tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46806199472092634992024-03-05T00:00:30.101-08:00Suzanne MorrisonAbsolutely Everything I'm Reading, Writing, and RehearsingSuzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.comBlogger167125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-71095393754882291072013-12-09T14:37:00.001-08:002013-12-09T14:37:30.761-08:00What to WearHello dears. <a href="http://www.litro.co.uk/2013/12/what-to-wear/" target="_blank">Here's a short essay</a> I wrote for the UK's terrific Litro Magazine, I hope you enjoy it!<br />
<br />
<b><i>You attended a thousand parties in New York, at art museums and armouries, at a very good funeral
home and a world famous theatre. There were pale men in fine suits and
duskier-skinned cater-waiters in tuxes. Preserved old ladies wore
invasive French scents that reminded you of your grandmother’s Seattle
clubs, the Sunset Club and the Rainier Club, the Ladies’ Auxiliary this
or the Women’s University that. If you exchanged pleasantries with such
ladies your dress would carry some of that fussy old glamour with you
when you said goodbye. The girls your age who weren’t there, like you,
on the arm of a corporate foundation’s temp, wore lighter scents, all
fruit and white flowers. When you told yourself the young girls’
perfumes were just the old lady perfumes of the future, you coveted
them less.</i></b>Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-1559545146817325722013-11-13T15:04:00.001-08:002013-11-13T15:04:51.345-08:00Fiction SchoolI had a lot of fun doing this <a href="http://www.fictionschool.com/writing-from-real-life-in-fiction-and-memoir-fs008/" target="_blank">interview</a> with Fiction School's <a href="http://www.bakerlawley.com/" target="_blank">Baker Lawley</a>, <a href="http://www.jodygehrman.com/" target="_blank">Jody Gehrman</a>, and (in spirit) <a href="http://www.tommyzurhellen.com/" target="_blank">Tommy Zurhellen</a>. If you've ever wondered how memoirists and fiction writers make (or try to make) art out of life, then this is the podcast for you! <br />
<br />
<br />Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-27154524199634733132013-06-28T18:39:00.000-07:002013-06-28T18:39:40.224-07:00Summer ReadingHere's a fun sampler of summer reads, including Yoga Bitch!<br />
<br />
<div nbsp="" style="-x-system-font: none; display: block; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,Sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 12px auto 6px auto;">
<a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/149747629/Summer-Reads-Sampler" nbsp="" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="View Summer Reads Sampler on Scribd">Summer Reads Sampler</a> by <a href="http://www.scribd.com/CrownPublishingGroup" nbsp="" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="View Crown Publishing Group's profile on Scribd">Crown Publishing Group</a></div>
<iframe class="scribd_iframe_embed" data-aspect-ratio="0.655272727272727" data-auto-height="false" frameborder="0" height="600" id="doc_88050" scrolling="no" src="http://www.scribd.com/embeds/149747629/content?start_page=1&view_mode=scroll&access_key=key-101j5n5ip4cpdg6oarn0&show_recommendations=true" width="100%"></iframe>Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-86094996977146837972013-05-23T15:50:00.000-07:002013-05-23T15:50:10.574-07:00Small Change in the Chicago Tribune<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsw9HflgD-A4Rd1q2tlyM2IgYZUecDjxQltjPjXkVxoRRrJsHzyIFIV79wQcGSDxErhyphenhyphenw-VdzmfuGLT7j060BHO2mLDUd4wPXnnAW1l4-WGkgr7SAkMubdWHVGrDc0m_qOuZ72LQQaGCa/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="524" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsw9HflgD-A4Rd1q2tlyM2IgYZUecDjxQltjPjXkVxoRRrJsHzyIFIV79wQcGSDxErhyphenhyphenw-VdzmfuGLT7j060BHO2mLDUd4wPXnnAW1l4-WGkgr7SAkMubdWHVGrDc0m_qOuZ72LQQaGCa/s640/photo.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Very excited to see my short story Small Change in Printers Row at the Chicago Tribune. I wrote an essay about the somewhat terrifying process of writing this story, <a href="http://crosscut.com/2012/04/16/books/22169/Fear-selfloathing-in-Seattle/" target="_blank">here</a>. Printers Row is an awesome literary supplement/journal, and you can subscribe <a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/books/printersrow/" target="_blank">here</a> if you're interested!Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-12348081924388032292013-05-21T18:39:00.001-07:002013-05-21T18:39:14.997-07:00Hilary Mantel<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/05/19/books/review/hilary-mantel-by-the-book.html?pagewanted=all&_r=1&" target="_blank">This interview with Hilary Mantel </a>is terrific, especially this bit:<br />
<br />
<b><i>Memoir’s not an easy form. It’s not for beginners, which is unfortunate,
as it is where many people do begin. It’s hard for beginners to accept
that unmediated truth often sounds unlikely and unconvincing. If other
people are to care about your life, art must intervene. The writer has
to negotiate with her memories, and with her reader, and find a way,
without interrupting the flow, to caution that this cannot be a true
record: this is a version, seen from a single viewpoint. But she has to
make it as true as she can. Writing a memoir is a process of facing
yourself, so you must do it when you are ready. </i></b><br />
<br />
