Recently, I went to Lincoln Center to see two plays under the aegis of “DruidMurphy”. Much to my chagrin, I was singularly unprepared. These plays were about emigration, about leaving and staying behind. Imagine a knife being plunged repeatedly into tender flesh and then being twisted slowly. I know! Not nice. Imagine a theatre full of people squirming on the edges of their seats. And I’ve often wondered about this thing referred to as bated breath. Now I know.

The Druid Theatre Company from Galway, in the West of Ireland, is world famous in the theatre world for their interpretations of Irish playwrights. It is led by Garry Hynes, the only woman to win a Tony for Best Director. (The Beauty Queen of Leenane). Now they have taken the plays of the often overlooked Irishman, Tom Murphy and beaten me over the head with them.

Years ago, the unoccupied office next door to me had it’s door closed for a few days and while we knew there was someone in there, we never saw or heard the person. A mystery man? Maybe. Eventually, we were told it had been Mr. Murphy, working on changes to a play being produced in NYC. He needed peace and quiet. (Don’t we all?)

Mind you, I don’t think there will be much peace and quiet for me having seen these two plays, especially “Conversations.” I’m in turmoil ever since. I thought emigration was about those who left. According to Longfellow and now Mr. Murphy, it seems it’s more about those who stayed behind. They’re the heroes as they didn’t leave. Where does that leave the rest of us?

A couple of years ago I brought my two oldest grandchildren back to my hometown in Ireland. We walked up one side of the Main Street and down the other, stopping only for ice-cream. Much to my surprise and disappointment I knew no one and worse still, no one knew me. Colin, then 5, asked me if I was from here. The only answer I could think of was “I used to be.”

Both plays were greeted with rousing ovations but after the curtain calls the audiences sat unwilling or unable to get out of their seats. One night I turned to the stranger on my left who was dabbing her eyes. She looked Irish, shrugged her shoulders and tried to smile. She even offered me a tissue.

Another night I spoke to a couple on the train heading downtown, one Irish and the other Asian. We had the Playbill in common and we yakked all the way to Penn Station. I don’t recall what we said, we just needed to talk to someone. Anyone.
So, maybe I am an emigrant, after all. I must tell my family, but they probably suspected that all along.

**”Conversations on a Homecoming” is a play by Tom Murphy.

No more do I read beneath the covers, Nancy Drew and I huddled in the teepee of my knees in the circle of an ever-dimming flashlight that needed a good shake to keep going.

Yet, the wonder of reading in secret, in the dark, until something moves off the page into me, still thrills.   How close is that to the act of writing?

I read for the moment when I connect to the writer’s pleasure in what he or she has achieved – that makes me jump to the computer and my work.  Carefully chosen words spill secrets. They are fearless. They neither hide nor distract behind empty, beautiful prose, lost in its own reflection. They write through the walls. That is what I learn from good writing now.

I learn by figuratively putting my fingers on the words of an author I admire in the way a child is introduced to the piano keyboard, for the feel of it – a rare osmosis – can art travel this way?  In giving myself over to the words of another is the hope that I will recognize a way into my own work.  It is the sharpening of my ability to discern craft within beauty that lets me know I have struck gold. I read to write.

Here’s the thing: I take all of my MFA classes in Manhattan—seventeen credits so far. I’ve figured out the rhythm of riding the N train to 23^rd Street, walking to 27^th, taking the elevator to the 3^rd floor, saying hello to George, workshopping a few pieces while staring at the Empire State Building, and going home. I’ve learned a lot about my own writing over the past year, and I’ve tried to become as much a part of “the program” as possible. I also managed to fend off the constant questions about my summer attendance with my usual vague silence.

In the end, I decided to pay you a visit, Southampton. Three credits in five days sounded like a good deal, and though I like the city, I don’t love the city. A chance to get out is always a welcomed break. Like I said, I thought we’d have our fun. But fun wasn’t good enough for you. You had to wear me down and withhold sleep, only so you could pick me up, give me too much coffee, then a few beers, and convince me that it was all for the greater good of my artistic character. Of course, you were right. You just needed to get my attention; you knew what I needed, and I didn’t know what I was missing. The whole thing felt like an initiation to a secret society or a support group for mildly dysfunctional artists. Or maybe just a welcoming family.

