Laila Lalami

Working on a novel is, it seems to me, a bit like converting to a new faith. Each bit of new information is interpreted in light of the faith’s own logic, confirming, whether in obvious or contradictory ways, the validity of one’s beliefs. Here, at Bread Loaf, I’ve had many occasions to hear people whose job it is to teach fiction, and I’ve been taking bits and pieces from what they’re saying and relating them to my own work.

A few weeks ago, I was riding a great wave of inspiration on my novel, and the writing came easily. Then I hit a wall–I knew that one of my two main protagonists (a college student) wasn’t as well drawn as the other, and I wasn’t sure why. But after a long conversation with one of the fiction writers here, I came to see what wasn’t working. I’d started the story too early. Which was fine, because I was writing to discover the character. Now that this particular mental hurdle has been cleared, I’ll be cutting out another 10,000 words and then moving on. Until the next road block.

Charles Baxter gave a lecture on “Creating a Scene.” Here, he used the word “scene” not in the traditional sense in which it is used in fiction workshop, but in the way in which most people mean it when they say “Please don’t make a scene.” The crux of Baxter’s argument is that too often writers try to remain in control of their scenes, and shy away from letting characters act out their drama. He suggested that in art, as in life, people do behave in foolish and over-blown ways, and one shouldn’t be afraid to reflect that in one’s writing. He cited many examples of scenes, including one from one of my favorite writers–Edward P. Jones. (He also mentioned, en passant, that some of the most convincing outcasts or disenfranchised characters can be found in Dostoyevsky, so I made a mental note to re-read him while I’m working on my new novel.)

Doreen Baingana, whose collection, Tropical Fish, was one of my favorites this year, read the title story from her book early this week. Set in Uganda, the story is about a woman who has an affair with a white man and the effect of it on her life. It’s a sad, reflective, poignant piece, but there were moments in the dialogue that were funny, creating a nice contrast.

Claire Messud read from her forthcoming novel afterwards, a wonderful voice-driven piece about a college-bound young man named Frederick (unfortunate nickname: Booty). She read at a dizzying pace, but without once losing her audience.

Chris Castellani read a heart-breaking excerpt from his new novel,The Saint of Lost Things. He dedicated the reading to Amanda Davis, who died in an accident two years ago, and who was a fellow here in 1999.

Here’s a bourgeois confession: I’ve never waited a table in my life. So I was more than a little nervous about Wednesday night’s dinner, which was the first meal that the waiter scholars had to serve. We had our forty-five minute training session in the kitchen and dining hall, set up the tables, ate our own dinner in 10 minutes, and then opened the doors and welcomed the faculty, fellows, and contributors (paying attendees). I was in charge of two tables, and managed to get everyone’s order right and to clear everything in time. Because the headwaiters had scheduled everyone very carefully, it really wasn’t that difficult to stay on top of things.

After dinner, Michael Collier gave a welcoming speech, in which he repeated, yet again, his advice that attendees ‘pace themselves.’ There are tons of lectures and readings to attend, plus the workshop, plus social gatherings, and it’s impossible to do it all without burning out. The auditorium was packed when Collier spoke, and someone fainted and had to be led out. Charles Baxter read a wonderful story about a couple who are about to get divorced and see each other one last time when they clear out their house, and Michael Collier read some of his poems as well.

The temperature dropped after sun down and it’s absolutely freezing. Everyone’s running back in to get sweaters and I realize now I haven’t brought nearly enough warm clothes. I’m off to the coffee reception. More later.

That I’m not a light packer, but it’s not entirely my fault. Bread Loaf package materials advised attendees to pack light clothes as well as warm, sunscreen and insect repellent as well as raincoats.

That I can’t sleep on planes no matter what precautions I take, including the ingestion of (legal) drugs.

That it’s easy to get dehydrated here at Bread Loaf because of the altitude. And that there are few water fountains on campus.

