Last week we posted Part II of my interview with Tarn Wilson about her memoir The Slow Farm. We talked about different ways of bringing back memories and how to write from a child’s viewpoint as an adult. This week, she shares the way she approaches writing about family members consciously and compassionately way, provides thoughts and advice on publication, and explains how she makes time for writing in her busy life as a teacher.

Andrea
Sometimes when we are exploring an event as writers, as we tell our own stories we might involve the stories of people around us. While The Slow Farm focuses on your childhood memories, in talking about those memories you involve your parents and sister. So, do you have any “best practices” that you try to follow when writing about others?

Tarn
First, I think new memoir writers often fret too early in the writing process about the response of family or friends. It can feel so risky to express one’s authentic experience and feelings—especially if they run counter to our family’s public story, other’s interpretation of events, or our own well-established roles. Sometimes it’s terrifying even to tell those stories to ourselves—to admit all the layered complexities of our experience, to tell ourselves our own truth. Especially if we are poking around some family or personal secret or anything that carries shame, all our interior alarm bells scream. We take all that anxiety and project it into the future when we imagine we have published the piece. I feel very strongly that we must push through those fears and tell our story as faithfully to our own experience as we can. Only in that way can we find the truth and center of our stories. I think for most memoirists, writing is about moving toward resolution, acceptance, or at least greater understanding, and we can’t do that without writing through the hard stuff, with trembling faith that on the other side of our fears and doubts and alarm bells is some clarity worth the effort.

That being said, when we really are at the point at which we are ready to send our memoirs or essays into the world, I do think we have to figure out how to honor ourselves without dishonoring others. Part of that, I think, is making sure that we have written long and hard enough, and with enough integrity, that we understand and communicate the complexity of other’s experience as well as our own—that we haven’t oversimplified. Early in the writing process, when I sensed my own perspective was too narrow, I went through the excruciatingly time consuming process of writing each scene from the point of view of each character involved, and it was a revelation. In particular, I saw for the first time how young my parents were, something I hadn’t really grasped, writing only from the point of view of my early childhood self. Those specific paragraphs didn’t end up in the final version but altered the way I told my story, the details I knew I needed to include.

I try to remember what it might feel like if someone were writing a book in which I was a character. I think it would be an odd, unsettling feeling.

The Slow Farm Artifact, p. 356

Tarn and Jack

Andrea
I think your idea to write from other peoples’ experiences, even if the material doesn’t make it into the final version, makes a lot of sense. It’s something I never thought of doing before and I think it would help me to see my characters (which are usually family members) as more complex people.

I have noticed that sometimes authors wait to publish what they may consider more sensitive family information until after main characters have passed away because they want to preserve family relationships. Other writers talk through material with their family and sometimes even give them veto power over the material. What was your approach with your family?

Tarn
I did not intentionally wait until my parents had died until the book was published, but the publication process has been much easier because of it. Both of my parents knew I was writing the book and both had anxieties about it and were reluctant to share any information once they knew I was collecting it. First, I think both had strong and complicated emotions about that time period. Also, my father was very protective of his self-concept and image.

Early in my twenties I published an essay about summers with my father and how I came to appreciate our unstructured time, our “timeless days,” in nature. I didn’t send it to him, but my grandparents did, and he was upset, not about the comments that I sometimes wanted a more traditional father, but only that I had described his knife as “dull.” “My knives were never dull!” was his only response. It was a small detail, and one I freely admit I may have misremembered—and it would have been an easy fix.

In general, my mother was proud and supportive of my writing, but sometimes she felt nervous about the book, and at various times, tried indirect methods of discouraging me. Before my parents died, the manuscript opened with “Disclaimer for My Parents’ Sake” in which I reflect on the fallibility of memory and acknowledge that my parents’ stories may be very different from my own. She was touched and assured by that. Not long before she died, however, she told me she supported the book but didn’t want to read it because it was too raw of an emotional experience for her.

Early in the process, I interviewed my sister about her memories. I also made it through about an hour of official interview with my dad before he decided not to talk anymore.

Just before the book was published, I gave my sister the opportunity to read it and discuss anything that made her uncomfortable, and she passed. I also requested permission from some minor characters to tell their story and gave them the chance to review their sections.

Andrea
Because you really tried to look at your story from so many different angles and perspectives, were there any new insights about your family that you discovered through the writing process?

Tarn
After writing this book, I understood my parents’ choices and state of consciousness so much better, most profoundly, how powerfully they had been shaped by social forces, the social upheaval of the time—and how much they were reacting against the norms of the previous generation.

Specifically, I came to see how the hippy conviction that children should be raised with absolute freedom was a response to what felt against the suffocating constraints of the previous generation.

