The Weekly Atticus (06/09/2018)

Let Loose Your Shadow Self | The Weekly Atticus

A recap of the week at Atticus Review, along with some extras.

Dear ,

I read somewhere that author Dara Horn wrote early drafts of her novels inside notebooks. I’m sure she’s not the only one who does, but in the age of the computer, the idea of creating anything literary by hand is inconceivable to me. I do write by hand in journals, though. I’ve filled the pages of 10 in the last two years. The style and tone of my journal voice hasn’t changed much since I was 16. It’s where I lament, regret, rage, and sometimes dream. I know, even as my hand glides across the page, though, that the words I am writing will likely embarrass me tomorrow. They’re not fit to share, not even with my future self. Certainly, if I was born in a different era, I would never have been a writer, for it’s only fingers on keys and a delete button within reach that enable me to meaningfully weave words together. Type. Delete. Type. Delete.One time, however, at the urging of a writing teacher, I unleashed emotions I might typically reserve for journals onto the computer page. The previous day, I had admitted to her that there was something I wanted to write, but was afraid. I was so afraid, in fact, I didn’t even want to write about it in my journal for fear someone might find it and read it.“Write that,” she said. “Write that very thing. That’s exactly what you need to write. Write it as if no one will ever read it. No one ever has to.” (Thank you, Rachel Kadish.)It may seem obvious, this advice. But at the time, it was a kind of permission I didn’t realize I needed. It was permission to be angry. It was permission to spew, to curse, to accuse, to blame. It was permission to shit all over people, many of whom I loved or once loved. It was permission to let loose, but also embrace, what Jung called the shadow self, and through her, through this version of me … create something new. And so, the next morning, I sat in front of the desktop computer in the kitchen, amidst the playful screams of my children and the clanging of pots and pans being put away into cabinets by my husband, and I raged. I raged at my husband, at my children, at the noise, at my parents, at their marriage, at their divorce, at the neighbors, at the passage of time, at the cruelty of aging, at my ex-boyfriend, at his wife, at longing, at need, at betrayal, at the missing of, at the lust for, and at all my ingratitude and self-righteousness. I typed. I didn’t delete. I felt the fire pass through me. I let it.And that rage eventually became a story, and that story eventually became a draft of a book that one day I eventually allowed people — only a few at first — to read.I share this anecdote with new writers whenever I get the chance. Sometimes I tell it to veteran writers, too. After all, I had been writing for 20 years before someone shared this advice with me. Today, tomorrow, someday soon, I invite you to write your rage. Write your lust. Write your shame. Let loose your shadow self. She may, in fact, be just the narrator you need toward the creation of something real.Thanks for reading. We’re glad you’re here.Jen MaidenbergChief Strategy Officer / Columns Editor 

ATTICUS NEWS

JUST OVER A WEEK LEFT!!We're now accepting submissions for our first Annual Flash CNF Contest, judged by Sarah Gerard. Send us your best CNF under 1000 words. First prize is $275, a copy of our Print Annual, and publication in Atticus Review. SUBMIT NOW

THIS WEEK AT ATTICUS

FERAL TOWN by Adam Gustavson

CNF: SOMEONE I COULD BECOMEby Adam StrongPart of our SUPERUNKNOWN: STORIES ABOUT SONGS series"On​ ​nights​ ​like​ ​that​ ​I​ ​only​ ​had​ ​one​ ​song​ ​that​ ​described​ ​how​ ​being​ ​single ​felt,​ ​and how​ ​there​ ​was always​ ​the​ ​possibility​ ​of​ ​meeting​ ​that​ ​someone,​ ​sometimes​ ​getting​ ​so​ ​close, but then not quite hitting it off.​"READ ON

BOOK REVIEW: THE LOOK OF LOVE AND LOSSA Review of EMPTY SET by Veronica Gerber Bicecci from Coffee House PressReview by Torin Jensen"...a finely wrought novel with big questions at its heart"READ ON

FICTION: THE WHITENERby Leland Cheuk"People call me a Whitener. It’s just a nickname. I don’t like it much. Inaccurate and reductive. My job is cultural—national, even—civic, perhaps. Definitely not racial."READ ON

POETRY: BONE-TERRARIUMby E.B. Schnepp"...he’d keep sinking to depths where life has given / up on the sun in favor of sulfur geysers that will not last..."READ ON

FILM REVIEW: FLAIR WITHOUT FORCEA review of SOLO: A STAR WARS STORY directed by Ron HowardReview by Allyson Larcom "Enjoyable" ... but "lacked the earnestness and the heart that defined the original trilogy as well as the depth of sentiment possessed by more recent films."READ ON

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