It's been quite a year

Obligatory annual family newsletter post. Click to zoom in if necessary. I love you all.

A resignation

Liz Chapman
123 Address Place
Salt Lake City, UT 11111

Sunday, November 6, 2016

National Novel Writing Month
123 The Internet Blvd.
The Internet, The World 00000

Dear Sir or Madam:

This letter is to regretfully inform you that I have chosen to tender my resignation from this year's NaNoWriMo. Please know that it is very likely that I will participate in future years, and that your organization still has my full and enthusiastic support.

I am very grateful for the inspiration and guidance you have given me in past years. I first participated in NaNoWriMo in 2012, with a manuscript I did not complete that year, but which has since been finished, and which never would have existed without your group. I have completed a novel every November since then, and now have three full novel manuscripts. Through my participation in NaNoWriMo, I have learned discipline, how to overcome writer's block, the value of writing continually in order to improve, and have gained enormous confidence in my ability to create work. I am eternally grateful to your organization for all of the things you have given me.

In order that you may have a deeper understanding of my resignation, allow me to present my reasons:

I am currently pursuing my MFA in Creative Writing from an online university program. This semester, I am taking a class in ekphrastic poetry and a playwrighting class. Both of these courses demand that I complete weekly writing assignments, and in a few weeks, I will begin work on a full-length play manuscript. To add a 50,000-word novel to my to-do list gives me a sense of diluting my creativity...it forces me to focus on breadth instead of depth. I am not able to give any of my writing projects my full attention, especially with other demands like working as an actress and keeping a day job. Normally, I would reject "I'm spread too thin" as an excuse. I feel you must make writing a priority in order to be good at it. But with my MFA program, it's ALREADY a priority. It doesn't make sense to add a secondary writing priority. Doing so makes me less able to do meaningful work in either place.

This MFA program forces me to write regularly, which is one of the great strengths of NaNoWriMo. If that need is being met through homework assignments, I don't have as strong of a need to participate in writing a novel during November.

For me, NaNoWriMo is also a yearly reminder of the value of just creating, and that I am capable of writing, despite frustration or fatigue. But after 3 years, it's a lesson I feel I carry with me more permanently. I have less of a need for that reminder this year, though I'm sure the time will come when I need it again.

I have been worried that my resignation will be a disappointment to friends who have watched me on my yearly NaNoWriMo journey. I even set up a support group on Facebook for those who are participating this year. I regret stepping away from my novel, and worry about what it will mean for those friends who I began with. But ultimately, I knew this resignation was the best choice for me. I will still be available to offer moral support to my fellow WriMos, and I look forward to finishing my novel in the future. This resignation was not a decision made out of fatigue or frustration with my story or a lack of confidence. It was a thoughtful decision based on what my long-term and short-term goals are, and whether or not NaNoWriMo this year was helping me meet those goals.

Thank you for everything you do. You have inspired and continue to inspire generations of writers. I look forward to working with you again in the future.

Sincerely,

Liz Chapman

A Letter to the Upcoming Generation, inspired by a recently completed MFA class called "The Rock Star Poets and Writers"

Dear teenagers of 2016:

If I were truly an authentic, this letter would be handwritten, in a red spiral notebook, Kurt Cobain style. I’d write it in crayon, like Jack White did his receipts when he worked cutting fabric and stapling around the corners of sofas. Or on hotel stationary like I was Bob Dylan and it was 1961 and I was playing shows in Greenwich Village.

But I'm lazy and this is a blog, so typed it is.

In true “Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul” style, here’s my advice for you upcoming poets and rock stars.

