Alumni Voices with Jackie Hesse: Falling into the Void

As I was blow drying my hair today–after adding the special conditioner for the ends and the thick opaque gel uniquely formulated to smooth and oh, and a few pumps of volumizer to the roots–as I stood there, pulling the round brush forward and then twisting it just so, I lamented my fate.

             
If only I were somewhere isolated where I didn't have to get dressed and fuss like this.

If only I were somewhere I could just get up and all day long focus on writing.

But that's a lie, isn't it?

           
Isn't this hour-long hair prep what I really want? Isn't it somehow saving me from some worse fate? Something ... dangerous?

           

Aren't I actually grateful not to be holed up in an isolated cabin in a rainy wood, with no excuse not to write and nothing to get between me and that blank computer screen?

           
Yes. I am. And you probably are too.

           
Because here in our busy lives we are able to procrastinate.

           
Procrastinate. Such a Minnesota nice, innocent word for such a menacing, massive obstruction to our success.

           
Andrew Steeves is frank, and funny, and insightful about his ability to procrastinate. "We have all these fantastic stories in our heads," he says "and the only obstacle to sharing them with the world is the hours and hours sitting at a desk translating the language of your brain into something other people can understand."

           
Peter Pearson is endearingly honest when he writes that even when he was in a place, "where all quotidian roadblocks between me and Transcendent Genius™ have been removed" the words did not flow. Up in his literal tower at the Anderson Center in Red Wing he did not spend hour after glorious unmolested hour at the keyboard pounding out what was sure to become a "triple Newbery."

           
Instead, he came face to face with that thing we fear.

           
Steven Pressfield calls this thing, or blockage, or obstacle, resistance.

           
I call it the void.

           
And the void is not a thing, it is a feeling.

           
The void is fear.

H.P. Lovecraft

           
H.P Lovecraft said, “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

           
Scarier still is not the unknown that is lurking somewhere out there, but the unknown that inhabits the deep jungles of our own interiors.

           
When we stare into the void the questions rise and are released: What am I really made of? Really capable of? What if I am less than I believe? What if there's nothing more than me and this fear?

           
And so I cling to my busyness. That's probably why I got up to sharpen my eyeliners in the middle of writing this. It's why I take an hour to fix my hair, clean the sink drain, organize my sock drawer, pick a neighbor up from the airport. Doing any of those is so much easier, familiar and secure than whatever questions, whatever answers might be of asked or escape from the void.  

           
I asked a psychiatrist who specializes in addiction what addiction is at its heart. "Addiction," he said, "is the thing we do so that we do not have to face the thing that scares us." The scary thing is usually a deeply buried belief about ourselves, one that no matter how silly sounding, just might be true. We avoid it because to acknowledge and face it would be overwhelming. It may even destroy us. And so we keep ourselves distracted with booze, shopping, sex, gambling, the internet. Much like what we do to escape writing.

           
But there is no friend needing a ride, no socks needing organizing, no imminent trip to Walgreens pressing on us when we are alone in an isolated cabin in a rainy wood or up in a writing tower.

             
Instead, we have to sit with ourselves, with the void. F.E.A.R., it has been said, is nothing more than an acronym: false evidence appearing real.

           
But something greater than fear brought us to write, brought us to Hamline. This thing is love: a love of story, a love of writing. Love is not false, love is real. And love is stronger than fear. It is what allows us to get to the chair, to face the screen and write. 

Jackie Hesse is a January 2013 graduate of the MFAC program. She lives and writes in Saint Paul, Minnesota and teaches at Normandale Community College.

Meet the Grad: Araceli Esparza

On July 20, 2014, the final day of the summer residency, the MFAC program will have a Graduate Recognition ceremony, honoring the men and women who have just completed their studies and will receive an MFA from Hamline University. Between now and then  we'll be posting interviews with many of the grads. Araceli Esparza is today's grad; she lives on the second floor on a tree-shady lane in Monona, WI

What do you do when you’re not working on packets?

