I had been holding off on reading Marilynne Robinson's When I Was a Child I Read Books because I knew it would require more of me than others. In short, I knew it would be work. I do not say that in a negative way. I mean it in that I knew her writing would require me to bring a little more of myself to it, a little more attention and willingness to fully engage. Robinson assumes her reader is a bit more responsible in this way. I will propose that if there is a preeminent thinker and writer walking among us today, in much the same vein as a Thoreau or a Whitman or an Emerson, it is Marilynne Robinson. Make of that claim whatever you may, but I feel safe in saying that not only is her prose some of the most lyrical and poetic that you may find in the published world, but her words also challenge and push the reader to consider questions of a more literate and scholarly bent than most other writers.
But I need not try and convince you. Despite recent events, trust that her reception of the Pulitzer Prize in 2005 for her novel, Gilead, is indicative enough of her skill and competence. Having been a fan of her fiction for a long time now, When I Was a Child, is the first of her nonfiction I have delved into, mostly for the reasons above. Within the first paragraph I was questioning my own reading comprehension level and, as with her novels, it was handy to have a dictionary nearby. This is an essay collection of weighty material, covering a wide range of questions, but, like all of Robinson's work, at least for me, most of it seems to return to a central theme of the nature of the Divine and of our relationship to God and to the world. One thing I love about her fiction is that she has a particular artistry when it comes to the making of metaphor and this gift is equally apparent here. Her words read almost like a prayer, with a rhythm and a fluidity that calms, while at the same time challenging some of your most basic ideas and deeply held beliefs. Her work is rife with passages like the two I will share below that exude the very concept of grace, pointing out all that is wrong about the world and the ways in which we fall short, while at the same time celebrating those things as part of what makes us more fully human.
All of the pieces in the collection are exceptional, but two that particularly stand out for me are the title essay, which discusses her roots in the American West, and one called Imagination and Community, which has much to say about writing itself, so I feel quite compelled to share from it with you.
"Presence is a great mystery, and presence in absence, which Jesus promised and has epitomized, is, at a human scale, a great reality for all of us in the course of ordinary life.
I am persuaded for the moment that this is in fact the basis of community. I would say, for the moment, that community, at least community larger than the immediate family, consists very largely of imaginative love for people we do not know or whom we know very slightly. This thesis may be influenced by the fact that I have spent literal years of my life lovingly absorbed in the thoughts and perceptions of -- who knows it better than I? -- people who do not exist. And, just as writers are engrossed in the making of them, readers are profoundly moved and also influenced by the nonexistent, that great clan whose numbers increase prodigiously with every publishing season. I think fiction may be, whatever else, an exercise in the capacity for imaginative love, or sympathy, or identification."
This passage struck me because it follows lines of thought found in some previous discussion here about fiction and its importance in increasing our ability to empathize with and understand those around and apart from us -- key, as Robinson postulates, to our ability to both define and fully participate in the act of community.
Then there is this, which I believe may serve as the very essence of what I wish for this blog to be, a celebration of reading and of books.
"I remember once, as a child, walking into a library, looking around at the books, and thinking, I could do that. In fact I didn't do it until I was well into my thirties, but the affinity I felt with books as such preserved in me the secret knowledge that I was a writer when any dispassionate appraisal of my life would have dismissed the notion entirely. So I belong to the community of the written word in several ways. First, books have taught me most of what I know, and they have trained my attention and my imagination. Second, they gave me a sense of the possible, which is the great -- and too often, when it is ungenerous, the great disservice -- a community performs for its members. Third, they embodied richness and refinement of language, and the artful use of language in the service of the imagination. Fourth, they gave me and still give me courage. Sometimes, when I have spent days in my study dreaming a world while the world itself shines outside my windows, forgetting to call my mother because one of my nonbeings has come up with a thought that interests me, I think, this is a very odd way to spend a life. But I have my library all around me, my cloud of witnesses to the strangeness and brilliance of human experience, who have helped me to my deepest enjoyments of it. Every writer I know, when asked how to become a writer, responds with one word: Read. Excellent advice, for a great many reasons, a few of which I have suggested here."