<br />Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-77615584534462945342013-04-06T17:53:00.002-07:002013-04-06T17:53:30.820-07:00Salt Hill 30, Macedonia, Deutschland and More<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbVpTCfEASDkVcABk3qLS7dw6WMnOok8ZZE2sB-3TG22Iq0nQ_Tnz8LQSbsuvMUrzVtslBCNH7iu_F1g6WLCNIj4DHJDSEQI3sW-xZ6I6uWvd7sy18bC6bsFEsppRThSgawZLECG3_uZn/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbVpTCfEASDkVcABk3qLS7dw6WMnOok8ZZE2sB-3TG22Iq0nQ_Tnz8LQSbsuvMUrzVtslBCNH7iu_F1g6WLCNIj4DHJDSEQI3sW-xZ6I6uWvd7sy18bC6bsFEsppRThSgawZLECG3_uZn/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">So, I've got a short story in the latest issue of <a href="http://salthilljournal.com/" target="_blank"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Salt Hill</span></i></a>, Syracuse University's gorgeous literary journal. I'm really quite thrilled about it; this story is an old one that I started sending out this summer in earnest. I wrote it-- or rather, its first lines-- over ten years ago, late at night when I lived in New York. I had probably just watched either <i>Cabaret</i> or an Almod<span style="font-size: small;">ó</span>var film, because I was obsessed with both at the time<span style="font-size: small;">. It's called <i>Proper Food for Children</i>. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">In other news, <i>Yoga Bitch</i> will be translated in<span style="font-size: small;">to Macedonian, which is thrilling<span style="font-size: small;">-- please do tell all your Macedonian friends to keep an eye <span style="font-size: small;">out for it.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">And <span style="font-size: small;">the<span style="font-size: small;"> German edition of <i>Yoga Bitch is</i> in bookstores right now! It's g<span style="font-size: small;">ot a new title<span style="font-size: small;">, <i>Bin Ich Schon Erla<span style="font-size: small;">ü</span>chtet? </i>Which means, <i>Am I <span style="font-size: small;">Enlightened Yet?</span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;">Pretty neat, if you ask me. (And the answer is <i>nein</i><span style="font-size: small;">.)</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Other than that, I'm about to disappear for a while to get the new book in<span style="font-size: small;">to second draft. Exciting, scary, etc<span style="font-size: small;">.<span style="font-size: small;"> I am drowning in notes, outlines, half-written scenes. Time to get this thing together.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">AND<span style="font-size: small;">! I know you're all dying to know how <span style="font-size: small;">S</span>par<span style="font-size: small;">tacus turned out<span style="font-size: small;">. Oh, Spartacus. Spartacus is a bad <span style="font-size: small;">drug. I know it's terrible, but I can't stop<span style="font-size: small;"> watching it. So, consider yourselves warned<span style="font-size: small;">, and stick to Game of T<span style="font-size: small;">h<span style="font-size: small;">rones.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Till next time,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">S </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-6821344836984143762013-01-11T19:26:00.001-08:002013-01-11T19:26:21.548-08:00I Am Spartacus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8N2-iBxRc2CuLHD9nYjmqxD2QOnk9HXJs9TF2qtyVZgboqPUPijgU7JEV6GJw49hrKaZw8woTbRZfK6B35xV5fGAVVa_PbNDyD4Y_JzQo9B9hjNrY4B-hIsTzr0ii1YXZmao-JDaWmVNt/s1600/2601a2f416spartacus.blood_.and_.sand_.s01e01.720p.hdtv_.x264.rus_.eng_.ac3105619.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8N2-iBxRc2CuLHD9nYjmqxD2QOnk9HXJs9TF2qtyVZgboqPUPijgU7JEV6GJw49hrKaZw8woTbRZfK6B35xV5fGAVVa_PbNDyD4Y_JzQo9B9hjNrY4B-hIsTzr0ii1YXZmao-JDaWmVNt/s320/2601a2f416spartacus.blood_.and_.sand_.s01e01.720p.hdtv_.x264.rus_.eng_.ac3105619.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
So far, 2013 has been full of tiny horrors, some of which I'd love to share with you.<br />
<br />
1. <i>Spartacus</i>, the television series: Have you seen this godawful thing? Honestly, it's some of the worst television I've encountered, and I have a high tolerance for bad TV. My brothers swear up and down that if we can just make it through the first five episodes, we will fall in love with it. So we watch it with our hands over our eyes, the husband and I. I keep imagining how the writers brainstormed this show: I picture two unshowered brothers, stoned on weed and beer and porn and video games, essentially having the same conversation over and over again. I imagine it goes something like this:<br />
<br />
Bro #1: In this scene, Spartacus should totally have sex with his wife while CGI flowers fall around them and we see her tits a lot.<br />
<br />
Bro #2: That's exactly what I was thinking. And we should see her tits.<br />
<br />
Bro #1: I love that idea. Definitely tits. And then . . . the Romans come!<br />
<br />
Bro #2: Yeah, tits, Romans. Then there should be like a big scene of punches and blood, and the wife's tunic gets ripped so we see her tits. There should be yelling, and someone says something about honor.<br />
<br />
Bro #1: Great idea. I think we should have some blood in this scene, like, big splashes of CGI blood and punches that are done in slow motion and also swords. Then, let's get some sex in there, but dirty this time.<br />
<br />
Bro #2: Yeah, okay, so we need slaves to have sex then. Slow motion sex. Then they're interrupted by punches and there should be, like, blood splatters that like, hit the television screen. I think the punches should be in slow motion.<br />
<br />
Bro #1: Can we get some tits in that scene?<br />
<br />
Bro #2: We can do that. (Reaches for bong.)<br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />
The husband and I have taken to calling it Shitticus. But we are people of faith. We will suffer through to the fifth episode.<br />
<br />
2. While watching the first episode of <i>Downton Abbey</i> Season 3, I kept imagining what it would be like if the writers of <i>Spartacus</i> got their hands on the darling of Masterpiece Theatre Anglophilia. Tidal waves of blood and boobs . . . <i>and Maggie Smith.</i><br />
<br />
3. I am back to work on the new memoir and it is kicking my ass. It's taken me over a year to be ready even to consider returning to memoir after promoting <i>Yoga Bitch</i>, which involved talking about myself endlessly for many months. But now I'm back to cringing and sighing and wishing I could hide under my desk most days, writing about some of the absurd things I've done, said, thought . . . Oh, memoir. That said: I kind of like the pain, because it gives me so much to complain about! And you know how I do love to complain.<br />
<br />
4. We're doing one of those wretched little cleanses again. This time I'm allowing myself to have butter. I'm a grown-up, a <i>decider, </i>and I decide that on this cleanse, I can't have booze or sugar or whatever the hell, but I can have butter. This makes all the difference.<br />
<br />
5.
