One evil deed missed is a loss for all eternity.
–Grendel

Before Wicked turned Oz on it’s head and explored the life and times of the West’s wickedest witch, there was John Gardner’s Grendel. The 1971 novel by America’s moral fictionist delves into the mind and life of English literature’s earliest monster.

It’s not an easy task. Whereas Gregory Maguire was tackling an essentially human character and writing in a time when pop-psychology family dynamics provide all sorts of explanations as to why the Wicked Witch is so wicked, Gardner tackles a creature only presented as a monster, an animal, a force to be defeated. Interestingly, the one human element provided Gardner by Beowulf is one he discards: Grendel’s mother. She becomes a doddering, dementia-ridden, voiceless, creeping thing in the cave that Grendel finally sets “aside–gently, picking her up by the armpits as I would a child” (158). It’s a sad commentary that the recent Beowulf film adaptation did more of interest with Grendel’s mother than Gardner. To be fair, cast as a first-person narrative, Grendel’s story neccessarily ends before Grendel’s mother really becomes a force in the tale. But the jump from demented hair pile to vengeful she-beast seems a bit much to believe in Gardner’s telling.

Nihil ex nihilo, I always say.
–Grendel

If, as Wikipedia asserts, Gardner was weary of contemporary authors indulging in “‘winking, mugging despair’ or trendy nihilism”, what then does he bring to Grendel? Perhaps it’s a non-trendy nihilism. Or, perhaps, Gardner’s portrait of Grendel is his portrait of contemporary writing: there is no real heroism, there is only power; the self is only defined in pushing against the not-me. Throughout the novel, Grendel seems to ask what it is he is here on earth for, but never really engages in any true searching. His early stumbling attempts at interacting with humans are met with hostility, so he quickly abandons that avenue. The rest of his life therefore becomes a wallowing in a naturalistic, materialistic hell. Is it because of his reception? Is it because of a lack of intelligence?

Whether Gardner is shackled by the source material or a lack of imagination, his exploration into what turns the creature against mankind pales in comparison to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Both creatures blame are aware of their evil ways; both creatures blame their evil on the hypocritical failings of humanity; but Shelley is able to scribe that arc with much more precision and pathos. Perhaps Gardner’s choice to write Grendel in first person trapped him in a mind unable to comprehend the metaphysics needed to parse the cruel world in which he’d been set. Or perhaps Grendel is, in the end, nothing more than a physical manifestation of the nihilism described by O’Connor’s Misfit: No pleasure but meanness.

Back to the oars today after a late night. Coffee and good poetry soon put all to rights, and we were working through Bob’s poems. Right good ‘uns, too. Later there was an interesting poem from Allen featuring a peregrine attacking a sparrow. I must say, referring to none I shall name, that I for the life of me can’t figure why someone would spend the time and money to bring work to a workshop that they had no intention of revising once receiving critiques that clearly show weaknesses, some severe, which need attention. If you took your car to a mechanic, and he said your wheels were about to sever their connection to the vehicle, would you not take steps to correct the situation?

In the heat of the afternoon, Bob, Chris, and I headed out to the Arroyo Chamisos Disc Golf Course for what turned out to be the best disc golf experience I’ve had in New Mexico. The course meanders through a dry river bed/wash–well, and arroyo. The course designers have made good use of the scrub junipers, brush, and elevation changes to provide interesting holes. The installers and maintainers of the course have marked the course very clearly with three tee lengths. Unlike the St. John’s course, it’s always pretty easy to find where you’re headed and at what you’re shooting.

We played from the red Rec tees, which actually were a bit too short for me. I ended up with a -4 but 4 bogeys due to the winds and overthrowing some shorter baskets. (Imagine overthrowing a hole with a Roc.) I should be happy with the 8 deuces. I also ended up throwing way more “hammer” shots than I think is polite.

After dinner, Jeffrey O, Bob, Chris, and I headed into town for a “guy’s night out” only to be confounded by the lack of parking. We ended up on a patio near Bob and Chris’s room chatting until it was time for worship.

