Select Page

To Not Be Silent

“We have said this not in order to say something, but in order not to remain altogether silent.”

— Augustine of Hippo

Not to remain altogether silent. What a modest, humble goal. We don’t know if our words have any innate value or if anyone will find anything of use in them. Yet, we honor our yearnings: to create; to attempt to express our deepest feelings and understandings; to connect, to heal, to empower ourselves . . . one other person . . . anyone upon whom our released butterfly happens to land.

And isn’t Augustine also saying, basically: I don’t know that what I’ve written is for sure the truth. I’m not writing to make a pronouncement, but just to convey my thoughts on what I believe is important. (Augustine explored major tenets of Christianity, like Divine grace, and both Protestants and Catholics still inherit his conclusions.)

In our world (and in Augustine’s) where everyone seems to have such strong beliefs and to be convinced that they have a patent on the truth, isn’t it nice to have permission to say that we don’t have to have it all figured out before we can share our thoughts? That there is Mystery and a universe bigger than us?

And what about that word, “altogether.” Doesn’t that hint that maybe he had more to say but elected to not say it? He has not been altogether silent, but I think he is implying that he has edited his words. There’s definitely wisdom there.

In the previous newsletter, I talked about the difficulties we encounter when we solely define ourselves by what we do, by our goals, or by our product. I was touched by the deep and thoughtful comments that came back to me, so please keep commenting. For example:

“Your post was a lone voice in the cacophony of noise in our culture. The idea of examining the creative process from a deeper perspective is wonderful, It won’t lend itself to the “top 10 things to focus on” kind of list. I wonder what an outcome would look like? Clarity?”

Clarity. Isn’t that what we’re all looking for? We want clear answers to the questions of who am I and what should I be doing and how do I fit into the bigger picture? I’ve talked in the past about Dan Blank’s “Clarity Cards,” and how useful I’ve found them.

But the interesting thing about clarity is that it’s not a one-time deal. We think we should be able to adjust the lens to the proper setting and the whole scene will be in perfect focus. But as any good photographer will tell you, perfect clarity lasts for only minutes—even seconds. The light changes, the fog moves in, some thoughtless person obstructs your line of sight, your own artistic impulse moves you to focus on the lone tree rather than the clouds. And so, like everything real, clarity is organic, breathing, coming in and going out.

Which makes me think of this comment to the post: I write because I need to, and the journey is important to me.

The journey. Clarity is a journey. To see ourselves without our masks, to see our own unique gifts, to find our place—and the place of our art—in this living, breathing universe. To be able to move forward without having all the answers. Simply: to not remain altogether silent.

What a simple, gentle goal and how liberating.

To sum up, I’m going to quote from my novel, which you’re never supposed to do online if you’re shopping it. (I’m finding that I care less and less about these rules.)

This is near the end, and my main character, the Italian writer Giovanni Boccaccio, is writing his epitaph with his trusted servant, Zenobi, who is the first-person narrator of the story. Boccaccio chased fame all his life, always living in the shadow of his friend, the other great Italian writer, Petrarch. In my novel, Boccaccio makes huge sacrifices for his career, yet never achieved the greatness he sought. But, in the end, he wised up.

“The Decameron is great,” I say. “And you know it. That’s why you chose the paper and script of higher texts for this rewrite.”

He smiles. “This last effort has made me so happy, Zenobi. And to return to our task,” he nods toward the paper on the desk before me, “my labors, whatever they cost me, they gave me great joy. My life has been beautiful because of my work.” He gestures toward the pen, drying in my hand. “Say that my life was adorned by my labors.”

“By the worth of your labors.”

He sighs. “Very well, Zenobi. You have worn down a dying man. But in truth, no artist can say if there is any worth in his labors. We are like miners, working in the dark, seeing only the tiny light from our lamps, not knowing where we are going or what we will find. Perhaps this is God’s will for our lives. Or perhaps God doesn’t give a fig. But either way, this enchantment is our curse, our ecstasy, our nobility. Whether we are great, not great, recognized, not recognized—it matters not, Zenobi. All we can do is take up our pens or our brushes or our chisels. We write the next word, strike the next blow, and hope that it exposes . . . truth.”

Under this stone lie the ashes and bones of Giovanni. His soul rests before God, his mortal life having been adorned by the worth of his labors. His father was Boccaccio, his country was Certaldo, and his love was his cherished poetry.