That Vermont law prohibits open containers of alcohol from all public areas. Drink indoors.

That, despite claims to the contrary, wireless access doesn’t really expand to the cottage where we’re staying. So I have to cut this short.

The first time I heard of Bread Loaf was from my friend L. in a writing class in 2001. Shortly thereafter I happened upon Rebecca Mead’s article in the New Yorker, which begins thus:

There are very few places in America where it can be claimed definitively that poets kick ass, and one of them is the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, which takes place over eleven days every August in the Green Mountains of Vermont. At Bread Loaf, which is the oldest and most prestigious writers’ conference in the country, poets are not the effete, marginal figures of popular imagination. This was amply demonstrated at this year’s poets-versus-fiction-writers football game, a regular fixture in which those who traffic in metre and rhyme go head to head on the Bread Loaf meadow with crafters of experimental, semi-autobiographical narratives.

Mead provides some history on the conference, what kind of work one can hope to do during the two weeks, drops names of frequent faculty, and then gets to the part that is remembered by most of my writer friends:

The triple compulsions of Bread Loaf have, traditionally, been getting published, getting drunk, and getting laid; and, though each is honored more in the breach than in the observance, the reputation lingers. The conference is informally known as Bed Loaf–it comes as something of a disappointment to discover that, in coining a nickname, the finest literary talents of the twentieth century couldn’t come up with anything better than a low pun–and for many years it was as notorious for its debauchery as for its higher-minded pursuits. (…) Attendees of conferences dating to the early nineties will, when pressed, tell of finding conferees rutting in hedgerows, and sometimes will even confess to engaging in some rutting themselves. Similarly, Bread Loaf used to be famous for the quantities of alcohol ingested: the faculty would take off for Bloody Marys before lunch and Martinis before dinner, and some could be found still boozing at dawn in the faculty lounge, Treman Cottage, if they had not already taken off for the hedgerows.

Things have changed somewhat, Mead explains. Bread Loaf is “a primmer place now,” she says. And yet, upon finding out that I was attending this year, a number of my friends cautioned against too much partying.

Three years ago, Dave Koch (one of the founding editors of the Land-Grant College Review) wrote a diary for Slate, describing the work he had to do for his waitership. And today I found myself madly googling for it, as prep for the kind of work I’ll be doing.

I’ll be in transit most of today, so check back again tomorrow for on-site posts.

Until last weekend, I hadn’t realized how tethered I was to my computer. We’d decided to go camping in the woods, and I had no choice but to be unplugged. I started to feel the itch after only a few hours out–not just the itch to check email, but just to see what was up online. So it was nice to get a little detox and just enjoy nature and be in the moment.

I came home yesterday to a ton of work, so please bear with me. I will answer your email soon.

And I’m also getting ready to go to the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, which I’ll be attending on a work-study scholarship, starting tomorrow. I’ll try to post occasionally from Vermont.

I’m still in Seattle. In fact, I’m planning on spending the rest of the week here, hiking, camping, and trying to stay away from computers. If you’re in need of your literary news fix, may I suggest the fine blogs listed here? Back soon, insha’llah.

I’m up in Seattle this weekend, to attend the Arab Festival, which is taking place at the Seattle Center, right by the Space Needle. There are tons of shows and activities scheduled (including a stand-up comedy night with Maysoon Zayid, Dean Obeidallah, and the inimitable Ahmed Ahmed). I’m also doing an event at the Eve Alvord Theatre on Sunday at 3 pm, sharing the stage with Dr. Nada Elia, of Antioch University, to talk about the current Arab American literary scene. Check it out if you’re interested.

One of the necessary stops in preparing for the release of Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits was getting an author website. Here it is: Lailalalami.com. It has information about my book, an excerpt, contact details, and dates for my upcoming book tour. If you live in one of the cities I’ll be visiting in the fall, it would be nice to meet you.

Author Damian McNicholl reviewed Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits and also did a brief Q&A with me over at his blog. Check it out.