National Writing Project @ The University of Virginia's College at Wise
The Miracle of Writing: Afterthoughts On a Day With Silas House
The Miracle of Writing
(written October 6, 2007)
There are times in your life when you realize it is a miracle that you are in the right place at the right time. The divining rod of destiny strikes a delicate chord, and if you are attuned, you discover yourself participating in a venture that changes your life.
Today was a divining day, one of several this week, unique and at decibels that cannot be ignored by angels or by the human spirit. Some may call it Divine Intervention or Divine Inspiration, but I like to think of it as God’s willingness to bestow divining practice.
I heard Silas House today. I heard him right down to the deepest shadows of my soul. I know because I reacted to his presence on many subliminal levels. It was not his celebrity—but the way he put words together, how I reacted to his voice as he read his own work, and how it affected my writer’s voice—that had me scribbling in my tiny spiral notebook even though I was mesmerized. At the end of the event, I had an hour- long drive from the University of Virginia at Wise campus to my home in Abingdon, Virginia. No radio. No book on tape. No dictating. No thinking. Just me in realization’s solitude and the unusually hot summery breath of October as I clocked the miles.
I happened on a train of thought as to why I react as I do to unusual food packaging, best selling authors, and snippets of strangers’ conversations when they think nobody else is listening. It came at me like a fast train in a mountain tunnel that I am a far different listener, observer, reader, and writer than I was three years ago. The irony here is that people who don’t truly understand what drives me sought to take away all they presumed I care about. They took away potential power, money, and the ability to help others jump the hurdles of literacy research. They took away the things that matter to them and left me with the bare basics—listening to people, reading, thinking, and writing. Their efforts did hurt me deeply, but from the pain there has been the rebirth of fresh ideas and dreams. You see, after my first year of teaching, I was invited to be a member of the Appalachian Writing Project’s Cohort Four—the Writers’ Brigade.
There have been many miracles in my life. There’s the one where being the oldest child in a nomadic military family taught me to pay attention to the essence of time and place. The miracle of my own family counts for a lot, as does having a second chance at college and teaching. Compared to these benchmarks, most folks wouldn’t consider a writing group significant, but I’ll be the first to sing serious a Capella praises.
The Appalachian Project facilitated my literary quest outside the realm of undergraduate work at Emory & Henry College. All those angry poems discovered peace. A single July full of potent narratives and essays in the company of new friends helped transform me so I could discern where I am from. Guidance in planning presentations founded on legitimate research has proved priceless. Curriculum design has been my writing passion the past three years, and it is with great pride that I can say I no longer vomit five minutes before stepping onto a stage to present research or a lesson, as was the case when I was on forensics and one-act play teams. Perhaps no one on the inside circle notices subtle changes in my veneer, but to me, it has meant my freedom to create. The only thing I like better than sharing my ideas with the students I teach and the educators I mentor is the divining power of writing.
My life has been changed forever, not by those I work for or by the popular authors I befriend as regular people with the gift of words, but by the Appalachian Writing Project that has made it possible for me to see the value of writing every day for a purpose, with creativity and discipline and have the courage to share my thoughts and ideas with others. When I listen to authors like Lee Smith, Sharyn McCrumb, and Silas House, I hear their beautiful way with words, but I also hear my own voice, likely prodded by the divining rod. When I see unusually packaged lunches, my mind takes the visual aid and runs with it because it is an excuse to dream up a lesson for my classroom. And when I cross from Washington County into Russell County near the backside of Little Mountain at the edge of Poor Valley, a peace overcomes me, for it is the way to Wise. It is the way to the tranquility that the Appalachian Writing Project divined on my behalf.
If a person has no peace, no divining entity to infuse summer into the coldest of days, no alliteration or metaphor to cadence each breath, then the Appalachian Writing Project is likely freedom’s ring, an antecedent, a divining rod.
(written October 6, 2007)
There are times in your life when you realize it is a miracle that you are in the right place at the right time. The divining rod of destiny strikes a delicate chord, and if you are attuned, you discover yourself participating in a venture that changes your life.
