Bonus Content: Work and Fun in Santa Barbara

I just got home from my second year at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, and once again, my days started at 7am and ended at 2am, filled with workshops, panels, keynote speakers and—my favorite—late-night “pirate workshops.” Everyone was attentive and insightful, and there was an atmosphere of encouragement everywhere.

I brought the first chapters of my new novel, and it’s unlike anything I’ve attempted before—in both its huge scope and its VERY different tone. It was a true test of courage to read it aloud—this “thing” that’s in its infancy. But I did it and was rewarded with heartening approval and thoughtful critiques. The goodwill was palpable. A Village sprang up as soon as we all gathered—the Village we all needed to nurture our projects and aspirations. I want to thank everyone there that listened to me, talked to me, encouraged me, shared conversations, laughter and dreams with me.

Clockwise from upper left: Grace Rachow, Mary Hill, Nancy Klann, John Reed, Sandy Bradley & Caroline Lund, Max Talley

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If I had to pick just one workshop that impacted me most—surprised me most—it would be Magical Realism. Who knew?! I almost didn’t attend. One short story in Corvairs and Horny Toads is in that genre. One. And it’s a hybrid of creative nonfiction and magical realism.

Stephanie Barbé Hammer—a force not of nature, but supernature—taught us that magical realism isn’t an all-encompassing genre. An entire work doesn’t have to be magical realism. It can be a passage, a chapter, a character, a sentence. It can be mixed with any other genre, including—as in my story—creative nonfiction. Hearing all that in Stephanie’s enthusiastic manner, charismatic manner, excited manner—I was carried away. It was nothing short of an epiphany for me. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

The ebullient Stephanie gave a relatively brief lecture, then showed us three well-known Surrealist paintings. Choose one. Spend 10 minutes writing something about it. A writing prompt—horror.

Luckily, I love art and I love Frida Kahlo, so I picked her painting. And it just flowed. I don’t know how. But thanks to Stephanie’s instruction, I just went somewhere in my mind. I was so sure of myself—not my writing, just sure of my enthusiasm—I sprang up to read first, not caring if I looked like a fool. I’d been infected by the bug of magical realism. I’m sure there will forever be aspects of magical realism in my writing—already are. Thank you, Stephanie, and I hope to see you again next year at SBWC.

Here's the 10-minute piece I wrote about Frido Kahlo’s painting “The Two Fridas.”

This Is Going to Hurt, My Girl

When I dove into the abyss, filled as it was with blood and entrails, I had to. Forgive me. I had to, I’m your mother. The inner sanctum, the uterine abyss I brought you from, is dehydrated now. No blood. Blood is oxygenated, gives life, carries nutrients—Is Necessary. You must understand. Accept.

Now I’ve come up, with one sanguinated tendril wrapped around my arm tightly so it would hold in case I got the bends coming up, such a hurry I was in to return to you, to heal you, Mija.

You Must Live. I will not bury a child. You don’t get to choose your demise.

So, this is going to hurt, this transfusion, but you’ll get over the pain of living. I will not get over the pain of your death.

Ready?

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Then Stephanie instructed us to write about the painting we least wanted to write about. Mine was “The Subway” by George Tooker.

The Wurst

I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to go through a meat grinder—those metal prongs—come out the other side Bratwursted—or Wurst. That’s why everybody is hanging back, hiding in hallways, behind columns, blending in with the walls, backing away. As If.

Those are the ones who really get jerked up short, put through it first. Those are the ones who come out the Wurst. They’re the ones who come out as Vienna Sausages.

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Finally, Stephanie explained that some of the origins of magical realism spring from classic elements of fairy tales. One of those elements is Absentism. Go!

Rusty uses his tail to tell the tale. Used to. His two ears—one he wears high and pricked, the other at a rakish flop over one eye—those ears stopped functioning. In the aural sense, the less stylish sense.

So. When they did that, sadly, Mommy stopped loving him. He knew that because all the things she said to him, things like “Mommy loves you more than all the mommies love all the dogs in all the world”—she stopped saying. And so why wag? Why give her a sweet, thumping reward? Rusty seldom wagged now. Fuck ‘em. He is unloved and has done nothing to deserve that.

Until. One day, Mommy, having had an epiphany (whatever that was) began to be so animated, moving her lips in exaggerated ways, always staying in his sightlines, using her hands and, best of all, putting her lips right on his one ear—the one he wears straight up—and speaking the most important words a little dog can hear. And she says it at least once in the morning and once before bed. “Mommy loves you more than all the mommies love all the dogs in all the world.”

Thump, thump, thump. The tail tells the tale.

Y’all, it won’t be long before Corvairs and Horny Toads is back with more short stories! We’re recording the next batch right now!

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