Later in the evening, I noticed Laura L-M and her friend Cullen from SFBC sitting out in the upper dorm patio area. I sauntered over and was quickly enlisted to learn a dice game called “Farkle”. It’s a nice easy dice game that is good for socializing.

Heading into the last day of the conference, I had another rich, full day.

Ah, the free day. A good idea. After Wednesday’s richness and fullness (did I mention I had my poems critiqued on Wednesday), everyone’s a bit gassed and needs a breather. I spent most of the day wrestling with MS Word to get Sherry’s manuscript ready for the publisher. She felt horrible about needing the help while I was at the Glen, but, truthfully, the work was a bit mindless and gave me some needed solitude and a chance to “be”.

I did have some fun today, though. Laura, not Morefield, who was in my fiction workshop last year orchestrated a good old-fashioned hymn sing at breakfast. It was great fun and edification standing around with 10-15 people singing “Be Thou My Vision”, “Were You There”, and “How Great Thou Art”. Later, after getting ditched by the folks who were also supposed to come, Laura and I headed out to the Santa Fe Brewing Company for lunch. After chawing our way through some excellent burgers (I love being able to get avocado on my burger.) and two fine ales, we headed over to the brewery proper. Laura’s friend Cullen works for the brewery and was working today, and the two of us were taken on a fantastic tour of the brewery. We even got to help “grain out the lauter tun”, that is, Laura took a hoe and extracted spent grain from the lauter tun while I pressed “Stop” and “Go” to spin the paddles inside the tun which moved the spent grain to the exit hole. I can now say that I helped brew a batch of Nut Brown Ale. It was fascinating to see what I do on a professional production scale. Cheers! to Cullen and the rest of the Santa Fe Brewing staff for being so friendly.

When I come to The Glen, I must admit to a small amount of disappointment if all I get in the workshop is high praise and little suggestion for improvement. It’s not that I’m unappreciative or masochistic; I know my work needs improving, and I desire constructive criticism. However, when I packaged up six 22-oz bombers of my Inklings Ale to be enjoyed by members of the Thomas Parker Society, I really wasn’t looking for constructive criticism. I wanted full-on adulation. Bob D made my day when he enthusiastically declared, “This kicks *$$!” Ann O’s struggling between her desire for another glass and being a good, sharing hostess was equally satisfying. Two gentlemen from Colorado Springs–nearby to the great brewing town that is Denver–gave me rather sincere “Well done’s”. And I hope Brett Lott doesn’t lose his Southern Baptist membership, but I believe he may be the most well-respected word-smithing personage ever to taste something I’ve made, the only possible competition would be poet Gary Gildner. Brett thought the concept was “cool”, and I am now only two degrees away from Oprah. The bottles were emptied at rate that I truly found surprising. In fact, the reception was so enthusiastic that there was only the smallest of mentions of last year’s Porter the Rhine Coffee Porter.

Other highlights of the night included a wacky 50’s-style space adventure by Chris, a Jamaican folk-tale told (with special voices), a preview of Jeffrey’s forthcoming book, and a funny/touching essay by Lisa on living with obesity.

Tomorrow it’s back to the grind and possibly some disc golf.

Why not enlarge the thin verge of the moment
–Carl Dennis, “Sarit Narai”

At noon, there came a tremor; cows
Stopped chewing for a second; sun,
Scarfed as in a heat-haze, dimmed.
–Philip Larkin, from “The Explosion”

Last night, in addition to thinking about Cain, we also heard a good bit about Bezalel. In Exodus 31, God tells Moses, “I have called by name Bezalel…and I have filled him with the Spirit of God in wisdom, in understanding, in knowledge, and in all kinds of craftsmanship.” Bezalel and his likewise called compatriots were called to create with all skill the tabernacle. Interestingly, as members of the tribe of Judah, they were called to make all of these works of art that they would never again see once their work was done. Once the ark was made, for instance, the only person who would see it would be Moses entering the Holy of Holies once a year.

