by Idris Goodwin

Almost every weekend I pack a suitcase with my books, CDs and flyers, drive a few hours to a community college or bookstore, set up my little table and commence to running my mouth. I am the hip hop version of Willy Loman. People want to know: What you do, would you call it rap? Are they monologues? Is it slam? What is it?

Calling it “a hybrid of spoken word, hip hop poetics, and creative memoir” doesn’t make it much easier. To be honest, there isn’t a short but all encompassing answer, so I invented one. The following essay, “Break Beat Poetry,” from my debut collection These Are The Breaks (Write Bloody Publishing) prose and essays on hip hop culture and race in America, explains just what the heck I do.

an excerpt from These Are The Breaks

When Bronx DJs performed for neighborhood block parties in the early 70s, they discovered how to extend the instrumental “breakdown” section of a record. When looped, these free-flowing breakdowns – dubbed break beats – served as the audio stage on which dancers and MCs “got loose” or “styled.”10

Birthed from the intersection of Afro Latin, Latin jazz, be bop jazz, hard bop, hard rock, rock and roll, rhythm and blues, blue-eyed soul and German computer music, break beats are true poly-cultural relics. All electronic music, from rap to house to techno, drum and bass, utilize the cyclical flow of a break beat.

by Anika Fajardo

Memoir revolves around ourselves and our families. But writing about these subjects can be a difficult undertaking, both emotionally and technically. The things we enjoy about reading personal stories—the gritty, unvarnished truth of someone’s life—are also the things that can hold us back as writers of creative nonfiction. Our personal bias, self-censorship, and fear often interfere with telling the truth in our stories.

by Jim Heynen

My favorite definition of the word “loft” is  “a room or space over a stable or barn, used especially for storing hay or straw.” I do much of my work in a writing studio at the Loft. Maybe the space aligns with my farm boy roots because the unadorned room reminds me of the quiet privacy of a haymow. It’s a physical space that puts me in a good headspace to write. I also like knowing that people in adjacent studios are quietly at work too. I don’t feel that I’m competing with them; it’s more like parallel play, parallel ruminating.

by Melissa Doffing and Susan Koefod, editors of Let Them Eat Crêpes

Like the saying goes, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet, or to make crêpes for that matter. Had we known the process of creating an anthology would take three years and have about as many downs as ups, would we have made the decision to proceed? We had nothing to lose, and in the end, we have a book that makes us proud.

A Question-and-Answer Session with Rebecca Frost and Linda Shapiro

Linda and Rebecca are the founders of Dancers Who Write, a reading series showcasing the literary talents of writers who are also movers.

The View: How was the Dancers Who Write series born?

Rebecca Frost: Our project was conceived somewhere alongside the fall soccer games of our de facto godniece in common. Linda and I, who knew each other from myriad connections in the dance world, would show up to watch the games in chilly weather, intermittently, independently. In between cheering for preteens’ near scores, we’d talk, compare notes, stamp our feet. Turned out we were both writing a lot and had no idea the other was as well.

Linda Shapiro: As a published freelance writer on subjects ranging from dance to the research of University of Minnesota faculty, I had been thinking that I needed an outlet for my newly hatched fiction. As a choreographer, I always had plenty of opportunities to present my work in various stages of development. I wanted that for my writing.

I’d also been thinking about other dancers I know who write and have published or performed their text-driven work, and thought there might be more waiting in the wings. So we chatted a bit about the possibility of a modest series somewhere and started doing some investigating. Todd Boss graciously offered us three evenings in his Verse and Converse series at Nina’s Café in Saint Paul (January, March, and May 2010). They were successful enough that we wanted to continue into the summer at the Bryant-Lake Bowl—to see what would happen in a Minneapolis venue, and, as the Nina’s events were free, to see if anyone would actually pay to hear dancers read their stuff.

Interview by Dara Syrkin

During her 1999 Bush Fellowship for midcareer physicians, Maggie O’Connor dedicated 10 percent of her time to learning how to write. “I had terrible writer’s anxiety. I chose my college classes based on which ones required the fewest essays. English 101 gave me stomach cramps. I decided I had grown up. The time had come to deal with my anxiety about writing.”

Fear or no, Maggie embraced the newness of writing. “My dad started weaving when he retired. So when I set out for the Loft with my guts quaking, I had the reassurance that old people can learn. I sat in classes and introduced myself as a science and math jock who wanted to learn how to write. One of the wonderful things about being a beginner is that you are free to ask any question.

by Emily Brisse

When I was a sophomore in college, I took a course called Ethnic American Literature. Being that I was (1) an English major, (2) from an ethnically homogeneous small town, and (3) desperate for “culture,” I was incredulous when the reading list my professor passed out that first day had no Ralph Ellison, Leslie Marmon Silko, Maxine Hong Kingston, or Toni Morrison, but instead was full of, as he called them, “regional writers,” a mix of poets, novelists, and essayists from my home state that I’d never heard of and was sure had absolutely no relevance to my life. After all, I was going to teach, and how was I supposed to do that if I wasn’t introduced to the writers who’d been anthologized?

I went to another professor and complained (and, Minnesotan that I am, this practically killed me) until she loaded up my arms with every Toni Morrison book she owned. Walking back to my dorm room, clickety-clack, holding these canonical texts close to my chest, I felt fortified. Soothed. I would teach myself, then! And for the rest of the semester I gave those regional authors only bitter, cursory glances. I never took another class with that professor.

by Francine Marie Tolf

Philip Gerard’s observation about a book’s structure feels spot on to me—the average reader doesn’t notice flawed structure until a book falters. As a writer of memoir, I know how vital good structure is. It keeps me in control of my material instead of the other way around. But before starting a book, I have a choice: do I plunge into my story and let structure develop organically, or do I map out a plan?

The preference seems to be to plunge in. “As far as I’m concerned, the less you know about where you’re headed, the better . . . Take your time, listen more to your heart than your head, and let your writing shape itself into what it wants to be.” Elizabeth Berg’s advice (from her book on writing, Escaping into the Open) is echoed by creative writing instructors across America. It’s advice I find immensely attractive, an approach to writing that values the act itself and removes a lot of intimidation.

by Mary Carroll Moore

When my novel, Qualities of Light, was published last fall, I celebrated as anyone would, fully enjoying the readings, book signings, and kudos. The book did well and received some good reviews. I even had my brief moment in the sun, being interviewed on WNPR in New Haven, Connecticut.

Then the furor died down. I unpacked my suitcases, went back to my writing desk, and faced my next book in progress.