Loquacious (a "wordy" series): The Sensuous Life of Language

I want to be a word. I would be abstract

with an inscrutable ending.
Anna Moschovakis, "Untitled"

Loquacious: full of excessive talk : wordy (www.m-w.com)

Loquacious is a "wordy" series that revels in language. I'm kicking it off with a (slightly modified) excerpt from my essay "The Secret Life of Language" (which began life as a lecture). As the series progresses, I'll share more of my thoughts on all things wondeful and wordy (worderful?), plus some fantastic guest posts from other word lovers (a.k.a. "wordies," which are the literary compatriots of "foodies").

The Sensuous Life of Language

By Jennifer McGuiggan

I once read the word ambergris, which is a noun from the French for "amber grey." It refers to the mysterious substance that is prized as a fixative in perfume and believed to originate in the intestines of sperm whales. It's a fascinating noun, but I didn’t think much about whales or perfume when I read it. Instead, my mind played hopscotch with the letters in ambergris, and I landed on aubergine, also a French word, but one I connect to England, as it's the British term for eggplant. I don't really like eggplant. Its texture is too spongy for my taste; its purply-black skin too rich a jewel tone for my preferred color palette. I like the word eggplant a bit more than I like the fruit. The word makes a dull, but satisfying, thud upon my tongue ― egg-plant ― and comes rolling out like a―well, like an egg. But aubergine is sexy, something voluptuous and spicy, like a nice glass of Shiraz. Aubergine is a word I love more than the thing itself. I savor the way it sounds, for the way my mouth moves when I say it, for the way the word itself tastes.

I learned the word aubergine when I lived in England, where I also learned alternate words for other objects in the produce aisle, such as courgette for zucchini and swede ― which the dictionary now tells me is British for rutabaga (itself a fun word) ― but which I could have sworn referred to some sort of melon. And there we are again. Melon: something I love as much for its wordness as its thingness. To me, the mellifluous sounds of melon taste just as good, if not better, than an actual slice of slippery, cool cantaloupe or honeydew.

For language lovers, the taste, sound, and feel of words is at least as important as their meanings. We writers have a sensuous relationship with language. People often say that the poets know this best, but I think that slights us prose writers. I may be after a good story when I read or write prose, but I'm also after sentences that unfurl in my mouth and mind like the edible, golden bloom of the zucchini ― or, courgette ― flower.

One of my favorite unfurling sentences comes from the novel Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen, a book about a young nun who may or may not be experiencing mystical trances that mark her body with stigmata. Here's the sentence: "Each prayer grayly feathering from her mouth" (139). If we're going to get technical about things, it's not a true sentence because a gerund ("feathering") occupies the space where a verb would otherwise sit. But it's a beautiful, sensuous sentence in which the sounds perfectly match the imagery: "Each prayer grayly feathering from her mouth."

We tend to think of language as an intellectual faculty, but we first enter into language bodily, not mentally. As young children, we don't consciously study syntax or grammar, or memorize dictionary pages to learn words. Instead, we learn to speak by listening, by making sounds, by imitating what we see and hear others doing.

Here's another passage that's too delicious to pass up. It's from Eudora Welty in One Writer's Beginnings. She's describing her childhood visits to her grandparents' farm:

Barefooted on the slick brick walk I rushed to where I could breathe in the cool breath from the interior of the springhouse. On a cold, bubbling spring, covered dishes and crocks and pitchers of butter and milk and so on floated in a circle in the mild whirlpool, like horses on a merry-go-round in the water that smelled of the mint that grew close by. (65) 

This passage just tastes good to me, and makes me feel like I'm with Welty in that springhouse, smelling the mint. I enter the words on the page not just mentally, but bodily. I wonder what Welty's grandparents kept on those covered dishes and crocks. Probably not aubergines or courgettes, but a girl can dream.