It is a hard idea. Not only do they not have control of their work once it is done, but this is work which is created so that the whole nation can worship even though they cannot ever see it again.

This is part of what it means to make art in the public square.

Today’s workshop began with an in-depth analysis of a Philip Larkin poem and a Michael Donaghy poem. Each poem incorporates different strategies for releasing information. I don’t know how this is going to affect my work exactly, but I do know that this question of the intentional release of information is one I need to address, especially in the more narrative works.

Today was Warren’s first dip into my pocket. In addition to some Seamus Heaney poetry and a gift for someone who may be reading this post, my two big finds today were Li-Young Lee’s new collection Behind My Eyes, which includes a CD of Lee reading 22 of the works in the collection, and Ashen Sky by Barry Moser which is a series of illustrations of The Letters of Pliny the Younger on the Eruption of Vesuvius. I’ve got my eye on a book examining suburban city planning. I’ve also got my eye on an icon of The Ladder of Divine Ascent and of St. George and the Dragon.

I had decided to skip the fiction reading tonight by Valerie Sayers and get some writing and commenting done. Instead, I found myself reading a Patrick O’Brian novel. “This is silly,” I thought, “If I’m going to just sit here and read fiction, I should go listen to the reading.” And I was glad I did. Sayers fiction follows in that wonderful tradition of Southern writers who blend the outrageous with the tragic, the grotesque with the sublime, the humorous with the gut-wrenching. She read a story set in Jim Crow South that traced the fissures created by fear of difference at that time to its descendents today.

Worship was once again a blessing. The sermon tonight focused on that other Genesis city, Babel. How interesting that when God came down to confound the tower builders He did not wrend or destroy or smite. Rather, he scattered and he diversified. The preacher observed that the scattering was also a releasing, a freeing. The people were no longer tied to this insane project; they were freed to people the earth with glorious variety.

On a side note, my special package from home arrived today via UPS. Those attending the Thomas Parker Society meeting on Thursday are in for a treat.

‘Lie down
in the word-hoard, burrow
the coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.

Compose in darkness.
Expect aurora borealis
in the long foray
but no cascade of light.’
–Seamus Heaney, from “North”

I’ve been anticipating breakfast at the Glen for over a week, and it did not disappoint. Scrambled eggs with salsa verde has become my special Glen breakfast. The salsa verde not being something we see often in northwestern Ohio. It was also good continue meeting new folks. This morning it was Carol from TX, a visual artist who is also on Image’s board. We rhapsodized a while on the edification provided by community, especially when finding like-minded people at home is so difficult.

Today was also the beginning of the workshop proper, and I couldn’t have been more encouraged. After the usual introduce yourself rounds, we dug into an examination of Seamus Heaney’s revisions of “North”. We had seven versions of the poem and traced through the process by which the initial scribblings became the polished stone. It was encouraging and intimidating, a combination that I’ve come to expect here at the Glen.

Then it was on to the critiquing of each other’s work. We got through about two poems from two people. The conversation was energetic, insightful, constructive, all the things that make for a great week. In fact, it was a rather energizing session. Tobin creates an atmosphere that engenders useful and helpful feedback. My only trouble now is that before we even get to my poems, I want to go through and shred them myself.

Over lunch, Bob, his college roommate Chris, and I discussed the boundaries of the interpretive pallette, or, to put it another way, the quality literature has to mean many things but not everything. That, and we discussed the effects of Sears buying/merging with Lands’ End.

