HollyRobinson

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CAPE DISAPPOINTMENT: SHOULD YOU GIVE UP ON YOUR NOVEL?

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Last month, I flew to Oregon to visit my daughter. Our mission, in part, was to find her a wedding dress, but because neither of us is much of a shopper, we spent more time blissfully hiking than pawing through racks of sequins and tulle.

One of our best hikes took us through Cape Disappointment State Park in Washington. The trees were cathedral-size, the lush ferns were waist-high, and every rock and branch was softened by moss. Hiking is always a walking meditation for me, and this was no different. Maybe it was the name of this place–Cape Disappointment!–but the darkest, most closeted rooms in my brain were suddenly lit up and I found myself facing the question I’d been avoiding: Should I give up on the novel I’m writing?

The thing about writing books is that they’re a bit like putting together Ikea shelves, as debut novelist Virginia Hume noted when we appeared on a panel together at the recent Newburyport Literary Festival: even with a plan in front of you, you don’t know if a particular piece will hold together until you actually build it. This can be a frustrating, time-consuming process.

In a span of fifteen years, I published a memoir and six novels of contemporary fiction (along with many other ghostwritten books). Then I had the bright idea to spend four years researching and writing an historical novel that still hasn’t sold.

While I wait (im)patiently for the right editor for that manuscript, I’m working on a new book. This one is a novel of psychological suspense set in Spain. I love it, but when I showed it to my agent, she sent me back a detailed editorial letter that basically said, “Do it again.” (Her notes were spot on, btw.)

Hiking in Oregon, I pondered this novel and what it might take to whip it into shape. It seemed fitting to be on Cape Disappointment, pushing my old mom legs to keep pace with my daughter’s ultra marathoner’s muscular limbs, wondering if I should give up.

A Quick History and Geography Lesson

Cape Disappointment is a headland located at the southwest corner of Washington. Here, the powerful Columbia River meets the Pacific Ocean. The enormous amount of sediment carried by the river creates the Columbia River Bar, one of the world’s most dangerous maritime channels. Since 1792, the bar has been responsible for sinking some 2,000 ships.

The first non-native person to discover the Cape was Spanish explorer Bruno de Heceta in 1775. In 1788, the English Captain John Meares tried to find the Columbia, but because he thought he’d only found a bay and not the river’s mouth, he dubbed the area Cape Disappointment. A few years later, Lewis and Clark navigated their way here by land.

Bottom Line: When Should You Quit on a Novel?

How do you know when to quit on a novel?

I’ve written various manuscripts that have ended up in drawers or filing cabinets. I’ve even written books that I literally threw into fireplaces. It isn’t ever doubts about myself or the fickle publishing marketplace that lead me to give up on a particular book project. Rather, it’s a lack of interest. I get bored.

So, when do you quit on a book?

Here’s the simple answer: When you can’t stomach another revision or have an idea for a better book.

Ignore the market. Follow your own vision and go where your passion leads you.

On Cape Disappointment, I admired the view and thought about this new book of mine, and found myself eager to get back to it as I descended the trail. Always a good sign.

Do You Need an MFA to Be a Successful Writer? 3 Things an MFA Won’t Do for You

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This weekend is the Newburyport Literary Festival, and I’m thrilled to be moderating a panel called “Inspiration to Publication: The Journey of a Debut Author,” with editor Sarah Cantin, agent Susanna Einstein, debut novelist Virginia Hume and publicist Jennifer Romanello.

This event will attract mostly aspiring writers who are curious about the life cycle of a novel, and one of the questions they’ll probably ask is whether you need an MFA (Master of Fine Arts) in creative writing to succeed. Many authors take that path, and I’m one of them.

My own reasons for earning an MFA were unusual. Most graduate students enter MFA programs hoping the degree will lead to college-level teaching jobs, an agent, or a publishing deal. I went because I earned an undergraduate degree in biology and wanted to study literature. My MFA gave me time to write, deadlines to produce new work, and an audience who could critique my manuscripts. One of my professors even referred me to his agent.

