Epiphany, A Literary Journal (review)

cover image from Epiphany's websiteAs I mentioned in the last post, I've started a new series about literary journals. I'll offer some tips on submitting to journals and review some of the many I have stacked around my house.

Earlier this week I had a guest post over on The Artist's Road, Patrick Ross's blog. Patrick is doing a series of Lit Journal Nuggets, and we'll be linking back and forth every so often so you can get a feel for a variety of journals. (So far he's reviewed AGNI and Fugue.)

If you have questions about journals or would like to see me review a particular publication, please let me know.

Here's the beginning of my review of Ep;phany:

Epiphanies get a bad rap in the world of literature. Writers bemoan how overused and trite this literary device has become. Need a tidy way to tie-up the loose ends of your short story? Give your protagonist an epiphany! Need to impart some existential meaning to bridge the personal-universal gap in your memoir? Epiphany! [Keep reading this review....]

Intro to Literary Journals

Awhile back I mentioned literary journals in my post about alternatives to getting an MFA in writing. I included them in my list of things to seek out and pay attention to.

Literary journals! Read them, subscribe to them, and send your work to them. Volunteer with them. If you don't know much about lit journals (I didn't just a few years ago), check out NewPages.com to get the lay of the land.

What are lit journals? Basically they're periodically published collections of writing, often supported by a university, though not always. Think of them as magazines of well-written prose and poetry, sometimes with photography and art. They may contain essays, short stories, poems, and interviews. You can probably find at least a few of them lurking in the magazine racks of your local mega-bookstore. I've spotted The Paris Review and Granta at mine, but there are hundreds more! (If you have a well-curated local bookstore you may have a better selection available.) Magazines such as The Sun and Orion feel a bit more magaziney than lit-journaly to me, but they are definitely closer to lit journal status than a magazine such as Good Housekeeping. (These aren't judgement calls, just comparisons to help give you an idea of what a lit journal is.)

Lit journals are perhaps the best-kept secret of the publishing world. This is a shame, because it means that the general public has no idea they even exist. If I told my brother that I was published in The Iowa Review, he would probably congratulate me and then (secretly) think, "Iowa? What the hell's in Iowa? What did she write about? Corn and cows? That doesn't sound very impressive." But if I told my friends from grad school I'd been published there, they would probably congratulate me and then (secretly) think, "The Iowa Review! Bitch! I wanna be in The Iowa Review!"

(For the record, I have not [yet] been published in The Iowa Review. And my friends probably wouldn't really call me a bitch.)

The point is this: What is impressive to other writers may be absolutely meaningless to the general public. But then, this is the way in most fields. I'm sure carpenters and chefs have their own personal milestones, the names of which would impress others in their profession while I'd be clueless as to their importance and clout.

Before grad school I really knew almost nothing about literary journals. I had heard of their existence, but I didn't know what a big part of a writer's life they could (probably should) be. I had no idea I'd end up with lists of them to check out and a spreadsheet to track my submissions to them. Long before authors have a book published (and long after, actually), they usually submit their work to lit journals, and if they're persistent and lucky, they get published in one and then another and then another. If you look at a published collection of essays or short stories, you will probably see that the author has acknowledged the journals that first published some of the pieces. Even excerpts of memoirs and novels can be first published in journals.

In an effort to help spread the gospel of literary journals, I'm starting a new series about them here in The Word Cellar. I'll offer some tips on submitting to journals and review some of the many I have stacked around my house.

Tomorrow I'll link to my first review, which I did as a guest post for Patrick over at The Artist's Road. Patrick is doing a series of journal reviews as well, and we'll be linking back and forth every so often so you can get a feel for a variety of journals.

If you have questions about journals or would like to see me review a particular publication, please let me know.

The Word Cellar Writing Workshops: May Session

I currently have one open spot in am upcoming session of The Word Cellar Writing Workshops. This session will start in a few weeks, probably around May 20, and will run for six weeks. The schedule is flexible and will be based on the participants' availability, so if you're at all interested, please let me know now so I can include you in the planning.

