ࡱ> g ZbjbjJJ 7(ub(ubQITT8\A %]](ttt$$$$$$$$&)b$ttttt$$t$t$M!!Pۑ6e!u$$0 %m!,*8*!*!ttttttt$$ttt %tttt*tttttttttT _: THE WRITING LIFE By Marie Manilla, 2021 Appalachian Heritage Writer-in-Residence and West Virginia Common Read Author I want to confess that I took the long way around to becoming a writer. Though I dabbled in creative writing growing up, it was mostly for school: an occasional short story or haiku or personal essay for English class. Though I enjoyed writing, I wasnt driven to pound out reams of stories, to fill journals and notebooks. At the time, my creative outlets were drawing and painting. Indeed, my bachelors degree is in graphic design, a profession I worked in for nine years. It wasnt until I was nearly thirty that I dove headfirst into writing, but once I did, I never looked back. And to be completely transparent, Im not one of those lovely and brilliant authors who write to share with readers knowledge gleaned over the years. I dont write because I have answers. I write because I am looking for answers. I write because the world befuddles me. I delight in the beauty of the natural world, in random acts of kindness Ive witnessed between humans, in radical acts of selfless love and grace. But Im also bewildered by mans inhumanity to manthe greed, hate, warmongering, oppression, the othering that is so often on display. I write because I want to understand how so much beauty and cruelty can exist side by side, both outside and within each one of us, and how easily we teeter between the twooften on a daily basis. What I discovered when I started writing, is that its through the written word, by crafting stories and characters, that I process the world. Its how I make sense of past and current events. Its how I figure out tricky people and behaviors. Its how I come to terms with that perpetual scrape of good against evil. Its how I find compassion for even the most dastardly souls, because when crafting characters, even malevolent ones, we should strive to dig deep and figure out the source of the pain that results in that cruelty, though I confess Im not always successful in that regard. In addition, writing is how I figure out what I truly believe, not the various dogmas Ive been indoctrinated with since birth by religious leaders, school systems, politicians, the media, and family members. Truth be told, it wasnt until I began writing that I found out I had a voice. I grew up in the sixties and seventies in a traditional household where my father was the sole breadwinner and my mother was a homemaker whose womans work wasnt given the value it was due. My father was a wonderful financial provider, and he was devoted to his wife and children. But he was also a self-described chauvinist who loathed Gloria Steinem. It was tricky growing up girl in a household where Dad had all the power and Mom could never winthough she figured out her own subversive ways of getting what she wanted, as many women of her era had to. My mother was also a woman of her times, however, so she deferred to men, even to sons over daughters. Mom often spouted her love of family and the joys of childrearing and homemakingall the things she was supposed to want, and maybe genuinely did, but she sure banged a lot of pans around in the kitchen and let out gobs of exasperated sighs. Clearly, she did not love all aspects of her often-thankless job. But my father didnt like all aspects of his job, either, a weight he wore like a brass divers helmet. He died at sixty-eight of a heart attack, and I blame his early death in part on carrying the weight of being the sole financial provider and decision maker. How much better and healthier it would have been for both him and my mother, if theyd had an equal partnership, where both their voices were valued, and where they shouldered the weight together. In addition to wielding all the economic power, my father also preferred quietnot that he always got it in a house filled with five children all born within six years. Two of his favorite sayings when we were kids were silence is golden and children should be seen and not heard. As a daughter hungry for her fathers love, I tried so very hard to oblige. I didnt talk much at home. Didnt express my opinions or dissent, because I didnt know that I could, and also because I didnt know what I truly believed. As I wrote in my interview posted on the Appalachian Heritage Writer-in-Residence website, I often feel as if I were raised between two worlds: the patriarchal one in my house where my father had all the power, while outside, the Second Feminist Wave was sweeping across the country. I had a foot in each world. I had to grow into being a Feminist, since that was not the behavior modeled for me at home, or in the Catholic Church and school I attended, or in any number of indoctrinating realms. Its no wonder, then, that when I began writing fiction, I explored the dangers of patriarchy and inflexible genders roles. Often my women characters are trapped in the Old World, or like me, theyre trying to find their voices and power. Sometimes my characters cave under the weight of their prescribed gender rolesboth male and