I particularly enjoyed playing with quotes from Summerhill: A Radical Approach to Childrearing, a counter culture parenting Bible written in 1960, and thinking about the gap between the well-meaning philosophy and the reality of raising children. For those not familiar with the Summerhill approach, here is a Summherhill quote I include in my book: “Parents are spoiling their children’s lives by forcing on them outdated beliefs, outdated manners, outdated morals. They are sacrificing the child to the past.”

I think the popularly of the Summerhill philosophy was a reaction, or pendulum swing, against a generation that had raised their children in a rather oppressive, rule driven, children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard, parent-as-boss, creativity-crushing approach that allowed little room for magic or wonder. (Probably the aftermath of the Depression created a generation that felt work was more important than frivolity and play.) So I understand why the Summerhill approach was so appealing. At the same time, I don’t think people understood child development, that children are not little adults, and they usually need some structure, predictability, and clear expectations as they learn to navigate the world.

I also think our parents did us a disservice by not teaching us society’s rules. I do think it is marvelous to question everything–to recognize that social codes are human inventions and that some of them may not be serving us. At the same time, my sister and I were lost when moved outside our little world and bumped up against the larger culture. I wish my parents had both taught us the rules as well as teaching us to think critically about them.

Andrea
I think you have given us some really great insights about the writing process and hard decisions one must make in putting a project together. Before we end our conversation, I want to spend a little time talking with you about the fruition of your hard work: publication! Because your book has a unique structure (includes artifacts, is made up of very short essays, etc.), was it hard to find a publisher for this project? What were publishers’ responses before Judith Kitchen’s independent press, Ovenbird Books, picked up the book?

Tarn
Yes, it has been an interesting journey to publication. I have been writing the book at a time in which publishing has been in such rapid transition, with the traditional houses struggling financially and less willing to take risks. Also, in the middle of writing this book, memoirs were peaking in their popularity, and the best-selling ones were dramatic and novel-esque. Because my book is slower and quieter, it had trouble standing out in the deluge! (And to be fair, I do think this final version is more compelling.)

I had no luck with agents, except one who called it “too episodic.” I had bites at quite a few university presses (whose existence are not dependent on sales) and a couple of “almosts” at midsized and independent presses—by which I mean I made it to the last rounds where the editors sat around and talked about it–and then passed. Judith shared it with an editor at Norton. Many praised the use of language, but all felt it wasn’t marketable enough. Then all interest dried up. So I actually gave up on the book, really let go, and resolved to be grateful for what it had taught me about writing and about myself. So I was completely surprised to be approached by Ovenbird Books! At that time, my confidence in the book was low, I was fully convinced I’d never look at it again, and I was putting my energy into new projects. But I respect Judith Kitchen so much, and I thought if she believed in the book, there must be something there. Also, she promised to write opening essays for her “Judith Kitchen Selects” series–and I didn’t want to miss the honor of having her name next to mine. It has all been a lovely and rewarding surprise.

Andrea
In the acknowledgments section of the book you thank Judith Kitchen “who believed when I had lost faith and challenged me in all the right ways.” What motivated you to keep working on it even when you had “lost faith”?

Tarn
What motivated me when I had lost faith?

1. Books on writing, especially those with a spiritual undercurrent, remind me that writing is good for the soul, whether or not we find publication.
2. When I’m restless and sad, writing often makes me feel better; the concentration and effort is a kind of meditation that seems to order my interior self. Writing helps me see and understand in a way nothing else can.
3. My writing group—with their honest feedback and expectation I will keep working—motivates me.
4. Also, even when my emotions are being dramatic (feeling like a failure, shaming myself for devoting so much time to an activity for which I obviously have no talent), some dispassionate force I don’t understand just keeps treading steadily.

Andrea
What has it been like working with Judith’s new, small publishing press instead of working with a larger press?

Tarn
Of course, large, traditional houses have name recognition, which creates instant status and recognition. They have marketing budgets and professional publicists—although, from what I have read, the houses put little money into an books they predict will be “midlist,” and almost all writers who want to make the most of their publishing experience have to devote much of their own time, money, and energy into promotion. In Judith’s innovative model, she acts as an editorial filter and chooses the manuscripts that match the aesthetic of the press. Then the authors work with a print on demand company, currently CreateSpace, to design the book themselves, so we have complete editorial control—and we keep significantly more of the profits. More of the marketing falls on our shoulders.

Andrea
Do you have any advice for us about finding a publisher?

Tarn
I don’t believe there is one path, but here are some tidbits nonetheless:

If you can, build a record of publication in literary journals, which encourages editors to take your work more seriously.