So, was it worth it for me to get an MFA? Absolutely—but with one important caveat: I didn’t have to pay for my degree because I landed research and teaching fellowships. If I had to pay for the degree today, I might not do it, especially if I had to take out loans. Here are three reasons why:

1. An MFA Won’t Guarantee a Teaching Job

Many people enter MFA programs under the illusion that, because it’s a “terminal” degree like a PhD, they’ll be able to teach at the college level, but these days teaching jobs are in short supply. Even if you do get a college-level teaching gig, it’ll probably be as a lowly adjunct faculty member with no job security. You’ll earn less money than most bartenders.

2. An MFA Won’t Help You Earn Money with Your Writing

I’ve been a freelance writer for over 25 years now. And guess what? It’s not because I have an MFA. My first paid writing assignments were thanks to my biology degree, because editors were willing to take a chance on me for science and health articles when they saw that credential. Later, I wrote mostly for women’s magazines, not because I had an MFA, but because I was married with children and could turn out funny essays and parenting articles. More recently, most of my income is from ghostwriting books for celebrities, business executives, doctors, etc.–and I land those jobs because of my journalism experience. Have I earned even one paid writing gig because of my MFA? Nope.

3. An MFA Won’t Get You Published

While it’s true that some of your MFA professors might have agents who are willing to read your work because there’s a personal connection, they won’t take your manuscript because you have an MFA. It’ll still have to be a commercial manuscript, one they can pitch and sell to publishing houses. And guess what? If you write commercial fiction, your MFA professors and classmates will probably tell you it’s not “literary” enough.

The bottom line? MFA programs will give you deadlines, writing mentors and peers, and the kind of intense focus on craft that can certainly make you a better writer. However, you can also become a better writer for a lot less money by attending writers’ conferences and writing workshops, taking courses on social media and digital publishing, and joining community writers’ groups that will give you feedback on your manuscripts.

Vaccine Angels

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(photo by Sandy Millar, courtesy of Unsplash)

“So You Think You Can Get a Vaccine,” Saturday Night Live’s final skit in February, was a slam dunk. Hosted by Kate McKinnon as Dr. Anthony Faucci, the game show featured contestants vying for a vaccine. The winner was a grandfather who hoped to get the shot right there.

“Oh, no, you have to make an appointment online,” he was told. The judges advised him to find a young person to help him. Somebody who had three days to keep hitting “refresh.”

I can relate.

My husband and I both qualify for the vaccine. We used the state’s limping beast of a website, which crashed. When we did discover open appointments, our fingers weren’t fast enough to nab them.

Next I tried calling the 211 emergency line, though I felt guilty. We’re both tech savvy and have college degrees. Why couldn’t we figure this out?

“Well,” said the lovely woman who answered my 211 call, “I’ll put you on a waiting list for a call back, but we’re using the same website. The same thing happens to us.”

I reminded myself to be patient. As Governor Baker keeps reminding us, more vaccine doses and sites will become available. I sat with my browser window open while I worked, watching my time in the waiting room go from 17 minutes to 198 minutes to 167,000 minutes and then, finally, to a window that said it would be more than a day.

I hit refresh anyway. We live in hope.

“We’re like Vladimir and Estragon in Waiting for Godot,” I muttered when my husband asked how it was going.

An hour later, my mom called. She’s 89, lives in senior housing, and just had her second dose of the vaccine in a relatively smooth process, thanks to our local Board of Health, which leads me to wonder why shots weren’t being offered to more people locally. Who wants to drive to a mass vaccination site at Fenway or Gillette Stadium?

“I’m sure it’s a scam,” I said. “That woman’s probably using people’s information to hack their bank accounts.”

“Message her,” my mother insisted.

I did, figuring I could sniff out the scam and warn others.

The woman got back to me instantly and told me to call her. Michelle said she lived in our town and was married to a firefighter. “I’m helping people with appointments because that’s a way of protecting our community,” she said.

Her story, and the warmth in her voice, convinced me to give her my personal information. Two hours later, she called, saying, “Check your email.”

And there it was, my golden ticket: a vaccine appointment in March, at a place I didn’t even know was offering them because it wasn’t posted on the state’s website. A day later, Michelle sent my husband an email saying he had an appointment, too.

“You are the patron saint of vaccines,” I said. “How can I ever thank you?”

“By texting me after you get your shot,” she said, “and letting me know it went well.”

I cried. Out of relief, partly, but mostly from gratitude for vaccine angels like Michelle.