Each workshop is limited to four participants, so this is an intimate, intensive group that will help you take your writing to the next level. You don't need to have former workshopping experience, but you do need to have at least 10 pages of work that you want to share for feedback. (You can submit 10-30 pages of your writing.)

Full details about the workshop are over here, but here's an overview of what you get: 

• Respectful feedback on your writing from me and the other workshop participants
• Five group calls (at least 1 hour per call), with one call dedicated to you discussing your writing
• One 50-minute private coaching session with me to discuss your writing and creative life
• Private group blog to share feedback and support with workshops participants
• Personalized recommendations for reading, writing, and creativity practices throughout the workshop experience
• Workshopping tutorial on how to create and participate in a useful, respectful workshop (including group guidelines, goals, and privacy expectations)

And the big questions: Why workshop? Why get feedback on your work?

First of all, it's not about changing your creative vision based on everyone else's opinions. Getting feedback on your work helps you to see your blindspots. Sometimes you'll get conflicting feedback, and this is a gift! It helps you to clarify your own creative vision. (I've written about my own experience with this over here.)

Writing is a tricky business because it forces two competing elements of language to co-exist. On one hand there's the useful side of everyday communication. On the other is the artistic use of language. When the overly useful invades the artistic, things can feel flat on the page. When the creative overtakes clarity, readers may be confused. Having "test" readers helps you to find out if either of these is happening so you can recalibrate.

Plus, getting feedback from people you can trust is a good exercise in courage. It can be frightening to share our work for the first time. Practicing it in small group is a good way to start.

The tuition for this workshop is $450, which gives you a workshopping tutorial, written feedback from all participants and me, a group phone call to discuss your work, a private coaching call, resources, suggestions, encouragement, writing community, and a private blog space. 

Any questions at all? Please email me or ask in the comments. I'm happy to help you decide if this is the right kind of group for you right now.

20 Years, 2 Skates, 1 Fall (Roller Derby Makes Me Brave #2)

This is Part 2 of "Roller Derby Makes Me Brave," an ongoing series in which I chronicle my journey to becoming a derby girl. (You can read the whole series or the individual posts.)

You arrive at Hot Shots Sports Arena on a warm Wednesday afternoon in March, half an hour before the open skate ends. The roller derby team you're thinking about joining practics here on Sundays, but you want to make your maiden voyage alone. You haven't been on a pair of roller skates since you were 16 -- and that was 20 years ago. Thirty minutes is plenty of time for this second first time; you're not sure your legs will hold up much longer than that.

You wiggle your feet into the teal and orange rental skates, pleased with the serendipity; the skates match your teal and brown striped socks. You're sitting on a bench against the wall, several yards away from the entrance to the rink, which is more accurately called a court, since it's enclosed in plexiglass and usually used for roller hockey. Out here on the bench, the floor beneath your feet is polished concrete, hard and smooth. You lace up. A little pixie of a girl, probably about seven years old, whizzes past on inline skates. You envy her.

You wish there were a bench closer to the court entrance. You tilt onto your toe stops, hold on to the bench, twist and rise to a squatted position. Now you're standing on the polished concrete floor, and oh dear goodness, it's like ice. You keep all eight wheels on the floor and use the wall to propel yourself. You glide ever so slowly toward the door.

There are two courts in Hot Shots. Some kids are playing on the one to your left, but yours is empty. Here's the plan:

Try to stay on your feet.
Back and forth along a 20-foot section of wall.
Nothing fancy, nothing fast. (Not that you could do either if you tried.)

You notice a few women, mothers of the kids playing on the other court, glancing back at you. You wonder if they envy or pity you. You want to shout to them in a Rock-n-Roll voice: "Roller Derby, Baby!" (You don't.)

Face the wall, hold onto the ledge. Wiggle your toes. Look around. Shuffle your feet back and forth just a little bit. Now, turn so the wall is to your side. Push off with your hands, coast, stop with your hands on the ledge.

