ࡱ> prog bjbjVV Ar<r<?w4: ,LLL```8<,`09;;;;;;$f_L_LLtLL99[%0@L<__ : To give an account, with joy A writers statement Evie Hemphill ~ Let Emily sing for you because she cannot pray. Emily Dickinson "If I had to write a book to communicate what I was already thinking, I would never have the courage to begin. I only write a book because I don't know exactly what to think about this thing that I so much want to think about, so that the book transforms me and transforms what I think." Michel Foucault ~ I am learning that to write is not so much about accounting for the worldexplaining it, making sense of itas it is about the posture of giving an account. This distinction might sound at first like so much splitting of hairs or, worse still, like an idealized vision of the writers task as uniquely and purely courageous, noble, ethical. These associations are not my intended ones, and so some background with regard to what I mean is in order. As the above title states, I write to give an accountand to give it with joy. The phrase is not my own; it comes from the last vow in a set of church membership vows I affirmed with confidence when I joined my parents church in high school. The vows preceding this last one about giving an account asked specific questions about belief and religious commitment: Do you believe the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament to be the Word of God, the only infallible rule for faith and life? Do you believe in the one living and true GodFather, Son, and Holy Spirit, as revealed in the Scriptures? In case you should need correction in doctrine or life, do you promise to respect the authority and discipline of the church? But the last vow was different than these, so different that whenever a new person joined the church the very solemn look on his or her face would give way to a relieved smile at that concluding point in the public interview. I remember being able to breathe at that moment myself, the moment when Dad, the pastor, read, Do you make this profession of faith and purpose in the presence of God, in humble reliance upon His grace, desiring to give your account with joy at the Last Great Day? Yes, I did desire that, to give my account with joy. And I still do. There is something beautiful about that vow that has stuck with me, despite my breaking the other ones by eventually breaking ties with that church community, no longer able to affirm many orthodox Christian beliefs. The final vows focus on the making of ones profession and the giving of ones account points to the creative potentials and perils involved in being human, and, I think, in being a writer. To Give In a statement of plans that I drafted upon applying to the MFA program at ѿTV, I stressed my desire to put into action (or at least into powerful words) a deep longing for justice, for mercy, for shalom. Reading it two years later, I find that statement a bit nave and flat but still somewhat accurate in describing what I wish for literature to be. I often wonder about the concrete impact of words on a page. I wonder about the potential for my words to effect needed change in the world, and at times I wonder if my energies wouldnt be better directed in other avenues. For example, if I am concerned about increasingly polarized rhetoric in the public sphere, would it not be better to work as a politician? If I am interested in the quick decay of suburban retail developments, why not become a city engineer or community planner? Or if I am alarmed at the intense spiritual conflicts occurring among people of faith, doesnt it make more sense to go into the ministry and try to make things better? These persistent questions, however frustrating and even disillusioning now and then, have served to chasten my writing. I do want my writing to, for lack of a better phrase, contribute to the solutions rather than ignore or exacerbate the problems in society. And so I ask of my own and others work: What is this piece doing? What actions does this novel take? What does this essay offer, or give? At the very least, a piece of literature offers the reader a compelling reading experience (to paraphrase something I heard essayist John DAgata say recently in describing his own approach to nonfiction). This seems so obvious, yet its easy to lose sight of its primary importance. If a reader is not in some way compelled by a piece, she is less likely to keep reading it. A piece becomes artistically compellingpersuasive, fascinating, troubling and/or clarifyingthrough careful attention to both what is told and how it is told. For me to accomplish this requires careful attention to what is happening on the page and constant reflection about the choices Im making. In aiming to give a compelling reading experience, writing must do more than simply divert and keep ones attention, I think. Otherwise I worry that I may be approaching storytelling in a manner similar to the way the most despicable character in Jim Craces novel Quarantine approaches the art. Musa, the first-century merchant who in some ways symbolizes the devil in this retelling of Jesus 40 days in the desert, easily captures the attention of the other