1. Find inspiration everywhere.
Read Shakespeare, and Rimbaud, and Dylan Thomas, and Jack Kerouac. Listen to Iron Maiden, and Pete Seeger, and David Bowie, and Prince. Let all of their words and melodies tumble around inside of you. Let yourself re-tell their stories. Try on their style. Write a poem in the cosmic style of Walt Whitman. Try writing a beat poem and perform it like Allen Ginsberg. Turn on Nirvana, and scribble your thoughts as it plays in the background. It’s like visiting a thrift store…everything has already been used, but you can try things on for size, make alterations, create new combinations. Some things will fit you better than others. But you might discover that something unexpected looks amazing on you. Something that, on the hanger, doesn’t seem to be your “thing.” But it could be that you ROCK those billowy sleeves. Just try things on. Impersonate those who have come before you. You’ll find your own style eventually.
Pete Seeger wrote a song based on verses from Ecclesiastes. Simon and Garfunkel wrote a song based on the poem “Richard Cory” by Edward Arlington Robinson. But you could take more indirect inspiration as well. Lana Del Rey drew inspiration from Walt Whitman’s “I Sing the Body Electric,” and wrote a song playing with some similar themes and images. Paul Westerberg’s song “Crackle and Drag” is inspired by Sylvia Plath’s poem “Edge.” You could “translate” a poem by just adding music, or draw your inspiration from one or two lines.

2. Your poetic voice can support the status quo, question it, or be a part of the human machine that destroys it.
Your words can be Woody Guthrie’s guitar…the “machine that kills fascists.” Don’t feel like you have to stifle your rage. Write about black lives in America. Write about college rape culture. Write about abortion, and Wall Street corruption, and redlining, and the public school system, and the shitty way the United States treats Native Americans. Poetry is not limited to noiseless patient spiders and suicide. Let your anger flow from your spine into your pen. Scratch deep into the paper. Shout about the way things are until they change.
Sisters of Mercy wrote “Dominion/Mother Russia” about the Cold War. Siouxie Soux adapted Abel Meeropol’s “Strange Fruit,” a harsh look at the treatment of black Americans in the South. Plenty of these artists also wrote about love and breakups and the usual pop topics. And that’s fine. But you don’t have to limit yourself to those topics.

3. Don’t let stereotypes destroy your creativity.
You don’t have to be Hemingway, piling up empty bottles. You don’t have to open your heart or legs to violent passion like Rimbaud. You don’t have to make a permanent stop in the woods on a snowy evening like Cobain or Plath or Sexton. Beware the harsh light of fame. Despite the viciousness of the artistic life, fame is far more destructive. You set the terms. Guard the terms of your fame fiercely.
I think Kurt Cobain both wanted and didn’t want fame. I think he wanted to be known and loved, but didn’t want to be the symbol of his generation. (Same with Bob Dylan.) It can be easy to get caught up in those tensions, but you don’t have to. Just follow your voice, even if it leads you away from the spotlight. Your work is more important than your fame.

4. On a practical note, be intentional about stanza length in your work.
Many poets insert line breaks where they “feel” them in the content, where there’s a natural pause. (And by “many poets,” I mean me, specifically. I’ve been writing poetry consistently since 1998, and this is the first time I’ve considered that even in free form poetry, line breaks make a difference.) This has an effect both visually and rhythmically, one that you may not intend. There is something powerful in being consistent in stanza length. At the very least, be intentional. If there is no pattern to stanza length, make sure you have a good reason for it. Is the work supposed to be disjointed and chaotic? Or tidy and clean? Don’t let line breaks distract from the message and meaning of your poem. Stanza length is another tool in your poetry writing kit…it’s like clothing. You’re saying something about yourself, whether you intend to or not. If you ignore your clothing, you’re sending the message that you don’t care. Same with stanza length.

5. Cut the extraneous stuff.
Listen. I know. These are darlings and it’s hard to kill them. This is the lesson that I have to relearn over and over and over again. Maybe you’re used to prose poetry, or maybe you just make pets of pretty, docile words. As an exercise, try this: Write a poem, then let it sit for 24 – 48 hours. Don’t even look at it. Don’t re-read it, don’t leave it out where it can be glanced at. Then go back and cut it by a third. Ask yourself: “If an editor demanded a word count limit that’s less than what I have, what would I keep?” Trim until the poem is tidy. Condense meaning until it’s compact and hard and dense. Say what you need to, and then get out of there.

