This past spring I attended the Alabama Book Festival with Emma Bolden. I was the head-counter at the Poetry Tent. Now, you may be thinking to yourself that this is not an important job, that this is the job that is generally entrusted to a person under the age of 12, a job you give to a not-so-important person’s child. You may be wondering if I had a clicker (I did not), or if I had a special seat reserved for the person who counts heads (I did not). If you are wondering how often I counted head and how many I counted, all I can say is that I tallied head at 8:30, 10:00, 12:00, and a few more scheduled times thereafter using a pencil, paper, and clipboard. I cannot recall how many heads I counted. I can only recall the overwhelming insecurity I felt at not having written anything that had encountered a press of any kind. In a sea of people who had books with their names on them, I called myself what Odysseus claimed as his own name to the Cyclops. I was Nobody. I greeted everyone in the tradition of Emily Dickinson––”Oh, hi. I’m Nobody! Who are you?” Unlike Emily, though, the prospect of having an admiring bog (even if it’s a bog) was and still is moderately appealing to me.
So I spent the day at my very first poetry reading counting heads. I did wander over to the tables where the books were being sold and was informed that These are books of poetry. You know? Poetry books? I was ashamed of my coarse undergraduate literature studies which included––Alas!––no Emily Dickinson, no Louise Glück, no Philip Levin, not even Billy Collins. Anything I know about poetry (and I hope I’m not shaming her by saying this) I learned from the glorious, beautiful, trepidatious Emma, who has been kind enough to educate me in the world(s) divined by poetry, poems, and poets. Thankfully, she came along just before my soul had hardened to a lump of clay, resigned to believe that poetry consists of that which we find in the textbooks littering the shelves of the school where I teach.
I met a lot of people that day and I counted the heads of even more. I mostly remember the names of the ones whose books I bought, and of course I remember the names of the people I knew beforehand. However, there was one tally mark that belonged to a person whose books I did not buy that day, but now own and relish. These books were written by Richard Goodman, the charming New Yorker who put on no airs, who made jokes and small talk with me as though I were not an ignorant thing with no real writing out in the wide world. Of course, I am a very good faker, so it could be that he didn’t notice my ignorance or that we didn’t speak long enough for my feigned intelligences to evaporate. Though we met near the Poetry Tent, he is not a poet. However, he has written about everything from fine presses to bicycles, from gardening in the South of France to living in New York City, from cooking up the World’s Largest Bouillabaisse to hiking the Blue Mountain Reserve. This I learned in the moment he turned around long enough for me to key his name into Google on my iPhone.
Cut to last weekend, When I attended a four-hour writing workshop led by none other than Richard Goodman in Auburn, AL. Apparently, this New Yorker didn’t get his fill of Alabama last spring. The workshop, “From Memoir to Story: Writing Your Life,” left me a bit in awe of Richard the teaching writer. I was nearly the youngest woman in attendance (most of the women appeared to be retired), and so I was quite intimidated. I arrived a half hour late, pushed open the glass door to find myself at the front of the very cramped, blindingly white room humming with the sound of writing and breathing. Richard came over and asked me if I’d registered. “I’m Whitney Reed,” I stammered and then tip-toed with trepidation to my seat in the back.The following 3 hours were challenging, instructive, full of writing, and completely devoid of ennui.
On Monday, I picked Richard up to take him to John Pennisi’s Journalism class at Auburn High School. On the way there, he read some of my own writing––the most uncomfortable five minutes of my life. I watched him scan the pages of the essays, the polished essays, I had written for a creative writing class two years earlier. Yes, I took him stuff I had written for a class two years ago. Since I’d never really had someone whom I don’t know read my work before, I was pretty self-conscious in selecting the pieces. I chose two that had won the approval of a teacher. Since I’d never really had some who’d written whole books and articles for the New York Times ask to read my work, I was quite panicked and completely out of my element. Thankfully, Richard was kind. And, thankfully, he was honest, too. After he complimented what he could compliment, he said, “I mean, where, ah, where are you in all of this? Where’s your voice?”
Admittedly, my heart sunk. I had handed over all of this writing that I had been proud of, and it was, essentially, boring. I won’t lie––as I placed those freshly-printed essays in the green folder, I envisioned the rapturous praise my writing would elicit. Now, four days later, this feedback has led me to a few startling realizations. First, I realize now that praise and affirmation from teachers have shaped my opinion of my own best writing. That is, I tend to value a piece of writing according to the value that a teacher places on it. Second, voice and passion might be the two most important things a writer must have. Apart from this blog, my voice has been passive, objective, schooled. I am learning what my voice is, but I have to exercise it to learn it. At this point, there are no other realizations I can articulate, but I’ll keep you posted.
After he read my work, I carried us the rest of the way to Auburn High School, where we were outfitted with Visitor passes and left to our own devices in search of John’s classroom. This motley crew of high school journalists were fairly taken with Richard’s writing, his thoughts on writing, and the fact of his residence in New York City. Inquiring as to what the kids were reading resulted in his seguing into a passionate rendition of the greatest hits from Julius Caesar, Hamlet, and the Henry‘s, followed by the daunting question: Why does Claudius pour the poison in Hamlet’s father’s ear? The young Shakespeare-hating journalists were intrigued by the question and fascinated at the spectacle of Shakespeare brought to life. Overall, I think the kids digged him. Afterwards, I took him for shrimp and grits and the Amsterdam Cafe.
After spending the morning in high school, the crisp, fall afternoon was warmed by the workshop Richard led for writing class of retired community members. These men and women are just beautiful people whose writing is as true as they are. To my caffeine-infused shock, Richard pulled a THIRD original workshop out of his magic hat. In three days, Richard led three brilliant workshops and I had the good fortune to be at all of them, pen in hand, scribbling away, trying to preserve this wonderfully teaching writer on the page.
Of course, I can’t end this epic post without telling you about his books. I tell my kids every year that I’ve got a “magic touch” when it comes to picking out books. Every year they start with the I hate reading, and the eye-rolling, and the heads falling limp on the backs of their necks as though the very thought of a book is too heavy for their adolescent minds. However, these same students who feign death upon the mention of reading will eventually give in and (unwillingly) read the books I place on their empty desks during the first week of school. I choose a different book for each student, and I have yet to choose a book that doesn’t turn a lit-hating student into a reader. With that in mind, consider these solicitations to read Mr. Goodman’s work:
If you’re at all a gardener, if you hope to garden someday, or if you just admire gardeners, you’ve simply got to pick up a copy of French Dirt. It’s at the top o’ the heap on my nightstand right now. If you teach writing, go ahead and order The Soul of Creative Writing now. Seriously. He wrote this book as he developed materials for his own teaching life at Spalding University, where he teaches Creative Nonfiction in the Brief Residency M.F.A. program. This text is such a rich mine of approaches that are at once insightful and adaptable. I’ve been using it this semester with my eighth graders. Of course, if you’re too busy to read a whole book, go to his website and read some articles, essays, and other such shorter works. I’ve also hyperlinked some of his stuff in the first paragraph. Happy reading!
A note: I feel I should give credit where credit is due. Richard’s visit to Alabama and these workshops were co-sponsored by the Alabama Writers Forum and the Caroline Marshall Draughn Center for Arts and Humanities (Pebble Hill).
