Tag: writing

History, Random Rants

Inky Adventures & Scribbling Women

Tina Stewart Brakebill

The phrase “Inky Adventures” reminds me of Nathanial Hawthorne’s famous 1855 diatribe on female writers: “America is now wholly given over to a damned mob of scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the public taste is occupied with their trash-and should be ashamed of myself if I did succeed.” Admittedly I’ve always found his work a bit too heavy-handed on the moral symbolism scale, so saying “screw you Nat” wasn’t hard for me. Plus, his hissy fit seems a bit ridiculous given that he was a highly celebrated and successful author at the time. But his whining does provide a great example of the extent of the fragile male ego. He was horrified by the idea that “his” space as an author should be shared (or even slightly usurped) by a woman. He saw it as an affront to HIS definition of the craft and by extension himself. Of course, he wasn’t (and isn’t) alone in that view. This male-centric attitude continues to shape the writing world in a variety of important ways including who gets published, who gets reviewed, and who writes the reviews. Statistically, the answer to all three of those “who” questions is MEN, despite the fact that more women exist, women read more, and studies show that women prefer to read books by women. Doesn’t seem like a smart marketing strategy to me. But what do I know, I’m just a girl. (Sarcasm detector BLARING!)

But I digress. I was ruminating on inky adventures and Nat Hawthorne’s scribbling women. Good ole Nat didn’t intend it to be a compliment, but like “bitch” and “slut” I choose to reclaim it as an empowering phrase. I love the images it conjures in my head. Women—all kinds of women—grabbing moments to scribble down their thoughts. Spending their days and nights working and then staying up a bit longer to write by the light of a single flickering candle. Or rising before dawn to plot out a story by the lone gaslight while the dough rises or before it’s time to milk the cows. Making a space. Putting their hopes and dreams and imagination on paper. Finding the perfect words to convey an image or a narrative or an idea. In this age of technology and relative freedom, it’s easy to forget that simply having the ability or the tools to “scribble” wasn’t a given for many women. Masters denied enslaved women the right to read or write. Poor women often didn’t have the funds to purchase paper or pencils. Middle-class women feared stepping across the boundaries dictating women’s “proper” conduct. “Scribbling” was an act of defiance. It was (to bring this conversation back around) an Inky Adventure.

When I was a practicing historian (instead of a “used to be”), I spent a lot of time researching and writing about ordinary women defying expectations. Women like Celestia Rice Colby. As a (sometimes) hopeful writer, she wanted to be one of those “scribbling women” disparaged by Nat. But like many women of her time, she was only allowed to scribble in the rare down moments of her very long days. This reality weighed heavy on her mind and spirit. “Have done nothing of any account. Made cheese and finished my dairy work, got Rose asleep and sat down with my pen but the thoughts that kept bubbling up when bending over the cheese vat, would not come. So I could not write…. So the day has passed. I have read none, wrote but two pages; the rest has been work, work. But it is one of the days of my life, and has passed as most of my days do; yet it saddens me to think it is gone, and that thus the succeeding ones will go and leave no worthy trace behind.” (Circumstances are destiny by Tina Stewart Brakebill)

It’s a timeless thought: that idea of a “worthy trace,” a legacy. I don’t know if any of my writing will stand the test of time but I do know that I find inspiration in all those “scribbling women.” I too want to leave a “worthy trace.” But their stories also remind me NOT to take my luck for granted. I was born here and now. I get to do what I love. And the people who love me support my efforts. I still complain and doubt myself. But when I’m having a particularly bad day, I remember Celestia Rice Colby. If I had been born in another place and time, her words could have been mine: “I can only muse and dream impossibilities.” But I am here NOW in this place, so I mentally shake myself off. Then I sit back down with my notebook and I scribble, while I muse and dream POSSIBILITIES.

 

Thanks for the inspiration Putting My Feet in the Dirt

 

History, Random Rants, tutto e niente

Seeing Like a Writer: How Do I Separate Facts for Fiction?

