Why Bother with Craft?

1280px-Browne,_Henriette_-_A_Girl_Writing;_The_Pet_Goldfinch_-_Google_Art_ProjectWhy Bother with Craft?
“Craft” was a dirty word at art school, a subtle derogative. The college dropped “and Craft” from their name so recently that the signs on the highway still held those words. Once, in a class critique, a peer called a hand-painted map used to make a stop motion short “crafty,” and my face stung, as if slapped.

Now I deal with another kind of craft; not so much a dirty word but a kind of quiet discussion held among writers and readers. “Craft” is a fluid term; used in aeronautics and astronautics to speak of a single vessel, or the skill of deception, or a verb analogous to “make.” Craft in literature is comprised of narrative elements and literary devices: the nuts and bolts of what makes a story a story. Read more on the Ploughshares blog

The Candles and the Soap: On Vonnegut, Death, and Repetition

Placed after a mention of death or dying, Kurt Vonnegut’s “So it goes” refrain throughout Slaughterhouse Five utilizes repetition to explore the inevitability of death. Early on in the book, Billy Pilgrim writes a letter to a newspaper about his experiences with extra terrestrials, and explains the origin of the phrase:

When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in that particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is ‘So it goes.’

The phrase simultaneously dismisses and accepts the inevitability of death. “So it goes” seems so detached as to be irreverent and inappropriate. An incredibly simple three word sentence—so informal it catches the reader off guard in its plainness—is striking in juxtaposition to death. The phrase is so casual, it smacks of false familiarity and dismissiveness. It feels unceremonious, yet becomes ceremonious through its repetition, like the refrain of a song. It is so much more complex than just those three simple words; it admits the inevitability of death and offers a pause for the reader to truly consider the weight of what is written. Read more on the Ploughshares blog.

Impossible to Pin Down: Truth & Memory in Nonfiction

memory 1Nonfiction as a genre confronts the discordance between memory—a slippery, subjective entity that can be the antithesis of truth—and actuality. Roy Peter Clark writes of the “essential fictive nature of all memory.” Mark Kramer and Wendy Call, editors of Telling True Stories: A Nonfiction Writers’ Guide from the Nieman Foundation at Harvard University, write “of the elusive nature of recollection.” Roy Peter Clark‘s essay, “The Line Between Fact and Fiction,” in the Nieman Foundation’s guide, explores this further:

The way we remember things is not necessarily the way they were. This makes memoir, by definition, a form in which reality and imagination blur into a ‘fourth genre.’ The problems of memory also infect journalism when reporters, in describing the memories of sources and witnesses, wind up lending authority to a kind of fiction. […] The postmodernist might think all this irrelevant, arguing that there are no facts, only points of view, only takes on reality influenced by our personal histories, our cultures, our race and gender, our social class. The best journalists can do in such a world is offer multiple frames through which events and issues can be seen. Report the truth? They ask. Whose truth?

It’s one thing to be subject to memory’s slippery subjectivity, and another to consciously pick and choose where to place scenes. Read more on the Plougshares blog

Language Could Kill You: Adichie, Code-Switching & the Biafran War

Nigeria_1909Language plays a crucial role throughout Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s novels, but nowhere is it more decisive than in the author’s second novel, Half of a Yellow Sun. Written against the backdrop of the Biafran War, two wealthy sisters return from England to a nation on the cusp of revolution and choose two different paths: Kainene moves to Port Harcourt to take over their father’s business, while Olanna moves to Nsukku, a university town, to teach and live with her “revolutionary lover,” Odenigbo. Southeastern Nigeria secedes in 1967, in response to ethnic, cultural, economic and religious tensions, and a largely Igbo nationality forms the new nation of Biafra—officially the Republic of Biafra. Characters are thrown into the crossfire of war, where speaking the wrong language can get you killed.

Throughout the novel, Adichie is careful to note when someone speaks in English, Igbo, Yoruba, or Hausa. Why take the time to write what languages are spoken and when? Read more on the Ploughshares blog.

Daily Details Made Monumental

Exterior details lend themselves to the interior landscape of a character or narrator. What one chooses to notice, how one describes an object, says more about the speaker than it does about that thing. A character who spends a whole paragraph noticing someone’s unwashed, unkempt hair tells the reader that hygiene is an obsession. The distant relative who’s quick to point out the stain on a shirt might be hasty to reveal the flaws of others. Daily Details Made Monumental, on the Ploughshares blog, discusses how Joan Didion utilizes detail in her nonfiction.

