Faculty Essay: The World Outside My Window - balancing teaching and the creative life
ENVISION Magazine, Winter 2007
It's a little after 5 a.m. when I enter my study, holding my journal in one hand and a pot of strong, English Breakfast tea in the other. Even in the middle of winter as I settle down in the blue, chintz-covered armchair, I can see birds beginning to stir at the feeder. We live in the farm country outside Madison, and from where our house is nestled I can see the glimmer of Island Lake. In summer it's a haven for Canada Geese, wood ducks, herons, and sandhill cranes. This morning it resembles a tarnished mirror, snow scattered across it like ephemeral lace, its stitches constantly changing.
No matter how many times I look at this landscape, there's always something new to notice. I open my notebook and begin writing, describing what I see on the other side of the window, knowing that at some point, something else will kick in. Primed by musing and attention, the "real" writing will begin to fi nd its way to the page. Whether it's a new poem or an essay, whether the work is going well or haltingly, I know that for the next couple of hours, until it's time to shift gears into thinking about what I am teaching late today, this is what I will be doing.
These hours in my study are a kind of practice or exercise, no diff erent from a musician practicing or an athlete training. They are what Flannery O'Connor described as "keeping an appointment with the desk each day." With my busy schedule, I know that if I don't write fi rst thing, there's a good chance it may not happen. And so, while there are days that I miss, especially in the thick of the semester, I try to get to my desk regularly, knowing that it's discipline that helps the writing come through, not inspiration. Writing begets writing.
Doing it consistently provides a steady place from which I can create and from which to teach. I encourage my students to develop this kind of practice, allowing whatever wells up in one's consciousness to appear on the page. When we allow ourselves this kind of freedom, combined with the discipline of craft, that's when the writing happens. Much of what we teach in the arts has to do with who we are as an artist. If I am to be an honest model for my students, I have to practice what I preach.
People often ask me how I balance my creative work with teaching. I'm not sure that I do balance them as well as I might. It's like having two really wonderful fulltime jobs. Writing creatively and teaching people to write draws water from the same well. But at the same time, there's tremendous cross-fertilization that goes on. To teach a piece of literature, one has to really inhabit it, thinking not only about how it was made, but circumstances and history in which it was created. I feel extraordinarily fortunate that my job is so closely related to my art. I get to think and talk and wonder about language, writing, and literature every day, and my students endlessly inspire me in their courage and inventiveness. I learn as much from my students as they do from me. Nothing makes me happier than that moment when a student "gets it" and is able to articulate something beautifully and meaningfully in his or her own writing.
Teaching has also made me more organized about my creative life. I work hard to maintain my writing practice, even when I feel too busy or it seems like nothing much is happening creatively. Writing is a lonely and anxiety-producing business. Companions along the way make all the diff erence in the world. I meet every other week with my manuscript group, Lake Eff ect, six women writers who have been gathering since 1989. We all joke that if it weren't for the group and our twice-a-month deadlines, many of our poems might never get written. It's tremendously helpful to have a supportive but honest audience, even if it's just one or two people. But the most important thing is showing up at the desk, looking out your window, and putting pen to paper every single day. – Alison Townsend