Posts Tagged With: authors

Q&A with Kentucky Poet Laureate Frank X Walker

Tomorrow is Kentucky Writers’ Day, the Kentucky Arts Council’s annual celebration of the state’s literary heritage and history. In advance of Writers’ Day, Emily B. Moses, arts council communications director, asked Kentucky Poet Laureate Frank X Walker a few questions about his first year as poet laureate. Walker, along with six past Kentucky poets laureate, will read and sign books at a public ceremony tomorrow, April 24, at 10 a.m. in the Capitol Rotunda. For more information about Kentucky Writers’ Day, visit artscouncil.ky.gov.

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Frank X Walker and past Kentucky poets laureate, Kentucky Writers’ Day 2013.

Can you share a highlight from your first year as Kentucky Poet Laureate?

My favorite experience is between being invited to share an original poem as part of the commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the March on Frankfort and sitting in a classroom of fourth-graders at William Wells Brown Elementary on the day that it was officially announced to the public that I was the poet laureate. Looking out at those kids’ faces and knowing that I use to be one of them made me feel like I was in the ideal place to be and actively engaged in the business of being poet laureate.

As an educator, you have talked about how important it is to you to remain open to learning and discovering new things. What have you learned from your Poet Laureate experience thus far?

I’ve learned that the citizens of the state are very proud of their poet laureate. I can’t believe the number of keys to the city, resolutions, proclamations and Kentucky Colonel certificates I’ve received.

You recently were nominated for, and then won, an NAACP Image Award for your collection of poetry about Medgar Evers. Did you feel at all – or was it ever your intention – that you had helped Evers’ work in life and/or his life’s legacy come full circle through your work?

It was absolutely my intention to help impact Evers’ legacy with the publishing of “Turn Me Loose.” To receive the image award from the NAACP, given their history of social activism, was very meaningful. To stand on the national stage on television and have the world hear me say Kentucky into the microphone was also a proud moment that I had a chance to share with all my friends, family and literary community back at home.

What are your plans related to being Kentucky Poet Laureate for the final year of your term? Are there any goals you would like to accomplish?

I’ve adjusted my own goals a bit. If I could just handle all of the requests for my time without stealing too much time away from my own work, I’d be happy.

Are you working on any new projects that you would like to share with our readers?

I’m hoping to complete a final draft of my novel this year and have it released by the end of my term. It’s set in Kentucky. I hope it will add to an absence of published black male fiction in Kentucky since William Wells Brown.

Emily Moses, communication director

Categories: Literary Arts | Tags: , , , , ,

The Method of the Moth

 

I’d like to tell you that my appearance at the Moth happened by accident.

What I’d like to say is that I was discovered, minding my own business, telling a personal anecdote to a friend in a Highlands coffee shop when a cigar-chomping man in a pinstripe suit, and a Yankee accent handed me his card and said “Son, you got a STORY there. Would you like to tell that in NEW YORK CITY?” And I said, “Who, ME?” and reluctantly agreed, aw-shucksing myself all the way to Manhattan.

But that would be fiction, and the first rule of Moth stories is they have to be true.

The truth is that I had wanted to perform at the Moth Mainstage for years and campaigned to get there. Unlike the MothStorySLAMs, which are open-mic, the Mainstage series is curated, meaning the Moth invites the tellers, a list that’s included Margaret Cho, Neil Gaiman and Salman Rushdie. I’ve been performing stories for years, mostly working with children. For me, the Moth is Broadway.

I thought I might have one unusual, personal story that could get me there — and I was right. What I didn’t realize was that getting the invitation was in some way, the easy part. The Moth’s tagline is “true stories told live,” and on their stage, you have nowhere to hide, not even from yourself.

The first time I ever laid eyes on my father was when I was 12 years old and he showed up on the CBS Evening News.”

That was the basic pitch I sent to Moth senior producer Jenifer Hixson, whom I’d met when she came to Louisville in 2011 to help launch the local edition of the Moth StorySLAM. When I first mentioned the story to Jen, she said, “That’s incredible,” and asked me to email it to her. I did. Time passed. I periodically emailed again, knowing I was treading the line between persistent and irritating.

The truth is I felt a little like I was cheating by offering this particular story. That’s because it sounded like a bigger deal than it actually had been. I grew up with my mom and my adoptive stepfather (also known as Dad). My birth father had been a combat veteran who later became close with the mother of a fellow soldier who’d been killed. A CBS reporter did a story about them for Memorial Day 1983. Seeing my birth father for the first time this way was weird, sure, but it hadn’t changed anything, and in the “Pitch a Story” section of the Moth website, it says, “Tell us … how your story changed you.”