Literary Magazine Review: Radio Silence


I nearly closed the issue when I read the first line of the editor’s letter: “One morning Gore Vidal and I drank scotch in his bedroom in the Hollywood Hills.” That’s the type of name-dropping, scotch-drinking, rock-and-roll male bravado from which I shy away, and yet I kept reading. That’s the thing with name dropping: it’s repulsive yet enticing; it tells me this person knows people worth knowing, and I read on to find out how they know the knowing knowers. Editor Dan Stone then extols musician Aimee Mann’s reading habits, specifically how she lets “sound and sense wash over her, rather than engaging with a text from the critical and intellectual distance that directs the reading experience of so many ‘literary’ people.”

Literary in quotation marks? What kind of a lit mag is this? Head over to the Review Review to find out.

Since Feeling is First: Elements of Craft to Express Emotion

I’m honored to be contributing to the Ploughshares blog each month. Check out my first post here

Since Feeling is First: Elements of Craft to Express Emotion

Plate_depicting_emotions_of_grief_from_Charles_Darwin's_book_The_Expression_of_the_EmotionsEmotions, feelings, desires—whatever you choose to call them—are central to writing. e.e. cummings wrote “since feeling is first / who pays any attention / to the syntax of things / will never wholly kiss you.” But how do we pay attention to syntax while retaining feeling? Read more at blog.pshares.org.

momentous because we render them so

e.v. de cleyre thanksgiving-dinner-dining-room-house-light-window

I mark a flurry of years in holidays. Last year, I was in Maryland with my father’s family, on the outside of a motley crew of friends and neighbors that gather there every year to reconnect. The year before must have been New Hampshire, with my mother’s new companion, or my father’s house in the woods. Year before that, I don’t recall. Wait. I recall. How convenient of me to forget that three years ago I flew to Edinburgh to see a man I liked and soon after left. Four years ago I sat at a long table in Tibet, with four more Americans and fifteen others from a buffet of nations; we each brought a dish to share, dropped sentences of gratitude into a hat, mixed them up, and plucked them out; one by one we vocalized our thanks through other people. Five years ago I waited tables at an Inn in Maine with the promise of time and a half, a promise that was renounced that morning before opening; that night the servers got high and I baked a sweet potato pie with the only measuring cup available, one-third, guesstimating the ingredients, and swearing it was the best dish on earth. Six years ago I ate at an Irish-American pub in Chiang Mai, Thailand, a full plate of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and a side of apple pie, dishes I didn’t know I’d craved for two months. Seven years ago I was in Maryland, my hair cropped close to my head, having shaved it on my way to India three months prior; I hadn’t seen my family since my hair was down past my chest. Eight years ago I flew from my college in California to the place I still considered home, New Hampshire. Nine years ago I was a senior in high school, discovering The Rule of the Bone, The Catcher in the Rye, and Everything is Illuminated; novels that made one feel less alone.

Holidays are momentous because we render them so; the intention is there to turn an ordinary date into something to remember. This is why they become easy for me to mark: one year here another there, places–states and nations–acting like place settings in the dining room. Though I am not very enthusiastic about holidays, disgusted by the excess consumption and the history of colonization, my heart melts faster than vanilla ice cream on hot apple pie each Thanksgiving.

The Macy’s parade, an ostentatious procession, makes me teary-eyed; I remember my elbows bristled by the carpet of my grandmother’s house, where I sat glued to the television, relishing the bulbous floats, basking in the simplicity of life, too young to cook or clean. We awoke early and drove two hours south to Massachusetts, just so we could watch the parade, just so we could see Santa’s first appearance. At least, that’s how it seemed to me, though I’m sure there were more nuanced and practical reasons why my family orchestrated the beginnings of the day before dawn: turkeys to roast, pies to bake, potatoes to mash.

This is the first year I’ll spend Thanksgiving with my husband, in Oregon, a place far-removed from our own families, a place that suits us well for now. Snow fell on our hometown and the power went out, so our parents make do with wood stoves, generators, and barbecues, telling us all about it by phone. Oregon is rainy, fifty degrees, and I can’t complain. There is a roast in the oven, a pumpkin pie cooling by the kitchen window, and a pan of seasoned vegetables awaiting their turn on the stove; none of which I can take even a shred of credit for preparing.

There is much for which to be thankful.