All I’m really trying to say, Southampton, is that you turned out to be much more than I expected. You are a community of inspiration, and I’m lucky that you’d consider me one of your own. Thank you.

-Patrick Dunn – http://www.patrickdunnmusic.com

Embarrassed, I asked. “Who is he?”

My bad. For the past decade as a journalist, I was knee-deep in diapers then driving an Odyssey around Syosset, chasing three kids through childhood. I lived among the Joneses, watching folks keep up. I read novels—but cop procedurals were not on my nightstand. Two words “Exit Wounds” developed that photo.

I signed up for Plot and Pacing and Googled. Jeez!  Westermann will skewer me. We’re opposites.

Born at the dawn of Gen X, my mantra is don’t f*cking tell me what to do. Westermann’s from that generation—the golden Baby Boomers who paved the way.

Some stuff I’ve done:  wrote women’s articles with an indignant fist in the air (maiden name—yup); snuffed out a relationship with a “111th” precinct, anti-crime cop honored for catching bullets in his teeth; raised by Ronald Reagan-devotees (raised, not am) AND…I don’t like sports.

Perfect!

John Westermann and I will have a lot to discuss on my way to the slaughterhouse. Bite my tongue, bite my tongue. Learn, grow, dig this novel out of me once and for all. I will survive, come out alive, I will write better.

I was dealing with an athlete, retired cop turned gritty novelist…a life of quick reflexes and judgment calls. Cops size up folks fast—are all about physical energy. Mis-managed it, lose an eye or your life. Power’s in the containment.

They know what you’ll do when the shit-hits-the-fan better than your rehearsed crisis management game plan. Strategies play like movies in their mind…. If this happens, go left…if that…right. if he goes for his gun, I’m dropping to my knees… and rolling, up and out that door in a minute. No elevator, hop down three steps at once…

Dating “the cop,” in public, gun strapped to his ankle, he always sat against the wall facing the door. Never turn your back on anyone. Never leave yourself vulnerable. Never show weakness.

It all came back.

Dragging the novel out of the drawer, again, I pulled on my bulletproof vest and rode the Manhattan-bound train. I clunked the loose-leaf binder that bound my novel, X Marks the Spot, and five years of work onto the conference table. I flipped pages – no, yes—maybe. Ah, the beginning. I’m having trouble with the beginning…I read and got to…

“So, Roy’s a piece of work, huh?”  Peter said as the bartender brought our beers, carefully positioning the round bottles on the square coasters. I reached for my pocketbook…

Blathering on, losing my way, I realized—I had just turned my back. He sensed it.

“You know what that sentence is like?  The juice ain’t worth the squeeze,” he said.

What? Who was this guy? I was paying for this! He talks like a Damon Runyon character. I criticize myself enough internally. I don’t care if it was written in Sanskrit—give value-added comments – please!  Chris Byrd was going down.

But, Westermann was right. It’s a long way to the punch line and wasn’t worth the effort; red-penned that line.

We hit the streets, he, full of energy at 6 foot 3ish; me, huffing and puffing to keep up as he strode through the tip of Manhattan’s garment district.

“Penn Station. You, too?” I asked. He slowed his pace to mine.

Did I have to ride on the same train? Suffer the humiliation? I just wanted to go home, sulk, burn the manuscript, hide.

You know, I believe in things—things we can’t explain. Something said: follow. So, I did.

“Do you know so-and-so from Syosset?”  Yes, actually out of the 20,000 who live there and thousands who had blown through, I did know that ONE person. “My sister’s friend.”

“Nope, I’m not a Dead head.”  But, a patchouli-wearing music-obsessed woman.

Read his novels (read your teacher’s work. These people did it.  Don’t you want to learn how firsthand?)  Found it all: the physicality, alert, heighten senses of an athlete and cop, the shock-value grittiness, journalism of the twisted Long Island streets, a flashback for me to the cop, guys’ guy world I’d left behind.

Perched on a spec of time, a bird between flights, I sat in class or on the train, talking, listening. Westermann’s hands twirl as if flicking a lacrosse or nightstick as he talks. Seated at the conference table, behind him the city buildings turned to Freeport’s soupy Woodcleft canal.

