SOON, issue 24: Do You Know How Fast a Year Goes?
My time as writer-in-residence: what can be articulated, and what can't, and what I only know after the fact.
Welcome to Something Out of Nothing, a newsletter about meaning—making it, finding it, offering it. I talk about the writing life, teaching, thrifting, books, travel, obsessions and idle interests, and much more.
The end of July was also the end of my first real writer-in-residence gig, provided by a local community organization called the Visual Arts Center of Richmond. I applied for this opportunity three or four times before getting accepted, and now—somehow—it’s already over.
For 11 months, though, I enjoyed a private office: a little box with walls and a door, the snug space an ever-intensifying mess of revision work, class prep, avoidance, dust, and the one-sided phone conversations of the jewelry artist in the studio next to mine. I met new folks. I took some art classes. I wrote. When considering the writer-in-residence experience as a whole, I find a lot of it falling into two categories: the tangible stuff I can point to and say, yes, that feels accomplished, and the intangible stuff that didn’t align with my plans and still feels up in the air.
The Tangible
I had a space of my own. I appreciated this the most and I’ll miss it the most. It was a shoes-off, low-lighting, listen-to-the-same-three-songs-on-repeat kind of space, and I didn’t mind making (and leaving) a mess. I leaned into it. I gave no second thought to my propensity for piles. Everything was process! Every time I entered was like meeting myself again—what’s she been up to? Look at this place.
I became a little bit of a visual artist and contributed to my first gallery show. I experimented with decoupage, using my discarded revision drafts and found vessels to create new “containers” for my stories. The writer-in-residence is always invited to participate in the exhibition show along with the visual artists in residence and I wanted to challenge myself to explore ideation and process in a different medium.
I shared my work from my in-process story collection at a public reading and book swap event. My good friend Shannon O’Neill, who publishes
, kindly introduced me and facilitated the Q&A session. It’s optional for the writer-in-res to put on an event, but I wanted to do something that brought writers and readers together. I saw lots of familiar faces, including my women’s literature professor from my community college days when I’d just started back to school. A fkg delight!
I took free art classes and practiced new skills: needle felting, photo transfer collage, drawing, and watercolor. Beyond the creative intentions, working with my hands has been a new way of processing ideas, getting out of my head, and learning to see differently. The writing process can be abstract and claustrophobic at times, and it’s been joyful to lean into a different kind of play, one that pulls me out of my circling, narrative-driven thoughts and instead lets my hands build an idea—but still, like writing, this process requires me to respect the attempt as a worthwhile experiment.
I finished a complicated expansion and revision of a 74-page short story. This is the story that was papering my office walls, because I was conceptualizing a secondary storyline and needed the visual representation (discussed here, in SOON, issue 16). And now that I think about it, I actually revised this story twice during my residency. The most recent revision—the expansion—is currently in the proverbial drawer, as I try to get some perspective on the changes. I don’t know if I like it, but I’ll talk more about that below. Here’s a little snippet of what my revision process, on the page, can look like:
I met new folks, including the three visual artists who were in residence with me. Here we are, below, with our smart-as-hell curator Sarah Irvin. I taught at VisArts for years prior to my residency experience, but teaching really amounts to me darting in and out of the building before and after classes. These past 11 months gave me a real sense of what it takes for this beloved community arts organization to function as generously as it does—and the answer is: hands. Many, many, many hands. I cannot believe the event schedule this organization keeps, between the much-relied-upon summer camp classes, the free events like PoetryFest, and the show after show after show that flows through that gorgeous gallery space. And what I’ve just mentioned is an absolute *fraction* of what is on offer every day, every year. Support your local arts organizations! Become a member. Attend events. Take classes. Meet your own community and expand your understanding of where you live.
The Intangible
I didn’t finish my book but I made progress—but nowhere near the progress I’d imagined I could make in 11 months. Are self-imposed deadlines bullshit? A way of declaring intentions but ultimately faking yourself out? Will this book ever be done? (Is that possibly the wrong question?)
I arrived on the other side of a story expansion (tangibly mentioned above) but did not feel as connected to the changes as I’d imagined I would be. I’m taking time away from the story, because I suspect the hard-fought expansion was actually a transition draft and I am now squinting down a seemingly endless road ahead of me. (Where am I going?)
I hardly touched a different story revision that’s been in-progress for so long that I kind of dread returning to it. I feel very far from it. Perhaps when I return to it, I’ll find blazing clarity around the over-written edges of every page, and revision will be a feverish sprint toward crafting a brand-new shape. (This hypothetical dream supposes I’ve learned more than I’m conscious of learning in the past year. But maybe?)
I sort of stumbled onto a new story? A flash piece, something quiet and weird and possibly meant for my collection? If I can figure out the emotional pivots, which right now feel foggy and abstract, just vibes. (Aren’t most early drafts just vibes?)
The Hypothetical
What would I do differently, if I have an opportunity like this again? Lower my expectations for myself, simplify my goals, and break said goals out into tiny, manageable steps. I did a bit of this, but doing more of it likely would have refocused my expectations from an over-arching goal (“finish your book”) into a manageable daily-ish practice (“revise two pages”).
Take advantage of new opportunities, but keep the balance of time toward your own work. I took a few classes. I attended a couple demo sessions for mediums like glass and laser cutting. I said yes to being a part of a gallery show. I tried to attend as many of the big annual events as I could. I tried to get to know my fellow annual residents. In general, I found myself trying a lot—to fulfill expectations I had for myself about such a generous stretch of time, to be present and engaged, to take advantage. Do less of the extra stuff, is what I will remind myself in the future. (One of the visual artists I was in residence with never took a single class. Another person put aside only one month to take classes and attend demos. Otherwise, the focus was their own art. I love these boundaries.)
Remember that the rest of your life is going to need you, too. Maybe if I was twenty-four and on my own I could shut everyone and everything out (this would require that I knew how to achieve the things I want at twenty-four, which I did not). But I found it hard to compromise the practicalities of my family life and hard to shut-out the obligations of my work life. (A problem that no one has ever had before, I know.) That said, I could never be a writer who only writes—that’s a one-way existential rabbit hole for me. But if I were to enjoy a writer-in-residence position again, I would try to be more honest with myself around my limited time from the get-go, so that I’m not as distracted by the inevitable guilt of feeling like I’m not doing enough in other areas.
Recognize that the acceptance—the yes you receive from the people choosing you and your work—is probably the most tangible part of the experience. And that’s okay. You really don’t have to complete a checklist. You don’t have to create a long-term plan for your limited time. You don’t have to pressurize the gift of an experience by qualifying it in terms of productivity and efficiency. You can just accept the gift. And I’m reminding myself of that, even now, on the other side of it.
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"trying a lot" sounds like a fantastic summary of a residency. Thanks for these insights!