 “Certainty I" by Lisa Berley. Mixed Media, 22" x 30", 2013. Welcome to Fissured Tongue Volume Two! It's been a long time coming. We, the Inverted Syntax Editors, accepted some of these pieces over a year ago, and we all know how much change in perspective 2020 brought, macro and micro, personal and political. As Managing Editor of the Fissured Tongue series, I want to personally thank every contributor who patiently waited and worked with us through times of overwhelming change and unknown circumstances.
If you’re not familiar with Fissured Tongue, it's now our primary online publishing presence where we share some of the stunning work we receive during our submission windows but cannot fit into our annual print issue. With Fissured Tongue, we seek new voices, new encounters, shifting perspectives. It was therefore a pleasure and honor to discover that several of the pieces we published in Fissured Tongue Volume Two are the first publication for their authors. The Inverted Syntax editorial board reads blind, so we did not know that we'd selected so many first pubs until the publication coordination began. With the exception of our occasional blog posts and Art of the Postcard series, the new Fissured Tongue volumes will be a sub-label or imprint of Inverted Syntax Press LLC and our only formal online publication. In support, all pieces previously, serially published in Fissured Tongue (2019- 2020) have been compiled into Volume One. You can also download a PDF of the new Fissured Tongue Volume Two. Going forward, we may continue to switch between intermittent Fissured publications and dropping a full volume, like this one you're about to read. If I've learned anything in the last year it's that we need to stay open to change, flexible enough to adapt to whatever feels necessary or urgent in the moment, even if sometimes that's taking a step back to breathe and collect. So we invite you to spend some time with Fissured Tongue Volume Two. Take a look around, linger in the spaces of what our brilliant contributors have to say. It contains themes of justice and loss, memory and embodiment, attempts to respect and understand the past as we move into an updated future, even if some days it's hard to see beyond tomorrow. Join us in being ready for surprise, staying open to change, aware of the possibilities that surround us. With love, Jesica Davis Fissured Tongue Managing Editor Inverted Syntax Associate Editor About the Cover Artist Lisa Berley began her career in San Francisco as an art director in CGI and animation after receiving her BFA. She integrated painting, photography and CGI in digital work. Returning to NY for two decades Berley exhibited abstract mixed media works on paper. She moved to Colorado in 2016 continuing to work from deconstructed found images and recently combining it with erasure poetry after the accidental death of her younger son. Artist Statement "My work involves a process of exploring the deconstruction of found words and images. Fragments of appropriated newsprint images are deconstructed and then reconstructed to make new images and in some cases erasure poems. Through this method the visual and text information is transformed."
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 Inverted Syntax Issue 3 | November 2020 Cover Art "Earth-like" by Violet Mitchell Dear Reader,
We hope you are staying safe and finding ways to replenish your spirits. Here at Inverted Syntax we have been busy in continuing to work towards addressing our publishing practices. We wanted to send a progress report in September but we got caught up preparing our print Issue 3 for you, which by the way is now available for preorder. Before we get to our practices, here's a quick peek into Issue 3. In this print issue, we bring to you, dear reader, the embodied and disembodied, the self and absence of self: self as a place, as a thing, as the missing, as a life, as the dead. When we were accepting pieces for publication we must have been connecting with those themes because we found ourselves shocked by the number of narratives that centered around grief, self, and language. It was clear that we wanted to bring them together because we wanted to be whole, because all the topics, from grief, to sex, to language were the disembodied self seeking a way to make itself whole again. We saw ourselves, the editorial team, in these pieces, and we leaned into each, bringing with us our own sadness and joys, despair and hopes. It almost feels as though we created Issue 3 as therapy; as a community space to find solace in our shared joys and suffering; to be a space for readers to find comfort in the shared grieving, in the experience of losing ourselves, or being robbed of our selves. As in past issues, Issue 3 speaks to our deepest subconscious desires about our mortality. We ask you to embrace this issue as a story you wrote — enter it and discover art as a map to the subconscious at work in your life. You’ll find that it is already in conversation with you, before you even open its pages, it connects you to an alternate space, where you will discover that you are not only reading this book, you are also in it — your voice, too, has been woven in and become the text and art. I have said before that putting an issue together is about building a language for our readers — a way in which we seek to be understood, and it starts with the narrative. In my work as an editor of Inverted Syntax I know we are telling a story through the words, works, and people we choose to publish, and we here at Inverted Syntax have been actively seeking ways to revise and create a more inclusive narrative, reflective of many diverse voices and reflective of who we are as a literary magazine. Inverted Syntax's editorial board discovered that in 2020 we looked for submissions that were about more than just resisting conformity and complacency in style or form. More than anything, this year we sought work that turned us inside out and revealed something profound and often menacing about our shared human experience. The murders and continued lynching of Black and Brown bodies have left us in revolt, feeling angered, raw, and at times, helpless and at a loss. In response, we decided this summer to begin bringing forth the change we wish to see in public by reviewing our own private actions, habits, and practices, and we shared with you our goals for improving our publishing practices in particular. Our primary goal at the start of this summer was to do our part to actively tear at the vestiges of racism that permeates all aspects of society and end up seeping into our veins to become our implicit biases. As editor, I saw it as my role to begin an open discussion with the editorial team to find new ways to better attract writers from diverse backgrounds. I am conscious of my responsibility in this role — along with the editorial team and advisory board, and our writers, readers, and publishers — to take action in dismantling the systems of oppression by addressing the ways in which we have held implicit biases, and as a result, been complicit in these systems of oppression. I put forth an examination of our publishing practices so all facets of our literary magazine mirror not only our humanity, but also our values as those who vehemently oppose racism and desire racial equity, and as those who seek to actively support ways to eradicate all traces of discrimination that persist and suppress human beings. I have been regularly asking my team questions about our publishing practices so as to hold ourselves accountable in the role we have played and in the spaces we have made and not made for Black, Indigenous, and all artists and writers of color. We have since taken actionable steps to help us reform our publishing practices:
Currently, the publishing industry does not publish enough positive stories for young people about people of color by people of color. As a trained educator, I am aware that in early learning years, people can only continue to select and teach and introduce what the publishing industry continues to offer them: a limited shelf of books, all of which are of a single story. At Inverted Syntax, we want to take steps towards rectifying that. We have contemplated pursuing new ventures, like publishing chapbooks starting in 2022; however, we feel that if we want to do our part in effecting change in the publishing industry, we must target the specific places in which that change needs to happen. We will continue to report on our efforts. With that, we are eager to present to you Inverted Syntax print Issue 3. We hope you enjoy it as much as we did reading, curating, editing, and assembling it. We hope it means as much to you as it does to us. Stay safe and take care of yourselves. Until next time, with love, Nawal Nader-French Special thanks to Editors, Yesica Mirambeaux and Jesica Davis for their help in editing this letter. compiled by Nawal Nader-French
Widening the Path: The Importance of Publishing Black Writers by Elizabeth Nunez THE LITERARY LIFE January/February 2017 https://www.pw.org/content/widening_the_path_the_importance_of_publishing_black_writers In this article, the writer explores how white comfort and familiarity often determine work that is selected for publication which negatively impacts Black writers accepted into the publishing industry. In addition the article further discounts the rumor that there isn't an audience for black books. DIVERSITY, DIVERSITY 102, DIVERSITY BASELINE SURVEY, DIVERSITY, RACE, AND REPRESENTATION: WHERE IS THE DIVERSITY IN PUBLISHING? THE 2019 DIVERSITY BASELINE SURVEY RESULTS JANUARY 28, 2020 LEEANDLOWBOOKS 371 COMMENTS The Diversity Baseline Survey (DBS 2.0) was created by Lee & Low Books with co-authors Laura M. Jiménez, PhD, Boston University Wheelock College of Education & Human Development and Betsy Beckert, graduate student in the Language and Literacy Department of Wheelock College of Education & Human Development https://blog.leeandlow.com/2020/01/28/2019diversitybaselinesurvey/ A survey that examines the importance of diversity in publishing and how culture can be shaped by the publishing industry. The statistics presented reveal a diverse workforce that is surveyed over time that track the progress the publishing industry is doing towards improving representation and inclusion. The survey also examines how the publishing industry is not compromised of BIPOC and the ability to transform culture is limited when diverse voices are not represented. Diversity In Book Publishing Isn't Just About Writers — Marketing Matters, Too August 9, 20169:55 AM ET JEAN HO https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2016/08/09/483875698/diversity-in-book-publishing-isnt-just-about-writers-marketing-matters-too In this article, the writer advocates for marketing strategies to improve and raise interest in black writers work. The writer argues that it is ingrained in American society that the great American novel is an exclusive white right and only accessible and possible through the lens of a white writer. The writer also argues that a future shift needs to occur where publishers and readers see black literature as the art it is rather than anthropology. Black Authors and Self-Publishing by Zetta Elliott Mar 16, 2015 | Filed in News & Features https://www.slj.com/?detailStory=black-authors-and-self-publishing Published in 2015, 75 percent of white people in America had no friends of color. While most of America continues to grow in diversity neighborhoods and schools reveal that the situation is rapidly “resegregating”. The article examines the need for diverse children’s literature to help deepen understanding, compassion and value for varied races. With diverse texts, students will be exposed to children other than themselves and begin to shape white children’s lens in an effort to dismantle racism in the country. The Role Publishing Plays in the Commodification of Black Pain L.L. McKinney Wed Jun 17, 2020 10:00am https://www.tor.com/2020/06/17/the-role-publishing-plays-in-the-commodification-of-black-pain/ This article explores the conditioning of the type of writing black writers must adhere to for their work to be consisted for publication. Most notable is the message that the stories of Black authors, Black readers, and Black people as a whole aren’t valued if they do not write the stereotypical stories expected of them. Black pain becomes commodified as similar black works find their way into publication based on the trauma within. The writer further argues that non-Black readers exploit their reading of black trauma by “somehow feeling they’ve accomplished something. They’ve managed activism by bearing witness to the events of the book”. Publishing has ignored and pigeonholed black authors for too long Magdalene Abraha June 9, 2020 https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2020/jun/09/publishing-has-ignored-and-pigeonholed-black-authors-for-too-long The most recent census by the Authors’ Licensing and Collecting Society revealed that only 6% of authors published in the UK are people of colour. A 2019 report found that just 7% of children’s books featured a BAME character. Last year, the Publishers Association found that only 13% of those working in publishing were BAME (in an industry that is mostly based in London – yet the proportion who went to private school was three times the national figure). BAME and shame: How non-white writers are shunned by the books industry 19 April 2016 https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/4mSrgmB7JfJ9ynKwBX3FyKK/bame-and-shame-how-non-white-writers-are-shunned-by-the-books-industry In this article, the writer addresses the need for more people of color on the operation and infrastructure side of publishing. Most importantly is a reference to editors curating issues that are not just about their tastes but about “interesting, eclectic list that's diverse in every sense, not just racially.” In the UK, research has identified that Black, Asian and minority ethnic (BAME) authors are consistently under-represented in the publishing industry. Research indicated that white publishing industry minimizes the importance of black and people of color writers. In addition, the press and literary festivals regularly ignore writers of color. Ramdarshan Bold, M. The Eight Percent Problem: Authors of Colour in the British Young Adult Market (2006–2016). Pub Res Q 34, 385–406 (2018). https://doi.org/10.1007/s12109-018-9600-5 The research in the article reveals that the publishing industry is dominated by Anglo-American female authors. Most interesting was British male writers of color were poorly represented. When one considers how the educational culture of people of color is shaped by literature and the need to read literary representations, one begins to wonder the impact of lack of black literature by males has on black and people of color. Kelly Capatosto, Lena Tenney, and Sarah Mamo Cheryl Staats. STATE OF THE SCIENCE: IMPLICIT BIAS REVIEW 2017 Edition http://kirwaninstitute.osu.edu/implicit-bias-training/resources/2017-implicit-bias-review.pdf In this training guide, readers are presented with ways to identify and address implicit bias. The review shows how systemic racism is prevalent. How Can Literary Magazines Counter Their Biases? Elisa Gabbert https://electricliterature.com/how-can-literary-magazines-counter-their-biases/ In this article, the writer examines the ways in which editors can consider how to include diverse works while also still considering work under blind conditions. Blind submissions are meant to eliminate biases but in that respect, are editors reading with an implicit bias, a lens that prefers white writing, that regardless of blinded submissions, work is still being selected by white writers. Is eradicating the ability to identify race entirely helpful towards the goal of shaping a publishing industry that publishes more diverse works. THE ANSWER TO IMPLICIT RACISM MIGHT BE IN CHILDREN'S LITERATURE Could diverse protagonists reduce racial anxiety? NOAH BERLATSKY UPDATED:JUN 14, 2017ORIGINAL:DEC 2, 2014 https://psmag.com/social-justice/answer-implicit-racism-might-childrens-literature-95094 “Children’s literature is not a diverse space. Of 3,200 children's books published in 2013, only 67 were written by African-American writers, and only 93 centered on black characters. That's actually the lowest tally recorded since 1994, when the Cooperative Children's Book Centre began collecting data. Children's books didn't do much better with American Indian, Asian, or Latino kids. For children of color, children's books offer few role models and few heroes who look like them.” How white people uphold systemic racism in publishing Raimey Gallant June 16, 2020 https://raimeygallant.com/2020/06/16/howwhitepeopleupholdsystemicracisminpublishing/White people uphold systemic racism in publishing by not doing the right thing sometimes when it means doing the right thing will benefit people of color and especially BIPOC (Black and Indigenous people of color) in publishing more than it will benefit  To our community, We are bereft of words adequate enough to express our anger and sadness surrounding the horrifying systemic policies and violence that have continuously impacted the lives of African-Americans and recently reignited by George Floyd’s violent murder at the hands of Minneapolis police. On behalf of the entire Inverted Syntax team I would like to express that we explicitly denounce state-sanctioned violence, white supremacy, and the racist belief systems that have been in the USA over the course of its history. Inverted Syntax stands in solidarity with the Black members of our community, the Black Lives Matter movement, and echoes the cries of “No Justice: No Peace.” I am Nawal, the editor-in-chief, and I am a mixed-race person. I edit the journal with a talented mix of volunteers, writers, and artists but we are a less-than-optimal racially mixed staff that the publication is striving for. As one who is Ghanaian and Lebanese and was raised in Ghana, W. Africa until the age of eleven at which point we moved to Lebanon, I have understood what it means to live as a person of color in racist societies. Yet while I have experienced racial discrimination in the various countries I have lived in, I am also acutely aware the privilege associated with being a light-skinned mixed-race person, a privilege in white societies and one that my African-American friends and family do not enjoy. I am also aware that by being able to claim I am Ghanaian, that I know my ancestry, which carries another type of privilege. But ultimately, it is about skin color in a racist society and my Black family members and I have often discussed the ways in which the world perceives and receives us differently based primarily on color. And when you grow up in this context, you cannot help but see yourself as part of your family’s struggle; a struggle that is personal and real not an abstract form of pain, but pain of which you know through their suffering. The suffering of our African-American family and friends is incomparable and it persists as intergenerational trauma caused by events that have targeted a group of people. And this occurs in African-American lives more than other people of color, so even when family members have not directly experienced the trauma, they can feel the effects of the event generations later. In fact, sociologists define the African-American trauma as Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome, and a condition that exists as a consequence of centuries of chattel slavery followed by institutionalized racism and oppression which have resulted in multigenerational adaptive behavior, which ends up reflecting both resilience and anger (https://www.joydegruy.com/post-traumatic-slave-syndrome). African-Americans have been abused for generations. They continue to suffer in 2020 in a society that is not designed for their success in any shape or form, and each one of us who has ever enjoyed any shape or form of privilege is under obligation to do our part towards dismantling racist system and beliefs . And it starts with the narrative. At Inverted Syntax we are telling a story through the words, works, and people we publish, and we must actively seek ways to revise and create a more inclusive narrative. When we do, we do our part and begin to tear at the vestiges of racism that work through all aspects of society that end up seeping into our veins to become our implicit biases and yes, even amongst people of color like myself. So today, I want to let you know that we at Inverted Syntax are going to do better. We have in the past discussed ways to improve attracting writers from diverse backgrounds but only took small steps last year. We recognize the role we have played since we started Inverted Syntax in 2018, evidenced in the works we have published and how what we publish reflects what we stand for. Our mission has been focused on publishing genre-bending work from writers and artists from all backgrounds but we have not delivered on that mission. Simply stating our desire to publish marginalized writers is not enough for us to successfully attract and publish vital stories that connect us all. We do not want our statement to read as a “nice to be included” in the submission call. We mean it and want to take actions to make this a reality. As a literary magazine, we have a responsibility to take action in dismantling the systems of oppression, so in light of the aforementioned, we have been reflecting on the ways we have held implicit biases and as a result been complicit in these systems of oppression. We have thus been investigating our practices so that all facets of Inverted Syntax mirror our humanity, our values as those who vehemently oppose racism and desire racial equity, and as those who seek to actively support ways to eradicate all traces of discrimination that persist and suppress human beings. We have been asking ourselves questions so as to hold ourselves accountable in the role we have played in the spaces we have made and not made for Black, Indigenous, and all artists and writers of color, and furthermore, we are asking ourselves questions to help us design actionable steps to help us reform our publishing practices. Questions the Inverted Syntax team is asking about our practices as a journal: 1. Are marginalized groups submitting to our journal? What groups are they? 2. If Black, indigenous, and writers of color are submitting to our journal, why are we not selecting their work? 3. Since we read work blind, why is our lens shaped to select white writers and white stories? What are our implicit biases that shape our reading lens? What are the arguments for and against reading blind? Do we need a call for unblinded submissions? 