femaleor they redefine what the roles means, or they buck those roles altogether. One byproduct of writing that surprised me was that not only does writing help me understand our history and human behavior at large, but it also helps me understand why I behave the way I do. And isnt that also a part of our lifes work, self-awareness? One of the questions in the interview was to talk about how I use fodder from my own life and experiences in my stories. Most writers base characters on real people, either wholly or in part. A mannerism here. A quirk there. An odd speech pattern or physical feature or poignant interaction. It might be tempting for authors to throw themselves into the mix as flawless angels or faultless victims, but thats not the truth Im going after. As I said, in my fiction, Im interested in peeling back the layers on the struggle between good and evil that resides in each of us, including myself. I once set out a writing task of exploring the bullying I witnessed within my own family that trickled down from grandparent to parent to child. What I had to admit was that I was in the chain, too. At times I was the one being bullied, and at times I was the bully. My short story Hand. Me. Down. came out of that exploration and my ultimate understanding of why bullies bully in the first place. As a childless woman, Ive at times been treated with scorn by women who have chosen to be mothers, as if my decision is a personal affront to theirs. I wrote a short story called Childproof as a result of this treatment. What I began to understand during the writing was that one of the reasons I wasnt magnetically drawn to motherhood was that I didnt trust myself to care for children, to keep them healthy and alive. I didnt have a good track record with fish and turtles and hamsterseven houseplants. I didnt consciously know that I had this trepidation before I sat down to the write that story, but I certainly understood it by the end. Another character quirk I recently unearthed about myself through writing is that, though I wasnt a writer as a kid, I had the makings of being a good storyteller in that I was a gifted liar. I dont mean the typical lies about who dented the family car or swiped money from Moms wallet. I mean I created dead siblings out of whole cloth to get sympathy from friends. Hinted at incurable diseases. Its funny now, and it was then, too, but I only understood the link between lying and writing fiction once I put pen to paper. Im glad I finally found a healthy outlet for that proclivity. As I said, I turn to writing to explore human behaviors that have me scratching my head. For example, I once worked with a man who relentlessly probed people about their deepest fears and regrets. It was through writing about him in a story called Grooming that I understood he was an emotional predator with abandonment issues. People could never leave him because he knew where all their skeletons were buried. Im not saying he was a sexual predator like the character in my story, but the dynamics of how he groomed his prey were the same. The attention and flattery, the slow reeling in. In my story, it would have been easy to make my character all-evil, but I had to dive deeper to find compassion. What we know about sexual predators is that they are often the victims of predators themselves. So I had to add that layer to my story so that readers will get a fuller view of that brutal cycle and have compassion for the child the man once was, even as we abhor his adult deviant behavior. I also once watched a woman display a bruise shed gotten at the hands of her husband. The way she nonchalantly pulled her hair away to reveal it, the way she made sure I was watching, plus the unfathomable look of pride in her eyes as if the bruise were a badge of honor. It was such an incomprehensible display that I had to explore it in writing. I crafted a story called Get Ready in order to figure out why a woman might showcase her abuse, not as a cry for help, but like a Purple Heart or medal. I dont know if I came to any real conclusions, but in my story at least I created one possibility about why a woman would do such a baffling thing. In addition to turning to writing to understand the human condition, writing has also enabled me to explore what it means to be Appalachiana term I didnt fully grasp until I was an adult. Growing up, we didnt use the term Appalachian to describe us. We were just West Virginians, or hillbillies according to certain TV shows and cartoon strips that often lampooned us. Early on, we were being indoctrinated that we were less than. I grew up in Huntington, the largest city in the state at the time, with a population of about 86,000 at its peak. Thus, my experiences were more urban than ruralthough I know much of the nation would balk at my use of the word urban to describe anything connected to West Virginia. Huntington had a thriving downtown with gobs of restaurants and movie houses, five-and-dimes and clothing stores. Multi-story hotels that housed the likes of JFK when he campaigned there, or where Bob Hope and Liberace stayed after performing at the Keith-Albee Theater. Well-dressed