It shouldn’t be this hard to protect ourselves. If my husband and I can’t navigate the online appointment system, what hope to people have without computers, or with jobs that don’t let them sit on the computer for hours on end, of securing appointments?

With the new Johnson & Johnson vaccine added to those by Moderna and Pfeizer, and with the hard work of governors and healthcare workers trying to smooth the vaccine roll out in the coming weeks, I’m trying to live in hope that we can do better than this. We must.

How to Write a Memoir, Part 4: Kill Your Darlings in 7 Easy Steps

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In his brilliant book about the writer’s craft, On Writing, Stephen King offers this handy nugget of editing advice:

“kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”

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In other words, no matter how much you adore a certain scene, or even a particular sentence, that’s not reason enough to keep it. Here are seven simple strategies to help you edit your memoir:

1. Let Your Book Grow Up First.

Every manuscript, like every human being, has three stages of development: childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. “In your early drafts, give yourself permission to play,” a writing professor once told me. “Don’t be strict about manners until your manuscript is old enough.” Why? Because if you worry about editing too soon, you might give up writing. Let your first draft be bad. Let it be the worst thing you’ve ever written! Nobody will see it but you, and you can’t shape a narrative until you’ve written enough of your book to see its shape.

2. Write the book jacket copy.

Create your “elevator pitch,” the summary you’ll use to hook an agent or editor. Envision this as the marketing copy on your book jacket and write it first. Then do a summary of that marketing copy. Finally, boil your theme down to a single sentence that will hook readers. For instance: “My inner city upbringing posed challenges that taught me how to be a creative, resilient entrepreneur.”

3. Tackle Big Picture Edits First.

If you haven’t done an outline yet, do one now. Once you’ve outlined the book, check each chapter and scene to see if they advance your narrative and support your single-sentence theme. Toss anything that doesn’t.

4. Read Your Manuscript Aloud.

By reading your book aloud, or by listening to someone else read it to you, you’ll easily catch clumsy sentences and flawed grammar.

5. Edit the Book Backwards.

It’s tough to do line editing—that’s why publishing houses hire copy editors—but you’ll focus better on the language if you read your book backwards, sentence by sentence. Eliminate passive sentences and empty, overused words like “nice” and “pretty.”

6. Leave It Alone.

Once you’ve edited your book, put it away for at least a month, then come back to edit it again with fresh eyes.

7. Call on Your Beta Readers.

When you’ve done all you can, call in your trusted Beta readers—people who will offer you honest, constructive feedback on your book.

What about you? Any editing tips you find helpful? I’d love to hear them!

How to Write a Memoir Part 3: Five Easy Ways to Research Your Own Life

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In my previous post, I talked about how to structure your memoir. I also promised that Part 3 of this series on writing memoir would highlight editing techniques.

I lied.

Before we get to editing, there’s another essential step in the process of writing memoir: research.

“Research?” you ask. “Why should I need to research my own life?”

Because humans have faulty memories.

Don’t believe me? ask a sibling or a friend to describe one of your shared childhood memories, and I guarantee that the two of you will remember different things.

Memoirs are subjective accounts, but researching your own life story will spark new memories and vivid descriptive details. Having facts on your side also gives you more credibility with your readers.

Here are five easy strategies for researching your memoir:

1. Interview siblings, friends, and anyone else involved in the anecdotes you’re putting on the page. When I wrote my own memoir, The Gerbil Farmer’s Daughter, I interviewed not only my mother, brothers, and extended family, but also childhood friends and my father’s employees and coworkers.

2. Read through childhood diaries, family journals, and letters. If you don’t keep a journal, start one now. In fact, start several: have one in your car, one next to the bed, and one at your desk to capture memories and thoughts as they arise. Read the journals of other family members, too: my own grandmother’s five-year diary, written when my father was a child, provided valuable insights into my father’s character.

3. Look through photograph albums. Seeing the people, houses, cars, and outfits from the past will spark new ideas, anecdotes, and descriptions.

4. Read magazines and newspapers to gather facts about the time periods your manuscript covers. Archived articles can be a goldmine for not only news events, but dialogue, clothing, and the general atmosphere of the time. One terrific resource is Newspapers.com, an online archive of local, national, and international news sources.