Nonetheless, two months ago, Jen asked if I’d be interested in telling my story as part of a Mainstage show called “Pulling Focus: Stories of Insight.” Co-sponsored by the PBS series “POV,” the event would feature four other tellers who’d been involved in documentaries, either as producers or subjects. The Moth would fly me to New York, where I would be paid, lodged, per diem-ed!

I said yes.

Soon, Jen and I traded dozens of emails, texts and phone calls at all hours, laughing, crying, swearing, and indulging our inner story-nerds: Which moments should be described in detail? Which summarized or cut? If I set up this question here, does the answer pay off there? A married mother of two who prefers newsboy hats and vegetarian food to pinstripes and cigars, Jen showed a kind of X-ray vision for narrative; tell her your tale and she’ll see simultaneously

a) the story you’re trying to tell
b) the story you’re telling without meaning to
c) the story you’re trying hard not to tell

The process took on some urgency, because we both knew that soon, I would be standing on stage at The Players club in Manhattan, telling this story to a discerning crowd of storytelling devotees, some of whom had paid upwards of $400 to be there. My story needed to be shaped and whole, needed to answer the audience’s potential questions, like:

Did you and your parents talk about your father he was on TV?” Jen asked.

Not really,” I said.

Did you ever meet your father?”

Yes, a few years later. He eventually became kind of like a weird sort of uncle.”

Why aren’t you angry?”

What?”

You don’t seem angry. You were a kid, your father’s not around, nobody wants to talk about him, he shows up in this weird way. Why wouldn’t you be?”

 I laughed because I had no answer.

Two days before the show, my wife and three sons wished me luck when I flew to New York to rehearse in person for Jen and the Moth staff (nearly all of whom, interestingly, are women). When I arrived at their crowded, bullpen-style office (which is literally on Broadway), I realized that the Moth was investing thousands of dollars, untold hours and some measure of its own reputation in me telling one story for 10 minutes. I didn’t want to let them down.

The morning of the show, I tried to embed the story in my brain by whispering it to myself on a meandering walk from Midtown to SoHo. (I figured it was New York — what’s one more guy talking to himself?)

Moth-style storytelling requires a balance because the story has to be structured, focused and articulate, but the teller needs to sound conversational, needs to avoid what Moth-ers call “head-in-the-desk-drawer syndrome.” That’s when tellers — bless their hearts — get so focused on remembering the exact wording of their story that they’re not fully present for the audience, which undercuts the whole point of the Moth, which is to connect people through stories.

Somewhere around Gramercy Park, I realized that I if I was going to be honest with the audience, I had to be honest with myself.

Of course I was angry. Had been for 30 years, but couldn’t admit it. Seeing my father on TV instead of in person had hurt and confused me, as had my parents’ unwillingness to talk about him. Even as a child, I was already telling stories – like the one I’d made up to explain his absence and their reticence: I told myself it had all been my fault.

There, on the sidewalk, I understood all this for the first time, and also realized that I would have to say this onstage or else the story I’d come here to tell wouldn’t be true. I ran back to the hotel and called my mother in Kentucky.

My mom has devoted herself to loving and caring for me for 42 years. I knew what I had to say would hurt her, and I didn’t want to, didn’t know if I even had the right. But about an hour before soundcheck, I told her everything I’d always been afraid to put into words.

I understand, honey,” she said. “And I’m so sorry.” She said they hadn’t really known what to do, when or how to talk about our family past. I asked Mom, who’s also a writer, how she’d feel if I talked about it in front of a bunch of New York strangers.

It’s your story,” she said. “Tell it.”

I was the last teller of the night. I felt nervous until the host called my name, then it was too late to be nervous. The spotlight hid most of the 265 faces in the room, but I could hear the audience, and they offered me a deep and nourishing silence. I found the words, one by one, to tell them my family’s whole story of confusion, fascination,  anger, fear, regret, acceptance, forgiveness.

At the end, the applause of those New York strangers carried me to my seat, through the night, and all the way back to Louisville.

The Moth helped me understand that sometimes, the stories we want to tell aren’t the ones we need to tell. And sometimes, even true stories, like the people who live them, can change.

Read a text version of the story Graham told at the Moth

Originally published in the Louisville Courier-Journal, August 25, 2013. Reprinted with permission.

GShelby

Graham Shelby is a communications expert with extensive experience in broadcasting, education, business and the arts. He earned a bachelor’s degree in journalism from the University of Kentucky and a master’s in creative nonfiction from Spalding University.  

 

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What it means to be an artist

When I meet people and they find out I’m a writer, I usually get one of two responses. They look at me as if I do something magical or they tell me about the novel they will write someday in their spare time. Neither response accurately portrays the realities of a life in the creative arts. My poems, stories and plays aren’t gifts from the muse or something that I toss off in my spare time. My work is the result of concentrated effort, intense study and hours of revision.