I’m a mother, Tia (auntie) wifey, nieta (grand-daughter) sister, friend and local supporter. I teach for the local district. I also teach creative writing and Spanish literacy class for young children at local libraries.

How did you hear about the Hamline MFAC Program?

I had been looking for a MFA program that was unique and could fit into my life-schedule. I still remember when I saw the essay question about diversity; it was then that I knew—yep, this is the place.

What was your writing experience prior to entering the program?

I’ve written on walls and paper since my teens, and seriously performing for about 7 years--both slam and poems.

What do especially remember about your first residency?

[MFACAlum] Peter Pearson telling me about Alexi Sherman’s NPR interview! I thought if this guy is in this program and he’s super smart--well then I gotta do it! Basically, I’m a true believer of osmosis.

The veil had been pulled…and still I needed a view…

Yep, first res left me twitching!

Have you focused on any one form (Picture book, novel, nonfiction; graphic novel) or age group in your writing? Tried a form you never thought you’d try?

First semester, I went over my hands and feet and dove into a graphic novel. If Swati [Avasti] in her wisdom hadn’t pulled it from my bloody grip, I would be still writing it! She suggested I do a picture book so that I could see through a story to the end. I’ve been hooked since; 700 words have never been so hard and fun to work with.

Tell us about your Creative Thesis.

All of the pieces have some tie to Latino culture in one way or another. Some are tied just by how I see the character, otherwise you might not get the connection. One is Purple Leaves, which began as a poem and grew into a story about self-confidence and speaking up/out about what you know is true! The others are more obvious through language and setting.  I wanted to create family stories in any setting: modern middle class home, urban barrio, airports, gardens, jail, living room, school, and under a slide in a park. Any and every place my own children have had to go to. The picture book about jail is a personal one for me. In my research, I only found five picture books written for children with parents in prison or jail. The best one was Visiting Day by Jacqueline Woodson. The illustrator and author notes for that book encouraged me to write the story my way.  

What changes have you seen in your writing during your studies?

It’s like I’m empty. For years I have written to exorcise my daemons, and now I’m empty enough to see and take a moment to describe fully what I see.  I can tell that my writing is clear, my poetry has elements of child’s play in them—which I love. Has it gotten easier to write: No WAY! There’s still no time, I still scratch on little pink slips from work, I still stay up way-late at night to get shit done. And my poems still only come in the moment. I have become patient with myself and less critical of my work and focused more on my killer taste (Thanks for the video! Ira Glass!)

With packet deadlines removed as an incentive, do you anticipate it will be harder to keep writing?
 I will continue to write. In fact, my whole family finally understands this is my work. So if I stop now—I can’t stop. For my family, for other Latino children, for me--I can’t stop.

Any plans for your post-Hamline writing life?

After Hamline, I will cry and be sad and then probably go back to teaching my community about Latino children’s books through the library programs that I have started.

Any thoughts for entering students or for people considering the program?

If you are a writer of color, writing is hard. Coming to terms that you are a writer wasn’t easy. Neither will this program be easy, but I promise you, there will be nothing that you will value more than all the work you put into it. I say that I didn’t choose writing, writing choose me, from all mi abuelita’s stories down to my daughter’s imagination--I have a need to tell a great story, to hear the joy of a poem.  At Hamline I have been able to do that.

***

The public is welcome to attend the graduate recognition ceremony on Sunday, July 20, 3:30pm, (Anne Simley Theatre, Drew Fine Arts Building). Vera Williams is the speaker.