characters with his tales, no matter the topic. During one such tale-telling, the narrator observes that Musa has no point in telling the story but that Aphas and Marta didnt seem to care. They nodded to the story-teller to urge him on. This was better than any parable. It didnt matter that it had no point, except to make them wonder at the world. Musas storytelling certainly captures attention, but because it is devoid of all intent except a selfish pleasure on his part, it cannot be compelling in a very deep sense. While a piece of literature may not have an explicit point, it has reasons for being. It does matter. One of the aspects of writing that I find most challenging has to do with managing the interaction of nonfiction content and form during the drafting process. When my mind is most zoomed in on an issue or idea the work is exploring, that is often when I am also most at risk of neglecting the structure, the delivery, the style in which those issues or ideas take shape. The work is then in danger of becoming less interesting to the reader and, at the same time, precious in my own head. In simpler terms, I wind up telling more than showingand can have a difficult time switching back. With regard to my latest project, Babels Wake, this tendency showed up at various points in the drafting process, and one point in particular stands out. Throughout the year I spent writing the extended essay, I was receiving e-mails and letters and phone calls from evangelical friends and relatives deeply concerned over my spiritual state (and eternal fate), and I was regularly responding to them. I pored over these communications, finding them by turns disconcerting, angering, humorous and saddening. To me, the e-mail exchanges particularly embodied the sense of inevitable confusion and misunderstanding and hurt when two people with different sensitivities and presuppositions try to have a deep conversation. Identifying this found material as potentially relevant content was not the problem; the problem was that the choices I initially made in arranging that material were not sufficiently attentive to form. Looking back, I was so entranced by the telling theological exposition inherent in those e-mails that I opted to simply lay one e-mail excerpt beside another, corresponding one. Each communication segment began with either Received: or Sent: and then recorded a word-for-word paragraph (or two or three) from a given e-mail. This choice was not a good one in this case, as I quickly discovered based on consistently poor reviews when this section of the piece was workshopped. It was too much for readers to digest in such a raw state, and, in the end, just not that interesting, thus failing to give the reader a compelling reading experience. At the same time I had fallen a little bit in love with the content and became temporarily stuck in terms of revision. In contrast, I think I have been more successful in giving a compelling reading experience when I have loosened my grip on where the content is heading, allowing the work more space in which to muck about early on. One example of this occurs in a segment of Babels Wake inspired by an exchange with a friend over coffee. All I knew going into this part was that I wanted to play around with my friends remark that you either submit to the authority of the Bible, or youre left with relativism. While I probably originally intended to launch into a discussion of what is typically meant and implied by setting up such a binary, the following is what emerged in an early draft: It seems like you either submit to the authority of the Bible, or youre left with relativism, Matt offers near the end of our conversation. Do you know much about relativism? I look down, unsure how to meet Matts characteristically playful eyes, now shaded with warning, concern, urgency. Its quite a word, relativism. An overwhelming one, and overused, in my opinion. When I later look it up I cant find it in my compact Oxford dictionary. The entries skip from relative to relativity, but theres enough context to guess that relativism has something to do with a universe of interaction, the velocity of light, or with correspondence. Its a rather blanket term, I finally reply. People can mean a lot of different things by that idea. Matt checks the time. He has another appointment. He apologizes for having to cut the conversation off and suggests we walk the half block to his lunch meeting together. But we dont get much further. Any cogent lines of reasoning rapidly disappear on my end, fading in the presence of something I think we both feel, something unbidden and unspoken. By the time we reach the door of the restaurant, I am close to tears. Im sorry, I manage. It is less an apology than an attempt at a conclusion, at reaching some understanding. A better translation of the common phrase might be the Spanish onelo siento. Literally, I feel it. Because I was able in this case to direct my focus right away on which rhetorical moves (bits of dialogue, digression, translation) would make for a good read, it is more successful in piquing the readers interest. A strong piece of writing is marked