Anderson Center, Day Twelve

Before I left for the Anderson Center, a client of mine, Jean, stopped into work to wish me well.  Our conversation has stuck close to the front lobes of my brain during this experience, and as I ebb and flow from creating to thinking of my future in creating, I reflect on her words.

She has a calm sensibility, and intellectually Buddhist understanding of life.  As I confided in her my fears of leaving a corporate life for one of a month immersed in writing, she reminded me that the Buddhists live here and now.

"We resist where we are, T.J.," she said, "which prevents us from getting where we're going.  The Universe knows where we're going, we just have to trust it, and once you let go, it's really easy to move on."

But I still do worry, and much of my day is spent in the thoughts and questions needing to be answered regarding where I want to take my life after this experience.  I love working in the corporate world, I love what I do there and I'm good at it.  But I also long to write (and yes, sometimes to paint).  I am an executive, I want to be an artist.

I've yet to decide what road I'll take when I return to Minneapolis and my old life there, but I think a lot about Jean, and her support of me as a fellow person, "What you think and what you feel does matter; you're here for a reason, you move on for a reason, so, move on."

Write on, shine on, (move on),

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day Eleven.

Completing the first third of my residency at Anderson Center, last night's epiphany was that this time is not just for the production of work, it is also for the networking and education of what it means to live the life of an artist.

Some of the greatest things I'll take away from this month (which--I'll say it now--is changing my life)will be the things I've learned not only about how other artists and writers work, but the things I've gleaned from their research into grants and other residencies.  

I have a notebook filling up of residencies, classes, workshops, grants, awards, MFA programs, and a plethera of other tools into which I will dive again and again as an person who is beginging to seriously toy with the possibility of calling himself: a writer and an artist.

I have two thirds of my life here yet to live, and I cannot wait to live it.

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day Ten.

Did you know. . .
The Anderson Center is the largest artist community in the Upper Midwest.

The Anderson Center is one of 350 artist communities worldwide.

The Anderson Center is a member of the Alliance of Artist Communities and Res Artis: Worldwide Network of Artist Residencies.

Since 1995, when the Anderson Center opened, over 650 artists, writers, and scholars have participated in the summer residency program.

Anderson Center residents annually visit over 15 schools, civic organizations, senior centers and other arts institutions in the greater Red Wing area.

Since 1995, over 27,000 people--primary school children to senior citizens--have benefited from resident community presentations.

The Anderson Center is one of 20 artist communities in the nation whose buildings are listed on the National Historic Register.

Residents of the Anderson Center have come from 40 different states and more than 30 countries, including Australia, Egypt, Estonia, China, Germany, Denmark, Argentina, Uganda, Norway, Italy, New Zealand, India, Korea, England, Canada, Mexico, Georgia, Russia, Israel, Croatia, Kenya and the Netherlands.

Of course you didn't, that's why I told you!

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day Nine.

There are many things with wings, and things with many wings at the Anderson Center.  I have never in my life seen so many butterflies: monarchs, swallowtails, and a dozen others I cannot name but are beautiful feeding off the mud puddles like a field of lazy fluttering tissue-paper-hearts every morning.

And then there are the birds.  I have seen everything common to Minnesota, robins, blackbirds, hawks, and sparrows (twice I have even seen the elusive indigo bunting cutting in the cedar trees before me at sunset, and once a "rafter" of seventeen turkey on the Cannon Valley Trail), but I have yet to see an eagle, which supposedly abound in this part of the Cannon Valley and certainly around the bluffs of the Mississippi at Red Wing.  What I have seen--which astounds me--are the American goldfinches, that seem to wait for me to immerge from the pines on my bike, and fly alongside, and break my trail like balls of yellow ribbons unfurling before me.  The hummingbirds are prolific, and take my breath away each time they float before me in the flower gardens.  In Spanish, they are sometimes called picoteeflor, "the flower pickers."  My mother would love it here for their sweet inquisitive exploration of the bee-balm, alone.

And then, of course, there are the bugs, big nasty things, and little nastier things. (Sean and I even went into Red Wing to watch Vincent Price's 1958 classic The Fly, tonight, but that's a whole other story.)  The mosquitoes have raised the largest army they have in years, and hardly lose a battle.  The very first night here, in a walk through the oak grove before dinner, I was bitten on my ankle by a deerfly.  The swollen, crusty, festering wound (the size of a penny and about that color) has yet to heal.