Peter Pearson: Dragons in the Tower

I am writing to you from the top of my own personal water tower. Right  now. Here’s a picture of it. I was lucky enough to get into the residency program at the Anderson Center (which you should all apply for, by the way), which means that I’ve been whisked into some kind of impossible wonderland where artists are treated like gods and given an entire month to do whatever they want. Today, for instance, I woke up without an alarm (because seriously, who needs that bullshit) and went for a run through the sculpture garden to the Cannon River, where I saw bald eagles, goldfinches, turtles, and probably unicorns. Along the way, I stumbled across an abandoned gravel pit, so I explored that for a while and came out with a fist full of agates and three copper-plated bullets, which this city mouse found absolutely fascinating. Then I jogged back, ate the food left by our personal chef in the mansion that is somehow my residence, luxuriated in the shower, and then literally ascended into my writing tower, where I come every day to work on my novel. Light spills in from every direction as I look out over the river valley, as well as nearby Highway 61, which I may have the staff blockade for the remainder of my stay, as it displeases me. I may have that power. Who knows?

After weeks in this fairy tale, where someone actually warns me of anything that might disturb my artistic trance (“Raking today. Sorry about that!”), where someone cooks for me and cleans for me, where all quotidian roadblocks between me and Transcendent Genius™ have been removed, the writing should be going great, right?

Unfortunately, the answer is no. It’s not. I’m not in total crisis—the dilithium crystals haven’t fractured, nor has Voldemort taken up residence in the back of my head (though that would be a sweet excuse)—I just haven’t written nearly as much as I’d hoped, and in the context of this unique gift of time, that feels sort of bad.

There’s a journal in my room that past residents have filled with entries, many of which chronicle mountain-top experiences, from which they descended with tablets of air and fire, their hair permanently windblown. But there are also entries missing. Residents who, for whatever reason, chose to remain silent. I wonder if they had months like the one I’m having, months plagued by frustration, anxiety, and doubt. Months of anemic output and disappointed expectations. When the words are flowing, the tower is paradise. When they’re not, it’s like being locked in a closet with a dragon. And this month, friends, the words have not been flowing. I have the burns to prove it.

In writing, everyone likes to talk about the good stuff. “I sold the book!” “I won the Triple Newbery!” “My agent invented time travel and sent a copy of my book on the Voyager I spacecraft!” This is as it should be. Good stuff feels good. Hard work and time-traveling agents deserve recognition. However, the danger in everyone else’s good stuff is that it can fool you into thinking that bad stuff doesn’t exist, or that it only exists for you. Unchecked, you can develop a wicked case of impostor syndrome, assuming that everyone else has it together and that one day you’ll be unmasked for the fraud you truly are. 

But you know what? Everyone feels that way. Hayao Miyazaki, the most celebrated animator in the world, can’t even bear to watch his own movies because he fixates on the mistakes. Kate DiCamillo, when asked if writing gets easier after you win a slew of awards, just shook her head. “No,” she said. “It gets harder.” We are all storms with smiles on. We just don’t like to talk about it.

Did you watch the TEDx talk that inspired Jane’s brilliant post the other day? If not, watch it now. It’s about grammar and Vietnam, and it is absolutely worth your time. Really, I’ll wait.

(Makes arbitrary pronouncements from tower to kill time.)

Back? Great. I bring it up because I realized something when I watched that video: I’ve been spending weeks in the subjunctive. Up in my tower, I’ve obsessed over the possible world in which I was crushing it with this revision, rather than being crushed by it. The further those two worlds diverged, the harder writing in the real one became. 

In her critical thesis lecture, The Way to the Chair: Zen and the Practice of Writing, Mandy Davis said this: “In writing, there is no place to reach. No perfection to achieve. There is only writing to be done and effort to be made, moment after moment.” Writing is hard, friends. And, when you shoulder up a big ol’ bag of expectations, it can be damn near impossible. 

Writers are eager to forgive everyone but themselves. Practice. Be kind to yourself. Be gentle. As Jane says, “Be as kind to yourself as you would a close friend.” Sit down, embrace the work as it is, and go from there. Remember, the perfect world doesn’t have the burden of actually existing. Your progress in the real one, however slow, dwarfs anything that’s happening in the imaginary fields of perfection.

***

Peter Pearson graduated from the MFAC program in 2012. His first picture book, How to Eat an Airplane, comes out from Katherine Tegen Books/HarperCollins in 2015.