4. What can we do to encourage more submissions from diverse writers? 5. How do we build a racially diverse group of Inverted readers? Below are actions that our Inverted Syntax team has agreed to undertake: 6. Build a racially diverse group of readers and submitters: The editors will actively seek to partner with VONA, HBUCs, the Institute of American Indian Arts, and other organizations, inviting their writers and artists to apply to be readers, interns, and to submit work. 7. We want to improve our understanding of the African-American experience, and so we will each be taking a certificated course through the University of Chicago that we hope helps us become better readers of multiracial texts. https://www.coursera.org/learn/race-cultural-diversity-american-life 8. We are creating and sending out a survey to our past submitters to help us learn the identities sending us work and solicit any feedback in helping us improve how we attract submitters and continue to read blind with a lens not set up to filter out racially diverse texts/writers. 9. We are looking to design an online zoom discussion titled How do we dismantle our white lens and rebuild a new inclusive lens? 10. We will be examining our readership at the end of every submission call and revising and implementing revised actions. 11. We will be attending webinars throughout the year led by members of the Black community to help us keep growing and learning and we will continue to hold ourselves accountable. 12. We will continue to offer a free option during every submission call to anyone who is disadvantaged. 13. We will actively support businesses and organizations owned and run by BIPOC through our social media platforms. 14. If as Harryette Mullen says “you'd want your artistic activity to connect to some political activity in order to affect reality,” Inverted will put out a special call next Spring for an online feature inviting artists and writers to submit work with a specific focus on social and political activism. 15. I will make it a practice of ours to now send a monthly message to our team with a reading and reflection so that we begin to address the implicit biases we may have for work by writers of color. We will look at the writings of Harryette Mullen, Fred Moten, Paul Beatty, Renee Gladman, Claudia Rankine, Nathanial Mackey, Cornelius Eady, Joy Harjo, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, HEAVY by Kiese Laymon, Jesmyn Ward, Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah, Hanif Abdurraqib, Tracy K Smith, Lucille Clifton, Ross Gay, and Terrence Hayes. This is a starting place and we will continue to add to this list. 16. We are reading the following articles and attachments located below: http://writing.upenn.edu/epc/authors/mullen/interview-new.html https://www.fenceportal.org/whats-african-american-about-african-american-poetry/ We celebrated our 2nd birthday on June 5th, and as fledgling we are working to build a foundation that can confidently claim to be anti-racist in its practices. We want to fight systemic problems by not just avoiding patterns, but doing what we can to disrupt the pattern — to disrupt the syntax. We invite you to join us and to join in the conversation that educates, that disrupts, that heals, because that’s what healing requires, a disruption of the disease and the disease is an oppression. We ask that you hold us to our commitments and expect more of us as a journal and as individuals. We want to hear from you, we want feedback. Please do not hesitate to share with us your thoughts and suggestions. Yours truly, Nawal 
 Dear Reader:
Welcome to the second print edition of Inverted Syntax. For optimal enjoyment, please read cover to cover. Reading this journal will make you more interesting. It will incite, arouse, and stir your memories, your realities, your un-realities. It will make you more attractive. It could even save your life. In recent days, I've been diving into Iggy Pop's “Til Wrong Feels Right," and face-planted on the truth behind the title. There is a lot of face-planting in the "wrong" of things — in life and in writing — compared to the handful of right moments spent aloft, the crazed and beautiful grin of a five-year-old greeting the world. Our contributors have poured themselves into the works you find here. They have skinned their knees and egos for this. Our readers and editors have committed countless hours and, more importantly, heart and brain cells, for what you now hold in your hands, til wrong felt right, we are more than a little excited about what you're about to find between our lovely covers. This issue reminds me that language is architecture — that the poet makes a flying buttress of words, that a line break, well placed, can find your heart sliding off the end of an I-beam. I have bruised myself in these pages, bumped into the words, grabbed my shins, realized how necessary it is to rearrange the furniture at times, to disrupt and challenge over-worn pathways of language and thought. New in this edition, you'll find the winner, runners-up, and finalists to our Sublingua Prize for Poetry, judged this year by Dorothea Lasky. And you'll find what our readers and editors culled from submissions, work that reflects the multitudes, work that challenges definition, that pierces and scurries, offers the look of structure, but not always shelter. In seeking disruptions in thought, word, syntax, we have found them. We are thrilled to share them with you. We thank you for being here. We "Dear Reader" you for that. The writing and art you find here begs you to consume it. We want to see it leak from the corners of your mouths and shine from your eyes. We hope you devour it and return to feast again. Because we believe this work will nourish and inspire. Welcome to the table. Love, Melanie Merle Editorial Assistant
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The quaint and charming space of Syntax Physic Opera, found right along 554th and Broadway is the perfect spot for such an event. The warm lighting, artistic architecture, classy decor, and friendly bar with a vast selection cocktails and dishes helped make the music venue an enchanting literary haven. But it was those who filled the space that brought it to life: readers, writers, artists, lit lovers, fashion designers, coffee enthusiasts, and so much more, all with our loaded arsenal of zines, mags, merch, and more. From our numerous, varied backgrounds, everyone here came together to share in our common love of the literary culture.
I spent most of my time perusing each publication and thoroughly enjoying meeting with the people behind the scenes, learning about each publication and about the editors themselves. We chatted about everything from our magazines’ visions to the peculiar printing presses we use to the day jobs we find ourselves in when we’re not creating art. Typically, when we read published work, we sometimes forget about the hard work involved in the process of putting out a print issue; we may forget that there are minds and hearts behind those words and art, so it was a refreshing opportunity for me to be able to interact with other people behind the scenes of independent publications.
Raw Fury
 Punch Drunk Press |  Stain'd |
Attending this event was a wonderful way to wrap up my semester long internship at Inverted Syntax. The community, creativity, and passion that filled the venue that 4/20 evening was truly a treasure for any resident of the literary world--I’m already looking forward to Volume 3 of Meet the Mags. I left the venue with an armful of zines, cards, and merch, and a brain full of artistic inspiration.
All previous photos by M. Bui
 Interns and Nawal discuss Inverted Syntax with interested readers. |  Kathy Fish and Nawal Nader-French |
by Nawal Nader-French
Inverted Syntax is thrilled to be one of 12 Denver mags at Meet the Mags Volume 2 event this Saturday and we are especially honored to have the phenomenal author Kathy Fish read for us!
This is your chance to explore the literary scene in Denver and discover the city’s best independent lit mags and zines. It’s a free night of live readings, cocktails, and the chance to meet the editors, writers, poets and artists who make this town tick.
The Mags You'll Meet....
-Stain'd Arts
-Suspect Press
-Sheriff Nottingham
-F(r)iction
-Punch Drunk Press
-Coffee People Zine
-is PRESS
-Spaceboy Books
-Pollux Zine
-New Skin Magazine
-The Yellow Rake
-Inverted Syntax
Meet the Mags Volume 2 Event Details
Facebook Event Page
Inverted Syntax is thrilled to be one of 12 Denver mags at Meet the Mags Volume 2 event this Saturday and we are especially honored to have the phenomenal author Kathy Fish read for us!
This is your chance to explore the literary scene in Denver and discover the city’s best independent lit mags and zines. It’s a free night of live readings, cocktails, and the chance to meet the editors, writers, poets and artists who make this town tick.
The Mags You'll Meet....
-Stain'd Arts
-Suspect Press
-Sheriff Nottingham
-F(r)iction
-Punch Drunk Press
-Coffee People Zine
-is PRESS
-Spaceboy Books
-Pollux Zine
-New Skin Magazine
-The Yellow Rake
-Inverted Syntax
Meet the Mags Volume 2 Event Details
- Saturday at 6 PM – 8 PM
- Syntax Physic Opera : 554 S Broadway, Denver, Colorado 80209
- Hosted by Sheriff Nottingham
Facebook Event Page
Elizabeth Hellstern’s from http://www.elizabethhellstern.com/telepoembooth/ by Kathryne Lim
When I stepped inside the Telepoem Booth in Santa Fe and picked up the receiver, I was excited to engage with poetry in a whole new way. Elizabeth Hellstern’s imaginative idea had been transformed into a brilliant reality. The use of the disappearing phone booth is not only whimsical, but offers a touch of nostalgia, a nod to the days of gritty connectivity.
I heard about the project shortly after moving back to Santa Fe and was very intrigued by it. In the booth, I listened to Joan Logghe, former Santa Fe poet laureate, read one of her poems. Listening to the poem in a public, but also private, intimate space caused me to think about the ways we encounter poetry, and how poetry can be incorporated into our everyday lives.
The Telepoem Booth is an interactive, multi-sensory, community-based art piece that connects an audience to poetry through active participation. The viewing public is invited to enter the Telepoem Booth, where they find a directory listing poets and their individual poems alongside an assigned telephone number. Once they choose a poem and dial the number on a rotary phone, an .mp3 recording of the poem recited by the poet plays through the receiver.
The Telepoem Booth debuted at the Mesa Arts Center in Mesa, AZ, and was followed up with another booth in Flagstaff, AZ. A permanent Telepoem Booth, with 150 poems from writers in the area, is located in College State, PA. Recent Telepoem Booths debuted at the Center for Contemporary Arts in Santa Fe, NM and at Burris Hall on the campus of Highlands University in Las Vegas, NM. The City of Santa Fe has acquired a permanent Telepoem Kiosk, which will feature 155 poems by poets in the area. Another booth is forthcoming at the Wolf Museum of Exploration and Innovation in Santa Barbara, CA.
Poems are curated, usually through an open call to poets living in the region. Poets of all levels and stages of their careers are encouraged to participate. The individual poets and booths will eventually form a network, connecting poets and audiences alike.
On what inspired the project’s origins, Hellstern shared, “I was in love with touching the art objects when I hung shows, and wished that everyone could feel the pieces as intimately as I got to when they visited the gallery. When I went back to school for my MFA, I wanted to create an interactive art piece that people could touch as much as they wanted. As a writer, I wanted to make words more multimedia.”
What is most appealing to me about this project is the way it makes poetry accessible and inviting to an audience that may not otherwise reach out for it. As Hellstern says, “The booths create a strong sense of community in the poets and users and have created positive interactions with poetry that might not otherwise be possible. Our hope is that poetry can make a difference in the world.”
Anyone interested in having a Telepoem Booth in their area should contact the Telepoem Booth Organization for more information.
Telepoembooth.com
Facebook.com/telepoembooth
@telepoembooth
And check out these additional sources:
When I stepped inside the Telepoem Booth in Santa Fe and picked up the receiver, I was excited to engage with poetry in a whole new way. Elizabeth Hellstern’s imaginative idea had been transformed into a brilliant reality. The use of the disappearing phone booth is not only whimsical, but offers a touch of nostalgia, a nod to the days of gritty connectivity.
I heard about the project shortly after moving back to Santa Fe and was very intrigued by it. In the booth, I listened to Joan Logghe, former Santa Fe poet laureate, read one of her poems. Listening to the poem in a public, but also private, intimate space caused me to think about the ways we encounter poetry, and how poetry can be incorporated into our everyday lives.
The Telepoem Booth is an interactive, multi-sensory, community-based art piece that connects an audience to poetry through active participation. The viewing public is invited to enter the Telepoem Booth, where they find a directory listing poets and their individual poems alongside an assigned telephone number. Once they choose a poem and dial the number on a rotary phone, an .mp3 recording of the poem recited by the poet plays through the receiver.
The Telepoem Booth debuted at the Mesa Arts Center in Mesa, AZ, and was followed up with another booth in Flagstaff, AZ. A permanent Telepoem Booth, with 150 poems from writers in the area, is located in College State, PA. Recent Telepoem Booths debuted at the Center for Contemporary Arts in Santa Fe, NM and at Burris Hall on the campus of Highlands University in Las Vegas, NM. The City of Santa Fe has acquired a permanent Telepoem Kiosk, which will feature 155 poems by poets in the area. Another booth is forthcoming at the Wolf Museum of Exploration and Innovation in Santa Barbara, CA.
Poems are curated, usually through an open call to poets living in the region. Poets of all levels and stages of their careers are encouraged to participate. The individual poets and booths will eventually form a network, connecting poets and audiences alike.
On what inspired the project’s origins, Hellstern shared, “I was in love with touching the art objects when I hung shows, and wished that everyone could feel the pieces as intimately as I got to when they visited the gallery. When I went back to school for my MFA, I wanted to create an interactive art piece that people could touch as much as they wanted. As a writer, I wanted to make words more multimedia.”
What is most appealing to me about this project is the way it makes poetry accessible and inviting to an audience that may not otherwise reach out for it. As Hellstern says, “The booths create a strong sense of community in the poets and users and have created positive interactions with poetry that might not otherwise be possible. Our hope is that poetry can make a difference in the world.”
Anyone interested in having a Telepoem Booth in their area should contact the Telepoem Booth Organization for more information.
Telepoembooth.com
Facebook.com/telepoembooth
@telepoembooth
And check out these additional sources:
- http://www.telepoembooth.com/
- https://www.ccasantafe.org/current-exhibitions/1702-elizabeth-hellstern-the-telepoem-booth-project
- http://www.elizabethhellstern.com/telepoembooth/
- http://www.santafenewmexican.com/news/local_news/dialing-up-a-poetic-moment/article_b1acfe8a-942e-529a-ad88-178b62fc6c97.html
- “Telepoem Booth Grand Re-Opening” Arizona Daily Sun: http://azdailysun.com/telepoem-booth-grand-re-opening/collection_894da316-ffcd-51f3-bebe-0cddc70a6317.html
- “Phonebooth With A Poetic Twist” by BrandTwist: http://brandtwist.com/brand-experience/phonebooth-with-a-poetic-twist/
- “The Telepoem Booth: An Audio Postcard” NPR station KNAU: http://knau.org/post/telepoem-booth#stream/0
- “Dialing for Poetry” Flagstaff Business News: http://www.flagstaffbusinessnews.com/dialing-for-poetry/
- “Telepoem Booth: Where the Poems Replace The Dial-Tone” NAZ Today: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Nh2xQWKPKDI&feature=youtu.be
- “Telepoem Booth” 4 Flag TV: http://www.4flagtv.com/show/flag/telepoem-booth
- “Wait For The Poem: The Telepoem Booth Makes Its Local Debut” Flag Live: http://m.azdailysun.com/flaglive/cover_story/wait-for-the-poem-the-telepoem-booth-makes-its-local/article_4b8b0467-f5ef-5abd-9f6d-27a38b7f834c.html?utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook&utm_campaign=user-share
- “Telepoem Booth: Just Dial and Listen” by My Red Travel Shoe: http://myredtravelshoe.com/everydays/telepoem-booth/
- “Sneak Peek of the Telepoem Booth” by Nell Smith: https://nellissmith.wordpress.com/2016/03/07/sneak-peek-of-the-telepoem-booth/
- “Caller’s Dial Up Poems In Telepoem Booth at Mesa Arts Center” NPR station KJZZ: http://kjzz.org/content/279981/callers-dial-poems-telepoem-booth-mesa-arts-center
- “The Telepoem Booth Project”: https://vimeo.com/148568368
Jesica Carson Davis & Nawal Nader-French
When the editors met at The Dikeou Pop-up gallery on Colfax we didn’t know what to anticipate. We've heard great things from writers like Steven Dunn, who recommended it as his favorite Denver art and literary space in our interview with him. Still, we wondered if it would be the right spot for the journal launch. Upon visiting, the Dikeou Pop-up gallery felt like the perfect spot to celebrate launching the first print issue of Inverted Syntax because like us, it’s scrappy but extensible.
