Thursday, November 20, 2014

Alumni Voices with Jamie Kallio: Work for Hire:Just Do It

Not too long after I graduated from Hamline, I was stalled on my middle grade novel. A fellow Hamline grad set me up with her editor at a book packaging company.  This place hired people to write kids’ nonfiction.

I let this particular editor know that I was really interested.  I told her my interests were in writing for children and history. Not too long afterwards, I was contacted by the company. They were looking for authors to write titles in a series about the early history of the United States. I signed up for The Mayflower Compact.

My assigned editor sent me the guidelines for the project.  Pages of guidelines.  Footnotes were required. A thing called sidebars needed to be incorporated.  I had to come up with primary sources.  The text had to be of interest to sixth graders but written at a third grade level. And the kicker? The manuscript was due in 30 days.

As I stared at the (pages of) guidelines, panic set in.  What the hell had I done to myself? Didn’t I already have enough on my plate? A carefully-researched manuscript written in 30 days? Impossible!

When the hyperventilating passed, I told myself to buck up. I was a professional.  I mean, I had degrees.  I could do this.  So I descended on my library and checked out every single book I could find on the Mayflower, the pilgrims, early American colonies, Native Americans, the Chicago Manual of Style, and anything else that looked helpful.  I found myself researching Increase Mather, the Little Ice Age, and scurvy. I learned that the original Thanksgiving feast lasted about three days, and everybody ate mostly venison.

In a whirlwind, I wrote. I met my deadline and sent a draft to my editor. She sent it back with suggestions and corrections. I looked over the manuscript and made the changes. After I hit send on my final email to my editor, I realized I’d done it. I’d completed an entire piece of writing—from beginning to end—by a certain deadline. I was getting paid for it. And best of all, I was getting published.

More projects came my way, and they keep coming. Sometimes, in my enthusiasm, I take on too many of them.  Working a full-time job with weird hours presents its own set of problems, let alone trying to fit in research and writing. And unfortunately, many times my beloved fiction writing gets pushed to the back burner while I meet a work-for-hire deadline. Sometimes I collapse among piles of books on subjects like climate change or invasive species and scream that I’ll never do another work-for-hire project again.

But I always do.  And here’s why: I really do love history. I love research. I love the extra money. I love fitting information together like a puzzle. Most of all, I love going to Amazon, typing my name, and seeing a list of titles pop up.  Titles that I wrote.

Work-for-hire has been good for me.  It broke me out of my holding pattern. It got me moving forward. It taught me how to work with editors, how to let some battles go in response to what a certain project needed.  It taught me to manage my time a little more wisely.

So if you have a chance to take on some work-for-hire? Do it.  Do it just once, for the experience. You might learn something new.  You might find yourself having fun.

And I might serve venison this year at Thanksgiving.


Jamie Kallio is a January 2011 graduate of the MFAC program. A veteran public librarian, she lives and writes near Chicago. You can find earlier Inkpot posts by/about Jamie here and here

Monday, November 17, 2014

Faculty Voices with Phyllis Root

Phyllis Root
I love words.

Well, of course, you say.  You call yourself a writer.  Of course you love words. But I love them even outside the context of stories or articles or poems. I love the sound of them.  The taste of them.  The shape of them.  I love words and phrases and whole sentences and paragraphs. Give me a good, meaty word to chew on and I’m happy.

I collect words in the same way I love picking up those little bits of frosted beach glass or finding an agate that catches the slanted sunlight.

Here are a few words and phrases that have caught my eye and ear over time.

In The Sailor’s Word Book I found bran, which meant to lie under a floe edge, in foggy weather, in a boat in Arctic seas, to watch the approach of whales.  (Could you think of anything more lovely, all contained in four letters?)

From research into Lake Superior in an old journal I found this description “a little dumpling of a schooner.”

From hearing a former railroad worker talk, I learned gandy dancer, a term for an early railroad worker who laid and repaired tracks.

From hearing the TV weather report about a torrential rain in Fort Wayne, Indiana:  “It’s a real frog choker out there.”

And one of my all-time favorites, from a talk on geology about which I understood almost nothing but loved the sound of this: pelecypod-bearing wacke.

Will I ever use these words?  Maybe not. Some are archaic, some regional, some scientific. But just the act of collecting them feels like a way to tune my ear to the sound of language, which is at the root of what we writers do.  We manipulate sound and meaning.  Why not collect words in the same way an artist makes sketches or a composer gathers musical phrases?