5. Browse the library’s history room. Many libraries have rooms devoted to the history of their cities and towns; you will find town and city documents here, and primary source materials like journals and letters that will give you more background on the time period your manuscript covers.

You may not use all of the facts you uncover, but background research will enrich your story by helping you recover new memories and write with more accuracy, detail, and depth.

Is there anything I forgot to list here? Let me know what you’ve found helpful. I’d love to hear about it. Happy writing!

Next up: How to Write a Memoir, Part 4: Deciding on What Stays and What Goes. I promise.

HOW TO WRITE A MEMOIR PART 2: DECIDING ON YOUR BOOK’S STRUCTURE

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In the previous blog post, I discussed two ways of starting your memoir. No matter what approach you take, eventually you’ll have enough words on the page, or enough of an outline, to think about your book’s structure.

At first, structuring your memoir will probably feel like walking through fog, but eventually the shape of your story will become clear.

There are two tried-and-true ways to structure a narrative:

TIME-BASED MEMOIRS are straightforward, chronological stories. Three of my favorites in this style are Educated by Tara Westover, The Liars’ Club by Mary Karr, and Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight by Alexandra Fuller. All three of these books are chronological and happen to be childhood memoirs.

Writing a time-based memoir does NOT mean that you have to tell every detail from A to Z, only that the chronology moves steadily from the past forward in time. In your early drafts, you’ll want to get as much on the page as possible, but as you write, you’ll trim the anecdotes down to the most vivid moments in your life story.

THEME-BASED MEMOIRS are not necessarily chronological, but every chapter is devoted to a different aspect of the same thing. One great example is David Sedaris’s Me Talk Pretty One Day, his book about living in Paris. Another is She Left Me the Gun by Emma Brocke, an exploration of the author’s own life as she researches her mysterious mother’s past. Another great theme-based memoir is A Girl Named Zippy by Haven Kimmel, a book about the author’s childhood in small-town Indiana. Instead of being chronological, all three of these books have chapters related to main themes. In Kimmel’s book, for instance, every chapter is devoted to some aspect of small-town life, while Sedaris devotes each chapter to a different aspect of his life as an American struggling to master the language and customs of France.

As you write, think about what makes the most emotional impact. Do you want your reader to be inside your childhood voice and point of view, limited to only what you know? Do you want the adult perspective? Does it make more sense to move back and forth in time, building suspense that way?

Don’t be afraid to play around with time. Maybe even write the separate scenes and print them out, then lay them on the floor in different arrangements so you can “see” your story’s shape.

Next up: How to Write a Memoir, Part 3: Deciding What Stays and What Goes

HOW TO WRITE A MEMOIR: Part 1: WHAT’S IN YOUR LEGO BIN?

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When our children were young, they accumulated so many Lego kits that we eventually filled several Lego bins with the pieces once the kits were taken apart.

If you’re writing a memoir, or even thinking about it, then you’ve probably already accumulated a lot of useful pieces in journals, letters, blog posts, or essays.

Now, what will you do with those pieces? As you get started on your manuscript, there are two approaches:

  1. Empty out that Lego bin of pieces you’ve been accumulating and start building. There will be a lot of trial and error, but eventually your hands, eyes, and heart will tell you what design pleases you most. The advantage of this method is that, if you spend a lot of time writing whatever comes to you, you will uncover some hidden gems and your book might open up in surprising directions.
  1. Organize your pieces by color, shape, and size. Then draw a picture of what you want to build and map out what pieces you’ll need to assemble your structure. The advantage of this method is that it’s harder to get stuck because you have a blueprint to follow.

No matter what approach appeals to you, there are two essential questions you’ll have to answer eventually:

  1. Who is my audience?
  2. What do I hope my audience will gain from reading my book? See if you can boil this down into one sentence, like, “I hope my readers will learn that even children who have been through poverty and abuse can become resilient, generous adults,” or, “I hope readers will see that kicking the scaffolding out from under everyday life by living wild in the New Zealand bush is the true path to God.” That will be your pitch line to agents and editors.

The word “memoir” comes from the French mémoire, meaning “memory.” So in the simplest sense, memoirs are books crafted by authors remembering and reflecting on their life experiences. However, every great memoir is about something universal that extends beyond the author’s life, and it will be helpful to you—and, later, to your agent and editor–if you can decide ahead of time not only on your message, but on what type of memoir you’re writing.