“Located in the former Jerry’s Record Exchange storefront, Dikeou Pop-Up: Colfax is an extension of the Dikeou Collection and offers an alternative art experience in the heart of Denver. Work by artists Lizzi Bougatsos, Sarah Staton Supastore Supastars, Rainer Ganahl, Anicka Yi, and Devon Dikeou is on view at this location. The Dikeou Collection’s vinyl, laserdisc, and CEDs are archived here. Please see the Events section of the site to find information on upcoming programs at Dikeou Pop-Up: Colfax.”
It takes a few minutes to get settled into the space but once you do, it quickly becomes that perfectly sized event hall you wish you had had access to in the 90s. The space feels very liminal: a hybrid place for showcasing art, but also a celebration of words and full of music: party attendees are encouraged to pull one of the thousands of records that remain from the gallery’s former life as a record store and play them during the party!
“Located in the former Jerry’s Record Exchange storefront, Dikeou Pop-Up: Colfax is an extension of the Dikeou Collection and offers an alternative art experience in the heart of Denver. Work by artists Lizzi Bougatsos, Sarah Staton Supastore Supastars, Rainer Ganahl, Anicka Yi, and Devon Dikeou is on view at this location. The Dikeou Collection’s vinyl, laserdisc, and CEDs are archived here. Please see the Events section of the site to find information on upcoming programs at Dikeou Pop-Up: Colfax.”
It takes a few minutes to get settled into the space but once you do, it quickly becomes that perfectly sized event hall you wish you had had access to in the 90s. The space feels very liminal: a hybrid place for showcasing art, but also a celebration of words and full of music: party attendees are encouraged to pull one of the thousands of records that remain from the gallery’s former life as a record store and play them during the party!
Choose a record to play
When we say we’ve got an exciting line-up of readers, we’re not kidding: poets, novelists, essayists, and uncategorizable writers (see the list below). These extraordinary humans are gathering to read to us, to wash us with words, to cleanse us, wake and restore us to the art form we are meant to be. You’ll be entertained, engaged, and you will leave feeling inspired.
Arrive at 6 for appetizers, drinks, and lively conversation; the readings begin at 6:45 with another break in between — we want everyone to meet and mingle, to build community. The event is free and open to all.
Come party with us!
Arrive at 6 for appetizers, drinks, and lively conversation; the readings begin at 6:45 with another break in between — we want everyone to meet and mingle, to build community. The event is free and open to all.
Come party with us!
Event Details
Featuring readings by :
ANDREA REXILIUS | ERIC BAUS | KATHY FISH |
JEANINE PFEIFFER | JESICA CARSON DAVIS
And the one and only Levi Andrew Noe will emcee!
Come soak up Music, Drinks, Appetizers, and All the Words
Dikeou Pop-Up: Colfax
6:00- 8:30pm
It’s FREE, FREE, FREE and OPEN to the PUBLIC.
Featuring readings by :
ANDREA REXILIUS | ERIC BAUS | KATHY FISH |
JEANINE PFEIFFER | JESICA CARSON DAVIS
And the one and only Levi Andrew Noe will emcee!
Come soak up Music, Drinks, Appetizers, and All the Words
Dikeou Pop-Up: Colfax
6:00- 8:30pm
It’s FREE, FREE, FREE and OPEN to the PUBLIC.
About the Readers:
Jesica Carson Davis is a poet and technical writer living in Denver after several decades of travel. Her work has appeared in The Laurel Review, Zone 3, Columbia Poetry Review, Stoneboat, Storm Cellar, After Hours, and other places. Jesica worked as a typesetter for the University of Chicago Press, learned bookbinding at Columbia College, was the final Alice Maxine Bowie Fellow at Lighthouse Writers Workshop (2016-2017), and won Pilgrimage Press’s Tarantula Prize for Poetry (2019). Currently, she’s working on several poetry manuscripts and an ongoing project making poemboxes, which sculpturally interpret her words. Jesica initially started as a Reader for Inverted Syntax and is currently their Associate Editor.
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Jeanine Pfeiffer is an ethnoecologist with over 25 years’ experience in Asia, Africa, and the Americas, Dr. Pfeiffer is a senior lecturer at San José State University and a scientific advisor to government, tribal, non-profit and community-based organization. Chapters from her book-in-progress, The Language of Endangered Hearts, have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, anthologized, and published in the Bellevue Literary Review (“All Our Relations”), Hippocampus (“Until We Have Loved”), The Guardian, High Country News, Camas, The Citron Review, Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment, and elsewhere.
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Andrea Rexilius is the author of The Way the Language Was (Letter Machine, forthcoming in Spring 2020), New Organism: Essais (Letter Machine, 2014), Half of What They Carried Flew Away (Letter Machine, 2012), and To Be Human Is To Be a Conversation (Rescue Press, 2011). Other creative and critical work appears in Academy of American Poets, Ampersand Review, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, the Elephants, Jubilat, Timber, and elsewhere. She is Core Faculty in Poetry, and Program Coordinator, for the Mile-High MFA in Creative Writing at Regis University. She also teaches in the Poetry Collective at the Lighthouse Writers Workshop in Denver, Colorado.
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Eric Baus is the author of five books of poetry: The Tranquilized Tongue, (City Lights 2014), Scared Text, winner of the Colorado Prize for Poetry (Center for Literary Publishing, 2011), Tuned Droves (Octopus Books, 2009), and The To Sound, winner of the Verse Prize (Wave Books, 2004). How I Became a Hum (Octopus Books, 2018). He is also the author of several chapbooks, most recently The Rain Of The Ice (Above/Ground Press 2014). His poems have been translated into Spanish, Italian, and Finnish. Eric is a graduate of the PhD program in Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Denver as well as the MFA program for poets and writers at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. He teaches literature and creative writing at Regis University’s Mile High MFA program in Denver.
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Kathy Fish’s short stories and flash fictions have appeared in Guernica, Indiana Review, Hobart, Denver Quarterly, Yemassee Review and elsewhere. She is the author of five collections of short fiction, most recently Wild Life: Collected Works from 2003-2018 from Matter Press. Fish’s “Collective Nouns for Humans in the Wild” which addresses the scourge of gun violence and mass shootings in America, will be anthologized in the newest edition of The Norton Reader. The piece was also reprinted in Best American Nonrequired Reading 2018, edited by Sheila Heti and was chosen by Aimee Bender for Best Small Fictions 2018. Previously, Fish’s story, “Strong Tongue” was chosen by Amy Hempel for Best Small Fictions, 2017. Her work was also chosen by Stuart Dybek for Best Small Fictions 2016. Kathy is a faculty mentor in Fiction at the Mile-High MFA at Regis University in Denver. Additionally, she teaches two-week intensive Fast Flash© Workshops.
The Inverted Syntax print issue is available on our or via Amazon. The issue features new work by Rae Armantrout, Khadijah Queen, Philip Metres, and many more.
by And Schuster
We, as humans, like to think of events as having a beginning, a middle and an end--things we can pack up neatly and put away, perhaps to take out to examine when we feel so called. The truth is, though, that many human experiences are not singular or finite. Certain patterns or events originating in the past, such as abuse or chronic illness, can persist into the present, perhaps never being fully over. Sometimes it feels impossible to get the distance required not to have a visceral emotional response. Other experiences, like living with racism or homophobia or misogyny, are continual, and while of course we can expect that a writer affected by these issues might gain a certain degree of perspective, expecting distance from something so pervasive just isn’t realistic.
During my first formal foray into creative nonfiction, I encountered this piece of advice in the textbook assigned by my mentor: “If you’re crying while crafting a piece of nonfiction, the tears will smudge the ink, making your work ultimately unreadable. If your hand shakes with anger as you write, your words will veer wildly across the page with no sense of control or design” (Tell It Slant, Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola, p. 44).
The authors were encouraging their students to use discernment in deciding when they’re ready to write about something, and to leave it until later if it was something that still brought them to tears.
The thing is, I write about things that are intense for me. I write about things that make me cry. In the face of Miller and Paoloa’s words, I found myself asking: should I even be writing about the things I most want to write about right now? Am I relegated to writing only about things that don’t have a charge for me? Or can I find a way around it?
I really didn’t know what to do.
On the one hand, I understand the author's point about the need for perspective to create a work that can connect with a reader in a meaningful way. A myopic rant is not going to connect with a reader in the same way as a measured, carefully crafted portrayal of a situation. At the same time, I couldn’t accept staying away from work that was too emotionally charged, because I believe there are some things — some very important things — from which humans may never have distance.
For myself, queerness and being queer from a conservative background is one situation from which I’ll never have total distance. However, it’s a vital issue to write about, for me personally, and for society at large. When I first started trying to write on this topic, I was bleeding onto the page. Not only was it incredibly uncomfortable to share my work with others, but my writing was unstructured and full of abstraction, and just wouldn’t connect to a reader in the way I wanted it to.
That’s where imitation came in.
I don’t remember where I first picked up the idea of imitation (yes, it is ok to sound like your favorite author, and it’s not to be confused with plagiarism), but it’s a common tool writers use to break into their writing, and has also been taught to me in workshops at the Mile High MFA program where I’m currently a student. To use this practice, a writer chooses a piece of work they want to imitate, and sticks to the form--rhyme scheme, parts of speech, etc.--as closely as possible, but with a unique topic of their own choice.
I was reading a lot of Mary Szybist during this time, and her piece “Entrances and Exits” from her book Incarnadine moved me deeply--it is so full of concrete details and no abstraction, yet still deals up close with the immediate, emotional experiences of looking death in the face in ways both big and small.
So, I chose to use her work as a template for form, using the practice of imitation as a tool to develop my skill with detail, as well as to force myself to channel strong emotion into vivid imagery and ideally something that would convey my experiences in a way that would connect with rather than isolate a reader.
A few examples of lines from her work that I used as a structure for my own:
Duccio’s Annunciation sits open on my desk becomes Alanis Morissette’s Under Rug Swept plays on my computer.
I think of honeybees becomes I think of skin cells
until it is empty, Olivia drinks becomes until it is silent, I breathe.
The pieces are similar in structure, but entirely different in tone and meaning. Not only did I find a way into my writing that allows for strong emotion and lack of distance, it was excellent practice for developing the particular craft skills that I need. After doing this a few times, I tried to write my own piece without imitating; it wasn’t perfect, but it was much improved on my previous, pre-imitation work, with detail instead of abstraction and much more appeal to a reader.
Through this experience, I found that forcing a charged topic into structure the perfect way to create some perspective when distance in time or emotion just isn’t possible. I still cried a little when writing my imitation pieces--the topics I am writing about affect me deeply and presently, and will continue to do so for some time--but the strict form helped keep me focused. As a result, my work became (I was told) more accessible to the reader and, hopefully, began to exhibit a sense of composure and design.
We, as humans, like to think of events as having a beginning, a middle and an end--things we can pack up neatly and put away, perhaps to take out to examine when we feel so called. The truth is, though, that many human experiences are not singular or finite. Certain patterns or events originating in the past, such as abuse or chronic illness, can persist into the present, perhaps never being fully over. Sometimes it feels impossible to get the distance required not to have a visceral emotional response. Other experiences, like living with racism or homophobia or misogyny, are continual, and while of course we can expect that a writer affected by these issues might gain a certain degree of perspective, expecting distance from something so pervasive just isn’t realistic.
During my first formal foray into creative nonfiction, I encountered this piece of advice in the textbook assigned by my mentor: “If you’re crying while crafting a piece of nonfiction, the tears will smudge the ink, making your work ultimately unreadable. If your hand shakes with anger as you write, your words will veer wildly across the page with no sense of control or design” (Tell It Slant, Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola, p. 44).
The authors were encouraging their students to use discernment in deciding when they’re ready to write about something, and to leave it until later if it was something that still brought them to tears.
The thing is, I write about things that are intense for me. I write about things that make me cry. In the face of Miller and Paoloa’s words, I found myself asking: should I even be writing about the things I most want to write about right now? Am I relegated to writing only about things that don’t have a charge for me? Or can I find a way around it?
I really didn’t know what to do.
On the one hand, I understand the author's point about the need for perspective to create a work that can connect with a reader in a meaningful way. A myopic rant is not going to connect with a reader in the same way as a measured, carefully crafted portrayal of a situation. At the same time, I couldn’t accept staying away from work that was too emotionally charged, because I believe there are some things — some very important things — from which humans may never have distance.
For myself, queerness and being queer from a conservative background is one situation from which I’ll never have total distance. However, it’s a vital issue to write about, for me personally, and for society at large. When I first started trying to write on this topic, I was bleeding onto the page. Not only was it incredibly uncomfortable to share my work with others, but my writing was unstructured and full of abstraction, and just wouldn’t connect to a reader in the way I wanted it to.
That’s where imitation came in.
I don’t remember where I first picked up the idea of imitation (yes, it is ok to sound like your favorite author, and it’s not to be confused with plagiarism), but it’s a common tool writers use to break into their writing, and has also been taught to me in workshops at the Mile High MFA program where I’m currently a student. To use this practice, a writer chooses a piece of work they want to imitate, and sticks to the form--rhyme scheme, parts of speech, etc.--as closely as possible, but with a unique topic of their own choice.
I was reading a lot of Mary Szybist during this time, and her piece “Entrances and Exits” from her book Incarnadine moved me deeply--it is so full of concrete details and no abstraction, yet still deals up close with the immediate, emotional experiences of looking death in the face in ways both big and small.
So, I chose to use her work as a template for form, using the practice of imitation as a tool to develop my skill with detail, as well as to force myself to channel strong emotion into vivid imagery and ideally something that would convey my experiences in a way that would connect with rather than isolate a reader.
A few examples of lines from her work that I used as a structure for my own:
Duccio’s Annunciation sits open on my desk becomes Alanis Morissette’s Under Rug Swept plays on my computer.
I think of honeybees becomes I think of skin cells
until it is empty, Olivia drinks becomes until it is silent, I breathe.
The pieces are similar in structure, but entirely different in tone and meaning. Not only did I find a way into my writing that allows for strong emotion and lack of distance, it was excellent practice for developing the particular craft skills that I need. After doing this a few times, I tried to write my own piece without imitating; it wasn’t perfect, but it was much improved on my previous, pre-imitation work, with detail instead of abstraction and much more appeal to a reader.
Through this experience, I found that forcing a charged topic into structure the perfect way to create some perspective when distance in time or emotion just isn’t possible. I still cried a little when writing my imitation pieces--the topics I am writing about affect me deeply and presently, and will continue to do so for some time--but the strict form helped keep me focused. As a result, my work became (I was told) more accessible to the reader and, hopefully, began to exhibit a sense of composure and design.