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I had a tiny epiphany that freaked me out, and that's that this work is never going to get any easier. Memoir is hard, always, because I am dealing with the messy, complicated material of my own life. But fiction's no easier. When I'm
working on shorter pieces (2012 was the year of the short story) I often feel
like I've got a wicked case of ADD and mania and dilettantism. But the older I
get the more aware I am that while my work habits are deeply, deeply fucked up,
they are <i>my</i> fucked-up work habits, and somehow, they work. But they look
nothing like an orderly person's.<br />
<br />
6. I also (re)discovered that discipline isn't everything. I mean, d<style><!--
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{page:WordSectionI mean,</style>iscipline is important in this business. In the beginning, discipline meant
getting my ass in the chair and slogging through my requisite three hours, or
1000 words, or two pages, whatever the goal was at the time. That discipline
has become almost --<i>almost</i>-- second nature. Now I have to remind myself
to relax. To space out. To be a conduit.<br />
<br />
In November, I started a writing retreat to draft the remaining third of the
new book. For four weeks I worked every day, grateful for the rain and the cold
to keep me focused. By mid December I found myself with nearly all of the chapters drafted
but a growing despair that the structure was somehow all wrong. I could either
keep going in this potentially-wrong direction or I could surrender to the
holidays and the not-knowing and give myself a few days off.<br />
<br />
So I sat by the tree and read Maria Semple's delightful <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/62-9780316204262-0"><i>Where'd You Go
Bernadette</i></a><i> </i>in two days. Ate my body weight in truffles. Moved on
to Ellen Forney's marvelous <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9781592407323-10"><i>Marbles</i></a>.
Ate bowl after bowl of buttery popcorn. And then I went to bed one night around
two in the morning, and the moment I closed my eyes, the book's structure-- the
flaw in the structure, rather-- revealed itself. I mean, it was like a quill
writing a new outline in the air above my head. Like a <i>revelation</i>.<br />
<br />
7. Surrender and revelation are often linked, and I seriously hate
it. I wish I could just decide to have a revelation and then have one.
Well, I surrendered to the
mess, and lookie here: this gift of revelation. I'm not in control of
this
work, not really. I'm not in control of <i>Spartacus</i>'s blood and
boobs, either. Ah, and here we've arrived at the Meaning of the Blog
Post, the Lesson: With both my work and my relationship with <i>Spartacus</i>,
I must be patient. Sometimes things suck. But sometimes you must
surrender to five episodes or more of suckiness before you get to the
good stuff. Or to reach that moment when you decide that ridiculously
staged sex scenes and even more absurdly choreographed acts of violence <i>are</i> the good stuff.<br />
<br />
Heading into winter, into this new year, that's what I will
try to remember<i>. </i>Happy New Year, y'all!Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-76039407704052025542012-08-22T18:01:00.000-07:002012-08-22T18:01:02.986-07:00I hate summer (with expletives)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg48uqGsJXFNwpfKZUszi89V6bgvzBU9xXDfW8n7G-a_W9tEXQLPcYlen1vgGCTXERyBhodCE5PYueT-J07QZJDpi-dGrfhBfChCw7CGBtcZj6TG4pgJzYzf_c5z3yvwb5SnJWWr3Kzqh8F/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg48uqGsJXFNwpfKZUszi89V6bgvzBU9xXDfW8n7G-a_W9tEXQLPcYlen1vgGCTXERyBhodCE5PYueT-J07QZJDpi-dGrfhBfChCw7CGBtcZj6TG4pgJzYzf_c5z3yvwb5SnJWWr3Kzqh8F/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fuck your slushies. Please come to my house.</td></tr>
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There. I said it. I've written about Seattle's intolerably gorgeous summer before, <a href="http://suzannemorrison.blogspot.com/2010/06/juneuary-is-for-writers.html">right here,</a> but I think I was being too positive. Really, summer is just <i>wrong</i>. It's cruel, especially when the writing isn't going well, and really the being-alive thing isn't going well-- because the writing isn't going well, so nothing can-- and I look out at the bright blue sun and the expanse of yellow sky and I think: I have no life. And it's all my fault, because I'm always stuck in this room here, trying to write.<br />
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Really, why would anybody choose to write? It's absolutely impossible, a dreadful profession. I should be one of those people who<i> reviews</i> books for a living. God, how fun, to just judge books, instead of writing them! To compose sentences like, <i>Really, this is a middling effort from Philip Roth. </i>Or, <i>It's not Toni Morrison's best work, but it has glimmers of her earlier greatness.</i> Oh, to sit up high, looking down, instead of squatting here, in the muck, wondering if any of this will ever be worth a good goddamn.<br />
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If I were reviewing books, I would be out right now with fashionable friends, holding forth on the great and the unworthy, making snide comments about Salman Rushdie's lesser novels and pithy asides about the weaknesses in Mark Twain's prose, waving my glass about confidently, always confidently, so confident.<br />
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(If you've enjoyed this foray into fantasyland, I also have magical theories about how good I would feel about myself if I were directing plays; an academic; a priest; one of those people who live in shacks in the mountains, watching out for forest fires . . . I will cycle through those fantasies in the future, when the writing sucks again. Probably tomorrow, if I'm still working on this <i>motherfucker</i> of a short story.)<br />