Tina Stewart Brakebill

Living in a city provides a constant stream of interesting sights. A thirty-something white woman walks down the street wearing only an oversized t-shirt and a pair of Converse high tops. A possibly biracial teenager on a skateboard rolls past me and I hear him say (in a rather joyous tone) “fuck you” to whomever he’s talking to on his phone. At my gym, an African American man works out every morning by himself in khaki pants and work boots. An elderly white woman orders a coffee and a muffin and then spends the next hour reading a hardback copy of Stephen King’s “Misery” An Asian man in a cowboy hat stands at the bar drinking an IPA at the local pub. Two white girls (hair and make-up nearly identical in style and application) stride effortlessly down the sidewalk in their platform heeled sandals while they both stare directly at their phones.

I have a writing friend / accountability partner / bitch session buddy that thrives on sights like these. She sees them as a this kind of inspiration. I often find myself wishing that I saw the world more like her. In my mind, her perspective on the world is how a “real” writer looks at things. I know that most fiction writers see these random sightings as more than just “hey look at that” moments. They’ll take note in their mental (or actual) writing notebooks because they know these glimpses can be used as a muse on which to build characters and/or stories. I envy those writers and their ability to mine reality for fiction’s sake. In my prior life, I was a history professor and a writer of history. Historians don’t make stuff up. I’m still a writer and for some of my work, truth still reigns—personal essays and biographical sketches, for example. But I have also started writing fiction. So for the first time in my writing career, I’m grappling with the notion of seeing a person as a character in my story, rather than their own.

More than once, this struggle has led me to doubt whether I can make that leap from nonfiction to fiction. Some days it feels too far. As an historian, I see the woman in the t-shirt or the black man in the gym and my first thought is to understand their context. How did they get here? What events and experiences led them to this place and this moment? What role does their race, their class, and their gender play in how their story unfolded? How do they represent themselves as individuals while also serving to illuminate something bigger? In short, I want to understand THEIR story. Which is why I became an historian. I wanted to tell other people’s stories.

But now? Now, I also want to tell my own stories. But, can I be an authentic fiction writer if I don’t see people as potential fuel for MY stories. To succeed, does my perspective have to change? Must I extract the person from their own experience to serve mine? Must I look at that old woman in the coffee shop and see her impeccable style and horror-story tastes only as a perfect character in my latest manuscript? If the answer is yes, then I need to find a kaleidoscope in my mind. Just a little twist and I’ll see things differently. I will be able to separate a bit of fact for the sake of fiction. I’ll observe that old woman in the coffee shop and take what I want for my story. I won’t need to understand her story. I’ll have my own. Just a little twist.

But I’m still waiting.

I write, but I also wait. Wait for the kaleidoscope to twist. Wait for my brain to quit doubting. Waiting to quit wanting to understand.

Other days, I write but I also worry. Am I failing? Failing to think like a fiction writer? Failing as a fiction writer? Failing myself by concocting a clever procrastination ruse? Failing as an historian by making stuff up? Am I failing?

Maybe someday, I’ll quit waiting and worrying and just write?!

 

 

 

Random Rants, tutto e niente

People of St Pete: Barbara Riddle Dvorak

Tina Stewart Brakebill

I recently moved to St Pete with my wonderful partner and I absolutely love it here! The reasons why are numerous. St Pete has fabulous weather, beautiful vistas, a world-class food scene, and a thriving cultural atmosphere. But I’ve found that it’s truly the people that make it special, especially those people I see every day—the store clerks and wait-staff, the bus drivers and baristas, the postal workers and park staff, the custodians and teachers. It’s easy to take these folks for granted but I know that each of them has a story. Those of you that know me, know that I LOVE to write about people and their stories. I’m lucky that a local magazine–Green Bench Monthly–is giving me a chance to do just that with a new column called “People of St Pete.”

This month, I talked with a fabulous woman named Barbara Riddle Dvorak. Like me she’s a writer and fiery feminist. She loves movies and her cat and her daughter (not necessarily in that order!) Interviewing her was loads of fun and we have become great friends. She is helping me to be more optimistic and I am helping her embrace her inner dark side! Head on over to Green Bench Monthly to read more about her. People of St Pete-Barbara Riddle Dvorak