Imitation Resources
Imitation as Inspiration: An Exercise for Writers
Guest Blog: Using Imitation To Learn Writing Skills
Sentence Imitation: Glossary of Grammatical and Rhetorical Terms
Develop your writing muscle through imitation
Writing Exercise: 3 Reasons to Write Imitations of Your Favorite Authors
Freedom to Write—Through Imitation
Writing is Learned by Imitation
Originality, Imitation, and Plagiarism
Imitation Vs. Plagiarism
Creative inspiration vs. imitation – when does copying turn into plagiarism
Imitation is really important, because it’s a very fundamental part of human social interaction
Imitation as Inspiration: An Exercise for Writers
Guest Blog: Using Imitation To Learn Writing Skills
Sentence Imitation: Glossary of Grammatical and Rhetorical Terms
Develop your writing muscle through imitation
Writing Exercise: 3 Reasons to Write Imitations of Your Favorite Authors
Freedom to Write—Through Imitation
Writing is Learned by Imitation
Originality, Imitation, and Plagiarism
Imitation Vs. Plagiarism
Creative inspiration vs. imitation – when does copying turn into plagiarism
Imitation is really important, because it’s a very fundamental part of human social interaction
Dear Fans of Inverted Syntax,
You too can probably relate to the sense of urgency that is created as the calendar year starts closing: to wrap-up the year’s work, to look to the new year with new dreams; an opportunity to be a new self, a better self. Most New Year’s resolutions are about either cutting back on vices or doing more with your life. For me, I usually resolve to eat more greens, workout more, create more, write more, submit more, learn more, and take all my vitamins, every day (not just once a week). Sometimes, I resolve to train for 5K races. Sometimes, I promise I’ll spend more time with my children. I make my goals doable, I chunk the goals, and even then, I still lose steam; I drop those goals, pick up other ones, or sometimes life steps in with other plans and I find myself headed in a new direction. Yet, what I often focus on as the year comes to a close are all the ways I failed to accomplish any of my initial goals, often forgetting to take stock of all that was accomplished.
A few days ago, the editors and I met to finalize the print issue and dream up more for Inverted Syntax in the new year. And we took stock of our accomplishments, including our kick-butt six months of operation in which we produced a fantastic inaugural online issue, while preparing what we feel is a breathtaking print issue coming to you at the end of January 2019. We took seriously our goal of publishing daring work, finding emerging voices, exploring hybridity.
We are also taking stock of you who reads the work, shares the work, submits work to us. We are indeed very grateful for the support of our contributors and readers. And as thanks for sticking with us, subscribers have access to a Steven Dunn interview.
During our editorial meeting, we discussed our big plans for 2019, which centered around: Doing more for our readers and contributors.Dreaming up more ways to support creative rebels .Being an all-around awesome team able to collaborate and solve problems together.
So this 2019, look for:
Yes, it’ll mean more work for our small team, but we do have volunteer applicants waiting for us to review their resumes, and undergrad interns from Regis University starting soon, and even then, we will probably find ourselves asking for help as we nurture Inverted Syntax. We hope you’re still here, through it all, reading us, sharing us, and making us live. And together, we will make 2019 the year of Inverted's creative rebels.
Happy New Year, everyone.
With love,
Nawal
You too can probably relate to the sense of urgency that is created as the calendar year starts closing: to wrap-up the year’s work, to look to the new year with new dreams; an opportunity to be a new self, a better self. Most New Year’s resolutions are about either cutting back on vices or doing more with your life. For me, I usually resolve to eat more greens, workout more, create more, write more, submit more, learn more, and take all my vitamins, every day (not just once a week). Sometimes, I resolve to train for 5K races. Sometimes, I promise I’ll spend more time with my children. I make my goals doable, I chunk the goals, and even then, I still lose steam; I drop those goals, pick up other ones, or sometimes life steps in with other plans and I find myself headed in a new direction. Yet, what I often focus on as the year comes to a close are all the ways I failed to accomplish any of my initial goals, often forgetting to take stock of all that was accomplished.
A few days ago, the editors and I met to finalize the print issue and dream up more for Inverted Syntax in the new year. And we took stock of our accomplishments, including our kick-butt six months of operation in which we produced a fantastic inaugural online issue, while preparing what we feel is a breathtaking print issue coming to you at the end of January 2019. We took seriously our goal of publishing daring work, finding emerging voices, exploring hybridity.
We are also taking stock of you who reads the work, shares the work, submits work to us. We are indeed very grateful for the support of our contributors and readers. And as thanks for sticking with us, subscribers have access to a Steven Dunn interview.
During our editorial meeting, we discussed our big plans for 2019, which centered around: Doing more for our readers and contributors.Dreaming up more ways to support creative rebels .Being an all-around awesome team able to collaborate and solve problems together.
So this 2019, look for:
- our launch party in February,
- details in March on our Writing Prize for Emerging Writers with a renowned judge that will make you giddy,
- and also look for the start of a brand new brilliant ‘featurette’ idea for publishing work we love that didn’t make it into the year’s issues.
Yes, it’ll mean more work for our small team, but we do have volunteer applicants waiting for us to review their resumes, and undergrad interns from Regis University starting soon, and even then, we will probably find ourselves asking for help as we nurture Inverted Syntax. We hope you’re still here, through it all, reading us, sharing us, and making us live. And together, we will make 2019 the year of Inverted's creative rebels.
Happy New Year, everyone.
With love,
Nawal
by Tameca L Coleman
“Love is never better than the lover,” Toni Morrison writes in her book The Bluest Eye. It’s a line that has haunted me since the first time I read it. More than once I’ve found myself sitting in the silence of my apartment contemplating the results of my upbringing; the love that was there was often unskilled, wrought by the best intentions and hardship. The love that was there was shaped by economic strife and the damaging social constructions of race. I wondered, so many times if I could heal what I had inherited and love better despite it. But these predicaments seemed to say that earnest and well-intentioned love alone is never enough.
Shane McCrae’s first book of poetry Mule brought these ideas to mind again -- specifically, those moments in which the book begins, where McCrae narrates a marriage. “the twigs by the road were dry enough to burn/ It does not matter if we change,” he writes. Reading lines like these, I wondered: How can people join in union when so much of what cultivates and surrounds the possibility of that union promotes fracture?
An answer comes: As best as one can, even if a departure from that union looms, one tries. Two try. We build a life together, and go about it earnestly, despite whatever upbringing, despite whatever holes in our emotional toolkits, despite whatever social constructs lord themselves over us and shake the foundations we try to build for ourselves loose.
So much of this work hits home for me; I feel it deeply. Despite the sadness in these poems, the beauty and imagery in them make me feel hopeful because the kind of attention paid here only comes out of love.
Mules’ poems work best on me when I read them out loud. They are also visibly impressive. The poems’ fractured forms appear on the page as strange line breaks, repetitions or stutterings, spaces in the text, and slashes that cut through, interrupting memory and emotion. Expression is fraught with interruptions. An example of this is in the poem “A Dancer There.” McCrae writes about when “we divorced”:
“Love is never better than the lover,” Toni Morrison writes in her book The Bluest Eye. It’s a line that has haunted me since the first time I read it. More than once I’ve found myself sitting in the silence of my apartment contemplating the results of my upbringing; the love that was there was often unskilled, wrought by the best intentions and hardship. The love that was there was shaped by economic strife and the damaging social constructions of race. I wondered, so many times if I could heal what I had inherited and love better despite it. But these predicaments seemed to say that earnest and well-intentioned love alone is never enough.
Shane McCrae’s first book of poetry Mule brought these ideas to mind again -- specifically, those moments in which the book begins, where McCrae narrates a marriage. “the twigs by the road were dry enough to burn/ It does not matter if we change,” he writes. Reading lines like these, I wondered: How can people join in union when so much of what cultivates and surrounds the possibility of that union promotes fracture?
An answer comes: As best as one can, even if a departure from that union looms, one tries. Two try. We build a life together, and go about it earnestly, despite whatever upbringing, despite whatever holes in our emotional toolkits, despite whatever social constructs lord themselves over us and shake the foundations we try to build for ourselves loose.
So much of this work hits home for me; I feel it deeply. Despite the sadness in these poems, the beauty and imagery in them make me feel hopeful because the kind of attention paid here only comes out of love.
Mules’ poems work best on me when I read them out loud. They are also visibly impressive. The poems’ fractured forms appear on the page as strange line breaks, repetitions or stutterings, spaces in the text, and slashes that cut through, interrupting memory and emotion. Expression is fraught with interruptions. An example of this is in the poem “A Dancer There.” McCrae writes about when “we divorced”:
| and I see us separating / In him his face that was my face / Becoming yours / His nose still mine I see us separating |
These poetic devices create an anxious feeling, a feeling that at any moment everything can be irrevocably lost, and there is constant evidence that McCrae is speaking from a place that is backed by the kind of love that would fight to hold on. Why else would the couple try with so much stacked against them? They live in a world in which they are largely invisible, which does not support the foundation they would like to build and keep, and they also live in a world in which their feet cannot solidly land.
McCrae’s couple married in a bug’s thorax, a place where seemingly they could not get their footing. They married in a battlefield, and in moments where they were separate from those around them, and each other. Their relationship moved as quickly as speeding trains, as did the world around them, as did time. But they married, even when emotions ran high, even while knowing their flaws, even when their son was diagnosed with autism. There is a sense of the narrator pushing forward despite the terrible odds stacked against him. There is also that sense that love alone is not enough. McCrae writes: “half of love is hope,” and “no animal outruns its past.” When I read these lines, I feel the defeat.
There is so much music and beauty in these poems. We see nature here: birds, the mountains, a bee, a pond. And there is shadow, too. In “The Cardinal is the Marriage Bird,” for example, the book’s introductory poem, we see a symbol of hope becoming a harbinger of what’s to come. The cardinal is the marriage bird, but it is also “a shadow on the snow but still/The sunlight on the snow”; it is “a flash of shadow and the cardinal is the shadow bird/A flash of wound...” The beautiful and the terrible cannot be extricated from each other because they are inextricable strands of life. Spring is a tree “raw with birds.” A beautiful woman walks, but is also bodiless according to her country; she is seen and also dissolved in that seeing: “she loses / Her body” if she ever really had one (of her own). And being mixed, half, mulatto means that you “Will recognize yourself in the singing you / Will not recognize yourself in the songs.”
These poems communicate a yearning for connection that I relate to, and they show that there are barriers that separate husband from wife, son from the father, man from other people, and also God. For all of the trying in marriage, in fatherhood, in life, and in spirit, that sense of separation persists. The textures of these poems create a feeling of trying, clutching, even when there can be no holding on.
The language in these poems feels simple but to think so would be a mistake. These poems are masterfully wrought. One of many of McCrae’s talents is in his power for relaying raw emotion to the reader. The reader is brought into the text and feels every word. For example, in the poem “The Boy Calls Twilight,” the narrator observes his son with love and also the kind of distance that comes with acceptance; love being an inherent emotion for a father, and the distance because there is nothing he or his wife can do to change the boy’s state:
McCrae’s couple married in a bug’s thorax, a place where seemingly they could not get their footing. They married in a battlefield, and in moments where they were separate from those around them, and each other. Their relationship moved as quickly as speeding trains, as did the world around them, as did time. But they married, even when emotions ran high, even while knowing their flaws, even when their son was diagnosed with autism. There is a sense of the narrator pushing forward despite the terrible odds stacked against him. There is also that sense that love alone is not enough. McCrae writes: “half of love is hope,” and “no animal outruns its past.” When I read these lines, I feel the defeat.
There is so much music and beauty in these poems. We see nature here: birds, the mountains, a bee, a pond. And there is shadow, too. In “The Cardinal is the Marriage Bird,” for example, the book’s introductory poem, we see a symbol of hope becoming a harbinger of what’s to come. The cardinal is the marriage bird, but it is also “a shadow on the snow but still/The sunlight on the snow”; it is “a flash of shadow and the cardinal is the shadow bird/A flash of wound...” The beautiful and the terrible cannot be extricated from each other because they are inextricable strands of life. Spring is a tree “raw with birds.” A beautiful woman walks, but is also bodiless according to her country; she is seen and also dissolved in that seeing: “she loses / Her body” if she ever really had one (of her own). And being mixed, half, mulatto means that you “Will recognize yourself in the singing you / Will not recognize yourself in the songs.”
These poems communicate a yearning for connection that I relate to, and they show that there are barriers that separate husband from wife, son from the father, man from other people, and also God. For all of the trying in marriage, in fatherhood, in life, and in spirit, that sense of separation persists. The textures of these poems create a feeling of trying, clutching, even when there can be no holding on.
The language in these poems feels simple but to think so would be a mistake. These poems are masterfully wrought. One of many of McCrae’s talents is in his power for relaying raw emotion to the reader. The reader is brought into the text and feels every word. For example, in the poem “The Boy Calls Twilight,” the narrator observes his son with love and also the kind of distance that comes with acceptance; love being an inherent emotion for a father, and the distance because there is nothing he or his wife can do to change the boy’s state:
 | The boy calls twilight little dark the night Big dark and smiles at the moon on the wall Rocking himself to sleep his head against The padding on the bars until he falls Over and sleeps |
Despite the heartbreak in these moments, they are beautiful. The reader in these moments can’t help but be in the narrator’s shoes, experiencing these dualities.
Mule reads as an artifact of living. It harbors no judgement over the life it reflects, nor does it wield anything over the reader. These poems are intimate, and as a reader of these poems, I felt the same heart pangs of loss via memory that the narrator portrays, and I was also prompted to remember my own. Further, as in McCrae’s book Blood, the poems ring like music, the lines echo and refrain, and the pauses and fragments serve as overlapping song lyrics (for example: “His ghost we didn’t know him in his bel-/ly no. We did not know him no the son/ We had we do not know the son we have”). These poems could be sung.
by Ted Downum
Every writer struggles with motivation. Sometimes, a writer’s own body throws up a test of motivation—the eye strain from staring at the screen too long, the writer’s cramp, the carpal tunnel. Sometimes you might feel too sick to work; it’s that much harder to create an insightful comment on the human condition when your own condition leaves something to be desired.
Like a lot of people, I revert to toddlerhood when I get sick. I do better than some, I think, but not nearly as well as others. If, for instance, I’m waylaid by a rhinovirus, my natural tendencies toward self-pity and misanthropy shift into a higher gear. I want to be left alone on my couch with my clogged sinuses and my bad TV. I don’t want to do anything physically or mentally taxing… which means I don’t want to write.
When this happens, when self-pity has gnawed on me for a little while, eventually I think of a particular writer I’ve admired for many years, and the thought of him doesn’t so much inspire me back to the page as it shames me back. Truth be told, I’m not sure he would have bothered with something as fatuous as “inspiration.”
This acerbic spectre, Dennis Potter, wrote novels, films, and journalism, but mostly he wrote for television. He wrote most of his work while suffering from a severe case of psoriatic arthropathy, a chronic condition that struck him in his twenties and plagued him for the rest of his life. When it flared up, Potter became a very sick man. His skin erupted in raw psoriatic lesions; arthritis would paralyze his joints, leaving him bedridden. Sometimes his temperature rose high that he would hallucinate.
Across a thirty-year span from the sixties to the nineties, his plays for British television pushed back the corners of the small screen, leading his audience between the past and the present, the wished-for and the real. Potter’s plays toyed with dramatic conventions: in some, adults played the roles of children, and characters in other plays expressed their feelings by lip-synching to the popular music of the author’s childhood. In Blue Remembered Hills, Brimstone and Treacle, and Pennies from Heaven, among many others, Dennis Potter explored the twilight regions between innocence and experience, love and lust, the idealized then versus the compromised now.
In The Singing Detective, Potter’s quasi-autobiographical masterpiece, his protagonist Marlow also suffers from psoriatic arthropathy, and Potter’s script stages his hallucinations as bizarre musical numbers, both unnerving and funny: “Dry Bones” scene from TSD 1986
Every writer struggles with motivation. Sometimes, a writer’s own body throws up a test of motivation—the eye strain from staring at the screen too long, the writer’s cramp, the carpal tunnel. Sometimes you might feel too sick to work; it’s that much harder to create an insightful comment on the human condition when your own condition leaves something to be desired.
Like a lot of people, I revert to toddlerhood when I get sick. I do better than some, I think, but not nearly as well as others. If, for instance, I’m waylaid by a rhinovirus, my natural tendencies toward self-pity and misanthropy shift into a higher gear. I want to be left alone on my couch with my clogged sinuses and my bad TV. I don’t want to do anything physically or mentally taxing… which means I don’t want to write.
