How do you organize the right sequence of words to tug at the heart?

Connect two souls?

Prompt a discussion?

How do you craft a poem? Where do you put spaces?

Emphasis?

How do you write like the greats? Get enough street cred to be a ‘writer’?

Do you write in couplets to be funny?

Iambic pentameter like the classics?

Free verse like the modern poets?

Mix forms so they call you a genius?

What if it comes across…

Pretentious?

Vapid?

Derivative?

How do you take the swirling fragments in your mind and give them context? Structure?

Meaning?

How do you share the intimate parts of you?

The parts that can’t stand small talk and cry every time you hear Vienna by Billy Joel?

How do you let go of the fear that people will really see you?

See the truth?

That just like the words you write, you are sensitive?

Messy?

Desperate to be loved by an audience?

How do you make peace with knowing you might fail?

That you might never be good enough?

How do you press submit when you’re still in the middle? With no resolution? With insecurity, shaky knees, shaky faith?

How do you know you’ll find your audience?

Both in writing and in life?

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This was before deciding to take the leap on this publication, but I’d already had an inkling to explore some different forms of fiction. Namely, short stories and poetry.

I am one to buy a poetry collection every now and then, but short stories bring up bad memories of English classes and the inadequacy I felt at not being able to pan out the spectacular from their mundanity. (Or they were creepy, and I tend not to want existential dread when I go to sleep at night.)

I’ve read some short story / interconnected short stories in recent memory, but the only two I would truly count are Someone Who Will Love You in All Your Damaged Glory by Raphael Bob-Waksberg and North Woods by Daniel Mason (the later probably does not count, but it’s as close as I’ve gotten in a few years.)

Naturally, I had no clue where to start. I anticipated grabbing something more modern, similar to Bob-Waksberg’s collection that made its rounds among readers a few years ago. But I ended up with something quite different.

Admittedly, I do judge books by their covers. I think we’re all lying a bit to ourselves if we don’t do this, but the fun thing is that we all have an eye for different things. This eye LOVES the color purple. It’s become a large chunk of my personality - I choose the purple option almost every time. So when I saw a purple book by George Saunders under the short story section at B&N, I picked it up to inspect.

I haven’t read a book by George Saunders. I am familiar with Lincoln in the Bardo and his most recent release, Vigil (and despite my statement on not liking existential dread, I have read several books where the central theme is death lately and found them very hopeful and profound, so I should probably add one of these to the list.)

What I did not know is that Saunders also teaches at Syracuse. Still does, as best as I can tell. And while I’ve never read his work, when I realized that this little purple book, (A Swim in the Pond in the Rain,) was a condensed version of his semester-long, 19th-century Russian Short Story course, I picked it up.

The book contains seven short stories - a mixture of Anton Chekhov, Ivan Turgenev, Leo Tolstoy & Nikolai Gogol. I won’t pretend that I knew all four of those names before I typed them here - yes, I know of Tolstoy, and can cite the ‘Chekhov’s gun’ rule of writing (don’t add unnecessary details - if you mention a gun in Act I, it should go off by Act III). However, that’s the extent of my knowledge.

The most I know of Russian literature is that it can feel bleak - but it has a heart of resilience that mirrors the lives of the writers and their culture at the time. Much like the heart of the American Novel might lie on becoming or achieving despite the circumstances, Russian literature seems to focus on the enduring of hardship despite the circumstances.

And so, I thought I wouldn’t mind reading a few of these names that get floated around, with Saunders’ expertise as a guide.

So far, I’ve read two of the stories. Chekov’s In the Cart and Turgenev’s The Singers.

For the first chapter, Saunders breaks the story down page-by-page (7 pages total), causing the reader to think about where the writer (Chekov) wants their mind to wander. He also illustrates a staple of Chekov - no detail is superfluous.

For Turgenev, the story (18 pages,) was presented outright. I’m still working my way through Saunders’ dissection. I was glad to hear that his students find this one meandering, wondering why there are pages and pages of backstory on characters we don’t really focus on. And yet, Saunders is explaining how all of the elements work together to make the heart of the story shine.

