Writings of Stefon Mears

One of the many versions of bad fantasy is the Boring Quest: the protagonist decides to go from Place A to Place B and does so, with no obstacles or events of any significance en route. It’s a terrible way to tell a story, but few of us would choose a trip full of difficult obstacles and life changing events for our daily drive to work.

I confess, I had rather hoped that my trip to Camp Casey on Whidbey Island for the Fall 2010 residency would be more like a drive to work than a trip through the Mines of Moria. While I did not have to face anything so bad as a balrog, or even a cave troll, I did have to overcome a few challenges. The first in this line was the great Threshold Guardian of modern America: airport security. Perhaps I should have seen it coming, but TSA has never given me a problem before.

My backpack is wrenched open in front of me, and a small amount of digging produces a plastic cup of bright red goo the size of a single-serving pudding snack. It is clearly labeled to weigh four ounces, but I don’t understand why that would be at issue, since the goo is not liquid.

“What is this?” asks the Guardian, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. I can feel myself sliding in her mind from ‘traveler’ to ‘potential terrorist.’

“Physical Therapy putty. I need to it do exercises for my hand,” I say, pointing at my recovering left hand. I suddenly realize that the Guardian might see a potential explosive, and I worry that I will spend the next two hours in a small room answering unpleasant questions and submitting to uncomfortable searches.

I dig out of my backpack a piece of shaped plastic, less worried about it being misunderstood because it looks like exactly what it is, a makeshift cast. “This is the splint I have to wear when I’m sleeping, to maintain the hand in a resting position.” I indicate the Velcro straps that hold it in place. I start to put it on, to demonstrate, but she takes it from me.

She looks at the splint for a moment, then holds up the PT putty and says, “I’ll just run this through chemical analysis.” I barely notice what she actually does, because running through my head are news stories of false positive results on drug tests and concerns that my backpack might have transported fireworks, or something equally innocent whose residue might look guilty. What I do see looks as though she puts the open container of putty into an ice machine, takes it out a moment later, caps it again, and hands it back to me. Apparently it passed the test, confirming that I have no untoward intentions on my trip up the West Coast, but she doesn’t leave me with wishes for a pleasant trip or thank me for being cooperative. Instead she dismisses me by saying something like, “Your backpack is too heavy.”

The flight itself was far friendlier, and I arrived at Sea-Tac in good time. Getting my small suitcase from baggage claim took some time, but no hassle. I noted later that I was pleased to find that it had not been treated to special inspection like my backpack.

This time I would forego the shuttle to Whidbey Island in favor of getting a ride from a kindhearted friend and fellow student. Before leaving the area we would pick up another friend and fellow student, and the drive to her house brought me my first clue that getting to Camp Casey might not be as simple as I’d assumed.

The driver told me along the way from the airport that she didn’t really use directions or maps or a GPS. She told me that she drove much the way she had wandered the woods as a child, by landmarks. She knew basically where our other passenger lived and she was going to head that direction and we’d find it.

Now I live in the Bay Area, where people give directions by linking to Mapquest or Google Maps, or simply provide an address and expect people to use a GPS, often the one that came with their phones. Still, I drive as much by what I know of an area as I do by street names and addresses. I often remember what street a friend lives on because I know I turn right at the Starbucks – not the one by the grocery store, the other one. So I’m not terribly worried about her approach, and she brings us to the right house in short order, despite some seeming hesitancy along the way.

After the third member of our traveling fellowship kissed her husband and children goodbye, we were on our way. Well, following some discussion of ways to get to the freeway. Some small debate between the two Seattle locals later, we had settled on a route and were making decent time on the first leg of our journey.

We missed a freeway interchange, but I almost overlooked that fact when a semi tried to kill us. All right, that’s not quite fair. It wasn’t really the semi’s fault anyway.

The semi is in front of us and has been keeping a proper following distance from the car in front of it. We are just realizing that we missed the interchange, and traffic is slowing to a halt when some jackass in a tiny car slips in front of the semi. That safe following distance is cut by two-thirds and the only question is, can the semi’s brakes prevent said jackass from being scraped off of the pavement with a shovel?

For that matter, can we stop in time to avoid the same fate ourselves?