When this happens, when self-pity has gnawed on me for a little while, eventually I think of a particular writer I’ve admired for many years, and the thought of him doesn’t so much inspire me back to the page as it shames me back. Truth be told, I’m not sure he would have bothered with something as fatuous as “inspiration.”
This acerbic spectre, Dennis Potter, wrote novels, films, and journalism, but mostly he wrote for television. He wrote most of his work while suffering from a severe case of psoriatic arthropathy, a chronic condition that struck him in his twenties and plagued him for the rest of his life. When it flared up, Potter became a very sick man. His skin erupted in raw psoriatic lesions; arthritis would paralyze his joints, leaving him bedridden. Sometimes his temperature rose high that he would hallucinate.
Across a thirty-year span from the sixties to the nineties, his plays for British television pushed back the corners of the small screen, leading his audience between the past and the present, the wished-for and the real. Potter’s plays toyed with dramatic conventions: in some, adults played the roles of children, and characters in other plays expressed their feelings by lip-synching to the popular music of the author’s childhood. In Blue Remembered Hills, Brimstone and Treacle, and Pennies from Heaven, among many others, Dennis Potter explored the twilight regions between innocence and experience, love and lust, the idealized then versus the compromised now.
In The Singing Detective, Potter’s quasi-autobiographical masterpiece, his protagonist Marlow also suffers from psoriatic arthropathy, and Potter’s script stages his hallucinations as bizarre musical numbers, both unnerving and funny: “Dry Bones” scene from TSD 1986
In Potter’s everyday reality, though, the effects of his disease were a constant burden. The repeated attacks of arthritis caused his hands to close up: his fingers curled and fused into permanent, gnarled fists. He couldn’t type. With these new limitations, he had to learn to write again—something else that made its way into The Singing Detective:
| Marlow, in the next bed, is at last trying to write with a pen again. He has it held in his hand by a kind of splint made by the hospital, like a pen-holder attached to his hand. A physiotherapist—a woman in a white coat—sits on the bed beside him, watching. MARLOW: It’s not very legible, and it hurts, but—I tell you one thing. For the first time in my life, I shall have to really think about the value of each and every little word. That’s dangerous, that is. (The Singing Detective, 225) |
The pen strapped to the fist makes a useful metaphor for writerly persistence. As a writer myself—albeit only an aspiring writer—I try to apply myself with a little of Dennis Potter’s bloody-minded persistence.
•
To write well is to test your determination. How determined are you to express your ideas clearly and artfully on the page? How determined are you to get it right, no matter how much revision that might take—and how determined are you to sit down and do it at all, when life puts up barriers, eats up your time, saps your energy? If you do finish something, how determined are you to get it published? Would we write differently, push to get published, if we wrote with urgency, like we had received a terminal diagnosis?
•
Potter died in 1994, of cancer that might have been caused by medications he took to mitigate his psoriatic arthropathy. After he received his terminal diagnosis, he resolved himself to finish two final scripts before his death. He achieved that goal, working with the help of precise pain management and driven by his own commitment to writing--what he called, very sincerely, his vocation.
In his last days, he found an unexpected serenity in the practice of his craft. In the introduction to the posthumously published edition of those two final plays, Potter described what he experienced as “now-ness,” the beauty and the immediacy in his every perception:
•
To write well is to test your determination. How determined are you to express your ideas clearly and artfully on the page? How determined are you to get it right, no matter how much revision that might take—and how determined are you to sit down and do it at all, when life puts up barriers, eats up your time, saps your energy? If you do finish something, how determined are you to get it published? Would we write differently, push to get published, if we wrote with urgency, like we had received a terminal diagnosis?
•
Potter died in 1994, of cancer that might have been caused by medications he took to mitigate his psoriatic arthropathy. After he received his terminal diagnosis, he resolved himself to finish two final scripts before his death. He achieved that goal, working with the help of precise pain management and driven by his own commitment to writing--what he called, very sincerely, his vocation.
In his last days, he found an unexpected serenity in the practice of his craft. In the introduction to the posthumously published edition of those two final plays, Potter described what he experienced as “now-ness,” the beauty and the immediacy in his every perception:
| The rim of the coffee cup, the faint seagull-wing cusp made by a slant of light on top of the coffee…The hard edge of the continent that was my desk, the emptiness of the paper, the wonderful slithers and curls of letters and punctuation marks, and, above all, the curious little bite as the fine-tipped pen I work with made contact with the crisply waiting paper! I could of course go on and on, multiplying to distraction, but it didn’t come out as promiscuous multiplication at all, rather as division. A paring down to what was precisely here precisely now in the very present tense itself full stop. (Karaoke and Cold Lazarus, xii-xiii) |
Writing brought Dennis Potter through his illness; it let him recapture the dignity that his illness took away. As his death approached, the act of writing brought his appreciation of life itself into a crystalline, triumphant focus. I have often thought of him when I don’t feel well, in body or in mind, and I don’t want to sit down and do the work of putting each and every little word in order, of thinking about their value. His example helps me to take up my own pen—to be ready to strap it to my hand, if necessary—and go.
By Jesica Carson Davis
The identity of a writer can be a slippery, tricky one. For years, I hesitated to call myself a poet, even though I was writing poetry. Really though, it’s pretty simple: if you write, you’re a writer.
One thing that can help a writer to own that identity is to establish a regular writing practice. It doesn’t have to be every day — having time, space, energy, and ability to maintain a daily writing practice is a huge privilege — but finding a way to make a habit out of creative practices can drastically affect a writer’s output, as well as their sense of self. I always feel more me, in touch with more layers of my secret selves when I’ve been writing because it gives me a chance to work through and out all the impressions, fears, and wonder that swirls in my head.
I first developed a writing practice the year I moved to Berlin to process the death of my best friend. It was still cheap then (2006), and I’d saved up enough money to take some time off work. Once the initial shock wore off, I’d sit at my desk every weekday and write for five or six hours. Showing up to that practice was the first time I really felt like a writer — because I was writing almost every day. I was showing up for myself, actually doing the thing I always wished I had more time for. I learned that the act of writing, detached from any outcome, makes me happy, makes time disappear in an almost magical way: even when I’m struggling with a piece, I can get lost in word choice, a quest to find a crystalline expression, forgetting myself to become more myself. When I look at the clock, hours have passed, as if hypnotized by concentration.
However, when I came back to the United States and started working again, my writing time slipped away to just few hours a month. I was living in Brooklyn, and even though I was taking workshops at The New School, NYU, and Poets House, my writing practice was sporadic at best. I stopped introducing myself as a poet; as the practice faded, so did my link to the identity.
Things changed when I moved to Denver in 2013. Suddenly isolated from many of my old friends, I had more empty hours to fill, and writing was one way to do so. It helped me feel less lonely, even if I was just communicating with myself. I began spending four or five hours every Saturday at my desk, and more started coming out. The practice helped me to remember who I was (a poet who used to extensively, someone with a huge family both blood and chosen) even though I was far and detached from what had been my life up till then. I wrote about formative, older times as well as my then-current sense of displacement until they eventually wove together to reconcile disparate identities.
When I finally settled into a regular writing practice, I was fed up with myself for wasting time scrolling the internet and watching too much TV. (I still do these things; everyone needs down time, but now I do them in smaller amounts.) So I made myself a quick, handwritten sign and pinned it over my desk: “Make yourself do stuff.” I also printed out the squirrel of judgment and tacked it up next to my sign. Once again, I began to tell people that I was a poet, but more importantly: I felt like one.
Writing regularly, for me, can be a self-reinforcing act. If I’ve worked on a poem or read some poetry in the morning, my day takes on a poetic cast; I’m much more receptive to seeing kernels of potential poems, and more likely to jot them down in a notebook to act on later.
Two years later, that sign I made for myself feels much less urgent; I do and make things pretty regularly now. But the sign stays up; it’s good to have reminders. Michelangelo would agree.
Still, there are times when, no matter how long I sit, the writing just won’t come. It’s important for me to maintain the practice, even when not feeling creative, so during those times, I:
Through establishing a writing practice, one with a structure that suits my physiology and schedule, I’ve established a discipline that makes me proud. The concept of publication doesn’t matter much to me (OK, it does a little, most writers want to be read), because I’ve grown to love the practice itself.
It reminds me of the power of language, that I can believe in myself as a poet, even on the tough days when words just thud, because I have faith that if I hold the practice, the flow will come back; it reminds me of what I can do: alchemize words, thoughts, and images into a piece that (hopefully) conveys something, perhaps a fleeting feeling, that lives beyond the realm of ordinary communication. And that’s magical.
Showing up to my writing practice taught me that I can show up for myself. I’ve learned to trust that though I have bad days, uncreative slumps, if I keep working at it and hold space for the practice, they will pass. The point is to keep practicing it. As Alexander Chee remembers Annie Dillard’s advice:
“Talent isn’t enough. Writing is work. Anyone can do this, anyone can learn to do this. It’s not rocket science, it’s habits of mind and habits of work. I started with people much more talented than me, she said, and they’re dead or in jail or not writing. The difference between myself and them is that I’m writing.”
When you get down to it, the practice of writing is an action. You do it, or you don’t, and either way, you learn something about who you are. My writing practice taught me that doing what I love makes me happy, regardless of outside judgement; what does yours say about you?
The identity of a writer can be a slippery, tricky one. For years, I hesitated to call myself a poet, even though I was writing poetry. Really though, it’s pretty simple: if you write, you’re a writer.
One thing that can help a writer to own that identity is to establish a regular writing practice. It doesn’t have to be every day — having time, space, energy, and ability to maintain a daily writing practice is a huge privilege — but finding a way to make a habit out of creative practices can drastically affect a writer’s output, as well as their sense of self. I always feel more me, in touch with more layers of my secret selves when I’ve been writing because it gives me a chance to work through and out all the impressions, fears, and wonder that swirls in my head.
I first developed a writing practice the year I moved to Berlin to process the death of my best friend. It was still cheap then (2006), and I’d saved up enough money to take some time off work. Once the initial shock wore off, I’d sit at my desk every weekday and write for five or six hours. Showing up to that practice was the first time I really felt like a writer — because I was writing almost every day. I was showing up for myself, actually doing the thing I always wished I had more time for. I learned that the act of writing, detached from any outcome, makes me happy, makes time disappear in an almost magical way: even when I’m struggling with a piece, I can get lost in word choice, a quest to find a crystalline expression, forgetting myself to become more myself. When I look at the clock, hours have passed, as if hypnotized by concentration.
However, when I came back to the United States and started working again, my writing time slipped away to just few hours a month. I was living in Brooklyn, and even though I was taking workshops at The New School, NYU, and Poets House, my writing practice was sporadic at best. I stopped introducing myself as a poet; as the practice faded, so did my link to the identity.
Things changed when I moved to Denver in 2013. Suddenly isolated from many of my old friends, I had more empty hours to fill, and writing was one way to do so. It helped me feel less lonely, even if I was just communicating with myself. I began spending four or five hours every Saturday at my desk, and more started coming out. The practice helped me to remember who I was (a poet who used to extensively, someone with a huge family both blood and chosen) even though I was far and detached from what had been my life up till then. I wrote about formative, older times as well as my then-current sense of displacement until they eventually wove together to reconcile disparate identities.
When I finally settled into a regular writing practice, I was fed up with myself for wasting time scrolling the internet and watching too much TV. (I still do these things; everyone needs down time, but now I do them in smaller amounts.) So I made myself a quick, handwritten sign and pinned it over my desk: “Make yourself do stuff.” I also printed out the squirrel of judgment and tacked it up next to my sign. Once again, I began to tell people that I was a poet, but more importantly: I felt like one.
Writing regularly, for me, can be a self-reinforcing act. If I’ve worked on a poem or read some poetry in the morning, my day takes on a poetic cast; I’m much more receptive to seeing kernels of potential poems, and more likely to jot them down in a notebook to act on later.
Two years later, that sign I made for myself feels much less urgent; I do and make things pretty regularly now. But the sign stays up; it’s good to have reminders. Michelangelo would agree.
Still, there are times when, no matter how long I sit, the writing just won’t come. It’s important for me to maintain the practice, even when not feeling creative, so during those times, I:
- Write a letter to someone, even if I never send it.
- Edit old work instead of creating new work.
- Draw something! Writing is muscle memory, and at least my hand was moving; sometimes, that triggers writing.
- Submit work to literary journals.
- Read literary journals or other inspiring works.
- Discuss projects and goals with a writing buddy.
- Create and update a list of places I’d like to submit work (including open/close dates, what they’re looking for, and other fun stuff I track in a spreadsheet).
- Try a writing prompt.
- Create and update to-do lists for creative projects.
- Open an old notebook to a random page and type up whatever I find there.
- Pick an interesting moment from yesterday and write a flash piece about it, 500 words or less, or maybe even 150 words if 500 seems daunting.
- Create realistic small deadlines for myself for a larger project and put them on my calendar.
- Organize my pieces or poems, sometimes in a spreadsheet.
- Type up notes from old workshops or classes I took that were inspiring.
Through establishing a writing practice, one with a structure that suits my physiology and schedule, I’ve established a discipline that makes me proud. The concept of publication doesn’t matter much to me (OK, it does a little, most writers want to be read), because I’ve grown to love the practice itself.
It reminds me of the power of language, that I can believe in myself as a poet, even on the tough days when words just thud, because I have faith that if I hold the practice, the flow will come back; it reminds me of what I can do: alchemize words, thoughts, and images into a piece that (hopefully) conveys something, perhaps a fleeting feeling, that lives beyond the realm of ordinary communication. And that’s magical.
Showing up to my writing practice taught me that I can show up for myself. I’ve learned to trust that though I have bad days, uncreative slumps, if I keep working at it and hold space for the practice, they will pass. The point is to keep practicing it. As Alexander Chee remembers Annie Dillard’s advice:
“Talent isn’t enough. Writing is work. Anyone can do this, anyone can learn to do this. It’s not rocket science, it’s habits of mind and habits of work. I started with people much more talented than me, she said, and they’re dead or in jail or not writing. The difference between myself and them is that I’m writing.”
When you get down to it, the practice of writing is an action. You do it, or you don’t, and either way, you learn something about who you are. My writing practice taught me that doing what I love makes me happy, regardless of outside judgement; what does yours say about you?
Nawal Nader-French
When the editorial staff (Jesica Carson Davis, Melanie Merle and Allissa Hertz) and I were first identifying themes for our print and online issues, we didn’t realize we were also building our language—a way for you to read us. We didn’t realize that when we separated works into print and online, we were making decisions not only about theme, but also about urgency— about what we believed needed to be ever-present in our digital, always on, always free, always available format; we didn’t realize that the language collection we were curating from submissions was not only of words and images, but that which when placed together presented a collection that spilled outside prescribed lines, in disquieting and exhilarating form and content, re-forming language.
We didn’t ask for pieces about borders and refugees, place and displacement, but that is what we received. From the political to the personal, these works invariably had something interwoven about isolation and loss. The work we present to you in our inaugural issue is made by artists in a variety of media: painters, photographers, poets, fiction and nonfiction writers— many of whom are working to blend genre into something new, yet who may still write or create art traditionally in order to break with tradition. And throughout, pairing visual arts with written works, we’ve blended in a layer that shadows or echoes the other.
While the English language has long been a symbol of imperialistic power, used to create hierarchies and division, we also recognize that this language can be reformed. We persist with the language we have, revolting against it to arrive at what and how we want to communicate, because as Adrienne Rich says, while writers cannot refuse the language they have been dealt, writers “can re-fuse the language given to him or her, bend and torque it into an instrument for connection instead of dominance and apartheid: toward what Edouard Glissant has wonderfully called ‘the poetics of relation’.”
It is apt that the issue begins with Metres’ and Kalfopoulou’s pieces around the relationship that exists between language and suffering— about human beings in displacement. The collection progresses between a consciousness of self, whether in relation to geography, physical or literal, to the conscious attempts to fracture and reconfigure language. At the heart of our collection is the complexity of familial relationships, straddling elements of discord and the need for acceptance.
