Valerie Nieman v. 3.0

Yesterday, I sat in among the massed faculty on the floor of the Greensboro Coliseum to witness that great rite of passage, college graduation. The students were exhorted to follow their dreams, work hard, maintain their ethical standards, trust in God, thank their parents...all the standard tropes of commencement. Amid all the celebration - the cheers, the signs, the lovingly decorated mortarboards, the bouquets and beach balls - the faculty sat as a silent chorus. Each of us had students crossing the stage who had grown from students into fellow scholars, others whose nurturing and guidance demanded a more parental approach, but every name called was a witness to success. Those who can , in my experience, also teach . It is a great mission, to pass on what one has learned to another person. Writing is a particularly knotty subject, as we truly cannot teach someone how to write. The writing comes from within. But we can show a comelier turn of phrase, direct reading that will inspire...

I thought I was to going to be a poet. First publication: sixth grade, a poem about peregrine falcons and Pavlova, of all things, neither of which I’d ever seen. By the time I was in college, however, “All the President’s Men” had turned my fancy toward journalism, along with the promise of a steady if modest paycheck. I wrote, off and on, and had some poems published and took part in a poetry group. But I also wanted to write novels – insane, surely, because by then I was homesteading a West Virginia hill farm along with covering city hall. So I began writing a science fiction novel – and short stories too, why not, and the poems were still coming, and long poems that were stories in verse. My muse, it seemed, had ADD. Then I ran into Fred Chappell, a writer of magnificent talent generously applied to fiction long and short, poetry epic and lyric. He lured me into accepting the writing as the words came, and eventually out of West Virginia and into Carolina. By that...

What a St. Patrick's Day... My senior seminar class for creative writing is held in a small library, and today a student asked to be allowed to stay there and read during the session. At the end, he asked, "What is this class," and we told him. Then he asked, "Can I come back and attend the class? It's so interesting!" Yes, of course, we said. He won't get any course credit, but that didn't seem to matter. Bless you, Andre - a moment like that can keep a teacher going for years. Better energy than uranium. Then... The first shipment of Blood Clay arrived.... Then... I saw a flock of cedar waxwings down the street, wonderful to run into these nomads, so quickly present and gone, so quiet in their discussions as they fed.