Decades ago, he probably walked right by me pulling a 4 to midnight shift as I sat on the deck of Otto’s Sea Grill listening to the band.

Once, he said, “I did it!” an affirmation of years of hard work.

Another time he turned to me, “Do it.  Finish that book.”

Once, walking to the train, he was a block ahead of me. I tried to catch up, but he was too fast; couldn’t close that gap. I slowed my pace to its natural gait and let him go.

Mary Ellen Walsh is a second-year fiction MFA student working on a Rock ‘n Roll, Gen X love story “X Marks the Spot” set on Long Island. She is a public relations consultant for authors, musicians, visual artists and academia. As a lifestyle writer, touching on health, women’s issues and business profiles, her work has been published in: Newsday, New York Daily News, LI Pulse, Long Island Press, Wellness magazine and elsewhere. Walsh’s column “Mewsings” on Patch.com won first and second place 2011 Press Club Media Awards from the Society of Professional Journalists for humor column. MaryEWalsh@optonline.net

I once heard an author remark during a Q & A: “If I can describe my novel in a few short sentences, it mustn’t be a very good story.” This is a mistake, especially for a young writer to hear. It sends the wrong signal and allows the novice to be vague, which is often confused with being mysterious. Whether you’re willing to spend six months or six years writing one particular story, you better have some idea what it’s about. Or else, why do it?

In chapter eleven of Sol Stein’s How To Grow A Novel, Stein emphasizes the need for precision, comparing the experience of reading a novel to that of getting on an airplane. One is less likely to strap themselves in having noticed prior to takeoff the pilot nervously flipping switches with a confused look on his face. “Wouldn’t you rather be on a plane on which the pilot followed a checklist or knew it accurately by heart?” Here, Stein was talking more about voice and clarity of language, but the analogy works for structure as well as the writer’s intent.

If you, the writer, have no clue what your story is about how can you expect the reader to have any idea? There is enough chaos in life. Enough uncertainty and confusion. The writer’s job is to harness what he cannot understand and create meaning out of what is seemingly indecipherable. So MFAers, what is your story about?

Being a first timer at the Southampton Writers Conference this year, and after being reminded throughout the fall and the spring semesters once every week how great it was going to be, I naturally had some skepticism about how these few weeks were going to go. Now that I have experienced session one of the conference, I can joyfully tell you that those five days, while exhausting, were edifying, enriching, intellectual, hilarious, delicious, but even more importantly, those five days encouraged me more in my writing than any class ever has. And I’ve taken some pretty great classes. So I decided to make a list of the many highlights of the first session. You might not think all of these are important, but they are. Trust me.

1. The constant supply of coffee. Now I know this isn’t actually a literary highlight, but we all need our coffee. Especially writers. And their coffee is delightful. And you can always choose between iced or hot. So if you’ve just come in from writing on one of the many benches on campus under the hot sun, you can cool yourself off by making a Starbucks-worthy cup of iced coffee. If you’ve just had a lecture in the Antarctic temperatures of Duke Lecture Hall, why not warm yourself up with a tasty goblet of hot caffeine? I don’t know why you wouldn’t.

2. Helen Simonson’s voice. She’s from England, so her voice makes angles instead of points, her jokes are always funny, and her stories always delight. My favorite part of her reading was when she talked about the use of rifles in her book, and how she knew nothing about them until she held one and found power in the act of possessing it. Her lilting accent lowered as she described herself holding it, and I think, just then, we all wanted to be her. I mean, come on. Everything is funnier when you say it like Helen Simonson.

3. The library. It has windows instead of walls, the computers are shaped in a long squiggle, and it has a beautiful print studio where Scott Sandell can show you how to print anything you would ever want to print. Also, comfy chairs. Enough said.

4. Steady pulses of excitement that run through each faculty member. It’s contagious. And it affects us all. Julie Sheehan’s wide smile and supportive nods encourage while Robert Reeves’ inclination to introduce us all to each other widens our world. Emma Walton Hamilton’s long eyelashes and even longer list of resources pushes us to discover while Carla Caglioti’s calm countenance relaxes us when we feel too overwhelmed. They all radiate warmth and kindness, and this is what makes the conference so wonderful. This unabashed light.

