"When I Get A Little Money I Buy Books" Erasmus - Winter Residency Part II

Perhaps I should begin this the second installment on my winter residency with an explanation of the low-residency program. I had no idea when I entered this program how many times I would have to explain it to people. Sometimes the listener looks at me like I'm making it up. So allow me to assure you that these low-residency programs exist across the country and that we actually have several nearby (Queens College and Warren Wilson, both in NC.) The purpose of the low-residency program is to offer an MFA degree to the student who is unable to relocate to a city whose university or college offers a residential MFA program. It also allows the student to continue to hold down a real job. This is accomplished through two 10-day residencies that are held on campus, followed by a semester-long study and writing plan coordinated with a faculty mentor. Packets of the student's work are sent in to the faculty mentor throughout the semester. The workload is fairly extensive, but the student is free to schedule their semester work around their lives. Acceptance into these programs is based on the quality of the manuscript submitted. Because many potential MFAers are grown-ups with jobs and families, the low-residency program is increasing in popularity.

With that bit of housekeeping out of the way, I feel more free to share the rest of my week with you, the well-informed reader. As you can imagine, winter residency (and summer, too, for that matter) is an intense week of workshops, lectures, and writing with little time for sleeping or resting. As I mentioned in my previous blog entry, however, our benevolent leader did schedule a bit of a break for us on Wednesday that was much appreciated (especially by the 8 months pregnant lady with puffy feet!) Wednesday night I did return to school for a screening of the film, New York in the 50's, a documentary based on Dan Wakefield's book by the same name. Though the film did have the misfortune of being shown in the scorchingly overheated Hartness Auditorium, it managed to rise above the steamy circumstances to entertain and charm. The only downside was that Mr. Wakefield was ill and unable to be at the screening. So we're all saving our questions for the summer residency when we hope to see him again.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday went by in a haze of workshops, lectures, and vain attempts to find a comfortable chair and a place to prop up my feet. There were a few standouts, however. R.T. Smith's (yes, he's my mentor!) lecture on place in short fiction was amazing. Who else could read their lecture and still be so interesting and enlightening? Plus, he brought his Edgar Allen Poe action figure! Albert Goldbarth also made a last minute appearance in both a reading and lecture. On Thursday night he read with the always brilliant (and funny) Susan Tekulve, who read an essay on Scottish food and beverage. I also picked up a copy of her new book, Savage Pilgrims, which I can't wait to read. Albert Goldbarth's reading and lecture were both mind-blowing (and as always, entertaining.) My only regret was that the reading had to be held in Cleveland Hall, which managed to be both cold and uncomfortable. At least I got to sit next to the charming Peter Meinke and his wife during the reading. I can't remember the last time I met two kinder or more friendly people. (He's an amazing poet, too.) I can't wait to go to his reading at Converse at the end of the month (January 26.)

So, now it's all over. It's just me and my computer and a UPS guy loaded down with a massive book order. I have two deadlines before the baby gets here (let's hope she's not an early bird, which doesn't seem too likely considering her parents), not to mention the deadlines and work I'll have to do after she gets here. Here's hoping the muse does not forsake me. I've certainly been given more than enough practical advice and inspiring speeches to carry me through. I guess, now, it's up to me.

For those interested, here is a list of the books I purchased during Winter Residency and also my Reading List for the semester. Feel free to read along with any of these and let me know what you think!

Books I purchased:
Savage Pilgrims, Susan Tekulve (fiction)
Uke Rivers Delivers and The Calaboose Epistles, RT Smith (fiction)
To Be Read in 500 Years, Albert Goldbarth (poetry)

Winter 2010 Reading List:
Fiction 100 (anthology)
Lie That Tells The Truth, John Dufresne (craft book)
On Writing, Eudora Welty (craft book) *
Naming The World, Bret Anthony Johnston (craft book/exercises)
As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner (fiction)
The Member of the Wedding, Carson McCullers (fiction)
The Optimist's Daughter, Eudora Welty (fiction) *
I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, William Gay (short fiction)
The Art of Fiction, John Gardner (craft book)

* It's like Rod read my mind! I was so wanting to reading some Eudora Welty this term. I mean, I did go Flannery O'Connor mad last term, so it's only fair.