Finding our stories . . . and ourselves.

The Tension between Art & Life

Art is part of the larger ecosystem of our lives. Organic, growing and changing constantly, it lives within the interplay of all we experience.
Our task is to create from the deepest place possible for that is where we are connected to the mystery that is All.

The Tension between Art and Life

My last newsletter was several months ago, and there’s a reason for that which I’m going to try to unpack. In that newsletter, I said that I wanted to be more than a writer, and that I wanted my writing to come from a more spiritual place. So, since the beginning of Italy’s endless lockdown, I’ve been reading, praying, trying on different ways of thinking about our purpose here in this world, trying to figure out what I really believe, and who I really am, and who I really want to be.

I could write a book on that, but it would come out as the disjoined ramblings of a crazy person. I have identified some issues that perhaps a lot of us face, whether we are writers or not.

1. Defining ourselves by what we do. This was HUGE for me and it has absolutely paralyzed me for the last year and a half as I have struggled to try to figure out how NOT to be ONLY a writer. I’m not a mother, I’m not a wife, I’m not accomplished in any career, I’m not even a sister or anyone’s wicked step-mother. Being a writer and the director of a writing school defined me. Now, if I don’t “succeed” as a writer, am I a fraud?

However, this problem is not limited to those of us who can’t point to any achievements. A good friend who has five published books once said to me, “If I’m not a writer, I’m nothing.” Well, this person had an important career other than writing and had managed to raise three children who, in every way, appear to be well-adjusted adults, which is no small thing. So, while I totally got what she was saying, I was also amazed.

We see this not just in creatives but in people who have successful careers and then retire or get laid off. Who am I now? What am I worth?

2. Defining ourselves by our goal. I have always been such an optimist, have always believed that if you tried hard enough, perseverence would get you there. Well, I hate to admit this, but it may not get you to the place you’re dreaming of. It may get you somewhere satisfying, but you may have to accept something different than your plan. I finally landed a top-shelf New York agent who has sold nineteen books this year, including one last week. She said she “loved” my book. But in this year, she has not found a publisher for it. Now, I know, some of you are wanting to write me and say, “Don’t give up. Think of all the books that made it after being rejected, etc.” But, wouldn’t it be better for our mental health just not to care so much? Wouldn’t we be happier people and more at peace if we just did our art like prayer and set it free? I’m not saying we shouldn’t send it out or try to publish it or self-publish it. But I think we need to release it to its destiny and see it as what it is: one part of our fully-lived life.

3. Defining ourselves by our product. Published writers tell me they look back at their books after a few years and are appalled and wish they could rewrite them. I’ve spent the last year rewriting the novel that was my creative thesis for my MFA, and I wonder why they let me graduate. I feel guilty for putting those instructors through such agony. And I know that, ten years from now, if I read it again, I may feel the same way. I look at newsletters I wrote a while back, and I wish I hadn’t sent them.

This is another thing that can paralyze us. We don’t take the next step: whether it’s starting our project, joining a group, signing up for a class, putting outselves out there in some way, because we’re afraid we’ll do something wrong. If we let our product define us, then we want our product to be perfect.

I’ve been afraid to restart this newsletter because I didn’t feel sure exactly what direction to take. I’m certain we don’t need another newsletter with writing advice or encouragement to “just do it.” I’ve written plenty of those myself, but now there are zillions.

I do think that there is a need for the examination of the creative process from a deeper perspective and some conversations about how it fits into a fully-lived life. But am I ready yet to open up that dialogue? I don’t feel ready.

However, it occurred to me this morning that maybe I never will feel ready. And that it’s just my ego, once again, insisting that I can’t write unless I have answers. So, I’m not here to offer you answers but just to say, “this occurred to me. What do you think?”

We are more than what we do, more than our goals and dreams, more than the products we create. And yet, if we feel called to some creative process, that is important and should be honored. But that’s a conversation for another time.

If you have thoughts on any of this, it would be wonderful if you’d share them here. I don’t want to do all the talking.

Finding our stories . . . and ourselves.
— Alison

Creating a Meaningful Pause

Dear Readers & Writers:
A long pause. Is that what all this feels like to you? Even if you’ve gone back to work or never stopped, does the rest of your life seem off-kilter? Do you find that your old routines are no longer working? Did you find that the stay-at-home orders forced you to reevaluate all the things that you had once done as a matter of course or taken for granted? Are you still sheltering at home as much as possible or are you out there fighting for change? Either way, it’s like all the pieces of our lives were tossed into the air and now are drifting down to land in some random configuration. We pause, breath held, to see what that will look like.