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So, yeah. Instead of being out in the gorgeous green day, I'm alone in my hot room wrestling a couple of strangers to the ground, strangers I created<i> in my own head</i>, neither of which will go have a drink with me or go for a walk with me or listen to me kvetch about my writing because they ARE my writing. They are ASSHOLES who don't want to get WRITTEN. These half-written characters of mine, they're just running the fuck away on their half-written legs, sticking their invisible tongues out at me from behind surprisingly well-drawn trees, and meanwhile the rest of the real world is out, surely enjoying a margarita somewhere. A <i>real</i> margarita, with, like, real alcoholic <i>molecules</i>.<br />
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Meanwhile I've skipped yoga and resented myself for it, I've thought about how I'm supposed to get a standing desk and learn how to write while standing. I've thought about how every moment I sit here, thinking about writing and not writing, wondering how soon I can get back on the internet and check the latest inanity on Facebook or Twitter, every moment is one moment closer to death, because <i>sitting</i> <i>kills</i>. That's what they say. Did you know this about sitting? It <i>kills</i>. I am <i>killing myself right now</i>.<br />
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So instead of thinking: <i>what would this character do in response to xyz?</i> instead I'm thinking about dying-from-sitting and how that's not what I'm supposed to be thinking about and besides, besides: what the fuck am I doing writing fiction anyway? I read somewhere recently that novels are the new short stories and that short stories are the new poems, and everybody knows that nobody reads poems, which means that nobody reads short stories. And I made the mistake of telling somebody (who doesn't read) what my new memoir is about, and they said, Seriously? Who would want to read that? And now I look at the 200+ pages of that first draft and think, seriously, indeed, who would? I don't even want to read it! I want to be drinking margaritas! On the street! With ALL OF HUMANITY. If we're all going to die in some La-Z-boy seated apocalypse, we might as well have a margarita in our hands, AMIRITE?<br />
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Oh, I promise to write again soon with a happier dispatch, one in which I argue that actually, there is no greater life than the writing life, that it's all orgasms and jellybeans, that all this intellectual clenching is making my ass round and succulent. But for now, let it be known that I am giving myself deep vein thrombosis in honor of a short story that might, by tomorrow, look like a big steaming pile of elephant dung. <br />
Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-1816635888545510812012-05-22T18:44:00.000-07:002012-09-17T17:10:57.670-07:00Neil Gaiman<a href="http://uarts.edu/neil-gaiman-keynote-address">His commencement speech</a> at University of the Arts is pretty great:<i><b> </b></i><br />
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<i><b>The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you're walking down the
street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind and what
exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself. That's the moment
you may be starting to get it right.</b></i><br />
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<i><b>The things I've done that worked the best were the things I was the
least certain about, the stories where I was sure they would either
work, or more likely be the kinds of embarrassing failures people would
gather together and talk about until the end of time. They always had
that in common: looking back at them, people explain why they were
inevitable successes. While I was doing them, I had no idea.</b></i>Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-15033365564131822202012-04-16T15:31:00.000-07:002012-09-13T23:40:54.592-07:00Fear, Failure, and Fear of Failure<a href="http://crosscut.com/2012/04/16/books/22169/Fear-and-self-loathing-in-Seattle/">Here's a piece I wrote for Crosscut</a> about the lead-up to the Hugo House Literary Series last month.<br />
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It's been a really interesting few months, writing-wise, mostly because of the Literary Series. I've been writing short fiction. What a wonderful thing, after publishing my first memoir, to write about people who are not me! People who don't actually exist in the real world!<br />
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From the essay:<br />
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<i><b>It’s not my job to imagine how readers will respond to my work. My job
is to write as well as I can. But I am profoundly unenlightened, see,
and so the thought of failing in public — at my favorite event in town,
the Literary Series, no less — is not something I’m quite so sanguine
about. I know I shouldn’t care. I know this. But every day when I sit
down to write, I struggle to ignore the sadistic online commenter who
lives in my head, the one who sneers at my subject matter, who verbally
moons my devotion to narrative, who snickers and whispers that no one in
the world wants to hear my story, no matter how entertaining I try to
make it.</b></i>Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-17592920418329887292012-03-29T15:54:00.001-07:002012-03-29T15:54:19.611-07:00On not eating delicious things<a href="http://www.booksforbetterliving.com/2012/03/changing-my-marriage-one-cleanse-at-a-time/">Here's a bit of feel-good fluff</a> I wrote for Books for Better Living, in which I describe how the husband and I attempted a three-week detox cleanse. The horror! Next time, we're doing a red wine and chocolate cleanse, which is quite simple: you can eat anything you like, so long as it's paired with red wine and chocolate.Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-40917599307525930792012-02-27T16:38:00.000-08:002012-05-06T17:01:09.375-07:00John Steinbeck<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmV4vRTrkwhnjUF3L_jqts9H3-4wismaP1GIGzwNC_EBZBcbZRi6XhSQDNXXJ_LCyhTvwfU217bejp-k7DzSFa6xbRrzegLuvo6qXZjUPW0JUwmh7fAR7ASYX9WKbLm1wKe7A0iw0CD3uL/s1600/ba_1_b_3954_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmV4vRTrkwhnjUF3L_jqts9H3-4wismaP1GIGzwNC_EBZBcbZRi6XhSQDNXXJ_LCyhTvwfU217bejp-k7DzSFa6xbRrzegLuvo6qXZjUPW0JUwmh7fAR7ASYX9WKbLm1wKe7A0iw0CD3uL/s400/ba_1_b_3954_1.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