A.P Anderson was interested in all sorts of flying machines, things that looked like models from da Vinci's sketch books, and they hang around the estate as a reminder that once upon a time, humans were determined to learn the secrets of flight.

This is truly a place of marvel and inspiration.  If only the mosquitoes would buzz off. . .

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day Eight.

The following is an account of my daily occurrences (on average, as a generalization)while at Anderson Center:

10AM, wake up, yoga, shower, make my bed (I know it's hard for some of you to believe, but I have been devoted to keeping my room clean and tidy my whole stay).

11AM, light breakfast of fruit and coffee, mostly (though Sean seems to always catch me on one of the rare occasions that I am chowing down on Fruit Loops).  Select one of my favorite spots (Tower Room, roof-top garden, living room, third floor attic) and begin my writing day.

1PM, lunch in the kitchen (I usually get to spend a few minutes with visual artist Elle from New York pumping each other up for the rest of our work day).  Back to writing.

3:30PM, long bike ride or run (usually a four mile round-trip run up the Cannon Valley Trail, or a twelve mile round-trip bike ride into Red Wing or Welch).

6PM, back at the center, Eight Minute Abs work out and push-up reps, shower, make-ready for dinner.

6:30PM, a lovely home-cooked meal served on the dining porch by our chef, Amy.  The next two hours are spent enjoying amazing food and quality conversation with my fellow residents until the shadows from the cedar trees stretch long across the lawn.

8:30PM, sometimes a few of us will go out for a "night on the town" a la Red Wing: an evening walk, margaritas at Fiesta Mexicana, a glass of wine at The Port, campy horror movie night at the Sheldon Theatre. . .

10PM, back in my room for another four hours of writing (sometimes while watching an episode of Downton Abbey or Out of Africa on my laptop).

2AM, to bed, to dream, to do it all over again tomorrow. 

There are few who have a better schedule than this.

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day Seven.

I've come to realize that physical activity is directly linked to creativity and production. In the week since I've been at the Anderson Center I've peddled over one hundred miles on the Cannon Valley and Hay Creek Trails--on foot, I've ran and walked just under thirty (and then there's my daily 8 Minute Abs work out). Today I biked seventeen miles to the secluded village of Cannon Falls for lunch, and then biked seventeen miles back to Anderson to write. (I wish I'd have brought my camera--there were beautiful sights there and along the way--but it looked like rain when I took off this morning.)

I climb the seventy-six steps to the top of the Tower multiple times daily, and when I write from the round room 110 feet in the air, I often take breaks and circle meditatively around and around the Tower's balcony. It's difficult to not traverse the parapet too often as the countryside is so beautiful, the valley stretching distantly east and west from here. The bluffs come in finger like waves far past Red Wing--first barely visible against the hazy sky, then reading a deep grey, dusky blue, smokey green until your eye travels across the fields directly before you and the bluffs glow with verdant brightness and you realize you are creating in the deep green of the tree tops.

Should birds be able to write in human emotions, I can only imagine it would bring me to tears, and like Icarus strap wings to my limbs and leap from the tower in hopes of finding a new form of exercise and creative expression.

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day Six.

(Aside from the crush I developed for the dry-witted juggler) The best part about today was spending it with amazing artists and new friends. Today three of the New York City residents and I traipsed the five miles into Red Wing for the annual town festival, River City Days. I have to admit that I was disappointed in the festival (especially several of the Red Wing Idol karaoke finalists). But, I'm reminded--even as a Minneapolitan--what makes Middle America a fascinating place. After River City Days, we had an amazing dinner and conversation at the St. James Hotel Port Bar. Then we adventured to Target where we compared stories of the Brooklyn Target to our own home-town stores. Mostly I'm writing this blog in generic diary fashion tonight so that I don't forget it, or at least have a prompt to remember. I think I officially have an addiction to residencies. Where to apply to next?

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day Five.

Yes, I know it sounds lovely, and last night one of my fellow residents said, "You see, we all need our own estate." And I do. I really really do. But it's been no vacation here; lovely, relaxing, worlds away, free, but a residency is work. What I've come to realize is the hardest bit about being here is transitioning from the corporate business world into one of creativity and creation is a mountain to climb.

It's been hard for me to allow myself to sleep in. . .I no longer have to get up at 7AM. . .AND! I can take naps.

It's been hard for me to split my day up however I decide (except for the home cooked meals presented by our chef at 6:30PM daily).

