Letter from Seville
What a layered and beautiful city this is! The early Iberians, the Romans, and the Moors, followed by the Spanish reconquista and the plundered wealth that flowed into Seville from the New World--the history here is extraordinary, and shreds of it are visible everywhere. Palimpsest aficionados, Seville is your city.
The HH and I settled into a lovely little one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of an old building in the Santa Cruz barrio, the old Jewish quarter. Our landlord is lovely, a man from Malta who settled here almost 30 years ago and whose apartments are filled with books and paintings and fascinating objects from his various studies and travels. Huge vintage posters of Ferias past loom over our little bed and the littler sofa, flamenco ladies with their dazzling eyes and snapping hand gestures and those swirling gowns.... (His shelves are full of books, too, from Virginia Woolf in Spanish to John Le Carré, so I already had the chance to read Le Carré's excellent and suspenseful A Murder of Quality.)
Our two tiled terraces, where we hang our laundry and eat our meals (when we eat at home) have views of the Alcázar, the Spanish royal palace that was previously a Moorish fort. When we sit out there, we can hear doves, the rustle of palm fronds, and guitars being played somewhere down below. An ancient aqueduct runs down the alley that leads to our temporary home.
My walk to work leads me through the Jardines de Murillo, beautiful gardens that edge the palace grounds. Green parrots fly overhead. People walk their dogs. A tall statue of one of Columbus's ships towers in the center. The walkways are paved, the benches are covered with small bright tiles, and the trees are dotted with bright oranges. Lush, lovely, scented--not a bad commute at all.
I'm teaching creative writing at the University of Seville, in a gorgeous old baroque building that was once the Real Fábrica de Tabacos, the Royal Tobacco Factory. It began production in the 1750s.
This is the building:

Three thousand female cigar rollers once worked within its walls; it was the setting for Carmen. Here's a painting of it by Gonzalo Bilbao that the HH and I saw when we walked to the extraordinary Museo de Bellas Artes. (If you ever go to Seville, be sure to visit this museum. Our landlord called it "the second-best museum in Spain.")
According to Bilbao's rendition, the factory looks surprisingly jolly. Today that same hallway is just a hallway, and it was empty when I walked it. The building, though, is filled with statues, fountains, little surprise courtyards, and arches everywhere. For security's sake, it was once surrounded by a deep moat (now empty) and huge iron fences (still there). From the window of my classroom, I can see palm trees. My shared office where I hold office hours has a low, medieval looking wooden door with metal studs all over it. It's all rather a bit more lush and romantic and mysterious than I'm used to.
My students are fascinating. They're majoring in philosophy, medicine, psychology, and advertising--yet they all signed up to take a course in publishing creative writing in English. Very ambitious! They've been working hard so far, and I'm excited for them.
Things are happening with Hell or High Water--the French rights sold, a starred review in Booklist, and so on--but it all seems very far away at the moment--which may be the very healthiest way to prepare for a book launch that I've ever heard of. I'm working on the sequel while I'm here, too, but more on that later. For now, I'm focusing on getting lost and wandering, trying tapas, sampling vino, and enjoying the time-honored ritual of siesta--which, dear reader, I highly recommend.
The HH and I settled into a lovely little one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of an old building in the Santa Cruz barrio, the old Jewish quarter. Our landlord is lovely, a man from Malta who settled here almost 30 years ago and whose apartments are filled with books and paintings and fascinating objects from his various studies and travels. Huge vintage posters of Ferias past loom over our little bed and the littler sofa, flamenco ladies with their dazzling eyes and snapping hand gestures and those swirling gowns.... (His shelves are full of books, too, from Virginia Woolf in Spanish to John Le Carré, so I already had the chance to read Le Carré's excellent and suspenseful A Murder of Quality.)