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"A book is like a man-- clever and dull, brave and cowardly, beautiful and ugly. For every flowering thought there will be a page like a wet and mangy mongrel, and for every looping flight a tap on the wing and a reminder that wax cannot hold the feathers too near the sun."Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-37386896434936134432012-02-09T18:35:00.000-08:002012-02-09T18:50:28.821-08:00Yoga Bitch in Los AngelesIf any of you are in LA this weekend, I'm thrilled to say that I'll be reading at <a href="http://www.yogalaechopark.com/workshops/">Yogala</a> in Echo Park this Saturday, February 11th at 6pm. Some of the nicest and smartest yogis I've met teach or attend classes at Yogala, including the marvelous Lia Aprile of <a href="http://www.shanti-town.blogspot.com/">Shantitown,</a> who will be introducing me. Come on out!<br />
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I'll be staying with my dear friend Jessica and her many men (well, her husband and two baby boys) and hopefully <i>not</i> thinking about writing, which has been tough lately. Feels like I start bleeding every time I sit down at my desk. I want to bleach out in the sun and meet a bunch of yogis and enjoy some mommy-margarita time with Jess. And, and! I'm very excited to meet <a href="http://clairebidwellsmith.com/">Claire Bidwell Smith</a> while I'm in LA. Claire is the author of the just-released memoir, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rules-Inheritance-Claire-Bidwell-Smith/dp/1594630887/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1307546486&sr=8-1">The Rules of Inheritance</a>, </i>her story of coming of age after losing both her parents by her mid-twenties<i>. </i>I am so excited to read Claire's book-- hers is one of the few blogs I read religiously. Check it out. <br />
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Hope to see you there, Angelinos! <br />
<br />Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-67722529083908866552012-01-13T19:05:00.000-08:002012-01-13T19:05:51.507-08:00Saul Bellow on SymbolismIn today's internet travels I came across this essay by Saul Bellow, circa 1959. (I have lost the trail of breadcrumbs and can't say where I found it, sorry. It's been a big day for me and the internet.) Having thoroughly steeped in the very "deep reading" Bellow denounces, I find it marvelously refreshing.<br />
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<i><b>Perhaps the deepest readers are those who are least sure of themselves. An even more
disturbing suspicion is that they prefer meaning to feeling. What again about the
feelings? Yes, it’s too bad. I’m sorry to have to ring in this tiresome subject, but there’s
no help for it. The reason why the schoolboy takes refuge in circles is that the wrath of
Achilles and the death of Hector are too much for him. He is doing no more than most
civilized people do when confronted with passion and death. They contrive somehow to
avoid them.
</b></i>Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-6810001987759798732012-01-13T16:55:00.000-08:002012-05-06T17:01:38.825-07:00Yoga Bitch Named a Best Northwest Book of 2011The holidays have effectively drawn and quartered me, and I'm still recuperating, but today I remembered that I never blogged about Crosscut's Best Northwest Books of 2011, which included my little <i>Yoga Bitch</i>! As Robert McCrum notes over at the Guardian in his <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/dec/18/fifty-literary-life-robert-mccrum?cat=books&type=article">Fifty Things I've Learned About the Literary Life</a>, <b><i>"Lists are the curse of the age." </i></b>And indeed, he is right. But goodness me, if it isn't nice to be listed anyhow.<br />
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YB also just went into its third printing, which is thrilling, to say the least. To celebrate, I've been having a non-stop panic attack about getting started on the new book again. Just kidding. Well-- kind of.<br />
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<a href="http://crosscut.com/2011/12/21/books/21699/The-best-Northwest-books-of-2011/">Here's</a> the Crosscut list.<br />
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In other news, I've been reading an overwhelming amount of D.H. Lawrence lately and am actively suppressing the urge to describe the glorious sunset out my window in three pages of Lawrentian prose. As I am not D.H. Lawrence, we should all be relieved at my powers of restraint. <br />
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Happy New Year!Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-51088430747349026572011-12-07T14:37:00.001-08:002011-12-22T15:15:59.154-08:00The tour in review<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGN6bbjJ376Bs7Kszuy285Nox3UmQOLHYtqgmAYNw-zOX1X7PFDucBYd-eJziLN3D2KGygI22bob88_a04X2OxnqUCjy5t7sSqA2N0xlEtygDLsnrIP7NuG0LuOILIgBpjd4xsEOdMaDc/s1600/286789_2115622883363_1029428654_32287863_4787336_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGN6bbjJ376Bs7Kszuy285Nox3UmQOLHYtqgmAYNw-zOX1X7PFDucBYd-eJziLN3D2KGygI22bob88_a04X2OxnqUCjy5t7sSqA2N0xlEtygDLsnrIP7NuG0LuOILIgBpjd4xsEOdMaDc/s400/286789_2115622883363_1029428654_32287863_4787336_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is all I did for two months.</td></tr>
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Greetings, netlings! Hope you're enjoying the war on Christmas! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZQaGQobOdAtMq9SvIlPkbC9sGPQYs5C7wE_d5vvVoHzxl8gF8JzNfednmUFQdfLA_axvOETENvq2Ze3zzBF2O__vMpN9WKMS6uwmlFqR0XHiZul3lgayv6ynUU1ZJzHqbudoYCHasM8I/s1600/IMG_0521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>(This morning I told the cranky, list-boggled husband he was a General fighting the War on Christmas. His response: If I was General, this war would've been won by now.)<br />