TYPES OF MEMOIRS

LIFE MEMOIR: Life memoirs offer readers a window onto an author’s individual experiences in ways that will resonate and teach life lessons. Good examples of these are Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen is a twentieth-century classic about a Danish woman’s experiences owning a plantation in Kenya. More recent examples include Hope Jahren’s Lab Girl (a female geobiologist’s celebration of science), Susan Straight’s In the Country of Women (about the powerful women who are the ancestors of her mixed-race daughters) and Ta-Nehisi Coates’s Between the World and Me (an exploration of what it is to be black in America).

SPIRITUAL MEMOIR: Each of us has a spiritual belief system, and many memoirs are about how the authors came to find theirs. Check out The Confessions of Saint Augustine, 90 Minutes in Heaven by Don Piper (about dying and coming back to life), and Walden, Henry David Thoreau’s meditations on nature.

CHILDHOOD MEMOIR: Instead of spanning a person’s life, a childhood memoir usually highlights the years of an author’s childhood that were the most formative, and typically involve trauma or struggle. Great examples of these: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou, The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, and Freckled: A Memoir of Growing Up Wild in Hawaii by Toby Neal.

TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE MEMOIRS: Many memoirs are crafted around an author’s adventures or travels and reveal the author’s transformation through travel. Terrific examples include Wild by Cheryl Strayed, The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen, and Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

So, what’s in your Lego bin? How do you want to start sorting the pieces? Who’s your audience and what is it that you want them to learn by reading your book?

Answer those questions, and you’ll be on your way to crafting your story.

Next up: Part 2, Time-based versus Theme-based memoirs.

Why Museums Matter

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I went to a museum yesterday.

Last year, I went to so many museums that I lost track, haunting special archival collections to ferret out information and photographs I could use to write a novel set in the late 19th century. It was wonderful, doing that research, but I never really appreciated museums the way I do now, after so many months away from them.

Yesterday’s visit was to the Institute of Contemporary Art in Boston. I’ve been here a number of times, often for dance performances and special exhibits, and I’ve always loved this airy space on the water. The ICA feels like a completely different place now. The museum cafe was closed, and all of the exhibits were limited to the fourth floor. People entered for timed visits and everyone was careful to stay masked and at least six feet apart.

As I stood there marveling at a soundsuit by Nick Cave—a tapestry body suit with a headdress made mostly of ceramic birds on stiff wires, rising up like an upside-down chandelier—I heard the rustling of skirts on the women across the room and the swish of a handbag. In our masks, it seemed as if we were all wearing soundsuits and taking part in one of Cave’s surprising, joyful dance performances.

And it was joyful, being among museum goers, marveling at works by well-known artists like Cave and Sterling Ruby, and the slyly comic, powerfully feminist collages in riotous colors by talented newcomer Tschabalala Self.

My daughter went with me to the ICA. While we wandered through the rooms, I was struck once again by how subjective the relationship is between artist and viewer as we stood in front of one of Ruby’s pieces and discussed our reactions. This was a ceramic basin filled with odd bits of pottery, part of Ruby’s “Basin Theology” series.

My daughter made a face. “Those pieces in the boat look like body parts,” she said, pointing out what she saw as a liver and a heart.

“I thought of sea creatures,” I said, and pointed out a barnacle and the arm of a starfish, a pair of oars.

Neither of us was “right” in our interpretation of Ruby’s intent. In his series of large-scale ceramics, “Basin Theology,” his vision was to reuse broken remnants, fragments of failed works.

“I am smashing all of my previous attempts and futile, contemporary gestures, and placing them into a mortar, and grinding them down with a blunt pestle,” he said, according to the ICA placard.

How wonderful it is to take what’s broken and make something new. How absolutely necessary, too, I thought, wandering out of the exhibit to the windows overlooking Boston’s waterfront. Down below me, a few masked people were walking with their heads down against the blustery wind, and a solitary plane took off from Logan.

We are in a broken world, and we need museums to remind us that we are not only living through history, but making it. We must catalog this moment, so that we can remember what it was like to live through this day, this month, this year. We must remember what it took to survive, and to take the broken pieces of a world ravaged by the pandemic and divisive politics, and create something new.