These are the works joining Manet at the ‘Salon des Refusés’, works that are brilliant and necessary, always uplifting and mercurial, speaking from the future — a medley of ‘re-fused’ works, for us, the Inverted camp celebrating those members of the Refusés. The works in Inverted Syntax inaugural online issue, including The Art of the Postcard series, are a meditation on what Ada Limón asks, about how we live, how we live in the world, amongst inevitable loss and suffering. Each piece, a fearless creation ubiquitously resisting conformity and complacency, takes memorable, haunting approaches to art and language that turn us inside out and convey novel insights into the human experience. Once you let yourself enter this space, your senses start reaching outside the imposed language lines and you start allowing yourself to experience language, including art, viscerally, on your terms.
Read online issue 1.
We didn’t ask for pieces about borders and refugees, place and displacement, but that is what we received. From the political to the personal, these works invariably had something interwoven about isolation and loss. The work we present to you in our inaugural issue is made by artists in a variety of media: painters, photographers, poets, fiction and nonfiction writers— many of whom are working to blend genre into something new, yet who may still write or create art traditionally in order to break with tradition. And throughout, pairing visual arts with written works, we’ve blended in a layer that shadows or echoes the other.
While the English language has long been a symbol of imperialistic power, used to create hierarchies and division, we also recognize that this language can be reformed. We persist with the language we have, revolting against it to arrive at what and how we want to communicate, because as Adrienne Rich says, while writers cannot refuse the language they have been dealt, writers “can re-fuse the language given to him or her, bend and torque it into an instrument for connection instead of dominance and apartheid: toward what Edouard Glissant has wonderfully called ‘the poetics of relation’.”
It is apt that the issue begins with Metres’ and Kalfopoulou’s pieces around the relationship that exists between language and suffering— about human beings in displacement. The collection progresses between a consciousness of self, whether in relation to geography, physical or literal, to the conscious attempts to fracture and reconfigure language. At the heart of our collection is the complexity of familial relationships, straddling elements of discord and the need for acceptance.
These are the works joining Manet at the ‘Salon des Refusés’, works that are brilliant and necessary, always uplifting and mercurial, speaking from the future — a medley of ‘re-fused’ works, for us, the Inverted camp celebrating those members of the Refusés. The works in Inverted Syntax inaugural online issue, including The Art of the Postcard series, are a meditation on what Ada Limón asks, about how we live, how we live in the world, amongst inevitable loss and suffering. Each piece, a fearless creation ubiquitously resisting conformity and complacency, takes memorable, haunting approaches to art and language that turn us inside out and convey novel insights into the human experience. Once you let yourself enter this space, your senses start reaching outside the imposed language lines and you start allowing yourself to experience language, including art, viscerally, on your terms.
Read online issue 1.
By Ginny Short
Submitting work for publication is a daunting process for many writers, and one that each writer must find their own way around. In this post, poet Ginny Short shares the process she went through when she first started submitting during her time as an MFA candidate at the Mile High MFA program at Regis University, and offers guidelines for how writers can make submitting a part of their own writing practice.
For me, overcoming my fears of submitting my work to journals meant starting small. l started by looking at journals that I liked, ones that published nature or ecological themes, which I often wrote about, and journals that published the work of poets that I like. I found The Avocet, a small nature poetry magazine that I decided to submit to. It had the advantage of having published, at one point, the work of Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets. I decided not to aim big at first: no New Yorker — in fact, no big-name magazines at all. I went for smaller, cozier, lesser-known journals, both in print and online. I did get some rejections, but I was also accepted into two! Those acceptances were enough to give me the courage to keep trying, and led me to one of my first important “lessons learned”: how to own my work.
In my first summer in the Mile-High MFA, I decided to try submitting some of my tanka poems. Sometimes defined as “five phrases on five lines,” tanka is a Japanese form that has a strong imagistic approach connecting human emotions with nature imagery. In particular, I like a form called tanka prose – essentially a prose poem accompanied by a tanka. I submitted several of my favorites to Ribbons, the journal of the Tanka Society of America. A while later, I got a lovely rejection letter --not a form letter, but a personal one, where the editor made comments and gave me advice about the poems, then thanked me and said “not this time”. Her suggestions seemed reasonable (although I was a bit unsure), so as part of my poetry semester I rewrote and submitted the poems as part of one of my assignments. I told my faculty mentor what the editor had suggested, and he read them. His advice back to me was essentially that he disagreed with the editors; he felt that by making the suggested revisions, I had taken the heart out of the pieces. After a long talk with him, I realized that it wasn’t about whether my poems were good or bad, but whether this journal was the right home for these pieces. There was nothing wrong with what the editor asked, but it did not reflect what I was trying to do.
I learned that the trick in publishing is finding the right home for my work, and realizing that, in the end, it is my artistic decisions that matter. This makes rejection less painful; after all why would I want my heart to be laid open for someone who doesn’t want to see it, or wants me to change it substantially for them to like it? It is not always easy to discern what should stay and what should go, but following my voice has never set me wrong.
Between fears of rejection and the challenge of staying true to your work, submitting can be daunting. But we don’t need to let it be. Instead, we can see it as part of our writing practice. Bring to it the same attention and awareness that you do writing the piece.
There are a few guidelines I have found that help in the submitting aspect of my writing practice:
First: read widely. By perusing the many journals and websites that offer a platform for your work, you will have the pleasure of being exposed to dozens of writers, and many, many pieces of work you might not have encountered otherwise. I find that this enriches my own writing; exposure to other writers’ works is critical.
Second: peruse the website of a potential journal. There will be clues within its pages, both subtle and overt, that might help you determine if your work would be a good fit. Read any sample pieces you can find. Do you like what you read? Can you see your piece sitting next to that one you just read? Most journals have some samples available on their website. Some tell you authors that they like. Pay attention. Browse through them. Enjoy. Savor.
Third: follow their guidelines. They will tell you how many words or pages to submit, the subject matter they are interested in (sometimes they have a theme) and what, exactly, they want. Do follow directions. It may not get your work in, but it will prevent your manuscript from being thrown on the editing floor before even being considered. So, read, pay attention, follow directions. Simple but important.
Fourth: keep track of what and where you are submitting. Some journals ask that you do not submit to another journal while they are considering your work (although I find this is rare), others don’t care (but you should let them know if a piece you submitted is accepted elsewhere). Start a regular submissions log using Excel or Word or a lovely handmade ledger.
However you do it, keep track of both rejections and acceptances. You are in good company; own them with pride. Golding's The Lord of the Flies was rejected 20 times before being accepted. Gertrude Stein submitted poems for 22 years before having one published. (YIKES!) Beatrix Potter self-published The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Rudyard Kipling was told he did not know how to use the English language. Who knew?
The poet Andrea Rexilius (1) used transfer paper to print all of her rejection letters on a slip…and she wore her rejection slip! Check out this post for more other famous people who experienced rejections for their writing. It will make you feel better, guaranteed: you are in good company.
Getting published takes persistence. Don’t give up.
Fifth: don’t be discouraged. (See paragraph above.) It is a matter of luck, being in the right place at the right time, and submitting often. Having good work is only a part of it. Remember that all rejections – and for that matter comments or critique – are subjective. I have several pieces that were reviewed by three or more people and got three very different responses. You have to keep submitting. It is not a reflection of your work that you get rejections. Fiction writer Rachel Weaver (2) offered advice early on in the MFA program that I always remember: if more than one person gives you the same advice, pay attention. Go back. Revise. But in the end, you are your own creative director.
Sixth: set yourself a goal. Set aside one evening (or morning if you are a morning person) and plan to submit at least one piece on that day. My goal is to submit at least once a week. You can set your goal according to your time. For novel or memoir writers, there are also places that accept excerpts of novels, novellas or longer bodies of work, like A Public Space, Missouri Review or Literary Mama. Or maybe you have some shorter pieces, short stories or flash fiction you can submit. Whatever you have ready to submit, just set yourself a goal and do it. Learn to see submitting as part of your writing practice.
I’ve followed these guidelines, and this is what it looks like for me: My goal is to submit at least one piece a week (I make it a rule to submit two pieces for every rejection). I am trying out all sorts of journals, even ones I know are a long shot because, well, you just never know. The process of submitting is educational. You discover artists that you never knew you loved, and you begin to see yourself as a contender.
There are a plethora of journals out there and discovering where to submit can be daunting. I used Duotrope which is a searchable subscription service that catalogs dozens of journals for all genres. Access is $5 a month and it has been worth it to me. My submission log keeps me hopeful: I currently have 35 rejections, 17 acceptances, and one poem republished in the “best of 2017” category for that journal as well. I have four essays and 15 poems being reviewed. It isn’t going to happen by magic, getting published that is. It’s going to happen by submitting work.
This week I received two letters: one was a form rejection, the other wrote that they “adored” three of my poems, which will be published in the November issue of Mojave River Review. I couldn’t be happier. Well, getting my first book published might make me happier. It’ll only happen if I submit it. I am working on that. Not that long ago, I had nothing being rejected, reviewed, or accepted, because I wasn’t submitting anything at all. You cannot predict if your work will be accepted or rejected but know that, either way, it is about taking a chance and submitting, because you never know what that journal needs at that moment. So, take heart. At times it may seem that no matter how much you think your piece might fit in, they will disagree. Then sometimes when you least expect it, they love it. The point is, if you arrive at a place where you can own your work, you’ll always feel motivated to submit.
1. Dr. Andrea Rexilius is the program coordination and Poetry faculty mentor at the Mile-High MFA program at Regis University. She is the author of five books of poetry.
2. Rachel Weaver is the author of Point of Direction and a faculty mentor for fiction at the Mile-High MFA program at Regis University.
In my first summer in the Mile-High MFA, I decided to try submitting some of my tanka poems. Sometimes defined as “five phrases on five lines,” tanka is a Japanese form that has a strong imagistic approach connecting human emotions with nature imagery. In particular, I like a form called tanka prose – essentially a prose poem accompanied by a tanka. I submitted several of my favorites to Ribbons, the journal of the Tanka Society of America. A while later, I got a lovely rejection letter --not a form letter, but a personal one, where the editor made comments and gave me advice about the poems, then thanked me and said “not this time”. Her suggestions seemed reasonable (although I was a bit unsure), so as part of my poetry semester I rewrote and submitted the poems as part of one of my assignments. I told my faculty mentor what the editor had suggested, and he read them. His advice back to me was essentially that he disagreed with the editors; he felt that by making the suggested revisions, I had taken the heart out of the pieces. After a long talk with him, I realized that it wasn’t about whether my poems were good or bad, but whether this journal was the right home for these pieces. There was nothing wrong with what the editor asked, but it did not reflect what I was trying to do.
I learned that the trick in publishing is finding the right home for my work, and realizing that, in the end, it is my artistic decisions that matter. This makes rejection less painful; after all why would I want my heart to be laid open for someone who doesn’t want to see it, or wants me to change it substantially for them to like it? It is not always easy to discern what should stay and what should go, but following my voice has never set me wrong.
Between fears of rejection and the challenge of staying true to your work, submitting can be daunting. But we don’t need to let it be. Instead, we can see it as part of our writing practice. Bring to it the same attention and awareness that you do writing the piece.
There are a few guidelines I have found that help in the submitting aspect of my writing practice:
First: read widely. By perusing the many journals and websites that offer a platform for your work, you will have the pleasure of being exposed to dozens of writers, and many, many pieces of work you might not have encountered otherwise. I find that this enriches my own writing; exposure to other writers’ works is critical.
Second: peruse the website of a potential journal. There will be clues within its pages, both subtle and overt, that might help you determine if your work would be a good fit. Read any sample pieces you can find. Do you like what you read? Can you see your piece sitting next to that one you just read? Most journals have some samples available on their website. Some tell you authors that they like. Pay attention. Browse through them. Enjoy. Savor.
Third: follow their guidelines. They will tell you how many words or pages to submit, the subject matter they are interested in (sometimes they have a theme) and what, exactly, they want. Do follow directions. It may not get your work in, but it will prevent your manuscript from being thrown on the editing floor before even being considered. So, read, pay attention, follow directions. Simple but important.
Fourth: keep track of what and where you are submitting. Some journals ask that you do not submit to another journal while they are considering your work (although I find this is rare), others don’t care (but you should let them know if a piece you submitted is accepted elsewhere). Start a regular submissions log using Excel or Word or a lovely handmade ledger.
However you do it, keep track of both rejections and acceptances. You are in good company; own them with pride. Golding's The Lord of the Flies was rejected 20 times before being accepted. Gertrude Stein submitted poems for 22 years before having one published. (YIKES!) Beatrix Potter self-published The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Rudyard Kipling was told he did not know how to use the English language. Who knew?
The poet Andrea Rexilius (1) used transfer paper to print all of her rejection letters on a slip…and she wore her rejection slip! Check out this post for more other famous people who experienced rejections for their writing. It will make you feel better, guaranteed: you are in good company.
Getting published takes persistence. Don’t give up.
Fifth: don’t be discouraged. (See paragraph above.) It is a matter of luck, being in the right place at the right time, and submitting often. Having good work is only a part of it. Remember that all rejections – and for that matter comments or critique – are subjective. I have several pieces that were reviewed by three or more people and got three very different responses. You have to keep submitting. It is not a reflection of your work that you get rejections. Fiction writer Rachel Weaver (2) offered advice early on in the MFA program that I always remember: if more than one person gives you the same advice, pay attention. Go back. Revise. But in the end, you are your own creative director.
Sixth: set yourself a goal. Set aside one evening (or morning if you are a morning person) and plan to submit at least one piece on that day. My goal is to submit at least once a week. You can set your goal according to your time. For novel or memoir writers, there are also places that accept excerpts of novels, novellas or longer bodies of work, like A Public Space, Missouri Review or Literary Mama. Or maybe you have some shorter pieces, short stories or flash fiction you can submit. Whatever you have ready to submit, just set yourself a goal and do it. Learn to see submitting as part of your writing practice.
I’ve followed these guidelines, and this is what it looks like for me: My goal is to submit at least one piece a week (I make it a rule to submit two pieces for every rejection). I am trying out all sorts of journals, even ones I know are a long shot because, well, you just never know. The process of submitting is educational. You discover artists that you never knew you loved, and you begin to see yourself as a contender.
There are a plethora of journals out there and discovering where to submit can be daunting. I used Duotrope which is a searchable subscription service that catalogs dozens of journals for all genres. Access is $5 a month and it has been worth it to me. My submission log keeps me hopeful: I currently have 35 rejections, 17 acceptances, and one poem republished in the “best of 2017” category for that journal as well. I have four essays and 15 poems being reviewed. It isn’t going to happen by magic, getting published that is. It’s going to happen by submitting work.
This week I received two letters: one was a form rejection, the other wrote that they “adored” three of my poems, which will be published in the November issue of Mojave River Review. I couldn’t be happier. Well, getting my first book published might make me happier. It’ll only happen if I submit it. I am working on that. Not that long ago, I had nothing being rejected, reviewed, or accepted, because I wasn’t submitting anything at all. You cannot predict if your work will be accepted or rejected but know that, either way, it is about taking a chance and submitting, because you never know what that journal needs at that moment. So, take heart. At times it may seem that no matter how much you think your piece might fit in, they will disagree. Then sometimes when you least expect it, they love it. The point is, if you arrive at a place where you can own your work, you’ll always feel motivated to submit.
1. Dr. Andrea Rexilius is the program coordination and Poetry faculty mentor at the Mile-High MFA program at Regis University. She is the author of five books of poetry.
2. Rachel Weaver is the author of Point of Direction and a faculty mentor for fiction at the Mile-High MFA program at Regis University.
“Breaking Glass” Felt tip on paper by Melanie Merle, 2018 By Melanie Merle
“All serious daring starts from within.” -- Eudora Welty, On Writing
I read an article recently about how the throat opens, how singers train the apparatus of voice -- how singing properly feels completely different in the body than one might imagine. Like certain smells or flavors — or sex or giving birth — the act of open-throated singing is pretty much impossible to describe. Even the label “open throat” is inaccurate. The throat only widens a few millimeters, though it feels cavernous. The sensation of the opening, of the voice freed from the body, is an illusion.