The semi does its best, brakes squealing and tires spewing smoke, while our driver stands on her brake pedal and we all brace for impact, drawing inexorably closer to the huge vehicle. Our brakes hold. The semi’s brakes hold. No one dies, and scant inches separate us from all that truck. We start breathing again and take the next exit.

We fought the great beast to a standstill, and were allowed to pass.

Rather than backtrack, our driver displayed either marvelous instincts or an excellent knowledge of the area, because she felt her way through a few city streets and back onto the freeway we had missed without much lost time.

The next major obstacle was a known variable of unknown value: the ferry. Techie that I am, I had checked the ferry’s website, and learned that no slowdowns in service had been a problem for at least three hours. Apparently I was more industrious about checking their status online than they were about updating it. We joined the line for the ferry and saw a more recent posting: ferry backup, two hours.

We were already running late. A two hour wait would delay us past orientation and perhaps into the dinner hour. The denizens of our SUV may have had mixed feelings about missing orientation, but none of us wanted to miss dinner.

The lone Californian of the group, I didn’t see how we had any options. We were going from the mainland to an island, and the ferry was delayed. I should have known better – dramatically speaking, some obstacles are to be overcome and others are to be circumvented. There was a bridge.

For me, at least, this obstacle concealed treasure: a dramatic view. The bridge to Whidbey Island is high above the waters of Deception Pass, a cavalcade of crossed-currents and whirlpools that churn and shift as though taking up arms against those who would cross them by boat.

We finally arrived at Camp Casey, having missed orientation, but in time to participate in the discussion of possible future expansion projects for the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts. Like all intrepid explorers at the end of a quest, I grabbed a drink, collapsed into a chair, and realized I had to go to the bathroom. If only I knew where that was. . . .

I’m all ready to leave, but for the packing.  The awful, horrible packing.  Well, not really – packing for the residency is actually pretty easy.  I just had a sudden desire to write this whole post in a pulp, semi-Lovecraftian style, but I think I’ll refrain.

I may be getting a bit punchy from the anticipation.  In January I had no real idea of what to expect, but this time I already have a notion of how much fun I will have and how heavy the workload will be.  What’s more, this time I will not only get to meet new people, but re-connect with many of the students from the past semester.

Back to the preparations, though.  I’ve done all my required reading, and I’ve enjoyed it, which is a good sign for the upcoming classes.  I’ve finished the pieces I need to have ready for my workshop, or at least I have them as close to presentable as they’re going to get right now.  I’ve refreshed my expended school supplies.  Only a few small details remain, such as checking the batteries for my mp3 player’s mobile speakers and setting up the printer driver on my laptop.  The school brings a printer for us to use as needed, and I’d rather have the drivers set up (or at least downloaded) before I go.  I should also choose a piece for reading aloud, in case we have student readings one night.

Oh, and shoes.  I really ought to pick up some new shoes.  My right sneaker seems to have installed an after-market ventilation system rather without consulting me.  Obviously, such cheek is not to be tolerated, and both it and its partner should be sacked at once.

What was that about me getting punchy?

Anyway, I discovered at the last residency that bringing comfortable footwear is very important.  I had concerns about the weather and local conditions, so I only brought a pair of hiking boots.  After ten days of wearing those boots for fourteen to sixteen hours a day I have concluded that I would have been better off in my sneakers.  I hope that holds true for Camp Casey, which is our summer site.

This is probably my last post until I return from Washington.  Much as I like the idea of updating from there, I don’t want to count on having the time, energy, and wireless connection necessary.  When I get back, though, I fully expect to have a few anecdotes ready to post.

I have very little experience with creative nonfiction.  Now that I have that alarmingly inaccurate sentence down, let me explain it.  I’ve read many books over the years that would be filed under creative nonfiction, if I organized my personal library that way.  Of course, I barely organize my personal library in the first place, so there’s little danger of that happening.

For that matter, I’ve written a respectable amount of creative nonfiction, in that I keep this blog on as regular a basis as I can (and I’ll be steadier once the semester begins, but I may take a break for the residency), I post intermittently in a private LiveJournal account, and spill thoughts and memories all over perfectly innocent paper on a purely random basis.