Several of you have subscribed to this newsletter since I sent the last one and so, perhaps, I need to introduce myself. I’m a writer from Arkansas who moved to Italy in September of 2017 to write my historical novel about Boccaccio, the 14th-century Italian writer. When I moved, I brought my 92-year-old mom and my four-pound dog named Prose. We lived in a two-room apartment in a medieval village built in the 1200s, the kind you see in pictures of Italy and wonder if anyone really lives there. I did and I was pretty darn happy.

I actually began my long pause before the coronavirus struck. December 10, 2019, I had a double hip replacement in Baton Rouge. All that went great, and my mom and I returned to Italy on February 6. There were some murmurs of a virus in China but I didn’t pay any attention. We had about two glorious weeks. I got to use my new titanium/ceramic hips to climb one of my beloved medieval towers and spent a great day in Siena with my friend Silvia.

Then, overnight, the virus numbers began climbing in the north of Italy. It very much felt like it was coming for us. I told my mom we either needed to leave ASAP or plan to stick it out. We opted to stay, though it meant I was responsible for the health of a 92-year-old woman in a foreign country where we didn’t speak the language and if one of us went to the hospital, the other couldn’t come. Facing this grim prospect, I locked us in on February 25, earlier than the Italian government finally did. In almost three months, I left our apartment five times. Twice to meet friends who had picked up groceries for us and three times to walk to the ATM for rent money, which I left in a coffee can in my garden for my landlord to pick up.

At first, I didn’t think this would last more than six weeks. I lounged around, did sporadic physical therapy, watched a LOT of Netflix, and told myself I should be doing something useful but never really settled in to anything. During this time, after a year of shopping my novel, I signed with a literary agent, Jenny Bent. This was a moment I had dreamed of for decades. I thought it would make me ecstatically happy. But I felt more numb than anything. I didn’t even share it on social media. I just immediately began worrying that rejections were starting to come in from the publishers she sent it to.

I began to understand that not only was the world changing, but I was changing. From the perspective of a couple of months of solitude I could see that my former life had been busy to the point of hectic, that some things that had once given me satisfaction had become just items on my to-do list, and that I really was not the deeply spiritual person I wanted to be.

Now, I asked myself, who do I really want to be and what part does my writing play in that? How can I turn the Etch-a-Sketch over, give it a good shaking, and begin again?

I still wanted to be a writer, but I didn’t want to be only a writer, and it seemed that that was what I had become. My novel, the Village Writing School, my research, my social media—everything was about my writing life. I wanted my life to be bigger than that. I wanted my writing to arise out of a more centered, aware, spiritual place.

I decided we needed to move. It hurt my heart to leave my beloved medieval village, but I felt that I needed bigger windows, more air and sky. If we were going to primarily stay at home, home needed to be bigger, not just in terms of more than two rooms (though that is nice) but bigger in terms of a solitary place to walk and a place to sit outside that did not abut the neighbor’s garden. I watched Italy’s virus numbers decline until the percent of people testing positive was under 1%. Still feeling that I was taking a chance, I went out and looked at apartments and then moved us to house in the country. We have one neighbor, a young woman who is a doctor and speaks great English. Prose and I walk every morning at 6:00 in the woods behind. My room has giant windows that look down on the rolling hills of Tuscany. But I’m only ten minutes from my medieval village, which I can see from my yard. In the morning, roosters crow. At night, we are beginning to see fireflies. This week I watched a man move a huge flock of sheep with two big, white dogs.

It feels like a holy space. Because I have declared that it is. I have declared that here I will take a long pause to work on myself. To read the books I always wanted to read. To rewrite my first novel, a story that I know will never be published commercially, but a story that I love. I want to make it the best it can be for me. I want to create routines that make me a deeper, more compassionate person, more at peace, more aware of divinity. I want the trivialities to fall away.

If Jenny Bent finds a publisher for the Boccaccio novel she is shopping, I will write another one, a companion piece. If not, well, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll make a 90-degree turn and do something else. I have been accepted to a program at Notre Dame University for people wanting to explore the next chapter of their lives. I was supposed to start in January, but I deferred to the next cohort, starting August 2021 because I wanted more time here in my House of Pause.

