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Letter from Joyce Archives
A vastly simpler life, and the sometimes difficult lessons of Pie
March
22, 2009
Dear Friends,
Once again, I’m writing
to you from the shores of Lake Atitlan, where I have come every winter
for the last eight years now, to write and swim and, of course, to host
writers (and those who would like to incorporate writing into their lives)
at this place that means so much to me.
Every
year when I come here, I feel restored by this place, and the vastly simpler
life we all live here. (When I first started coming to the village of
San Marcos, in the fall of 2001, there was no internet in this village,
so I rode a boat to a larger town, once a week, just to pick up my email.
Now I’ve got wireless internet at my house. And of course that makes
things easier in many ways, but there’s a loss too. These days, from
where I sit from beneath my thatch roof, I can find out things like who
won the Best Supporting Actress Award and how badly the banks are doing.
And having all that information contributes absolutely nothing to my life,
or anybody else’s.)
This winter, in particular -- at a time when, back in the U.S., so many people are experiencing loss of jobs, homes, savings, expectations for retirement, and a whole way of life as they knew it -- it is interesting and instructive to be living in a place where the majority of people never had much of anything to begin with, and where the concept of being totally wiped out (by a flood, or a hurricane, or a fire, or illness, or just a bad break) is part of living. (Of course, I am a rich woman here, living, by myself, in a house whose bathroom is around the size of the adobe houses many families share with inlaws and children. Though I am not at all sure all this stuff of ours makes us so-called First World types appreciably happier or more content.)
Here at Lake Atitlan, little evidence exists that there’s a world financial crisis going on. My day still starts with a sunrise swim in the lake -- and a greeting, as I stroke out into the blue water towards the volcano, to the fisherman in his little wooden dugout boat who’s always there, from five a.m. onwards. Then comes a shower -- hot water a recent and deeply appreciated development, and a cup of coffee I sip very slowly, while listening to the songs of birds.
I eat a breakfast of blue corn tortillas prepared by the mother of the young man, Andres, who tends my flowers here. (Last month, when I arrived, I presented Andres with a gift: a half dozen packets of vegetable and flower seeds. The look on his face, receiving them, was more joyful than what most Amerian teenagers might display, upon receipt of an Ipod. One of the things about living simply as people do here: they tend to appreciate every single good thing.)
Simple as life is at the lake, however, my days have been noiser and more active here than normal, thanks to an ongoing construction project at my house: a new kitchen and patio, to accommodate growing numbers of writing students who come to my workshops here.
This winter, I’ve hosted two group of writers here at the lake -- co-teaching with my good friend Ann Hood in March, and in February, with the crime fiction writer (and all-around great writer) Laura Lippman. (Laura has a new book coming out this month, by the way: Life Sentences. She’s such a terrific writer that even if you’re not a reader of crime fiction, you should take a look.)
As has been so for my time with every group I’ve worked with at the lake, our time together with the adventuresome types who chose to make the journey to the lake to join us were full of growth and discovery -- though every week is always unique, too. And there are always new lessons for us all.
(Maybe because February’s group included a New York television producer of a weekly hour-long crime show, I found myself posing the question to writers, throughout the week: "Could our friend Paul film that sentence you wrote?" The answer -- if a person is writing in a concrete, dramatic and visual fashion, should be "yes" –and when it’s not, I think, that often reveals a crucial problem in the writer’s work. It’s correctable, of course. All you need to do is fly down to Lake Atitlan for a week with me, and we’ll take care of it. And take about ten years off you while we’re at it. I swear, that’s how it aways seems, when I compare how everyone seems, the day they step off the boat and arrive at the workshop and how they look, seven days later, when we wave goodbye.)
One of the things
I always rediscover about these workshop times, is that as much as they
inspire the writers and would-be writers who join us, they inspire my
own writing too. Invariably, I find, after I have to say goodbye to the
new friends I’ve made over the course of the workshop week, I am
unusually clear and focused, myself, about what matters most in my own
writing life, 
and
renewed in my appreciation for what a great and lucky thing it is to get
to do this for a living.
Last summer, my July workshop experience was followed by a two month stint at The MacDowell Colony, in New Hampshire -- a writing residency program in which I received that great gift and luxury of virtually uninterrupted time to focus on my work. The result was the first draft of a memoir (some of which I’ve shared with readers of this letter) and a novel, called Labor Day. The novel will be published on July 28.
In the coming weeks, I want to share with you a little of that novel (including audio tracks of me, reading the first chapter). First, though, I thought I’d give you an advance look at the cover. This is still in the works, so what you’re seeing here may well undergo more changes. But I'd love to know what you think.
One interesting phenomenon I noted, when my editor sent me the early cover design you’re seeing here: This jacket represents the fourth time that the image of a heart appears on the jacket of a novel of mine. (For you long-time readers, check out The Usual Rules, To Die For -- in hardback, and my very first novel, Baby Love. Actually, I like it that images involving love run through my work. Fitting enough, for a person whose favorite holiday is Valentine’s Day (and one who makes her second home in a country where February 14 -- Dia de Carino -- is actually a national holiday).
The official publication date of my new novel is July 28. I’m going to ask a favor of those of you who may be planning on ordering the book from Amazon: I’d be very grateful if you’d hold off your orders until pub day, to give the book the maximum boost in reported sales when it comes out. That kind of thing can make a real difference in the launching of a novel.
And of course, once you’ve read it, I’ll be looking forward to hearing your thoughts on the book, and talking more about it here.
Meanwhile, though, I want to tell you about the publication of several terrific collections of essays in which I’m proud to say work of my own appears. The first is Feed Me!: Writers Dish About Food, Eating, Weight and Body Image, edited by Harriet Brown, just out in stores now (and in paperback).
Also just out: Because
I Love Her: 34 Women Writers Reflect on the Mother-Daughter Bond,
edited by Nicki Richiesin -- a book of women’s writings about (guess
who?) our mothers. And coming next month: DIRT:
The Quirks, Habits, and Passions of Keeping House
This week, I thought I’d share with you my essay from Feed Me -- a piece I call Pie, though in fact, it’s about a lot more than that. If you like this one, I hope you’ll check out the rest of the book -- full of stories about Jenny Craig diets and table manners, starving stewardesses (courtesy of my dear friend Ann Hood, a former flight attendant) and binging teenagers. A book to (excuse my language) devour...
Here
in Guatemala, of course, I’m not sure anyone -- in the Mayan community
at least -- ever heard of the concept of an eating disorder. This, too,
is one of the refreshing aspects of life in a third world country. Some
problems -- like shrunken 401K’s and anorexia -- only come to people
who had enough to get them in the first place.
As for me, I am rich, today, in volcanoes. Three of them, and a lake, and a plateful of mangoes, and a hummingbird out my window. Plenty of things are not perfect in my life of course, but I am feeling like a lucky woman.
With friendship,
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