[This essay originally appeared as part of a series about being Writer in Residence at Forbes Library in Northampton, MA on LIBRARYASINCUBATORPROJECT on Mar 6, 2014. I am posting it now as I am getting ready to stop facilitating a writing room at Forbes, which I have run for nine years. I've put a link at the end of this post so that you can find the essay as it was originally published online or read the whole series. SS]
by Susan Stinson
Prompt: This morning, turn gently to the story. Enter into language in a way that makes room for you to follow subtle, insistent currents. There is a tension here between perceiving, receiving, remembering and making. Work those tensions until they yield something the work needs.
Every Wednesday and Saturday morning, I bring three new writing prompts written by hand on index cards to the Writing Room at the library. Most mornings, I write them before breakfast, at the kitchen table or sitting cross-legged in bed. When I get to the Watson Room, I spread the cards out on the long, beautiful table, near the foot, where the young writer who I know copies them in her notebook every week can easily reach them. Some of the writers pick them up every time they come, and some never use them at all, but writing them is a pleasure for me. They keep me in conversation with the experience of writing as I know it, live it, and witness it. It is like meditating on brushes with other minds. Maybe writing is always like that. Maybe coming to the library is, too.
Prompt: Perhaps you've been deep in sorrows, frustrations, dreams, or all three. Don't fight them this morning, but ride the force of them into your work. Be as small as you are and let the feelings and experiences be as big as they are. This will connect with your work, if you let it. "Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises…" (That's a line from The Tempest, William Shakespeare.)
When Forbes library is about to close, a librarian walks among the patrons, ringing a long-handled brass bell. The librarians have a calm, quiet air about them at this task, and the sound is beautiful. It is the end of the day, which is both loss and release. Sometimes it signals another a good day of work, done. Sometimes, I leave knowing more about what I'd like to write tomorrow.
Prompt: It's the rhythm, the groove, cultivation of a new/renewed habit. Turn to the writing as if you're used to doing it. Turn with relaxed, dogged patience and a capacity to be surprised. The work is the thing, today. Do the work.
When I first started writing this series of posts about being Writer in Residence at Forbes for the Library as Incubator Project, my most recent novel, which I worked on for ten years with lots of help from Forbes, had been out for less than a week. Today, as I drafted this post in the Writing Room, three writers were there for the first time, one faithful participant was celebrating nearing the end of a book project, and we all bent over the writing together, whether working in the same room or throughout the building. When I started as Writer in Residence at Forbes, I was feeling a bit isolated and discouraged about the prospects of Spider in a Tree ever being published. Today, I feel part of a beautiful community of people who use to the library to make, research, gather, serve, reflect, play, grieve, write, read, and dream. A friend just posted a picture of a book wrapped up in plain brown paper for a Blind Date with A Book at the Palmer Public library, with the following description: "Famous eighteenth-century theologian seeks audience for fiery sermons and inner turmoil in Northampton, Massachusetts. Members of my household with other perspectives encouraged to reply. Must love (rhetorical) arachnids and local history!" This is clearly my book about Jonathan Edwards and company. I am thrilled, almost to the point of tears. Creative, playful, engaged librarians all over the country give such lovely moments to library patrons over and over again. What could be better for me– as a writer, a reader, a participant in my community and as a human being– than that? What could be richer than working to help make more of those connections for other writers and readers?
Just now, when I got up for a drink of water, I ran into Elise Bernier-Feeley, the Special Collections librarian, who was marveling over a nineteenth century newspaper article about turkeys in the snow. (It was good, but I won't give it away.) She told me that she'd go try to find a book she knows that includes a great section on seventeenth century barrel-making, which I need for my next novel. When I finish this, I'm going to go out into the welcome, warm February day and sit for a minute or two on the bench beside the library with my feet on the doorstep from the house that Jonathan and Sarah Edwards lived in on King Street. I like having my feet on something old, ordinary and useful for a while. I like how Forbes honors the histor(ies) of its community while throwing its very heavy doors open to all kinds of creation. The library is itself is a prompt: to write, to read, to make, to work to stay open to ideas, people, and aesthetic experiences. I love thinking about libraries all over the country doing that within and among their own communities, and what fantastic art is coming from that for all of us.
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· Learn more about Susan and her work by visiting her website and following @susanstinson on Twitter.