Writing through Panic

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Back in early March, before it felt like we were trapped in a lousy cinematic mashup of Chernobyl, Contagion, and Zombieland, I was on a writing retreat with my good pal Toby Neal. We were holed up in a cheap turquoise motel on the trolley tracks near the beach in San Francisco. Toby had a horrible cough—no, not that one—and had brought her prancing little dog with her. I was on my way to visit my daughter in Oregon, who’s soon to be married.

Neither of us, despite all of those walks on the beach, saw the tsunami headed our way. Now that we’re back home and hunkered down—I’m in Massachusetts and she’s in California—Toby has been encouraging me to keep a journal, and to write her letters about whatever I’m going through.

“This is history in the making,” she reminds me, “and artists have to record it.”

She’s right. I know that’s true.

But, although my family is fine so far, I am filled with grief: for the people who are losing loved ones, for those who are struggling to find a way to put food on the table as the economy spirals downward, for the heroes keeping the ambulances and hospitals operating. I am sad for all of our children who are either too young to understand why they can’t play with friends or old enough to know that the careers they’re trying for and the trips they hoped to take this summer are on hold, maybe for a long time.

How can I write fiction, in the middle of all this?

It seems pointless. Frivolous, even, especially since I have just finished a manuscript, a book that I love. My agent is about to submit the manuscript to editors, to “shop it around,” as we used to say, back when publishers bought enough books that we could say fun things like that.

And yet, how can I not write?

While we were together, Toby gave me a wonderful gift, a collection of essays called Light the Dark: Writers on Creativity, Inspiration, and the Artistic Process. There are many great pieces in the book, but my favorite is “Time Passes” by Maggie Shipstead.

She writes, “A novel…is a portal into a preserved wedge of time, a past, present, and future that can be revisited in a way our own can never be…It’s a trade: the writer sits at her desk (or somewhere) and expends many, many quiet hours of her solitary life in exchange for the opportunity to build more lives, imaginary ones, cantilevering them off her own and out into the ether.”

It is the word “opportunity” that snagged my attention here. As a writer, I do have the opportunity to build new lives. I can imagine scenarios where I travel to Spain or Nepal, to 1878 or 2024. I can be twenty years old again or a woman of ninety. I don’t have to stay right here, right now, because I have the magical ability to write my way out of this world and into another.

What a gift that is. And so, yes, I have started a new novel, a portal to a different world.

What about you? Are you reading to escape? Are you writing? Have you had trouble keeping your mind on it lately? Or are you digging in harder than ever? Let me know. I’d love to hear how it’s going.

Ragdale: The Delights of Having a Room of One’s Own

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From the moment I first declared myself a novelist in my twenties, there were doubters. My father, for starters. “You’ll never make a living. Why don’t you be a nurse?” he said. “Or a dentist! They make good money.”

Various boyfriends doubted me as well. “Are you still writing fiction?” they asked. “Why are you writing, if you never sell anything?”

And, of course, I was my own biggest doubter. Why did I keep writing fiction, if I never sold anything?

It wasn’t easy. I had children, a husband, a mortgage, car loans. Then a divorce, another husband, stepchildren, a baby of our own. Job layoffs for him, startups that failed, lots of scrambling by both of us. College tuition looming. Retirement plans? Ha. We’ll be working until we’re 110.

Yet, I kept writing fiction. For decades, I wrote fiction at night after meeting my work obligations, at weekend track meets and skate parks and gym classes. I wrote in the car and in the occasional cheap hotel room when I could get away alone for a weekend. At home, I wrote in the dining room, out on the porch in good weather, or in the living room when it’s cold, on an old table by the radiator.

I breathe, therefore I write. That’s the nature of being an artist, isn’t it? You keep doing it because you can’t help yourself.

And, every now and then, if you’re lucky, you are validated. Maybe you have good feedback in a writers’ workshop. Maybe you sell something. (I did sell novels, eventually.) Or people email to say they were moved by your essay or helped by your article. That can keep you going.

But none of that validation solves the essential problem of every artist: How do you find time and space to think clearly and create new work, in the midst of life’s many obligations and distractions?