My stepmother, Betty Layman Receveur, a writer of historical fiction about Kentucky, used to say writing was like digging a ditch. You’d write yourself into a hole and you’d have to keep digging until you found a way out. Given the dedication it takes to create art, not to mention trying to sell it, the key to success is to enjoy the digging.

As I child I saw my father, John Birkett, sitting at the kitchen table pounding out stories while the sun was shining outside. It looked neither easy nor mysterious. He published two mystery novels set around Kentucky racing, “The Queen’s Mare” and “The Last Private Eye,” which will be reissued this fall as e-books.

I interview authors for a website for writers and several of the authors have credited their success to the fact that they refuse to quit writing. They stay committed to the daily practice and improvements of their art.

Of course, we all have dreams of fame and fortune or recognition from our peers, but more often the reality is that our readings and performances are populated not by adoring fans, but by our friends and neighbors. So why write, draw, sculpt, sew, and play music?

We do it because we can’t help ourselves. We do it because, when we are working alone and things are coming together in just the right way, there is no better feeling.

I had the chance to interview three-time Pulitzer Prize finalist Alice McDermott on writing and success. To write, McDermott said, is to recreate the world in your own vision.

“It is lovely to have lots of readers and hear that people have been touched by your work. It is great to sell lots of books, but that is fleeting and not enough of a reward for all the sacrifices you will have to make. At the end of the day, I put my best effort forward. The satisfaction of that is the only reliable satisfaction.”

Alice is right.

EBMorris HeadshotEBMorris Surrender Cvr

Ellen Birkett Morris is a writer who lives in Louisville. She is the author of “Surrender,” a poetry chapbook. Her fiction has appeared in journals including The Antioch Review, South Carolina Review and Notre Dame Review.

 

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Why I keep a journal

Yesterday I had a Skype visit with high school students.  Their teacher had asked me to talk about my writing process and to listen and respond as her students read their “Where I’m From” poems.  I enjoy teaching in this new way, and it makes author visits more affordable in a time of shrinking school budgets.

I began, as I always do, by asking the writers if they kept a journal.  One person raised her hand.  Somebody called out, “We do blogs.”  I asked the teacher how this worked, and she explained that she’s the reader for their blogs but she guessed anyone could read them if they wanted to.  I’m not sure whether she meant anyone in the class or the school or the world.

Perhaps a blog seems cooler than a journal.  Perhaps it’s exciting to post your words knowing that you just published them.  What I’m writing right now is intended to be a blog, the first I’ve ever done.  Though I may change my mind, so far I’ve not started a blog because I’m afraid it would take energy away from my journal.  And I don’t want to do that.  Here’s why.

A blog is public, even if you limit access to it.  A journal is private.  A blog imagines an audience.  A journal has the writer for its audience.  A blog is about communicating with the world.  A journal is about communicating with yourself.

You don’t have to choose.  You can do both.  But let me tell you what you will miss if you skip the journal and go straight to the blog.  At this moment in our culture we have so many voices—in person, in advertising, on all our screens—telling us who we should be, how we should act, what we should want, own, wear, feel, that it can be almost impossible to hear our own voices.  And if we can’t hear then, we don’t know what matters to us, as opposed to everyone and everything outside us.

A journal is a place to listen to yourself.  To calm yourself.  To know yourself, to take care of yourself.  It’s a tool to connect with the deepest part of yourself and learn who you are and what matters most to you.  If you don’t know those things, how can you choose your path?

In your journal, you can write down your dreams, hopes, and fears.  What makes you mad or curious or ecstatic.  If your life feels out of control, you can write about that, too, and while it won’t change the outside situation, it can change you inside because you found words for it.  It’s not all bottled up.

When I look back through my journals—I’ve got more than a hundred and twenty now—I realize I use them primarily for four things:  collecting, reflecting, connecting and creating.  The collecting phase is what I just talked about:  setting down what happens and how I feel about it, copying quotations, keeping a list of books I’m reading.  And I collect things besides words that relate to my life at the time:  I tape in concert tickets, photographs, newspaper articles, postcards, leaves, feathers, rocks, bark, even seashells if they’re flat enough.  If an article is too large for the page, I just fold it so that it can accordion out when I want to read it again.  Recently I was speaking at a school and one of the students noticed that my journal wouldn’t quite close.  “How did your journal get so fat?” he asked.  “I fed it,” I told him.

dinnerware, green, orange, red, yellow

George Ella Lyon’s Journal Shelves

And it feeds me, too, because I’m not just taking an inventory of my life: I dreamed this, I did that, I felt another way.  I’m reflecting on it too.  What was it about the sandy-haired guy on the elevator wearing a black suit, red tie, and flip-flops that made me afraid?  Why wasn’t he funny?  Why did he give off such weird vibes?

Or, written under a sandwich wrapper which is taped in, why did this pimiento cheese taste like San Francisco when I got it in the Detroit airport?