One of the most meaningful and memorable courses I took as a student at Emory & Henry College was a class called Appalachian Political Economy. One of our earlier assignments for the class was to spend some time looking through a number of books of photography from the Appalachian region and to then write about our thoughts and reactions in preparation for a class discussion. I remember finding it difficult to come to grips with the fact that I felt both a connection to the people and places in the photographs but also a sense that they did not portray a fully accurate view of the region. The pictures were nearly all of sad and shabby looking people and their homes, of run-down barns and empty small towns, and of damage accumulated from mining and other industrial operations. These were people and places I had known and seen first-hand, and I did find it of utmost importance that they had been chronicled. At the same time, though, I wrote in response that I saw myself as every bit as Appalachian as the people in the photographs, but there was no one coming to take artful pictures of me hanging out in my air conditioned apartment, drinking my imported beer after a tough day of discussing the likes of political economy. In other words, the pictures showed central and significant elements of life in the region, but they did not, by any means, show a fully informed viewpoint.
Too often, important work related to the Appalachian region focuses on the negative issues and questions we face, and rightfully so, but it rarely talks about the area in the context of larger and wider ranging issues of culture and class. Everyone has heard and likely laughed at the stereotypes of mountain culture, but those of us who know and love this place understand that there is a larger story to share, one that mirrors the American story in which people dream and work hard and succeed and build meaningful lives.
Amy Clark, who is also a product of these mountains, has recently published a book that speaks to this larger story. She is the author of Success in Hill Country, and I had the good fortune recently of meeting her and of hearing her speak about her book. I am thrilled that Amy has been gracious enough to allow me to interview her for my blog. Her answers to a number of my questions follow. Please make a point to visit Amy's website, to read her book, and to visit her own blog, The Gathering Place. Amy Clark is a native of Jonesville, Virginia in far southwestern Lee County, has been a columnist for the Bristol Herald Courier, is an award-winning writer, and is the founding director of the Appalachian Writing Project, which supports rural teachers in their research, writing, and teaching of writing. She teaches at the University of Virginia's College at Wise and makes her home in Big Stone Gap, Virginia.
I am so pleased and grateful that she has agreed to let me welcome her as a guest here.
ToFGT: Talk a bit about the book and your reasons for writing it. I am especially curious to know how you came up with your list of people to profile.
AC: The book idea came about several years ago when Don Green, the executive director of the Napoleon Hill Foundation, asked me if I would be interested in doing a book with the NHF. We talked about the idea of profiling successful people from central Appalachia, which is counter to mainstream media's definition of the region. We both made lists of people we wanted to include and the list narrowed after several conversations, as well as availability.
ToFGT: How is success defined for the purposes of your book? Does success have a different meaning or definition for people in the Appalachian region than for people in other parts of the country?
AC: I believe it does, but the book is probably governed more by Napoleon Hill's definition based on his seventeen principles. And while he uses words like "wealth" and "riches" he doesn't mean them in the literal sense. He says very clearly in his writing that wealth is a by-product of success. He believed that success comes in achieving individualized goals and feeling a sense of peace about what you're doing with your life. Most of the people profiled in the book have achieved wealth and/or fame at some point in their lives, but that was never their intended outcome. It was a natural extension of the work they did--work they love.
No one can say anything is certain for everyone in a particular group, but how someone defines success can be determined by their circumstances, and certainly in parts of Appalachia there are people with greater obstacles to overcome than others. Someone who may be striving to start a small business in a dwindling town, for example, or fighting for equality or clean water will define success differently than the person who doesn't face those kinds of challenges.
ToFGT: Do you think there are particular challenges and barriers to success for people in the region? Are these challenges different from anywhere else?
AC: I think central Appalachia in particular has come a long way in terms of breaking down barriers. Higher education is much more accessible for people in our particular part of the region; I'm thinking about Grundy's law schools and medical schools, for example. But everything comes with a price. I'm talking about the ever-present issue of change--when to acknowledge that change must happen and how to do it in a way that doesn't destroy what makes the region unique and beautiful. I recently heard Ron Eller, an Appalachian historian at the University of Kentucky, talk about the problems that come from trying to bring urban models to chiefly rural areas and why it won't work much of the time. He cited so many empty shells of strip malls that sit atop flattened mountains and problems with school consolidation in towns where the school is the community's anchor. I'm not saying that these kinds of changes are always negative, but I do think people jump too hastily into thinking that a new Wal-Mart or a bigger school is going to solve all their problems.
