Memphis Memories

There comes a time when virtual commiseration, applause, counsel and butt-kicking isn’t enough. And so my online critique group, the YAckers, meets in person about once a year.

We live in all parts of the country, and so we vary the meeting place. We try to go where the weather suits the clothes we wish we were wearing, with things to do and see when we can no longer squint at the screen and printed page. Ever since certain noisy people got scolded by hotel security in Wilkes-Barre, PA, we try to rent a house or B&B so we have a place to ourselves. We’ve been to Park City Utah, rural Pennsylvania, and San Antonio. And this year we chose Memphis, TN, where we rented the Lake House, a large house on a small lake in Cordova, TN.

At first, I was cool to the idea of Memphis. After a long winter and cold, rainy, snowy spring, I was ready for beach time. As far as I know, Memphis doesn’t have a beach. But as I read about the city, I was intrigued. There’s a lot of history there, much of it important to me. And music—the kind of throbbing rhythm and blues that gets your body moving in unanticipated ways. Finally, Memphis is warm and blooming in April, a cruel month where I come from.

More importantly, I was just beginning to realize that one of the characters in my current work in progress is FROM Memphis. Who knew?

It was a quick visit—a long weekend, really, and we had four novels to review. We knew we had to prioritize, to focus on good music, good food, and the celebration of a fallen hero.

We visited Graceland, because the Elvis Presley story is fascinating and that man could sing. We ate at the Rendezvous and Gus’s Fried Chicken. We had dinner stage-side at B.B. King’s Blues Club. Afterward, we walked down Beale Street, past narrow alleys spilling music into the street, past signs that said, “drinks to go.” I collected sights, sounds, and memories.

And, of course, we visited the National Civil Rights Museum.

The Civil Rights Museum is located at the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King was assassinated in the bloody year of 1968. King had come to Memphis to support striking sanitation workers. The motel rooms have been restored to that period. A wreath marks the spot on the balcony of the motel where he fell, and you can see where somebody replaced the bloodstained concrete.

Displays follow the history of the movement to the present day—including the bus boycotts, the Freedom Riders, the sit-ins at the Woolworth lunch counters, and the forced integration of Little Rock High School. And, everywhere, we heard that voice, and we heard those words that changed a nation.

And I thought—those people were braver than I will ever be—to persist amid the vitriol heaped onto their heads, to cross through the fire line of history so that those behind them would have a better life. 

Martin Luther King was a writer. That man could put words together like nobody else. It was as if he knew his days were numbered and he had to get it down. 

Goddesses Meet in San Antonio

So last month I went to San Antonio for a writing retreat with six members of my YA writer critique group (writers Debby Garfinkle, Jody Feldman, Martha Peaslee Levine, Kate Tuthill, and Mary Beth Miller.) The group is called YAckers—which says a lot about what we do when we get together. We meet online mostly, but try to meet in person at least once each year. It is a gathering of Literary Goddesses in search of the muse, and involves prodigious eating, drinking, visiting, sightseeing, shopping, whining, bragging, and, yes, some writing and critiquing.

We stayed in a bed and breakfast (Alamo Street Victorian Inn) and had the whole place to ourselves most of the time, except for the owners and a handyman named Paul who buzzed around us like a yellow jacket at a late summer
picnic.

Novelists have special challenges when it comes to seeking effective critique. Many critique groups read a chapter a month. I belong to a couple of those. They are great resources, but we never get even halfway through one of my novels in a year’s time.

Also, it’s an odd way to read a novel. There’s no opportunity to enter the dream of fiction, and it’s easy to forget what’s going on, month to month. If your readers can’t remember who Jason is, is it because you didn’t do your job as a writer, or because it’s been two months since Chapter 3?

Each chapter can work perfectly well, but the entire story arc may be flawed, the characters erratic and inconsistent, and the ending unsatisfying. If nobody ever reads more than a few chapters, you’ll never know.

So for our retreats, we submit novel-length works to the group ahead of time, and spend several hours discussing each piece submitted. The Goddesses are smart, savvy, experienced readers who work in unrelated genres. And I came away from my personal critique session saying, “Why didn’t I see that? Of course!!”

One of Many YAckers Food Opportunities at Boudreau's

It’s a safe environment in which to vent, seek wisdom, and ask the “Am I crazy?” questions. What happens in San Antonio stays in San Antonio.

On the shopping front, we are very good at encouraging each other’s vices. Martha bought jewelry, Debby and Jody bought art. I found a nifty silver wrist cuff in a shop at LaVillita. When I showed it to my fellow YACkers, they said, “You have to buy two!!” You see, there’s a character named Cuffs in my current fantasy series who wears magical silver bracelets on his wrists.

Author appearances!! School visits!! Tax deductible!! they said. And, You know you want to.

So nothing would do but I went back into the store and bought a second cuff (and gave a bookmark to the store owner whose who theorized that I was either Wonder Woman or they were slave bracelets and I was into S&M.)

Like usual, we bought too much wine. Like usual, we ate too much good food. Like usual, we were a little amazed we pulled it off, since we’re all busy with families and jobs and we live all over the country.

And, like usual, we can’t wait until next time.

Alone at the Keyboard

Writing is like birth and death—you do it alone. Much as we writers try and make it a social activity—through blogs, conferences, retreats, electronic mailing lists, phone friends, and low-residency MFA programs—the work itself is a solitary business. When it gets down and dirty, it’s just you and your keyboard (or legal pad, or voice-activated tape recorder, or whatever.)

It’s not that we don’t have help. Depending on where you are with the process, you may have writing buddies, spouses, and friends offering encouragement, solace, and redirection. You may have a spouse or partner supplying financial and emotional support. You may have critique groups, assistants, agents and editors helping you shape your prose into something publishable. Just remember--no prose, no publication.

It’s easy to get distracted. When I attend writing conferences, I’m often struck by the lack of focus on craft. There are endless sessions on how to write a query letter, how to choose an agent, plan a career, publicize your book, and minimize taxes. The assumption is, we already know how to write—it’s all about packaging. I had one rather intense unpublished writer lecture me at length on how no publisher would ever look at my manuscript because it was formatted in Times New Roman and not Courier.

There is no license to write, so we all qualify. We confuse the mechanics we learned in school with the mysterious, arduous, threatening, magical process of writing a book that someone else will want to read. As Red Smith said, “Writing is easy. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” How much easier it is to attend another class or writing conference.

It’s possible to stay very, very busy with peripherals without actually doing any writing. You can hang out with writers, teach writing, and chair the social committee for the writing conference—but none of that makes you a writer.

Remember--nothing happens—and nothing is gonna happen until you write something. As Jane Yolen says, “Butt in chair.” Sooner or later you’re going to have to write the damn book.