Tight Schedules and Tighter Shoes: MFA Winter Residency Part One

I realized this morning that I have been missing from blogland for nearly a month, and what a month it has been. I went to Maryland for a week to visit family and just missed their record-breaking Christmas blizzard. I celebrated Christmas with Steve in a very quiet, laid-back way, and that was followed by a less than stellar new year as we lost our precious cat, Hobson to cancer and congestive heart failure. So while champagne was already off the menu for the New Year celebrations this year, it wasn't exactly with sparkling grape juice and noisemakers that we welcomed in 2010.

On a happier note, January 2nd meant the return to school as the Winter Residency began. Since Saturday (Jan 2), I haven't stopped. My life has been a whirlwind of lectures, readings, workshops, and traipsing across campus in the coldest weather Spartanburg has seen in a decade. A fine time to have ridiculously cold weather - when I'm too big to button my coat! The good news is that the program director has worked in a nice little break into the middle of all this craziness, so today I can (quite literally) put my feet up for a few hours, do some writing assignments, and just enjoy my home furnace and humidifier. I even have a nice, warm cat (Abby Tabby) cuddled beside me to keep me warm. Of course, I'll be back at school tonight for a showing of the film adaptation of Dan Wakefield's New York in the Fifties, but I'll be refreshed and ready to go by then. Besides, I'm really looking forward to the film, and Steve has promised to go with me.

Being pregnant during the residency has certainly made it more challenging, but I don't mean to imply that it's been 5 days of torture. The lectures have been great, and the faculty and fellow students are amazing. There have been plenty of highlights (or hi-lites, as I saw on a beauty shop sign near my house yesterday) to celebrate.

• RT Smith, editor of Shenandoah (and my mentor this semester!) gave a reading of his new fiction on Saturday night, including a Southern re-telling of Rumplestiltskin.


• Sarah Kennedy's lecture on the prosy poem. I will now think of her at every poetry reading I attend, wondering if the next poem will "outstrip" me or simply take me along for the ride. Here's hoping for the former rather than the latter.


• Leslie Pietrzyk's (my fantastic former mentor) lecture on finding the story in your novel or short story. I love the practical way in which Leslie approaches writing. She always has such amazing tips and tricks to suggest, and it's so comforting to know that a writer of her caliber has to work hard and use tips and tricks, too.


• Having a 3 hour gab session with my favorite fellow student at Jason's Deli. I think we solved the problems of the world and completely dissembled each other's workshop pieces. Good times!


• Peter Meinke's reading of his poem about the undercover poetry reader.


• Tim McKee's (editor of Sun Magazine) lecture on "Surfacing Pearls" where he actually gave us lists of what he looks for as an editor and what not to do in your stories. Way to be the first editor/speaker we've had that was willing to be that specific!


• C. Michael Curtis' reading of some of the crazy cover letters he's received as editor of the Atlantic Monthly.


• Looking at really, really old issues of Concept while taking a workshop break in the Coker Room.

Today, I enjoyed a bit of a lie-in and a little blogging time, and this afternoon I have lots of writing to do after my weekly doctor's appointment. Here's hoping I'm able to write my re-imagining of "Hills Like White Elephants" and my point-of-view switch exercises before heading to the movie. Tomorrow it's back to the insanity, and Friday I get workshopped. I better start psyching myself up now.

Stuck In The Middle With O'Connor

I hate that in-between feeling. One MFA packet in, the next one dangling over my head like some ominous literary cloud, and I keep floundering away at my next story. I worked hard last week on my next piece and ended up with 7 pages of meandering nothings. Then Wednesday I tried just writing with no exact goal in mind and ended up with several pages of creative non-fiction. Somebody needs to tell my brain that I'm getting my MFA in fiction. Oh well. At least I was writing something, right?