Introducing The Word Cellar Writing Guild Apprenticeships

One year ago I was in Montpelier, Vermont, getting ready to graduate with my masters degree in creative writing. In fact, I gave my graduating lecture on the Fourth of July, squeezed into the time slot between lunch and the annual VCFA Poets vs. Writers softball game. (I didn't play, but I hear that the Writers won and the Poets brooded about it.) A few days later I sat on a stage with my classmates while the college president conferred the status of "master" upon us, a term which makes me giggle and sigh with a shake of my head every time I think about it. Master. What a weird, loaded word. (Sometimes I like to feminize it: Mistress. That makes me giggle even more. I have a Mistress of Fine Arts. Better yet: I am a Mistress of Fine Arts.) (Sometimes, when I have too many to-do lists scattered arond the house, I consolidate them into one "Mistress List.") (Get it?)

The term "Master" is almost embarrassing. It implies that I've, well, you know, mastered creative writing. It insinuates that there's an endpoint to the learning and the practicing of this fine art. But, of course, there's not. I still have much to learn, to read, to write.

And yet, I have learned some enormously important things about writing during my two years of study, and I've grown tremendously as a writer over the past decade. I love to share what I've learned because it's fun and fulfilling to see people light-up with creative spark and have their own little literary epiphanies. In addition to teaching and sharing through my Alchemy e-courses and small group workshops, I've also been working with individuals to provide coaching, feedback, and editing services.

This summer, in honor of my one-year anniversary as a Master Mistress, I've launched The Word Cellar Writing Guild, three-month apprenticeships during which you receive personalized mentoring for every aspect of your writing life. Basically, I've bundled together my feedback, editing, and coaching services and created a mentoring program that address the four key areas of your writing life: writing, feedback, reading, and support. 

I've modeled The Guild apprenticeships on my experience in a low-residency MFA program. I took the best parts of my experience (accountability, support, inspiration, resources, practical advice, and the opportunity to practice writing) and created a doable, affordable program for other writers and wish-to-be writers. All of the apprenticeships include the same level of individualized support and feedback, but there are three tiers to choose from, based on how much writing you want to do.

At the Introductory level, you write 5-10 pages per month. For the Intermediate apprenticeship, you'll write 10-20 pages per month. And if you choose the Intensive apprenticeship, you'll submit 20-30 pages each month. Since the apprenticeships last for three months, you'll  end up writing (and getting feedback on) 15 to 90 pages. That's a wide range, but it means that you can set the goals and dreams that fit what you need right now.

Full details about The Guild and apprenticeships are over here. I've also listed some mini-mentoring sessions near the bottom of that page in case you'd prefer a single session of coaching or editorial feedback.

I know I'm playing up this idea of "master" and "apprentice" by calling these three-month gigs "apprenticeships." In the Medieval system of guilds, there were three levels of craftsmen: apprentice, journeyman, and master. A journeyman was a paid member of the guild who had completed an apprenticeship and was working on his masterpiece, which he hoped would grant him the rank of master. The term "journeyman" comes from Middle English word journey, meaning "a day's labor," which, I presume  derives from French, since the French word for "day" is jour. Nowadays, "Journeyman" is used to mean someone who has learned a trade and works for another person, usually by the day.

But the word "journey" by itself has a different connotation, doesn't it? In my mind, it hints at an ongoing path, a quest, a neverending sojourn. Graduate degree notwithstanding, the writing life is a journey.

So what if we feminized and modernized "journeyman" and made it journeywoman? I like the sounds of that. I'm a woman on a writing journey, and I've learned some things along the way that I'd like to share with you. If you could use a traveling companion and guide, I'd love to walk with you.

My Shadow Self (Roller Derby Makes Me Brave #4)

This is the fourth installment of "Roller Derby Makes Me Brave," an ongoing series in which I chronicle my journey into roller derby. (You can read the whole series or the individual posts.)

I saw the flyer near the door of the local coffee shop: Roller Derby is coming to Westmoreland County! A shot of espresso-scented adrenaline hit me. Roller derby! Here!