The Finish Line

I just sprinted through 3 days worth of work and homework and to-do list items in one day.

Late last night, I suddenly realized that my schedule was alarmingly full for Friday and Saturday, and wouldn't really give me much time to do all the things I needed to do. So I had two options: don't do any of it, or do it all today. I chose the latter.

I've been "on the go" since about 8:30 this morning. It's nearing midnight. Logically, I know I should go to bed like, RIGHT NOW, but I needed to take a moment and detox. Then I can take all the survival stress of today, fold it up, put it away, and leave it until it's absolutely necessary. (Or dismiss it entirely, really.) For me, stress is sort of residual...unless I consciously tell myself "It's all taken care of," I'll have this sort of background hum of stress for the next few days/weeks/months after a mini-crisis like today's.

But dammit if I didn't write a short screenplay, critique five flash nonfiction essays, respond to two poetry critiques, clean the house, buy groceries, take care of my nephew, do laundry, work 3 hours, write four notes to friends, plan a Sunday school lesson, make rice krispy treats, pick up a prescription refill, and balance my budget. TODAY.

I'm exhausted.

But now it means that I can give my full attention to working at the U of U tomorrow and doing a performance of Jane Eyre, and then doing TWO performances of Jane Eyre on Saturday, followed by an sibling-in-law family reunion.

Listen, I'm not sharing this because I recommend it as a lifestyle. It was kind of awful. Every time I got near my bed, it was like being sucked into a vortex...I just wanted to lay down and just...lay down. I'm sharing it because I have a compulsive need to write about my experiences, and to assure you that if you are feeling overwhelmed, you most likely CAN do all those things on your list.

I mean, it's probably fine if you don't, too. I've taken that path plenty of times. The world hasn't stopped turning every time I don't get things done.

Anyway. If you feel like validating me for accomplishing hella things today, that's cool. I'm going to bed, though, so I probably won't read it for a while.

photo via Seattle Municipal Archives, "Footrace 1925" 

Forward. Stop. Reverse. Forward, forward, forward.

Yesterday was like an emotional game of Simon Says. "Simon Says make long-term plans!" "Change your long-term plans!" "Wait, Simon didn't say!"

Here's where yesterday started:

In the front seat of my van, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for the 35-minute commute to my new job. In order to communicate the insanity of yesterday, I should also mention what's not pictured: me going on roughly 3 hours of sleep, attempting to deal with debilitating allergies/a possible sinus infection, and some residual back pain from a displaced rib.

But I was choosing to be positive.

Yesterday was my first day as a Special Ed Paraeducator at Dan Peterson School in American Fork. I accepted the job about a week ago--I subbed for several weeks before being offered a position as a classroom aide. The day went fairly smoothly--I filled out paperwork and spent the day in a class where I had subbed before, feeding, changing, repositioning, and working with secondary and post-secondary students.

Then in the afternoon, I got online to start my MFA homework. And learned that I was actually able to take an additional class, which would allow me to graduate an entire semester earlier than I had planned. And that I had enough financial aid to live off AND take that extra class.

I had known about the financial aid, but not about the class. And the class was the straw that broke the camel's back--it clarified for me something I already knew in my gut, but was too afraid to admit.

It just didn't make sense for me to be working almost 30 hours a week at a job I didn't necessarily need, when I could be spending that time advancing my MFA. Especially when I was already spending 20-40 hours per week working on a show. Especially when I already had a job at University of Utah, which would force me to get a sub for two or three days per month if I was working at Dan Peterson. Keeping the job at Dan Peterson meant spreading myself so thin, trying to walk towards so many mountains at once. It made the most sense to quit the job at Dan Peterson.

But what a sh*tty thing to do--quit a job on the first day. And it was an awesome job. A beautiful job. I loved the kids. I still do. Those sweet students. Working at Dan Peterson felt, for all the world, like Alianza--a group of smart and caring people doing some amazing things in the world of education. I felt welcomed and at home, and it was so rewarding to do that work, even in the moments when it was difficult.

