Guest Post I grew up in the Mohawk River valley of upstate New York. By the time the long, frigid winter was over, we’d often seen more snow than anywhere in the country. Life was rugged both inside and outdoors. My dad was angry and drunk and hit my brother and me and crashed our family vehicles and hated his job and, I think, himself. He made pitchforks at the Union Tool Company, working in the forge, a role even... Read more
Continued from Friday In order to start treating being an artist more like a job and less like some precious ritual, an alternative lifestyle that non-artists don’t understand, I have done a lot of reading about how people throughout history have defined art and artists. For hundreds of years, there has been contentious discussion about who can be called an artist. For example, for many years potters, weavers, carpenters, and sculptors of religious or ritual statuary were not considered... Read more
Have leisure and know that I am God. —Psalm 65:11 For a long time now I have tried to argue that the maintenance of my various social media accounts (Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, etc.) should be considered work. After all, maintaining a social media presence—a phrase that makes the bile rise in my throat—is an easy and free way artists can gain a wide readership/viewership for their work. But aside from the ill feeling I get after spending a whole... Read more
In the beginning was Ginnungagap. So begins one of Snorri Sturluson’s Norse creation stories from the Elder Edda. In the beginning was Ginnungagap, the great void. Then Niflheim, the primordial land of ice, and Muspelheim, the primordial land of fire, collided. Thus the world began. It’s one of my students’ favorite stories, and as I approach marriage to a midwestern farm-boy of hardworking Scandinavian origin, it’s how this Mississippi girl with whimsical Hibernian origins tends on occasion to think of... Read more
Growing up, my siblings and I were left on our own to figure out how things worked. I learned what a condom was from the dictionary. I studied the secrets of applying lipstick and eyeshadow from Seventeen, and figured out how to ride the bus from our house to the mall. I read our dusty copy of Martha Stewart’s Christmas over and over, hoping to make those gold leaf gingerbread houses someday, somewhere. I was desperate to learn how to... Read more
I walk to the kitchen cupboard to take out plates for dinner, and the corner of my eye catches my husband sitting in the next room. He’s so deeply absorbed in a complicated knitting stitch that he doesn’t notice me, though I’m only ten feet away. I turn to face him and let my eyes linger on his relaxed yet focused body, comfy in the loveseat with his legs stretched out on the ottoman, the table-lamp’s light shining on his... Read more
Guest Post On Labor Day weekend in 1932, a twelve year-old boy from Waukegan, Illinois, having just emerged from a family funeral, noticed a carnival tent by the shore of Lake Michigan and went to investigate. He had heard of a magician there named Mr. Electrico, who sat with a sword in hand on an electric chair with current passing through him, making his hair stand on end. When Mr. Electrico stood up to knight the boy, making the current... Read more
Early one recent morning, I’m still half-asleep. The cat lies curled up between Craig and me, and when my leg moves against her, she snarls. “Hey, now, little one,” he says, bending his face down to her and scratching her softly behind the neck. “That’s not the way to act, is it?” In my sleepy state, I hear him talking to a child, our child. “You would’ve made such a good father,” I think as I fall back to sleep,... Read more
Upon hearing Sun Kil Moon’s newest record, Among the Leaves, I pictured Mark Kozelek as a musical Moses—hoisting his guitar aloft like a staff and parting his loyal listeners down the middle like the Red Sea. Advance press for Among the Leaves described the album as playful, which frankly frightened his fan base a little (me included). While I can think of a few playful songs in Kozelek’s catalog, the other 303 songs in my Koz playlist on my iPod—including... Read more
Six dogs: Snoopy, Prince, Woody, Ramona, Leon, Bubby. All but Bubby now nothing more than names. Apology: not in the old high sense, think Sidney’s “Apology for Poetry.” Rather, this: Let me introduce myself. I’m sorry that I didn’t visit you in the hospital. I’m sorry that I haven’t called you in a year. I’m sorry that I’m not as good a storyteller as you. I’m sorry I haven’t read-that classic-book. I’m sorry that I’m not as smart as you.... Read more
Good Letters
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In