The point I'm making here is that to be from this region sometimes means understanding who you are in terms of your connection to it . . . figuring out your identity. And for those of us who embrace an Appalachian identity (one that is directly tied to place and for me, the mountains) any kind of change that erases culture and presents new problems is troubling.
ToFGT: Were there particular keys or reasons for success that were cited consistently over the course of your conversations with different people? In other words, is there something distinctive about the culture of the region and of the mountains that contributed to the success of a number of the people in your book?
AC: That was one of the questions I had going into this book. For most of the people I interviewed, the answer came down to particular values, stories and dialects passed down like heirlooms and a strong work ethic.
ToFGT: Along the same lines, do you see the region overall as somehow distinct and different from other parts of America? If so, how? I personally sometimes have a hard time reconciling my disdain for the negative stereotypes about Appalachia with the fact that I do believe there are particular characteristics about mountain culture that set it apart.
AC: I absolutely see our region as distinct. Our mountains, for example, are the oldest in the United States and our culture has arisen as a result of the customs and ways of life brought by those who migrated here and rose to the challenge of living a rural mountain life. Our dialects are distinctive, with artifacts that date back to the Middle Ages. (We do share some dialect features with other parts of the country, but we still have distinctive speech patterns that mark us as being from these mountains.) Everything that makes our culture what it is--our music, foods, traditions--arises from something that no other part of the country can claim. And I think this age of sweeping standardization and sameness threatens that. I understand that we have to be forward-thinking in the wake of changing technologies and economies and so forth, but that doesn't mean we have to strive to look like or develop suburbs to survive.
ToFGT: Many people in the Appalachian region think that in order to achieve success they must leave the mountains. What is your response to that and what would you say to someone who thinks they cannot carve out a productive and successful life here in the region?
AC: It depends on what you want to do in life. If you want to be a foreign diplomat, then yes, you'll have to leave the region. If someone says they cannot be productive or successful in general, I believe they're focusing on empty storefronts, the unemployment rate, their cousin with the drug addiction. But if you travel enough or even live away from the region for a while you realize those same issues are everywhere in this country. You can't escape them; you just learn to be a part of the solution in your own region and community and build from there.
ToFGT: Who are your own heroes and inspirations from the region and why? What about favorite regional and Appalachian writers?
AC: I see a hero in every person who fights for justice in Appalachia, which continues to be exploited. It's so hard--particularly in small communities where everybody's families have known each other for generations--to fight for what you believe if it goes against popular opinion. I'm inspired by the writers, musicians, and artists of all kinds who keep our culture alive in their work. I see heroes in my own family--my parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles--who have worked so hard all their lives to have what they have, who taught me not to make excuses or complain but just put my head down and move forward.
So many people say this and I'm going to be one more: Lee Smith was the first Appalachian writer who really made me proud of my heritage. Since then, I've enjoyed getting to know many others through workshops and conferences. In terms of craft, right now I think Ron Rash is one of the best writers out there.
ToFGT: It is always a pleasure to meet and hear from a published author. Do you have advice or tips for any budding writers? What are the challenges you have faced in becoming a published author?
AC: As tempting as it is, don't isolate yourself. Not everyone is a fan of writer's groups, but at least get involved in writing workshops or festivals where you'll find a community of people who are like-minded. It's especially hard to write when you are only surrounded by people who don't understand why you love it or what it takes to complete a piece of work.
Two of my favorite events are the Mountain Heritage Literary Festival at Lincoln Memorial University (founded by Appalachian author Silas House, a wonderful writer who works hard for Appalachian people) and the Appalachian Writer's Workshop at Hindman Settlement School in Kentucky. Lee Smith encouraged me to get involved there and it made a big difference in my confidence and craft. You also meet people with connections who can help with publication.
ToFGT: Please also share a bit about your upcoming book, Talking Appalachian. Your website also says you are working on a young adult novel. Will we see it coming out soon as well?