Why did it make me so mad when Libby called me Jelly-Belly?  I thought I was a grownup.  And so forth.

Answering these questions helps me make connections and understand myself, the person I really am and not the one I may want to be or feel expected to be. When I asked why it felt so good to lie across the car seat looking for a CD underneath, I discovered that it felt like hanging upside down from the elm tree, which I loved to do as a kid.  Upside down, the sky became the ground, and the backyard was a green sky interrupted by spiky iris and the coal pile.

Sometimes this reflecting and connecting leads me into creating a piece I might want to share.  For example, writing about the guy on the elevator, I might imagine what he could have been thinking, and out of that could come a poem or story in which we are each afraid of the other.  Or he could turn out to be the son of the woman who invented Peeps.  I don’t know.  But I could imagine.

Keeping a journal lets me decide if something I’ve written might speak to other people—and if I would want to share it.  If I do, I type it up and begin revising, working to let the reader in on my experience.  Many poems, picture books, stories, plays, and novels have begun this way.

But they wouldn’t have happened if I’d been writing for an audience all along.  I would be too self-conscious, too external and self-critical to get to the deep place where creation begins.

As a teacher, I understand the advantage of the blog in that it’s evidence that students are writing, and it provides a piece to be read and considered.  When I’ve had students keep journals, I’ve asked them to show me a certain number of written pages, just so I know they’ve been done, and then give me one excerpt to read.  That way the writers have privacy but also accountability, and I have examples of their work to read.

I know some folks keep journals online, which is fine if it works for you.  If you do, you could scan or photograph special objects that you want to include.  You could embed video, too, of course.  But you wouldn’t have an actual leaf to touch, the impress of a writer’s hand on a note you’ve saved, the silk of a jingle shell to transport you back to the beach.  A journal is a gift you give yourself.  A gift of yourself.  Give it a try.  Someone wonderful is waiting for you.

George Ella Lyon

George Ella Lyon

George Ella Lyon is the author of four books of poetry, a novel, a memoir, and a short story collection as well as thirty-seven books for young readers.  Her honors include an Al Smith Fellowship, fellowships to the Hambidge Center for the Arts, numerous grants from The Kentucky Foundation for Women, a Pushcart Prize nomination, and a feature in the PBS series, “The United States of Poetry.”  A native of Harlan County, Ky., Lyon works as a freelance writer and teacher based in Lexington.  For more information, go to georgeellalyon.com 

Categories: Literary Arts | Tags: , , , ,

What I’ve learned from Kentucky writers

Our state has phenomenal writers. Is it the beautiful landscape which inspires our stories? Or is it really something in the water? Some will tell you it’s the supportive literary community found here in Kentucky. Whatever the reason, Kentucky has a number of writers topping the bestseller lists and winning national awards.

I’ve been fortunate to learn from several of them through readings, workshops, and conferences at the Carnegie Center where I work. I’ve gained an education on how to be a better writer, and thought I’d share some of my favorite writing advice with you.

At the Books-in-Progress Conference last year, Pulitzer Prize Finalist Barbara Kingsolver said that the first draft of a novel is always “crap.”  Revision is “making it less crappy.”  Do you know how much better I felt hearing this woman who can write such eloquent and well-crafted words share her honest opinion of her own drafts? There’s hope for us all if we revise, revise, revise!

New York Times Bestselling thriller writer Will Lavender teaches intense workshops on how to start your novel. For many writers, finding where the story really begins and how to begin it is one of the most difficult parts of writing. He recommends studying how successful writers begin their stories. None of them did an information dump or included pages of back story. Often, the first sentences alone provide the hook that makes the reader want to discover what happens next in the story. (Just pull out a novel by former Kentucky Poet Laureate Sena Jeter Naslund; her first sentences always strike me as perfect).

I’ve seen more than a couple of published authors use national award-winning author George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From” poem to inspire workshop attendees to write and write well. The trick is to add specific details that both tell the reader what kind of person your character is and what the character’s life is like. It’s a list poem that tells a story, and teaches us that details add spice to our writing.

Affrilachian poet Crystal Wilkinson knows about characterization. She says if you don’t know what your character would eat for breakfast, then you don’t yet know your character, even if you think your novel is finished. For ideas on building characters, she suggests we take note of the people we see while we’re sitting in rush hour traffic, standing in a crowded room, or passing someone on the sidewalk.  The little details that stick about the people we meet “are the details that were meant to be stuck,” she says. And those details are what breathe life into a character.

At any stage of our writing and writing careers, there is always something to be learned about the craft. Sign up for the Kentucky Literary Newsletter to learn about literary opportunities across the state. As many published writers have said, make time to hone your craft, and no matter what, keep writing!

Jennifer Hester Mattox, Carnegie Center development director & coordinator of the Kentucky Great Writers Series

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