by its ability to giveto give a vivid representation, to provide an experience that in some way transforms the reader. And this is one of the things I mean when I say I write in order to give my account. But I mean to say more than that, too. Through the action of writing, I also aim to give to, as opposed to take from, subjects, characters and the work of others. And finally, I aim to give in the sense of a letting go, giving way to, or pulling apart. The concern for giving to as opposed to taking from the subjects and people I portray has been particularly central to my thesis project. Its been necessary for me to frequently question my motives in recounting an unfortunate or incriminating conversation and to consider the ethical and aesthetic value of this or that scene or reflection. At a basic level, I puzzle over my decisions to include (in work I intend to publish) things said to me privately, things the speaker never expects to see repeated in print. Is that really fair of me, to consign to a much more permanent medium something originally communicated in more transitory form? I wonder if by doing so I perpetrate a kind of taking away from, or some kind of textual violence, against my fellows. My answers to these dilemmas vary, depending on the situation. In relation to the many uncomfortable scenes and bits of unhappy conversation included in my thesis, in most cases my justification for their presence in the piece rests on the need to show the limits of languageand its real effects when used to say something to another person. To return to the above excerpt as an example, I decided that I needed to include a snippet of my conversation over coffee with Matt for several reasons, despite my natural hesitation about it. Although I worried (and still do) that its inclusion would hurt or anger him or in some way misrepresent him or his remarks, I was also convinced that the relativism comment is an accurate representation of the either-or arguments that pepper a large portion of Christian apologetics. Additionally, I was convinced that the scene sufficiently (if sparsely) demonstrates his sincerity and friendly good will through several key details. I believe that sometimes the benefits of working with difficult and even potentially hurtful material outweigh the inherent risks. To give in an essay (once again as opposed to taking) requires a special care with ones subject and sources in addition to working carefully with real-life characters. Sloppy or mean-spirited caricature is just as much a possibility in characterizing an idea, debate or historical fact as it is in describing a person. John Calvin, and the vast tradition of Calvinism he spawned, is one such topic where I have felt mostly incapable, at least so far, of giving this care adequately, and of contributing to a robust understanding of what he and his followers have been about. Surprisingly (considering my Calvinist background), Calvin is almost entirely absent from my thesis, and this is not by accident. At times I have come close to explicitly discussing the harsh theology of predestination he outlined, or his almost saint-like place of honor among the Reformed circles in which I was raised, or his authorization of the burning of a heretic in Geneva, Switzerland, despite his supposedly enlightened, groundbreaking religious understanding. But something has kept me from going there, and I think its a good thing. I read Marilynne Robinsons Death of Adam a while back, particularly the sections where she attempts to redeem Calvins legacy. I was hoping that her generally positive take on the man and his ideas would serve to balance my more critical impressions. But too often I felt myself vehemently disagreeing with Robinson conclusions. For instance, while Robinson does concede that Calvins complicity in the heretics death is hardly his finest moment, she describes the mistake as relatively minor, comparing it to the multitude of such burnings happening within other traditions. And while I understood her point to be pertinent, Calvin appeared still too monstrous for me to deal confidently and accurately with him in Babels Wake. I think he would be too easy a scapegoat and might overshadow the more subtle tensions and threads that the piece really wants to be about. My point here (besides finally getting to give Calvin a bit of a personal jab after all, apparently) is that to significantly misrepresent or exaggerate those people and ideas that are in some way removed from or opposed to those I find convincing and complex will seldom contribute anything positive or useful to the conversation. In my own experience, such oversimplification and distortion does not amount to giving ones account well. When I am able to detect that a subject or figure is too unwieldy for me to handle with care, I let it go, at least for the time being. (With more research or a new angle it may become worth picking up again at a later date.) This tendency to oversimplify or distort is all too easy to succumb to when resources like the Internet suggest that there actually are lots of real-life straw men to be knocked over, that maybe things are truly that