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Letter from Joyce Archives

October 13, 1999

Dear Friends,

All the years I lived in New Hampshire (four decades and then some), I never thought of the state of Michigan as "east". But when my little propeller plane landed in Traverse City last week, taking me to the writer's retreat where I was teaching, at Lake Walloon, that's how it felt. I hadn't laid eyes on fall leaves in four years, and the woods were blazing with them. Something about the smell of the air just about made me swoon, it evoked so much memory. And of course I had to scare up some apples to make a pie. They just don't grow them the same in California.

The writing retreat was terrific. Among the guest lecturer/teachers was my dear friend the poet/fiction writer and memoirist, Rosemary Daniell, whose book, The Woman Who Spilled Words all Over Herself, is one of the best inspirational guides for writers I've encountered. Some of you may remember my telling you, in the past, about Rosemary's legendary Zona Rosa writing group that's been going for twenty years now in Savannah, Georgia. Participants in the Lake Walloon workshop got a taste of the Zona Rosa method (as you will yourselves, if you check out her book). Some really strong, moving writing happened there. [Interview with Rosemary Daniell.]

Also at Lake Walloon was the filmmaker/writer Michael Moore and his wife, Kathleen Glynn, best known for the documentary, Roger and Me, in which Moore chronicles the effects of downsizing in his hometown of Flint, Michigan, and makes a personal pilgrimage to visit GM chief Roger Smith. Meeting Michael and his wife Kathleen Glynn in Michigan was a particular pleasure for me, and I'll tell you why: Sometime over the course of this past year, when I was under no small amount of fire from the literary world for my most recent book, I hit on the idea of summoning the spirit of Michael Moore whenever I'd face another hostile situation. (My sons, knowing of this, even suggested that I should start wearing a baseball cap and increasing my french fry consumption.) So there I was, this past June, sitting in the makeup chair preparing for my appearance on Good Morning America (and more of those questions about invading the privacy of a literary god) when who should amble in and sit himself down in the makeup chair next to me (submitting himself to a blow-dry, of all things) but Michael Moore himself. Naturally, I told him about my having adopted his persona, gave him a big hug, and have regarded him as a friend ever since. You should check out his website.

So there we all were in Michigan together, along with a terrific and diverse group of participants, mostly from Michigan, but some from even more far flung locations. That weekend marked the tenth anniversary of the death of my mother, Fredelle Maynard, which could have made it a very somber occasion for me. Instead, I liked it that I could honor my mother -- the best teacher of writing I have ever encountered -- by imparting to my students at the retreat some of what I knew she would have told them about their work. I have worked with some fine editors in my time, but truthfully, no one has ever taken a red pen to a manuscript the way my mother used to take hers, to my work, in our living room, when I was about twelve years old. Not an experience for the faint of heart, let me tell you. (And incidentally, speaking of my mom, I want to remind you of a tape I produced, featuring the series of essays I wrote over the course of that summer she was dying. The collection is called Nobody's Daughter Anymore, and it's available for sale.)

On the last night of the retreat, a band played backup to a bunch of writers brave enough to recite their poetry to the music. Next morning, we completed a final assignment -- a one line poem in which each of us was asked to imagine the words of Eve, after tasting that first bite of the apple. Someone there compared that first taste of sinful freedom to what she had experienced at Lake Walloon.. All in all, it was a wonderful weekend, and one I bet we'll be repeating next year, around the same time.

From Lake Walloon I travelled to Kalamazoo, Michigan, where I taught some english classes at a large public high school where a dear friend teaches. This was the first time since my marriage that I'd spent any time in the Midwest, and I have to say the people I met were wonderful, friendly and very distinctly not New Englanders or Californians in their way of approaching things. Maybe the habit will pass, but anybody who talks to me at the moment is likely to hear me say "you betcha" more than a few times.

I came home to a challenging situation. My son Charlie -- a great boy, but a too-confident driver -- has had his license suspended for a month after receipt of his second traffic violation. So I'm back to carpool detail, and trying hard to see this time, out on the roads with my sons, as an opportunity to have lots of heart to heart talks and catch up on all that rap music I hadn't got around to hearing lately. Soon enough, I tell myself, I won't have anyone around to drive anywhere, and then how I will miss them. For now, however, I'm putting in a lot more time behind the wheel than I needed. And though some of you may remember that when Charlie had his earlier accident last spring, I replaced our old Jeep Cherokee with a 1983 Mercedes convertible, I'm sorry to report that the car I'll be driving has to be Charlie's 1980 Toyota. No way to fit two teenage boys in the two-seater.

My daughter, back in New Hampshire painting houses with her father, tells us she's heading back to California sometime later in the fall. We all miss her keenly here. Meanwhile, I've got some travelling of my own in my future, with talks coming up at the Rocky Mountain Book Festival in Denver, at UC Berkeley, University of Florida in Gainesville University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia and at Yale, and back home in California, at Book Passage in Corte Madera, on Dec. 6. Maybe I'll see some of you at one of those places.

Finally, I want to make you all aware of the fact that the paperback edition of my memoir, At Home in the World has just been released, and should be in stores now. The book features a new afterword written by me this summer, addressing the controversy that surrounded its publication last fall, and some of the criticisms levelled at me for writing it. Also included in the paperback is a reprint of my first article in the New York Times Magazine, first published in 1972, titled "An Eighteen Year Old Looks Back on Life." If you liked the book when it came out last fall, I hope you'll tell your friends about it, and if you are associated with a college or university that would like me to come and speak, by all means let me know. My publishers, Picador USA, have also prepared a readers' discussion guide to the book, which should be helpful for those of you who might like to recommend it to your book groups.

As always, I want to remind you of the valiant efforts of our webmistress, Myrna Uhlig, who keeps this place running smoothly. All proceeds from sales of books, tapes and CD's in the Joyce Maynard Catalogue go directly to her, so check out the merchandise.

That's it from me for now. Except for drives up and down Rte. 101 to take my sons places (and Thursday nights in the city, for my wonderful Figure Drawing class) I'm home for the rest of this month, so I should be a little more present at this discussion forum than I've been for a while. As always, I love to see what you have to say.

Your turn.

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