Charlotte Pence

Post #3: Prince Family Reading Roadtrip, Knoxville

charlottepence — Thu, 31 May 2012 22:58:24 +0000

In the past three weeks, we have read at a writer’s guild, a bar, and now a bookstore. Yesterday, we did our last reading in Knoxville at Union Avenue Books before we head out to California. I’m struck by how different each reading has been—and how differently I must read at each type of venue. The guild reading was full of writers who wanted to go deeply into another place. The bar reading was full of folks out on a Friday night. So, they wanted another type of material that could be interrupted with glass klinks and chair scrapes but that still brought on laughs and mm-hmms.

And the bookstore reading is another experience. It’s a space that straddles two worlds. On one side is a circle of listeners, faces smoothed and bodies slouched, ready for a good read just like in those elementary days of story hour. But we aren’t kids anymore, and the real world is still chiming for attention with its buzz and business: cash register dings, doorbell rings, and cell phone conversations. I have no real wisdom here in exactly how to approach this space, but it strikes me that this is more the reality than my other type of readings. As writers, we are always having to command the attention of a reader who does have other things to do.

Post #2: Prince Family Reading Roadtrip, Louisville

charlottepence — Thu, 31 May 2012 22:53:37 +0000

The reading in Louisville for the last InKY show under the helm of Lynnell Edwards reminded me when I couch-surfed across the country a few years ago. I took three weeks to drive from Tennessee to Los Angeles and stayed sometimes in hotels, but also wherever a friend of a friend could arrange. Yes, it can be awkward to trot about with one’s toothbrush and favorite pillow in front of strangers, but more often than not I was overwhelmed by the kindness of others.

One home in particular stands out in my memory. It was someplace in New Mexico, and by someplace I mean 20 miles south of a teeny town with a name. At one highway stop, a Die Hard battery and cow’s skull were huddled together, and that to me epitomized where I was. Every few minutes, I would see a pinched light out along the horizon, but otherwise, I would see nothing. When I finally reached my night-stop, out walks a burly man with a leather vest, long biker hair, and a firm handshake that revealed a couple of nubs instead of fingers. What exactly had I walked in to? Well, when I walked inside his house, I saw a family gathered around a dining table with the food warm and ready: spaghetti, salad, and brownies. It was 8:30, but they had been waiting for me. And the two teenage daughters had even stayed home that Friday night to prepare it. The conversation and warmth of that evening ended up being one of the highlights of the trip.

The same great conversations and hospitality welcomed us in Louisville, too. Both Lynnell Edwards and Jeremy and Alice Collins opened up their homes to us. And with a four-month-old in tow, that is no small thing. The reading itself was a good one—about 30 folks attended and the open mic readers were some of the best I’ve ever heard. Also, Doug Van Grundy played his fiddle so hard smoke flew when a string popped. But the best part was the kindness of everyone. It made me realize that these readings we are doing are about much more than the thirty minutes when we share our work.

Post #1: Prince Family Reading Roadtrip, Homebase

charlottepence — Fri, 11 May 2012 17:36:37 +0000

Adam and I finally held our new books in our hands on Thursday—and we promptly celebrated by reading that night at the Knoxville Writers’ Guild monthly meeting. Simply put, it was great. Some nights when you read, you can just tell that the audience would rather be at home finding the correct matches to their black socks. And other nights, like last night, you feel that everyone is listening. That you are connecting. And there is no better response than that to your writing.

We read to a crowd of about 80 in a lovely old wooden church called Laurel Theater. There is small stage and even a balcony where the cool kids could go and look down on the audience. Both my mother and step-father were able to attend, which is a rare occasion. And our four-month-old, who couldn’t quite stop practicing her vowel sounds, was also there in the wings.

To share that moment with a roomful of writers was perfect. Other writers understand how long it takes for a poem to become a book of poems—or for a story to become a collection of stories. First and foremost, they understand that for every one published piece, there were at least ten others, some published, some not, that didn’t make the cut. I’ve been writing seriously since I was about twenty, and I hate to do the math on what that means in terms of the poems that preceded the 27 poems in this new chapbook, The Branches, the Axe, the Missing. I write about 50 finished poems a year, so…. Let’s say that means I wrote about 750 poems before these. And none of those poems were wasted moments, even though many were what I would call flawed poems. They all brought us to where we are now.

And the now is quite interesting. In the last nine months, I graduated with my Ph.D, published The Poetics of American Song Lyrics, which I edited, published two chapbooks, went on the job market, was fortunate enough to find a home with Eastern Illinois University, and had a baby. Someone who isn’t a writer could look at that and think what a busy year I’ve had. But no. I’ve had a busy past five years that brought all of this into being.

Last night’s reading also kicked off the book tour that my husband, my baby, and I will be doing in Louisville, Nashville, Newport Beach, Long Beach, Los Angeles, Monterrey, San Luis Obispo, and San Francisco. I’ll blog about each event and let you know how all of us do on the road. I’m not naming names, but at least one of us among this group gets cranky without a full belly and regular rests to look out at the trees.