black and white, that cut and dry. Evangelical leader Pat Robertson really did say that Haiti got hit with the earthquake because of a pact with the devil centuries ago. And one of my pastors really did say from the pulpit that he doesnt think humanist theologian Desiderius Erasmus is in heaven today (I did decide to include that moment in my thesis). In these cases the question becomes one of considering whether this or that truly ridiculous argument or person is necessary to the piece, and why. I wondered, watching the airplay Robertsons embarrassing comments received, why he was being given so much time at the microphone. Every commentator expressed dismay and disgust, and rightly so. But of what use was it, really, to spend so much of the medias energy that sad night repudiating him? What was the point, other than to satisfy sheer curiosity and to make all of us ordinary citizens feel wonderfully altruistic in comparison to this freakish otherness of Robertson? Then again, one could argue that because Robertson is respected as prophetic and wise in some circles the negative attention was important and necessary after all. These are not easy questions to answer, and thats why I think its crucial to keep asking them, to stay aware of the difficulties they present. To keep considering what it means for an essay or a book to contribute to, rather than take from, the subjects at stake. A final way in which the word give gets at the action of writing an account is that an account must itself have some give. By this I mean a kind of flexibility, letting go, openness and the possibility of breaking open to reveal more. I want my written accounts to give way in the best sense of the term. DAgata hints at this aesthetic concern. He speaks of the essay form as a record of human wondering and suggests that essayists write in order to remain intellectually, emotionally, or spiritually awake against the full rumbling fury of the world. Elsewhere, having characterized the action of essaying as a kind of experiment, DAgata asks, Why bother conducting an experiment at all if you know what results it will yield? My writing maintains a quality of give, of flexibility, when I launch into it unsure of where the work is heading. I hit dead-ends now and then, but the possibilities that open up are worth the failed attempts. The work itself must have some give, and I must give it up, let it go, in the end, knowing I cannot ultimately control all that a reader will divine in the work. For example, in the section where I pair the question on the evangelists banner (What will you give in exchange for your soul?) with a silent question of my own in response (What will you give in exchange for a cookie?), will some readers sense only mockery and not the more complicated tone of both amusement and fear that I intend to get across in that moment? I must work to make my meaning and tone as precise as possible, but finally I must let it go. And I cannot take back the account. An Account By opening with the idea that writing may be more about the posture of giving ones account than about accounting for the world, Ive placed the emphasis of this statement about my work on the action and attitude of writing. But I do not mean to imply that Im not interested in writing as a thing, as a noun, or, as Im calling it, an account. Nor do I wish to suggest that writing is not partially about accounting for things, about explaining and making sense of what is. In fact, in beginning Babels Wake, a major impetus was my desire to be able to explain to myself why I could no longer believe in or commit to the religious tradition of my youth. I wanted to make sense of what was happening. I wanted to draft an account of this elusive thing. The word account denotes a great range of ideas depending on if its being used as a noun, as an idiom (as in call to account or on account of), or as a transitive or intransitive verb. The most basic definitions equate account with the idea of narrativea description of an event or situationand associate it with importance, value and money. Nearly all of the definitions are fitting when thinking about what I am after in giving a written account, perhaps especially a nonfiction account. What is essential to a nonfiction account? No doubt my experience and continuing interest in journalism impact my approach to the work Ive drafted in the last two years. Im struck by the seriousness of any attempt to represent factual material and lived experience, by the weightiness of such a task. This makes me naturally conservative, wary of misrepresenting a character, an idea, a conflict. Even as I recognize that a purely objective or accurate account is not possible, I think its important to aim for precision and truth. But this grounding principle doesnt have to be viewed as an unfortunate burden upon those who would venture to apply their talents to the art of nonfiction. While the genre does set some unique boundaries for writers, it also offers unique possibilities. The real stuff, the sorts of things that comprise the material from which nonfiction accounts emerge, are chockfull of creative potential. What MFA