shoppers clogged the streets. City busses belched smoked across town. At home, every weekday morning my father put on his suit and tie, grabbed his hat and briefcase, and headed outside to carpool to work with other suit-and-tied men. They were chemical and metallurgical engineers who worked in the white-collar side of the Nickel Plant. My dads father, Grandpa Manilla, whod immigrated from Italy several decades before, was head groundskeeper there. Grandpas ambitions for his children were that they would speak English and go to college, which my father did. My fathers ambition was that all his children would attend college, which we did. We were Grandpa Manillas upwardly-mobile, middle-class, American dream, complete with a little brick starter house in the burbs. As a kid growing up on the western edge of the state, I dont remember if our nightly news listed mine reports like the ones Irene McKinney so beautifully captured in her poem Six OClock Mine Report: Bergoo Mine #3 will work. Consol No. 2 will not work. Truth is, Id never met a coal miner in my life. As I said, my father worked in the white-collar side of the Nickel Plant. My classmates dads also worked there, or in dress factories, or they owned mom-and-pop grocery stores or car dealerships. None of them worked in the mines, and in fact the only mine Id ever seen was the one in Beckley thats a tourist attraction. Sure, Id seen plenty of coal trains rumble over our viaducts, or heaped on barges going up the Ohio River, but the source of all that gleaming black stuff was far removed from those brick houses in the suburbs. When I graduated college, like many young folks, I yearned to get away from West Virginia, though at the time I didnt know all the reasons why I was eager to flee. I thought I was just severing apron strings. My first post-college job was in Houston, and though I met some lifelong friends there, it was in Texas that I understood just how pervasive the stereotypes of Appalachians are by certain folks beyond our borders. Not only were all those backward, uneducated, dim-witted, hillbilly barbs alive and well, but they were considered gospel truth. I was asked all too often, and in all seriousness, if we had electricity back home or if we wore shoes. They just assumed I was a coal miners daughter like Loretta Lynn in the movie that came out right before I moved to Houston. It was because of the assumptions folks made about me that I started to question what it meant to be Appalachian, a heritage I didnt fully understand. As I said, growing up, I truly felt like a city girl, and I started to wonder if you could only claim to be an Appalachian if your father worked in the mines, or if your family had been in the region seven generations back when the state was still Virginia. Compared to many West Virginians, my roots are not very deep. This may be why, when I began writing fiction in Texas, I didnt set my stories in West Virginia. I was indoctrinated into the view that there was only one West Virginia experience to tell, the story of coal camps and hollers and mine wars, stories I value and absolutely love to read but they werent my experiences at all. I figured Id have to leave it to Denise Giardina, Mary Lee Settle, and Ann Pancake who could write with real authority and authenticity on these subjects. However, what I have in common with deep-rooted, rural Appalachians is that I have witnessed, and experienced, aphenomenon of cultural loathing many of us grapple with brought on by over a century of belittling by outsiders, which made it easier for robber barons to steal our timber, our coal, and our very souls. Its easier to swindle people when you demonize them. If you want to read more about this systematic and calculated dehumanization, read West Virginia author John OBriens excellent book At Home in the Heart of Appalachia. Another book I highly recommend is Days of Destruction, Days of Revolt, by Chris Hedges and Joe Sacco, who spotlight four American regions they refer to as sacrifice zones. These are areas of the country that have been used up and spit out in the name of capitalismnatural resources and peoples health gobbled up for profits often funneled out of state. Welch, West Virginia is one of the zones mentioned, but dozens of other post-coal Appalachian towns qualify. And its not just coal and timber and gas. As you all well know, the Sackler family who owns Perdue Pharma made millions over-peddling OxyContin in West Virginiathe drug that jumpstarted thousands of addictions. In a ten-year period, nearly twenty-one million pills were sold in Williamson, population thirty-two hundred. Once these sacrifice zones are used up, the residents are abandoned, left in environmental, health, and existential crises. This cultural loathing, this being chewed up and spit out, this being treated as expendable, has prompted many West Virginians not only to want to physically or emotionally run away from our heritage, but to bury any connection to our Appalachian rootsincluding our accentsinto the deepest holes we can dig. I think thats in part why I wanted to flee Appalachia in the first place. I was not immune to all