It's not been hard for me to have a boss. It has however been hard for me to be my own boss. The first few days here, I was in a panic as to what project to work on. Practically speaking I felt as if I should be working on short stories to add to my publications. But then I got some good advice from my dear friend Cheri. She said,"It's not your time to do this or that, it's your time to be an artist."

So, today. . .day five. . .I shrugged all my anxiety off and I created, really created. And it feels wonderful.

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day Four.

The three or four of you who pseudo-religiously read "Why I Hate Chihuahuas" might be wondering (it occurred to me this afternoon) what the Anderson Center for Interdisciplinary Studies is, exactly. Well, here's the abridged version. . .

The Anderson Center is a place where writers come to write, artists come to create, musicians come to compose, and academics come to study. Each Month, after a rigorous application process, five to seven applicants (out of hundreds) are chosen on the merit of their submitted work and creative promise for a full residency at the 1915 estate of the inventor of puffed cereal, A.P. Anderson. Our only requirements while we are here are that we work, and that we attend dinner every day at 6:30PM.

There are no classes, no lectures, no activities, no final project (we do however, perform an afternoon of local community service while in residence). Writers, artists, musicians, and academics come for two weeks to one month under the patronage of the Anderson Center. We are provided housing, an never depleting pantry and refrigerator, a cook, a housekeeper, complete use of the 340 acre grounds, offices, libraries, public rooms, studios, greenhouse, turtle pond, sculpture garden, two art galleries (complete with original Picassos, Miros, and Chagalls), the beautiful Edwardian mansion, and of course, the Tower with its 76 steps up to a magical round room and parapet.

All this so we can create art. It's a gift, it's an honor. It still seems a dream that I'm here. . .

Write on, shine on,

Thomas

Anderson Center, Day Three.

So, we might be celebrities. Here's a ditty of an article by local journalist, Ruth Nerhaugen, "Emerging artists, writers are in residence," published this week in the Red Wing Republican Eagle:

Seven emerging artists and writers from New York City and Minnesota will spend August at Anderson Center working on a wide variety of projects.

"This entire month is funded by a generous grant from the Jerome Foundation to support and further careers and artistic development," Director Robert Hedin said.

Thomas Malaskee from Mound[s] View, Minn., plans to work on a first draft of his novel, "The Assassination of May Claire," while in Red Wing. The tale originally was a short story about a time-traveling nun, but evolved into a novel set in a 1930s Minnesota convent.

Malaskee was cofounder of the Uptown Men's Creative Writing Group. He is a detail-oriented researcher with a passion for history--he was cultural historian at Historic Murphy's Landing in Shakopee, Minn., for several years--and has lectured on historical accuracy in literary fiction writing.

Well, thanks Ruth!

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day Two.

While I was preparing for my Residency, I sometimes felt like Ma Ingalls, going over and over my lists, planing precisely what I was going to bring with me on my great journey. Today I took an inventory of everything I brought with. Into my small purple suitcase, my weekender, and my messenger bag, this is what I shoved, packed and prodded: one pair navy blue topsiders, one pair buff leather boat shoes and matching belt, chocolate leather flip-flops and matching belt, one pair canvas Vans, new running shoes (yes for this trip), two pair running shorts, running polo, swim trunks, three pair sports socks, three casual button-ups (two blue one purple), one white dress shirt, fourteen pairs of underwear, three white undershirts, five casually trendy short-sleeved tees, one casually trendy long-sleeved tee, one pair Levis, one pair khakis, two pairs of casual day shorts (one seersucker one gingham), gold watch, my mother's class ring on silver chain, and my wallet and accouterments there-with-in.

But that's just my clothes; how about the toiletries: shampoo, conditioner, facial exfoliate, face wash, body wash, loofah sponge, toothbrush and toothpaste, floss, contacts and contact case, contact solution, Visine, glasses and case, razor and shaving cream, Axe Fresh Dark Temptation Deodorant, Crew Fiber, one bottle cologne Burberry Men, one bottle cologne Burberry Weekend, men's one-a-day vitamins, tweezers, fingernail clipper, all in my toiletries bag.

And then for the fun stuff; my "work" stuff: laptop and cord, two zip-drives, phone and cord, iPod and cord, camera and cord, camera case, two notebooks, one sketch book, eighteen ball-point pens, nine mechanical pencils, twenty-four colored pencils, envelopes and stamps, postcards, one hand-held calculator, my day planner, a deck of cards, The Big Book of Crossword Puzzles, John Steinbec's East of Eden, Wallace Stegner's Collected Short Stories, Marilynne Robinson's Gillead, Bergland & Lahlum's Norwegian American Women, series one of Downton Abbey, Out of Africa, Easy A, Eight Minute Abs & Other Workouts (the last four being DVDs), and finally my yoga mat.

