Craft Your Mistakes, Make Something Human (Donald Intro) (04/03/2021)

A recap of the week's writing at Atticus Review and a request for support. Intro by Donald Quist.

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I struggled to write this for you. I fought to find words of encouragement while recognizing a full year has passed trying to wrestle art out of grief. In spite of all there is to mourn the last twelve months, I’ve managed to stay productive. When there seemed so little I could control, I took comfort in writing. But it’s gotten harder. Lately, my words have felt so imperfect to articulate the current anxiety of just being. I have more questions than ever before about what it means to be alive, and fewer definitive answers to share. I’m less sure about everything. Every bit of hope is tinged with fear about what comes next, and what, if anything, my writing could do to make things better. I was thinking about this, fretting through earlier ideas for this introduction while listening to music with my fiancé on a drive through central Missouri where I live and teach. In the passenger seat, I scanned the green farmland hills sprouting dogwoods and redbuds. I noted the bevy of now empty small town storefronts and Trump 2024 signs. I let my mind wander after sighting a large Confederate flag waving beside the country highway. I remembered the upcoming appointment for my second dose of Covid vaccine. There will be simple joys I can enjoy more completely after I am fully vaccinated—the ease of knowing there might be one less thing that kills me outside of my home. But following the recent shootings in Atlanta and Boulder, I’ve wondered what I’ve been so eager to return to; normalcy, public life under the threat of racism and other violence. I’m not sure there is a way to pull all of my frenzied feelings about the present and future into seamless prose. On the car stereo, “Alive” by Sia started to play. I’ve never been a huge fan of Sia. I love her hits but have failed to listen to one of her albums from start to finish. I was familiar with the song “Alive,” as the lead single from her record This is Acting, but I really hadn’t given it much attention.  Sia belts out through a tense jaw. Her throat clenched so tight she might snap the cords of her larynx. Every note is desperate, straining, raw and wild. There is audible tension. That tension pulled me in. I was totally compelled to listen to her affirmation of life. So much of what Sia does in this song shouldn’t be effective, like her slurred diction and messy phonation. But that’s why it works. She overblows her vocal breaks, creating vulnerability in the sharp cracks of her melody. It’s hard not to be attracted to the humanity of the airy squeaks escaping her neck as she screams, “I’m alive!” She builds an intimacy in her decision to keep these things most would edit away, craft mistakes. Sia turns what could have been studio bloopers into a signal of her unique artistry, challenging the expectations of conventional Western Pop music audiences. Sia helped me find solace in that moment. I did not know what would come next. I still don’t. But being alive, here and now, is more than good enough. Sometimes it just feels important to have survived, to be able to show up in this creative space and write something that might encourage you to try your best to keep living too. And maybe this effort doesn’t need to be flawless. Maybe I don’t need to worry and agonize over every imperfection.For the rest of the drive, I wondered what faulty lines I have made that might best reflect my artistry. It would be nearly impossible for anyone else to emulate Sia, but the song gets me thinking about how to do something similar in my own work. How might I accept my deviations from standard practice in order to connect with my reader in a way that feels earnest and human? I’m trying to take what I’ve learned from Sia, trying to embrace imperfection, the breaks and cracks that color and style my voice, the wonky things I do that no one else would dare to. I’m fighting to unlearn the strictest rules about how I should do what I do—what’s good and what’s bad. I’m wrestling whatever lingering doubt suggests my imperfect words are not enough. I’m writing with hopes to inspire you to do the same. We might not be certain of much anymore, but we can still make and share art that reflects the rough beauty of being alive. Thanks for reading. We’re glad you’re here. Donald QuistColumns Editor 

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THIS WEEK AT ATTICUS

FICTIONTWO STORIES: THE DAUGHTERS; LITTLE GHOSTSby Joy Guo"We secreted them, one by one, to Old Egg, where we were born, so they could know what it was like to have a home. We buried them, side by side, among wolfberries and chicory and squatting seagulls, laid down pebbles that Xiao carved with a number for each."READ ON

POETRYTHE UNRAVELING OF CURSIVEby Maggie Kennedy"I was learning. The indecipherable script. My own,the world’s, and you had something to teach me,Miss Halstead. Everything about you a past era,your up-do and A-line dresses. Even the polio thatinfected you something we’d been vaccinated against."READ ON

CREATIVE NONFICTIONANOTHER WASPby Abigail Thomas"I can’t fix it. I can’t make its life workable. It has folded its remaining wing close to its body so it now resembles an ant, a long black ant. Is this a sign of resignation? Is it trying to be small? Does it feel reassured pulling itself close? Does it know it is doomed? I can’t keep it."READ ON

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