susanstinson

Today and tomorrrow, doing research for the novel, I'm going to the Dublin Seminar in Deerfield to hear about old diaries. Sewing diaries. Commonplace books. Slave ship captain logs. A diary written in code by a Maine minister who was trying to develop something he called a "Philosophical Alphabet" to, the abstract says, "be used in creating a writing system for Native American indigenous languages" -- along with his own sixty coded diaries, he also kept word lists in "Penobscot Indian and a dictionary of Hebrew." Spiritual diaries. A midwife's journal. Travel diaries. Soldiers' diaries. Not unlike livejournal, it's dizzying to think about, but will, I hope, give off glints of what some people's lives were actually like.

Sure enough, tonight's Hampshire Life, page 7, that's me in Sally Bellerose's story, "Pushups at Pulaski Park."

I haven't been posting about my trip to New York and all because I've been so busy and because so much great stuff happened that I wanted to get it together to write about it in a way that would do it all justice. But time's passing, and things are too wild, so I'm going to do it scattershot, starting with:

One of the other readers of at the Lambda finalist reading was Morty Diamond, editor of FROM THE INSIDE OUT: Radical Gender Transformation, FTM and Beyond from Manic D Press. I first heard about Morty from charlottecooper because of his website, My Year In Pink, documenting a performance art project of a year of wearing pink from head to toe. We had a lovely conversation, and I just noticed that he posted about it the next day, with emphasis on my "very good looking beard" (thanks, Morty), and solidarity with all those who don't fit the norms.

It was great meeting daharyn, there through the urging of misia!, too. More on the reading, which was rich and varied and moving, later.

It was also lovely to have dinner with eleanor on Friday.

The fat girl flea was intense and primal -- so so so so many clothes. Mountains of clothes, heaped high, high, high on tables, many of them in the 3x-4x section by yours truly (among many others -- there were more than 40 volunteers.) So so so so many people shopping. We generated a lot of heat, and one of my favorite moments of the flea was when Leah, who was central to organizing the Bluestockings reading for Venus of Chalk last year, stood up to her full height, raised her mighty, ringing voice, waved a stack of brown paper towels over her head and called out, "If anyone needs a schvitz rag, someone will be coming around the room to offer one to you." Everyone heard it, but it took the very small, warm smile on Bertha's face where she was helping me pick out my dress for the Lambda Literary awards from amongst her gorgeous, sassy Size Queen fashions -- I so love that the dress that I'm wearing to honor the character of Carline was made by a fat lesbian who clearly sews with deep passion -- that is so right for the book -- it wasn't until I saw Bertha's smile that I realized what a beautiful, gracious, body loving gesture that announcement and those sweat rags were. I heard women talking appreciatively about it on the elevator, too, just before someone offered to buy the shirt I was wearing...

And beatgoddess looked stunning at the Northampton Pride march on Sunday, leopard-print bra to match leopard-print hat and all. There was an article about the book-signing that Judy Frank and I, among others, did at the Pride&Joy booth -- very fun doing that with Judy -- much more fun than alone.

fattest wrote a beautiful post about Andrea Dworkin that I keep quoting in comments, for instance to say, "fattest can get to the tender, pulsing heart of difficult moments, people, bodies of work in such a radiant way. Moves me a lot."

slit wrote something great, too.

This interview of me by charlottecooper is now up at Rainbownetwork.com. Her questions are so juicy and good.

I'm just back from housesitting in the hilltowns, where a tiny spider slid in the air in front of my face on a strand of web that was the same color and consistency of my new silver hairs. The tough old goat blocked the door and leaned against my legs so I couldn't leave the barn until I rubbed her knobby back. The donkey ate grain from the palm of my hand and tried to get out of the fence by sticking his very big head through the gate. The chickens went in at night, as requested, mostly, even if they did lay only three eggs every day instead of four. The dog was devoted and the cats were polite. Potato bugs were numerous, and the smaller ones flew.

My initials are in the concrete of the hearth, along with others, including the paw prints of much-loved dogs who are no longer with us, with the date: 9/90. Hard to believe that it's been almost thirteen years since I lived there. The chickens live in the toolshed where I used to write. That's the reason it has electricity, although I didn't dig the ditch for the line.

1) You're a really great writer! How'd you get that way? How do you navigate combining identity politics with fiction writing?
Thank you. I've always been wildly ambitious for very specific things -- to write things that are unbearably beautiful in a nuanced, recognizable way, and to write things that linger and sing and matter to the people who read them. So, I want it, want it, want it. That's one thing.

Also, I have an older brother who is this terrific painter, so there was (and is) someone in my family who was an artist. That helped me see the kind of work it takes and to kind of scrape off some of the romantic glow, although I still romanticize the New York publishing world sometimes. I'm getting more and more over that as times goes on, though. So that has been good for practical information (for instance he told me about a six week artists residency in Banff that I went to when I was 19), and also for someone I know and trust to bounce things off.

I was in a writers' group for many years -- the Valley Lesbian Writers Group. Some of us published each other's chapbooks, we gave readings and produced readings for groups from other towns, raised money together to fund our projects, met every Tuesday night in eight week sessions to critique work. So important to me, so sustaining, to have serious, committed peer relationships, and I still meet every Wednesday with another writer who I met in the group -- think I've been meeting and exchanging work with her for fifteen years.