5. Learning the deep secrets of fellow writers at open mic night. We support, we encourage, we cheer. And this makes many happy to be brave and read their words out loud. It’s the best way to get instant gratification. I have never been to an open mic night where I’ve been disappointed. It’s always something new that I haven’t heard before. And the brave readers are original for the simple reason that they chose to write these lines. And they chose to say them.

6. Mary Karr, the definition of fearless. Her low, crackly voice enchanted me and made me cry with laughter. If you haven’t heard her speak, go to YouTube. Now.

7. The hidden marriage of Leslie Ayvazian and Frederic Tuten. During a panel about imagery and voice, the four panel leaders had gotten on the subject of Armenia (an example of the fascinating range of subject matter in panels). Tuten said his wife’s mother was Armenian, and since Ayvazian is Armenian, she asked him what the mother’s name was. Tuten thought for a moment and said, “Uhh I think it was Ayv…Ayv…Ayvazian?” The playwright laughed and responded, “Oh so we’re married?” The lecture hall burst into laughter and for the next ten minutes, Ayvazian made witty comments on their apparent marriage, and only after Julie Sheehan, the moderator, wiped her face of tears, she continued the panel.

8. Taking notes becomes fun. Here are just a few examples of the notes I took in panels, lectures, and interviews.

“Every year you get a year taken away but in exchange you get a year of wisdom.”—Peter H. Reynolds

“No one will do your thinking for you. Tell me something no one has told me before.”—Mitchell Kriegman

“Do you care enough? That is how you write a book.”—Susan Scarf Merrell

“And the body becomes the soul, the soul, the body.”—Christine Vachon

While I could go on and on and while eight seems like only a few, I must stop now and go to sleep. For sleep is one item that I don’t get to put on the list, because attending the conference denies us all sleep, but for the good of our souls. While we don’t sleep, we meet another playwright at the corner bar. While we don’t sleep, we get to sit under that shady tree that everyone fights for before breakfast. While we don’t sleep, we think, we feel, and we hope for the next words that will float to us, showing us that the world is not solid, but layered, like each ocean wave that crashes over the last, reaching further for us, making us see.

Sarah and Dom at Summer Conference Reception

I showed up for my first Southampton Writers Conference in 2009 with a lot of enthusiam, a bite-size chunk of terror, and a huge, unmistakable shiner under my left eye, courtesy of a would-be Romeo with a pocketful of rohypnol.  Upon my arrival, I was mortified by the shiner.  I wanted to wear a t-shirt that said, “I’m not like that – really.”  But by the time I had to leave Writerland and return to the real world, I decided that black eye was my new best friend.  After all, these people were writers. My mark of shame made me fascinating before I even uttered a syllable.

The first MFA student to approach me was Dominick Quartuccio, a fiction writer who featured an uncanny Christopher Walken impersonation.  I was sitting alone at a huge, round table.  Dom asked if he could sit down and proceeded to dump a cornucopia of organic vegetables on the table, dirt still clinging to the roots.  During the delightful exchange that followed, he got my shiner story and challenged me to come up with a better one.

Dominick ran the open mic night.  Ham that I am, I could not resist signing up.  I brought my guitar down to the tents, grabbed a beer, and shook.  It was odd for me to be nervous – I’d played indie pop show after indie pop show, often ending up on the bill with several other bands that had nothing in common except a lead singer with a uterus.  I was used to being a juke box – pouring my pearls out on to the stage while the audience caroused and conversed and completely ignored me.  For a lyricist, it’s the kind of artistic frustration you have to swallow like a horse-sized antibiotic if you’re going to play in public.

Dom called me up, and I wove through the folding chairs, hoping not to brain anybody with my favorite acoustic.  It was so quiet. I sat down and tried to look cool, hands visibly shaking as I fumbled with the pick, and started the song.  The intro chords crested, and I gave it my all.  Somehow, I remembered all the lyrics and hit all the notes.  When I stopped, there were five eternal seconds of crickets, then a crescendo of cheers and applause that knocked me out like a tidal wave.  They had listened.  Not only had they listened, they liked it.  I had never been more astonished in my life.  Years of hack-flavored horse medicine left me wondering why I even bothered.  On that muggy, starry night, it all made sense again.