that dehumanizing, to all that lesser-than lingo heaped on us. It wasnt until I moved back to West Virginia that it was once-again confirmed for me that my growing-up years in Huntington were more urban than rural. When I started teaching at Marshall I had so many lovely students from tiny towns of less than a thousand people, some less than five-hundred. They were often the first ones in their families to attend college. Many couldnt sleep at night because of all the traffic and police sirens in Huntington. Some were overwhelmed by the number of people on campus and in town. Some had never seen a person of color in their lives. It was also after I returned home that I began to understand the snobbery that exists even inside the state. Theres a class system here between urban and rural dwellers, between northern centers and southern coalfield hamlets, between townies and gownies. I saw it firsthand in academia when certain professors would dumb down their curriculum because they were sure their coalfield kids werent up for the challenge. Let me tell youthey are! And some of those teachers were from West Virginia. Its a direct result of all the cultural loathing brought on by all that stereotyping that has some of us wanting to separate ourselves from the caricature. We arent that. No, we arent them. That conflict was going on inside me, too, as an urban Appalachian trying to figure out where I fit in. I soon discovered thats the very thing I wanted to, no, I needed to explore in my writing. The question of what it means to be an Appalachian, the question of loving her even as we at times cringe at her. So I started setting my work in West Virginia and populating it with characters who, like me, grapple with Appalachian identity. Some of the characters wear the moniker well, but some collapse under the weight of all those worn-out, stereotyping barbs that crush our spirits. In my story"The Wife You Wanted" I explore the experience of one exiled West Virginia woman who returns for the funeral of her first love, a man who is perhaps the embodiment of every crude thing she is trying to escape, but his funeral is also a chance for her to mourn everything she has lost by leaving the state. Throughout the story we see that her cultural loathing manifests as snobbery toward her rural and blue-collar kin, her feelings of superiority as a college-educated woman, her inability to put down roots, her belief that by herself she is not enough, much of this because of the pervasive Appalachian put-downs that have chiseled away at her sense of self-worth. Ultimately, like many of us who have moved away and tried to deny our cultural heritage, though my main character physically fled the state, she never really emotionally left, and perhaps her tendency to run from city to city, from man to man, is actually her effort to run back to West Virginia and claim her authentic self. I need to backpedal a bit and tell you about something else that happened to me while I lived in Texas. I grew a stack of chips on my shoulder daring anyone to knock them off by putting West Virginia down. Inside me, there is a weird arm-wrestling going on between all that indoctrinated cultural loathing and my eye-witness truth that West Virginians are strong, resilient, generous souls, even in the face of all that demonizing. I crafted an entire novel, in fact, called Shrapnel, to dispel the stereotypes heaped on West Virginians. The main character, Bing Butler, is a seventy-seven-year-old, right-wing veteran from Texas whose head is filled with all the West Virginia stereotypes you can imagine. But when he moves in with his progressive daughter in Huntington, all those stereotypes are called into question. Some are confirmed, but many are squelched, and Bing is a much better man for the journey. In my novel The Patron Saint of Ugly, I also set out to present a different view of West Virginia. I wanted to create a world that had nothing to do with coal, not to negate coals historical importance here, but to expand readers views of who we are. We are about so much more than coal. I wanted to imbue our landscape with magical qualities, and indeed, I gave the main character, Garnet, magical qualities, too. One reason Im drawn to magical realism, and this novel is steeped in it, is that it creates a world that is similar to the one we actually live in, but extraordinary things happen that are treated as normallike Garnets shape-shifting birthmarks and her hit-or-miss healing abilities. One goal of magical realism is to plant readers in a world that is familiar, yet cockeyed, so that by the end they come away with a new pair of eyes to view the real world with a fresh perspective. My hope is that readers come away from Patron Saint with a new appreciation of West Virginia and its people. I want not only for readers outside our borders but for insiders too, struggling under the weight of all those belittling barbs, to shrug them off once and for all. Malicious forces may have tried to make us feel as if we are less than, but we are not. By God, we are deserving, and we are beautiful.      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