For various reasons, I haven't been able to sit down and write anything for a few days, and I think the hiatus has done me some good. Only time will tell, of course, but I may have come up with a solution to my problem with the story. Who am I kidding? One of the problems with my story. I guess the other hitches will have to work themselves out as I go along. Either way, I feel less panicked about getting to work on Monday. I have so much to write in the next 3 months that sometimes (mostly at night when I'm trying to go to sleep) I break out into a sweaty stress fest. That's when I have to remind myself who gives me these stories and the ability to write them, and I have to remember to trust Him. It sure it hard at 2 o'clock in the morning, though.

Of course, it doesn't help that I'm currently reading Flannery O'Connor's Mystery and Manners, a collection of her essays on writing. The woman is merciless in her criticism of modern writers and literary fiction. Everything she says is so spot on, and her open disdain for inferior work leaves me in such a state, that when I sit down to write I'm paralyzed with fear. Maybe that fear is a good sign. If I could just blythely read her criticisms without feeling the burn, I would be the most clueless student writer in history. Maybe my panic shows an awareness of my inferiorities and serves as a reminder of what all writers aim for - perfection. I know that unattainable goal is thousands of miles off, and I'm still stuck at the starting gate. And after all, isn't knowing half the battle?

They Were Hollywood

With July 4th this Saturday, Steve and I have been getting in a patriotic mood with a weeklong marathon of Band of Brothers. It's so inspiring and humbling to see the way these men sacrificed for our country. Of course, every time I watch something like that I'm reminded of another veteran who served our country. To honor him, I thought I'd post an essay I wrote about my grandmother's late husband. Enjoy reading about Scheller Garlock, 1922-2008.

They Were Hollywood

You probably wouldn’t have guessed it if you had seen him that day, ordering his dinner at the Mountain View Diner in Frederick, Maryland. There’s usually nothing that marks our veterans of foreign wars, nothing on the outside anyway. And that day he was just Scheller Garlock, a man ordering a massive plate of French fries smothered in cheese and gravy in complete disregard of dietary concerns. If diabetes, two heart attacks, and two wars didn’t kill him, the greasy plate of fries weren’t likely to either. At the time, as I sat across from him watching him eat his unhealthy fare just to annoy his wife, my grandmother, all I knew was that he retired from the Army as a Major, loved Corvettes and golf, and that he loved to fix things. Sure, I knew that he fought in World War II and Korea. He frequently participated in events for the VFW and the Korean War Veteran’s Association. I guess I just never thought about his story.

Then Scheller was interviewed for the Library of Congress’ Veteran’s History Project, which archives documents and interviews (both recorded and written) of veterans from World Wars I and II, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, and the Iraq war. A woman and a videographer sat with Scheller for over three hours and questioned him about his entire military career and his life. Though the Project archives data from multiple conflicts, recording WWII veterans’ stories seems the most urgent. According to many sources, more than 1,000 WWII veterans die every day. With each passing, another story is lost.

Scheller Garlock’s story, however, will not be lost. In addition to the copy that is archived with the Library of Congress, several family members, including myself, have a copy of his interview. In the video, which lasts over three hours, he sits in his favorite recliner, his face and shoulders the only thing in the frame, and tells the story of his service in the United States Army.

Growing up in Baltimore, Maryland, during the Great Depression, Scheller and his family learned early how to get by on very little. Raised by his mother after his father left the family, he became a breadwinner at a young age. When he left high school to join the Army, he said that his mother could hardly complain since he was the one trying to provide. This is not a story of hardship, however. Like many of his generation, Scheller focuses his story on all the things he had, the experiences, the friends, but mostly, his stories ended with girls.

“Along came the army war show,” Scheller says. “That was in 1942 after Tennessee maneuvers. A group of us were selected due to our size and height and appearance to go on a bond tour, around the country, selling war bonds and recruiting. And we started in Baltimore in the stadium on 23rd street, stadium where the Baltimore Colts used to play.” He smiles as he describes the reaction of their adoring female fans, “We were Hollywood. All the girls thought we were Hollywood, they wanted to know what movies we were in, had been in.” Then in his typical understated way he says, “It was pretty nice.”

