers give up because external success doesn't come quickly or easily so they think they aren't good enough. That's what I was trying to say to Robert. I also avoid deadlines -- don't seek agents or publication until the work is done -- because too many of the modern novels I read feel unfinished, and I blame that (perhaps I'm wrong) on the false imposition of a deadline by a publisher. I also recognize that a deadline can fuel creation -- as I'm certain it has in your case. I believe that novels need to mature in the vat -- at least mine always have -- and I never want to introduce a novel that isn't done yet. I'm almost persuaded by a vision of a community of novelists, supporting and challenging one another. Perhaps that's what this forum can be? I appreciate you and Robert opening this up so eloquently. I'm still left believing in my original statement, that internal support, by which I mean, believing in oneself, is crucial in order to weather the rejection that comes with trying to publish fiction and poetry today. For many novelists and poets, external support isn't even an option. We have to rely upon ourselves, and from there seek what we need/desire externally.

for my writer friends (a comment from a reader)

this is something I didn't intend to write I guess I was called... if you find it long or boring, bye bye not important at all keith Lacking Internal Support is My Muse or Blurring Call & Response or Inside is Better than Outside Keith Hennessy Responds to Cynthia Lambs blog, Calliopes Call Dec 2008 Hi Cynthia, On your blog I found an observation, one might even call it a philosophy or ideology, about the importance of finding internal support, suggesting that external support follows internal support. You counseled another writer with: "I can't think of one person who found success without first finding it within." In general I disagree with this. It is not what I observe about myself nor is it a philosophy that I subscribe to. I think that there is a symbiotic relationship between the in and the out, a mobius strip where one becomes the other in a simple twist of the road. Or I could speak of the fuzzy, vague or contaminated border between in and out. In La Frontera (Borderlands, 1987) Gloria Anzalda reframes the border from line to territory, offering the image of the border as a fertile swamp. She is talking about the US-Mexico border as much as she is writing about the distance between you and I. I recognize these borderlands (these no-mans-land) as the most fertile space from which to create. This friction, ambivalence, chaos is my muse or possibly it is the time/space where I find her. I look for the complicated places between private and public, between and beyond the personal and political. Thats where I write, alone, yet dependent on external support or calling. Your statement echoes what I consider one of the most stale and potentially deadly of new age ideas: that one must love oneself before being loved by another, that one must learn to feed oneself before taking time to serve others, etcetera in a thousand variations that locate the individual as a crucial site for healing before focusing on the healing of the community or planet. Just last night I was in a sweet and deep heart circle with a community of new and old friends. One person shared the phenomenon that she was only realizing her right to exist, that she had something to offer, through the validation that she received from those who she admired and looked up to. So much of our identity, and not just surface identity, comes from our interaction (however violent or respectful) with the world around us. If you have food issues, go and work at a soup kitchen. By learning to feed others one might re-learn how to feed oneself. Same same for healing, writing, loving. Take the focus off the self, at least sometimes. As I enter and exit my home I look at a framed sign on the wall, which reads, "I think I could get some needs met by helping others. I think you're right!" As for writing, I barely consider myself a writer. I have almost no internal support for writing. External success and acknowledgement is absolutely critical for me. Mostly I can't complete any writing unless there is a request and a deadline imposed from outside forces. In fact, this letter surprises me because usually I just think these things and never put them to the page or screen. Internally I am a failure as a writer. I have no 'practice', minimal confidence, and infrequent vision. And yet somehow a few times a year I vomit onto the page and it gets heard or read by hundreds if not thousands of people. Often I get paid for this purging. I want to play contrarian to the idea that internal is a source superior to external. It's not how I see the world and it's not what works for me. I often begin projects outside my personal concerns and then, over time, the issue and the project work themselves into me. I go from the outside towards the inside as much or more as the other direction. And mostly, in a post-modern theory kind of way, I reject the idea that there is an inside, an authentic, or even a self that could ever be separate or distinct from the outside, the performed, or the social context. As much as I respect your call, and as much as I remember when I thought I'd been called, I now consider all calls to be a fusion of social construct, psychological projection, physical sensation, karmic or fated plan, ancestral intelligence and spiritual mystery... basically a mess spreading or leaking in several directions at the same time. Definitely not an articulate vision moving in a particular direction. If I write at all, that's where it comes from. Its possible that I have taken your words out of context and that this argument is irrelevant to what you were trying to say about internal support. This tangential and spiraling writing, blurring the relationship of call and response, becomes yet another example of what Im trying to argue. Thanks for calling. Respectfully and sincerely, Keith