It took me several years of slow, steady effort to feel I had some sense of the world of literary journals. Because anyone can now publish a magazine on the web at very little cost, it can be challenging to sort through the thousands of publications—a new ones pop up daily. NewPages.com has been an invaluable resource. The site keeps a comprehensive list of established journals—with a description of their history and aesthetics—and provides links to contests, calls for submissions, and writing conferences. The Poets & Writers magazine website is also a wealth of information.In order to teach myself which journals are established and respected, I also look through the Pushcart Prize and Best American Essays anthologies to see which journals they include. If I read a collection of essays I enjoy, I look in the acknowledgments to see where the essays have been previously published. When I admire a particular writer or literary journal, I visit their websites, which often includes links to their favorite publications. I also peruse copies in bookstores and read sample writing on websites—and kept records of what I learn in spreadsheets. When I submit, I aim high and learned to tolerate the deluge of rejections, but I also submit to new or less established journals if I admire their purpose, aesthetic, and quality. The Yahoo group Creative Writing Opportunities (CRWROPPS) will blast a wealth of publishing opportunities into your email box every week. If you are a fan of short non-fiction, my favorite website is Brevity. Brevity also has a wonderful blog which is a center for discussion about opportunities and issues in the creative nonfiction community.

Cultivate writing friendships and become a part of a writing community—as in most other fields, you often hear about opportunities through friends and acquaintances.

So how do you find that community? You have to admit to yourself that you are a writer and be willing to tell others because the most wonderful connections will sometimes arise out of casual conversation. I also believe in investing money in learning our craft to the very edge of our budget. You are that important! When I first moved to the Bay Area not long out of college and quite poor, I splurged on a weekend writing workshop through a local university. Through that class, I met a woman who lived near me who invited me to her new writing group, which sustained and encouraged me for a couple of years. When I was in school to earn my teaching credential, another soon-to-be teacher and I almost shamefully confessed to each other that we wanted to be writers, and we started meeting regularly in cafes and parks to do writing exercises in our journals. That friend, Kasey Jueds, just won the University of Pittsburg’s Pitt Poetry Prize, and just last month she flew to California from the East Coast for our joint book reading. Last year, I met a man at a party, the only other writer there, who intimidated me with all his writing successes and prizes, but I talked to him anyway and even got up the courage to suggest that we share some writing, and although we have not developed the same heart-to-heart friendship I have with Kasey, we have had a fruitful professional relationship.

In this process of finding community, I also encourage you to trust your instincts and only do what is good for you. In the beginning of my writing career, I was in several groups where we wrote in our journals together, shared in a supportive environment, and talked about our lives. At some point, though, I knew I needed more rigorous criticism; it was difficult to leave good friends, but I needed to find a writing group focused on working toward finished pieces. I once signed up for a scary-expensive adult writing class through a prestigious university, but the instructor’s approach made me feel small and discouraged, so although I pride myself on my resilience and hate to throw away money, I dropped the course—which was the healthy choice for me.

Of course, there are the practical steps you can take: sign up for a local class, take online courses, join free online forums where writers share work, post a flyer in the local bookstore proposing a writing group.

But to find sustaining communities, I think we have to have the right state of thought: stay open to opportunities and be willing to be surprised; be courageous in admitting to yourself and others that you are writer; invest in yourself and your craft; and be willing to drop or adjust to any situation that isn’t meeting your needs.

Be patient! Do your research: learn the aesthetics and interests of different agents and publishers.

When I read, I always take note of the publisher and imprint. NewPages.com has an extensive guide to independent publishers and university presses. Because I realized fairly early that my book would probably not be picked up by an agent, I’m not as versed in agent-finding strategies, other than these few tips. Check the acknowledgements pages of books that are similar to yours for the names of possible agents. Agentquery.com is a useful database, as is the “Literary Agents Database” on the Poets & Writers website. Do your research before submitting to an agent to make sure he or she serves your genre and write a killer cover letter. Beware of the increasing number of scam agents, who make money off of hopeful and naïve writers.

Keep your ambition in check; yes, do the work required to earn the success you desire, but focus on what you have to communicate and contribute, not on fantasies of money, status, or approval.

Practice healthy strategies for dealing with rejection. If you’d like to learn more about my own journey, here’s a link to a piece I wrote for Talking Writing: http://talkingwriting.com/self-doubt-worst-distraction-writers.

Andrea
Thank you for sharing so many tips about the publishing industry. I really like your idea of using a spreadsheet to keep track of what you find out about different publications. I also love your ideas on how to find community and I just wrote two of these in the cover of my journal so I could continuously remind myself of these true statements: “You have to admit to yourself that you are a writer” and “I also believe in investing money in learning our craft to the very edge of our budget. You are that important!”