Now that Mr. Quartuccio has graduated, I am attempting to fill his great big Hush Puppies as host.   They’ve even named it Afterhours, which is cool not only because it’s the name of one of my favorite Velvet Underground songs, but also because it’s a fun word to coo into the mic, all sexy-like.  Open mic night is a dream for both the voyeur and the ham. It’s your first chance to see how that sweet little old lady next to you in the lunch line is not only a delicious pervert, but also a genius poet.  The scary-looking biker guy has a memoir piece that will make you cry and offer him a hug afterward because you went through the same horrible thing.  The botox queen you couldn’t help but make fun of is not only conscious of her predicament, but has written a hilarious, tragic masterpiece of sarcasm you’ll be thinking about long after she’s gone home.  And that guy who was serving you drinks earlier has a collection of short stories so brilliant you’ll have to restrain yourself from throwing your panties at him.  And guess what?  This daunting company will listen to you, and you’re probably just as good as they are.

I believe it was the Mary Tyler Moore theme song that said, “love is all around, no need to fake it.”

You’re gonna make it after all.

            MFA students, college graduates, hopeful high schoolers, and everyone who has ever finished a manuscript, eager to share their work with the world, we all have one thing in common – we want to get published, dammit. And we want to know how!

But where to start? Like any modern web-based search, there’s a nearly endless list of publishing houses, literary agents, booksellers, and web marketers. If you google “publishing” you’ll get nearly 4 billion search results. So how to sort through all of the crap to find the help that you really need?

I recently self-published my second book, Pulse of Poetics, for print on lulu.com and amazon.com, including an eBook version for amazon kindle. These are two very convenient and cheap ways to get your work out there in both the print and electronic worlds. There are literally hundreds if not thousands of self-publishing websites to choose from but these two have worked for me as far as being relatively easy to use and cheap. Most of these online publishers will print your book for almost cost value, but just make sure with any publishing website that you read the fine print (there are often hidden fees). On amazon, Pulse of Poetics is about 170 pages but only costs about 4 dollars to print and another 2.50 or so to ship. Not a bad deal considering that you receive a print and bound book with a front and back color cover only a few days later.

Below are some links to useful resources for all areas of publishing. Even if you don’t buy my book (although I recommend that you do, it’s an awesome read), check out how it looks on the amazon.com page, and feel free to ask questions about these processes as you explore your own publishing options! (Tip: As you’ll see from my personal link, tumblr.com is a great way to organize your self-published links!)

-          My book’s publishing blog: http://pulseofpoetics.tumblr.com/

-          Self publishing:

For print: www.lulu.com

For eBook: https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/signin

For amazon print: https://www.createspace.com/

-          Literary agents: http://agentquery.com/default.aspx

-          Literary magazines: http://www.newpages.com/literary-magazines/

Tickets are free when reserved online at http://www.stonybrook.edu/sb/southampton/avram/tickets.shtml

Thursday July 19 – 7:30 pm Eric Fischl – The celebrated painter, sculptor and printmaker interviewed by the Parrish Museum’s Terrie Sultan.

Saturday, July 21 – 7:30 pm The Great American Mousical – Workshop presentation of songs and scenes from a new musical based on the book by Emma Walton Hamilton and Julie Andrews.

Monday, July 23 – 5:30 pm Reading Music – Pianofest & Southampton Arts team up for an evening of performance at the intersection of great music and great writing.

Wednesday, July 25 – 7:30 pm Play Reading by Ensemble Studio Theatre – A play or musical (title TBA) in development at one of New York’s premiere incubators for advanced theatre work.

Friday, July 27 – 7:30 pm Summer Launch of The Southampton Review – The annual unveiling of July’s new issue, with suitable onstage festivities and a slew of America’s best writers.

We hope to see you soon.

Southampton Arts

MFAs in Creative Writing & Literature and Theatre

Stony Brook Southampton

239 Montauk Highway Southampton, NY 11968

http://www.stonybrook.edu/writers

631-632-5030

Southamptonwriters@notes.cc.sunysb.edu