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Anyhoo, long time no blog. I've been in hiding. Nothing like several months of non-stop self-promotion to make a girl crawl back into her cave for awhile. Honestly? It's been wonderful. I'm back at work on the new book, I've written a bunch of ghost stories. Even my writerly meltdowns have had a pleasant sort of self-locating quality to them, like, <i>Ah, yes, this is who I am. (I am a person who will cry to the tune of four thousand It Gets Better videos just to avoid writing.)</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb58taamwi-ng6bFDJTv5gLLuCEOr8FUDWx3pa4eyx64dqKC2uGzvwX4lHZTy1HlhSRxvTHjULFHEdKB1wTGQk1EUoFkXKW5JlqySleRxyVRMkfBs8PuZwfxGtVqgHODZZqUoty-K2O59/s1600/319155_10150312596888409_714558408_8163670_1694261870_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb58taamwi-ng6bFDJTv5gLLuCEOr8FUDWx3pa4eyx64dqKC2uGzvwX4lHZTy1HlhSRxvTHjULFHEdKB1wTGQk1EUoFkXKW5JlqySleRxyVRMkfBs8PuZwfxGtVqgHODZZqUoty-K2O59/s200/319155_10150312596888409_714558408_8163670_1694261870_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is me talking.</td></tr>
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Promoting a book is . . . well, good holy hell, it's just insane. It's so much fun, and it makes you completely mentally ill. Try talking about yourself non-stop for two months, taking breaks only to switch time zones by plane, train, or automobile, and you've got the idea. It's more overwhelming than I ever would have imagined. After nearly a month on the road, I flew home with about 16 hours to kill before I was scheduled to read at Elliott Bay Book Company. During my time away, I had been on two continents, oscillating between anxiety and exhilaration, enjoying too little sleep and too much of the kind of diet I consume while traveling (whatever protein I can find to avoid passing out; red wine & coffee) and now I arrived at Elliott Bay hoping I would at least remember the name of my own book and my own self, should anyone ask me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yellow beverages figured prominently on this book tour. </td></tr>
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It's funny; my exhaustion was so complete I actually almost miss it. That floaty, out-of-body feeling, the utter inability to try too hard. Or maybe I just miss the way I slept that night after my reading, grateful, relishing my own sheets and the fact that all future events would be close to Seattle. I spent the next day in my pajamas, reading. Never have I craved my bed and the absorbing world of books more profoundly.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_RHjM1SykzHcCshLPk80kkja-eChm66kKWjRktAewIsI0VwIv1MhsUElnSfa6I9FRi_YhYbUs5JyXrlpPwuZO82wsqiyZZ-Ew28yxcNMhtKuhs5R-fSeSqSB1Xwr_ZTorfaSSY9ANdr1/s1600/IMG_0515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_RHjM1SykzHcCshLPk80kkja-eChm66kKWjRktAewIsI0VwIv1MhsUElnSfa6I9FRi_YhYbUs5JyXrlpPwuZO82wsqiyZZ-Ew28yxcNMhtKuhs5R-fSeSqSB1Xwr_ZTorfaSSY9ANdr1/s200/IMG_0515.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm talking some more!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHc7cjUnGGaC87_KdIhtbLlbR15VlBiwihXLqc7E7s_Jksp4vbz1T8UI_6cWBZZb9TN0cNzx1Qh0j46fnq3iZ67XmWfs3Rxs0Xkr4Gr0iH5_3IXgz6fMeBaAzEIkyFwy5h3HHYxOnhufQ0/s1600/YogaBitch7-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>From roughly mid-July to mid-October, I couldn't write to save my life. I don't know how writers like Joyce Carol Oates and T.C. Boyle do it. How do they put out a book a year AND go on tour AND, um, put out a book a year?! There's something almost monstrous about that much energy coursing through one human being. My hat is off to you writers. Shoot, my whole <i>outfit</i> is off. I'm in awe.<br />
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October clipped along with more events, interviews, and this incessant buzzing in my ear that turned out to be the sound of my own voice. Then, emerging from months held
hostage by that dominatrix <i>Yoga Bitch</i>, November was this
great gift of time; book promotion had slowed to a nice gentle
simmer, and each morning I flew to my desk, overflowing with ideas. I
wrote stories, drafted chapters of the new book, cobbled
together essays I'll pitch in the new year. Honestly, looking back on
the last month, it's a little scary, how productive I was. (Maybe this is how JCO and TCB do it: they become manic at the thought of an empty calendar.) For months,
everything I had written was yoga-related, and, now, having permission to
write whatever I wanted again (permission from the horrid taskmaster
that lives in my brain and keeps telling me I'm not doing enough to keep
<i>Yoga Bitch</i> afloat) I went a little nuts.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Suzanne, still talking.</td></tr>
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Now it's December. Never a good writing month, what with the houseguests, the parties, the bonbons and mulled wine to consume. So in lieu of writing, I've done something I've dreamt about doing for years. I've cleaned out every box, every desk drawer, every cubby and trunk in the house. In the hallway beneath the attic hatch are several stacks of files, notebooks, costumes, props, and about three Douglas Firs' worth of paper<i>.</i><br />
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I am purging <i>Yoga Bitch</i>. The play, the memoir, the abandoned novel. The urine sample containers. I'm purging her in the most loving way possible. At first I thought I would shred all the early drafts, the novel, the outlines made in 2004 when I thought I could fit every single thought I had ever had into this one book. But my God, the process contained in those drafts! I learned how to write on the back of this story. I learned how to revise, how to structure, how to cut and cut and cut.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsquaDpqeeUui2idyeHprtAVkdTy5xGWh72tCLJkJVhu-6uUeISQCBYuXP_tA9TGFFPiOKQvZDPaF3NntOsq_3HJX6-iBs4YACBBMvJPhHI_9_066VYOgEiLJ8SiLln_ls7UEn1hbDQXoV/s1600/33626_1607468699623_1023351601_1695840_3562193_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsquaDpqeeUui2idyeHprtAVkdTy5xGWh72tCLJkJVhu-6uUeISQCBYuXP_tA9TGFFPiOKQvZDPaF3NntOsq_3HJX6-iBs4YACBBMvJPhHI_9_066VYOgEiLJ8SiLln_ls7UEn1hbDQXoV/s320/33626_1607468699623_1023351601_1695840_3562193_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my brilliant director, Jean-Michele Gregory, after <i>Yoga Bitch</i> opened in London</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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I've shredded a lot, and recycled a lot, but I'm keeping the drafts and the notebooks, at least for now. They'll move into the attic, and in the new year I'll start filling all the gaps they've left in my house with new work. It's remarkable, really, this chore; relegating to the past something that consumed me for so long has proven to be one of those rare, perfect experiences that is as good in reality as it was in my imagination. It's an unmitigated joy, uncomplicated by regret or nostalgia. The void waits patiently to be filled. It's a pretty great thing, really.<br />
