Onecraftywriter’s Weblog

My thesis—a collection of narrative non-fiction essays—is done. I think I’m still in disbelief, even after a few hours of battling Word to get it to number the damned pages correctly.

The thesis: Half-Life: Essays

Writing these essays has consumed so much of my time this year—since October, when I decided to switch gears and go with non-fiction instead of fiction. I’m not sure what I’ll do now. Will I remember how I used to spend quiet Corvallis evenings, pre-thesis? Will I know what to do on sunny Sundays when I don’t have to be cooped up inside? I’m sure I’ll find plenty of Sisyphean tasks to occupy me; and once again, I’ll return to my pattern of starting things and not finishing them. So I suppose this is a milestone; not just a story finished, but a whole collection. And though there’s a sense of achievement that accompanies this stack of papers, ready to be photocopied tomorrow and handed out to my defense committee, I almost wish it could stretch on a bit longer. I found myself, today, reading all 80-some pages for what felt like the millionth time, searching for stray commas and rogue apostrophes, even though I knew there couldn’t be any typos left. I think I was just trying to prolong the experience, to prolong what this thesis has provided me: the impetus to write daily.

But this also means that I’ll have room opened up for other projects, like my newfound need to sell my letterpress art at the local flea market. I did log some time making things this weekend, namely, hand-cut, -folded, and -glued envelopes made from vintage National Geographic maps. I bought these a few years ago, at a used bookstore in Chicago, for something like 10 cents each. Now seemed like a good time to make them into these envelopes:

Denmark, circa 1964

I’m not sure about pricing yet, but really, that’s negligible. There’s not much that’s more relaxing to me than a few hours spent cutting, gluing, and listening to the online archives of NPR’s This American Life. So in that regard, even if I sell nothing, I’ll be happier for having made these.

A few weeks ago, I learned from a flier in a local restaurant about the flea market that takes place at the Benton County Fairgrounds one Saturday a month. In anticipation of lots of thrifting finds, I went to the fairgrounds’ website today for a preview. While there wasn’t a list of vendors, I did find out that spots are still open to sell crafts at the May 10 market. With that, the fire was lit. What, I thought, if I could sell my letterpress art? I’ve been spending long hours in OSU’s letterpress studio lately. Although I’ve been working on printing my own wedding invitations, I’ve become quite facile with the equipment and it wouldn’t be hard to turn out some notecards and envelopes.

I love working in the shop. It’s in the basement of the Art Department building, and stacked almost floor-to-ceiling with cabinets of old type in all fonts—Garamond, Futura, Caslon, Century Schoolbook. But my favorite couple of drawers are the ones that house truly old wood type. While not all the letters of the alphabet have made it into the present, there are plenty of initials to choose from. I’m thinking simple at this point: blank notecards and envelopes with single initials printed from these wood type pieces. I made some already for my friend Sarah:

Close-up of wood block printing

Now I’m in planning mode—perhaps my favorite mode, as I’m the type of person who loves ideas in their nascent stages, the way they pervade every minute of the day. I love to-do lists and adding new things to my planner, and, in general, the taste of anticipation. Especially when it involves long hours in the letterpress room.

Driving to the grocery store today, I passed Goodwill and realized it’d been a while since I’d browsed around. I normally frequent other thrift and antiques/junk shops here in Corvallis, but the Goodwill here is one of those “mega-Goodwills” that consists of about half cast-offs and half unsold items from big retailers like Target (tags still attached). In short, there’s little vintage stuff to be had. And while I don’t deny the utility of the store for “practical” items like Tupperware, muffin tins, and garlic presses, it’s not the kind of place I’d go in anticipation of good thrifting. But today I came away with two good finds:

Green stapler. Vintage Swingline “Colt.”

Purple boots. With blue socks, yes.

So these two small things have been the highlight of my afternoon. My intention for the evening is to continue today’s purple theme and work on my knitting project, this pattern from knitty. I’m knitting it in Blue Sky Alpacas‘ sport-weight in the color eggplant. It’s my first go at knitting a lace motif, and I’ve started over twice already, once because I screwed up something I couldn’t even identify, and the second because I dropped a stitch but couldn’t figure out where.

I think the reason I’ve put off starting this blog for so long is that, for me, as a writer, it poses issues of audience. I’m not writing a letter to one person, nor am I writing an essay that will be read by a professor, or a creative piece that might—on a good day—be published in a small and obscure lit journal. And I have to face it: My voice changes depending on whom I’m writing to. But being inexperienced in this medium, I’m challenged to find a new style, one I’ve never toyed with before. I know I don’t have it right now, but I’m hoping that it will emerge over time, similar to the way my voice in non-fiction writing did. I just sort of stumbled on it one day, and it’s never flagged.

I’ve heard before that the best way to write a piece that will be read by many is to write to one. It’s certainly been working with my thesis; I always have one reader—in this case, my thesis advisor—in my head. I can picture her, cocking her head at a funny angle when the words don’t work, or matter-of-factly adjusting her glasses when they do. And I think I know who this will be written to; in fact, I do know. I have a friend from my undergrad days whom I send frequent letters to; and he sends back the loveliest prose in return. And he once told me that when he reads my letters, he hears my spoken voice. I think that’s something that’s hard to convey in writing; that our prosaic voice should mimic the spoken. But then, isn’t that what the art of the story is all about? About the spoken? About the instinct to tell?

I think I’ve arrived. Maybe, now, I’ll start making time for writing in this forum. Amid the craziness of finishing up my thesis and trying to find a job, I could use some time to sit down and create, but not on a deadline. And I’m hoping that the effect, here, will by cyclical: By writing about my crafts—whether it be writing or letterpress or knitting—I’ll want to set aside time for them. And then by doing them, keeping that muscle memory intact, I’ll have more to write about.