While Chekov’s piece was more enjoyable to me, the end actually bringing some emotion to the forefront of my brain, the longer piece by Turgenev left me befuddled. Reading it took me back to my Freshman year of high school, when I told my English teacher, Ms. Killebrew (still one of my all time favorites,) that I COULD NOT understand what was happening in Pride & Prejudice. It made me feel dumb: the old-English way of speaking was hard for me decode, keeping me from understanding the humor, or following along with any of the plot.

Ms. Killebrew was kind in her response. If you’re struggling to understand, read the Sparknotes after each chapter to put it in normal terms. Just don’t tell me that’s what you’re doing! (Ms. Killebrew, if you ever find this, know that I re-read Pride & Prejudice roughly 6 years after it was assigned. On the second read, I caught the humor and actually enjoyed it.)

I feel like that’s what this book is doing for me - it’s allowing me to try and make sense of a new thing. But, thankfully, I have someone to break it down for me. It’s interesting - learning about story in this way, with no deadline or due date. No required writing…. Although, you could argue that this post could be considered “required writing.”

My main takeaway after two short stories is how one moment can stick with you, even if a dozen pages prior to that moment might feel like you’re wandering around the woods with no flashlight.

The standout moment of In the Cart was Marya’s memory of her childhood - a joyful diamond of memory in the rough of her current reality. In The Singers, it was the catharsis and emotion that fell on the audience at the singing competition.

Both of these moments were less than a paragraph in the overall story, but each share the heart of what the writers were getting at.

Saunders challenges his students and readers with this:

So, one way to approach a story - to evaluate how good it is, how graceful and efficient - is to ask, ‘What is the heart of you, dear story?’… That is ‘When all is said and done, what do you claim to live by, story? I need to know this so I can see how well your non-normative aspects are serving the heart of you.’

In ways, this lesson reminds me of my experience reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck last summer. I can’t tell you why I kept trudging through it - I will frequently stop reading books I’m not engrossed in. Yet, I’m a Christian, and this book is often cited with tender compassion by pastors and congregants alike - and I get it now. Hundreds of pages led up to a simple conversation about a Hebrew word: timshel. (I won’t explain, in case you want to read this one day.)

That small conversation about a Hebrew word is probably only a paragraph, but it shared the heart of the story. Aside from East of Eden being a classic, this heart is the thing I think back on. It was worth it to read this lengthy, pain-ridden book. It showed me the heart of the story.

I like the thought of a story having a heart. I think that’s what connects us to the writing, right? Sure, the cover has to draw us in, but the story’s heart has to beat in time with our own - and when we find a match, no wonder it feels like magic!

Until next time -

Alyson

I remember hearing varying degrees of this comment in my teenage years, although what literary ability or published masterpiece my complimenters were assessing, I’m not certain.

Reading was always a part of my childhood - but writing is a bit more fuzzy in my memory. I would occasionally write short-stories for my Webkinz. I wrote a story about the Three Little Pigs ‘chopping up the wolf with a nif’ (aka knife), when I was in Kindergarten (Stephen King: call me.)

I had an active imagination and was a voracious reader - but writing only showed itself in short, albeit creative, bursts.

I remember starting a love of poetry in elementary school. My second grade year required a weekly poem to memorize. I still remember one of them: the backwards rhyme. (One bright day in the middle of the night… look it up. It’s rather grotesque for a 6-year-old to be memorizing.) But in fifth grade, I got my first hint that maybe writing came easier to me than I realized.

After a robust unit of writing poetry, we were each told we’d be submitting a poem for a regional poetry contest. There was a chance some of us could have poems selected for the contest, the winners having their submission featured in a regional journal of sorts. We had to submit one of our class poems by the end of the week - or, bring in a new one.

I thought all of my poems weren’t good enough, so, naturally, the night before they were due, I wrote a poem about the Easter Bunny and turned it in the next day.

That poem placed, I received money for it, and it was published in the journal.