And who knows?  Maybe I will find a way to use them, although most likely not all in a single sentence.  Unless, or course, I have the chance to turn down a job as a gandy dancer, board a little dumpling of a schooner moored to some pelecypod-bearing wacke, and sail off in a real frog-choker to bran. 

Hmmm, maybe there’s a story there after all.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Alumni Voices with Connie Heckert: Failure to Finish

Heckert's bookshelf
Sometimes the hardest task for writing can be finishing. For some, it’s much easier and less stressful to call a project a work-in-progress.

It’s exciting to start new projects. A new idea offers hope, fresh research that can be pursued and we have permission to write what Anne Lamott calls the “Shitty First Draft.” Revisions can be circulated forever to our critique group and for conference peer reviews and editorial feedback. If you finish the manuscript, and send it out to an agent or editor, writers face the prospect of rejection or the reward of success. Hopefully, it’s the latter!

There are many reasons for failure to finish and I think I know them all.
  • The project isn’t working. Despite all of the critiques in the world, all of the attention and perspiration we give it, the manuscript may never work well enough for publication.
  • The original premise was faulty or not fresh enough; the action can’t overcome obstacles, there’s no way the ending will satisfy readers. Or, the market has changed and we haven’t 
  • Distractions from professional obligations. We all want to give back, and some do more than others, but we know that these obligations--no matter how enjoyable and rewarding-- can diffuse our focus on our own projects.

Our personal lives interrupt and distract us from dedicated focus. For those who want a high quality of life and know that relationships with family and friends matter, we sacrifice attention and time for our writing projects. Life-changing situations impact us personally and professionally: birth, raising children, milestone events, moving, and death can all sidetrack us for extended periods of time.

There are tons of experts advising on how to manage time and set priorities for the kind of life we want to live. Balance in our lives is a worthy goal, but what kind of balance should we strive for? And who is to define “balance” for each of us? It’s different for everyone.

The Louis Rich WIP
It’s important to love the journey and we can’t always control which road we’ll take. Sometimes the road chooses us. In my own work, Miss Rochelle and the Bell was published shortly before the publisher declared bankruptcy. Dribbles (Clarion, 1993), reached paper in a firestorm of grief and new challenges. For teens, The Swedish Connection and To Keera with Love resulted from life experiences with exchange students and a teen facing life-changing decisions. The commissioned corporate/family histories—eight going on nine--most often became projects for cash flow. Roots and Recipes (Pelican Publishing, 1995, 1997), in support of a writing friend, took ten years to publish. After eight years, The Louis Rich Story is projected for release in 2015. The Writing Group Book, nonfiction in The Writer and Cricket Magazine, I loved it all. . . . Other opportunities came my way; I declined them.

Ralph Keyes wrote in his book, The Courage to Write, “The euphoria that writers experience is a reward for the risks they take. No matter how much they dread diving into the cold, white page, once there, writers usually find it exhilarating.” (189)

For all of us, I hope that finishing our projects becomes a higher priority. May our lives give us the courage, peace and support to write with exhilarating and rewarding results.

Connie Heckert is a 2012 graduate of the MFAC program. She lives in Iowa. To learn more about Connie and her writing, please visit her website.

Monday, November 10, 2014

Faculty Voices with Jackie Briggs Martin: "And the little ones chewed on the bones-o"

Every three months I review children’s books for a nearby newspaper. I love this assignment. It gives me a reason to look at current picture books and to share my enthusiasms with readers in eastern Iowa. Last week I found a winner—with a wonderful story about the story.  

In 1961 Doubleday published The Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night, Peter Spier’s take on the folk song of the same name. That book was a Caldecott Honor Book. In a charming author’s note to a new edition (2014) Peter Spier says that he was inspired to do this project while driving through Vermont with his wife one October, early in their marriage. “We were singing the folk song  ‘The Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night,’ and I suddenly said to Kay, ‘This is the perfect setting for a picture book of this song!’”

He did the research, made the illustrations, and published the book, which has never gone out of print. Only one side of each page was printed in color in that 1961 version. In 2013, a Random House editor asked Spier if he would color the black and white pages. He writes, “…at age eighty-six and more than half a century later, I wondered if I would be able to do it as well as when I was thirty-one.”  I’m here to tell you he was able to do it. And he enjoyed the process. “The years fell away. I was back in 1959 and I was blissfully happy.”