Of course, the glamour couldn’t last forever, and he was eventually shipped off to the war that he had been promoting on his cross-country tour. Though one would hardly think of France in ’42 as somewhere you would want to go, Scheller saw it as preferable to the alternative. “I’d prefer Europe to the jungles of the Pacific,” he says. “[I] heard terrible stories about Pacific fighting.”

Sailing over in the USAT George Washington, they landed in southern France sometime after D-Day. The harbor of Marseilles was so heavily bombed that they had to enter it in landing craft. Once they were in France, the fighting started for Scheller in earnest. He tells stories in his cozy living room about German soldiers who stole the dog tags of dead Americans and faked their way across American lines. He says that if they were caught, they could be killed on the spot. He tells this fact without so much as a flinch, no coldness in his manner, just acceptance. The only time his detachment seems to falter is when he discusses fallen comrades. His promotion to officer was the result of a battlefield commission. “December 5th or 6th, Lt. Grubbs got killed in combat, bouncing betty in his face, and I took his place,” he said, his voice getting quiet. “He was a good guy, good officer, great young man from Alabama…Alan E Grubs, nice fellow, couldn’t replace him.”

Before the injury that took him out of the fighting, Scheller was injured once before. He mentions it as almost an aside to his story. “That wasn’t very serious,” he says. “I only went to the aide station, but they gave me a purple heart. It was shrapnel, mortar fire. I was in a barn. A mortar hit the door, and I had splinters in my face and in my neck. It wasn’t too bad. They picked it out. It was wood mostly.” His dismissive tone makes the lady conducting the interview laugh off camera. His second injury, which earned his second purple heart, did take him out of the fighting, however, it didn’t seem to discourage him. “I was in the hospital when the war ended,” he says, grinning. “So I celebrated with the nurses.”

After WWII, Scheller left the service, only to return a short time later. His return to the Army took him to Germany to aid in the Berlin Airlift. His view on helping the people he had just risked his life to fight was philosophical. “Every German I met had never fought the Americans,” he says. “They always fought the Russians. I never met one who fought Americans. I don’t know who was shooting at us because they were all on the Russian front.” He laughs, and you can hear the interviewer laughing along off camera.

After his return from Germany, Scheller was eventually shipped off to Hawaii. This posh assignment didn’t last long, though. In July of 1950, he was sent off to fight in Korea. His thirteen months there were cold and hard, but they also yielded the most amazing of his stories.

“We were in this village, and we just came back off the line,” he says. “An enemy patrol came into the village. They were looking for a prisoner to take back with them for interrogation, and they came in from behind us.” Though the village was in a circle, they hadn’t placed any guards in the back, and the enemy snuck in hoping to find an unwitting soldier to torture and question.

When Scheller heard noises outside, he went to investigate. “I went outside on the porch,” he says. “I don’t know why I put my cap on.” A few seconds later, he saw movement, could tell it was a North Korean, and he shot. After that, there was no sound, just a drop of blood running down his head. He reached up his hand to touch a scratch where his cap, with its now dented lieutenant’s bars, had sat. It had been knocked off by the shot. Apparently, the North Korean had fired at exactly the same time. Only the bars on his hat saved his life.

The next morning, they found the North Korean dead. Shot in the throat, he couldn’t call for reinforcements. Scheller’s life was saved by a wool cap and a lucky shot. Unfortunately, one of the other American soldiers wasn’t so lucky. The North Koreans did find a prisoner that night, just not Scheller Garlock. When he tells this part of the story, the smile again slides from his face. He doesn’t know if the man they captured was ever released.