program director Beth Loffreda called an other nonfictions assignment in workshop last spring proved helpful in beginning to articulate this conviction about what nonfiction can do. I chose to compare nonfiction writing to the dancing art of clogging, finding the two to be surprisingly analogous in the kinds of materials used, in the purposes each activity sets out to accomplish and in their characteristic qualities (as well as in the ongoing squabbles among practitioners about what defines the art). Like nonfiction, clogging works with real, common, everyday materialsthings like the ordinary sounds and movements of shuffling, tapping and stomping. But what seems ordinary on one level becomes artful and significant when arranged by the clogger into a rhythmic, pulsing dance. There are innate limits to the art of clogginglaunching into a break dance full of back flips and spins might be interesting, but it wouldnt be clogging anymore. So too with nonfictionlaunching into a series of made-up news casts related to ones subject might be quite interesting, but it wouldnt be nonfiction anymore. Another limit to clogging is that the dancers upper body is supposed to remain quite still, even as the lower body is engaged in rapid footwork. This energetic restraint that characterizes the art of clogging also characterizes nonfiction in many ways. I like to think that an energetic restraint appears in the ways Ive structured and threaded my thesis project. Often, the things that have eventually made for the best pivots and threads have presented themselves to me in ordinary, unremarkable forms at firstan email that makes an impression, one of my meager attempts at fiction, an old journal entry, a photograph, a classroom discussion, a taped sermon, or even my own name. On its own, any of these bits of information or material can only do so much. But in placing those individual materials in conversation with one another in interesting ways over the course of my novella-length essay, I transform the materials into something more. As an example, consider the following consecutive segments: A best friend forwards me a note from her mother who is praying for me. Today, as I've thought about and prayed for Evie, I was struck by the thought that another voice is playing a role here. I thought of Satan's words to Eve in the Garden and was overwhelmed by the thought that Evie is being faced with the same battle Trusting that Evie is born again, as I believe, then is the huge voice of doubt and accusation coming from the Serpent? Is Evie able to identify Satan's voice? I neglect to answer these questions; I am not confident that I can identify supernatural voices, for I have never heard one before. What will you give in exchange for your soul? Three times a week I walk past the evangelists table in the student union, with its banner announcing this question in bold lettering. Sometimes I come very close to approaching the display and talking to the man. I want to attempt a conversation. While each of the two portions is already interesting on its own, I intend as the writer for the two together to become more interesting because of the juxtaposition. It is no accident that I have just mentioned never hearing a supernatural voice before when I include a new voice all of a sudden, unannounced, asking what I will give in exchange for my soul. While I am not making the evangelists posted question into something it is not, I am trying to get the reader to connect the question with the idea of a supernatural, unidentified voice, thus echoing the questions in the e-mail and evoking a sinister, mysterious quality behind the posted question. While that quality might come through even without the prior segment up against it, the tone, the ideas and the thematic arc are strengthened significantly by the combination. In turn, the entire account becomes a more powerful narrative. But waitis the account I give in Babels Wake actually a narrative, a story? Its basically composed of disparate anecdotes and meditative chunks and biblical exegesis. Does it really fit inside the narrative category? I mostly speak of my non-linear account as an extended essay, sometimes adding that its a lyric essay, though Im not sure my work is as lyrical as Id like it to be. But is it also a narrative? I would argue that it is, for it seems to me to be the very kind of story that we tell ourselves in order to live, as Joan Didion memorably puts it. I hesitate to admit it, but I think I needed to write this thesis. There was something therapeutic about it, about making some sense out of my experience of spiritual cacophony. So far, the stories I am capable of telling are not obviously exciting or action-packed. I cannot write a tell-all. I do not have access to the necessary material to write such memoir, even if I wanted to. What I am capable of, and most interested in, is arranging into challenging, appealing prose the seemingly ordinary things that fascinate, obsess, confuse and assail me. I want to make a new account of these things, these things that wont let me go. Things like a record of a god in the Bible talking to other gods about the threat