Today was a divining day, one of several this week, unique and at decibels that cannot be ignored by angels or by the human spirit. Some may call it Divine Intervention or Divine Inspiration, but I like to think of it as God’s willingness to bestow divining practice.
I heard Silas House today. I heard him right down to the deepest shadows of my soul. I know because I reacted to his presence on many subliminal levels. It was not his celebrity—but the way he put words together, how I reacted to his voice as he read his own work, and how it affected my writer’s voice—that had me scribbling in my tiny spiral notebook even though I was mesmerized. At the end of the event, I had an hour- long drive from the University of Virginia at Wise campus to my home in Abingdon, Virginia. No radio. No book on tape. No dictating. No thinking. Just me in realization’s solitude and the unusually hot summery breath of October as I clocked the miles.
I happened on a train of thought as to why I react as I do to unusual food packaging, best selling authors, and snippets of strangers’ conversations when they think nobody else is listening. It came at me like a fast train in a mountain tunnel that I am a far different listener, observer, reader, and writer than I was three years ago. The irony here is that people who don’t truly understand what drives me sought to take away all they presumed I care about. They took away potential power, money, and the ability to help others jump the hurdles of literacy research. They took away the things that matter to them and left me with the bare basics—listening to people, reading, thinking, and writing. Their efforts did hurt me deeply, but from the pain there has been the rebirth of fresh ideas and dreams. You see, after my first year of teaching, I was invited to be a member of the Appalachian Writing Project’s Cohort Four—the Writers’ Brigade.
There have been many miracles in my life. There’s the one where being the oldest child in a nomadic military family taught me to pay attention to the essence of time and place. The miracle of my own family counts for a lot, as does having a second chance at college and teaching. Compared to these benchmarks, most folks wouldn’t consider a writing group significant, but I’ll be the first to sing serious a Capella praises.
The Appalachian Project facilitated my literary quest outside the realm of undergraduate work at Emory & Henry College. All those angry poems discovered peace. A single July full of potent narratives and essays in the company of new friends helped transform me so I could discern where I am from. Guidance in planning presentations founded on legitimate research has proved priceless. Curriculum design has been my writing passion the past three years, and it is with great pride that I can say I no longer vomit five minutes before stepping onto a stage to present research or a lesson, as was the case when I was on forensics and one-act play teams. Perhaps no one on the inside circle notices subtle changes in my veneer, but to me, it has meant my freedom to create. The only thing I like better than sharing my ideas with the students I teach and the educators I mentor is the divining power of writing.
My life has been changed forever, not by those I work for or by the popular authors I befriend as regular people with the gift of words, but by the Appalachian Writing Project that has made it possible for me to see the value of writing every day for a purpose, with creativity and discipline and have the courage to share my thoughts and ideas with others. When I listen to authors like Lee Smith, Sharyn McCrumb, and Silas House, I hear their beautiful way with words, but I also hear my own voice, likely prodded by the divining rod. When I see unusually packaged lunches, my mind takes the visual aid and runs with it because it is an excuse to dream up a lesson for my classroom. And when I cross from Washington County into Russell County near the backside of Little Mountain at the edge of Poor Valley, a peace overcomes me, for it is the way to Wise. It is the way to the tranquility that the Appalachian Writing Project divined on my behalf.
If a person has no peace, no divining entity to infuse summer into the coldest of days, no alliteration or metaphor to cadence each breath, then the Appalachian Writing Project is likely freedom’s ring, an antecedent, a divining rod.
Comment
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Comment by Susan Hampton on May 18, 2009 at 8:47am - Hello, Liz! The name Silas House first captured my eye with your post, then I realized, "Hey, I know this person. It's Liz!" You'll remember me as Susan Peters from high school. I am excited that I will be attending the AWP this summer! It sounds like a great opportunity to grow as a writer and as an educator. My step-son, Michael, is good friends with Silas House. Michael has his masters degree in writing and currently teaches at UC at Clairemont. It's wonderful to know that you are part of the AWP group!
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