My Great-Grandmother wrote a book - I still haven’t read it. I probably should - considering my gifts were often compared to hers. I didn’t love the comparison: my great-grandmother was, frankly, a bit crotchety and the skills we shared felt like a harbinger of my future personality turning sour. But, the comment did stick deep in my head, a positive disruption to my inner criticism:

Maybe I’m a good writer…

Maybe I could source my emergent skill in high school - each senior at my college preparatory school got the chance to write a Chapel Talk. One thing about me, and let’s just get it out of the way and acknowledge that its inclusion matters outside of the subtle brag: I was Student Council President. This matters in the development of my psyche and psychological trauma, but it matters more to the story because the Senior Class presidents had to give their talks before any other seniors. I had to go second (the Honor Council President - yes, that was a thing at my school - was first.)

I could not tell you what I talked about. Literally - I blacked it out. Aside from being angry at myself that I didn’t bring a flat iron to smooth over my hair for what would be countless photos with friends and family, I only remember being petrified because I chose to sing at the end of my Chapel Talk (a funny story for another time - yes, I can sing. No, people didn’t fully know that and thought I would make an embarrassment of myself.)

As to the content of my speech, I don’t know. I just remember wishing I had another chance to write something that felt like me.

One written piece, one delivery meant to encapsulate… me?

That didn’t feel like enough words.

Up until that point, writing wasn’t a practice in my life outside of academics. I wasn’t a kid that wrote endless journals or stories. But, there were always creative projects along the way. Projects that point towards a creative world in my mind that sometimes bursts greatness.

There was my Modern Civilizations final project - created on Powerpoint my Freshman Year of High School. The topic could be anything we covered - so, I naturally recounted the tales of King Henry VIII. As I recounted Henry’s classic tale of domestic bliss, I assigned each of his wives a Disney princess, each given their own animated death via Powerpoint animations. (The teacher of this course no longer works at my High School - but she is a co-owner of a local bookstore in Chattanooga. The last time I saw her, I mentioned this project from over 12 years prior: she still remembered it, and agrees that it was, in fact, iconic.)

Even before this, however, I can recall another of my proudest pieces of art to date: The Hunger Games the Musical. Yes, I wrote a 40-ish page script parody of The Hunger Games for a year-long drama course. This course was an elective, and only 8 girls were in the class. At an all-girl school, I took one for the team and portrayed our version of Peeta Mellark: think Ducky from Pretty in Pink, but instead of Molly Ringwald’s kind acceptance of an oddball, my friend Lucy embodied a Katniss Everdeen that looked as if she imagined an arrow protruding from my chest at all times.

The script, minus a few initial pages, was completely written by yours truly. On one Sunday afternoon. I holed up in my room, created ridiculous characters that reflected one of my favorite stories at the time, and I was proud of it.

I enjoyed the creativity - the ability to pen down my humor. To see my classmates love it. We even created some songs: Cato had a self-honoring song set to Beauty and the Beast’s “Gaston” - and the big number in the middle of the production was “You Can’t Stop the Games”, set to the tune of Hairspray’s “You Can’t Stop the Beat.”

The musical was gaining a buzz among our Eight Grade class. The day we were set to perform it, we surprisingly had an audience: at least two to three classes were allowed to skip their lessons for that afternoon and come watch us.

I remember being so proud of writing that script. I had to ask my classmates a few years ago if any of them had a copy they could send me for my archives - I didn’t do the best job at digital archiving before I got a full-time job. One of the girls sent it back in the thread with her name on the ‘written by’ on the title page. I guffawed over that - my friend, classmate, and the Katniss to my Peeta always agreed to back me up in court if Jennifer Lawrence and Josh Hutcherson were interested in buying the rights from the rightful creator.

As I entered college, I started my blog: All Things Alyson.

Originally, I made it for the purposes of sharing the more frivolous and fun thoughts I had. I don’t even remember why I started it. I wish I could tell you. My first couple of posts were along the lines of Signs You Went to an All-Girls School. They were loved and shared by dozens of teenage girls, still reveling in the high school personas they hadn’t yet evolved from. The posts were fun and light.

But then, I think writing met me where it needed to: in the dark and hard. 

My freshman year of college is the first time I learned to start writing about my own feelings, my own experiences. Rather than using my creativity to create something outlandish, I had to honestly express my anxiety, my depression, my pain, my insecurities onto paper. Only for my eyes, in most cases. But then, on my blog.