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<tr><td valign="top"><br /></td><td valign="top"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Twenty-five years old, in Bali. <br />
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<br />Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-13819899200353059302011-11-07T10:44:00.000-08:002011-11-07T10:46:23.576-08:00Demons & the AfterlifeHey! This glorious fall morning I walked down to KIRO radio headquarters, where I was on the Ross & Burbank show, chatting about yoga's demonic underbelly, urine therapy, sexual misconduct, the works. <a href="http://mynorthwest.com/?nid=75&sid=574129">Here's</a> the link. Dave Ross and Luke Burbank are so smart and <i>so</i> funny. And <a href="http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/smorrison/2011/10/suzanne-morrison-the-tnb-self-interview/">my self-interview</a> is up over at the marvelous literary site The Nervous Breakdown. To up the meta quotient, I thought about interviewing myself about the interview. I wrote up a few questions and everything. But then I canceled on myself.<br />
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Writers are SO flaky. <br />
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But if you're just dying for more Yoga Bitch coverage, check out <a href="http://suzanne-morrison.com/#page-yogabitch">my website</a>-- I've updated it with more interviews, reviews, TV spots, etc.<br />
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Happy Monday!Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-41821818385567826842011-10-20T20:29:00.000-07:002011-10-20T20:29:47.805-07:00<i><b>“I think the single most defining characteristic of a writer” – I found
myself saying to a friend the other day, when she asked my thoughts on
the teaching of writing – “I mean the difference between a writer and
someone who ‘wants to be a writer,’ is a high tolerance for
uncertainty.”</b></i><br />
<i><b> --Sonya Chung</b></i><br />
<i><b> </b></i><br />
<i><b> </b></i>Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-26378134058658250392011-10-17T14:28:00.000-07:002011-12-22T14:14:44.143-08:00The Twenty-Four Hour Yoga Cure for Trolls | Books for Better Living<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFTjUKgwk6zewr_2zzW-5rP-QI0G61UeFP5qfwwW0k29yV6jfDni55rFz3LtxGuLflY1ISnF-RUx1qT8UdrWOzOdUWvNRCxjSpKskfBNBgxjLWsfOzspuyKqRvDjphRKRhfB2pIAzBoJ6/s1600/YogaBitch7-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFTjUKgwk6zewr_2zzW-5rP-QI0G61UeFP5qfwwW0k29yV6jfDni55rFz3LtxGuLflY1ISnF-RUx1qT8UdrWOzOdUWvNRCxjSpKskfBNBgxjLWsfOzspuyKqRvDjphRKRhfB2pIAzBoJ6/s400/YogaBitch7-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Here's a piece I wrote for Books for Better Living, about visiting my old yoga roommate Jessica as I prepared for the launch of <span style="font-style: italic;">Yoga Bitch</span>.<br />
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I'll be in Olympia for an event at the Timberland Library this Wednesday night, and Jessica will be there! If you're nearby, come on out to meet her and get your book signed. It's gonna be a fun one. Details on my <a href="http://suzanne-morrison.com/#page-calendar">website</a>.<br />
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<a href="http://www.booksforbetterliving.net/2011/10/the-twenty-four-hour-yoga-cure-for-trolls/">The Twenty-Four Hour Yoga Cure for Trolls | Books for Better Living</a><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Writing any book is an arduous task, one full of setbacks and anxiety— and those are just the mental and emotional issues! Physically, writing is brutal. It’s manual labor. Your neck juts out as you puzzle through a difficult sentence. Your shoulders fly to your ears. Your back rounds into a human comma. If someone snuck into my room and took a picture of me writing, I’m pretty sure I would look like a pale troll with a bad case of scoliosis. And being a troll is a workout! There have been days when I feel like a triathlete when I get up from my desk. (Not that I actually know what a triathlete feels like; in truth, just the thought of a triathlon makes me need six months of physical therapy and a prescription for Vicodin.)</span>Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-33119345059391527792011-10-14T18:43:00.000-07:002011-10-14T18:43:36.920-07:00Flannery O'Connor<a href="http://manasto.tumblr.com/post/107920720/a-good-man-is-hard-to-find-by-flannery-oconnor">Here's a recording</a> of Flannery O'Connor reading <i>A Good Man is Hard to Find</i><i>.</i> I love hearing this story in her voice. This story never fails to astonish me, no matter how many times I read it.Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-21021990108957867402011-10-13T16:59:00.000-07:002011-10-13T16:59:52.071-07:00Truth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nXrz2SW5pzeTuGucNhoV2tEqbpO3dmTcyaHRuBsCd50JJWtNExd2Wdvjm7wJD_dt4fwPTv8XQiGpkYUD5FSVV8LIY9UEeYITRXkpvvc_Th-kYd6QfMElJhgFck0tS3AbxB1YyDAS5VKc/s1600/316974_609581164148_184700511_32639129_903026175_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nXrz2SW5pzeTuGucNhoV2tEqbpO3dmTcyaHRuBsCd50JJWtNExd2Wdvjm7wJD_dt4fwPTv8XQiGpkYUD5FSVV8LIY9UEeYITRXkpvvc_Th-kYd6QfMElJhgFck0tS3AbxB1YyDAS5VKc/s1600/316974_609581164148_184700511_32639129_903026175_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-62327228324918241362011-10-13T16:29:00.000-07:002011-10-13T16:29:38.059-07:00Downton Abbey is My Wonder Drug<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/suzanne-morrison/for-the-exhausted-author-_b_1007762.html?ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false#sb=766251,b=facebook">Here's my latest blog </a>on the Huffington Post! Starring <a href="http://katehess.tumblr.com/">Kate Hess,</a> Downton Abbey, and some very fancy beef jerky.Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-39258256175800740322011-09-30T14:35:00.000-07:002011-09-30T14:35:56.734-07:00Horror Stories, Island Stories, and the teachers who gave me everything<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was in Portland this week for my reading at Powell's, the world's most extraordinary bookstore, followed by a dizzying shopping spree in which I purchased enough books to get me through the fall, or at least October. I've been on a ghost story kick lately, so I picked up a hefty load of M.R. James, Sarah Waters, and more. I'm in the mood for haunted houses and wicked children.<br />