By contrast, in the recent glut of headlines, arguments on social media, I am choked. Through the constant influx of disturbing information, I am witness to pain, grief, chaos. I feel trapped between seeking quiet and screaming urgency. The fact I have a choice between using my voice, in relative safety, and choosing silent observation, speaks to privilege. At worst, I face ostracization by/from friends and family who don’t share my opinions. At best, my words might offer solace to those who are like-minded and feeling alone. Vocalizing on social media or walking together in marches has proven a source of strength and community for people who feel powerless and isolated, particularly those living in places where they find themselves in the minority.
I see the use of voice equivalent to having or using power -- as in, my voice is a powerful tool, and I may or may not choose to use it. When I am shouted down (say, on social media or at the Thanksgiving table), someone attempts to control my voice. My power (my ability) to speak is ever present, though I may stay quiet to conform to social niceties. We all face those moments. That's not the same as a true threat of violence, the loss of job, etc. -- real factors for many who fight inequities in our culture.
Rebecca Solnit makes an important distinction between our reasons for silence, stating “What is unsaid because serenity and introspection are sought and what is not said because the threats are high or the barriers are great are as different as swimming is from drowning.”
It’s easier to disappear into a book or the bubble of a yoga class than to pen this blog post. But I don’t want to drown.
So my mandate as a writer now becomes: how to give power to the voice, and perhaps, in doing so, embolden others who remain silent to speak? Because I don’t believe I’m alone. I believe there’s a slow gathering of voices and a stubborn refusal to drown. Or, in the words of Anais Nin, "The day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom”
Creative writing teachers, especially in workshops, like to ask “what is at stake” in a piece, suggesting our writing finds its power, its center, in what’s at stake. I have come to see that concept extend beyond our writing, however, to ourselves. The act of writing -- being an act of performance, of informing community -- makes the writer vulnerable. The real "what's at stake" is the writer. We are what's at stake.
The vulnerability is real. To press through the vulnerability -- to arrive in a place of full voice, of honesty, in the writing expresses power to the audience. So what is it to have sound caught in your throat? What is it to have words trapped in the body? And how do we train ourselves, as writers, to translate to paper the power of what we feel, but struggle to name? We practice.
“All serious daring starts from within.” -- Eudora Welty, On Writing
I read an article recently about how the throat opens, how singers train the apparatus of voice -- how singing properly feels completely different in the body than one might imagine. Like certain smells or flavors — or sex or giving birth — the act of open-throated singing is pretty much impossible to describe. Even the label “open throat” is inaccurate. The throat only widens a few millimeters, though it feels cavernous. The sensation of the opening, of the voice freed from the body, is an illusion.
By contrast, in the recent glut of headlines, arguments on social media, I am choked. Through the constant influx of disturbing information, I am witness to pain, grief, chaos. I feel trapped between seeking quiet and screaming urgency. The fact I have a choice between using my voice, in relative safety, and choosing silent observation, speaks to privilege. At worst, I face ostracization by/from friends and family who don’t share my opinions. At best, my words might offer solace to those who are like-minded and feeling alone. Vocalizing on social media or walking together in marches has proven a source of strength and community for people who feel powerless and isolated, particularly those living in places where they find themselves in the minority.
I see the use of voice equivalent to having or using power -- as in, my voice is a powerful tool, and I may or may not choose to use it. When I am shouted down (say, on social media or at the Thanksgiving table), someone attempts to control my voice. My power (my ability) to speak is ever present, though I may stay quiet to conform to social niceties. We all face those moments. That's not the same as a true threat of violence, the loss of job, etc. -- real factors for many who fight inequities in our culture.
Rebecca Solnit makes an important distinction between our reasons for silence, stating “What is unsaid because serenity and introspection are sought and what is not said because the threats are high or the barriers are great are as different as swimming is from drowning.”
It’s easier to disappear into a book or the bubble of a yoga class than to pen this blog post. But I don’t want to drown.
So my mandate as a writer now becomes: how to give power to the voice, and perhaps, in doing so, embolden others who remain silent to speak? Because I don’t believe I’m alone. I believe there’s a slow gathering of voices and a stubborn refusal to drown. Or, in the words of Anais Nin, "The day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom”
Creative writing teachers, especially in workshops, like to ask “what is at stake” in a piece, suggesting our writing finds its power, its center, in what’s at stake. I have come to see that concept extend beyond our writing, however, to ourselves. The act of writing -- being an act of performance, of informing community -- makes the writer vulnerable. The real "what's at stake" is the writer. We are what's at stake.
The vulnerability is real. To press through the vulnerability -- to arrive in a place of full voice, of honesty, in the writing expresses power to the audience. So what is it to have sound caught in your throat? What is it to have words trapped in the body? And how do we train ourselves, as writers, to translate to paper the power of what we feel, but struggle to name? We practice.
When I feel sound caught in my throat, I come to this writing practice which has often helped bring the sound to paper.
Create a word cache by making a list of words, free-associating with the concepts “open” and “close,” as in “open is _____” and “close is _____,” or “opened is _____” and “closed is _____.”
Write out as much as you can remember about a time when you felt most free.
Write out as much as you can remember about a time when you felt constricted.
Write out as much as you can remember about a time you took a risk.
Write a few paragraphs or 10-12 lines as a set of rules, drawing from your word cache and your memories.
Create a word cache by making a list of words, free-associating with the concepts “open” and “close,” as in “open is _____” and “close is _____,” or “opened is _____” and “closed is _____.”
Write out as much as you can remember about a time when you felt most free.
Write out as much as you can remember about a time when you felt constricted.
Write out as much as you can remember about a time you took a risk.
Write a few paragraphs or 10-12 lines as a set of rules, drawing from your word cache and your memories.
Then, just as we might take up singing or baking or knitting, or yoga, we practice. One of my favorite yoga teachers is fond of saying, “It’s called ‘yoga practice,’ not ‘yoga -- got it!’” He snaps his fingers for emphasis, and chuckles at us as we sweat and groan and fight for another millimeter in a forward fold, drawing us away from the illusion that that millimeter is what matters. In that way, we practice writing.
As writers, I believe we begin with audacity. We accept that we were not designed for everyone to like what we have to say. We dare to look inward and unhinge the thing locked in the throat, to then commit to outward expression and let ourselves become “what’s at stake”. We get good at saying what we want to say, open-throated and unafraid.
Dear Fans of Inverted Syntax,
By the end of October, we will launch our inaugural online issue. Our singular goal is to become the center of your reading universe, to monopolize your reading space, to make sure you have Inverted Syntax on the mind all of the time. In the next few weeks, you will notice a difference with our online content. We are aiming to intensify the online reading experience with an online aesthetic that will match the work and articulate the visceral. And, you should brace yourselves because we have scoured our submissions (which were read blind) and solicited artists, writers, and even filmmakers to bring you something indescribable, something that will intoxicate your senses. And while the online issue is going to leave you exhilarated and inspired-- possibly inducing hyperventilation--just wait and see what the print issue in January 2019 does to you.
By the end of October, we will launch our inaugural online issue. Our singular goal is to become the center of your reading universe, to monopolize your reading space, to make sure you have Inverted Syntax on the mind all of the time. In the next few weeks, you will notice a difference with our online content. We are aiming to intensify the online reading experience with an online aesthetic that will match the work and articulate the visceral. And, you should brace yourselves because we have scoured our submissions (which were read blind) and solicited artists, writers, and even filmmakers to bring you something indescribable, something that will intoxicate your senses. And while the online issue is going to leave you exhilarated and inspired-- possibly inducing hyperventilation--just wait and see what the print issue in January 2019 does to you.
Curating the issues is a team effort. A few weeks ago, the Inverted Syntax editorial team attended a staff retreat to finalize content, layout, and more, but what happened next was wonderful and unexpected. In case you missed it, one of our Editorial Assistants, Jesica Carson Davis, recounts in her recent blog post “A Record of an Inverted Retreat” the beauty and spontaneous community that can grow when you accept an invitation and take a creative risk.
Jesica writes, "Being at the start of something, being part of an endeavor’s nascent phase, feels exhilarating. There is no rulebook, and we are not writing one so much as recording our choices, creating documentation.
Most writers and artists are compelled to do some kind of record-keeping, including sculpture, comics, poems, and songs. To create something is to cheat death a little: this thing you make may outlive you, if only on a bookshelf, or someone’s memory. As a record of the retreat weekend, I offer this account.
For the future, we will create Inverted Syntax.”
That said, we are going to be closing our submissions window on Friday, October 5 and taking a break from reading submissions; however, our 'Blog Submissions' and 'Join our Team' are STILL OPEN! We will also be taking a break from emailing you our biweekly-ish digest so that we can focus on finalizing the journal’s issues. You’ll probably not hear from us again until we launch the online issue. Until then, we hope you will invite others to subscribe to our digest, and we hope you and others ‘Like’ our awesome posts on our social media feeds. We hope you continue to share your love for Inverted Syntax with your friends, family, neighbors, strangers--anyone who will listen.
With love,
Nawal
Read Jesicas “A Record of an Inverted Retreat”
This letter was also emailed to the journal’s subscribers.
Jesica writes, "Being at the start of something, being part of an endeavor’s nascent phase, feels exhilarating. There is no rulebook, and we are not writing one so much as recording our choices, creating documentation.
Most writers and artists are compelled to do some kind of record-keeping, including sculpture, comics, poems, and songs. To create something is to cheat death a little: this thing you make may outlive you, if only on a bookshelf, or someone’s memory. As a record of the retreat weekend, I offer this account.
For the future, we will create Inverted Syntax.”
That said, we are going to be closing our submissions window on Friday, October 5 and taking a break from reading submissions; however, our 'Blog Submissions' and 'Join our Team' are STILL OPEN! We will also be taking a break from emailing you our biweekly-ish digest so that we can focus on finalizing the journal’s issues. You’ll probably not hear from us again until we launch the online issue. Until then, we hope you will invite others to subscribe to our digest, and we hope you and others ‘Like’ our awesome posts on our social media feeds. We hope you continue to share your love for Inverted Syntax with your friends, family, neighbors, strangers--anyone who will listen.
With love,
Nawal
Read Jesicas “A Record of an Inverted Retreat”
This letter was also emailed to the journal’s subscribers.
The Editors by Jesica Carson Davis
The urge to create is fundamentally human, whether we write poems, sing songs, or paint pictures. Creation is a form of record keeping, one way of saying I was here, this happened. In an attempt to capture some of the magic I got to experience as Editorial Assistant at Inverted Syntax’s first staff retreat, I present here a record of what it was like to be at the beginning stages of an exciting project, meeting the other editors, finding our own way together. Inverted is a journal about exploring hybrid forms, finding out what happens when we go outside the given lines.
Our Founder/Editor-In-Chief, Nawal Nader-French, had planned a full agenda in which the primary purpose was to work on Inverted’s first online and print editions. However, the retreat weekend up in Boulder County was balanced out by fun, creative events, such as a poetry workshop, meditation time, a painting session, video calls with other editors and writers, and of course, writing. There wasn’t anything on the agenda specifically about team-building and camaraderie, but those were some of the best outcomes of the weekend.
The other Inverted editors knew each other from Regis University’s Mile-High MFA program, but I’d never met any of them in person (though we’d had plenty of communication over email and Submittable--the digital platform we use to track submissions). This could have been nerve-wracking, but immediately upon arrival, Nawal made me feel beyond welcome in her gorgeous home with thoughtful gift-filled tote bags and conversations about poets we both admire. The other Editorial Assistants, Melanie and Allissa, greeted me with warm hugs, and soon enough we were all bonding over wine and a massive welcome dinner. Melanie, a nonfiction writer, drove in from Oklahoma, and Allissa, a poet, had driven in from south of Denver, so we all appreciated the decompression.
Friday evening we attended a local poetry workshop at the Firehouse Art Center in downtown Longmont. Getting there became an impromptu team-building adventure after we discovered someone’s notebook had been left on the car’s rooftop and we had to work together to retrace our path, joining forces to find it. Luckily, it was recovered and still intact; the tire treadmarks gave it extra character. The workshop itself was a quietly meditative experience in which attendees got a prompt (write 10 lines about “Home” and then edit them based on a series of suggestions), followed by everyone reading their work and giving each other feedback.
Though we knew that Saturday would be starting early and packed with activities, we all stayed up past midnight talking about life, getting to know each other better, playing with Nawal’s adorable beagles, and sometimes even discussing writing.
Saturday morning began with a guided meditation led by Melanie, who teaches yoga and has a perfect voice for leading such an exercise. I’d thought the meditation lasted about 15 minutes, and was stunned when she told us that it was closer to 50. A focus on the creative chakras and Melanie’s guidance put us in an open mindframe and made us more receptive to creativity, ready to read, organize, and assemble upcoming issues.
Nawal opened up the day’s editorial duties by proclaiming that “We are rewriting the rules,” setting a tone of freedom without expectations, which we ran with. Since Inverted Syntax is a new journal, there isn’t an inherited, existing framework to adhere to; we can make new decisions as we go.
The urge to create is fundamentally human, whether we write poems, sing songs, or paint pictures. Creation is a form of record keeping, one way of saying I was here, this happened. In an attempt to capture some of the magic I got to experience as Editorial Assistant at Inverted Syntax’s first staff retreat, I present here a record of what it was like to be at the beginning stages of an exciting project, meeting the other editors, finding our own way together. Inverted is a journal about exploring hybrid forms, finding out what happens when we go outside the given lines.
Our Founder/Editor-In-Chief, Nawal Nader-French, had planned a full agenda in which the primary purpose was to work on Inverted’s first online and print editions. However, the retreat weekend up in Boulder County was balanced out by fun, creative events, such as a poetry workshop, meditation time, a painting session, video calls with other editors and writers, and of course, writing. There wasn’t anything on the agenda specifically about team-building and camaraderie, but those were some of the best outcomes of the weekend.
The other Inverted editors knew each other from Regis University’s Mile-High MFA program, but I’d never met any of them in person (though we’d had plenty of communication over email and Submittable--the digital platform we use to track submissions). This could have been nerve-wracking, but immediately upon arrival, Nawal made me feel beyond welcome in her gorgeous home with thoughtful gift-filled tote bags and conversations about poets we both admire. The other Editorial Assistants, Melanie and Allissa, greeted me with warm hugs, and soon enough we were all bonding over wine and a massive welcome dinner. Melanie, a nonfiction writer, drove in from Oklahoma, and Allissa, a poet, had driven in from south of Denver, so we all appreciated the decompression.
Friday evening we attended a local poetry workshop at the Firehouse Art Center in downtown Longmont. Getting there became an impromptu team-building adventure after we discovered someone’s notebook had been left on the car’s rooftop and we had to work together to retrace our path, joining forces to find it. Luckily, it was recovered and still intact; the tire treadmarks gave it extra character. The workshop itself was a quietly meditative experience in which attendees got a prompt (write 10 lines about “Home” and then edit them based on a series of suggestions), followed by everyone reading their work and giving each other feedback.
Though we knew that Saturday would be starting early and packed with activities, we all stayed up past midnight talking about life, getting to know each other better, playing with Nawal’s adorable beagles, and sometimes even discussing writing.
Saturday morning began with a guided meditation led by Melanie, who teaches yoga and has a perfect voice for leading such an exercise. I’d thought the meditation lasted about 15 minutes, and was stunned when she told us that it was closer to 50. A focus on the creative chakras and Melanie’s guidance put us in an open mindframe and made us more receptive to creativity, ready to read, organize, and assemble upcoming issues.
Nawal opened up the day’s editorial duties by proclaiming that “We are rewriting the rules,” setting a tone of freedom without expectations, which we ran with. Since Inverted Syntax is a new journal, there isn’t an inherited, existing framework to adhere to; we can make new decisions as we go.
A video call with Andrea Rexilius The next 30 hours passed in a blur of reading, conversation, and good times: When we began assembling the online and print magazines, Nawal encouraged us to look for themes, such as boundaries, disruption, and relationships.
A video call with Andrea Rexilius, a poet and Program Coordinator for Regis’s Mile-High MFA, confirmed this approach: consider the journal’s layout like you would organize a manuscript. Stay open to a narrative arc, or consider folios (chapters within the journal), which will be subconsciously informed by our aesthetic and the pieces we’d already selected for publication.
