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On Writing Groups and Muddling Through

January 22, 2010 in Writing and Publishing with 5 Comments

Kristin Noblin

Last summer, my husband’s friend posted on Facebook: “Are there any serious writers in Seattle who are interested in a writers group?”  My husband replied that I was, and then he asked me what I thought.

He was right.  I was interested.  I was still working a couple of part-time jobs, and I was considering pursuing my M.F.A.  The thing about these writing programs though is that they require a writing portfolio and I hadn’t done any significant poetry writing since 2007.  Writing is a lot like exercise: once you stop, it’s really hard to get started again, and it’s easier to do if you have a buddy.

Writing Groups of All Shapes and Sizes

As a writing major and an English teacher, I have a long history with writing groups.  I learned how to give and receive critique from my high school English teachers who both modeled effective critique and created workshop space for us to interact with each other’s work.  It wasn’t until I began teaching that I realized how rare those creative writing classes are in high school, and I have yet to work at a school that offers that same opportunity.  By the time I graduated from college, I had come to depend on feedback from my community on my writing, and I found it harder and harder to come by.  My teacher friends didn’t often offer the same depth of critique—perhaps because it was simply relief to be reading something beyond the average eighth grade poem—so when I came upon my first writing group in Portland, I felt relieved to know that my writing was once again in good hands, with people that would neither praise it excessively or tear it down needlessly.  I found this particular group through my church: it was small, met biweekly, and while we each had different poetic styles, we were able to provide solid feedback to each other.  Either that, or we just said, “Dude, I’m not sure what to tell you.  This is beyond me.”  Being in a small group gave us space to focus ample time to each piece on those rainy winter evenings.

That group broke up about six months after I joined it as people moved and life happened.  About a year later, I was asked to become part of the leadership team for a larger writing group, and I found that to be much less effective.  We only met monthly, so I frequently found myself either throwing something together before rushing out the door (a great leadership model to be sure) or not bringing anything because I knew there was no way we would get to everyone.  While I received some good feedback on the few pieces I did bring, I was exhausted, leading in too many areas of my life that year.  I was not sad to step down.

Despite the overwhelming sense of relief after leaving the leadership team, I effectively stopped writing poetry a few months afterwards.  It seems I am not as self-motivated as I would like to think I am.  So when this opportunity opened to join a new group in Seattle, I jumped on it despite knowing no one in the group.  I have found it’s often best if the people in the group form their relationships around the writing; it’s easier to stay on topic that way, and it’s easier to be honest—both in your writing and in your feedback.

Since those initial summer conversations, we have met a handful of times.  We are still figuring out our rhythm: how often to meet, how to prevent procrastination, what size is best.  Perhaps most significantly, we are working through how to give feedback on significantly different kinds of writing.  Out of the four women, each of us is working within a different genre, and I find myself a little disoriented jumping from one genre to the next, in and out of my expertise.   Yet there comes a point when good writing is good writing, and it’s something you recognize in prose or poetry.

Muddling Through (Or Um, What Now?)

However, it is hard to be an active member of a writing group when I am not producing much new poetry.  I’m out of practice; I’m not seeing or hearing things like I used to.  Last week, I had about two hours to write a poem for the upcoming meeting.  Nothing happened.  I read some poetry.  Nothing.  I found some of my old work.  Nothing.  I finally decided to take the old work to the new group since they hadn’t read it before in hopes that it would spark new ideas and ultimately new poems.  So far, nothing.  The issue is not so much getting back into writing.  Those of you who read my personal blog know that I participated in National Blog Posting Month in November where the challenge was to post every day for thirty days.  This commitment catapulted me back into writing regularly; it’s the best thing I’ve done for myself in some time, but the poetry remains stagnant.

Right now, I am waiting.  While I am still planning on pursuing my M.F.A. after my husband completes his graduate program, I am not sure where I’m at as a writer right now.  And I believe that’s okay.  There’s something to be said for the discipline of writing, for surrounding yourself with good art and thoughtful people, for giving yourself deadlines so you actually produce work instead of just telling strangers over appetizers and small talk that you’re a writer.  Yet it’s not instant, there’s no formula, and you must learn to listen well—even when the silence uncovers more questions (like which genre to pursue and when).  In the end, the process will yield the art, and right now I am trusting the journey.

***

Kristin Mulhern Noblin is a veteran English teacher who enjoys good coffee, watching football, and using her red KitchenAid mixer.  She lives in Seattle, Washington, with her husband and looks forward to the day they will have a dog.  When not wrangling middle school students, she is busy standing for truth, beauty, freedom, and love.

Epiphany: Journeying with the Magi

January 8, 2010 in Faith and Culture with 2 Comments

Kristin Noblin

Wednesday marked the Christian Feast of Epiphany, or the time when the wise men visited the baby Jesus.  Yes, it’s true: most nativities lie.  According to Scripture, Mary, Joseph, and the baby were long gone from the manger by the time the magi showed up on the scene, and I’m sure the shepherds were too.  I didn’t really learn that the magi were still on their way when Jesus was born–at least, not in a way that stuck–until either high school or college, and I remember being disappointed.  I’m not entirely sure why: perhaps because it seemed weird that the Christmas story extended outside of December, perhaps it was because of the misleading nativities, perhaps it was sadness for the magi who missed the big event and arrived after the fact.

Yet now I find it reassuring that the story continues beyond the decorations coming down, vacations ending, routines resuming.  Epiphany serves as an important reminder that the coming of Christ is about both waiting and movement.  While Israel waited for the Messiah and a teenager waited for contractions, the magi were still on their way, still seeking, still anticipating wonder.  It is perhaps the core of the gospel–God became flesh and walked among us–and we are called to wait, to journey, to worship, which seems so fitting for those of us living in this tension where Christ has already and not yet come.  As a friend aptly tweeted recently, “Words for Epiphany: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”  What are you journeying toward this new year?  Are you paying attention along the way?

I find that poetry helps remind me to pay attention to all that is around me and all that is within me.  I first read this poem on a friend’s blog last year and stumbled upon it again today.

The Journey of the Magi

“A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.”
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley.
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

–T. S. Eliot