that humans are becoming. Things like a hard conversation with my grandmother. Things like realizing I own the same hat as the campus evangelists daughter. Emily Dickinson, in a letter just prior to her death, reinterprets the Old Testament story of Jacob wrestling with an angel one night: Jacob said to the Angel, I will not let thee go except I bless theePugilist and Poet, Jacob was correct. Dickinsons revision of the original story (in which Jacob insists that the angel bless him, not the other way around) inspires me to a certain tenacity in giving my account, especially an account like Babels Wake. It is worth it to hang on, to not let go of the things that take captive my imagination, until I bless them in some way. Dickinson calls Jacob a pugilist, a wrestler, as well as a poet. The kind of prose account I am most interested in writing is one that wrestleswith questions, with doubt, with loss, with love. This thesis, because it is an account of my crisis of faith, has especially embodied for me the potentials and perils involved in the desire to give my account, in being a writer, and in simply being human. In this particular case the account is explicitly connected in a variety of ways to the church vow I mentioned earlier as the inspiration for this entire statement. Id like to view Babels Wake as a kind of lingering faithfulness, in some unorthodox way, to that public commitment before God and the church. With Joy I write because I want to give an account. I also want to give that account with joy, as my title suggests. But what do I mean by that specifically, especially considering that there is a strong sense of lament and reminiscence in much of my material so far? I certainly dont mean things on the page have to be cheery and happy and fun. On the contrary, many of the books I have found to be most rich are punctuated with difficult things, books like Gilead, Dont Let Me Be Lonely, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, The Heaven of Mercury, Fun Home and Cold Sassy Tree. A truly joyous book, I think, is one that provides the reader with, to borrow from Robert Frost, a momentary stay against confusion. This is how Frost describes the work of poetry specifically, but I think its appropriate to great prose as well, even when its disturbing. Philip Gourevitch notes early on in We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families that the best reason he can come up with for exploring subjects as bleak as Rwandan genocide is that ignoring them makes [him] even more uncomfortable about existence and [his] place in it. Gourevitchs reason for writing is both dark and modest, and perhaps he would balk at my argument here, but the giving of his account remains a positive thing for a reader, and in this way brings with it a kind of joy. In my own work, giving an account with joy requires aiming for a certain gladness even within the most troubling sequences. Something beyond sheer anger, sorrow or befuddlement must be at work in them. More than anything, I want to communicate something of worth to the reader, even if the contents are distressing. The decision to communicate, to offer up that something, is at least a decision not to remain silent or indifferent. Perhaps, as I note near the end of Babels Wake, like Dickinson, we are allowed to simply sing, or weep, if and when we cannot seem to pray. Probably the single most difficult task, once the project was well underway and I knew there was no turning back, was figuring out how to continue to view it as a worthwhile, constructive activity, as something I could complete with real joy. I returned often to words of encouragement from faculty and other readers, words that helped to keep me from dismissing my insistent questions about faith, my rather obsessive dissecting of fear and uncertainty, and finally the writing itself as a destructive endeavor. I havent been sure how I would make it, and Im grateful to those that spurred me on. ~ There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak Ecclesiastes ~  The Constitution of the Reformed Presbyterian Church of North America. Pittsburgh, Crown & Covenant Publications: 1989. G-1, 2.  See page 74 in Quarantine.  I dont mean to divorce form and content herethat would be an artificial dissection, for the two overlap each others boundaries inextricably. Susan Sontag noted in 1961 that it is still assumed that a work of art is its content that a work of art by definition says something (Against Interpretation 4). She suggests that greater attention to form can preserve the luminousness of the thing itself, of things being what they are (12, 13).  See page 28.  For example, the phrases something I think we both feel and characteristically playful eyes, now shaded with warning, urgency, concern serve to round out the characters brief portrait.  See page 20 in The Death of Adam: Essays on Modern Thought.  CNN and other networks covered this story the night of the catastrophe (Pat Robertson says Haiti paying for pact with the devil ).  These quotations are taken from The Next American Essay.  See pages 17 and 18.     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