Brave at Powell's

Being the first one to read in a line-up of powerful, kind writers means being the first  to sit back down, being able to enjoy the rest of the evening after the adrenaline flushes. The reading last Monday night at Powell's was electric. The place was packed as you can see in the photo.

Laura Stanfill, editor of Brave on the Page and founder of Forest Avenue Press, is a force for writing in Portland. She is sweet-sweet, like the taste of a lilac blossom, and strong, like rivers. She brought 42 Oregon authors together in one anthology of interviews and "flash essays" about the craft of writing, and the books are print-on-demand through Powell's mini press, called the Espresso Book Machine, which prints a book while you wait. It's pretty cool.

You can see how many people (150+) came on a drippy Monday night. You can see the rapt attention. What you can't see is the love in the room. Laura's introductions for each of the writers set the tone. She called Gina Ochsner her literary hero. She described her devotion and relationship with each of us in such a tender way that a yellow brick road became our path to the podium. And each writer who spoke or read offered really specific and loving tips for writing.

One person who offers practical, winsome advice is Yuvi Zalkow. His video series on writing is painfully poignant. There are few voices in the world as compelling as his. Scott Sparling, whom Joanna Rose also hosted on the panel about writing, is a generous and kind craftsman. He spoke about not liking his characters, the challenge of crawling into personalities so unlike his own.

Two things I heard, in particular, are still rumbling inside me. Joanna Rose talked about the difference between fact and truth, which Kristy Athens illustrated by saying something about small towns, which I can't quite remember, like most of the population of Oregon lives in small towns, but truth is that small towns do not thrive. Fact is the writers spoke about the craft of writing; truth is the writers talked about how to live a writer's life, how to survive.

me, Robert Hill, Kristy Athens, Tom Bell, Gigi Little, Scott Sparling, and graphic novel in background, thanks to Julia Stoops for the photo

Another was the image Gina Ochsner created in her piece, "Cynicism," in the book. She described her son being pinned in a wrestling match, how the dominant wrestler became a blanket on top of her son, how the coach yelled, "Great position. Now look up, stand up, let him slide off you," something like that. What love from an incredible coach. What an incredible way to approach cynicism, approach the crushing weight of doubt.

Writing is such a lonely act, and people like Laura create community. Writers who are brave and speak about doubt and despair and triumph in real and specific terms grant us permission to risk in writing, to love in all its mess and mystery.

moderation, perhaps?

Dear Rain,

It's not that I don't like spending so much time with you, the way you make the green so green we turn into hobbits, the way geese and sandhill cranes flood the sky, the way you make the Willamette River a shiny split in the city. You, my sweet, are a charmer I wouldn't live without.

It's just that the fourth rainiest year in Oregon history means shoes not drying between walks with my dogs, means not walking the dogs as often, means my bike shoes stiffen in the basement, not getting their air, their due. Call me lazy. Call me ungrateful.

Maybe we should slow things down a bit, visit with some other weather. I've heard the Midwest ask about you. Texas is a lovely place; they really appreciate a juicy drop or two. I'm not talking forever. I can share. How about a week or month?

Don't get me wrong. You make my heart puddle.
-Kate

Brave on the Page reading

Yesterday the honor was all mine. I was lucky enough to read with Stevan Allred, Scott Sparling, Jackie Shannon Hollis, and Liz Scott at Backspace in Old Town, Portland. We were celebrating the publication of Brave on the Page, which is the brainchild of Laura Stanfill (she with tireless energy around writing and promoting all things writing).

What makes this group of writers and this anthology stand out is the intimacy of the writing. The issues taken up are raw, tender, and kind. There is a lot of love among us and between writer and reader. It's such a privilege to spend an afternoon with others dedicated to telling stories, to crafting sentences, to putting on the page what is difficult to face so that others may have an easier time facing them.

Thank you, Laura. Thank you, dangerous writers.
xxox-
-Kate

This is just to say...

by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold

This morning when I went out into the sticky, thick light from the east on our front porch, I found a bag of fresh plums. They were left by a really sweet guy, whom I met through Craigslist. Who knew that selling my very first recumbent would become such a lovely experience? 

For years I resisted selling my blue R40 Vision recumbent with underseat steering. The bike I called, "Joni Mitchell Blue," had taken me from my despair at never being able to row again to the joy of a whole new world of cycling. In the fall of 2005, I think, I walked into Coventry Cycle where younger and older men with aprons wielding tire irons and metric wrenches, looked up from bike stands and greasy chains, and escorted me through recumbents and trikes and collapsible bikes. They talked technical, which I loved, even if I didn't have a clue what they were saying.  And I tried out a long-wheel base (wobbly) and a short-wheel base (too cool), and eventually bought Joni. 

All fall and winter she took me through traffic and sleet and sloppy sidewalks. At lights I toppled over, not quite managing to get my foot up to the pedal in time or slipping off. At Hagg Lake in the dead of winter, I made figure-eights at the pullouts on tops of rollers as prizes for making it up the hills, and as practice for turning, which seemed like sure ways to buck myself off the little sportscar of a recumbent. With the handlebars under the seat, I wanted a seat belt to keep me on the bike. For the first four months of riding, I fell almost every time I rode. But I learned. And Joni got me where I needed to go (and back). 

After riding Seattle-to-Portland the next summer and many events afterwards, I needed a bigger front wheel, needed to ride higher on the road. I moved to a Bacchetta with regular sized wheels. Her name is "Iris," big and yellow. Her picture is on this blog. But Joni has been my backup, my winter indoor trainer, and I haven't been able to let her go.

Until last weekend. One day on Craigslist, and a very sweet man responded whose third recumbent had been stolen, and he commuted every day on his recumbent, the exact same kind, even though the manufacturer has long gone out of business. He arrived, and we found our names were chosen for similar reasons: Gray, what is between black and white. That's his first name and my last name, both chosen. 

