Kevin Fitton, a former student of mine,  contacted me recently to tell  he’s been writing. I have so enjoyed our correspondence, I’ve decided to post one of his letters (with his permission) as my first guest blog.

Kevin pastors and is the author of a forthcoming children’s book, Higher Ground, the story of a Vermont dairy farm which lost part of its herd in the flooding that followed Hurricane Irene.  The publisher is The Radiant Hen, and will be illustrated by award winning artist Mary Azarian.

Kevin Fitton reflects here in his letter to me on his experience as an undergrad in the Hope College creative writing program—what he learned, what he wished he’d learned, and what he knows now.

LESSON #1:  SURFACE ACTION VS. UNDERLYING MEANING.

I’m not sure why I had so much trouble grasping the difference between the surface level of action which is propelling the story forward versus the underlying meaning which gives the story its emotional resonance.  But clearly, I didn’t grasp the difference.  And I suppose, based on the stuff my peers were writing, they didn’t really get it either.  At some point, perhaps several years after leaving Hope, I recalled you saying, “Your character has to have a project.”  Somehow, that began to make sense to me.  For example, I recently wrote a story that was about a young man who, more than anything else, needed to grow up and learn to see outside himself.  This time, though, I gave him a project.  He decided that he wanted to become a farmer, and it was as he headed out on this journey that he began to understand (in some ways) that his view of the world was both idealistic and narcissistic.  I am also currently working on a story about a divorced man who is trying to re-discover a sense of purpose in his life.  For this story, I used a day-in-the-life structure where he decides with a friend that they are going to “get laid” before the end of the year.  And, of course, while he doesn’t find what he thinks he’s looking for, he does find something of what he needs.

If I were sitting in a classroom with students, I suppose the most helpful thing I could do for them would be to layer example upon example in an attempt to illustrate the difference between the action and the meaning of the story.  I know you did this with us, but for some reason it is very difficult to penetrate the brain of the student-writer.  This is something else which I am coming to see that I couldn’t wrap my mind around 10 years ago: the student writer is, most often, in love with language, and is interested in shaping words, phrases, and scenes, but does not want to respond to the needs of the reader .  For the student writer, to focus on the needs of the reader feels like selling out.  This, then, is another thing that I would seek to communicate to student-writers: that the writer must write for the reader rather than for the self.  Writing is a form of communication, and good communication is something which speaks to its audience.  I would tell student writers that writing for the self (aside from journaling, perhaps) is selfish, that it misses the point, and forgets that we all began are journey into writing as readers.

Furthermore, to write and make a connection with an audience is deeply rewarding.  My first book is a children’s picture book.  This is not a form that I was interested in until I began reading books to my own children.  When I began reading with my children, two thoughts occurred to me.  The first is that I was discovering some great writing in some of these books.  Of course, some of the writing is atrocious, but some is fantastic.  And I realized, as I worked through this whole library of books, that what I loved more than anything isn’t the high and mighty novel but the well-told story.  Great stories make me want to leap out of my seat even (or perhaps especially) when that story is simple enough to be understood by a 3-year-old.

My other discover in coming to kids’ books (we’re now into a lot of chapter books with my 5-year-old) is that kids are a great audience for writers because they read.  Adults are often too busy, too self-important, too worried to sit down and read a good book, especially a book that does “nothing more” than tell a story.  I began writing stories for children, then, because I wanted to find an audience, and I have to say, having an audience has made me a better writer, and it has made my writing much more fulfilling.  Of course, a book doesn’t have to be published to be worthwhile; a story doesn’t have to be picked up by the New England Review to have merit.  That’s not the point.  The point is that the audience is an important part of this equation, and writers should write toward an audience, because that orientation will benefit their writing as well as complete the process through which the story is intended to travel.

One of my goals these days is to write well, to work my piece until it is truly ready for an audience (which always takes more effort than we anticipate), and then to find some sort of home for that piece, where it will be read.  Maybe it will end up with Houghton-Mifflin; maybe it will end up in the smallest of all literary journals; maybe it will be read at a campfire among a group of friends.  The point is that I no longer write for my self but write, as much as possible, so that the process is completed by telling really good stories and finding a place where those stories will be shared.

I talk to my student writers about mystery and confusion, having learned from  both Jerome Stern and Bill Cobb to think about these false twins.

So I was thrilled to get the following email from my poet friend E, during her insomnia:

“We feel deeply intimate with what we do not fully comprehend—a feeling that is commonplace in human life (we often call it love) but rare in our experience of art because we expect to be the master of the poem we read. Mystery, says this poem, is a far more humane condition than mastery. And mystery, which depends on clarity, is the opposite of confusion.”  –Longenbach.

Mystery, which depends on clarity, is the opposite of confusion.

Mysterious things:

God.

Art.

Solitude.

The ocean.

Love.

Death.

Music.

A dog riding a bicycle in the ballet.

Confusing things:

Jealousy

Meat, cereal.

Fences.

Parades.

Dust

Happy endings

Death.

Sleepwalking.

“What is more yours than what always holds you back?”  –James Richardson

In a beautiful old carriage house, I attended a poetry reading by James Richardson, National Book Award finalist, and have been reading, absorbing, his new book, Poems and Aphorisms. He reads so beautifully: like a combination of Bob Newhart and Marcus Aurelius. It was such a great reading and I’m going to press his work on my students.

Elaine Sexton read at St. Paul’s chapel as part of the Bach At One (Bach atone!) series and my friend S wept and I had Kleenex.  Everything in this chapel, which has become a 9/11 memorial, is shadowed. Elaine’s work is so pure, the light came out of her mouth. 

I think of my favorite poems as really perfect essays, essays compressed. I always know where I am in Elaine’s work, and she teaches me something. I want that from poems.  James Richardson calls some of his poems “ten second essays.” Poetry = beauty + learning.