Brett Lott gave the keynote address using a 5 point outline with 4 points. Addressing the theme of “The Artist and the City”, he explored the idea that because we are blessed, we do not keep that blessing. We are blessed in order that we may in turn give that blessing away. As artists, our job is to enbody harmony between the moral order and the world. He pulled liberally (but in a good way) from Francis Schaeffer’s Art and the Bible. An interesting balancing act that Schaeffer requires is that Christian art not be all sweetness and light, for that is not true. He describes art as operating in major and minor keys, and the Christian artist needs to do both. Dwelling only in either key is not truth. However, and here is where, perhaps, some Christians falter in their wish to judge various artists, this does not mean that any one piece of work must work in a balance. That is, one must look upon an artist’s entire body of work, for one piece may be in a decidedly minor key, but that one piece does not necessarily depict the entirety of an artist’s worldview.

He closed with the idea that the Bible is not the story of corporate action but rather the actions of individuals. The way we change our culture is not with protests or boycotts or other corporate actions. We change the culture by individually living in harmony with the moral order.

In keeping with theme of the Artist and the City, our worship time featured a meditation on the founder of the first city, Cain. A fascinating fact is that while it is true that God exiled Cain, not only does God then protect Cain with his mark, but it is the descendents of Cain that are “the father of all those who play the lyre and the pipe” as well as those who begin the metal arts. In other words, here in the fourth chapter of Genesis, we get the Bible’s first redemption story. Yes, Cain is a murderer. Yes, Cain is cursed to be a vagrant and a wanderer and a failed farmer. But it is also true that from him who was protected by God comes whole areas of knowledge that are required of later generations for the worship of God.

After worship, we had the first open mike night. I read three pieces, and people laughed at the right places and made appropriate noises after I finished. A highlight of the night for me was a song sung acapella by Sara Zarr’s mother; it was a Christmas carol written in a medieval/Appalachin cadence. Simply, it was beautiful.

I must like getting up at ungodly hours in the summer. This morning Sherry and I were on the road at 3:45am to get me to the Toledo Airport in time for a 6:10 flight. Despite a close connection in Dallas, I sailed into Albequerque at the appointed time–with my luggage–only to be forced to sit on the tarmac for 45 minutes. I began to wonder if this wasn’t part of a new American Airlines scheme: now you have to pay a special fee to get off the plane.

Not to worry, I shortly was through the car rental line and most of the way to Santa Fe where I pulled into the Santa Fe Brewing Company for lunch. I had a most satisfactory burger. Nay, it was a fantastic burger. A huge fresh roll with crisp lettuce and fine tomatoes, a patty as big as my face, and they didn’t feel the need to char the snot out of it. Pink, Pink is the color of my tasty burger. Pair it up with a rather nice PA, add in the oceanic musing of Patrick O’Brian, and it was the perfect beginning to an exciting week.

My roommate is also studying poetry, but he’s in the other workshop. Seems a decent enough fellow. looking forward to the traditional reception tonight with pithy words and new wine.

I’m also anticipating a less fraught experience than last year due to a less stressful theme: The Artist and the City–Art and Faith in the Public Square.

Evening Update
The first night of the Glen is a wonderful thing, especially for misanthropic introverted man-cave dwellers like myself. Old friends smile when they see you, tell you what’s been going on, asking about your health, all that. Makes you feel human.

So, after a nice dinner reuniting with Randy C and Sara & Liz Z, bumped into Jeffrey and Anne O, and then it was time for “Opening Remarks.” After the usual, corny, but sweet, opening remarks, workshop leader Dan T huddled up our group where I ran into fellow disc golfer and Phoenix firefighter Bob as well as Peter S. During the fine reception out on the balcony, we were treated to a spectacular NM sunset. The O’s told their tale of airplane terror. Really, it shook me up just to hear about it.

Now, it’s just on 10 of the clock mountain time, but I’ve been up since 3 Eastern. Must. Go. To. Bed.

I first met Sara Zarr in the Fiction Workshop at The Glen in 2003. I don’t precisely remember what it was she was workshopping–it might have been a delightfully creepy piece involving a young girl and a stalker–but I do remember thinking, “This woman is a writer.” Over the next few years, I met her husband, sister, and mother; learned that she was born where I grew up; had many zany meals with her in the St. John’s Cafeteria; and she became one of what I call my “Glen Friends.”