Support

Thank you, Robert, for your thoughtful question, which I'm sure I'll return to again. As you wisely point out, finding internal support is the critical first step to finding it externally. In fact, it's a rite of passage for all writers. Coming out as a writer, taking your writing self seriously, leads to those around you taking you seriously. And that self-acknowledgment must come before there is evidence (publication). Writing is hard, but if we believe in ourselves, we'll keep working until we fully realize that novel or poem or essay. Proclaiming oneself to be a writer without external validation is a great leap of faith and courage -- and it's something we all have had to do. I can't think of one person who found success without first finding it within.*

I suspect that when you fully acknowledge yourself as a real writer, the opportunities will come for the writing support you seek. You'll be inspired to take a class; you'll go back to school and get your MFA; you'll start a writing group here, right now. (You can do that by clicking on groups above.) I do find writing classes to be a great way to form groups. You meet people at similar skill and commitment levels and you can check them out first. Since you live in Northern California, you could also join Left Coast Writers, which meets at Book Passage in Marin once a month.

There's much more that could be said, but I'd like to hear what others think. If you're registered with PNN, leave your comments here. If not, email your comments to calliopescall.831@pnn.com. They'll show up on the questions page and I'll paste them over here.

Calls and Charges

I've noticed a theme in my titles: my novel Brigid's Charge, Calliope's Call. I'm obviously interested in how the Divine / our souls / Source / Inspiration (whatever you want to call it) guides us, calls us, or bosses us around. In my novel, Deborah struggles with her charge, and truth be told, so have I. The writer's life is not easy. I've made sacrifices that still weigh on me. But I can't imagine any other way of life. I've tried. I went through a depression that was triggered, in part, by trying to give up writing. I found that I couldn't ignore the call, so I embraced it again. I love what Clarissa Pinkola Estes says about creativity: It's like excrement; you gotta let it out or it will make you sick. So, let's all let it out and Create.

The Business of Writing

I spend a lot of time on the business of writing. Sometimes I think I spend too much time, but I actually like it. When I get an agent for my second novel -- I'm not quite looking yet -- I can see myself wresting some jobs from his/her hands.

Today I'm writing a contract to give permission to a professor to use material from Brigid's Charge in a book that will be published next year by an academic press. I'm honored, but still have to take care of myself. Luckily, and ironically, I spent the past year handling permissions for another author, so I know how to do it, and I have contracts from a number of publishers upon which to draw for my own.

On the Eve

In late September I had a dream about the African Eve. With the help of my weekly dream group, I realized she represented the eve of my new (third) novel. (I started it in October.) Today is another eve -- the day before this site launches -- and I'm filled with gratitude that I have stuck it out for all these years. Thanks to my friends, family, and all the readers who let me know my novel touched them. Without your support, I might have given up long ago.

The Videos

Just below is a video about what I think are the three keys to "Perseverance." Below that are two interviews with Ellen Bass. In "Be Brave," Ellen surprised and inspired me by her reaction to being sued and threatened after the publication of her groundbreaking book, The Courage to Heal. In "Poetry and Life" she discusses her two lives as a poet, her writing process, and her love of teaching. Continue scrolling down for my videos "Dealing with Fear" in the writing process, where I talk about how the backlash Ellen faced impacted me as a budding writer, and the one-minute welcome "Calliope Calls Us." Written blogs are in the left column.

p.s.

The quote I refer to in the video is a 12-Step recovery saying.

Be Brave

Part One of my interview with Ellen Bass appears below. She discusses her response to the backlash against her book The Courage to Heal.

A Little Extra on YouTube

Click on the poem's title to hear Ellen read her funny and moving, "Bone of My Bone and Flesh of My Flesh."

Poetry and Life

In the video below, Ellen Bass talks about her writing process.