Review: Nowhere Magazine

This week, I reviewed Issue 11 of Nowhere Magazine (an online “journal of literary travel writing”) for The Review Review:


Nowhere is now in its fifth year as an online “journal of literary travel writing,” a genre defined by the magazine as “narrative with a strong sense of place, character or time.” Porter Fox, himself a travel journalist for two decades, is the founder and editor, and created the magazine because he wanted something “more engaging, authentic, and diverse.” The website is specific about not publishing “reviews of spas or shopping centers” (yet conveniently never mentions the advertisements). You won’t find the ten best bars in Cabo here, but you will find travel writing that takes you places—or rather, contemplates place.
Read more on The Review Review, an all-around awesome website:

contemporary african novelists

Recently, the New York Times ran an article about the rise in popularity of books penned by African authors: “New Wave of African Writers With an Internationalist Bent.” I was not surprised, given that I’ve been absorbing the works of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, among others, for the past few months. Now, whenever I pop into my neighborhood Powell’s Books, I find more and more books written about Africa by more and more contemporary African writers. Where ever to begin? You can’t judge these books by their covers, because as one reader points out, the covers look remarkably similar. If you’re looking to take the plunge into Africa’s contemporary fiction (and I highly suggest you do), here are a selection of my current favorites:

Half of a Yellow SunHalf of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

From her first novel to her most recent, language has played a crucial role, but nowhere is it more decisive than in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s second novel, Half of a Yellow Sun. Written with the backdrop of a newly independent 1960s Nigeria, the Biafran War is seen through the eyes of Olanna, a Nigerian woman; Ugwu, a houseboy; and Richard, an Englishman. Two wealthy sisters, who had the privilege of an education in England, return to a nation on the cusp of revolution and choose two different paths. Kainene moves to Port Harcourt to take over their father’s business, while Olanna moves to Nsukku, a university town, to teach and live with her “revolutionary lover,” Odenigbo. Southeastern Nigeria secedes in 1967, a response to ethnic, cultural, economic and religious tensions. A largely Igbo nationality forms the new nation of Biafra, officially the Republic of Biafra. Ugwu, Kainene, Richard, Olanna and Odenigbo are thrown into the crossfire of war, where speaking the wrong language—in this case, Igbo—can get you killed.

A riveting novel that should be at the top of everyone’s “to read” list.

The Thing Around Your NeckThe Thing Around Your Neck by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The Thing Around Your Neck is the perfect precursor to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s most recent novel, Americanah. While the novel approaches issues of identity, immigration, and relationships through the eyes of one female protagonist, The Thing Around Your Neck is a collection of short stories attacking similar issues with varying narrators and perspectives. It’s as though The Thing Around Your Neck, a dozen stories originally published in a dozen different magazines and journals, was the litmus test for Americanah. Each story is charged, electric. Adichie’s talent for prose is evident in the first line of each piece; take, for instance, the first line of “Imitation”: “Nkem is staring at the bulging, slanted eyes of the Benin mask on the living room mantel as she learns about her husband’s girlfriend.”

Just like that, when your eyes are following the main character’s, taking in the mask on the mantel, Adichie offers a swift punch to the stomach with “her husband’s girlfriend.” This is one of a handful of stories mentioning the phenomenon of husbands taking girlfriends—apparently common in Nigeria, and societally acceptable. Not one to take societal norms or constructs at face value, as evident throughout her four works of fiction (and her newly released e-book We Should All Be Feminists), Adichie attacks this issue of marital infidelity from two sides—that of the wife or girlfriend. In “Imitation,” it’s the perspective of the Nigerian housewife living in the United States while her husband resides in Lagos. The female protagonist in “Jumping Monkey Hill” reflects on her father’s former girlfriend, “Yellow Woman,” and what she herself should do when propositioned to be the girlfriend of a “Big Man;” grappling with all this whilst attending a writing workshop led by a lecherous old man. In both Americanah and The Thing Around Your Neck, Adichie’s female characters are encouraged by female friends to take up with a “Big Man,” to ignore the sexual attacks from relatives and friends, to beg their cheating husbands to take them back, to try harder to keep their marriage intact. However, those scenarios never end neatly. Adichie’s feminist agenda is shrouded in intense, heartbreaking stories.

Adichie’s characters search the complexities of relationships and question their context in society, while grappling with identity as they move or transition from one society and culture to the next. These are huge issues, which Adichie conveys in deep, reflective prose, partnered with intriguing plots. The Thing Around Your Neck is a thing of beauty, evidence of an incredibly talented writer.