It had been nearly two years since I'd attended my first bout, and as alluring as the idea of derby had been, I knew I wouldn't commit to the 80-mile round trip to the rink where Pittsburgh's Steel City Derby Demons practice and play. So the idea of becoming a roller derby girl simmered in the back of my subconscious, always on the periphery of desire, a  shadow identity just out of reach. But here was a reminder of my shadow self, staring back at me in black and white. I tore off one of the flyer's paper fringe strips printed with an email address, and headed out into the February cold to my car.

That night, I sent an email asking for more details. Atomic Bombino, the league organizer and veteran derby girl, emailed back. The first official practice was happening that very week. I didn't go. I didn't go the next week, or the next. My shadow self kept telling people that I was going to try roller derby, but the other half of me didn't really believe it. I kept saying it, and kept putting it off. It took me six weeks to work up the nerve to get on skates. And even then it wasn't at a practice, but in an empty rink where I could shuffle and fall without anyone seeing. I wish now that I had gone to that first official practice, that I had let my desire make me brave sooner rather than later. In roller derby you learn how to stay in derby stance so you have less chance of falling, and you learn how to fall (forward) so you won't hurt yourself. By going it alone and trying to protect myself from the emotional discomfort of being awkward in front of strangers, I fell backwards -- and badly.

With a seriously bruised tailbone and an inflamed sense of fear, I waited another week and a half to get back on the proverbial eight-wheeled horse -- still not at an official practice, but at a Saturday night open skate that some of the derby girls frequent. I emailed Bombino ahead of time to say I'd be there, put on my most badass tee-shirt underneath my clothes, and made myself go. 

That night I made it around the rink 10 times without falling. Not 10 consecutive times, but 10 times nonetheless. I spent the first hour skating from wall to wall in the miniature kiddie rink in-between sitting down to rest my legs. When Bombino saw me standing on the edge of the main rink, watching people zip around with ease while I calculated my chances of successfully joining in, she skated over and talked me out onto the floor. We skated four slow laps before my legs burned with the effort and sent me back to my seat.

The fine people of Westmoreland Roller Derby gave me many things that night, whether they knew it or not. Bombino offered me much needed encouragement. Massiecre let me wear her knee pads so I could try a few laps without so much fear of falling. Murder Monroe, S.O.S., Franks Red Hot, and The Iguana all chatted with me, which is a true gift when you're the new girl. Sue Zee Haymaker offered to give me an old pair of skates that she'd bought at a flea market. I stayed until the rink closed at midnight and then joined everyone at Eat'n Park for a late night snack. 

After that, I drove the two of us home, me and my shadow self. I needed some rest; my first practice was coming up in two days.

Why I stayed up all night watching "Titanic" (Or, my latest creative crisis & confession)

I accidentally stayed up until 4:15 a.m. last Wednesday watching Titanic.

It's not out of the ordinary for me to be up until the wee hours, but even I consider anything after 4:00 a bit excessive. Normally my all-night activities include writing, catching up on work, or reading, not movie watching. And Titanic? I'm not a hardcore fan. I watched it once when it came out, and it was, you know, fine. I know this is the kind of iconic movie you're supposed to have strong feelings about, but neither a Titanic lover nor a hater was I. (I was, however, annoyed by the constant onslaught of media hype the summer it came out. That was the summer I moved to England for a year, and I thought I'd escaped the madness by going abroad. Alas, Titanic was then released in Europe after I landed, which meant I had the pleasure of experiencing the hype twice. But I digress.)

I kept asking myself why the hell I was staying up all night to watch a movie I didn't particularly love, one I could easily rent or stream at a more convenient time. What was I doing?

I think I was doing the same thing that drove me to purchase a last-minute ticket to see Ben Folds a few weeks ago.

And what is that same thing?

Seeking connection and emotion, something real and true and beautiful.

On that late mid-week night, while my husband an all my friends were asleep, I needed to immerse myself in a love story. I needed to tap into something that would allow me (make me?) cry.

I've been feeling disconnected and disheveled for weeks. Months, if I'm honest. I hate to admit that out loud, because dammit, I feel like I go through this spin cycle every few seasons. It's embarrassing. It's tiring. It's confusing. There's shame in it that I'd rather keep secret.