A video call with Andrea Rexilius, a poet and Program Coordinator for Regis’s Mile-High MFA, confirmed this approach: consider the journal’s layout like you would organize a manuscript. Stay open to a narrative arc, or consider folios (chapters within the journal), which will be subconsciously informed by our aesthetic and the pieces we’d already selected for publication.
Thus, we spent Saturday morning reading each accepted piece and writing down three or four keywords (like tags or metatdata) for each piece, simple descriptions of themes. Later, when reading the pieces aloud, we compiled a list of the most common keywords that would be used for grouping. It became clear that many of the pieces we’d selected were linked, through tone and imagery, sometimes even subject matter. These links weren’t consciously intended, so it was cool to see them appear as we read.
One of my favorite parts of the weekend was sitting in a circle, reading accepted work out loud to each other. We savored favorite lines, sometimes gasping, getting goosebumps and tears from being moved by pieces we’d read before. It was a gorgeous reminder of how art can break against you again and again, like a wave, how delicious it can be to get drenched.
Throughout the weekend, we kept up a lively discussion about the differences between publishing online or in print. We talked about how a piece posted on the internet has a better chance of reaching many more people than one that’s perfect-bound and physically distributed. How some pieces feel more urgent, like witnessing refugee experience, and thus should be published in a way that gives them a chance at the greatest possible audience. How online issues have a spatial advantage over ink: a 25 page piece would take up a quarter of the print version but can unfold at length on a website, without restrictions. How lucky we are to have both routes available to us now.
One of my favorite parts of the weekend was sitting in a circle, reading accepted work out loud to each other. We savored favorite lines, sometimes gasping, getting goosebumps and tears from being moved by pieces we’d read before. It was a gorgeous reminder of how art can break against you again and again, like a wave, how delicious it can be to get drenched.
Throughout the weekend, we kept up a lively discussion about the differences between publishing online or in print. We talked about how a piece posted on the internet has a better chance of reaching many more people than one that’s perfect-bound and physically distributed. How some pieces feel more urgent, like witnessing refugee experience, and thus should be published in a way that gives them a chance at the greatest possible audience. How online issues have a spatial advantage over ink: a 25 page piece would take up a quarter of the print version but can unfold at length on a website, without restrictions. How lucky we are to have both routes available to us now.
We skimmed dozens of print and online journals, charting what we liked and didn’t like, to stimulate discussion. We covered everything from the table of contents organization and serif vs. sans-serif fonts to letters from the editors and placement of contributor bios. The exercise made my tech writer brain begin to assemble a style guide to capture the editors’ decisions on pressing issues, like whether to use indentations or line breaks for paragraphs and how capitals would appear in the titles of pieces. Writing our own rules as we go.
It is exciting and a little intimidating to realize that since Inverted Syntax is a new journal, there’s no formula for how to run it; we can collectively decide the best way to do things, find ways to make the form best fit and reflect the content. For example, while some Editors-in-Chief wait until their readers finish going through the slush pile to narrow pieces under consideration, Nawal was in Submittable for hours every day looking for new work. Instead of sticking to one genre, readers were encouraged to provide feedback on submissions in every category. After all, Inverted’s mission centers around hybridity.
It is exciting and a little intimidating to realize that since Inverted Syntax is a new journal, there’s no formula for how to run it; we can collectively decide the best way to do things, find ways to make the form best fit and reflect the content. For example, while some Editors-in-Chief wait until their readers finish going through the slush pile to narrow pieces under consideration, Nawal was in Submittable for hours every day looking for new work. Instead of sticking to one genre, readers were encouraged to provide feedback on submissions in every category. After all, Inverted’s mission centers around hybridity.
As the day grew long, we decided to skip a yoga session in favor of tea time, and to keep working, though a dance party broke out because we needed to reinvigorate. A sense of urgency began to set in: the retreat will end soon and we will disband in the morning, so let’s make the most of our time together.
Soon it was getting dark, and it was time time for a video call with David Hicks, the Co-Founder and Co-Director of the Regis Mile-High MFA. After some discussion of the retreat life and what we’d been up to, he generously invited all of us to attend one of his writers’ retreats next spring! As part of the support that Inverted Syntax receives as a journal partly supported through The Mile-High MFA, the retreat invitation included a personal manuscript consultation, for those of us working on our own books. It felt like winning a small fellowship.
Once we hung up, it hit us that we’d been at it for almost 12 hours, and that we were approaching the end of our productivity. It was time to pour wine and take a break. Canvases and paints appeared, Nawal’s Ghanaian-influenced curry released its enticing aroma from the stove, and we finally put our work aside. I’m still thinking about that curry, topped with tomatoes, onion, peanuts, banana.
Soon it was getting dark, and it was time time for a video call with David Hicks, the Co-Founder and Co-Director of the Regis Mile-High MFA. After some discussion of the retreat life and what we’d been up to, he generously invited all of us to attend one of his writers’ retreats next spring! As part of the support that Inverted Syntax receives as a journal partly supported through The Mile-High MFA, the retreat invitation included a personal manuscript consultation, for those of us working on our own books. It felt like winning a small fellowship.
Once we hung up, it hit us that we’d been at it for almost 12 hours, and that we were approaching the end of our productivity. It was time to pour wine and take a break. Canvases and paints appeared, Nawal’s Ghanaian-influenced curry released its enticing aroma from the stove, and we finally put our work aside. I’m still thinking about that curry, topped with tomatoes, onion, peanuts, banana.
As we unwound from Saturday by collaging and painting with acrylics, we took turns reading from our own work, pieces that not many others had yet heard. Reading poems-in-progress felt like making proclamations: I am here, I made this. Creating and sharing art as a way of raging against, or embracing, the void.
Sunday morning rolled around, and once again we collectively decided to forgo physical activity (a planned hike) in favor of focusing on the journal. There was still so much to do! By then we were fresh enough to want to keep working but brain-drained enough from the previous day to take a break from the creative side, which meant focusing on marketing and logistics.
We discussed our wish list, dreams for the future: possibilities of a local reading series, the AWP conference, poetry contests, maybe even another retreat someday for other writers. Then we pivoted towards administrative duties and deadlines, playing with design for the online issue and entering pieces onto the draft site in advance of October’s online publication.
Too soon, it was time to go home.
Being at the start of something, being part of an endeavor’s nascent phase, feels exhilarating. There is no rulebook, and we are not writing one so much as recording our choices, creating documentation.
Most writers and artists are compelled to some kind of record-keeping, including sculpture, comics, poems, and songs. To create something is to cheat death a little: this thing you make may outlive you, if only on a bookshelf, or in someone’s memory.
As a record of the retreat weekend, I offer this account. For the future, we will create Inverted Syntax.
We discussed our wish list, dreams for the future: possibilities of a local reading series, the AWP conference, poetry contests, maybe even another retreat someday for other writers. Then we pivoted towards administrative duties and deadlines, playing with design for the online issue and entering pieces onto the draft site in advance of October’s online publication.
Too soon, it was time to go home.
Being at the start of something, being part of an endeavor’s nascent phase, feels exhilarating. There is no rulebook, and we are not writing one so much as recording our choices, creating documentation.
Most writers and artists are compelled to some kind of record-keeping, including sculpture, comics, poems, and songs. To create something is to cheat death a little: this thing you make may outlive you, if only on a bookshelf, or in someone’s memory.
As a record of the retreat weekend, I offer this account. For the future, we will create Inverted Syntax.
by And Schuster
When I first started writing creative nonfiction earlier this year, I panicked. I am a person who likes to solve a problem, to tick a box, to arrive. I am at my most satisfied when I have completed something, or at least achieved a portion of what I set out to do. Similarly, in writing poetry and fiction, I like to get to a point that I can call it good enough, send it off, and all is well. But when it came to writing nonfiction, I found I couldn’t do that; letting it go, even if to only one or two people, didn’t feel like ticking a box or solving a problem. It felt like exposing parts of myself and parts of my mental and emotional processes that I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone to see--those thoughts and attitudes I experienced but which I was afraid to commit to in writing. I couldn’t hide behind the guise of a character or a voice not my own, as I sometimes did (or could plausibly claim to do) in fiction and poetry. It was painful, and I was ready to quit.
At first my nonfiction work only existed as side notes to the novel I’m working on while I attend the Mile-High MFA program at Regis University. As I wrote parts of the novel, thoughts and memories would arise, and I felt compelled to stop to write them down before continuing with the book. After doing that several times, I thought that maybe those side notes could become works of creative nonfiction. However, I knew very little about how to go about doing that, so I decided to learn. I signed up for a dual-genre study, with creative nonfiction as a secondary genre, and began to work on my first piece for submission to the workshop. Writing creative nonfiction allowed me to directly address my experiences, which was refreshing, but it also left me feeling raw and exposed in a way I hadn’t expected.
In creative nonfiction, I am learning, the writing process and the mental and emotional processes of the writer are often one and the same. As Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola explain in their creative nonfiction textbook Tell It Slant, “As you write [creative nonfiction], in a sense, you re-create your own past and your sense of self, and you do so in front of a live audience, over and over again.” In other words, the process of our becoming--the mental and emotional development that is usually kept private or only shared with those closest to us--becomes part of a nonfiction writer’s work and thus becomes accessible to anyone who reads it.
With my love for all things tidy and complete, the thought of exposing the mess of my process to another person, let alone one I hardly knew, was terrifying. During my first several attempts at writing creative nonfiction, this fear nearly paralyzed me. I thought, as we often (and usually mistakenly) do, that I was alone in my fear. When I finally went to members of my writing community with my concerns, nonfiction writer and faculty mentor Kathryn Winograd gently but firmly told me that creative nonfiction is about “the messy process of the mind, not about the neat, pat answer,” and that fear and discomfort over facing and exposing that is sometimes part of the deal. My adviser and poet Andrea Rexilius suggested that I step back and hybridize to give myself a little of the cover that fiction had been providing me.
I took the advice of both mentors, and, slowly, it helped. Telling myself that, if I needed to, I could hide parts of my process by retreating to fiction freed me up to put on paper what I wanted to say without the immediate fear of being exposed. Reminding myself that every writer has a messy process, and that one of the points of the creative nonfiction genre is to explore and capture that process, gave me the courage to stay in it.
In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg warns us that “it is important to remember we are not the poem.” She reminds us to “stay fluid behind those black-and-white words. They are not you. They were a great moment going through you. A moment you were awake enough to write down and capture.” Human experience is infinite, and words will never be able to capture the entirety of a person’s existence, or a character’s, or a moment’s.
I am slowly learning to let my work stand on its own--to let it be a moment, a perspective, a snapshot of a specific time and a specific place--rather than expecting it to represent me permanently and in entirety. I’ve had to learn that, just like in life, I will never be able to tick all the boxes in my writing, or to wrap up my thoughts in a complete and tidy package. This perspective makes me more willing to embrace and disclose the mess of my process.
It is both a frustration and a relief that I can write until the end of time and never capture it all. The boxes will never all be ticked, the problems will never all be solved, and I will never completely arrive. I try to remember these things now when I still feel anxious about exposing my process via writing. The words may be mine, and they may be a reflection of a moment through my perception, but they are not me. I am made up of infinite moments captured and uncaptured that can never be fully rendered in art. Ultimately, I’ve decided (see how I wrapped that up neat and tidy, there?) that I’m okay with this, partially because it’s an unavoidable part of life so I kind of have to be, but mostly because that’s exactly where the most lively and interesting parts of writing--and life--happen: in the exploration, the uncertainty, the mess.
Resources and Additional Reading:
“Writers on the pain of hindsight in publishing”
Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones
Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola, Tell It Slant (creative nonfiction anthology and guidance)
Kathryn Winograd’s website
Andrea Rexilius’s website
When I first started writing creative nonfiction earlier this year, I panicked. I am a person who likes to solve a problem, to tick a box, to arrive. I am at my most satisfied when I have completed something, or at least achieved a portion of what I set out to do. Similarly, in writing poetry and fiction, I like to get to a point that I can call it good enough, send it off, and all is well. But when it came to writing nonfiction, I found I couldn’t do that; letting it go, even if to only one or two people, didn’t feel like ticking a box or solving a problem. It felt like exposing parts of myself and parts of my mental and emotional processes that I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone to see--those thoughts and attitudes I experienced but which I was afraid to commit to in writing. I couldn’t hide behind the guise of a character or a voice not my own, as I sometimes did (or could plausibly claim to do) in fiction and poetry. It was painful, and I was ready to quit.
At first my nonfiction work only existed as side notes to the novel I’m working on while I attend the Mile-High MFA program at Regis University. As I wrote parts of the novel, thoughts and memories would arise, and I felt compelled to stop to write them down before continuing with the book. After doing that several times, I thought that maybe those side notes could become works of creative nonfiction. However, I knew very little about how to go about doing that, so I decided to learn. I signed up for a dual-genre study, with creative nonfiction as a secondary genre, and began to work on my first piece for submission to the workshop. Writing creative nonfiction allowed me to directly address my experiences, which was refreshing, but it also left me feeling raw and exposed in a way I hadn’t expected.
In creative nonfiction, I am learning, the writing process and the mental and emotional processes of the writer are often one and the same. As Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola explain in their creative nonfiction textbook Tell It Slant, “As you write [creative nonfiction], in a sense, you re-create your own past and your sense of self, and you do so in front of a live audience, over and over again.” In other words, the process of our becoming--the mental and emotional development that is usually kept private or only shared with those closest to us--becomes part of a nonfiction writer’s work and thus becomes accessible to anyone who reads it.
With my love for all things tidy and complete, the thought of exposing the mess of my process to another person, let alone one I hardly knew, was terrifying. During my first several attempts at writing creative nonfiction, this fear nearly paralyzed me. I thought, as we often (and usually mistakenly) do, that I was alone in my fear. When I finally went to members of my writing community with my concerns, nonfiction writer and faculty mentor Kathryn Winograd gently but firmly told me that creative nonfiction is about “the messy process of the mind, not about the neat, pat answer,” and that fear and discomfort over facing and exposing that is sometimes part of the deal. My adviser and poet Andrea Rexilius suggested that I step back and hybridize to give myself a little of the cover that fiction had been providing me.
I took the advice of both mentors, and, slowly, it helped. Telling myself that, if I needed to, I could hide parts of my process by retreating to fiction freed me up to put on paper what I wanted to say without the immediate fear of being exposed. Reminding myself that every writer has a messy process, and that one of the points of the creative nonfiction genre is to explore and capture that process, gave me the courage to stay in it.
In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg warns us that “it is important to remember we are not the poem.” She reminds us to “stay fluid behind those black-and-white words. They are not you. They were a great moment going through you. A moment you were awake enough to write down and capture.” Human experience is infinite, and words will never be able to capture the entirety of a person’s existence, or a character’s, or a moment’s.
I am slowly learning to let my work stand on its own--to let it be a moment, a perspective, a snapshot of a specific time and a specific place--rather than expecting it to represent me permanently and in entirety. I’ve had to learn that, just like in life, I will never be able to tick all the boxes in my writing, or to wrap up my thoughts in a complete and tidy package. This perspective makes me more willing to embrace and disclose the mess of my process.
It is both a frustration and a relief that I can write until the end of time and never capture it all. The boxes will never all be ticked, the problems will never all be solved, and I will never completely arrive. I try to remember these things now when I still feel anxious about exposing my process via writing. The words may be mine, and they may be a reflection of a moment through my perception, but they are not me. I am made up of infinite moments captured and uncaptured that can never be fully rendered in art. Ultimately, I’ve decided (see how I wrapped that up neat and tidy, there?) that I’m okay with this, partially because it’s an unavoidable part of life so I kind of have to be, but mostly because that’s exactly where the most lively and interesting parts of writing--and life--happen: in the exploration, the uncertainty, the mess.
Resources and Additional Reading:
“Writers on the pain of hindsight in publishing”
Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones
Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola, Tell It Slant (creative nonfiction anthology and guidance)
Kathryn Winograd’s website
Andrea Rexilius’s website
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