There are so many things about this book that make me happy. 

First, I’m a huge fan of Peter Spier’s work. There is love in the details. The fox hurries home ladened with fowl, past a Civil War monument, past a church, past a bevy of buggies. In the Gigglegaggle’s bedroom we see the prop that held the window open, the chamber pot, even the holes in the socks.

Second, Peter Spier had the courage to go back to this work fifty two years later, to give it new life.

Third, I love the drawing that accompanies the folk song near the end of the book. A grown-up fox is playing the piano. Young foxes are singing along. And so are a couple of geese, which suggests that maybe it was all a stage show. And foxes and geese really can get together and just make music.

Fourth, I love the timelessness of a book that’s been in print for fifty two years. All those generations of kids who belted out the song of the fox and the goose and the Gigglegaggles, generations bound together by that memory.

Finally, it makes me excited at the opportunity, the possibility that we have every day of creating something timeless, something that is so right, so true, so fun that it will last for fifty two years.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Alumni Voices with Jamie A. Swenson: Easing Back In...

Okay. I will admit it – but just to you. I haven’t been writing lately.
But this post is not about the guilt we all feel when we’re not actively working on a manuscript. It’s also not about my almost fanatical avoidance of anything beginning with NaNo or PiBo … No, it’s not about that. In fact, these days I try to not allow the guilt in when my writing career (or life) takes me away from the writing itself. It happens. We all have LIFE happening.
This entry is about how to get your butt BACK in that chair.

I’ve been away from creative writing for weeks now and it’s high time I return to the page. I’ve promised stuff to people. These people are aging at about the normal rate, so I imagine I should get something submitted to them within the next five to ten years. I think they gave me until December. So, back to it.
Easier said than done.
If you’ve ever stepped away from the computer for a while – you know – it can be a struggle to return. I feel a little like that addict who says something like, “Of course I can quit – I’ve done it a hundred times.” Still, of course I can get back into my writing routine – I’ve done it a hundred times before!
Here’s my list of HOW I’ll dive back in after a writing break. Some of these steps take a bit of time and advance planning to complete … so if you’re currently in the midst of a break … give yourself a break as you plan to break your break. (Wow. I’ve clearly been away longer than I thought. Hmmm….)

1.     Critique something by another writer. Nothing gets the creative energy flowing better than getting back into the conversation. Critiquing gets the brain thinking about writing craft instead of Kraft Mac-n-Cheese (Don’t tell me you’ve never been distracted by mac-n-cheese. Liar.) So, find a writing friend who needs a critique. And then, don’t phone it in. Do a spectacular critique.

2.     Schedule time for writing and only writing. If you haven’t been writing, that likely means that other tasks have seeped into your schedule. Time to reclaim your time. Even if you’ve overscheduled yourself this week – start blocking off days/hours/minutes next week for writing. (No, you cannot organize the Musical Pasta Dinner, attend every volunteer meeting that pops up, and make twenty-course gourmet meals every day – you need to spend some serious time writing. Just say NO. Trust me on this.)

3.     Read something. ANYTHING. If you haven’t been reading – that might be why you haven’t been writing.

(This next one might seem counter-productive, but it does work).

4.     Take a walk. Take a drive. Sit and watch the wind blow leaves around. But while you’re doing this – start actively thinking about the project that you’re ready to start – or resume writing. If you’re in the middle of a project – think about the voice, the characters, the reason you started writing. Fall back in love with your project.

5.     Announce your writing intentions to the world. Post it on FB, chat about it with family, let the neighbors know. “Yup, I’m heading home to write. See you later.” They will watch you walk away and think, “There goes a writer.” (hee hee). And you will start believing again too.

6.     Sign-up for a blog entry with Marsha Qualey. She will gently remind you that you promised her a blog entry. Then you will write it. Yes, you will.

7.     Remove all leftover Halloween candy from the surrounding vicinity.

8.     Write.
So, that’s about it. Good luck easing back into your work – and stop feeling guilty about the occasional writing break. We all need to step away from the computer every now and again … just don’t forget to return!

Jamie A. Swenson is a 2009 graduate of the MFAC program. To learn more about Jamie and her writing visit her website.