This summer marks six years that I've been working as a solo creative entrepreneur without a fulltime "day job." In that time I have (in no particular order) gotten my masters degree in creative writing, created and self-published a book, created and taught online writing courses, started another book, had a spiritual crisis, and gotten much clearer about the work I really want to be doing.

But that clarity has fogged up lately. I can't see where I'm headed. Worse, I don't know where I want to be headed. I do, however, know where I don't want to go. I know the things that drain my energy. And lately I've been focusing (by necessity borne of commitment) on things that drain me.

And now we know where this leads: To watching Titanic at 3:00 in the morning.

I've felt so disconnected from my self and purpose that I've started seeking ways to reconnect. This is not a bad thing. In fact, I think this is the gift of art: To connect us--to others, to ourselves, to spirit and truth. This is why we need good books, movies, art, and music.

But something about Titanic nagged at me the whole time I watched it. It's a visually beautiful movie, but the computer generated-ness is too slick to be real beauty. The dynamic between Kate Winslett's and Leonardo DiCaprio's characters was good, but the dialogue was often shoddy. I let tears fall the appropriate times (I cry easily), but something about them felt shallow.

The next day it hit me: Titanic is a movie with a lot of heart, but not a lot of soul. (I think this is a recurring problem with James Cameron movies. Cross-reference Avatar.)

Maybe this is what's happening for me right now: I'm doing my best to put a lot of heart into things, but my soul isn't in it. I've been trying to keep parts of myself in a sideroom. I've sidelined my soul. Hid it in a closet. Been afraid to come out and be all the parts of me. I've been pretending that I know what I'm doing because by this point in my life and career I think I should know what I'm doing. I assume that you (you=everyone) expects me to know what I'm doing.

I want to know what I'm doing, but right now, I don't. Maybe it's time to let this -- the admission that I'm still finding my way -- be enough for now. 

{Insert some schlocky metaphor about sinking ships and everlasting love and passion here. Or not. Sometimes you just have to let things be.}

Jumpstart Creativity Tour: Be a part of it.

10,000+ miles. 50 events. Two countries. One car named Stella. An artist named Jess. And a vision of arty goodness for all.

That's the Jumpstart Creativity Tour, brought to you by Jess Greene, the woman behind Seek Your Course. In just four days, Jess will set out from Massachusetts on a summer adventure to bring creative mojo to 50 cities across the U.S. and Canada.

Why is she doing this? In her own words:

To rally support for creative engagement and get adults making stuff. 

Most people do not have jobs that involve making art, building things by hand, or writing creatively. They need opportunities to fulfill that part of themselves. Seek Your Course represents a wide-range of creative opportunities and through the Jumpstart Creativity Tour we hope to further connect adults with those opportunities.

I'm happy that one of Jess's first stops will be here in Pittsburgh, where we'll gather at Assemble (a community space for art and technology) this coming Sunday, June 17, (7-9pm) to play with art supplies, delight in language, and enjoy the spark of creative community.

From here she'll be heading west-west,-west, all the way to California. In August, Jess and and Stella (who, I hear, prefers the title "Mobile Creativity Unit" to the more common term of "car") will be turning around and heading back east for more stops all along the way. There's a good chance Jess and Stella will be near you some time in the next three months. (You can see the whole route here.) I hope you'll meet up with them and make some arty goodness of your own.

Jess will be fundraising while she's on the road, which is itself a leap of faith. All of the art events are free and open to the public, but Jess needs money for things like food (for her) and gas (for Stella). She's working to raise $2,500 before she leaves, and she needs just $655 to reach this first goal. The ongoing expenses of the tour will be much higher, but Jess is trusting that the funds will come as she goes. Please consider making a donation to help this creative adventure hit (and stay on!) the road.

If you're in the Pittsburgh area, please join us on Sunday, June 17. (Full details here.) And whether or not you can come out to an event or make a donation, I hope you'll be inspired by spirit of this tour and make time to make some art this summer, whether or not you consider yourself an artist. (Of course, by "art" I mean everything from a painting to a poem to a peach pie. Seriously, make something that makes you happy.)