What about the Village Writing School? Again, I don’t know. I know that what the VWS does matters—writing matters. Especially now. But when I think of putting together another summit, all planning and inviting and emails and technical angst, my heart says: not yet. Every Tuesday at 9 central, I host an online write-in, where we simply write for one hour. One participant has completed a personal essay in just our time together. Another says that she writes for that hour and then gets in another three before she stops, because that little kick-start is what she needs to settle down in these crazy times. This little write-in makes me happy. If that is something you would be interested in, contact me. We invite you to join us. Otherwise, we have our great recorded summits and workshops still available at VillageWritingSchool.com.

I think about a Village Writing School 2.0 and what that might look like. How can we nurture writing for healing in these troubled times? How can we support people writing for publication without shutting down people who only want to write for themselves, for healing, for connection, for empowerment? We will see what unfolds.

A pause can be like a waiting room in which we fidget and read old magazines or it can be a sabbatical from which we emerge reinvigorated, renewed, transformed. As long as the virus is around, all our choices to go out carry a risk. Some risks are worth it. But just making these choices can lead us to evaluate what is really important to us, to think before we act, to be more intentional. And all the time that we used to spend overwhelmed by our frantic society and our unthinking busyness can now be channeled toward building a more centered, balanced life that nurtures our hearts and souls.

This virus is a catastrophe and will, perhaps, surpass the Black Death as the worst disaster of human history. But it is the nature of the human spirit to grow during crises. Whatever this pause looks like in your life, may you find a way to enter into it and nurture your spirit.

Finding our stories . . . and ourselves.
— Alison

Ingredients for a Meaningful Life

How can we lead a meaningful life? What should we do when life seems meaningless? These questions have occupied the world’s greatest thinkers since before recorded history.

What can I possibly say about them?

Well, I can tell you about a book I just read entitled: The Power of Meaning, Finding Fulfilment in a World Obsessed with Happiness by Emily Esfahani Smith. Her conclusions, based on extensive research recorded in footnotes and references that take up a third of the book, is that there are four “pillars of meaning.” If you want to lead a meaningful life, this is what you need. You might think of three almost instantly. The fourth may surprise you.

  • Belonging and connection. We’ve all read the tragic stories of how infants are permanently emotionally crippled when denied affection and human touch. We’ve all seen studies of how the elderly live longer and healthier lives when they are socially connected. We all need the affirmation of friendship and to believe that we matter to others.
  • Purpose. “Purpose is the forward pointing arrow that motivates our behaviour and serves as the organizing principle of our lives.” To make a difference in the world, even in a tiny way. To contribute to something larger than yourself, even if it’s your own family. People with a sense of purpose lead more meaningful lives. Sometimes it’s not always easy to find our purpose, because it’s a product of our unique talents, background, and interests. To know your purpose is to know yourself.
  • Transcendence. The word, Smith says, means “to go beyond or to climb.” A transcendent experience is one in which we rise above everyday life to recognize a higher reality. Religion, of course, is a path to transcendence. But just to look up at the stars and reflect on the vastness of the cosmos or to consider the miracle of our human bodies or the birth of a baby, or to stand in awe before a masterpiece of art are all moments of transcendence. We feel our own insignificance before the universal mystery and rather than make us dejected, such transcendent moments can be life-changing, impressing upon us our connection with the universal and the importance of our fragile life.
  • Storytelling. Ha! Got you. Who knew? Telling our stories connects us with others. It also allows us to reflect back on events to see their meaning. Which is necessary if we want our lives to have meaning. Storytelling is how we make sense of our lives and our own past actions. I recently had dinner with a woman I had just come to know. She spent a while telling me a story about how she had reacted to a difficult situation on an airplane. I think she was affirming that she handled the situation properly or maybe she was assessing her doubt that she didn’t.

When we want people to understand us, we share parts of our story. By telling or writing our stories, we can also gain insight into the personal narrative we have crafted. Some people tell of traumatic past events but end with the understanding of what they gained by having to go through the suffering or what they now have to offer the world because of it. Others are stuck in bitterness and tragedy. But it is possible to recognize and reframe our stories, not with an unrealistic Pollyanna attitude but with an authentic reflection. To see how past events have shaped us is to find meaning.