Monday, November 3, 2014

Faculty Voices with Jane Resh Thomas: Trouble

Jane Resh Thomas
Many people who write for children had a painful childhood themselves. Many of us have old business in childhood that makes us, unawares, want to protect our characters, so we soften conflict and draw them as perfect little insufferable darlings.

As Carol Bly used to say, however, “'The sky was blue, and the clouds were like sheep' is not a story.”
No. Stories are about trouble. No trouble, no story. “The sky was blue, and the clouds were like sheep, and Miss Lydia Best had just caught me cheating on my Latin test.” Now there's a story, especially if you knew Miss Best, as I did in junior high. Her hair was white and shingled up the back. She always wore nicely tailored suits in impeccable condition. An upright broomstick through her torso kept her perfectly erect. She never smiled. If Miss Best stabbed you with a glare and jerked her thumb toward the door, you were on your way to the office without a word's having been said, and you knew you'd never known such trouble in all your years at school. Anybody who would cheat on a test in Miss Lydia Best's Latin class had to be crazy.

Hic haec hoc
Hujus hujus hujus

“The sky was blue, and the clouds were like sheep, and those red dots on Lenna's cheek came from the bristles of the hairbrush her mother had swung just before Lenna left for school. If she answered Miss Best with the truth about those dots, her mother would kill her.”

Stories are about trouble.

Because so many writers for children want to protect their characters, one of the books I ask my students to read is Donald Maass's [sic] Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook, where Maass asks contrarian questions that help in the revision of a story. They pry a writer out of his unconscious ruts. (The paperback workbook contains the guts of the hardcover book, Writing the Breakout Novel: Insider Advice for Taking Your Fiction to the Next Level, and also poses exercises.) Maass's questions ask for the other side of things. Your character hides behind her hair and would never call attention to herself? Donald Maass would ask, what's the opposite of hiding and being withdrawn? What would happen if your character did the opposite? Write that scene.

Editors' most frequent explanation when they reject manuscripts that are “well-written” is the deadly summary “The story is too quiet.” What editors mean thereby is that the characters are too nice to live, their world is too pretty, the opposition to their hopes and dreams is too bland and tepid. The sky was blue and the clouds were like sheep. So what? Where's the conflict?

The best advice I could give to anybody who asked, even if I hadn't read the manuscript, is “Push the conflict.” Who in your childhood caused the most trouble for you? Who in your story reminds you most of that person? How have you dramatized your protagonist's hatred for him? Yes, hatred. If you haven't hated, you haven't lived. Half of life is seizing our hatred and harnessing it to something more constructive. Adults are only more adept than children at hiding their jealousy and malice and lust. What were the secrets your family demanded you keep as a child? They didn't have to tell you to keep your mouth shut. You knew. What are your character's family secrets? His parents' upcoming divorce? Financial trouble? The druncle?  What is the worst thing your character ever did?

What would you be ashamed for Miss Lydia Best to know about you?

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Alumni Voices with Megan Atwood

Megan Atwood
Getting published is great! I've heard. I mean, I've gotten things published . . .  just not exactly the project I WANT to get published. Not my SOUL novel. That is with my agent right now after years of writing it--and I feel super lucky to have gotten this far even.

And anxious. And inadequate. And way, way, way far behind. Did I mention anxious?

So, this is the time where I must remind myself that while getting multiple books published would be lovely, it's sort of beside the point. Being a part of this community is seductive. It's wonderful to participate in the tweets and the Facebook posts and the Tumblrs and the railing against those who love to besmirch children's books (which must happen, this railing, since this besmirching seems to happen all the time) and to go to meet ups and readings and talk to others who are getting published. And it’s easy to believe this is the heart of the matter. After all, we have the smartest, most engaged, most awesomest community of writers in the history of the world*. These are soul-satisfying people, posts, talks. But it's not the rub, my friends.

The writing's the thing.

This is true no matter what phase you are in. There is always something to be anxious about in our business. Getting published, getting reviews, getting sales, getting on lists, getting recognition. At each stage, the noise of the outside can be overwhelming. So I am here to tell you: it doesn't matter. None of it. It doesn't! No matter what stage you’re in or what manner of anxiety chases you, it just doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, you are a writer. You write. Because you have something to say. You write what you love because that's the only truth there is.