When he took Joni for a spin, she looked like an extension of his body. She fit. They are a good pair. And I found her old pedals and left them on my porch last night for him. He exchanged plums for them, so sweet and so cold.

 

One of the best things about my life is the immersion in Story. Most of the year I'm immersed in students' stories, the honor of reading, the pain of witnessing all they survive. In the summer (with apologies to my colleagues who are working year-round), Story enters me like air, breathes me. Fiction. The books, the movies, the TV shows fill me with characters and actions and insights that have fancy and impossibility and terror and one tick away from reality, which is a comfort. Fiction feeds me, whether it is poetry or playwriting or the elusive art of short story, or a fine lie. I haven't read enough this summer, yet, but Per Petterson's Out Stealing Horses swept through me with its sparse, elegant prose. As a trainer for leaner business practices once said, "Apple has won the market share because they offer a few, elegant choices." I've thought about that a lot since I heard the phrase. My writing is more like a PC, lots of too much. Maybe that's why fixies (fixed-gear) bikes are so popular. Simplify... Let the operator or reader have room. Support her with elegance, sound structure, gorgeous choice. And of course, I had to read the second Hunger Games book, Girl on Fire. Had to. That book is scary and plot-based, and as my friend, Sharon Hashimoto, put it, teaches about conflict. Every moment is driven by conflict. My writing tends to be driven by folly, the delicious sound of words, the whim of associative logic. Conflict, hm.... Story is a powerful and sustaining force. I am very lucky to ride it.

favorite sign

Today was one of those magical rides, where what you plan and why you planned it work out. The forecast was for heat and wind, and so, I thought early and north-south, not east-west. Around 7am I had everything loaded (and dogs fed, walked, watered, and bribed in the cabin) in the car, and drove down 7-Mile Hill and on to 84 and off at Hood River, and began the climb up Rt. 35 toward Mt. Hood. The day was already hazy with the temperature already about 70 degrees, so unusual for Oregon. Through the repaving project, past the sign for Odell, I parked at a bakery, which I knew would be a welcome sight after the ride. From there I started uphill, and up and up, with views of Mt. Hood as rewards, I rode. At first the self-doubts were getting to me, but earbuds and peppy music helped me spin the wheels. The rough pavement lasted a few miles, but soon I was alongside the East Fork of Hood River, its glacier water sending waves of freezing air over me. I shivered. Then, the warm, dry shafts of the canyon swept over me. I sweat. No wind, mercifully. In 16 miles I was at the trailhead where Cheryl and Rafi and I had just hiked last week, a gorgeous short hike along the river to stunning falls.

The downhill was glorious. There is a speed around 33 mph where I find I can't keep up, and I have to coast. I was above 30mph much of the way, with views of the entire fruit valley and Mt. Adams, and suddenly, the downhill was over. There was a good slog of an uphill, and I found my very favorite sign in biking:

Few things are more rewarding.

Well, there was the chocolate-chip-peanut-butter cookie at the bakery, the rhubarb jam, and the marionberry empanada for later...

Do this ride.
-Kate

My sister's recovery and the long flat, June 6

Forgive me for posting the same thing to two blogs, but this post has lots to do with biking. The references to rowing are due to my years of competitive rowing and my sister's family's continued involvement in the sport. Her husband's name is John, and her son, Ben, is 6'6," thus the reference to his large hands.

Hi, my little potato bug,

Tomorrow you leave Spaulding, and despite Corinne’s beautiful smile and Brooke’s cajoling and Anne’s insistence on one more step or lunge or arm curl, you won’t look back. That’s the point, of course. I’m including a photo from the window you’ve had for the last 8 weeks.

Recently a neighbor who’s started biking asked how to improve her speed on the flat. I’m no expert; I’ve been riding for only 8 years or so. But on rides of 3-8 hours, you think about technique, especially when you run out of other thoughts.

And riding is surprisingly like rowing: technique matters. When you’re riding hard and well, the strokes feel light. The stroke should be quite different than the recovery. (Funny what context does for words like stroke and recovery…) In biking, the rpm is higher than in rowing (80+ rpm ideally), and therefore, more difficult to analyze. Near the top of the revolution is the time to push, before the top, and then, relax for a split second, and pull around the bottom of the revolution, relax, push, relax, pull… It’s important not to work all the time, to utilize big muscle groups like both quads and hams, and most of all, look up. Last weekend along the Columbia River, heron and osprey and kestrels and seagulls laughed at me. As usual.

Ten days ago at Spaulding you were doing things you couldn’t have done when I saw you the last time: walking without mechanical devices, feeding yourself, spotting someone approaching you from the left side. Ten days ago you walked along the Charles, cut your food with your fork in your left hand, zipped up your jacket, and did lunges. Lunges. One foot out. Balance. Lower your weight. Balance. Back foot forward. Breathe. Other foot out. Balance. Lower. Step. Your ballet training kicking in.

You are making such fast progress it may be hard for you to analyze what you’re doing. You are pushing the pedals at just the right places and propelling yourself forward. Those of us lucky enough to see you can tell you that you are blazing fast, that your technique is perfect, that Lance Armstrong is your peer.

And the next few weeks will be the flat. It may be a long route, but you have more determination and more drive than anyone I’ve seen. Quick and light strokes are good for biking. For you, I imagine the trick is the repetition, the unconscious movements like picking up that fork, and the looking up, seeing John walking toward you, or feeling the playful touch of Ben’s enormous hand making your hand look like a child’s. Those will be your osprey, not laughing at you, but cheering you on, encouraging you on the flat. I’m cheering you, too, from just a little farther away.

You go, girl.

-Kate