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Before my visit to Powell's, <a href="http://www.katu.com/amnw/segments/130719553.html">I stopped by KATU-TV's AM Northwest</a> to talk with Helen Raptis about the path to God, to love, and my book, "Yoga Witch with a B."<br />
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Here's the <a href="http://www.katu.com/amnw/segments/130719553.html">link</a> to that interview.<br />
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Now I'm at home, in bed, nursing a wee cold (a month of travel was bound to catch up with me eventually) and prepping for my reading tonight at Island Books.<br />
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I grew up on Mercer Island, and have always considered Island Books to be the spiritual center of the island. That lovely little bookstore holds a very special place in my heart. It
was my first bookstore. I remember buying picture books there, <i>Little House on the Prairie</i>,
Nancy Drew mysteries. All of those young adult novels I devoured,
especially the ones that featured sexually-active teenagers. Those were
the best. I went through my <i>Anne of Green Gables</i> kick at Island
books, and eventually Roger, the owner there, suggested my mother give me Ursula Hegi's collection of
linked stories, <i>Floating in My Mother's Palm,</i> which was the first book of short stories I read, and the first time I became aware that certain books are considered <i>literature.</i><br />
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When I started this blog, I wrote about the experience reading <i>Floating in My Mother's Palm </i><a href="http://suzannemorrison.blogspot.com/2008/09/reading-writing-thinking-saturday.html">here</a><i>.</i> This time of year, when the bright, sunny days turn grey, always reminds me of that book.<br />
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Tonight's reading was featured in the <i>Mercer Island Reporter </i>(lovingly nicknamed the <i>Distorter</i> by Island residents from the time I was little!) You can read that interview right <a href="http://www.pnwlocalnews.com/east_king/mir/lifestyle/130284263.html">here</a>. <br />
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Naturally, returning to the place where I grew up in order to read from my first book has got me revisiting the past. All morning I've been thinking about the teachers who got me here: Frank Perry, my fourth grade writing teacher who singled me out to read in front of the class a story I had written called-- well, "It." I can't recall if I consciously chose to rip Stephen King's title off, or if this was just a coincidence. But I remember relishing the title either way. I also remember Mr. Perry telling me I should keep writing, that I had a knack for it. He told us that the most important thing was to grab the reader with a strong opening sentence. I remember thinking: <i>I can do that,</i> and then writing an opening that went something like <i>The hands tightened around her neck, and Sarah knew she was about to die.</i> (I was very into horror when I was a child. I also wrote a lot of stories about cannibalistic witches.)<br />
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Carol Muth, that same year, was my teacher for all other subjects, and she made us kids memorize a poem a week (or was it a month? felt like every week) so that we could internalize the rhythms of good writing. Or maybe it was just so we would learn to love poetry. I don't know. But I can still recite the Jabberwock by heart, and I think of Mrs. Muth every time I read Emily Dickinson. In my mind, Mrs. Muth <i>was</i> Emily Dickinson. I know she was married and had children, but somehow I always think of her with a bun in her hair and a beautiful, tragic love story in her heart.<br />
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Then there were the teachers who came along later: Cece Caley, Ruthie Newman, Chip Wall, who introduced me to books and ideas, who challenged me to think for myself. My theater directors, who taught me how to craft a narrative: Peter Donaldson, Sue Clement. And through it all, my piano teacher, Lois Jacobsen, who taught me one of the most important requirements of art-making: discipline. (Not that I was a terrifically disciplined piano student. But when I sit down to improve a story, I know how to work paragraph by paragraph, just as she taught me to perfect a piece measure by measure.)<br />
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Art really doesn't pay, but I am rich with the gifts these teachers gave me. They'll all be with me tonight; they always are.<br />
<br />Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-59325993606972190102011-09-20T16:24:00.000-07:002011-09-20T16:24:48.478-07:00On the TeeveeI was on King-5's New Day Northwest this morning, talking about the Bitch. Fun! <br />
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</script>Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4680619947209263499.post-31565343880781434922011-08-30T10:14:00.000-07:002011-08-30T10:14:31.130-07:00Showoffasana<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhReT4gOySzkAk80j1SgMJBlZgSm6kI0VYnV_qmadopsvwqCZrLQNImInfisWRoRadR76_QosVzGP_SWSoTrWm-lVdt2RI4pd7S1mxBhPgua7FGKZX7RjRH23sYGQvXL054mWC8H_IEHk6U/s1600/10YBBS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhReT4gOySzkAk80j1SgMJBlZgSm6kI0VYnV_qmadopsvwqCZrLQNImInfisWRoRadR76_QosVzGP_SWSoTrWm-lVdt2RI4pd7S1mxBhPgua7FGKZX7RjRH23sYGQvXL054mWC8H_IEHk6U/s640/10YBBS.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All you have to do in this pose is tell your friends you've read Ulysses.</td></tr>
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Suzanne Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314056116072096236noreply@blogger.com5