AC: Talking Appalachian is a book I co-authored and co-edited with Nancy Hayward, my mentor from Indiana University of Pennsylvania. It's going to be the only book out there that blends sociolinguistic research with essay, fiction and poetry about Appalachian dialects. For me, the book is a response to every misinformed person who talks about our dialects as examples of bad or incorrect English. The articles have been written by people who are the most recognized in the fields of sociolinguistics and Appalachian literature, and we've worked hard to make it readable and approachable for everyone, no matter what line of work you're in or where you're from. I hope it answers questions and challenges assumptions about the mountain speech and encourages people not to change their dialects but use them to teach others about Appalachian culture.
The novel is a work in progress, so it won't be coming out anytime soon. I have two small children, so I have to write early in the morning or late at night. And I've learned to write for writing's sake and not be driven by the hope of publication. I learn so much in the act of writing, about myself, about whatever I'm researching, and about the craft, so I can honestly say I'm simply enjoying the process.
As much as I love books, I am a voracious reader of nearly anything and everything within reach. I sometimes cannot help myself, though I have gotten better about avoiding the germ riddled magazines in doctors' offices. And, I still believe in newspapers. I grew up in a house that received a daily newspaper and, though I know it is a relatively small detail in the larger scheme of things, I think it made a difference. In part, it was the subtlety of it. No one told me I should read the newspaper; it was just there. So, I read it. My current local newspaper leaves much to be desired, but I cling to my subscription for both the news of local government and in hopes that our daughter will also take the same unspoken suggestion. I am finding more and more, however, that she defiantly refuses nearly everything I suggest she read, so I have resulted to simply hoping that the books and other readable materials lying around our house will someday, somehow strike her fancy. I will feign indifference, of course, while secretly sending out hopeful telepathic urgings of "Read it. Read it. You'll be better for it. Please."
My newspaper of choice is the New York Times. Forget, if you can for just a moment, what you think that says about me. The bottom line is there is simply no better newspaper for depth and breadth of coverage and for features that drill deeply into issues that would remain otherwise unconsidered. This week I read an article in the Times that stirred my mind and happens to strike me at a time when I am dealing with major decisions of a professional nature. The piece speaks both to issues I must confront with that decision and to issues that any parent should consider. By Alice Tugend, it is called Redefining Success and Celebrating the Ordinary and yes, I am telepathically sending you encouragement to read it.
What a concept, the idea that ordinary is completely acceptable and interesting, that every child does not have to be told that they are fantastically exceptional at every endeavor or that it is a waste of their time and effort if they are not. It is admittedly a difficult concept for Americans to wrap their minds around. Our culture is fixated on achieving and on besting everyone else. Do not get me wrong. I suffer from the same mindset, but I find a bit of common sense in Tugend's reminders to us that ordinary does not mean meaningless and that there is something to be said for a simple life of integrity. All this makes me think of the recent ballyhoo about the idea of "American exceptionalism." It is an idea I understand and appreciate completely. There is much to celebrate and to take pride in about America and the strive for exceptionalism is what has led our country to this place of global significance, political, economic, and otherwise. But, we are deceiving ourselves if we think we are or even should be masters of all that we survey, either as a country or as individuals.
We Americans are also deceived by a notion that ultimate success is reserved for the extroverted among us, those who are energized by constant engagement with the world and with other people. This is solidly refuted by Susan Cain in her book that I am currently reading, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking. Cain actually asserts that the words introvert and extrovert are misnomers in some sense, having taken upon connotations of negative and positive attributes. She gives compelling and physiological evidence for instead thinking of an introvert as someone who is highly sensitive to all manner of stimulation, light or sound, for instance. It is not that they are anti-social or reclusive; they simply appreciate a certain amount of time for solitude, and they also tend to function best and most creatively when given concentrated and focused time to work alone. The whole concept of working in teams or groups has changed the way schools organize classrooms and how corporations approach their own structure, workspaces and project management. By citing numerous high level thinkers and innovators who have functioned this way, Bill Gates and Steve Wozniak, for instance, Cain makes the case that we are missing out on important contributions to our world by thinking of introversion only as a personality flaw that will hinder success. She asks us to rethink our reactions to introversion, realizing that it is a trait that is as powerful and as positive an attribute as we tend to think extroversion is.
Ordinary and introverted. Two things I am reconsidering myself of late.