For women artists, particularly mothers, this is the question that none of us has figured out how to answer, unless we’re lucky enough to be wealthy. As Virginia Woolf said so plainly, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”

That’s hard to come by in this society, where art is too often an afterthought or a luxury. Recently, I was granted such an unexpected, extreme act of generosity supporting my art that I’m still reeling from it. Here’s the email:

Dear Holly,

We are pleased to have this unique opportunity to invite you to take a 4- day retreat at Ragdale at no cost as someone highly recommended by our Curatorial Board. A gift from an anonymous donor has allowed us to extend invitations to those artists and administrators who would most benefit from this time.

My jaw dropped. (I knew who had recommended me, but I won’t out her here—I know she values her privacy.) First, I cried, overwhelmed by this tremendous gift.

No way can I go. Christmas is coming. How can I leave? That was my first thought, followed quickly by another: Christmas is coming. That’s the reason to go.

Various places around the country host artists-in-residence. Here in the northeast, we have the MacDowell Colony in New Hampshire and Yaddo in New York. The point of all of them is to provide time and space for visual artists and writers to work, uninterrupted, in a supportive, communal setting. Sounds ideal, right? For men or young artists, sure. The problem for women writers like me is that most of these places require a minimum stay of two weeks. I could never get away. Never mind my paid work. Who would watch the kids?

    But now my children are older. Could it really help me, to have a room of my own at this point in my career? Or would I flounder, especially if I were surrounded by intimidating young talent? I could only answer these questions if I bit the bullet and gave myself a plane ticket to Chicago for Christmas.

    Ragdale Foundation offers 200 residencies and fellowships a year to artists of all types. It’s located in an elegant 19th century home built as a summer house near Lake Michigan by architect Howard Van Doren-Shaw.

    I honestly had no idea what to expect, and was floored by the grand house, which still has its original architectural features, and a particularly cozy enclosed porch where giant geraniums bloom on the windowsills. I was even more impressed by the rooms given to residents. Mine was on the second floor, a huge space with a bedroom and sitting area, a private bathroom, a desk by a window, and even a screened porch to use in good weather. The windows overlooked the trails through the prairie behind the house.

    So far so good. I went for a run and had no trouble getting to work. What else could I do? No dishes, no laundry, no work commitments awaited me. I worked until dinner, then wandered into the building next door, which houses Ragdale’s library, staff offices, and a communal dining room. There, promptly at 6:30 every night, delightful “Chef Linda” offers dinner, and residents gather to eat and discuss their work. I’d expected to feel like an outcast, since I was there only for a few days and most residents were there for much longer, but I was immediately welcomed and folded into the group.

    If I were at home, I’d probably do laundry and watch TV after dinner, or maybe take a bath and read. Here, fired up by the dinner conversation, it felt perfectly normal to go back to my room and resume working on my novel in progress.

    The next morning, I foraged for food in the kitchen downstairs—residents are provided food for DIY breakfasts and lunches—and met another woman from the area who writes YA fiction. We talked about agents and publishing markets as we ate breakfast together in that gorgeous, plant-filled sunroom. Then I went back upstairs and started writing. I didn’t get up from my desk again for over three hours, then had lunch and resumed.

    I wrote until my fingers were numb from typing, then went for a run and made a sandwich. Upstairs again, I kept writing until dinner. After dinner, guess what? I wrote some more and did a little research for the novel.

    Are you getting the picture here? A residency where you meet other writers isn’t intimidating. It’s inspiring, even for experienced workhorses like me, because you’re immersed in silence and beauty for most of the day, and when you come up for air, there are other people who think it’s worthwhile to talk about writing.

    Having a room of one’s own and the support of other artists, especially in this commercialized time of year and in a country where books take a back seat to careers, TV streaming services, online gaming, shopping, and, well, just about everything else, isn’t just productive. It’s inspiring. A residency like Ragdale’s, even a brief one, makes you believe not only that you can do the work, but that the work is worth doing simply for the sake of creating it.

    I am so grateful to Ragdale’s founders and staff, to the anonymous donor who supported me, and to the woman who nominated me for the residency. I came away determined to find ways to make writing more possible for myself, even if it just means closing the door and taping a sign to it that says, “Quiet, Please. Artist at Work.”

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