The Village Writing School has always felt like a mission to me—like my purpose. Other writer friends chastise me for spending so much time on the school rather than my own writing. I ordered Smith’s book when I was feeling beat up by the whole agent-querying process and my self-doubt was threatening to drown me. Her book gave me what I needed to hear: the power of story to heal us, to connect us, to give meaning to our life.

Finding our stories . . . and ourselves.
— Alison

Thoughts on the “Process”

I am thinking a lot about “process.” Not just the process of writing, but the process of accomplishing anything worthwhile that we dream of doing, whether it is our creative work, our business goals, or improving our health and our relationships. How do we craft a process that achieves results, yet still honors the many goals we may have to serve others or to take care of ourselves?

The responses to the recent survey sent out by the Village Writing School illustrates that this is the most common problem among writers. When asked to name their biggest challenge as a writer, there were so many responses like these:

  • Setting up the time, having a scheduled routine for writing.
  • Momentum—there seem to be spans of much getting ready to get ready.
  • Keeping faith—continuing to submit despite more rejections vs. acceptances.
  • Life—things interrupt and make it difficult to stay on task.
  • Maintaining a regular writing practice.
  • The whole thing becomes overwhelming, so I stop.
  • Focus, sticking to good habits, productivity.
  • Disciplining myself to making daily writing as basic to my day as making sure the kitchen sink is always shining.
  • Getting started again.
  • I can only seem to write two or three hours a day.
  • Being in a quiet place with no interruptions so I can think and focus on what I want to write.
  • Getting the work done.
  • Sitting down and actually writing!
  • I wish I had some sort of boot camp mentality to keep me writing on my own.
  • Putting fire under my butt—motivating myself.

Of course, there were requests for workshops and events on writing craft, publishing, platform building. And those are easy enough to address. Because the elements of craft are the same for all of us, even though our styles may differ. The various paths to publishing are the same for all of us. And while we have options as to how we do it, building a platform is simply connecting authentically with one person at a time. I’m all over these kinds of topics. I’ve spent two days researching writers and instructors and emailing invitations to teach for the Village Writing School.

But “process.” That’s a horse of a different color. It may be as individual as our fingerprints. There is no right or wrong way to develop a writing habit. The only acid test is does good writing get done?

We want to be told specifically what to do. I am one of those people who follows the recipe like it is a scientific operation and a variation in the amount of salt will blow up the lab. I read all the directions that come with my appliances, even the ones that tell me not to stick my head in the oven. (Italians LOVE warnings.) We want a set of instructions that will make us into writers or make our other goals into accomplishments.

But really, maybe that makes it harder. Maybe all these books on how to develop a writing life just freeze us because we can’t do it that way. Maybe Stephen King can write all day. I can’t. I’m spent after three hours. Other writers say the same. This is the value of deep work. I’ve written 130,000 words in a year. Three hours at a time. And not every day. I’d like to write every day, but that’s an unrealistic goal unless you’ve got a staff and a security guard. Or put your study at the end of a high catwalk, like Hemingway did, that everyone else is afraid to cross.

Writers write all over the map and the clock face. Books are written on commuter trains, in bathtubs, in cars waiting for kids to get out of school, on phones in lines at the post office. Carolyn Chute hid in an old shed to write The Beans of Egypt, Maine. Maya Angelou kept a motel room rented for years.

Books are written over decades and in two weeks and everything in between. On computers, notebooks, and the backs of unused flyers.

Books are written because we want to write them. It is as simple as that.

We plot, we don’t plot, we half plot. We use Scrivener; we write in Word. We edit as we go or we fast draft. It all works for some of us.

Yes, the Village Writing School will offer a workshop on the writing process, but it will not be prescriptive. Instead, it will look at many techniques writers have used successfully to cajole, threaten, or bribe themselves to write, to get over that hump of the starting. Because that’s what’s hard: the starting up.

We will explore the mystical element of the writing process. Which may exist. Or may not. Or may exist for you but not for me. I light a candle, write out a prayer. Maybe you meditate, levitate. I drink a coffee/spinach smoothie. Maybe you do, too. With tequila. We listen to music, white noise, nothing. We want a view; we need a blank wall.

I hope our workshop will offer enough ideas that all the people whose comments are listed above will find a process that works for them. Maybe what we need more than anything is to:

  • Assess our personal situation
  • See our way into a solution that does not demand superhuman effort
  • Give ourselves permission to do it our way rather than some famous writer’s way
  • Do it

Especially, the last one.

Finding our stories . . . and ourselves.
Alison