Maybe someday hundreds of years from now, some anthropologist in some yet-to-exist culture will write her masters thesis on this most boring blog entry: "Everything Writers in the Late Democratic Period Owned."

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Anderson Center, Day One.

"Overwhelmed," comes to mind as it has many times today. Picassos, Miros, Chagalls, an Edwardian mansion on 340 acres, food, food, food in a pantry as big as my kitchen, a kitchen as big as my apartment in Minneapolis, a fireplace in my bedroom, a tower, a round room, surreal. Red Wing is five miles away, and I have 31 days to do nothing but write and be merry! My brain is too stimulated to write cohesively now, but tomorrow it begins! So has started my residency at the Anderson Center at Tower View.

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

When the Gods Want to Punish You, They Answer Your Prayers

So, yes. I've been rejected a handful of times since my last post, but somewhere along the line, a higher power (or board member) missed that blog entry and granted me not only a month long writing residency at the Anderson Center in Red Wing, Minnesota, but also a Jerome Foundation Emerging Artist's Grant. I'm cast as a vow-of-silence-monk asked to cantor for Easter Mass.

I haven't been writing. I've been working on projects of a more capitalist nature, and now I feel a swelling of anxiety (even fear) in venturing to the Anderson Center for a month of nearly nothing other than exactly what I haven't been doing: writing.

My thoughts are a pair of steam-engines pulling against each other. One continuously thinks: What do I bring; What will I write; How will I do this? The other replays a phrase mentioned to me in an ex-lover's bittersweet letter: I love that we're both starting our lives (or so it seems). I think it's taken longer than either of us expected.

Has it taken longer? Am I starting my life? I think my writing life began in fourth grade with my first short story (an hand scrawled six-paged rollicking adventure of Olav the Viking). But what of other things? Perhaps my life has yet to begin. Perhaps we live multiple lives simultaneously within ourselves. There is never any going back, but only forward and starting again. And it all begins with a prayer answered--or not--by the gods.

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

The Case for Rejection

Though my love life may be one of constant rejection, my writing career isn't. Well, almost. Now, I've been published--won a few awards even--but , along with my zeal for youth, that's where those achievements remained. Granted, in those years I never thought wholeheartedly of being a "real" writer. Writing was just something I liked to do: playing make-believe with pretty words. Instead of following my enjoyment, and perhaps really making something of it, I took off on a profitable yet miserable journey into the world of management. So now that I've recently been gallivanting ever towards the life of a starving artist--and assumed that label as-of-late--I've got some catching up to do. Writing is my full-time job (so where's the pay check?). I'm working on a novel, Pettjohn's Widow and a short-story "Brother's and Grapevines." I'm enthralled with both. I think (I think, mind you) that "Brothers and Grapevines" is some of my best writing since This Set of Mated Gloves, now frozen on a dead motherboard (see my upcoming post: The Case for Zip-drives). So, journals and lit mags, contests and agents, as I'm excitedly writing and revising away, hear this: REJECT ME,PLEASE. Let me catch up. Let me write and be happy. Let me be published when it's right. Let me be published, eventually.

Write on, shine on,

Thomas.

Courier Monospaced Slab Serif

I don't know one aspiring writer who isn't obsessed with length. Perhaps "real" authors aren't, but maybe you don't have to fuss over word count or page length when your rejection letters start to dwindle and treating yourself to a great glass of imported Madeira becomes a regularity. These things I don't know. What I do know is that it's a rarity that I assess my headway and think "Yes! Good progress!" This is, until I discovered (or rediscovered from my 7th Grade keyboarding class where we still used actual typewriters) that archaic font: Courier. For aeons I had been a devote of Times New Roman. It was safe and standard, and I found it more sophisticated than many other choices (perhaps I hoped to associate my writing with sophistication). In January however, a short story submission specified a Courier font. Suddenly--while proofing my piece--I found the 12-point monospaced slab serif typeface charismatic with the added bonus that it increased my work in page length. It became a psychological boon, and I find myself encouraged to write more words per sitting than I had under boring ol' Times New Roman. Lately I've found myself grinning a little oftener when I check my word count, let alone my automatically matured page numbers. Try it or not, it's helped me push my writing through this sixth snowiest winter in Minnesotan history. "Yes! Good progress!"

Write on, shine on,
Thomas.