And then there's poetry in the bathroom -- reading poetry a lot and often and going back to poems, especially old, dense poems. There's nothing like it for keeping me awake to language. And also, just trying to tend towards writing, to make the best choice I can see to support my writing, at any given moment. To push and give up things to have time to work, and then use it as patiently and relentlessly as you can stand.

Identity politics and art -- oh, that's so hard. I mean, I remember a specific moment in the mid-eighties or so when I realized that I wanted to write about fat, about being fat, that that was full of danger and risk and things literally aching to be articulated for me, things that I was terrified of and drawn towards in equal measure -- really simple stuff, like trying to describe my own body, and running up against so many limitations in language about that. And I was meeting politically-aware fat, queer women for the first time -- I had just moved to Boston from Colorado -- so I felt as if there were going to be some folks who would want to read this work if I could do it -- it gave me a sense of urgency. Lots of gifts in those ways -- including, eventually and still, publishers for my novels from the women's press movement. At the same time, I just want to be read, to have these stories be acknowledged as human stories, of real value to a wide range of folks. Having to deal with narrow expectations and endless looping stereotypes about what my work is supposed to be or mean sometimes feels like trying to eat brick -- not sustaining, not easy on the teeth and gums. I have to keep pushing myself to negotiate these tensions with all of the grace and honor I can muster in any given moment, and it's worth it. But hard.

2) You live in Western Mass, right? How'd you end up there? What are the pros and cons of living where you do?
Yeah, I live in Northampton. I ended up here because of the twists and turns of my long, precious, private relationship.

I love it here. The pros are that I can stroll downtown and see the Triplets of Belleville like I did tonight (yay!). There are so many people I love here. There is a cemetery with 18th century graves across the street from me, and the Holyoke range are these stunning hills that stretch out along the horizon in a way that opens my heart. I like the Connecticut River a lot, too -- lots of available beauty. I do okay without car here, and live pretty cheaply (knock on wood.)
I have access to cities like NYC and Boston, and there is so much more happening here all of the time than there was in Littleton, the suburb of Denver where I grew up. When I got fat hate mail because of an article that I'd been invited to write for the Springfield paper, all I did was walk down the street, telling the people who asked me how I was what had just happened, and a few of the folks I ran into on that one walk (plus some of my beloved friends) formed a working committee that organized a speak-out against fat hatred, at a time when I was kind of reeling from it all. My town -- and lots of folks beyond it -- came through for me when I really needed it.

Cons include a kind of New England insularity or stiffness that can get wearing at times. Things can start feeling narrow or smug. I think fat girls are in general less widely appreciated here than we are in the west. I've sometimes envied the Bay area for energy and the seeming ability to generate really productive communities. Folks who move here from big cities often miss a lot of beautiful food or find people here unfriendly, unwelcoming. If I'm annoyed with someone, the odds are pretty good that I'll run into them. I want to swim regularly, and there's not a swimming pool that I have access to and can get to without a car.

3) What's your story of fleeing Texas?
Oh, I didn't flee. I was born in Amarillo, but left with my family when I was six months old. We moved to Wichita, then Denver. My grandparents lived in Texas, and we went to see them every summer. My brothers both spent the whole summer with my grandparents every year, helping work a very small ranch. My parents live there now, so I'm connected to Texas in lots of ways, but not really from there.

4) What do you do to make yourself focus on your work?
It helps me if I can go to a physical space away from other distractions -- no phone, no email. Sometimes I do some stretches, a few other starting rituals -- although those can get too long and be a distraction in itself. Reading something incredible makes me want to write. Reading stuff I had been working on the day before brings me back there -- gets harder as more time goes by. Don't do it so much any more because my arm aches when I type now, but I used to start sometimes with pages of lavish and specific praise for my own work -- it was pure encouragement, and it also helped me see just what I most wanted to do by that which thrilled me the most when I told myself that I was already doing it. Just starting and keeping going -- even if what comes out at first is unsatisfying -- that's a good one.

5) What kind of shoes do you like to wear?
Since I started having arthritis in my ankles and knees, I only wear one kind of shoes: black SAS walking shoes. Lots of padding on the soles, and they fit. I miss sandals. When I was a kid, my mother had two pairs of shoes that I remember with awe: clogs with white leather straps and polished wooden soles that at eight inches high: they made a thunderous noise against a hard floor, and changed the perspective of the wearer. Also, glittery orange stilettoes, with gloves to match.


Jette's rules:

1 - Leave a comment, saying you want to be interviewed.
2 - I will respond; I'll ask you five questions.
3 - You'll update your journal with my five questions, and your five answers.
4 - You'll include this explanation.
5 - You'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.

I was sitting in my love's greenhouse, reading Stardust by Neil Gaiman in the sun. The book was a gift. The piles of old snow had shrunk, and we could see ground in the back. She turned on the turtle fountain, and it spouted water into the tin tub with the goldfish that are wintering over from the pond. She was reading a seed catalogue. My mother called. Her mother called. The donkey brayed once, big. Last winter's slugs are coming back. The german shepherd drank from the fish tub, and walked on the drooping December swiss chard. I only visit this house, with its gardens and animals. It was both complicated and simple, but warm enough to take off my thick courdoroy shirt and read in a t-shirt in the sun.