I have even taken an undergraduate level class through the U.C. Berkeley Extension, and enjoyed it a great deal.  Still, I feel as though I have very little experience with creative nonfiction, because I’ve read very little of it from the perspective of a writer.

Well, the new semester hasn’t started yet, but I can already feel that changing.  I’ve started on my reading assignments, and I noticed that all three of the selections in my Craft of Creative Nonfiction class had a common element: each told multiple stories that all related to an event-driven common theme.  For example, in only one chapter of Passage to Juneau I’ve learned more about commercial fishing, the Alaskan fishing run, its risks, the fishing community, and the American Indians native to the region (and their art) than I ever knew before*, and all of it related to the author fitting out his boat for a voyage.

Up until now, I had thought about writing essays and the like in terms of framing a given story, often with a goal of conveying a related idea, but it seems to me now that this showed me only the surface of what it should be doing, or at least what it could be doing.

I can’t say this surprises me, since I know that a given work of fiction will certainly contain more than a single story, but it is interesting to see what the other side of the coin looks like.

Hmm, if fiction and nonfiction are different sides of the same coin, where does that leave poetry?  On the edge, of course, binding the two together with its approach to expression.

*which, admittedly, was very little

Last night, arriving home from work, I knew exactly what I would be doing: meeting a friend before dinner, eating dinner with my wife, followed by a plan for the night’s activities (this much reading, that much time on the computer, et cetera).  It seemed reasonable until, following dinner, my wife wanted to flop on the couch to read, and this just looked like the most appealing thought of the day.

I realized in that moment that I had carried over my regimented scheduling practice past the semester and into what was supposed to be my vacation.  I had needed this level of organization to get through my studies, work and Capoeira, but now I had taken to viewing even my leisure activities in terms of getting as much done as possible.  I had to let go of that, and the first step was flopping on that couch with my wife and reading a novel I enjoyed, not because of any technical brilliance in it (I like the author, but this was his first book and it shows) but because I like the characters and story.

This was the first time since last December that I had been able to just read fiction – my previous attempts had been mired in constant analysis.  I did take a moment to consider the craft of the story, just to reassure myself that I could, then relaxed and enjoyed myself.

I’m not reading quite the way I used to; even without the near-dissection I find myself noting devices, techniques, and elements I had missed previously as well as how they are related.  My perspective has shifted, and I like it – I think it makes me a better reader as well as a better writer, because I can appreciate a story on more levels.

So long as I remember to slow down and enjoy reading instead of just appreciating it. . . .

I’m still restricting myself to a few hundred words of freewriting every day or two while my hand heals, but I really like the results I’m getting.  I’ve been starting with the first image I can call to mind and then telling a story about it, and if I don’t like it I just let it change directions.  So far I have several snippets that could be developed into good short stories, and one or two that might be deep enough for a novel.

I think by next week I’ll let myself start some revision, as long as I can keep the typing in check.  Oh, and I may start drafting new material by playing with voice recognition software.  I doubt I could use it for real revision, but it should be fine for a first draft, as well as holding back my typing a little longer.

I’ve just been informed that my short short story “Shooting Free Throws” has been selected to appear in the fall issue of Soundings Literary Journal.

Obviously I’m pretty excited about this, and it gives me even more hope for the two or three submissions I have out in the world right now, as well as the one going out next week.  They’re taking it without any changes, though I’ll get to look at the proof and make sure everything came out right (error-checking, not revision).

I want to sit and write something right now, but I’m on an enforced time out for another week or two.  It seems I have managed to get tendinitis in my left hand.  Strangely enough, it’s probably not from writing — suspects are Capoeira and bad reading form* ahead of typing,  though it may have been a combination of all three — but I still don’t want to overstress it.  I’m limiting myself to a few minutes of freewriting a day, plus short e-mails and whatever work requires.  Speaking of which, I should probably call the entry to a close here.

*Note to returning students, be careful how you hold your books when studying.  This may sound obvious, but when you’re mentally involved in what you’re reading, you might not always notice little warnings from the body until they become big warnings.  Especially to be avoided is holding a large book in one hand for more than an hour a day for many days in a row.  Oh, and for these purposes, anything larger than a medium-width mass market paperback should be considered large, even thick paperbacks and trade paperbacks.