I can hear your argument, so let me address it. You say, "But Megan, getting published, getting reviews, getting sales, getting on lists, getting recognition has real-world consequences." And you are correct. These things can affect getting jobs, getting your next book published, meeting the "right" people, feeling like an insider. But when those worries start crowding out your ideas, whither the writer in you. Nothing dries up ideas and joy like pressure and fear. You are no longer doing YOU when this happens. You become the sum of what these worries are, something out of your control, capricious, and unstable**. So you must always come back to the heart of the matter, the ACTUAL reason you're enduring this blogpost, or going to readings, Tumbling, and tweeting.

The writing. From your soul. The story that sings to you.

Normally, I am not a kumbaya person. I don’t like to throw around ambiguous words like “soul” or “heart” or “writer.” And I feel a little bit like the writer version of Cosmopolitan here where I say “Have confidence and certain publisher will notice you! Be yourself so you can get something out of it!” But I don’t mean it that way. I mean it as in: at the end of the day, it’s you and your words.

I went to Hamline because I wanted to teach writing. And in the process, I became a writer. But not because I have 45 publishing contracts. Because I found out this is something I love to do. That honing this craft gives ME pleasure, feeds MY soul. I am thrilled that I have an agent now and I hope to hell that this book sells. But if it doesn’t, I am OK with that.

Because: The writing’s the thing.

Now stop reading this and go write! You have a story to tell.

* This is a true, undeniable fact that needs no source because it is true and undeniable.
** Lists, starred reviews, and awards are lovely. But so much depends upon the red wheelbarrow—that is, the million different considerations that go into these things and coalesce around timing, luck, status, and hard work. But not in equal measure. I am certainly not trying to take away from these things. It’s just . . . they aren’t why you’re here, right?

Megan Atwood is a 2009 graduate of the Hamline MFAC program and the author of several books. She is also an adjunct in Hamline's Creative Writing program. She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Faculty Voices with Marsha Qualey: Sunday Drive

Marsha Qualey
This has been the most spectacular autumn in recent years in the upper Midwest. The colors fabulous, the temperatures perfect.  This morning, just a few minutes after I’d dropped my husband at the airport shuttle for the start of his week-long business trip to the hot southwest, I glanced at a still-brightly colored hillside and thought, “Carbon footprint be damned; I’ll take a Sunday drive.”

Sunday drives were a cultural custom in the region where I grew up. Families loaded up and headed out. The drives I remember weren’t full-family drives, however. There were five kids in the family, and I suspect my parents didn’t relish spending Sundays with all of us on board. Perhaps we started taking the drives when my older brothers were all old enough to be left home, because I remember being alone with my parents in the car, though that can’t be right either as I have a younger brother, younger by five years; this would have been the early 1960s. I suspect that he was no doubt riding unbuckled in the front seat between our parents, leaving the back all for me.

My father was a small-town lawyer and quite a few of his clients were farmers. As I recall, many of our drives had the vague goal of checking out property at the center of some legal work, and that meant we traveled country roads at slow speeds.

Though not outdoor people by any stretch, my parents loved looking at the outdoors, and my father especially was pretty knowledgeable about fauna and flora, cultivated and wild. I learned to distinguish varieties of oak trees, cows, farm crops, and road kill.

In other words, Sunday drives were a time to look and listen. My parents and I didn’t say much other than to point out a tree or barn sign or pheasant or vacated homestead or ditch flowers.

I haven’t yet written a book that hasn’t required I get in the car and drive to and around some location. Sure, getting acquainted with the human and natural landscape that will be a story setting is important, but I’d wager that my writing benefits even more from the exercise of looking and being interested in the details that fly by at 30, 40, 60 miles an hour. And that’s why when I road trip I don’t usually turn on the radio or—god forbid—listen to books on tape. I might miss something—an historical marker that needs reading, the road to a scenic overlook, some hardy ditch flowers.

Today’s Sunday Drive had a vague goal: visit an “environmental art installation” a couple hours away from Eau Claire and maybe, if time allowed, see some big water.

The Wisconsin Concrete Park was as wonderful as I’d hoped. It’s on Wisconsin Hwy 13 at the south edge of Phillips. It’s the former farmstead of Fred and Alfa Phillips. Fred Smith was born in 1886, never schooled, couldn’t read or write, but he had opinions and passion and at the age of 62 started expressing them with concrete and bottles. 
It was a beautiful day to browse the park and think about the artist and his compulsion to make art. 

Owls. Perhaps my favorite. (Click to enlarge.)