We Need New NamesWe Need New Names by NoViolet Bulawayo

NoViolet Bulawayo is the latest in a string of contemporary African authors to be published on American shores, and it is hard not to compare her to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (whose four works of fiction straddle two continents, containing narrators navigating new countries and shifting societies). Like Adichie’s latest novel, Americanah, Bulawayo’s narrator in We Need New Names takes readers from a childhood in Africa to adolescence and adulthood in the United States. But I would be remiss to lump the two works and authors together so easily, given that Bulawayo’s native Zimbabwe is four thousand miles from Adichie’s home country of Nigeria. Africa is not a country, and the experiences of all African nations are not one in the same. With this in mind, the similarities between We Need New Names and Americanah end with the aforementioned resemblance in plot.

If anything, NoViolet Bulawayo’s fiction debut is actually more similar—in terms of language—to Arundhati Roy’s fiction debut, The God of Small Things, published in 1997. Bulawayo plays with language to a lesser degree than Roy, but the childlike playfulness of Bulawayo’s narrator, Darling, comes through in the author’s prose. Most remarkable is the tightly controlled present-tense voice, starting out as a young, naïve girl’s perspective, and morphing into a young woman, removed from her family and friends in a foreign land. It’s difficult to convey change in consciousness and maturity that comes with age—let alone maintaining present tense throughout—but Bulawayo nails it. We Need New Names secures her a place among the likes of Adichie, Roy, and Lahiri, whilst setting herself thousands of miles apart.

Open CityOpen City by Teju Cole

“…a sure hand is needed to make the writer’s careful stitching look like a thread merely being followed for its own sake.” The New Yorker

That blurb on the inside of Open City summed up the book for me. As I read Teju Cole’s novel I felt like I were following a thread, which, once pulled, shifted the fabric and continued to run throughout the textile until it arrived at another thread and followed that. This is no small feat. The New Yorker is right that it takes a sure hand to ensure this close first-person narrative feels deliberate, rather than flighty or unfocused. Cole’s novel feels so close, so intimate, that it reads like a diary–but one that is much more fully-formed in its ideas. A lesser writer would be a bore to read, but Cole’s seemingly tangential prose is a joy. I found myself flying through the pages, pulled along through the main character’s thoughts as though they were my own.
(If you’ve already devoured Open City, try reading Cole’s most recent publication, Every Day is for the Thief.)

Foreign Gods, Inc.Foreign Gods, Inc. by Okey Ndibe

Okey Ndibe joins the ranks of fellow contemporary Nigerian novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in a novel that chronicles the hardship of moving to America, where expectations of newfound social and economic opportunities are dashed. While Adichie’s Americanah follows the arc of her character’s life, ending with a triumphant return to Nigeria, Ndibe’s novel portrays Ike in financial ruin that pushes him to drastic, illegal measures he hopes will result in economic success. Ndibe’s portrayal of Ike’s life is gritty and realistic, even though the plot is far-fetched. Foreign Gods Inc. takes a long look at the status of American society through the eyes of an outsider, desperate to be on the in, and the sacrifices he’ll make to get there.

Purple HibiscusPurple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Chimananda Ngozi Adichie’s first novel is refreshingly complex, chronicling the lives of Kambili and Jaja, sister and brother in Nigeria who grow up with an air of privilege. Their father is a wealthy and respected businessman who donates to churches, and schools, while providing his children with a life of luxury. Kambili and Jaja attend the best schools, adhere to rigorous schedules, and focus wholly on their studies, with no time for chores like cooking or cleaning. They are, by all accounts, sheltered. Through Kambili’s arrestingly aware account of the world around her and those that inhabit it, we see how others view her (shyness mistaken for snobbery), her father (as a gracious, deeply religious man), and their life (endless access to soft drinks–a luxury to most–and things like televisions and stereos that lie unused in their sprawling, gated house). Adichie relies on the first-person accounts of Kambili to portray both the political and domestic situations in Nigeria–how government crackdowns on dissidents affect the community, how a deeply religious man seen by others as generous justifies brutally beating his family. Even through the perspective of a fifteen year-old girl, who some might see as simplistic or immature, Adichie conveys deeply complex issues of family, politics, wealth and privilege. A riveting, heartbreaking book about love, family, and religion.

View all my reviews

Also check out Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s most recent novel, Americanah and the adaptation of her TED talk (yes, that one in that Beyonce song) into a new e-book, We Should All Be Feminists