Our two tiled terraces, where we hang our laundry and eat our meals (when we eat at home) have views of the Alcázar, the Spanish royal palace that was previously a Moorish fort. When we sit out there, we can hear doves, the rustle of palm fronds, and guitars being played somewhere down below. An ancient aqueduct runs down the alley that leads to our temporary home.
My walk to work leads me through the Jardines de Murillo, beautiful gardens that edge the palace grounds. Green parrots fly overhead. People walk their dogs. A tall statue of one of Columbus's ships towers in the center. The walkways are paved, the benches are covered with small bright tiles, and the trees are dotted with bright oranges. Lush, lovely, scented--not a bad commute at all.
I'm teaching creative writing at the University of Seville, in a gorgeous old baroque building that was once the Real Fábrica de Tabacos, the Royal Tobacco Factory. It began production in the 1750s.
This is the building:

Three thousand female cigar rollers once worked within its walls; it was the setting for Carmen. Here's a painting of it by Gonzalo Bilbao that the HH and I saw when we walked to the extraordinary Museo de Bellas Artes. (If you ever go to Seville, be sure to visit this museum. Our landlord called it "the second-best museum in Spain.")
According to Bilbao's rendition, the factory looks surprisingly jolly. Today that same hallway is just a hallway, and it was empty when I walked it. The building, though, is filled with statues, fountains, little surprise courtyards, and arches everywhere. For security's sake, it was once surrounded by a deep moat (now empty) and huge iron fences (still there). From the window of my classroom, I can see palm trees. My shared office where I hold office hours has a low, medieval looking wooden door with metal studs all over it. It's all rather a bit more lush and romantic and mysterious than I'm used to. My students are fascinating. They're majoring in philosophy, medicine, psychology, and advertising--yet they all signed up to take a course in publishing creative writing in English. Very ambitious! They've been working hard so far, and I'm excited for them.
Things are happening with Hell or High Water--the French rights sold, a starred review in Booklist, and so on--but it all seems very far away at the moment--which may be the very healthiest way to prepare for a book launch that I've ever heard of. I'm working on the sequel while I'm here, too, but more on that later. For now, I'm focusing on getting lost and wandering, trying tapas, sampling vino, and enjoying the time-honored ritual of siesta--which, dear reader, I highly recommend.
| Tweet | ||
Categories:
![]()
Thank you, Jimmie Killingsworth.
Earlier this spring, it was my great pleasure to give a reading at Susquehanna University's 8th annual Creative Writing Conference, but an even greater pleasure was hearing the stirring keynote lecture by distinguished professor Jimmie Killingsworth. Dr. Killingsworth has published extensively on rhetoric, the environment, and Walt Whitman (including the Cambridge Introduction to Walt Whitman) and is regarded as a senior expert in his fields. He's a wonderfully moving writer and speaker, and his current work focuses on the most urgent environmental issues that face us. He also examines how nature writing and other kinds of literature influence (or fail to influence) environmental politics, which is a concern of mine with my forthcoming novel HELL OR HIGH WATER. When he kindly agreed to take a look at it--well, Reader, I was excited, but I was nervous, too, because I admire his work so much.
So you can imagine how excited I am by this generous praise, which he posted yesterday on Facebook:
Oh, wow. I wanna get a t-shirt with that on it. I wanna get a tattoo. When a Whitman scholar says your sentences are incomparable, you pretty much just kind of want to faint with happiness.I was lucky enough to get an advance copy and couldn't put it down. In addition to sneaking political substance into a "guilty beach read," as the article says, Joy sneaks a literary novel past the censors in the guise of a bestseller. Her sentences and especially her tension-laced dialogue are incomparable. The treatment of post-Katrina New Orleans is loving and ironic, evocative as can be.
Thank you, Jimmie Killingsworth. You made my month.
| Tweet | ||
Categories:
![]()
South Bound!
Montevallo University in Alabama is having its tenth annual Montevallo Literary Festival, and I get to go! Tomorrow morning, I'll be teaching a master class in prose, and in the evening, I'll give a reading--and in addition to reading a couple of trusty standards from Island of Bones, I'm excited to try out a passage from Hell or High Water that I haven't read before. (Novelists, how do you choose?)