All the female figures (they wore long concrete skirts)
 had interesting jackets.

Fred Smith's Iwo Jima tribute. Especially interesting
because of what's painted on the back: 

A farmer's self-portrait? What a dapper guy.

As the park's home page says, it's all best seen in daylight.

Back in the car, northbound over the Great Divide, and I reached the turn-around point for the drive--  Saxon Harbor, Wisconsin: Lake Superior County Park. Big water. 

Nine hours after hitting the highway I returned home to a dark house and two indignant cats. I let them out for their own Sunday prowl, spent a few minutes stretching the miles out of my limbs and back, then settled down with a little something in a glass and a state road map. What sites did I miss? What other roads could I have taken? Who owns that bar? What did the fishermen catch? What if...what if...what if...

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Alumni Voices with Polly McCann: The Writing Process: or Why I Love Being a Failure

On the highest shelf of a storage closet, in the furthest part of my basement, behind a room someone painted purplefor reasons known only to themare three boxes. I’ve never opened them. What’s in them? A photography darkroom kit I would have done anything for twenty years ago. Now they are just dreams put on a shelf.

I wanted to be a famous artist, like Modigliani or Picasso, or Mary Engelbreit. I envisioned art installations at galleries with photo emulsion-washed linen
fifteen feet high. Anyway, I’ve never done an installation, not one. And my gallery sales to date: two paintings. I could say I’m a failure at becoming a famous artist. But then, there’s something about the writing life that flourishes in failures. 

So to all your storytellers out there who constantly dip your pen into that inkwell (and don’t always feel like the Olympic-sized winner you really are) I wanted to explain why I love being a failure. Possibly, you have a similar list with vague intentions to use those castoff failures somewhere or other: There was the time I failed at being a banker, but I know that that bank vault scene in my middle grade novel is truly accurate. Or what about the time I failed at being a secretary, a janitor, a nanny, or a preschool teacher? they could be professions for my characters’ parents. Then there were those failed friendships, a marriage, ten consecutive summer gardens, the time I tried to sew pants. Okay, so maybe all of you haven’t failed at as many things as I have. But you might be thinking that life is fodder for art, or writing, or something like that. Right?

Sure, maybe the missteps we own are the crap we shovel into the compost heap called the writing life. Well, I think there is more to it than that. Our failures form not just what we write, but how we write. Something about our writing process changes from experience. The kind of failure that I’m talking about are the kind in which you mastered something; truly loved something only you put it away in order to write. We all have these failures hiding on a shelf in our closet, but you know what I love about being a failure? Failing to become that museum quality artist is exactly what made me into the writer I am today.

Let me describe my process. Here I am writing my first novel, or third (or at least the one I promise not to throw away this time). I feel totally confident from all my Master’s level classes: I’ve got Plot from Marsha Qualey; Point of View from Phyllis Root and Jackie Briggs Martin (I can still hear them talking about ducks “Oh, no, mud!” they are saying in very duck-like voices); I have endowed objects, and talismanic words in my dialogue just like Ron Koertge said I should; I have Eleanora’s third leg of the three legged stool—Setting; and I have asked myself WWJRTD? What would Jane Resh Thomas do to find out what my character truly desires; and I’ve even tried to build a world which follows find Anne’s heroic monomythic journey. I’m left alone to face something worse than the blank page, reams of really bad free writing. That’s when the beauty starts.

Now that I’ve built a framework out of the best advice anywhere (Thank you Hamline MFAC!) but my poor novel still resembles a scared rabbit in the headlights, my failures kick in. Suddenly I know what to do: Ah, now it’s time to sketch in the layout. Now it’s time to add contrast and color to my characters. Now it is time to paint the scene. My writing process takes on new terminology unique to my own experiences and failings. I know that because I’ve learned how to do one thing well, I can learn another. That includes writing a novel, or maybe a graphic novel, or a play. So in fact, my past failures weren’t really failures, they were just the beginning. My failure was really the foundation of everything. It’s what I write and more importantly it’s how I write.

One of my favorite authors, E.L. Konigsburg sums up the process of calligraphy writing in her novel, The View from Saturday, and I think loving our failures as storytellers works pretty much the same way:
            "You must think of those six steps not as preparation for the beginning but as the beginning itself."

Polly McCann is a 2011 graduate of the Hamline MFAC program. To learn more about her writing and illustrating, please visit her website.