I don’t remember what made me start writing these: maybe it was encouragement from my Mom - who always sees that I have an untapped well that I often refuse to create from.

One post in particular, during April of 2017, marked a turning point for me. The post described, in vague reflection, my first experience in fighting against a spiral of depression and anxiety that really scared me. It recounted the gift of friends who I had to walk with me through it, and the Spring Break trip we went on in the middle of what felt like a psychotic break from the girl I’d been before - or, at least, the girl I thought I was.

Ever since then, I believe my best writing is akin to a personal punch in the gut. I still like to write about other things. I have: things like K-Pop, Fantasy Novels, SEC Soccer and the like. But, I feel like my writing is truest when it’s transparent: not always in the moment of what I’m walking through, but certainly when I can look and reflect on the valleys and the smallest peaks within them.

A year after those panic attacks, I was on the iconic, Orlando I-4 with my Mom. It was my 20th birthday, and we had just finished listening to Tennessee’s Men’s Basketball Team play Arkansas in the SEC Tournament on the radio. While sitting in traffic (classic stuff on I-4,) we talked a lot about my writing. It was still fresh - still hard for me to press publish when I knew people could read about how badly I was struggling.

But one thing I told my Mom was that it all made it worth it when someone reached out to me about what I wrote.

I think that’s the first time I said I’d love to find a way to make this thing a life. I still don’t know how - it’s a bit daunting. I don’t have an immediate and desperate need to have writing pay the bills, but I do feel a compulsion to create.

Like when I interviewed friends in depth about the Enneagram in college - wrote down my findings in an interview style. Or when I wrote faith-infused findings about why Harry Potter sticks in our brains last summer.

Lately, I’ve been toying with stretching the boundary lines of my writing.

I always had a vision for those early, kooky projects.

My life and my reflections are the canvas for my current, more gut-wrenching iterations. I believe I’ve gotten quite good at essay writing - sharing my personal experiences.

I want to try and expand what I write, though. Mainly because there’s part of me that doesn’t believe I can write fiction, stretch out a character, or write a coherent poem that smacks me with awe the way other writers have for me.

This feels like the next frontier. Mainly, because it’s intimidating to put art out there, just as it was intimidating to talk about my mental health, relationship struggles, or personal insecurities.

Well, let’s be honest: it’s still hard to talk about those things. And yet, I believe it’s a calling. I’m not sure sometimes, because I’m not the one seeing the reader, but my life has been changed for the better because of the careful curation of words by another author just trying to pen down how connected we all are.

I’d love to try my hand at poetry again - find unique ways to express my thoughts on paper.

I tried to write a novel once - I don’t know that I’m where I want to tackle that again, but maybe one day.

Fiction, art - it would be a new challenge. One that requires discipline, and a commitment to try - which…feels weird to admit? Why is that?!

And still, it seems exciting.

At various times in my blogging journey, I’ve said that words are my favorite form of art. I mean that: a crafted sentence, lyric, list, letter, can unearth more of my soul than arguably any other medium.

And with that type of respect and reverence for the written word, I’d love to keep expanding how I can create it myself.

I’m giving myself permission to be bad, to be messy, to create because I was made for it.

I’m excited to try again.

So back to that thought - am I a good writer? I don’t really know - time will tell. But the only way to know is to make myself write.

My hope here is to truly study writing and share what I’m learning. I’m currently reading a book on Russian Short Story writers that is really interesting me and teaching me about narrative - something I haven’t had the chance to do in a dedicated way since college.

I also want to try new forms of writing - to expand my usual style of personal & reflective essays. Possibly poetry, epistolary pieces, short fiction - things I’ve not truly attempted outside of classroom assignments in years (minus a brief flirtation in novel writing back in 2019, in which I did pen 20,000 words on a ‘maybe someday’ middle grade historical fiction idea.)

This blog will be a place for me to share about creative writing: both what I learn from other others, and what I create myself.

I’d love to have you follow along as I put myself out there in a new way. I’d also love to hear from you, dear readers - what is a piece of written work that draws you to reading & writing? What is a quote, a verse, a written something that means a lot to you?

And if you would, please stick around to help me grow as I expand the boundary lines of what I thought I was capable of.

Until next time -

Alyson