As I watch and re-watch the video of Scheller telling the stories of his wartime service with such calm and reserve, I am always amazed that this is the same man I knew and loved. It is so hard to imagine someone whose life you treasured being able to take the life of another. In the interview, he talks about a time when his young granddaughter asked him what it was like to kill somebody. He seemed unable to give answers to a child to such a complex question. That’s understandable. Sometimes I have trouble reconciling the man in these stories with the man who told me I was pretty because I had beautiful lips. How could it be the same man falling asleep petting my cat and shrugging off a wound involving flying shards of shrapnel and wood?

Perhaps the unassuming nature of these veterans is a reason why we need things like the Veteran’s History Project. How many families are living with men, and women, like Scheller who fought so hard for our country, and then quietly stepped back into the shadows to live their lives? Without this video interview, I would never have known that Scheller was once the Cary Grant of the Army set, or that tiny lieutenant’s bars could save your life. All I would know is that once upon a time he used to be in the Army.

Risky Business

I don't make New Year's resolutions. I see nothing magic about the date, January 1, and I always let it pass without a single vow to give up sweets or exercise every day (as if either of those would ever happen.) Apparently, somebody didn't get the memo, however, because a resolution has forced itself upon me. I'm calling it my "Risk Resolution" because at every turn for the past couple of months, I have been faced with one challenge after another that requires me to take a risk - hold my breath, make the dive, and hope for the best.

The year began with a major change - Steve and I decided as a couple to change churches. This was not a decision we came to lightly or quickly, but once it was set into motion, it snowballed into Risk 101. Suddenly, I find myself going to church with 500 people I've never met. I'm going to Bible studies and small groups and dinners with total strangers. While no one who's met me would ever describe me as shy, the word reticent might come to mind. Just like when I first started at Converse four years ago, I find myself making little deals in my head. Okay, Sarah. Just speak out at least once during this get together...even if its only to ask where the bathroom is.

Then there's grad school. Sure I wanted to go to grad school. And yes, I planned to apply before the school year was out. I've been working on my manuscript for Senior Seminar, and I planned to use that for my grad school applications. Then about a week ago, I got an email about a scholarship opportunity. While I was thrilled about the possibility of being nominated for a scholarhship, this did accelerate all my plans. So I'm meeting tomorrow with Professor Tekulve to go over my manuscript as it stands to see if it's grad school ready. Scary. I have to send my baby (my manuscript) off to total strangers who will tell me if they think I am good enough for their school. No pressure.

Apparently, I decided I didn't have enough risk in my life, however. I had an essay due tonight in my Creative Non-Fiction class. I decided to expand on something I wrote for a previous blog entry (see "The Secret Life of Cupcakes.") I am intrigued by the lyric essay, and we read a wonderful essay for this class that also followed a more experimental structure (See "The Pain Scale" by Eula Biss.) So I sat down to write a lyric-style essay using my blog entry and weaving it with some additional writing. By the time I was finished with my first draft, I was practically in a cold sweat. Professor Howie said he would reward those who took risks, but what if the essay was so bad that he couldn't even see what I was aiming for? I frantically called a writer friend and asked her to read the essay. She generously did so and gave me her comments and suggestions. After working some more on my essay, I was still terrified about turning it in. (This was a reflection on my writing, not Martha's wonderful advice.) As my panic reached its zenith, I sent my email to the long suffering Professor Howie. A portion of the text follows:

I'm freaking out just a bit about my essay that I'm bringing in tomorrow night for next week. For some reason that I can't even remember right now, I decided it would be really exciting to try a sort-of-lyric arrangement for my essay. I just didn't want you to think that I thought it was good. I just decided to experiment, and, now, I'm just going to have to go with it. I know this email is getting more bizarre by the minute, so I'll end it before I start sounding too needy.

Though Professor Howie was very comforting, class tonight did little to allay my fears. Very few of the people in class are writers, and as we workshopped other stories, I found myself disagreeing with most of the things the non-writers said. Next week's workshop of my story may end up a blood bath, but, alas, I have offered up my story as gift to the writing gods, and I shouldn't whine if I get a little singed. I took a risk with the essay, and I'm going to stick to it. It may be a cliche, but I'm going to say it, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."