Meetin' Mike

Critiquing writing with a room full of good writers can leave you feeling like you ran a marathon up Pike's Peak in 90-degree heat. I attended Michael Perry's workshop in Mineral Point's Shake Rag Alley this past week and am currently in cool down mode. Decompressing.

It is a satisfying exhaustion, though. Like I've progressed in some way. But there is also a tinge of the let-down feeling I get after Christmas when the presents have been opened, the family goes home, and life returns to a routine.

Shake Rag Alley is an Eden for inspiring creativity, flora-filled gardens and a trickling spring right outside our door. It was here, in the reconstructed carpenter's house, that we fourteen wanna-bes gathered because we coveted what Mike Perry has: artful story-telling ability, success, readers, savvy, humility---and, most importantly, an agent and a publisher. (Perry is the author of the nonfiction memoirs Population 485, Truck, Off Main Street, and most recently, Coop.)

Mike candidly revealed the work involved in writing. He helped us see that hours of observing, thinking, jotting, stalling, writing draft upon draft, and, simply "putting one's ass in the chair" for long periods of time are necessary. I knew that part, but it was still comforting to hear it from someone who makes writing look so easy.

The element that yanked the paper from under my pen was the marketing. I thought if you write something good enough, someone will notice. A publisher will call, or an agent will request to represent you, and you can just sit back and write and harvest the kudos. Mike shared anecdotes of self-publishing and piling boxes of books in the car to peddle throughout the Midwest and wherever he could. He did benefits, radio spots, anything to stay alive and write and be known.

Even today, he spends 100 days on the road promoting his work. He is not complaining, however, and heartily admits that he is a lucky guy to do what he loves. "Yes, it's work," he says, "but look at my brothers' hands and look at mine. They are loggers. They do real work."

Horse farms, berry-picking, hitchhiking, philosophy, parent-care, love and loss and canoeing---the composition topics and personalities of the participants ran the gamut---in a good way. We cheered and chastised each other, in that order, and Mike got a few wise words in here and there, too. We were Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Stein, etc., the expatriates meeting in the same room every day to dissect and mend our words. OK, so I'm exaggerating a bit. A lot.

Mike began the workshop by telling us he'd never done one before and that he was really, painfully shy. And that he digressed a lot. I thought, Oh great, thanks for the apology up front. This guy's going to talk in circles and give us illogical spurts of absent-minded brilliance and look at the ceiling the whole time. I've had many a professor like that.

On Tuesday evening when he read and performed before a paying audience, I was dumbfounded: Is this our introverted sensei, mimicking voices, aping characters, and doing wacky improvisational asides? The audience laughed so hard, we barely noticed the hard pine benches of the Alley Stage, nor the hungry mosquitoes. Mike ended with a reading about strong women who go on after losing children. His wasn't the only teared-up eye in the cool night air.

As the week went on, Mike used his cell phone to keep himself and the class on task, though there were a few frolicking off-topic jaunts into storyland. He wholly shared his writer's mind and musings with us.

I took notes, so I could share some Perryisms, words to write by: "A little more cinema needed," "Peggin' the wanko meter---dial it back," "The elegant variation---don't try too hard," "I'm lookin' through the window, but it's not really well lit, yet," "Give it the mirror test," and "What are you feelin' in your tummy---hearin' in your head?" And the ever repeated, "That sounds like a little bit o' throat clearin' to me."

Mike reminded me of somebody. All week, I strained to think who it was. I've heard tell he's been compared to Garrison Keillor, but that wasn't who my mind was conjuring. That hammy personality and devotion to his large family. That quick, clever humor and "Aw, shucks" niceness laced with an occasional naughty comment. Ben Logan? Nope. The high forehead and deep-set eyes forming dramatic facial expressions. Finally, on Thursday the connection connected. That's it! Just push the front teeth together a smidge, add a little coiffed hair and some trendier clothes, and you've got it---Donny Osmond.

I am relieved, for had that not clicked, I'd still be unable to seriously concentrate on my writing. Free at last!

As I edit this post, I keep Mike's helpful words in mind: "TMI is in the eye of the beholder. We WANT to know."