So, it with EXTREME PLEASURE that I read yesterday that Sara’s debut novel, Story of a Girl is one of this year’s National Book Award Finalists! Woo! and Hoo!

You can see the official finalists list HERE where you’ll note that one of the other YA finalists is American great, Sherman Alexie.

You can also read Sara’s own typically self-deprecating and humorously “real” description of how she heard about the award at her blog and website.

Congrats, Sara!

This year my book buying was a bit subdued. I usually come home with so many books that they strain the luggage, but this year things fit neatly in the backpack. No particular reason. Well, I didn’t get into a bidding war at the silent auction; that helped. Of course, there’s one book I should have bought that I didn’t that I now have ordered from Amazon. Wonder if that should count. At any rate, I came home with:

• Recovered Body: Poems by Scott Cairns.
  After my first year at the Glen, I purposed to buy–and read–at least one book of poetry each year. Not only to support the publishing of poetry but also to keep my mind working in that way. The past two years I’ve been impressed with Cairns plenary lectures–learned, lucid, not too pompus–and his poetry readings. This volume was suggested as a good starting point into his work.
• Born Again and Again: Surprising Gifts of a Fundamentalist Childhood by Jon M. Sweeney.
  When we moved to Chicago the first time, ten years ago, I was beginning to ask what it meant to be “evangelical” as opposed to Christian. Later, our experiences in Toccoa led me to ponder the differences between “evangelical” and “fundamentalist.” All of this thinking of course got me examining my own childhood experiences. The pain of our time in Georgia made it easy to see childhood church experiences in a negative light, but hearing Sweeney on NPR a few years ago and reading an excerpt from this book brought back the light. I’ve been looking for Sweeney’s book for two years, so I was thrilled when I saw it on Warren’s book table.
• New Stories from the South: The Year’s Best, 2007 edited by Edward P Jones.
  I’m not a huge fan of short story collections by multiple authors, and the story by Fiction Workshop leader Moira Crone was already in the volume of her writing that I bought in New Orleans. So, I really wasn’t looking to pick up this title. However, Crone’s passionate recommendation not only of the editor but of all the work in the collection made it a no-brainer.

And that’s it for this year. Really. Well, no. Not really. I guess I would be remiss not to mention the volume I picked up on my off-day trip to Roswell. While at the UFO Museum, I did purchase

The morning workshop session, our last, was a bit more open ended than previous days since we only had two or three stories to critique. We had more room for general discussion about various topics. Two of our members had already departed campus, which served to remind us that the week was coming to a close. After the workshop was over, we all, I think, felt a kind of relief. The work was over; now we could sit back and enjoy our last day in Santa Fe.

Bob and Patrick joined me for a drive into town to play a disc golf course. After a couple of missed turns, we arrived at Ashbaugh Park. On first glance, it didn’t look like much. Small, flat, some homeless people sleeping on the ground. Turns out, that what you see is what you get. The PDGA listing states that the course opened in 1992. My guess is that it started out life as a 9 hole course, which would have fit the amount of available land just fine. Over the last 15 years, however, various methods of squeezing 18 holes into the space were employed. Now you have a situation where you’re shooting at the same baskets from multiple pins to create 18 different holes. The downloadable map is rather accurate and has all the information you need on it, but what that information is is not always clear. As we were wandering about looking for a hole, a local playing through gave us a quick layout and mentioned that some of the tees were just wooden blocks in the ground or red marks painted on fencing. Now the list of odd info on the map made sense.

With just the three of us playing the course, we didn’t have any trouble. But I can’t imagine tournaments being played here. You’d constantly be overlapping other players. Of course, you play what you have. Thankfully for Santa Fe, a new 18-hole course went in last year at Arroyo Chamisos. I predict the downside will be that Ashbaugh Park continues to decline. Of course, my feelings about the course would probably be better if I’d played better. I had no control. Several of the holes are layed out for lefties, so I was trying my forehand shot. I had all sorts of distance, but very little aim, so I ended up OB on more than one occasion. (Thanks, Bob, for climbing that fence!) On hole 6, I hit four trees. The big story, however, is that I’ve finally had a good disc golf experience in Santa Fe; good being defined as having actually shot a disc at all holes on a course.