I spent an hour or two agonizing over my decision, thinking, talking with Jacob, praying. Quitting the job at Dan Peterson made the most sense, emotionally, financially, professionally, mentally, and spiritually. But I hated to put the school in such a terrible position--without an aide, AGAIN, for who knows how long until they could hire someone else. My ego was afraid of what everyone would think--that I was flaky or unprofessional or weak-spirited or selfish or any number of things. What would the principal think? The teachers? The other aides? And my heart didn't want to leave those students, or that place of belonging.

But I had to move toward that MFA mountain.

So I called the principal and left a message, apologizing and inarticulately tendering my resignation. She called me back shortly afterwards, expressing understanding but saying she was sorry to see me go. I originally thought about trying to stay for a few extra days this week, just to keep them from needing to find a sub, but my MFA classes began already. And it's tech week. If ever I needed the time to devote to school, it's this week. So that was it. My first day at work was also my last.

After that horrible phone call with the principal (horrible only because it was so difficult), I did my homework, tried to eat some dinner, then went to tech rehearsal for Jane Eyre, where I stayed until almost midnight. (And where I also gave an abbreviated explanation of my situation to several kind people who asked how my new job was going.) And then I drove home--listening to the BBC for the 45-minute commute and eating Reeses Pieces to stay awake.

Here's where yesterday ended:

In the dark, around 1 in the morning, barely awake, physically and emotionally exhausted, sitting in the front seat of my van, trying to muster the energy to get into the house and go to bed.

I stayed in bed for as long as I possibly could this morning.

Then I drove to Dan Peterson School again, this time to fill out resignation paperwork. The staff was kind and understanding, and said they would welcome me back when I was able to work again. I thanked them for everything, then left the office. Halfway down the hallway, I glanced over my shoulder at the classrooms where I would have been working. J's class, with her sweet students, where I subbed for weeks and felt so much love and belonging. T's and K's class, where I would have been spending my days, with those students who were smart and funny and rebellious. I took a step towards those rooms at the end of the hall, wanting with my whole heart to just say goodbye, to say thank you. But I couldn't quite bring myself to do it.

A small part of me was afraid of what the teachers and aides would think--I didn't want to face their possible judgement, both for leaving and for visiting their classrooms to say goodbye. But ultimately, I didn't do it because I knew that it's very likely that I will never see those students again. I have never been good at goodbyes. I hate them, because a goodbye is never as fulfilling as knowing you'll see someone all the time. I can never say enough, or say what I mean. And in the case of some of these students, they might not have heard or understood me anyway. And it would have been selfish of me, to interrupt their school day and their routine just to attempt to satisfy my need to...I don't know, have a grand gesture of closure.

It's possible that I'll work for Dan Peterson School again someday. But I don't know when, and I don't know which students will still be there. Some of them may move. Some may graduate. And the harsh truth is that some of them may die. Dan Peterson School is a place for students with both mental disabilities, and physical disabilities. Some of them are considered "medically fragile." Some of them have DNRs. The staff regularly deal with seizures and falls. So I knew that if and when I return to the school, it won't be to this same situation, to these same students.

So I walked out to my van and drove to the library to do my homework, crying the entire time.

I know, ultimately, that this was the right decision. Working at Dan Peterson School was the right thing at the wrong time. I would have been just as heartbroken to give up additional schooling. This was a difficult choice between two very good things. I'm sad to have to give up one of them.

But I'm also so blessed. I get to do other things that I love--I get to act, onstage, and even be paid for it. I get to write and study and read and learn. I get to choose my own schedule in some ways, as I pursue my degree. I've got an incredible husband--this amazing companion, this best friend that will listen to me cry and let me talk through things when I'm in crisis. I get to spend my evenings in a theatre, surrounded by brave and kind and talented people, telling stories. And I'm healthy and well-fed and I have a working car and clothes and enough cash to make ends meet. I clung to all of these truths with so much gratitude all day yesterday, and I'm filled with them today.

So here's to grad school, to theatre, and to everything else I'm lucky enough to have.