Do this for five minutes, maybe ten. Your legs will start to ache almost immediately. Your feet may start to cramp. You'll realize you have the beginnings of an ingrown toenail on the big toe of your right foot.

Next, try a little bit of actual skating. Lift a foot and use it to push off. (You can stay close to the wall.) Lift the other foot and push forward again.

Around the 15-minute mark a muscle memory courses through your body and you merge with the 11-year-old version of yourself who used to do this on weekends. Your mind is shocked to realize that your legs and hips might have an intelligence all their own. Give yourself over to it. Listen for the rhythm. You hear Tina Turner singing "What's Love Got to Do With It?" even though there is no music playing in Hot Shots. Tina's voice is low and sultry, almost inaudible, but it's there.

Swing your hips to Tina.

Step, glide, step.

Step, glide, stop.

Turn. Do it again.

You've been on the skates for 20 minutes when you start to think about what that first fall will be like. You know it's inevitable; everyone falls at some point. You feel proud of your Zen-like acceptance of this fact, and just as you wonder if it would be better to get it out of the way so you don't have to --- BAM!!

Both legs go out in front of you, it's a long way down -- the fall is fast and slow at the same time, the way car accidents are -- to a straight and heavy landing on your ass.

Your 36-year-old ass, which is much heavier and much further away from the ground than your 11-year-old ass ever was.

Your spine absorbs the shock and you feel the impact travel all the way up into your neck, through the base of your head, and then shoot out the top of it like an orange firework of pain and triumph.

"Well, at least that's out of the way," you think.

You sit there for a minute or two, rolling your neck from side to side, marveling that you didn't break your wrist trying to catch yourself. For the first time in your life, you are acutely aware of your tail bone.

You get up onto your knees, and your head pops up above the court's ledge like you're a prairie dog. The women look back at you again. You realize you're going to have to stand-up while wearing these skates. You need to get back on this horse, of course. Tina Turner didn't let anyone keep her down, did she? You knee-walk over to the wall, rest a minute more, and then pull yourself back up onto your toe stops. All eight wheel on the court.

Five more minutes, back and forth along the wall, still alone in the court. The big clock in the center of the sports hall hits 3:00 p.m. Open skate is closed.

Gently lower yourself toward the floor, sit down, and take the skates off in here. Walk back to your street shoes, which wait for you on the polished concrete underneath the bench. When your tail bone makes contact with the bench you wince just a little.

You're proud of yourself. Really, really proud. You think Tina would be, too.

me (bruised, sweaty, and proud) after my first skate in 20 years

Choosing the work we love

The other day I asked a quasi-rhetorical question on Twitter and Facebook:

Why is it so hard to prioritize the work I love?

Several people chimed in, and two of them offered up some interesting, almost opposing, ideas on why this happens. The great thing about this is that I think all of them are true.

On Twitter, Amna Ahmad of The Pragmatic Hybrid told me that she has a theory: "The work we love most brings anxieties about not doing it justice."

And on Facebook, Stephanie Guimond of Creative Living Experiment wrote, "It's because everything is more like play!"

To be honest, I don't know if Stephanie meant that everything else is more like play, or if she meant that the work we love feels like play and therefore doesn't feel like legitimate work. I'll ask her to clarify, but I'm actually enjoying the ambiguity of it because I think both of these perspectives are true.

In fact, all three ideas resonate with me. I think all of them play into why I put off writing and working on my dream projects.

The anxiety of not doing my calling justice, of not living up to my own standards, and to the standards the work has for me and for itself....

The feeling that everything else is easier than facing my lifework....

The convoluted problem of not believing that something is valuable if it feels like play....

Different ones hit me on different days, but mostly I think I feel all three at once. And I keep reminding myself to admit that I'm delusional and to choose what I love day after day.

What about you? What keeps you from doing the thing you love? How do you choose it again and again?