I know that self-publishing has really taken off in recent years. Did you ever consider self-publishing or have you self-published any of your other writing?

Tarn
Even a few years ago, I wouldn’t have considered self-publishing; however, now I see it as an option. One of the members of my writing group, Jan Stites, has had great success with her self-published book Edgewise. The book is engaging and well-written; however, she couldn’t find an agent because the book doesn’t fit neatly into one genre. So she self-published. She sold about a thousand books locally and then sales slowed. Then, after two years, the Kindle version of her book suddenly took off. Seeing what was happening and wanting to catch the wave, she invested in the book, building a more professional website, hiring a publicist, and doing a web-marketing campaign. For the past seven months, she has been selling 300-400 Kindle versions of her book a month. I am so happy for her that her book is finding its audience. She is currently searching for an agent for her next book, but if she doesn’t find one, she is poised to self publish. So I think self-publishing is an exciting development, but if you want to sell to more than your friends and family, you have to invest a lot of time and/or money into learning to how to market it in this new online universe. 

Andrea
Speaking of investing time, I know that in addition to being a writer you also are a teacher. As a teacher myself, I know that it can be hard to teach and find time to write. What techniques do you use to make writing a permanent practice in your life?

Tarn
I believe our strategies have to match our personality. For me, putting writing on my schedule—an appointment with myself—helps. For years, I could only fit in a half hour a day while teaching, but I committed to that time. During my writing time, I don’t answer the phone or email. I often set a timer (usually in half hour chunks, with short breaks in between) and don’t let myself get up until I am done. (I’ve noticed that people who have a strong sense of self, faith in the worth of their writing, and an ingrained trust in their creative process don’t need my scheduling strategy. They trust that creative ideas will come to them on their own sweet time, and when they do, feel no guilt about shutting off the rest of the world while they’re in their creative flow—for as long as the flow demands. But for those of us who are compulsively responsible, tend to doubt the value of our work, and are eager to please those who make demands on us, we need to develop tricks for helping us defend our time and honor our work.

My natural tendency is to say yes to every worthy cause and committee, so I have to keep practicing saying no, learning over and over (slow learner!) the limits of what I can fit in a day with my time and energy. In our lives, nurturing our relationships is so important—at the same time, I try to limit my social activities and friendships to those that are enriching. As I have moved up the pay scale in my teaching position, instead of increasing my spending, I have cut back on my teaching load to allow for more writing time.

Setting weekly writing goals, which I share with a friend, has also helped me keep writing is a priority.

I also believe schedule setters have to be gentle with ourselves, and not fear we will never write again when our schedules are thrown off, when we have a family emergency, a broken car, a demanding day or month at work. Schedules are a tool, not a rule!

Andrea
As a “schedule” person I know exactly what you mean. I think setting goals is a great guideline, but, as you note, it is important to be gentle with ourselves and let our aspirations lift us up instead of making us feel defeated when we haven’t completed our entire checklist for the week.

This brings us to the end of our interview and Tarn I want to thank you so much for sharing your insights on writing and your writing process with us. I know that I will definitely think about how to use my own life artifacts in new ways in my writing. Your ideas on how to access memories, how we write about others, and how to pursue publication have been really helpful and enlightening. It has been a pleasure speaking with you and I look forward to reading more of your work soon! And before we close, I want to thank you for granting us permission to include an excerpt from your book.

****

This excerpt from The Slow Farm captures one of Tarn’s first experiences when she enters school.

Excerpt from the essay “What I Needed: Thicker Skin”:

As I wrote the room disappeared, and then my hand, until nothing was left but the dragging lead. The universe was the only movement of these lines straight up and over and out and stop and a new letter growing. Theboyhitthe…

Looking at my “the,” I realized I’d forgotten to put the spaces between my words. Slowly, the page around my words, the desks, the strip of alphabet letters and numbers around the top of the room all reappeared. “I forgot to put the spaces between my words,” I whispered to Judy, sitting next to me.

Judy looked down at her paper. She’s forgotten her spaces too.

My idea came quickly, perfect and fully formed, “We can draw circles around them.”

Judy agreed and we carefully drew a circle around each word, dividing them from each other.

Ingrid walked behind the children, looking over their shoulders.

She paused behind us. Usually, Judy talked, but this time I spoke first because I wanted Ingrid to know I was the one with the good idea. “We forgot to put the spaces between our words, so I said we should put circles around them.”

Indrid’s words were sharp, cutting through the warmth created by gray line on gray paper.

“What do you think erasers are for?”

She moved to the next child, “Good, good. Nice letters.”

And then the part of me that lived all the way to the edge of my skin, to the hairs on my arms, sucked in, leaving a fleshy layer between itself and the air.