I'm really excited about the chance to see the lovely fiction writer Bryn Chancellor. We met at Bread Loaf back in the day (okay, 2004), and she now teaches at Montevallo and made this all happen. Thank you, Bryn!
If you're in the vicinity, come on down!
I'm really excited about the chance to see the lovely fiction writer Bryn Chancellor. We met at Bread Loaf back in the day (okay, 2004), and she now teaches at Montevallo and made this all happen. Thank you, Bryn!
If you're in the vicinity, come on down!
| Tweet | ||
Categories:
![]()
Behind
This post goes out to everyone who has fallen helplessly, hopelessly behind on his/her professional, familial, social, physical-fitness, and/or other commitments.
You are not alone. I am with you.
I am behind.
I am trying to be all Zen about it, but honestly, that's only working about 63% of the time. The rest of the time I'm a little freaked out. What's more, behindness is starting to feel like a semi-permanent state of being. This is not an ontological development that pleases me.
[Here imagine a really elegant transition to the topic of writing, because I'm too brain-dead to craft you one.]
So. On writing when you are helplessly, hopelessly behind: personally, I'm not so great at it. If something is lying there undone--grading, prepping, laundry, packing, unpacking, thank-you letters to my aunts, forms to fill out for la foster daughter, the dishes (okay, well, not always the dishes)--I feel compelled to go do it. In order to write well, I feel like I need a certain amount of mental freedom, a cognitive blank slate, free for play, unburdened by those dozens of niggling responsibilities.
My only workaround, which I discovered after all kinds of trial and error, is to write when I wake up in the morning (in that foggy dream state where my head is full of weird, impossible places and deeply felt experiences I haven't actually had), when the fact that I'm an adult with a job and a family hasn't yet occurred to me. Which is why I've managed to write two novels now only by writing in the morning upon awakening. I kinda sorta just trick myself into the belief (aided by pajamas) that the world does not exist. I stay in a state of suspended animation until I get a pre-set amount of writing down on the page.
But like right now, at 4:43 p.m. on a Friday, when I'm fully cognizant of what needs to get done in the next 72 hours? Writing? Ha. Fat chance. Pretty near impossible. I mean, sure, I'll manage to do other things: things that demand less of the mind, less attentive wildness, less freedom, less playfulness. But write? No.
Just thought I'd tell you this, because sometimes I get intimidated by writers who are like, "Oh, yes, I set aside four hours a day to write in my study at my desk that overlooks Lake Superior, and I never vary." I think, Yeah, wow, I'd get a lot done, too. But in my own case, the fact is, whole days go by when I don't write. Days on end, truth be told.
Yeah, that's just how it goes.
But eventually there's time again, and mental space, and the words begin to emerge again, and they don't entirely suck, and then I get excited, and I'm off.
So take heart, writers who don't have an independent income or a butler, and/or writers who've fallen behind. I don't write every day or have a holiday house by the lake, but I've got two books coming out this year, and one (or two, with luck) more next year. You could do it, too.
--Uh-oh. On the other hand (Libras apparently are known for arguing with ourselves and seeing both sides, rendering us helplessly paralyzed when we have to make decisions--but that's another story), I've been publishing now in national literary journals for over twenty years, and I currently have only one book in print. Yep. A one-book writer. Not exactly a superstar.
What helpful lesson am I going to try to draw from this mixed bag of evidence? Hmm. Good question. (Hey, Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of this hat!)
I guess just this: It takes patience. It takes persistence. It takes showing up.
So keep showing up, in whatever form that takes for you. Keep coming back to your art.
Besides, to misquote Mary Oliver, what else have you got to do with your one wild and precious life?
| Tweet | ||
Categories:
![]()
Judging
Judge not, lest ye be judged. The biblical scripture is iconic, in settings religious and less so; it even showed up on Mad Men last night, embossed on an ad-man's portfolio. The episode was called "Judge Not"--which was a funny coincidence, because it's been on my mind lately.