On returning to campus, we had just enough time to shower, rest a short bit, and get ourselves to the last supper of the week. Meal times have always been one of my favorite aspects of the Glen Workshop. Yes, the food is usually top notch. But the most important part of the meal is the fellowship with fellow Glennites. Even if you know noone at the Glen, you’ll always find a table to welcome you. By the second or third meal, you will usually have some folks that you can join anytime. Of course, as the week goes on and you get to know your workshop-mates, conversations from the morning naturally carry over into lunch. The diversity of Christian experience is amazing, and meal times provide a friendly place for people to tell their stories.

The evening concert featured Pierce Pettis, reknowned songwriter whose songs have been recorded by Joan Baez, Garth Brooks, Art Garfunkel, Randy Stonehill, and Dar Williams and who worked closely with Mark Heard. Gasping for breath in the thin Santa Fe air, Pettis picked his guitar and blew his harp with such passion that the Glen crowd demanded he sing more even though doing so would eat into time for Over the Rhine, a Glen fave. Pettis was part of the “fast folk” movement of the 80’s and doesn’t seem to have slowed down any. Mixing reflections on beauty with poignant satire, you’re just as likely to marvel at his word play as his fancy picking.

Of course, the last four years at the Glen wouldn’t have been complete without a drop-dead gorgeous set from Over the Rhine. No disappointments here. Karin and Lindford treated us to several tunes off the upcoming The Trumpet Child, a brand new tune, and some old favorites. Deftly switching from instrument to instrument, the pair simply made beautiful music. This year’s set seemed to be tilted a bit towards more contemplative work, but noone could help smiling and joining in with their last tune, “If a Song Could Be President.”

Sadly, the good vibes of the concert didn’t carry over into what is usually one of the most humbling and meaningful times at the Glen: the final worship time and annointing of the artists. This year’s theme at the Glen was an exploration as to what literature and art could bring to the dialogue between the three Abrahammic faiths: Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. The organizers clearly understood that such a dialogue is “inherently risky,” and I do give them full credit for trying to add positively to the discussion of how we can live peaceably in this world. However, nowhere did the claim that such striving for our common humanity would occur “Without seeking to blur the distinctiveness of any tradition” fail so much as it did on the closing night. All week I’d heard rumblings–and I myself stated on this blog concern–that the worship services were doing precisely what was not sought. While many seemed to be able to particpate fully in the service, it was clear by the number of people who left the auditorium or kept their seats during the annointing that my eyesight was not the only that perceived a distinct lack of focus. At this point, I’m fully willing to chalk up this major disappointment to well-intentioned mis-steps. Brave attempts do not always succeed, and quite often crash spectacularly.

But God is good. After the ending reception, I was walking back to my room lost in thought about the disappointment of the ending of Glen 07 when I heard some familiar strains wafting on the sage-scented air. I remembered an invitation to a little soiree. Entering a Common Room, I saw my roommate for the week, Canadian artist Gerald Vaandering, as well as some others. Fellow fiction workshopper Laura had a hymnal open and a small group around her were singing. I joined in, and for the next two hours or so, we picked old favorites and tried to sing them a cappella in four part harmony. We didn’t always get the notes right; I’m sure we got worse as the evening progressed. But when we quit a 2am, I was certain that we had offered up to the Lord a joyful noise. One woman who joined us was so happy she was bouncing in place. “I haven’t done this for 15 years!” May God continue to remind us of the good things.

I’ll end this year’s reporting with a photo taken by Sara Zarr, YA author. That’s me on the left end. Then Sara. Jeffrey and Anne Overstreet are on the right.