When I was a child, growing up among Jehovah's Witnesses, the scripture was quoted often, but the primary interpretive thrust was that we should be humble and not judge others--which was confusing, of course, because we did judge others, all the time, for being worldly in a variety of ways. The way we used the scripture never made a lot of sense to me.
But as an adult, I've often wondered about the phrase as a simple truism, one that has to do with your own mind, your own process. That is, if you're the kind of person who constantly, unhappily judges others, such judging will become your mental habit, and you won't be able to help turning that caustic gaze upon yourself. And that will be painful.
At least, that was my experience for much of my life, and the scripture makes sense in that context.
I recently read two essays by Sally Adee, "Zap your brain into the zone: Fast track to pure focus" and "How electrical brain stimulation can change the way we think," about transcranial direct current stimulation--introducing an electrical current (about the same as a 9-volt battery) into the brain of awake, conscious learners.
It immediately creates startling improvement. Learners become relaxed, totally focused, and totally engaged. They learn skills more quickly and with less strain. The mental state the essay describes--the focus, the concentration, the effortless flow--is similar to what Zen practitioners and long-time meditators describe. Electrical stimulation provides a way of achieving that state of "flow" so highly sought after by athletes and musicians. (And snipers, as one piece points out. In the sequel to Hell or High Water, Nola's therapist wants her to meditate in order to modulate the effects of PTSD, but she can't. She goes to the shooting range instead.)
If you've felt flow, then you know what a wonderful feeling it is. Why does electrical stimulation work to help people achieve flow instantly? "One possibility," writes Adee, "is that the electrodes somehow reduce activity in the prefrontal cortex--the area used in critical thought..."
Critical thought. That's interesting to me.
It's particularly interesting because this feels like the judging season. We're finally done with judging graduate applications and job applicants, and I've just finished judging my second writing contest this year. As a guest editor, I'm judging submissions to a special issue of Brevity. And of course, there's the weekly grading of my students' papers. And then, too, we all judge the arguments and/or aesthetic qualities of the published texts we teach. Judging/critiquing is a useful way to identify strengths and weaknesses, and as a society (and as writers trying to improve our own manuscripts), we need that. We need it when we decide how to vote, or where to live, or any number of things crucial to our well-being.
All of that's fine; it's kind of fun; it's my job; okay. It's one way of using your brain.
But many academics enshrine critical thinking, or judging, as the way to think. (Many people do, to be sure; I'm just surrounded by academics most of the time, so that's my reference group. And because, as academics, we're always using language that explicitly vaunts critical thinking, in order to explain and justify much of what we do as educators, our official esteem for that approach is always writ large.) We critique, critique, critique, and pat ourselves on the back for using that mode.
But then it becomes hard to turn the inner critic off. We find ourselves upset with others much of the time. Moreover, we judge ourselves just as ruthlessly. We imagine we are being judged by others. And then we suffer and are anxious.
Experience tells me this phenomenon is not limited to academics.
"My brain without self-doubt was a revelation," writes Adee, describing the experience of electrical stimulation. "There was suddenly this incredible silence in my head." Her "constant stream of self-criticism" just stopped. For Adee, the effects lasted for about three days.
I'm wondering if this "incredible silence" is what Zen monks pursue with such diligence on their zafus. To live permanently in a zone of effortless focus, tremendous effectiveness, and tranquility would be worth a few leg cramps.
It's definitely the case that critical thinking--assessing, evaluating, judging, analyzing--is one viable, useful, and tremendously important way to use your brain. I'm glad we've got it.
But it's only one way. There are others, and they can lead to greater peace. Acceptance. Love. Curiosity. Openness. Appreciation. Listening.
Just thinking out loud here, friends. Take care.
| Tweet | ||
Categories:
![]()


